MySpace a place for friends

~RE-VO's GALLERY of POETRY

TREAT OR TRICK, by RE-VO
Halloween is finally here.
A time of handouts and of sweets.
A time of candies, popcorn, apples,
Chocolate, tricks and tasty treats.
The little ones deserve such fun,
and ought to have such bailouts flung
upon their little lives, for nothing more than
being cute and young.
Yet, in America, it seems that
Halloween is much in style
as CEOs demand their treats
for nothing more than cocky smiles,
for nothing given to the poor,
no contributions to the world,
for parties on expensive yachts
with caviar and tanned call-girls,
for corporate jets and limousines
and palaces and jewelry,
for wasted food and roasted quail,
for drunken, pale tom-foolery.
Thus, Halloween comes once a year
to little ones with little pay,
but for the corporate elite,
All Hallows' Eve comes every day.

THE NEO-CON's LAMENT, by RE-VO
[childlike tone]:
Barack is doing too much.
Now, he's doing too little.
Obama's doing too much.
Now, he's not doing enough.
I blame him for everything...
Even for the 6 trillion that
my own people
blew on bombing Iraqis and Afghanis.
Why did you have to vote him in?
Why can't everything stay the same?
I made only fifty million this year.
It's not enough.
It's never enough.
I need a bailout.
Give me a bailout.
Otherwise, I'll keep whining like this:
[childlike tone]
Barack is doing too much.
Now, he's doing too little...
[Repeat this refrain for 4 years]

THE CHENEYWOCKY, by RE-VO:
..Twas autumn, in two-thousand-one,
When we did lose America;
Illusions of the terrorists
Sent the country to war.
"Beware the Richard Cheney, son!
The jaws that bite, the mouth that hurls!
Beware the Wolfowitz, and shun
The frumious Richard Perle!"
He took his Bible in his hand:
Long time the Muslim foe he sought,
So ranted he by the Joshua tree,
And terrorists he caught.
And, as in oafish thought he stood,
Karl Rove, with right-wing eyes of flame,
Came bumbling through the leftist wood,
And outed Valerie Plame!
One, two! One, two! The Neo-Cons
Stole civil rights, and snicker-snack!
They left us dead, and in our stead,
Left only Conrad Black.
"And, hast thou slain the Terrorists?
Come to my arms, my foolish boy!
For New World Order is at hand,”
Bush Senior squawked with joy.
..Twas autumn, in two-thousand-one,
When we did lose America;
Illusions of the terrorists
Sent the country to war.

IT WAS NOT A FISH, by RE-VO
I saw the greatest MySpace minds
Lose track of whom they thought they were:
Accountants trying to use Excel
While huffing Mescaline, most pure.
I saw them pull their pants down low
And snap revealing photographs,
While snorting clean Colombian blow
And dissing old friends, just for laughs.
I watched the seers with self-control
Develop strange addictions to
Their self-humiliating blogs,
And busty girlies on YouTube.
But they could not anticipate
Effects of media on rats
Inside a maze of PC boards,
Of pop-ups, GIFs, and Big Six Cats.
Pervasive media are not
Perceivable, without the wish
To know who said, “I think that’s water.”
Simply, it was not a fish.

THANKSGIVING IN THE U.S.A.
by RE-VO
Thanksgiving in the U.S.A.
a kind of mixed bag, I would say,
since Mr. Cheney stole the loot
supposed to be his peasants' pay.
As businesses, then, closed their doors,
the PNAC kissed their whores
and drank a toast to bounty sweet,
and shouted out, "Hey, ain't life neat?"
"We pulled it off, and got away
with crimes we never thought would pay
so much: 8 trillion! Holy crap!
And Fannie Mae will take the rap,
and in a pinch, the common man
will take the blame (it's in the plan).
It all worked out, and now Barack
inherits all this poppycock.
So, thanks to our beloved think tank,
there's lots for which we can give thanks:
inflation like we've never seen,
recession like there's never been.
We never thought we'd see the day.
[pause]
Thanksgiving in the U.S.A.

CAPTAIN ZENITH, by RE-VO:
I have a friend named Captain Zenith,
Hero of nostalgic trends.
Champion of quality,
Those who love him call him Glenn.
He can see into the past,
Returning to enlighten us
About a bygone, better age
When decent people didn’t cuss.
An age when human beings were mindful,
Friends would care about dear friends.
In the modern age, it’s different,
That’s why wise men turn to Glenn.
He’s a man who loves his family,
Cares about community,
Thinks about a better world,
Worries for humanity.
But his faith in God above,
And in peaceful folk below
Will assist the human race,
And, thus, alleviate our woes.
I have a friend named Captain Zenith:
Hero, human, glorious friend.
I am proud to call him brother,
Those who love him call him Glenn.

THE MOB-MAN, by RE-VO:
An awesome weekend is ahead,
For one who has tremendous cred:
The Mob-man, Prince of party scenes,
The dude who makes the women scream.
Great music flows for him, like wine,
But peace on Earth's his true design.
A rainbow warrior who tries
To make us healthy, just, and wise.
His plan is great: while having fun,
We'll all find peace, through Mobius 1.

THE SOUL SOCIETY BELIEVES, by RE-VO:
The Soul Society believes
That they can change humanity
Their brothers know that they’ll succeed,
Restoring human sanity.
Their aim is true, their love is pure,
Their psychic powers are growing fast.
They’ve seen the light beyond the door,
They see into the looking glass.
There now are enemies, no more,
But only those who need a hand
In understanding truth and peace,
To liberate a war-torn land.
The Soul Society believes
That they can change humanity,
And I believe they will succeed,
And we will touch eternity.

SOUL SOCIETY ETERNAL, by RE-VO
Soul Society, ethereal,
Searching for eternity,
Strengthened by their meditation,
Ever faithful circuitry.
River surfers casting shadows
Drifting out to meet the sea.
At the shaft of twilight, watch
The brothers save humanity.
My big star will light the skies,
The front trail will the pathway meet,
Soul Society plays on,
Extolling Demeter in heat.
Soul Society, eternal,
Soars across the cosmos vast,
Searching for humanity,
Their hard-earned chance is here, at last.

THE SHAMAN
(for my dear brother, David A)
by RE-VO
The shaman takes the plant in hand,
and suddenly, he understands:
through psychotropic fantasies,
the shaman touches ecstasy.
The way is clear. The energy
of every living being is free,
and I am you, and he is me.
Molecular totality.
The stuff of ancient worlds is now,
embodied in the sacred cow that
walks the streets of Bangladesh,
and in the words that I profess,
he sees that none is everything.
It matters not what words I sing,
for silence is a symphony.
The shaman knows that he is free
to travel far, to distant lands.
The shaman takes the plant in hand...

POEMS ABOUT OTT

DEAR MR. OTT,
by RE-VO:
[chapter one]
Dear Mr. Ott,
And what have you got?
A hilarious page of diminutive men
Who are Grey and peculiar
Alien friends.
A simple deduction enables us all
to determine that you
are a part of that call
that is emanating
from beneath dreamland's hills:
in a government secret
to bend human will,
a huge army of Greys
who have already conquered
the nation and country,
from L.A. to Yonkers.
So, dear Mr. Ott,
Just what have you got?
The world, that is all,
And we all thank you... not.
[chapter two]
And, so, Mr. Ott, the
answer is not just to
Arm to the teeth, and to
go underground.
Your people have made us so
paranoid that we will
say we have seen you
and that we were found in some
field with our trousers
around naked ankles: that
Ott and his people were
“probing” again.
Exploring the regions of
certain poor farmers who,
not very bright,
do not represent men of all
types: you’ve assumed we’re too
dumb to defend against
Grey little men in their
Circular disks.
And so, Mr. Ott, please
Consider the possible pitfalls and downfalls of
this urgent push,
Of landing your spaceships in
rural locations, and
studying men who are
dumber than Bush.

OTT's BIRTHDAY, by RE-VO
Hello, Mr. Ott,
I regret that I'm not
Just a few hours sooner,
With chocolates I bought
on a planet ten light years
from Alpha Centauri.
The flowers I got now look droopy and sorry.
Forgive me, dear Ott,
I am late and regretting
I didn't come sooner
for poker and betting.
Your weekly Grey orgy
is now almost over,
and all of your spacemen
hung over or sober.
Yet, here is my wish
for a week filled with mirth
Hey!
Dear Ott, let me wish you
a slightly-late birthday
of happiness, bliss, joy,
and Grey little friends... Yet, knowing dear Ott,
there'll be babes, without end.

THE ALIEN PHAROAH
by RE-VO
Hail, Mr. Ott,
Although not a robot,
Your cold, steely presence
is eerie and fraught with
unusual fear for we
humans who see that
your alien race rubs its
hands with great glee.
Your "alien pharoah"
reminded me, thus, of the
fact that our leader is
not one of us, since,
all pointy-head rulers
since history started
were true Anunnaki, who
tap-danced and farted
like Tralfamadorians
Vonnegut knew. They were
all from the cosmos, and
all were imbued with great
power and might... we were
merely their slaves.
And so, Mr. Ott, I will
rant and I'll rave.
Until I know differently,
I will contend.
But your friend, Mr Weyman,
is truly my friend.

OTT's OBNOXIOUS PALS
by RE-VO
(part one)
I must say I didn't
enjoy waking up,
with alien eyes
looking down at my bed.
A myriad group, an
array of large eyes.
They must have got in
through the use of disguise.
Ott's friends, I deduced,
who have come for a fest.
There's a knock at my door!
Should I let in the rest?
It's likely that they are
benign, I expect.
Should I bow as I greet them?
Perhaps genuflect?
But one thing is certain,
it is a good thing
I'm going to the beer store
and ordering wings.
(part two)
They ate me out of house and home,
those alien friends of yours.
They drank the Miller, and the Bud,
then started on the Coors!
They drove my car into the pool,
and overfed the dog.
They went into the closets
and put on my favourite togs.
They ordered marijuana from
a shady local thug,
then ordered fifty pizzas
and threw up upon my rug.
I must say I object to this,
I do not like this trend.
From now on, I'll invite some Greens,
instead of your Grey friends.
My dear friend Ott, I'd rather have
a circus troupe or farm,
than pushy Greys who go through life,
bereft of any charm.

TO SERVE MAN
by RE-VO
{Thanks to Rod Serling, for title and concept} "I really liked his face a lot,"
she said, before they dragged her off.
It seems she had a friend named Ott,
an alien whom she had bought:
an application on My Space,
a place on which some post their face.
But Ott was from another race,
a Grey who did not know his place.
And he replied, and sent his pic.
The girl, forementioned, thought him sick.
"His palour looked like he was ill,
as if he needed special pills.
I thought, if I could help to nurse
him, I'd make him a better person."
Sad, though, she did not predict
that Mr. Ott had been hand-picked
to do reconnaissance on man,
though not because he hated us,
but just to do his job, and thus,
take over every living thing.
A practice of a sacred king.
So, even as they dragged her off,
she dropped a book and acted tough.
It was too late though, once they found
The book, "To Serve Man" really sounded
innocent upon first gaze.
It was a cookbook, used by Greys.

THE AMAZING WORLD OF
J.C. McGOWAN

A LETTER to SCOTT OSGOOD
by RE-VO
Finally, I find the inventor of pods,
a surrealist, communist
mocker of gods!
The man to complain to
when pods are so shoddy
they flicker and spark,
and endanger the body.
There will be a class action
suit in the mail
From the thousands of users
who wish you in jail.
But who knows if you are
an artful invention
of Mr. McGowan,
the author who mentions
your pod in a book about
very big gods.
Sir, are you a website,
a dude... or a pod?

WRITE ON, OSGOOD
by RE-VO
As Ringo once said,
I'm just happy I'm here,
alive and still kicking,
in spite of my fears.
It's a googly, oogily,
wacky old world,
where liars are victors
and flags are unfurled.
Folks like us aren't abundant
(we ethical dupes),
since the brutes ate our souls
like so many Fruit Loops.
Still, we persevere on
writing rants for the masses,
engulfed as we are in
bizarre greenhouse gases.
Write on, Mr. Osgood,
your brave voice is true.
The world is much better,
in part, due to you.

LUCID SCREAMING
by RE-VO
"Aaaahhhh," he said, and "Aaaahhhh" again.
It's Lucid Screaming, don't you see?
A tribute to a groovy scene
where words are grown like fruits on trees.
A world where poets speak their minds
and "click" to say they've dug the rhymes.
A place where dudes can say they don't
like that the Man has tapped their phones
or sent an army to some place
where oil trumps the human race.
They speak in tongues, with words surreal,
of drunken dogs who cannot feel
and sex in cars and elephants
just like my head (just like a man).
Although bizarre, their naked rhymes
make sense to me, although I find
myself disordered, out of time...
when I am done, I have no mind.
Yet, all is well, and all is fine.
All is well, and all is fine.
Lucid, screaming, all is fine.

CELINE DION's GIG FROM HELL
by RE-VO
Celine Dion was puzzled
by the flood of gibberish
that tasted of pure logic
and yet sounded like silk fish.
Not knowing what she bargained for,
she plunged into a world
of firing squads of angels,
mystic eyes, and drunken girls,
a place where Steelhead is a dude,
where dogs were upside down and
and you'll be probed (like me),
a realm where "whang krang" was a sound.
She never knew what she would find
when They began to scream,
upon the great Galactus stage
(a singer’s worst bad dream).
Who booked this far-out tandem gig,
this double-bill from Hell?
Who thought a chanteuse from Quebec
would weather such a swell?
Without a sense of humour,
she was poorly armed for this.
No agent briefed her for the fall:
No fish… no Judas kiss.
To newsmen, she reported it
was her career’s great height,
the pinnacle of her ‘voyage’,
her moment in the light.
The next day, though, I asked,
“So, will you work again with them?”
And she replied, “Those crazy men?
Mon dieu! Never again!”

BIG GOD NETWORK
by RE-VO
A man named J.C. wrote a book,
I saw it in my online travels.
First, I thought, “Religious pap!”
but soon, a mystery unraveled.
Curious, I bought the book,
and now, in Offworld, I’m engrossed.
I have new friends named Ed and Sally,
on a far Pacific coast.
Reverend Jawbone wants to shoot me,
and his crony Billy Bob
thinks that I’m a dissident,
unfit for lands with great Big Gods.
Glimmer fields and ayahuasca
constantly are on mind,
not to mention Yabyum Palace
(close encounters: sexual kind).
Botticellis and Cellinis
regularly must be cleaned.
Like Takeshi, I’m addicted,
paradoxically, it seems,
but to a book that warns of all
the dangers of a cyberworld.
“Big God” speaks of many things,
and tells us all, in certain terms,
fundamentalists like to
alarm their fellow men. In turn,
those fellow men turn quickly on
all those who would refuse to learn
the ‘proper’ way of doing things,
of thinking, voting, worshipping.
Meanwhile, preachers’ naked angels
may not worship anything.
Prisoners of the hypocrites
who keep them locked in ivory towers.
Arwin and Owinda are our
only hope for Gaia’s flowers and
animals. True Cosmogaians,
champions of future Earth.
Franz unites them all, ensuring
Planet Earth will see new birth.
“Big God Network” is a world
from which I do not wish to fly.
Praise McGowan’s brilliant work,
the best sci-fi that you can buy.
Journey now to Amazon, then
in McGowan’s world, inhabit.
Then, you’ll know what I have said
is truly as the stars will have it.

F%$CKING BIG GOD
by RE-VO
Bros and sisters, Great Big Jesus!
There's a God who always pleases.
F%$cking huge, he'll never fail you,
though he'll tithe, tax, and assail you.
Azure skies and puffy clouds,
hordes of horsemen, voices loud.
We thank God for the cavalry,
the might behind the calvary.
In waves of Southern chivalry,
and antebellum misery.
The awestruck man falls to his knees,
and begs to God above, "Oh, please,"
then dances 'round in ecstasy,
and babbles incoherently.
My spiritual proclivities
and purchasing abilities
are known to all the BGN,
and thus, I leave the world of men.
I sometimes find it very odd
to worship such a great Big God.
But then I hear hypnotic tones
of one named Reverend John Jawbone,
and all is well, my fear is gone,
... even though I'm being conned.

J.C.... WHO IS HE?
by RE-VO
Well, now,
I'm actually confused.
I do believe,
for unknown cause,
the reader of the "Jesus Crack"
is actually
John T. Jawbone.
That means "McGowan Poetry"
is actually an avatar
for BGN awareness. Thus,
McGowan poetry invented
Jawbone, even as
the Jawbone
reads McGowan poetry.
Bizarre, logistic
blow-hard-ry!
Forgive me, as
I must break free
from this confusing
wizardry.

J.C.... Who is he?
(part 2)
by RE-VO
And still, I'm lost in speculation.
Fire and brimstone, or surrealist?
Still, I'm trying to figure out
what's going on here...what the deal is?
This McGowan's everywhere:
A freakin' Michelangelo.
A renaissance man of some depth,
astounding us with what he knows.
A samba expert, sci-fi man,
a poet and expressionist.
And even God is on his team
(at least that's my impression). This
is blasphemy, in My Space terms.
In this dumb age, no man commands
an expertise in more than one thing.
Thus, his work must all be banned.
How dare he do so many things?!
A genius, from head to foot.
Here and now, I say that's something
up with which I will not put.

THE GAIAN SAGE
by RE-VO
He's called J.C.
Some call him Chris.
His work is dark,
yet filled with bliss.
Quite soon, he'll sit
with Kurt and Ray
(while still alive,
I hope to say).
I write like Geisel
here to show
that J.C. is a
guy who knows that
thoughts must be accessible
and deeply comprehensible.
His words are deep
although they're clear.
He wants to help us
with our fears.
There's work to do,
so let's engage
the method of
the Gaian sage.
With thanks, J.C.,
I write this poem.
Click, my friends,
and get to know him.

AN AMERICAN IN RIO
by RE-VO
(to J.C.)
I can picture him riffing
in some Rio bar... and
some thug next to me
smoking putrid cigars
shouts out "Eu não compreendo!"
and throws some debris.
But, the poet, unfrazzled,
just ducks, while some flee.
And a huge fight breaks out,
chairs and pitchers airborne,
while the poet continues,
amused by the storm.
Now, the thug is long gone--
two large toughs see to that--
but he bravely continues,
the cool beatnik cat.
There are frascos and cinzeiros,
barstools and waiters,
paintings and açúcar,
lovers (and haters),
flying through the air with
the greatest of ease:
an audience gleaned from
nearby Coral trees.
The beat poet finishes.
Two people stand,
applauding and praising
the black-shirted man.
The rest are unconscious
or under the tables.
The room is restored to
a state that's more stable.
"Why did you finish, dear mestre?"
they ask.
"Porque eu sou um yankee...
I finish the task."

POET FROM PACIFICA
by RE-VO
Hail, J.C. Poetry,
who would have thought
that a guy could write beat stuff
then stuff about bots?
A Yankee in Rio
would be the next craze
if ever we moved beyond
our Winehouse phase.
If only he drank, or
took copious snorts
of coke by the bushel
while howling retorts,
if he punched paparazzi and
mooned Morley Safer,
then went to wild orgies
and got in the papers.
Alas, he is normal,
and brilliant, and sane.
There is no pop place for
a dude in this vein:
in Yankee pop culture
we want them to stumble,
and fall on their faces,
then act really humble,
appear on Jay Leno, and
say "I was wrong."
Then watch as their crap
is consumed by huge throngs.
McGowan's a giant, and
someday, they'll see
his writing is epic,
and trash their TVs.

THE GOWAN CONTINUUM
by RE-VO
The hip words of Gowan
evoke diverse visions...
stoned beatniks clicking,
and dense rednecks fishing.
Brash aliens probing,
and stiff Mormons singing,
Windowpane acid,
Cathedral bells ringing.
Bright, lucid screaming
and cool batucada,
N'Am preachers perched
in their Oxfords from Bata.
Red, zesty salsa,
and African udu,
Answering machines
and Santerian voodoo.
Is Gowan bi-polar,
or does he just jest,
playing with my brain,
a gaslighting house guest?
In fact, he's just wise,
with ingenious poems.
Again, my friends, click here,
and thus, get to know him.

POEMS BY MY FRIENDS

I AM AN AMERICAN, by GLENN WATERS:
I have a major problem
with Republicans,
Why do they think America
is entitled to everything?
"I am a American," they scream!
We are entitled to everything
in the world.
The oil is ours!
We deserve an endless
cheap supply of
everything:
Land,
Food,
Women,
Gold.
The American dream is based on this!
The dream can never end.
We will keep it going if we have
to drive every one crazy
and turn the whole world into
a giant ashtray in the process!
"I am a American!"
I scream.

ODE to RE-VO, by SOUL BROTHER DAVID A.
Wanderer of galaxies and purveyor of thought
Dark veil lifted from truth supposed taught
Bringer of knowledge from planets
afar
Strong glimpses of insight, bright as a star
All should listen to the truth
bringers words
To deny the lies would just be
absurd
Hail mystic warrior fighting the good fight
He strives to show us the difference between what's wrong and right
Shaman walks the line between black and white
Brings the world joy, pure delight.

MAD AS HELL, by J.C. McGOWAN:
Oh intrepid internaut
Hardly "mad" prophet
(except in "mad as hell" sense)
Righteous rocker
Cosmic crusader
Multi-dimensional unveiler
It's late here in Rio
I raise a beer in your honor
A toast to RE-VO!

NOT A BOT, by J.C. McGOWAN:
A bot you're certainly not!
A galactic force you are
And stellar musician
With fresh space-time-music
Interplanetary vibes
And Big-Bang resonance