Friday, June 24, 2011

WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THE SHINING AND THE WILL TO WEAKNESS?

(10/29/09)
 Last night I watched Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining with my parents. Referring to the heroine and “best supporting” actress Olivia Duvall, my mom said, “You know, she wasn’t’ such a wuss in the book. She was a much stronger character.” The book about which my mother was speaking, of course, is the original novel The Shining written by Stephen King
            After his first scotch, earlier that evening, my old man said, “You know, I think this movie only makes it because of Jack. I think Jack kind of makes this thing.” How sad, I thought, for Stanley Kubrick, that my dad could only give any credit to the genius of the film to its star, Jack Nicholson.
            Both of these interpretations of the film seemed to suck some major dick, in my opinion.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Should You Celebrate Mother’s Day If Your Mother Is Dead?

Let’s say for one moment that your mother died of an accidental prescription drug overdose in a hotel room located in a pretty shitty city (say, Cincinnati) on a date with your father for his pretty cheesy event—a medal ceremony. Specifically, a medal ceremony for those patriotic magic-workers of genealogy, The Sons of the American Revolution.
The Lovely Dead Mother from Hitchcock's "Psycho".

Now that she’s dead, consider this: Would you or should you celebrate Mother’s Day? Visit her grave? Visit your grandparents (her parents) if they’re still lucky enough to reside in the house of the living?

Friday, May 6, 2011

Is Meta-Narrative Finally Too Aware of Itself?

In reflection of a poem I’ve written lately called, “The Daughter’s of Aphrodite’s Moonshine Whiskey Dirge,” I wrote to another poet, a friend of mine who will give me an honest and fair critique, the following:

Dearest poetry friend,

So, I've been wanting to write a prose poem for a long while now, probably since 2008. I think the first and only one I wrote was by accident, something called On That Which Cannot Be Said, in my thesis, which only you, Bildo, could point out to me in class (and everyone else) that it should be read as a poem. Then I got a hard-on for Baudelaire.

This is a rather ambitious piece, which makes my cock go grandpa limp. Took me three days to write it. But I am looking for criticism. I'm afraid to say too much about it and what it's supposed to be or do, to get an honest critique, but at the same time don't want it misinterpreted. So, I'll just say that's it's totally serious and supposed to make fun of itself (or its themes) at the same time and leave the rest to you.

The only prose poetry I've really read is Flowers of Evil from 3 years ago. I don't know what I'm doing.

Jaques-trude, de garge!
(Thank you!)

-Buck Hennesy Fisher, the second.

Here’s a piece of the poem: “Think not! That my tale’s unaware of this rhyming self-aware style, my ancient yarn reeks of postmodern duplicity and postmortem distortions. Because even such awareness is beyond that which is needed like everything beyond everything, beyond everything beyond, papal bulls or dogma, demurely splattered on halls colored day-glo in an opaque darkness, one for amusement, the other for art, but neither for art’s own sake in the age of amusement.” 

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Is Your Facebook Friend a Friendly Fascist?

Here’s a post from a friend of mine on facebook:

“Just played dodgeball and jumped rope with a bunch of 6th graders calling me Mr. Ben. My job is dope.”

That’s all candy-cane and ga-ga enough.He just got his first job in NYC, and thank Christ that he’s happy because it beats the shit out of serving tables—which is how we met a couple years ago when he taught me how to sell over-priced top-shelf tequilas at noon to customers who just couldn’t squeeze by their lunch hour without hitting the sauce.