pARAPHILIA mAGAZINE iSSUE eIGHT

pARAPHILIA mAGAZINE iSSUE eIGHT

The Rochlin Papers, Dec. 8, 2010, 7:30pm

Thanksgiving Day Sans Something

Thanksgiving Day Sans Something

Captain John Smith is retired now

he hides in the phone book

among many John Smiths

just like him

He never married Pocahontas

because that takes the fun

out of raping heathens

that wear pretty jewels

far away from home

it is more exotic

without marital

consent

Walt Disney wants the story line to be

always as wholesome as possible

from his liquid nitrogen throne

he changes history the way

a pilgrim never had to

their rhythm was so

natural that their

race would be

pure forever

this corn is so hybrid it makes injuns sick

ain't that a kick in the pants with a

dirty moccasin foot

ha ha ha

this pumpkin pie

is frozen like

Uncle Walt's

head

it is not made from scratch

like mom used to bake

this turkey has tryptophan

enhanced by Afghan opium poppies

so the next tax cut will help defense spending

along with the black market promises that were made

to guarantee a slower escalation before Christmas

so we can all see those reruns of the halftime show

that were animated back in the sixties when

Suess was still a doctor trying to fix the

broken hearts and warped minds of scared children

he retired a broken hearted man with a warped rhyme

Pocahontas only gets married in animation

in real life she is on a res waiting for a casino check

that has nothing to do with

what John Smith did to her

or pilgrims sharing

blankets of a dying

fever

She cries when Burl Ives sings along

to his banjo by the by

remember,

your purchasing power is necessary this Friday

to start the chorus out right

"every little thing is gonna be all..."

quickly changing into

"I gave you everything I got for a lil' piece of mind"

there are many many pieces on this occasion

but, no one seems to mind

even the soup kitchens

are full of festive

movie stars

the pilgrims knew

these are savages and we must make it through this winter

no matter what

god spoke that day in a verse

of pox and cannon fire

it is all so convenient now

let the parade

begin

Separated At A Still Birth Of A Nation

Separated At A Still Birth Of A Nation

the children of the pimp and ho

generation

dizzy from the centrifugal forces

the new dawn has lit upon

their smiling faces

of death

realize this much:

the conveniences of being from the

criminal class

far outweigh the consequences

unless, of course

you are met with the sudden conviction

lest ye be judged

as you have judged

because

money never judges money

all that harshly

but poverty is an eternal bully

that blinded justice

on the playground

when they were

just kids

on saddleback dinosaurs

‎come, doctor, do tell

is that more exotic smoke you have brought forth?

is it on the menu for delivery or inclub consumption?

it sells best if it isn't a bestseller

even though, selling isn't everything

but, the list in the times is still something jerks jack off to

the troglodytes have sent us back

to the korea we never left alone

the trembling is ignored in atheistic foxholes

the grunting is heard from Palineotologist trenches

dug in so deep they could not work the stolen

parts on the centrifuge that made up the forest

enriching all the hiroshima wet dreams that ran down

the insides of quivering thighs in angst ridden unicorn .jpegs

that are thumbnails of pretty moments in rice milk diplomacy

while the industrial revolution is still turning

behind everyone's backs like a spinning knife wound

discovered to be an ancient javelin thrown as a game

that turned into a war overnight overland oversea oversee overall

shells rained down from heaven before the sun could make it up

rise and shine in the land of the rising sun until its lights out

these shells are less sea and less see and more big blast

all along the parallel as the electric sounds of uranium

drive the turbines that turn the tables on who will be next

in the musical chair game of world domination

that has been dumbing down the syndrome

until the muck raked 60 years ago

comes floating to the top most point of no return

then

and only then

it is asked of the lord of the skies adorned

with mushroom light shows that make the kids say "WOW!!!"

again and again

please forgive us that can't forgive ourselves for not giving the rest

of the world a second chance after we gambled the first one away

in a solid show of force between ancient fellowships both

north and south, east and west

let us pray

lettuce spray

it makes no difference, either way

let them all eat fast food cabbages

tiny microscopes see tiny possibilities

the details of it in the intricacies in sound and movement...

a frantic squeeze...

then *"POP"*!!!

there are no more

weasels

left to go...

Potlatch

Potlatch

give and let give

give into it all

give until it

hurts

it feels good

to give

so much

give unto us, o lord

thankful for the giving on this one day every year

to signify the start of winter shopping sprees

push the limits of commerce to save us all

the rich are about to get even richer

so don't forget to give

even if you gave

at the office

beware the day of the natives come bearing the keys and deeds

to their casinos and reservations

as they say

"here you are, we have built these up as much as we possibly could

and now we return your noble generosity."

the gift of giving might be given back in return

the gift of living might have been an illusion

all along

these buffalo did not return for you

as you cry inside empty casinos

from a lonely fear

suddenly, the electricity is gone from the world

how many of you speak in the rhythm of drums?

how many of you know what the smoke signals mean?

it is a gift that keeps giving

as your dugout canoe

takes on more water

than your tin cup

can bail out

efficiently

Where Were You The Day Kennedy Was Shot?

Where Were You The Day Kennedy Was Shot?

in a womb

in Brooklyn

8 months

into it

mom had moved

to new york

from dallas

years before

they called her

"tex"

she was tall

she was loud

she filled a

room

like the

lone star

lady

from the

yellow rose

state

there were

not many

folks from

dallas

in brooklyn

back then

after it happened

she stood out

like a target

she was shunned

she was spit on

she was cursed

as the world

became

very cold

very lonely

even my father

became distant

no one knows

why

to this day

mom's old boss

jack ruby

shot oswald

in the belly

while I was still

in my mom's

womb

as people

watched

on new

television sets

I was born

a month later

on christmas day

a month

after the

birth

my pops

caught

a couple

of slugs

in the back

of his head

mom took me

up in her arms

to raise me in

sunny callifornia

far from the snow

that fell at the corner

of flatbush and church

the day I was born

but, that question of

where were you the day

they shot the president dead?

that used to be significant

now it means less and less

many assassins

have plied their trade

since that day in dallas

many bullets

have cleaved hope

away from fate

many have fallen

many are never

remembered

anymore

at all

which makes me wonder, to myself

where will we all be when the next bullet flies?

Disappointment

Disappointment

I can see disappointment in a little girls eyes

from 500 milles away

I have seen it before in the eyes of children

from an even further distance

through high concrete walls

across great divides of loneliness

on holidays I would rather spend alone

no real celebration when you can see those eyes

in everything you do everywhere you go

I am very experienced in the vision

it sits there like the menacing grin

of the chesire that haunted alice

in her nightmare wonderland

I know from this experience

no amount of medication kills the pain

no amount of celebration eases the responsibility

the fumbled opportunity

to show up

to be seen in person

I have missed more days than I have made

for children that gave up counting

on me long ago

this will just be another one in a succession

a bad streak I was trying to break

can't fight poverty with my skillset

at least, I haven't won one yet

left to just sit here alone

with a feeling like

I been punched in the face

I been kicked in the gut

I been broke for so long

on days like this it breaks my heart

missing a little girl's birthday

even though

I can see the disappointment in her eyes

like she was standing right there

saying "why?"

I got no answers

except, when people say money can't buy

happiness

they might be right

but a few more dollars

might have bought my way

out of sadness

on a day like today

In The Grand Scheme Of Things

In The Grand Scheme Of Things

I threw a few things in my time

projectiles launched in futility

arcing through the sky

at phalanx of uniforms

at vehicles of authority

at windows of institutions

I backed up this sentiment

day in and day out

fuck your hamster wheel jobs

in your habitrail world

I knew I was not gonna win

any major battles

let alone a single victory

pretty early on

bruising from handcuffs

swelling from contusions

staring down gun barrels

getting lost in the paperwork system

way past your release date

this really drove my choices

the impossibility

of the rat maze

made probation and parole

a very unattractive option

I became expatriate in my own country

drifting in and out of different levels

of what seemed like such righteous

anger as I was affected by the outcome

of the course of action that leadership

of consequence had chosen

with no feeling of connection

or sense of potency in my

diminished position

as an anarchist of situation

as a marginal existence

forced to bow at the throne

whenever captured

avoiding capture

became paramount

to living life at all

I was driven by fear and hatred

into internal conflicts so deep

into internal darkness so engulfing

into internal sensations of hypocrisy

that were so shameful and revealing

about my selfish nature

I drove myself deeper into poverty and addiction

just get away from the reality that only seemed

to lead back to suicide as a logical solution

as a noble solution

over and over again

facing myself and my fears

willing myself back into the fight

getting defeated again

more drugs more crimes

the only answer that seemed to work

not the only option I had

but you go with what works

just like the corporate elite

just like the presidents and prime ministers

just like the senators, governors, mayors, generals, lawyers,

advertisers, pimps, gangsters, chefs, cooks, police, coaches

the guardians of packaged righteousness in all forms

they will laugh as they make you take it all back

they will mock your whole life and the lives of

your closest dead loved ones

as they demand your capitulation

as they demand your final allegiance

you might find yourself

contemplating their hypocritical oath

bending against the last of your broken will

you will bow down to them

you will adopt their ways and means

you will join their teams and systems

on some level you will have to

you have to win at some point

I know I had to

even though I am still waiting for the

final results on that decision

shrugging my shoulders

wondering

how bad could it really be?

On A Walk With Poets At The Huntington

On A Walk With Poets At The Huntington

walking along pathways into verbiage jungles of english gardens

coming out into clearing of genkan entry way into nipponese

tea gardens that sing with buddhist bells of birdsongs

accompanied with timpani rhythm of babbling brook

rushing down rocks under dense foliage fanning

above with dragonfly witness to footsteps

passing along intricate pathways up to the threshold

of tarmac crossings into a tea garden of a chinese tradition

that unfolds with hand hewn hunan cobblestones that

capture all footfalls and guide them into ponds of

peaceful contemplation on stone bridges arcing

above clamoring carp of multi-colored luminescence

hidden in brackish waters as they playfully gasp for

entrance into conversation as each one contains

a mythological poet who trades words for moonlight dignity

when all visitors have tread homeward to leave them

reciting their own litanies inspired by the conversations

of mortal wonderment that transpires on the granite

bridges that shadow the shallows of their liquid quagmire

of crowded solitude among turtles that languish for sunlight

in their amphibious shells of natural rewards

everywhere there is safety in this pond

a peacefulness as birds fly overhead

these carp seize nothing more

than morsels that are known

as words that are common

as carp in the ocean

but never more

beautiful as

they are

right here

right now

Selling Panties

Selling Panties

we parted ways a while ago

thanks to modern technology

we still keep in touch online

I still love her wild beauty

I still miss her need for

when the world was

all loneliness for

both of us

she is a sex machine cum loud

a real rootin' tootin' pornstar

she is a media frenzy of

ejaculating spectacle

lining her pockets

with the currency

of the sex trade

I don't watch

her scenes

but I smile

when I see

a banner ad

that she is

a part of

recent turmoil in the biz has her calling me this morning

"hey, raze, whatcha doin'?" she asks with a purr

she has perfected a few things, I can tell

because my belly tightens all the way down

"thinkin' bout a few things, now I am thinkin' bout you, mostly."

I say in my most aloof exhale of past desires lost to time never again

"I got a proposition for ya, I need you, Daddy, you still love me?"

I almost laugh, it is so good to be needed though, needed by her

velocity against the heavens like we would be stars together

shooting across all the cosmos into the milky way of night

like supercharged supernovas arcing onto Venus' neckline

like dirty bedazzled space demons of lust streaking into orbit

colliding in a cloud of glittering wet splashes of ultraviolet lightning

"what's yer bag, mama? let me hear your twisted little thoughts on this."

I lay back and listen to the black light spider spin her sticky web

turns out she is not doing scenes lately but has tested aim perfect anyway

she has a lotta guys that wanna give her bread for panties on the web sight

she wants to link herself to my poetry and prose and have me write her

into my erotica the way I used to do (she says that made her so happy then)

she says she is gettin' hot just thinking about it "you getting hot too, Daddy?"

"I am following you, but I want to hear the part where Daddy gets paid, baby."

she breaths a deep huff and moans a lil' bit like pleasure, but I hear the contempt

of a spoiled lil' girl getting her candy taken away too soon "allllright, fucker."

she lays it out with a little less drama in her voice, but still a lot of sex,

I suppose she can't help that, I don't fault her none for it, either

she wants me to come fuck her with no condoms

she wants me to come do it and to not pull out

she wants to make video clips of it that

she wants to send to the trick with

the pair of panties that she puts on afterward

a thousand dollars a pop, she says, I get 200

50 more if I send them a poem with it

a poem about how I love to fill her up with it

so it all drips down out of her into these panties

they can read the poem while they play the video

as they take deep breaths off of the silky encrusted panties

she says it is like they get the full experience of our art combined

our genetic material mixed in together forever as dried inspiration

for moments in future fantasy of abandoned lust into the future orgasm

she sells it so good I can smell her manipulation behind every word

I listen to her elation as she spells it out in a win win situation for all

I tell her I'll think about it seriously

I tell her it is a brilliant marketing plan

she giggles before she says "I love you"

I smile before I say "I love you, too, lil' mama."

I have never been paid to publish my writing

I don't know any publishers who would make me an offer

that would come anywhere close to matching the potential of this

I suppose the economy might make it possible soon

if it's getting to the sex industry like this

publishers might ask me to come inside them

any day now