Creative Writing
Creative Writing
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.
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
today.
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
SOURCES
https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2019/nov/13/donald-trump-syria-oil-us-troops-isis-turkey
Do I Dare to Eat an Impeachment?
O, this is “a massive fucking shitshow,”
starting with the blather of Devin Nunes.
We’ve no way of knowing where it may go.
The vast Left conspiracy is so low,
they want nudies of DJ Trump — such goons!
O, this is “a massive fucking shitshow.”
The Schiff-faced “cult” smirked at the google-eyed shmo,
as if he’d howled at one too many moons.
We’ve no way of knowing where it may go.
Nunes cries, “Russian hoax! Look out below!”
and an unknown Repub operative swoons,
“O, this is ‘a massive fucking shitshow.’”
Kent and Taylor talked up Trump’s quid pro quo.
“To do what he did was just looney tunes.”
We’ve no way of knowing where it may go.
Them Dems and Repubs going toe-to-toe,
like a battle of spooning silver spoons.
O, this is “a massive fucking shitshow.”
We’ve no way of knowing where it may go.
- John Kendall Hawkins
Sources
https://tinyurl.com/tm75xym
https://tinyurl.com/yx6xk24l
https://tinyurl.com/vzors9d
Daesh Dash to Death (a villainelle)
The day ol’ ISIS went WASWAS
DJ Trump moped up to the dais
Much golly good news for USUS
O! such a media buzzbuzz —
al-Bagdadi in a dishdash chase
On the day ISIS went WASWAS
Ululations! Ditch it! Fuzz-Fuzz!
Dogs of TerrorWar in his face
Much golly good news for USUS
Our caliph cornered all cuzzcuzz
There was no tunnel in the place
O, the day ISIS went WASWAS
Heard a mother-grievin’ huzzhuzz
Holler of cowardly disgrace
Much golly good news for USUS
He looked the dog in the muzzmuzz
And saw an anti-semite’s face
The day ISIS went WASWAS
The kids in his arms cried, cuzzcuzz
They on they way to outerspace
Much golly good news for USUS.
At that, the Press went all guzzguzz
(maybe they were going through a phase)
The day ISIS went WASWAS
Headline: Al-B brought to juzzjuzz
(His hole blowed up, just in case)
Much golly good news for USUS
They’ve caliph-crowned the next luzzluzz
And even have a hound dog trace
O, the day ISIS went WASWAS
Such golly good news for USUS
- John Kendall Hawkins
Abu Bakr al-Bagdadi killed in US raid, Trump confirms
The day ISIS went WASWAS
There was such a media buzzbuzz —
Much golly good news for USUS.
DJ Trump moped up to the dais
Featuring that rosy Apprentice face
The day ISIS went WASWAS
In holding you so near me — oh!
I couldn’t help yahooing.
Bizarre? Well, that may be, but did you know
My father was a rodeo star?
(1974)
Standing there, thinkin
I might just spontaneously combust today:
a strung-out cellist’s crazed thrumming, smoky resin riffs
or a firefly flossing, light between the teeth of night
standing there, them sayin:
You can’t bring other people in *ribbid*
Just another sturm und drang mourning
in the lack of concentration camp, pacing
barbed wire eyes all around me, shower stall walls broken, graffiti
The horse-fire screams barn up in smoke the vanity of bonfires
Is it Guernica or “Guernica?”
You have 15 seconds to decide, beneath rohrschach skies
In this Auschwitz of the mind *ribbid*
Rosencrantz and Goldstar pluck pizzicato at “Love,”
waiting to be hoiked into their own spittoons
Outside the fence, outside where a fence still stands,
you see the thought-locust swarms develop the night,
clearing the koan fields, all ears shucking
It’s dark abyssmal dark in that Nietzschean way:
(the black winks back)
Inside
we circle ourselves, eternal recurrences, and wait
for the Visigoths to descend
Inside
Nero whistles at Dixie, the gypsy strumpet
blowing a trumpet the bulldozer man
tumbles one naked idea after another
into an enormous wormhole, where futures generate
Inside
the minotaur is the maze
Inside
a cathedral made of gargoyles, its glass ceiling painted:
Adam exchanges fingers with the Abdicator
Ahab doesn’t have a leg to stand on *ribbid*
Smug-faced clouds spit out fallen angels, dancing algorithms
Ophelia finally opens a nunnery, she’s that ghost just over there
And there by the latrine, Icarus does a header
into a field full of uplifted sunflowers with Buddha-faced smirks
Overwhelmed
*ribbid*
I shirk under the bed, Jim Bowie at the Alamo, repeating
Is that a noif? Is that a noif? Is that a noif?
and count sheepish grins
until I’m filled with wolfish grief
And now back to our regularly scheduled pogrom:
*ribbid*
-John Kendall Hawkins