A video of my nonfiction poem about the crack motel sidewalk ritual I encountered on Crenshaw Boulevard in Los Angeles, California.
A nonfiction video series about an east Texas amateur video maker in Marshall, Texas invited to Hollywood to be in a film documentary about homelessness and the strange and twisted path that Amtrak railroad trip took.
The South Texas Germ Warfare Standard Deviation
(Where CanI Get A Surrogate Brain?)
Biological Flu Blues
By Jolie Blond
I'd gotten to feeling sophisticated,
secure in myself,
and then I learned humility
when brought down
by a bug.
The bug has got a hold of me,
the doctors cannot kill it.
My brain won't work,
my nose won't stop,
my throat burns like
a cheap, worn skillet.
I tried my mom's herbology,
I starved and stuffed and pilled it.
When whiskey failed
to do its stuff,
I hot tub tried
to cook it out
as I had gotten to be,
I couldn't even defend myself
from this tiny viral flea.
So if you're feeling superior
to the day's circumstantial turns,
just remember all your best laid plans
can be altered by a germ.
Poet's Corner Submission #17: "Work" by Jolie Blond. Poetry for the common man. Inspired by Charles Bukowski. Lived by me.
Prose about a helium party balloon that lands in a vacant lot. Distributed by Tubemogul.
by Jolie Blond
hovering two feet over a brownish, overgrown vacant lot,
like an off-color scarecrow,
like an airhead sentinel
From where have you come, blue balloon?
Did you escape the small, stubby fingers of a child,
breaking her young heart?
Did you tear loose from a grand opening,
floating away from your brothers and sisters unnoticed?
Were you carelessly anchored or did you struggle?
Or maybe you're a terrorist weapon,
anthrax spores mixed with your helium.
I saw you last night, blue balloon
bobbing and poking your plastic head a foot above the weeds.
Did you have a message for me?
For someone like me?
This morning I came out to visit you
and you were dead . . .or sleeping . . .
lying in the dirt amid the weeds
shrunken half last night's size,
I never knew you, blue balloon.
I know you flew.
I know you soared to great heights
before you landed in the abandoned lot
where all manner of abandoned others landed;
broken stuff, unwanted stuff, unuseablle stuff:
worn tires and broken pots and candy bar wrappers . . .
but you flew there, blue balloon.
I'll give you that.
My poem about the reactions to the World Trade Center towers disaster from my Baldheaded Poet series.
Distributed by Tubemogul.
Spoken Word poetry about inspiration and fleeting muses. Public domain footage courtesy the Prelinger Archives as attributed. Soundtrack composed in Garageband by me. Written by me. Distributed by Tubemogul.