Big League Hollyweird


Our Left Coast sighs in a stupor of red
from evergreen beaches to casting bed.
Hollywood’s big leagues deal their fatal blow;
vapid perspectives from stars in the know.
Glamour holds court: socialite solutions
when celebrities talk revolutions.
But red alone would bring our nation harm
cut loose from white and blue—and should alarm
the audience, who pay to see their plays
while questioning their wanton West-coast ways:
Designer-reds, a stain upon our land
where red with white and blue ought take a stand.
Such fluff from the stage set who roll in dough
is Hollyweird yeast—rising now to show
beautiful and swelling irrelevance
unaware of its insignificance:
Hypocrite pretenders all paid to act
in films where decent values are attacked.

Let us turn then from Thespis leering smile
to lace up cleats and run the gridiron mile
where other plays get tossed in endless zones
as commentators rave in heightened tones
while fools raise fists—then take the well-payed knee,
their pigskin antics sold to you and me.
Thrust a fat mike before their muscled face.
Note well the dull reaction, low as base.
These tattooed thugs make vain attempt, through speech
multitudes of more thuggish fans to reach.
The sad attempt to use their words in vain
lacks clear interpretation. Yall nome sain ?
The musclebound elect, who toss a ball
(as if their silly game was all in all)
should stick to sports; decline to state their views
lest fans their spectacle no longer choose.
Thus stars of field and screen steal every show,
and cause our dying culture worlds of woe.

Contemplate the suck:
Boring nature imagery
Abrupt line-endings

Flush that Super Bowl !

Counting the syllables to Doomsday
I’m falling on my knees
while fools are talking football.

Greetings from the land of antichrist consumption, where NFL sales reps can’t figure out why no one cares about their team-logo jockey shorts, lunchboxes and ashtrays. Where the media drones on about minuscule drops in consumer spending while malls are so full you can barely find parking on a Saturday. Where legions of smiling zombies blather onscreen about overpaid athletes moving inflatable spheroids and projectiles around fields, courts, rings, etc.

America at the height of power. . . or the delirious free-fall descent from the peak ?
If so,when WAS the peak?  1945?  1910? 

Jihadists want to slit our throats and level our cities for Allah. A pudgy tyrant is shooting off missiles and threatening global mayhem but we are busy buying wings and beer for the big game. Enemies use our courts and our Democracy to subvert our power and divide us as they conquer, but we, like overgrown adolescents waving tiny flags and screaming in the stands, are absorbed in. . .  GAMES.

Grown men on the verge of tears, trembling over some guy throwing a pass, body & soul given over to a game that requires pounds and pounds of plastic and billions of dollars of petrochemicals to sustain itself. But if you get worked up over God, or Art, or over the Meaning of Life people look at you weird. It’s not acceptable to get worked up over THAT stuff, right?

Gridiron buffoons and babbling sportscasters punctuated by mind-numbing appeals to shut up and BUY — now THAT is the noble stuff to get emotional about here in the Land of the tech-enslaved and the Home of the semi-informed.

I don’t get it. I can’t even fake like I am interested in American Football. It’s a silly game. I heard about some players that wouldn’t do the flag salute or something.

I ought to write a poem about this.