Donald Glover is IMPORTANT

glover620x345When I was a kid, I sat in the back of my parents minivan listening to NWA on my yellow Sony Walkman.  I was a suburban white kid who was mesmerized by “Fuck tha Police.”  I didn’t understand the significance of that song until much later in life.

Fast forward 30 years………

The hip hop/rap genre has become largely insignificant.  The strongest lyrical messages delivered by its current “stars” revolve around money, bitches, drugs and guns.  The genre has become a mumbling mess of disjointed beats accompanied by unimaginative, indolent lyrics.  It has become a caricature of its own stereotypes.

Their main struggle revolves around buying a hotter Lamborghini than the other guy.  It’s truly fucking sad.

Now enter Donald Glover, aka Childish Gambino.

Like a beacon of hip hop hope, Gamibno released the most important song/video of the past 30 years…………. This is America.

Every person in America needs to watch this video.  It should be required learning in every school.  Just sit back, watch and know that Glover has a better grasp on the sad realities of America that you are scared to admit.

Donald Glover is IMPORTANT.  He is forcing our society to open its third eye and view America in a very unflattering lens.  An unflattering lens that is crystal clear.

Today, I can only hope that kids are sitting in the back of their parents minivans watching This is America on their cellphones.   And I can only hope that it doesn’t take another 30 years for them to understand its significance.

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Plastic Parade (a poem)

duck-face-mom-yearA-typical Rolex submariner sits on the dad’s wrist like a beacon of arrival,
his too-tight Ed Hardy tee sticks to his cross fit chest like an extra layer of skin.
those hours in the gym, the broccoli, the grilled chicken, the spinach salads……
Eyes scanning the crowd looking for that 25 year-old who hasn’t yet sunk the botox into her forehead

Wifey to his left, flipping her platinum dyed hair again and again and again
She, looking for someone to make fun of, looking for someone to help her feel better about her collagen duck-faced lips,

her third tit job, her fourth anal bleaching, her fifth affair with a new trainer,Tattoo reads “MILF” along the panty line that only a select 50 or so willing erections get to see.

She, peering at the younger women while licking her lips with the misguided confidence of an American Idol contestant

Continue reading

Red, White and Boo (a poem)

I see your Katie Perry

And I raise you Beyonce.

What ever happened to real art, like the Fat Boys?

Now, just splendid drivel cascading from the youthful mouth

Texting, sexting, pursed lips and Jersey Shore dreams.

Find China on a map? Fuck You, I’m getting my nails done at 3.

Be careful young ones, the noodles and puppy nuggets are coming to a store near you.

I see your E Hollywood News

And raise you Dancing With the Stars.

Posting every mundane bit of your daily shit for all to see

Facebook, Twitter, MySpace your freaking life away

My eyes, dried and burnt from your “Do you like me?” poll.

Keep your pom poms clean and your cell phone charged.

I see your De-evolution

And go all in with your soul

Shouldn’t be difficult to call my bet

You are another failed demographic, another vapid target market.

Scenes from a Waiting Room

Act I. (the elderly)
Old, musty ass wrinkled seniors wearing bad track suits, their lifeless, aged skin scarred with purple gum colored splotches hanging from their bones like loose sleeves,
a cell phone rings deep inside a purse underneath the dentures and coupons, by the time the old lady realized it was ringing, silence

Act II. (the soccer mom)
Frost dyed hair, way too tight Hollister shirt, tight faded jeans with pocket designs, elastic fake tits shaped into perfect round globes, husband at work banging his secretary who has even faker tits, but younger body
wife doesn’t care as long as she gets Starbucks 3 times daily,the phat mommy suburban with the cutesy family stickers on the back window showing how many people are in the family, the glowing quarter sized diamond earrings and the trips to Vail, easy to have no soul than to deal with reality

Act III. (the salesmen)
Bad cuff links that even gay dudes wouldn’t wear, fake ass smile accompanied by even faker greetings, slick gelled guido-like hair stuck to their scalps with paste, belts crushed by doughnut stomachs,
calling names like cattle and branding the innocents with fees

Act IV. (me)
Three freaking hours waiting for tires, brought a Bukowski book, could only imagine what he would have thought
I couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t finish reading, couldn’t play games on my cell phone, I just kept watching the train wreck evolve with every new person who came into the waiting room, no blood or body parts, crap.

Duh’Merica (a poem)

DUH’merica, what have you done?

While you parade the streets in gas guzzling suburbans, there are soldiers dying around the world trying to kill dark-skinned people after taking orders from fat, pasty-white politicians who only care about their offshore bank accounts.

DUH’merica, why don’t you care?

That our children have difficulty finding China on a map, but they can update their Facebook status perfectly while crossing a busy city street without getting splattered in traffic.

DUH’merica, why can’t you turn it off?

The Kardashians, TMZ, The Bachelor, American Idol, America’s Got Talent sift through the minds of our youth like a slow, neurotoxin eating them from the inside out. Continue reading

Melt (Glee on Ice), a poem

(just a little poem about the silliness that is television and pop-culture)

I wish, I could produce

Glee on ice

But I would heat the ice pieces

And watch them fall like cute, teen-aged bowling pins

Struck down by the real world to the ice below

Then I would scoop up the shattered pieces

into my extra large pan

And lock them in a vault

Forever.

Ramada Inn Tiki Bar (a poem)

(I wrote this a few years ago when I was staying at a shit hotel near Miami for work)

I ordered a Heineken and immediately I’m an alien.
“No Bud Light? No Miller Light?” They know I’m an outsider.

There are four men at the bar and me the fifth. Everyone smoking except for me. One guy is a New Yorker who recently moved here. Another guy is ex Navy, or so he says. Military guys always make sure everyone around them knows they were in the service.

Then two guys who could be gay, not sure, but they have that red-faced look that only seasoned alcoholics have and they are smiling weirdly at each other after each sip.

The bartender is tall, crack skinny with purple black, long hair and looks like she just came off of a meth binge. Her face is stained with pitted, shaded spots and she has a scar on her neck that probably came from a “dream” of bugs trying to scurry into her brain via her trachea.

The stories start rolling of their tongues like an AA meeting.

“Hello, I’m your bartendress Sylvia. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve been eating cat food for three days. I’ll suck you off for a burger, did you want another beer?”

“Hello my name is Ted, I’m from New York and my accent is fucking annoying and I’m wearing a Yankees shirt and I’m going to suck on this Marlboro Light like it’s a spearmint cock.”

“Hello my name is Sarge and I was in the Navy. I fucked a bunch of slant eyed bitches and you should thank me for your freedom, another Busch Lite please.”

“Hi, it’s me. I’m not pretentious, but holy fuck this is ridiculous. Thank god Karaoke starts at 8.”