InstaPunk Returns

  Old Men Don’t Write Poetry All the words have been rubbed raw I love you is a phone bye bye  A horror of fucks I never asked for We don’t get hard-ons much anymore Which must mean no passion anymore You have no idea how many rules I can break on my invalid couch Words I know you don’t know the meaning of Every rusty bolt in our movie coffin You won’t exhume us It is not sexy what rot we face. Know this breaks every poem rule But funny I have done more than any of you  Know the rules in the first place Before breaking every one Old men don’t write poetry because they can. Should stop here But won’t I know iambic pentameter Dactylic hexameter And I lie down and sigh waiting For the willow by the carriage shed I saw live and die in less than my own life Is this an old man poem? No. Old men don’t write poems They just hide in corners they can no longer defend

Ars Punketica I am unknown. I am also the future of writing. Which has been dead for a long long time. For a few decades I was The Rolling Stones of writing, the Bowie, the Lennon, the Hendrix, the Clash, but no more. Left them all behind I did. Because I am also the Tom Waits, the Warren Zevon, the dying Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison alive and dead. And even the Miles Davis of a dead generation trying to leave its wisdom behind for you. All of them simultaneously. Smeared across the sunrise and sunset. No writer has ever done what I have done.  I am both a poet and a quantitative analyst with years of management consulting experience backed by math. You won’t get this, but it doesn’t matter. Since the age of 16, I haven’t been writing for you. I’ve been writing for the sad heirs of your grandchildren. Even my wife hates my obsession with not talking to you. Just your grandchildren. I have a granddaughter. I’m not even talking to her. She will fall, as all of you have fallen for the new ev

  I’ve been very very busy with Killer Lesbian Week on the streaming services’ LGPTQ fare I’m told, and I’m not going to comment for now on the spiritual and philosophical implications of “I Care a Lot,” “The Stranger,” and Brazil’s “Invisible City.” All available on Amazon Prime or Netflix, take your pick. Just thought I’d tell you two things. Takes this link I call Laird roots, when I searched for Hancock ... Then I thought I’d remind you of things you absolutely do not know.

 

 Rush Limbaugh is dead. Damn. I’ll be back to celebrate him later. I have this on LP, scratches and all. I bet he did t oo.

Knew I had to write about the impeachment farce, now that the Dems were determined to try it again. So I spent a good part of the night looking up Ali fights. When you’re the GOAT, people go looking for your moments of weakness. Tom Brady has lost Super Bowls, three times, which ties him with Fran Tarkenton and John Elway for second most SB losses. You see how that works. So I went looking for Ali knockouts (0), knockdowns (2), and fights that went the distance he nevertheless won. Just three caught my attention, of which my encyclopedic knowledge of Ali remembered only one. Chuck Wepner, the game barroom brawler, made Ali hit the floor by stepping on his foot and then knocking him over (see above pic). The ref caught it right away, so blatant was the tactic, though not soon enough to prevent Sly Stallone from getting the idea for Rocky . Sad. There were other fights that didn’t end in KOs or TKOs. Two with the Brit/Aussie Joe Bugner, who got the crap beaten out of him but never went d

 Forward... Progress! Found this post . Most of America thinks he’s fine. Most of America is a jerk. It’s music. You’ll like it. Take the link.

  The old boy network can always use a new member suitable for mating purposes.