Best Muzak Poems
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainous risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good.”
Alone,
slicked with sweat,
and hearing the locusts’ cries
deep in my neck,
I stood over the remains
of Sal Paradise.
The spotty grass
around the tombstone
was browned and littered
with trodden Camel filters
and corroded bottle caps.
I reached into
my inspired rucksack
and discovered a Deutchmark,
forgotten like a sleepy drunk
at crowded a tavern.
I placed it on the granite,
amid the years
and a crusty half-empty
whiskey bottle
a different friend had left.
I hunched over the grave,
my head bowed,
but not really praying
or thinking about him.
And now I sit across the street,
seated by the window
in a little Italian restaurant.
I am the lone customer,
ensconced by piped-in light FM muzak.
The neighborly thing to do would be
to ask them over for a drink, those
four lovely blondes living next door.
But I know they would refuse - it
may not be Christian of them to
drink alcohol. Perhaps I should offer
them lemonade. No Kool Ade, thank you;
ever since Jim Jones I never mix it
with religion.
Anyway, they look
more like the Perrier types. I'll
put out my Bible and tune the radio
to the inoffensive Muzak station.
As long as the conversation on
religion stays generic, it might actually
go ok. I may get on quite well with
the flour blonde-haired Jesus girls.
I doubt there will be any real close
encounters between the sinner
and the saints, but you never know.
I'm gold God works in mysterious ways.
"Dia de Los Muertos", the Spanish name it. Eve
of All Saints, saw we of the church of blessed assurance
of an observance ushering in fall while easing
our multilingual obsession with death. The sun shines
on unmarked graves, and, "Come winter the same
snow falls, dusting us all," so it is said, and so
honored at The Dollar Tree Store.
Weeks before Halloween, when punctilious roadside tents
fill with demonic orange grins, when what the French
call The Season of Color with its 'sturm und drang' roars
in, I push past the doors of The Dollar Tree. No
automatic entry ushers us in, no Pearly Gates swing
wide to celestial Muzak. We come to purchase the needs
of the living-- tinfoil, plastic bags, detergent: a limpid purple
liquid with its cautionary "Do Not Drink," its "Fragrancia
Duradera." Longevity, one dollar a bottle.
Shelves of seasonal gimcracks stack up at the entrance.
"Adornes" in your face, useless for extending time:
crows with real feathers, spectral spider webs, glittery
black skulls, mockup tombstones inscribed "Rest in
Pieces"--Do Not Disturb-- Don't Laugh, You're Next.
I laugh, anyway. Comics know reality is funny.
All Hallows Eve a year ago, our parish priest
stood in cemetery darkness at a rude stone altar,
celebrating Mass at Bosque Bello, our Beautiful Forest
of flashlights and luminaries. There among graves
of the known and unknown, we broke bread and
shared the cup of blood, there, where the blessed dead
settle deep in their shoe-boxes, and the not-yet-
unmasked confront certain demise.
If I were to swagger off the streets
Some gangster as I perched the skulduggery
Of my litany in glitter and smoke
An ageless vandalism to linger unknown
While I sneer from the lounging corner of your TV
Would you recognise me
Though I slide sheathed in the flags and banners
Barking and whining with the malaise dogs of freedom
Still with the coils of bright subliminal stars
With the cool smoothing glass of my poison
Throttle every whisper in the eyes of your children
Would you know me
Should I sink in bitter teeth this Nospheratu gift
A mechanical mayhem of guts and blood
In impassioned exaltation choke the anthems of liberty
Should I scream dank from the cellar
Beneath the rubble litter of such celebrated and hollow victory
Would you hear me
When I dally in the mall smile Muzak ghost of neon
And peddle from every crisp clean rotting shelf of starvation
By coat-hanger noose dangled so footloose
Breathes it’s monoxide pull into your lungs
Better for the fashion this fashionable becomes
Do you recognise me now
As I secretive polished in slick glide reflective coercion
In the vaunted line of the halls of my fathers
Where this iniquitous trail of fiddling crumbs
Lay their poor morsel under the boot of my banquet table
I dine on metal and speak with weapons
And faceless electronic the vendetta of surveillance
And twisted media to quell every utterance
I hide this honed blade skulking behind you
Chill grip to the spine in bright sunshine
I haunt you
You ….. photographed
Are ….. stamped, filed
Mine ….. and numbered
yesterday arrived at my doorstep
flashing her exuberance
through contagious smiles and sculpted features
painted images flickered through my memory
as seasons remembered
the autumn colors that bordered concrete
structures paying homage
to this choice of knowledge
the textbook carriers scurried hungrily
from door to door
and unlocked pent up furys at
local dance clubs
the white that fell blanketed the ugliness
w/ virginal qualities
pure driven
and i mask the emotions that lie far from dormant
which soon give way to fluorescent colors
promised by springs birth
discard the hatching of words and expressions
i wear like clothing
and embrace the celebrations shared on sandy shores
where bronze bodies lie glistening under summer suns
toe-tapping to the sounds of canned Muzak
while games of limbo attract young , agile
flexing forms
the rhytmatic tides played background to
laughing children, playing under the safety net of watchful
parents
far removed from urban wear and tear
grateful for weekend sanctuaries amist loved ones
these images flourish inside my head
Sunlight falling gently through the shifting cloud-shadows and chatter.
Unsteady breezes warm then cool the surfaces of me.
A muffled jazz number escapes a high corner of the awning covered bistro.
Lyrics of "He said... She said" impose themselves upon the eclectically arranged melody,
creating Muzak of the disgruntled and overly amused.
This cacophony of white noise glances off the growing serpentine barriers of my solitude.
Seeking myself within myself, the horns and drumbeats amplify into a soundtrack of my descent.
Heralding the arrival of myself into myself.
The turbid currents of my deepening waters toss me, cradle me.
Unclean yet serene, peace begins to precipitate these particles of my cloudy fear.
With a clarity of the Oracle's perspective I watch the images of my soul cast
upon the cave walls of my mind.
I sit for a while as I entertain myself.
So glad to mostly see myself.
I am jerked back to preality by a too large man squeezing past me.
He stoically refuses to see how his obesity has intruded upon my frailty.
With polite remorse I forgive the infraction while settling back into my poorly disguised egobesity.
the strings and keys are once again overwhelmed by the drivel of the blank faced crowd.
the sharpness of the large man's cigar creates an unfavorable breeze.
I squint into the harsh sunlight as
I observe the retreat of my solitude with a familiar regret.
There are lots of loud noises in Manhattan, you know
And the chaos will follow wherever you go
It's my toughest of tasks just to hear myself think
And it pushes my mind nearly over the brink.
So I sit with my coffee looking over Times Square
As I watch all the people going here, going there
And it's Midnight plus One, or is it maybe plus Two?
As I perch here on high well above all of you.
Many women are pretty and sometimes well-dressed
But the men go for shirts that've never been pressed.
But I can't quite relate to these strangers I see;
They enjoy the big circus out there in 3-D.
But at least I am getting good use of my time
By expressing my thoughts and thus making them rhyme
While way down below, there, the chic fashionistas
Aren't doing much more than taking in vistas
Of super bright signs and the products for sale
That light up the night while they make you look pale.
The air is awash with electrical charge
From billboards that loom and all look very large.
But those mechanized sounds of the traffic outside
Cannot hope to compete with the Muzak inside
This two-tier café on good old Broadway
Where mobs of touristas barge in for a stay.
Well, at least I'm not tortured with Country and Rap
While sitting here dutifully churning out crap;
All those tunes that bombard me are painless to hear,
But I can't say the same for my stanzas, I fear.
“You deserve a kiss!”
she said to me, over
the intercom and Muzak
“So buy our product”
Ah! This consumer society
of which I am a part!
Anti-Poem – “Prom Night At LAX 1973”
(Poet’s Instruction: Before reading this anti-poem, kindly go to YouTube and play Muzak: “Stimulus Progression.” Music can also be heard at my Facebook page under Stark Hunter. If possible, kindly play it in the background as you read.)
nine flags cologne boy
gunning a green ’71 ford torino
lapping up black asphalt dreams
cruising on deaf aviation boulevard
Ignoring the roaring jet monsters wheeze by
looking for pineapples and mouse ears
his date dressed in pink formal attire
sniffing a blood red corsage
ahead of them —
the flying saucer made of steel and space
mecca for their zipped-up prom dreams—
teenage reveries of lust and blue lace
now inside the circular restaurant
its glass windows vibrating with lights
another silver boeing beast lands nearby
with tornado voices howling in the wind
she says to her date—
‘how lovely the view is from our table—‘
‘people coming and going like mice from water’
‘it is exhilarating’
a tall waitress in jetson uniform brings iced tea
she tells cologne boy ‘bow ties are righteously cool’
now soul-numbing muzak is playing inside the restaurant
it seeps and drips and hovers like a funeral fog—
oozing through invisible space age loudspeakers
‘i just love this music,’ his date says
‘it is so romantic’
presently another 727 roars by
ascending like magic to the descending sun
in a dream a record store
groovy man its lesley gore
voice mid soprano
and a piano
sleepy sandmans muzak score.
Ever get the run-around?
It’s really most annoying
And ruins any stress-free time
You might have been enjoying.
You go online or make a call
And then they start you bouncing
From site to site or man or woman,
All of them announcing…
“I’ll be right back. Can you please hold?”
And then they’re disappearing,
While muzak of the most obnoxious type
You sit there hearing.
The minutes tick away and then
Your pressure gets to boiling,
While language leaves your mouth that has
All listeners recoiling.
At last the problem gets resolved
Or that’s what you are hoping,
‘Cause you’ve exhausted all the tricks
Which you employ for coping.
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Africa
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: February/1990
Africa,
I see Africa,
land of my people's
birth -
I see tribes,
tribes
of my people
from villages
hither and yon -
Kikuyus,
Swahilian's,
Yorubas,
Ibos,
Zulu's
and so on -
sing'n in Kwa
and Bantu -
The lingo of
my black
roots -
I hear flute's
sweetly whistl'n
from the lungs
of brave black
warriors -
play'n muzak
near their
abode -
I hear drums
slapp'n from
the hands
of the old -
from the hands
of the young -
I hear oceans
old Africa's ocean,
voicing out her
soul with rhythm
like the tribal
dance
of a proud
and beautiful
people -
And ships,......(sigh)
I see ships,
strange unfamiliar
ships -
storm'n in from
sea -
and guns
yes I hear guns
shoot'n over
the Congo,
and Kwando -
For he is here,
the white man
has reached
the land
of my ancestors
birth -
He brought
shackles, whips,
chains
and nets to catch
and enslave
the hearts of Africa
O'Lord, O'Lord
I see tears - a river of tears
roll'n down
the aisles of my past -
and the children
of Africa,
will never be the same -
He handcuffed us
to the belly of the ship,
and brought us to America,
the land they call
the free -
We as black people
are not free -
I see Africa
the mother of my
people's birth -
On a grassy verge above the surging rill
she stood fair haired and proud,
three leaf clover substrate at her toes.
Clutching saline bouquets I had plucked
from my neighbours walk-in green house.
Woman of resplendent peerage cast a
pearlescent glance among the swirl-frond
waves that prey on fractured fjords.
At a distance, in her mind.
But not for long before we fled like butterfly
escapees over marshes, mounds and meads.
Shriek from sun-dried swallow as we stumble
awkwardly upon their woodbine nest.
Noonday train fire iron to the fossil
fuel bled caterpillar plain,
rural muzak for a pinpoint tip toe dash
through barren fodder,
spiny thistle scald on insect bitten arch,
splashes are a symbol on our craft
stitch needle knitwear.
Yet I struggled to keep pace on
raw earth sand stone,
crab apple briar tangles by the dozen
hung like plastic refuse obstacle,
but nothing now could halt this headlong
sprint to who knows where.
Date written; 23rd Of December 2020
Date posted to contest ; First Of October 2022
Contest name ; 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 15
Sponsor ; Mark Toney
A 26 line poem
Walked into a door frame and battered my shoulder
Felt I’d done battle with some kind of boulder
I thought I’d need more than a dollop of ointment
So I rang the doctor to book an appointment
The clock told me it was fifteen after nine
And kling klangy muzak assaulted my mind
It took a few minutes but then I was told
My call was important… please hold
At one point she said I was eighth in the queue
I watched a fly circling for something to do
Don’t say I’m important and then make me hold
Just answer my phone call before I get old
At thirty five minutes a strange sudden silence
Left me inclined towards uncontrolled violence
My mood was nosediving my demeanour, black
I splatted the fly when the muzak came back
I grumbled as I felt my impatience climb
And pulled out my finger nails one at a time
And as a makeshift agitation reliever
I bashed my own head with the handheld receiver
Well maybe my call’s not important but then
She told me it was… again… and again
I got really angry, I felt at a loss
And then I said I’m gonna show her who’s boss
So when a voice said, “Can I be of assistance?”
I answered, “No,” with a spiteful insistence
I slammed the phone down and it jolted my shoulder
My wife grinned and said, “Well, that really told her!”
[The average wait for an answer when calling
my doctor’s surgery is 45 minutes]