You know when I post a poem at night, it means I've either been really busy, the blog's been acting up, or I just couldn't find any inspired choices. Today was a perfect storm of all three reasons.

Since the most important news item of the day was the Star Jones bullshit - more important than Korean missiles or Iranian bombs or terrorist sleeper cells or treasonous papers and politicians or Iraqi amnesty or Israel kicking ass.

Star Jones, Star Jones, Star Jones!

Star Jones, Star Jones, that's what's important. But how does one best glean clues about Star Jones's mysterious exit friom the View? One need look no further than the newest Viewchik. And how better to stay informed about Star Jones lore than by reading some more bad Vogon poetry from the poet laureate of the Vogons herself, Rosie O'Donnell.

Star View

there is drama at the view
regis went on yesterday
and said
hey there is an elephant in the living room

no one likes to pretend
as if it were real

there comes a point
where u become complicit

star jones had weight loss surgery
she had part of her stomach bypassed
that is how she lost 1/2 herself

she refuses to say this
which is her right
but we do not have to pretend
we do not know

any fatty will tell u
it is nearly impossible to go
from where she was
to where she is
without medical intervention

dats da fact jack
and it is ok
talk to ur doctor
decide for yourself
if this is the option for u
by all means do it

it is hard to be fat
u get tired
ur knees hurt
people stare at u
think u less then
u feel less then

when i see one of r own
fly away from planet plus
i wave with misty eyes
proud astonished worried

we have a high recidivism rate
we us r tribe
sis and bros

so star shrinks b4 our eyes
we know the truth
but nod as she talks about
pilates and will power

i am sure star jones
beneathe the beyonce bravado
is a scared lil girl
who grew her body big
strong and safe

there is no delete button
in real life

george bush
talking about the success
in iraq
with star like showmanship
he thinking we still believe
what we know is not true

we dont buy it

peace to star jones
every wave hits the shore

Posted by: annika at 09:44 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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1 I can't wait until she chokes on a ham sandwich. Like her superego is going to fit with that grotesque manage of bitchy twats.

Posted by: Casca at June 29, 2006 06:14 AM (rEC2k)

2 I think my brain tried to crawl out of my ear halfway through the poem.

Posted by: Jess at June 29, 2006 07:57 AM (m4pDe)

3 Holy crap. I really had to CONCENTRATE to get through that.

Posted by: red at June 29, 2006 09:35 AM (rNgdr)

4 I'm beginning to wonder if I made a mistake by directing you to that site.

Posted by: Victor at June 29, 2006 10:55 AM (L3qPK)

5 Annika: You're wrong, I CAN live without Rosie wisdom.

Posted by: JJJET at June 29, 2006 03:42 PM (LNyv5)

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I hate spiders. This morning after my shower, I grabbed some underwear out of the drawer, and as I was putting it on a spider fell out of it and landed on the floor. How does a spider get into the underwear drawer? And no, I do not live in the basement.

I hate spiders because they are sneaky. At least a bee will let you know it's there before it stings you. But spiders are always crawling around where you can't see them. They're like the viet cong.

I hate spiders almost as much as I hate sappy poems.

Spiders

by Janet Bruno

Spiderlings hatch from eggs.
Each one has eight tiny legs.
A spider has more eyes than you.
Most have eight, and you have two.
A spider has two body parts.
Across its web it quickly darts.
From a spider's spinnerets
Sticky spider silk jets.
Spiders feel the frantic tugs,
Of their favorite food; it's bugs!

Posted by: annika at 11:17 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Hear Johnny Cash reading this poem in in his inimitable voice here. It was a hit record in 1974.

Ragged Old Flag

I walked through a county courthouse square,
On a park bench an old man was sitting there.
I said, "Your old courthouse is kinda run down."
He said, "Naw, it'll do for our little town."
I said, "Your flagpole has leaned a little bit,
And that's a Ragged Old Flag you got hanging on it."

He said, "Have a seat", and I sat down.
"Is this the first time you've been to our little town?"
I said, "I think it is." He said, "I don't like to brag,
But we're kinda proud of that Ragged Old Flag.

"You see, we got a little hole in that flag there
When Washington took it across the Delaware.
And it got powder-burned the night Francis Scott Key
Sat watching it writing 'Oh Say Can You See.'
And it got a bad rip in New Orleans
With Packingham and Jackson tuggin' at its seams.

"And it almost fell at the Alamo
Beside the Texas flag, but she waved on though.
She got cut with a sword at Chancellorsville,
And she got cut again at Shiloh Hill.
There was Robert E. Lee, Beauregard, and Bragg,
And the south wind blew hard on that Ragged Old Flag.

"On Flanders Field in World War I
She got a big hole from a Bertha gun.
She turned blood red in World War II.
She hung limp and low a time or two.
She was in Korea and Vietnam.
She went where she was sent by her Uncle Sam.

"She waved from our ships upon the briny foam,
And now they've about quit waving her back here at home.
In her own good land she's been abused--
She's been burned, dishonored, denied, and refused.

"And the government for which she stands
Is scandalized throughout the land.
And she's getting threadbare and wearing thin,
But she's in good shape for the shape she's in.
'Cause she's been through the fire before,
And I believe she can take a whole lot more.

"So we raise her up every morning,
We take her down every night.
We don't let her touch the ground,
And we fold her up right.
On second thought I do like to brag,
'Cause I'm mighty proud of that Ragged Old Flag."

Posted by: annika at 06:50 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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As Tony noted, Saturday was Allen Ginsberg's birthday. There must be a Ginsberg bug going around because Strawman also suggested a poem by the great one. I can't abide his political stuff, but Ginsberg is a genuine literary icon, and a fearless poet. He's also an interesting guy to boot. Here is a perfect poem for today.

A Supermarket in California

      What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
      In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
      What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?

      I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
      I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
      I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
      We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

      Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
      (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
      Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.

      Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
      Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Posted by: annika at 07:03 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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