Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Here, this'll cheer you up: A few poems by auteur Michael Randall:


When you smell the smoke it’s clear

there’s no more time.

Young girls just get lonelier and

every year the peacock

with its tail and buzzing

batteries is dying while

the starfish, by candlelight,

stands idly by.

Barely moving inherits the earth

while the rest of us

pitch fits just to get paid. Big-headed chicks

fall first from the nest

and it seems to go: outlaw, outlaw, whore, whore,

fat whore, town drunk, troubadour.

Now you know how babies get made down

here in Texas.



Partly cloudy, chance of thunderstorms


Chicken Noodle

Yankee Bean


‘s just as bad…


Ladies Drink Free



: nothing.


somehow becomes transparent


Night Fever made Travolta

a star.


There’s all that herb I smoked in high school and then

there’s my father Herb who sold refrigerators, air conditioners, dish-

washers. Liked football games,

white belts & westerns.

Also valued for his flavor, scent and other qualities. Peaches and Herb were once

America’s Sweethearts of Soul

and although there have been numerous Peaches,

Herb Feemster

has remained a constant. Born in Anacostia, an area of Washington, DC, in

which my father sold TVs

when the maw-maws and jungle-bunnies weren’t stealing them

off the trucks, Herb Feemster

grew up knowing that Love Is Strange and also how to Shake His Groove Thing

which would have annoyed, confused and disgusted my father,

not smudging him, but certainly making the sauce

taste funny.


The elevator doors in the lobby

of the hotel

over by the bus station open. She’s in town

from Caracas

until early tomorrow on her way

to see her brother

in Florida. Puffier than I’d remembered

and much sadder her mother

dead and also one of her friends

and mine. I take her out

for bad shrimp creole at a fake Cajun place on

Ninth Avenue that

I’d heard was good. The food isn’t but the table’s

by the window and the sunset

silhouettes her dyed-black hair. We drink slowly

at first and I pretend

I can see the pictures of undead friends

on the tiny screen

of her camera. She’s 53 and lost trying

not to cry and when

she goes out on the street for a cigarette

she taps on the glass

and waves to me through a bright cloud of


Mike is also the auteur responsible for the much more cheerful boobsploitation flick "Girlquake", where a bunch of hot chicks come out of the center of the earth to look for their leader who apparently resides in Coney Island. Hey, did you know Jimmy Rodgers spent his last day on earth at Coney Island? Mike also does some great paintings, very cheerful and not at all like the stuff published above. You can check them out here:


Idea 68.5/09

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