'One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star'- Nietzsche
Get Adobe Flash player

Creative Writing

Creative Writing

 

 

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

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2019/nov/08/secure-the-oil-trumps-syria-strategy-leaves-pentagon-perplexed

 

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

 

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

Now voyeurs   keyboard jungling   tappy toe

gargoogles   down and qwerty   in the Dell

slashburning   by gaslight as they go

New World    Nazis phishin’  in Auschwitz Bay

(one jew killed   each second for years): don’t tell 

Charles Boyers   keyboard jungling   tippy toe

Dancing algorythms  of human clay

The imprismed light   Dante’s data hell

Gargoogles light ass-gas and watch it glow

Space between your ears   the last frontier gray

Colonial convergence:  it will sell

Slashing keyboard jungle   tippy toe

Fascist entropy   digital decay

In the big black man hole   rings Pavlov’s bell

Gargoylin’ and gaslightnin’ as they go

We know it didn’t have to be this way

It’s just the way all the dominoes fell

Through the keyboard jungle on tippy toe

Gargoyling and gaslighting as they go

–  John Kendall Hawkins

for Kerry

Out back in the garden, knee-deep in kale, 

her eyes seed baroque — old coffee stones

swirled around beds of composted worlds:

new grannies, wild herbs, and potato plants;

chicken bones (dog-gnawed); bees at pink roses;

crows carry on, a blue tongue flits at flies;

figs sway behind the dervishing hills hoist;

quince and blueberries, a dead brown dugite;

quacks, croaking, and throaty song birds; Hermes

toys a bandy in the shade of a blue

jacaranda; then the sun fades away

and rain plops down like paunchy Buddha bellies.

O, it’s a peaceable enough kingdom.

Through a spring miasma, her eyes kindle

fresh hope, a celestial prescience —

star fields in the black cathedral plasma:

no garden would exist without her mind

churning the raw green grist of the sublime.

  • John Kendall Hawkins

I will love you mercilessly and will beat

my frantic wings against the pane

until something breaks inside.  I will flame

like a solar fire filled with fugal heat,

and then press, press — a wild insurgency

of barbarians crazed by inner joy —

no matter if I create or destroy,

pushed on by existential urgency.

For whether driven by Donne’s tripart God,

Poe’s Bells, or the stark Stravinsky’s Firebird,

you move me until I am absurd 

with desire — like some burned out lightning rod —

a bird of paradise in a living hell

salivating metaphors at the knell.

  • John Kendall Hawkins