Now moisturize, primp, polish, and shun your grains! On breads alone you must not live, says the bitchy diet philosophy of some fat bitch who’s mostly famous for not being fat anymore—says the alcoholic B actor cocksucker who’s not an active alcoholic anymore. Did you know that Cock Sucker’s Plan for Ultimate Motivation is only 25 easy monthly installments of $19.95—plus freedom poverty taxes—and the cock suckers will even take your $21, poverty taxes added, plus fees, di-rectly from your bank account every month—electronically! It’s automatic! Hassle Free! You won’t even notice you’re losing it. Can you believe that fucking shit?! Computers. So buy the cocksucker programs, and listen and listen—hundreds of mp3s, 30 minutes each—and walk through a depressive chaos, stressed and mangled, talking this half-baked bullshit, and in public!—Highlighted Portions—a cocksucker looks out for numero uno! [sic]—make every compliment 1/2 insult—a creative neg—you know, to surprise her!–I mean, just imagine you’re a great writer, and do what the great writers did. [Which was?] Page turned. They lied to get laid or paid. They lied to get off the hooks they hung their own asses from—and why?—well, because, nothing for nothing, and I’m just saying, what does it have to do with me?

Lyrics for Reading Along

It was just before dawn
One miserable morning in black ‘forty four.
When the forward commander
Was told to sit tight
When he asked that his men be withdrawn.
And the Generals gave thanks
As the other ranks held back
The enemy tanks for a while.
And the Anzio bridgehead
Was held for the price
Of a few hundred ordinary lives.

And kind old King George
Sent Mother a note
When he heard that father was gone.
It was, I recall,
In the form of a scroll,
With gold leaf and all.
And I found it one day
In a drawer of old photographs, hidden away.
And my eyes still grow damp to remember
His Majesty signed
With his own rubber stamp.

It was dark all around.
There was frost in the ground
When the tigers broke free.
And no one survived
From the Royal Fusiliers Company C.
They were all left behind,
Most of them dead,
The rest of them dying.
And that’s how the High Command
Took my daddy from me.

Charles Joseph Bivona, Dad, in Vietnam, 1967

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memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona

» Enter Here «

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» The Mangled: a poem «

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We’re all a little bit idiotic.
After all, knowing nothing is where all of us start.

-Reverend Manny

How mangled are we of the opened palm, we of the wide-eyed infants, back yard Indiana Jones or Jane of Arc—Look Mommy! a butterfly! blubbered by too much food and mangled by convenience artists—by micro-discourse pellets—photons to the ocular bones: Consume Here: Throw Away Food! And you better just shut the fuck up and work harder, longer, faster—on our mangled, reframed, revised his or her story—or you’re fired. Do you understand? I’ve got a long line of over-educated assholes begging for your shitty job, boy. Beginning Chapter One: The Mangled—Once upon an empire, millions of minds were herded by glowing, re-enforcing boxes, exhausted and starving—overworked drones; they were gathered to watch one family, then another, then another, slowly burning… burning…to ashes… to ashes… to hearts of petrified stone…Long numb to their own insanity, the species watched its rolling horror—the horror they owned—in full HD surround sound of crackling colorful smoke—it’s like you can almost smell it, dude. Amazing!—until the mangled managed to half-think, half feel in their acid washed anxious bones—a scoff—we could chant it!—and it goes: you know what… fuck those people… they deserve it…

Read More

Sang Lee is Dead: memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona

» Enter Here «

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No more staring into my stale fridge of expired dates—props to fool an anxious mother—Ok, so you do have some food! Thank God! She says she feels guilty—stays awake at night: I mean, how can she sleep while one of her babies has no food in his house? she asks me. I tell her not to worry, just to hear myself say it out loud: I’ll figure something out, mom. I always do. I always have, I say. And I’m reminded of a poetry reading at my University in 2003. The host introduced me warmly, smiled brightly, and said: “He is an American poet who excels at finding creative, unusual ways to make a living.”—what my mom and my grandma call survival, I thought. It was my badge of honor in certain intellectual circles: a lifetime of poverty training.

Uploaded by RedBlueGreen12345 on Nov 5, 2008

Read More

memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona

» Enter Here «

And remember,
my panhandling guitar case is always open,
so please…

 If you can.

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