Spain won the world cup yesterday, one to nil - but it was never close. Spain spent 70% of the game in Argentina’s backfield - pressuring.
Spain had nine respectable shots at a goal - scored one with another called back. Argentina had one shot that almost went in. I know losing when I see it - Argentina winning would have been a fluke.
Speaking of losing - Madonna at halftime.
A critic wrote that, "Madonna has come to represent America’s fear of aging."
Yeah, aging has never looked less appealing.
I may take up smoking.
I know, she recently had a single hit #1 on the Billboard charts.
Back when the Beatles were cranking out 24 #ones in a row, you had to sell a million records a week to crack the top ten, and 1.3 to 1.5 million a week to stand a chance at a #1. Today (with streaming) you can get a #1 with a 7th of that number.
I love early Madonna - but I know creepy when I see it.
Who’s older, Madonna or Trump?
Whatever, both are too old for their jobs.
.
.
A song for this:
Vogue by Madonna
Cruel and Pretty by Over the Rhine
Roaming over the wheatfields
their joints a-cranking
insecticide fog blankets the air
Oklahoma dustbowl bleeds
Relics of a bygone day, all angles they move
ravaging fields and pests, pests and fields
wheels of progress a-churning away
blackening golden grain
~ pests' entree, noonday
Big muscles of the organ grinder, his biceps burning.
Cranking springs, the tired, but cheerful, Italian chap.
Many chapters of his life on streets of cold cement.
His beard, silver tone; his worn hat filled with coins.
You’d expect for the old legs to be moving, it rests
as the tunes be calling, beckoning through windows.
Accordion sounds be arousing smiles and curiosity.
Melancholy dirges wet the shoulders of the bitties.
Again the pedals and thighs grind along, travelling
as the kids and townsfolk wave goodbye. On his
merry way, feet tapping, ladies dancing, men puffing
on their pipes and cigars. The music says so long.
And another group gathers in the waning sun, waiting
for their favorite song; and the grinder gladly plays,
telling a story, with his barrel rolling, his pins caressed.
Kaput - he moves into a museum, a blast from the past.
In Yorkshire, a bit of bacon-butty
in a greasy cafe -
could have had blood sausage.
My breaches are squeaking,
mice are leaving deposits.
Somehow a few do applaud
my slippery tongue.
Beer in Belfast
gray foaming weather
kept the damp town breezy.
Recite my crap.
Pub talk,
fist fights in the carpark,
I miss a missing train.
Read poems to smug buggers
in Birmingham,
drip out of there
and good riddance.
Back to London
and the mold riddled dump
that keeps me from
an old cranking typewriter.
Mind-ghosts slither
around its keys.
A poets life begins
haphazardly,
conflicted as it is
with the right to be
or not to be.
sputtering poetry,
the impotent poet
tells me, she was
“…puttering around Pittsburg.”
potent poetry. perhaps,
alluring alliteration
potentially portends
the winch to wind up
this bucket of water.
diviner twitches, dips,
dares to deviate
direct, dilate.
like a mad scientist, moronic
not to move these ready-made
sputters into a test tube, shake
and let them explode!
an avid, alliterative logophile
holds the power to possess,
to render the procession of
spoken word into usefulness.
alert to the prowess of moving lips,
gears cranking creativity and giddiness,
glad tidings go on and on, when
sputtered with regards to my sister’s trip.
I am a painting factory
cranking out eight to ten canvases a week
it is my gemini mentality
it is my high mccormick energy
I am a poetry factory
slapping out seventy poems a week
it is my iowa roots
it is what I know how to do
I am a cartoon factory
scribbling down eight cartoons a day
it is my cross to bear
I blame my mother, the energizer bunny
Been cranking out some crazy dreams
of prehistoric birds in flight
Six foot tall with bills like puffins
looking to roost for the night
One flew into a high line wire did a triple
and slammed to the ground
I stared in amazement as he got to his feet
What He did then would truly astound
Head down he charged in predating gear
To the place that my father stood
Quickly recast by the man that I Wed
Who then stepped out of sight as he should
Another one then caught the sight of me
Pursued me like honey and he was the bee
I ran hard for cover soon to arrive
Struggling to secure the door to the hive
And made it just in time
As his full bodied weight slammed into the door
Clawing he scratched with a deafening roar
I awoke to a silence sublime
Don't know why you need to know this
Just somehow feel you do
Sleep tight tonight don't let
monster birds bite and swallow you without a chew
We were a country where people roamed free
where you drove cross-country without paying a fee
We were a country where folks dreamed big
outside of Washington where men wore wigs
We were a country known for ingenuity
not for divorces, abortions, and promiscuity
We were a country built by entrepreneurs
not by bureaucrats cranking out horse manure
We were a country where a man said what he thought
not what some PhD. thinks that Mao taught
Yes, we were a country, alright
not a chorus of banshees from the left and the right
Another afternoon of horrid heat.
I need to chill with sweet ice cream.
Homemade, with ripe strawberries.
Hand churned takes time, but it's the best.
My tongue will lick the paddle clean
then I'll put three scoops in a frosted dish.
I'm not greedy but can't resist the temptation.
So worth the wait and all the cranking labor
for such a refreshing dessert!
One last plump berry perched on top.
I'm beginning to drool. It's time to go.
I have to eat quickly, before it melts.
Chop! Chop!
June 21, 2022
Ice Cream Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Julia Ward
WILL-SLAP-ROCK
Perilous mixed up in the industry,
Troubled rumbled "situationship" tainted gentry,
epitomize a couple's open chemistry?
Oh...!!! What a timely tangle
that spangled in a world of Illuminati triangle.
Society's predicament sums up a night of quagmire
even though the story ends up ephemeral.
In betwixt the slap and Rock
was a moment with Chris and his long talk.
In betwixt Will Smith's "Oscar best actor" win,
was a comedy of errors and his open sin;
Global warming was the cheek of Chris Rock,
Oblivious of the disgrace that he couldn't duck
but had to be man enough
to receive that hot stuff,
steaming like a hot stove.
Twas like a Hollywood movie
that makes you shock, jocund or moody,
like when Mom hits you in front of your friends
and you act like it didn't hurt.
And so, "everybody hates Chris"
for cranking-up a bald joke about Jada Smith
but missed the moment Will noticed Jada wasn't having it
and had to slap Chris Rock for it,
just to make up for laughing so hard in a bit.
And just like that in one hour half,
this saga was passed around more than his wife.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright©March 28th, 2022.
***I personally don't indulge in "soothing weed"
but the Dutch and many others certainly do***
Amsterdam
Dynamic charm along many contradictions encompass Amsterdam
House boats festoon canal while tenants toast wine and love Edam
True blue blonds cranking bikes synchronize pace crossing a bridge
Stoned laird hears enlightened souls chant verse perched on ledge
Safe from surging water churches dominate rooftops ogling a tram
Finely carved architecture tower above bars serving eggs and ham
Cafes offer soothing weed dazzling each mortal with such privilege
Fueling dreams of nirvana minds invoke desire to sharpen its edge
Penned: 06/16/2017
12:34 a.m.
Aboard cruise liner: Vision Of The Seas
Docked in Amsterdam, Holland
A Gemini, I get bored with a new hobby the day it begins to be a hobby
I am still painting and cartooning, but my enthusiasm is waning.
I used to work on seven paintings a week. I am down to two.
Poetry cropped up in my life about three years ago.
By forcing myself to write ten poems a day, I have killed that desire.
Don’t think I am not cranking out the ten poems though. I am.
I think I have gained thirty pounds the past three years.
I am sure it is due to complete boredom.
I like sparkly, shiny, new, weird things.
I have not been in the stores for over a year and a half.
Fear of dying of Covid-19 has taken care of that old urge.
I used to spend fifty dollars a day in stores.
Now I have money in the bank, and boring dull hobbies.
Being a Gemini, I need something new.
And fast if you please.
he is a guest in another beings dream
a stranger sleeps behind his eyes
when he thinks about this
he shivers and turns to the window
letting himself be distracted by the dusty fields
the wind cranking farms
the bus is half-full
empty seats are occupied by the soon to be born
the soon to be dead and those in transition
hinterlands overlap and leak
a young man yet to be conceived
stares about him thinking he is in a movie
people speak a language known only to hollow trees
and wooden owls
there are no subtitles for his state of mind
passengers cling to the long straps of their thoughts
as the coach sways
some occupants are uncertain
if whether they have a real ticket for a real life
others think they may have purchased a ticket
with no destination
they fidget in their seats
wonder why the trip is taking so long
under spinning rubber
the ground sinks away
while an inverse sky
rises
LIFE IS A BOOK {FLIP THROUGH}
Life is nothing but a book
To open a good chapter is not a fluke
And adventurous pages which but hooks,
Gallivanting the bookstore for books like a crook.
Life is nothing but a book
When relaxingly romancing with the brooks
Making you comported & relaxed like Dukes,
And breathing confidence in the name of good looks.
Life is nothing but a book.
Enjoying sumptuous meal which she cooks,
Laughing, cranking & spilling jokes
Getting the muss off the hook
Which joy amply soaks.
Life is nothing but a book! Flip through!!
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © 2009
The bus is half-full, empty seats are occupied
by the soon to be born, the soon to be dead,
those in transition.
The medium knows he is a guest in a stranger’s dream.
When he thinks about this, he shivers and turns
to the window, lets himself be distracted
by the dusty fields, the wind cranking farms.
A bespectacled matron moans
as the knit of her life slowly unravels.
Eighty years dead; white mice
have been born and have passed away in her head.
A travelling salesman yet to be conceived
stares about him, thinking he is in a movie.
People speak a language he does not understand -
there are no subtitles for his state of mind
however, his future occupation has already been seeded
within the mixology of an ancient starlight.
The medium wishes he were more accustomed
to the slow process of astral dissolution
and regeneration.
Passengers cling to the long straps of their minds
as the Greyhound sways.
Some occupants dream
that they have a real ticket for this life,
others may have purchased a ticket,
but not a destination;
they fidget in their seats,
and wonder why the trip is taking so long.
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