“Oscar Night”
Self-love is self love, beet says
—whether gilded into sleek
shiny sexless statuettes, or
performed alone in one of the
theater stalls after the winners
have all been called & the gift
baskets long since rifled through.
But there is no shame in it,
beet says. Because love itself
is so rare that if you can’t find
it elsewhere, take it from yourself
—forcibly, if need be—like a kiss
stolen from a reluctant lady in
a black and white film from the 40s…
Dictated to me in my sleep by a beet
after a tequila and chorizo bender
Denver, April 11 1972
I hope it wasn’t Cuervo.
Naw. Something really cheap. Like a $1.50 a bottle in those days. And clear as Reese Witherspoon’s complexion.
Okay, a little help here ….
Did I just see George Clooney’s acceptance speech interrupted by a swarm of bees, who chased him down and stung him to death?
Or did I just dream that?
Sounds more like a “beatnik” than a beet, quite frankly.
Never read the ingredients list on a package of chorizo. Trust me on this. Muscle tissue makes its first appearance rather lower on the list than one would expect.
Yeah, as if there is any other kind…
Did I miss the Oscars? Drat, after failing to see any movie nominated, I was hoping I could at least catch-up by watching the little clips they show.
That was both deep and profound.
Well, at the very least you can take heart in knowing those Gift Baskets are taxable income.
(snapping fingers)
Hea-vy, man!
SB: audience
Above unspeakable vision translated by Michael Mclure:
GOOOOOOR! GOOOOOOOOOO!
GOOOOOOOOOR!
GRAHHH! GRAHH! GRAHH!
Grah gooooor! Ghahh! Graaarr! Greeeeer! Grayowhr!
Greeeeee
GRAHHRR! RAHHR! GRAGHHRR! RAHR!
RAHRIRAHHR! GRAHHHR! GAHHR! HRAHR!
BE NOT SUGAR BUT BE LOVE
looking for sugar!
GAHHHHHHHH!
ROWRR!
GROOOOOOOOOOH!
dictated to him in a dream by an angry beet
You’d be pretty pissed, too, if you had a dolphin in a pea coat jamming a deer gun into your kidney while you were trying to read poetry. That barrel is cold, man.
Screw the Oscars. No, I mean it literally. Screw the Oscars up the fat asses of the sanctimonious morons who’ve trashed the movie industry over the past three decades. Screw them up their asses so far they tickle their noses. The buffoons of hollywood, and you’re still giving them your hard-earned money! Gosh, golly, gee!
Of course, if you did that, they’d start making them with batteries and built-in vibrators.
So…the beet was hung over, or still drunk?
Hey, free beet!
OK, but what does any of this have to do with setting fire to my nipples?
I’ve been trying to think of a way to work the line “hard-hearted harbinger of haggis” in, but no luck.
Oh, wait…
Turing Word: Self.
Self-loving, she said.
Self-regarding.
Self-centered.
Self-interested.
And I replied…
Who else should I love?
Who else should I regard?
Where else should I be centered?
Whose interests should I serve?
Self-determined, the answer.