'One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star'- Nietzsche
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Creative Writing

Creative Writing

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Covid Day Women #16 and #20

a nod (and a wink) to Dylan


by John Hawkins


Well, they’ll stone ya when you’re trying to be so lewd

They’ll stone ya just a-like they said they would

They’ll stone ya when you’re grabbing pussy moan

Then they’ll stone ya when you’re down there all alone


But I would not feel so all alone

Pencey, Pompey, pass the friggin bone


Well, they’ll stone ya for your Putin horsey porn

They’ll stone ya coz you’re silver spoony born

They’ll stone ya when you’re stompin’ on the law

They’ll stone ya when you calling Liz a squaw


But I would not feel so all alone

Amy, Pencey, pass the freakin bone


They’ll stone ya when you call Barry’s birth a fable

They’ll stone ya when your hands are under table

They’ll stone ya when you’re tryin’ to make a buck

They’ll stone ya and then they’ll say, “Fell off the truck”


Tell ya what, I would not feel so all alone

Barrsy, Amy, pass the bleepin bone


Well, they’ll stone ya and say that it’s the end

Then they’ll stone ya and then they’ll come back again

They’ll stone ya when you see your face at Rushmore

They’ll stone ya when you’re eyes go on a tush tour


Yes, but I would not feel so all alone

Gina, Barrsy, pass the righteous bone


Well, they’ll stone ya when you break it off with Xi

They’ll stone ya when you end Détent-étente-a-tee   

They’ll stone ya and then say that you’re not brave

They’ll stone ya and then they’ll do the Wave


But I would not feel so all alone

Betsy, Gina, pass the mother bone


Well, they’ll stone ya for fumblin’ the Carona

They’ll stone ya for your integumentary toner

They’ll stone ya coz you don’t think Black Lives Matter

They’ll stone ya when your rich friends eat and scatter


Yet I would not feel so all alone

Pencey, Betsy, pass the buzzy bone


Well, we’re passing out the pocket Wagner tubas

electric Bob kazoos and German lugers

Democracy’s gone all bunker mental

Cause ‘ceptionalism’s lost its flashy dental


I would not feel so all alone

Even Roger Roger must get Stoned


Alright!  (begins to fade, like a marching band already passed)

05/28/20 George Floyd protests in Minneapolis. NYTimes.

By John Kendall Hawkins


The riot squad is restless

They need somewhere to go

    • Bob Dylan, “Desolation Row”


Derek the chauvinist piggy

Up to his knee in neck

All coz George wanted a ciggy

And paid for a pack with dreck


Repeat: I can’t breathe, he said

I can’t breathe: sixteen times

a mindfulness exercise gone code red

Derek up to his neck in crimes


Lawdy, why, just yesterday it seems

We were modelling new Covid kerchiefs

On blue screen catwalks, zoom-zoom streams

Buffer zone fantasies, locked in like thieves


And now twin cities tumbling

Miniapnea–too much St. Pauli’s, girl

An empire’s nasty stumble bumbling

Riot squads ready, batons a-twirl


Arrests in 140 cities

Like characters allowed in tweets

Dusting off our rage and protest ditties

Bringing isolations to the streets

Whoa, what’s that cop there doin’?

Rubber bullets, tears and stuns

Hey look! Harmon Killibrewin’!

Beating the snot outta Rod Carew’s sons


Two police cruisers accelerated — zoooooom —

And disappeared through time

Other fascists used a sonic gun — boooooom —

And protesting brains turned to slime


Then, inexplicably, GW Bush

Was asked for his take on events

And all hell broke loose

When he said all you need is love

Love is all you need


Twin cities falling

Goodyear drones overhead

Call 9-1-1, someone’s calling

Freedom’s just another word for the walking talking dead


Hep two three four, laughin’

Cuz I’m thinkin’ Bill Murray

And that egg beater scene

(Why, what’d you think I was thinking of?)


Cops firing point blank paint

At the people who ain’t

Joe Biden people

Like fascist machinegunning  pointilists

angry at the canvas for being blank

Or being at all


Thugs, tweets Trump

And Cepi agrees

When he sees

America with Kurds disease


Trump holding a bible:

Face all Wrath of Con

More hot air than a balloon

should have to don


The veiled threat of violence

In the corona age

A headline reads

In the the Democracy Dies in Darkness Daily


Cops charged with excessive force

Like Kathy Scruggs charged with excessive journalism

Both sponsored by the voice of god

Deus ex machinas outta control everywhere

Someone call the cops





Po people


License to kill

We don’t need no stinking badge

Predators overhead


Feminist patrols of local women

Foxy femme fatales

Like Sirens from Smith College

(I remember well)

Enforcing curfews

Godivas with batons

Pestlemortarin’ their palms

Knees on the necks of creeping Toms

No happy ending for Nicholson this time


Light them up, one cop said

And thus began, the Boston Massacre

Crispus Attucks, a freed slave

(did you see what they did there?)

Paul Revere rode all day and all night

To warn about the black and white

And then, when the craze was over

Settled back in with his favorite nightmare

Chicago ‘68: The Love we loved to hate


Remember how in school

A private one, of course

We limned the world’s end

and had to choose between

Archibald McCleish, TS Eliot, WB Yeats

Compare and contrast

Circus crash or whimper bang or falcon-masked women

Who won’t listen


Justice in a Just Is world

Curfews in cities coast to coast

Curlews in ditties ghost to ghost

All you kneed is love

Love is all you kneed


Fade to black


All You Need Is Zinc and Copper

by John Kendall Hawkins


We’re already over it

Post-pandemic parties are being planned

Zoom weddings are now needing consommé

Mirepoix, strains, olios

Stacked up like Warhol zoomcampbells

Twiggy Styx

Live stream breakout Dionysian orgies

To eye-pop the poncey Apollonians


And there’s this guy

Down Madagascar way

Selling madcap elixirs

Artemisia annua to deal

With pestilential effluviums

Artemis of Ephesus

Who putschy Germans in beerhalls

Later dubbed Lady Liebfraumilch

Babylon Berlin, right? Many taps open

Juice of wormwood, absinthium

Victoria’s Secret Dreams

Erin go bra-less

And here we are



And speaking of magical elixirs

The hoaxer in the house white now

Who we fear has infectious baboonic plague

Double downs closetrussianqueen

He says, to ward off Elvirus

Calling him morbidly obese

Or was it morbidly obtuse

(Our collective future morbidly, o, bleak)

He might just drop dead

Which would save us all that

Hypocritical handwringing

Should some Lefty pop him in the head

And he smirks up

Holding the pristine magic lead

And saying the hoax is on you


I was reading the other day

And every day’s the other day for me

That crazy Isaac Newton

Steeped in gravity and alchemy lead

Dropped not just apples, but heads

As Master of the Royal Mint

Drawing and quartering

Folks who metaled with the coin of the realm

(Heads would be a-rolling today)

And once wrote cryptically in his diary

‘Punching my sister’

And longed to beat the snot out of Leibniz

But, then, who didn’t?


All I know is

Where’s Ted Koppel’s nightline

When you need it to dignify

To count the days

We’ve been held hostage

By TV news and Dr. Bright

And Sisyphean dimwits

From Densa, the foothill village at IQ Hill

All as cover for something worse

Than Iran-contra and North’s

Alfred E. Neuman smile?



I’ve had a williams hankering

To dial 9-1-1

Cause everything seems to be falling

Freely all around in its own footprints

And I’m beginning to see sex scenes

Sublime and subliminal

In my G and T ice cubes

Corona morphing into bin Laden

And feeling ostrichsized with no one to emulate

It all makes my head spin actually

Right off its axis

Like The King of the Bingo Game

But the doggone river was dry


Can’t wait for the HBO series


Meet Joe Black

by John Kendall Hawkins


Today lookin’ like Death warmed over

Foolish as Brad Pitt just sayin’


His jiffy do gone

Replaced with a ‘fro

He recounts how he done Corn Pop

A bad dude needing welfare reform

Poolside all those white years ago

When push came to shove

Back in days he was good buds

With folk who exchanged

strange fruit trading cards

And called each other Bubba



Meet Joe Black

The great white hope now

Up ‘gainst that colored harlequin

In the white house

If only Joe hadn’t Coleman Silked

A human stain in his pants

A mea culpa spook

Rattling his closeted skeletons

Just a dog-faced lying pony soldier

Too small to fail

Like a shape-shifting monster virus

Politician one step below molester,

As Woody Allen would say

(Underwear have term limits

Why not politicians: take a memo:

Compare track records, and skid rows)

And the only thing is

biden Joe did wrong

Is he done went ‘head and stayed

in Mississippi a day too long,

As Bobby Dylan would say.



Meet Joe White

Sloppy slap happy Joe

We done scraped da bottom da barrel

American Vegemite

(And the Aussies don’t even know)

superduper did another roperdoper

Up against the wall, he dropped the quine

Like hippies dropped El Cid to change their minds

And yesterday someone compared trump to hitler

who when his vases were panned

(apparently, it’s not so cool

if a rose is not a rose is not a rose)

ripped apart his brushes in a

Mein kampf  kristallnacht bulldozer rage

Dancing like sugar plumbed fairies in his head

And painted them under his nose

And then good germans showed up, unopposed


We’re talking vases of finger flowers in bloom

Nuremberg, Leni W. as Shalott at the history loom

And Richie Rich broken bad

shirty brownnosers sieg heiling

Henry Kissinger American Express

Is that really an image we want?

Don’t leave home without it

because there’s a virus


Meet the Two Joes

States of red and blue

rock em sock em robo-pols

one flew east one flew west

And someone each of them knew

flew to New York to invest

Wall Street rallies don’t need

Triumphs of the will

Democracy will do

The red pill or the blue bill

choose your poison, flagly

(Socrates said fuck it give me the hemlock)

Well, someone said, maybe Elvirus,

that it ain’t over til

the morbidly obese fat fuck sings

And this could end falsetto

A quarantino ending for the ages

We all fall down

Inglorious basterds (sic, real sic)

Watching our dreams go up in flames


Let’s see what the mourning brings





by John K. Hawkins


I like to think of Corona

as Paul Revere’s bugle,

laughing at us as, a fugal

reminder of what we choose to ignore

at our peril. Imagine, if you will,

Climate Change as a virus

we wake up to like meerkats, as one,

alert, ready, filled with protocols,

the Press on it, every story angled,

the world in kumbaya lock-down,

each of us quarantined against each other,

in self-isolation, mobilized

to be immobile, pretty much

like any other day, but now

the message is the massage,

and, if you thought about it,

we are keened to defend our turf.


I like to think of Corona

as a collective unconscious archetype

come roaring to life like

the Notre Dame forest fire with no insurance,

the gold-dipped crown of thorns rescued by the 1%,

and bringing clarity everywhere,

and when you think about it, if you do,

we’re blessed hosts to a thousand viruses, and

bacteria up the yin-yang,

eaten alive by time in a kind of trans

-substantiation and -migration

of cellular souls, always

in circulation, please, sir,

I want some more.


I like to think of Corona

as a terrestrial soul,

which is more than you can say for us,

if science is right and

we came from outer space, giant

viruses ourselves, kick-starting evolution,

neither alive nor not-alive catalysts

for membranes, and our brains, too,

science says, are viral emanations —

frisson je nais se quoi

lit-up Gauloisse-smoking jellyfish

that have no real place on Earth,

(or Paris for that matter)

and Corona knows it.


I like to think of Corona

when I watch old films like The Blob

that warn us of something —

herpes, Reds, the aliens in us all;

and The Andromeda Strain, where science says

humans are skid marks in the skivvies of the cosmos, and

The Matrix, where Agent Smith calls us out,

and the Twilight Zone “Cookbook” episode. It’s not like

we didn’t have fair warning,

as Corona established her dominion

like a virus within a virus

and wiped that smirk away

from the pussy-grabber’s face.

Man, the Knuckle Head

All the Presidents’ Miens

All I know is
we face an up and coming
always up and coming
electoral battle in the fall
between, always between,
pussygrabbers to the Left
and pussygrabbers to the Right,
two guys stroking,
littoral and clitoral,
you choose the prez, and
keep your hand on that ballot,
hold on. Oh, Lord, hold on.

Joe Jiffy Pop
who once had people coming
for miles around to pick
his plagiarized brains,
and who was biding his time,
hunting eggs in his mind
in the ovary office (I mean oval),
seeing himself as the Easter bunny president,
after voters conspired
against Bernie again (apparently,
his fingers, too, have done some walking
through the yellow pages,
a wolf wearing soul-of-satire clothing),
must now read his own palm
to remember where it’s been,
so he doesn’t have to lose
to a glad-handing clown only good
for tossing out toilet paper rolls to the plebs.

Twas ever thus:
Men and power at the one and many river
pronouncing themselves Hairyclitorises,
changing their views by the day.
The hand of GHW, our beloved CIA president,
was known to go covert and gitmo a gal or two;
even wheelchaired up he was frisky
and known to goose the geese.
GW might have been the exception
onnacounta he still had the gloves on,
but then again he was a Top Gun
in his own mind, on Cruise control,
born a mission accomplished.
If Obama was anything like Jesse Jackson —
just saying: and later the drone fantasies,
the double taps, their connotations.
There was always someone it seems
playing “Little Willie Leaps
on Clinton’s sexaphone, him wearing sunnies, natch.
While the allies were dropping bombs,
Reagan was dropping Lana Turners onto tables
in Hollywood, Jack Nicholson style,
While John Garfield rolled over in his grave.
And JFK’s rumored magic bullet theory:
that until you’ve had them three ways,
you never knew a grassy knoll.
L-BJ. N’est ce pas? Capeesh.
Even George the wig-clad cut down cherries
and not only didn’t he lie about it
but frankly seemed to boast.

Our best bet was the penis farmer
(I mean, peanut)
Who turned himself in
(Democrats, right?)
after a self-investigation
that nobody asked for — Internal Affairs,
aka, lust in the heart,
the scandal exposed right there
in Playboy magazine:
You have a flash of Jimmy in the mansion
and then pray you’ll go blind
as if you saw Carter, not Godiva,
riding high on a heaving horse.
And I mean high.

You have to hand it to Richard Gere
he says (wait for it)
most power’s under the table:
A flick of tongue, a quick handshake
and a hoarse whisper-er-er
of reassurance
to seal the deal
(note the wife’s eyes).

Ah, love, let us be true,
give me your hand
(so I can see it)
and let’s stay inside forever
and never grow up, and pretend —
Covid-19 long, long gone,
but here anyway,
just checking each other out
safely forever distant
like dream people, wisps really:
engagements, weddings, sex romps, threats, funerals, all on line  —
each of us wondering
who’s zoomin who

Followed of course by the requisite ad
that mixes beer and contenders,
the way Eliot mixed memory and desire:
Dos Ickies, the Mexican says,
Stay thirsty my friends,
and don’t forget to vote
the lesser of two evils — fun,
like at the end of Animal Farm.
Remember how much fun we had,
looking left to right and back again,
trying to figure out who was who?

Smithsonian mag
the other day gleed
and glissed over copper,
the age old assassin,
djinn killer of germs,
free radicals that beat out
Corona’s membranes,
like some obscure french revolution,
hooded guillotines and copperheads,
a fresh roll of coins,
¡Viva la Revolución!

A penny saved is a saving penny!
E pluribus unum, from many, one percent;
empty the coin can,
leave the upper coins,
grind the copper down
and sprinkle it liberally, radically
over your cocoa pops, and mangia
your copper blues away.

Go back to the busker,
now masked, buy back
the Lincolns you once dropped
like turds in his case, while
he strummed his soul out,
“Penny For Your Thoughts”;
exchange Lincolns, give him paper,
full of germs, that money, but it’s a risk
you take, when you take away his copper.

“Teen” vandals are stealing back copper
from junk yards they sold them wires to —
hoods, sly eyes and tattoos,
feeding dobermans their opioids,
(if they have to), there’s a silver lining,
and they think re-sell, hit the market,
copper stocks have stalled —
buy, motherfucker, buy —
And run, coz the ‘oids didn’t work.

Maybe what’s left of the Left
should gather on Liberty Island
(if you still carry a torch for the old girl)
and reach out and touch her
(but not there, as Trump would do)
like the apes going apeshit
around the monolith in 2001.
Or, maybe, tear her down
for lifesaving keychains,
like we did the Wall in triumph,
back in the summer or was it ‘89?

I’m calling for the government —
any government will do —
to mint 400 million pennies
and to offer them up to gun holders,
a Lincoln for each gun freed,
Covid-19 and gun control in one,
Or, at least hand out copper bullets,
So those they shoot don’t get ‘rona.
It’s the humanest thing we can do.

And, goddamn it, if
you get real desperate, man,
run up to any policeman — well, okay,
walk up nonchalantly, g’day,
and give him a long loving bear hug,
and don’t, no matter how hard he clubs you,
let go of that lifesaving copper.



Sung to the tune of Bobby Dylan’s “Corrina, Corrina


Corona, Corona
I been thinking bout you
Corona, Corona
You thinkin bout me, too?
Donkeys, poultry, camel, foxes
Just left in nine assorted boxes
Flown round the world

I got a bird flu whistles
Got a bird flu sings
I got a bird flu whistles
Got a bird flu sings
But I ain’t yet got Corona
Death don’t mean a thing

(bluesy mouth harp riff)

Corona, Corona
Got me double bind
Corona, Corona
Got me testing blind
O, I just can’t believe the data
Hmm, I might just lose my mind

Corona, Corona
I been thinking bout you
Corona, Corona
You thinkin bout me, too?
Hazmat badgers, hedgehogs and rats
Mice so squirr’ly, they were chasing cats
Flown round the world

I got a bird flu whistles
Got a bird flu sings
I got a bird flu whistles
Got a bird flu sings
But I ain’t yet got Corona
Death don’t mean a thing

(bluesy mouth harp riff)

Corona, Corona
Got me double bind
Corona, Corona
Got me testing blind
O, I just can’t believe the data
Hmm, I might just lose my mind

Corona, Corona
I been thinking bout you
Corona, Corona
You thinkin bout me, too?
You’ve cancelled ball games, travel’n too
Now just please cancel the Election
That’d be something (ooh)

I got a bird flu whistles
Got a bird flu sings
I got a bird flu whistles
Got a bird flu sings
But I ain’t yet got Corona
Death don’t mean a thing

(bluesy mouth harp riff)

Corona, Corona
Got me double bind
Corona, Corona
Got me testing blind
O, I just can’t believe the data
Hmm, I might just lose my mind
Just can’t believe the data
Corona, might just lose my mind

(repeat, extended bluesy mouth harp riff)

By John Kendall Hawkins


…[M]en should be treated in such a way that there’s no fear of their seeking revenge…

-Nicolai Machiavelli, “Mixed Principalities,” The Prince


“You come at the king, you bess not miss.”

– Omar, The Wire


Donald Trump sat with Recep “Cepi” Erdoğan

At a nez à nez cafe in the Golden Horn,

Fog over the Straits, fishmongers singing the blues,

Their little secret summit all over the news.

They gazed, they preened, with their fincan pinkies high,

Just two kings talking — evil eye to evil eye.

DJ flashed his grand, bizarre smile and sneered, “The Press

Is all over me and the country is a mess.

I fear some Lefty might impeach me with a gun

And I’ll find myself leaping in front of my son.”

Cepi laughed at that, and said, “Well, listen to this:

When they did Khashoggi — Oh, I watched with such bliss.

I jail journos, make them watch Midnight Express for fun.”

“Enemas of the State,” they harmonized, “Undone.”

They laughed about Idlib, and al-Baghdadi’s face

When he realized there was no escape cave in place.

Trump said, “He died like a dog and blew up the kids —

I lied,” he smirked, “Abbottabads Abbottobids.”

Cepi howled, “Badda bing bang boom — politics!

Nothing wrong with you a good hamamin’ can’t fix.”

The garson brought the tab and DJ made a lunge —

He didn’t want Cepi to think he was a sponge.

But Cepi was quick and snatched the bill and snickered,

“Your money’s no good here,” said Cepi; they bickered.

“CNN’s the most phoney fakes of news,” Trump said.

“What about the Kurds?” he mimicked the talking head.

At that, Cepi gave the garson a second glance,

Took back his tip, and made the poor waiter’s eyes dance.

The two good buds arose, Cepi winked and they strolled.

DJ said, “Mohammad got back to me to scold.

He said sweetly, ‘Donald, that wasn’t very nice’

To treat my discombobulations as a vice.

What if I’d made fun of your curtsy and laughed

To your face?’” Cepi cracked up, thinking DJ gaffed.

“There goes that Trump tower in Riyadh,” howled Cepi,

And slapped DJ on the back, dancing, two-steppy.

DJ morosely followed his Turkish delight.

They strode through the twists and turns of the Taksim night,

Down cobblestone streets, Cepi, like Virgil, leading —

Well, maybe if Virgil had had no real breeding —

And on the buds strode, ignoring the blood-kurdling screams,

Cepi saying, “Journos” (wink) “at work in their dreams.”

DJ pictured Maddow, with new bounce in his bones —

In fact, all the press! — and their screams became his koans.

After their purgatorial conversation,

They came to the Red Light D and knew their station.

They passed pervs, punks, pimps and glassed-in storefront cages

With dancing mannequin-like Beatrices of all ages.

Cepi said to DJ, “Go have a pussy grab.”

Trump groaned, “No can do, Cepi, my hand’s in rehab.

Until after November.” They left Paradise,

With the promise of pleasure still twinkling their eyes,

They giggled and goosed all the way to Taksim Square —

Pigeons out of control, broken heads strewn everywhere,

Tumbleweed tabloids, Atatürk’s pic on the ground,

Tarzan-like prayer calls, cab honks, and no other sound.

“DJ, you gotta break a few eggheads” (puffing)

“If you wanna make an Om.” But Trump’s mind was muffing

Back in the Red Light D. Cepi said, “Listen to this,

If you want to kill the king, you’d better not miss.”






DJ and Cepi Share a Joint


“I like oil. They got oil. We want their oil,”

Smirked DJ over at Cepi Tayyip.

“But what about the Kurds, who were so loyal?”

Came a hostile, high-pitched Fourth Estate quip.


“I promised Cepi he can have his way,

If we can have the oil.” Cepi smiled up.

The Pressman looked at Trump with such dismay,

and then he saw Cepi — all buttercup.


“But, sir, what you’re talking is a war crime,

And, frankly, it smells of more quid pro quo,”

Quoth our Camelot, another press corp mime.

To which DJ snapped, “Why, that’s a low blow!”


Cepi T snickered, he’d seen this stuff before —

The press all ruffled by such minor things,

War and oil and crime — and those Kurds what’s more!

After all, it’s what real politiks brings.


He recalled Donald’s invasion letter:

“Don’t be a tough guy” and “Don’t be a fool.”

The Press had turned it into a fetter

When Cepi replied, “I won’t be your fool.”


“Yo, Apprentice prez, what about the Daesh bizz,”

Snarked some intrepid “turd” from NBC.

“Depends on what you def of ISIS is,”

Retortled DJ Trump, without mercy.


Cepi moons, “There’s nothing wrong with DJ

That a steamy hamamin’ wouldn’t fix.”

Though an old poet, I felt oy vey!

(I thought of Midnight Express and Hands Blix.)


In a reverie, Cepi thought he heard,

“A Trump Tower along the Bosphorus,

between the two grand mosques preferred,

and just catering to the prosperous.”


The press keeps pressing for lit’ral meaning

(something they never bothered ‘bout before)

like asking a rooster why he’s preening,

A totally worthless thankless chore.


-John Kendall Hawkins






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