December 19-25, 2005: M.D. Friedman and Peggy Bell

week of December 19-25, 2005



M.D Friedman and Peggy Bell


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M.D Friedman
md@poetscoop.org

Bio (auto)

M.D Friedman is a poet, teacher, musician photographer and digital artist from Loveland, Colorado His poems have appeared in Wired Art from Wired Hearts, Kookamonga Square, Job’s Turkey, Arcade, The Green Horse and The Dry Creek Review   His fourth book of poetry, Where We Reach, combines his poetry with his original photographs and artwork He is the founder of the Internet Poets’ Cooperative website which features over 20 free volumes of e-books from poets around the world Also featured there are around 200 free audio recordings of dozens of Colorado poets reading their own work at the ever popular Poets’ Co-op Open Readings For more information or to contact M D with your comments please see http://www.mdfriedman.com.

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by M.D Friedman and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Super Bowl of the Muse

Let’s turn it on I mean really turn it on Let’s turn on it It’s time to turn it around Let’s watch it
from the inside
Let’s turn it over before it’s over This time we’ll turn that flashing
fat screen upside down We’ll strip the cold fire from its flicker
and tickle its underbelly as it
jiggles topless in an electric dance
Let’s over tip the dust bunnies,
those cheerleaders of neglect,
as they shake their chalky booties
bristling with blue light Let’s spark their sequenced g-strings
stuffed green with sweaty money
Let’s transform it all
until it turns us on This is the New American Dream It’s never over until the Fat One sings,
and this time we’ll listen to Her words It’s Her song that matters now
It is the Super Bowl of the Muse The Big Game in the Big Easy And this year it’s even bigger, better, bolder It’s more colorful, more electrifying,
more engaging
and less real than ever
Can you imagine?
Even the commercials have something new to say:
A hairy Alan Ginsberg doing the shimmy
bulges out from under
his red, white, and blue
shrunken flag tank top
Crowned with a rainbow of fireworks,
he gulps a cold diet Pepsi down,
like some darkly sparkling stolen nectar,
as if the red, white, and blue can itself
were filled directly from the wet dreams of virgins,
our Alan simply belches OM, twinkling his timeless grin
It’s all happening now It’s Super Overtime We’re into Sudden Death So let’s rock our rockers Let’s roll it over in the fake green grass of our imagination Let’s rewind the rerun

and fast forward it to the end This is our new beginning Let’s put a giant magnifying glass
over the top of the Superdome
and burn it all up Let’s tear down the old goals Just imagine 100,000 people
all paying big bucks just to sit with the big cheese
in this quaking maze of stands and fans,
all snapping their fingers frantically
and pounding their feet for more poetry Millions more all having Super Slam Parties
Think of it:
poets going to Disneyland!
Everybody everywhere stopping everything
for a single afternoon Even people who don’t like poetry
feigning passion,

munching down word chips
dipped in dark image,
taking off on hot wings,
sporting inky berets
to impress
their own fickle muse
We are all so entranced
by how the fresh blood still
sputters from the cheap shot
in s l o w  m o t i o n over and over,
we forget our own surging turmoil Again we angrily boo the fumbled phrase
Yes All of America out of control
cheering wildly for more
graceful word play The yellow flags of syntax
thrown down without penalty,
we can almost taste sweet victory
What’s a split infinitive or even a sentence fragment
when the Great Win is in sight!  Oh yes, just think of it!
Everyone everywhere screaming at once,
slurring their meaningless slogans into a single soulful chant,
throwing their hands to the sky
in an endless human wave
Our real heroes are still on the field,
still taking their licks for the team Slamming themselves into each other
like bugs flattened on a TV screen And now we who sit and watch from above,
spring to our feet in one overwhelming motion!

Cross-eyed from the hard hits,
shaking from exhaustion,
dripping Gatorade,
smeared with mud and blood,
the players below still
frantically guard the gridiron,

falling finally forward
into one great groping
greasy flesh pot,
melting down like a pile
of ice cubes
abandoned and draining
Counting down the final seconds,
we above stumble and stomp in unison,
drunk on our own inner revelation!
Pregnant with joy, swollen with pride, we flail about
beer bloated and convulsing in syncopated stepping,
sinfully drenched in the sweet sweat of our synergy
In a single moment of satori
it is finally too clear
that despite all the hype,
the money and noise,
there has never been anyone
else down there
The final buzzer
screeches as poignantly
as a virgin bride
learning how her new husband
is not the gentle man
she thought she married
Who will play
the Winner now
that the harsh
light of truth
has finally turned
upon us?


Peggy Bell
Peggy_Bell@comcast.net

Bio

Happily divorced, Peggy lives in Derry, NH with her two daughters, Jessica &
Christina, and her two dogs, Taz & Edgar A practicing yogini and Nichiren
Buddhist, she spends her time on the mat.

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Peggy Bell and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

8AM

Underneath the covers
Curled in C
Naked bodies wake
If only for a moment
We share one breath
and watch morning rise

Jessica at 3

Canary yellow mini-skirt
Grabbing her plastic pink purse
She struts the morning dew

What’s for dinner?

Moldy salad
Fermented apple juice
Rancid watermelon –
Frozen ravolis again

Best Friends

high heel shoe fetish
addicted to lipstick
Together, 12 years old again

Sign

Driving behind
construction truck
Yellow sign-“Do Not Follow”