The Faux Pas Press #72
25 December 2010
By: Jason Fresh
Jo,
the Native-American Wife,
it might be cruel of my sensibilities
not to notice,
not to sense
something at the very least.
But something would be your
pretentious attention
whore of a counterpart.
I am the rock star, sweetie.
You’re just the brand name,
white t-shirt and prep new shoes,
cheap shampoo showered in your hair
and cheap hairspray in your bangs.
You are nothing though.
And I have to confess.
You are certainly nothing,
a poetic cavern,
Nirvana.
You are The Call of the Wild
in an international, multi-colored mess.
You’re three colors wrist-banded
attached to a part of you bigger than your wrist.
You’re the three colors of my head:
gold hair,
black eyebrows,
and red face –
a three-layered humus dip from Trader Joe’s.
But I am full and I can eat your wristbands.
And I could, in time, devour you.
In time, in time, in time.
Wait.
Take one more breath.
Let’s give it all we have
and try to save what’s left.
I got
down on my knees
and now I’m begging for forgiveness
said a word I never say, “Please.”
Lost in the moonlight there are lives.
Gone in the madness there were signs.
Gone like tomorrow there is time.
And on the other side you were mine.
And on the other side you were mine.
Cry.
Cry like a bitch.
Open up the wounds that you can’t heal for me to see
and make me rich.
Play.
Play with my heart.
Bathe us in the sorrow belonging to the now
and break me apart.
Lost in the moonlight there are lives.
Gone in the madness there were signs.
Gone like tomorrow there is time.
And on the other side you were mine.
And on the other side you were mine.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #71
The Faux Pas Press #71
24 December 2010
By Jason Fresh
To Taormina Sicilian Cuisine
What are the spirits of your dead saying to you? Were they accused of treachery? Probably – probably asking for another glass of capital gains tax because their children’s children forgot what it was like to be a child and have no one to speak for you. There was no gesture of good will toward me and mine as I made a troublesome entrance at your swanky Waikiki establishment. Burning plastic in a trashcan outside was but a miniscule omen of what is to come. No surfer/waiter/ pretty boy will have your back in the end. No apology for disdainful treatment will give absolution to your disgusting collective mirroring each other in strokes of vanity. A simple chair for a child would have been enough, a simple high-chair for my firstborn.
Let me tell you because you have not yet learned. Every flick of guile, cigarette-fumed conversation, every lofty gesture of championship that arouses you; these are nothing but a flash in the pan for your company because you have already lost. All things live and die. The end is sadly and swiftly coming for your place; this because of your own stupidity and greed. All of you, no matter what your origin or nationality will live to see shame brought upon you. All of this because your own actions. And I will live to see the Great and Abominable Day of your pretty little joint. Purchase some high chairs and encourage your employees to offer them and The Darkness, blessed be his name, the name of Parley Angerbliss, might have mercy. You forgot your customer on the record-breaking night, the holy night, the high beginning of a swift end for Taormina Sicilian Cuisine. Those you have mistreated, both customer and employee alike, shall see the black day of reckoning. The curse that I leave upon your establishment can not be revoked; it can’t be withdrawn except for your sincere and heartfelt change.
You must change or be prepared for frogs to fall from the sky upon you, for your waters to be filled with blood, and the Ghost of Christmas Past to take a dinosaur-size shit on your establishment. You’d get sued if you didn’t offer seating for the disabled – not so much luck for infants though. “Well, we try to preserve a fine-dining ambience,” is your weak excuse. “This guy is just fucking crazy talking about curses and shit.”
Know this. Florence, Tokyo, La Rotta del Vino Slow Food Contest, none of these trophies will amount to anything more than a sad demise. Within one year’s time you will be out of business. The doors will be closed. No lawsuit here, complaining to the manager, no comp food, no future visits, no humorous reconciliations. This has been a curse upon you and all who enter your establishment. Death is upon your efforts - all this for your disdain against mine. In the name of Enoch, Leviathan, and Abaddon.
24 December 2010
By Jason Fresh
To Taormina Sicilian Cuisine
What are the spirits of your dead saying to you? Were they accused of treachery? Probably – probably asking for another glass of capital gains tax because their children’s children forgot what it was like to be a child and have no one to speak for you. There was no gesture of good will toward me and mine as I made a troublesome entrance at your swanky Waikiki establishment. Burning plastic in a trashcan outside was but a miniscule omen of what is to come. No surfer/waiter/ pretty boy will have your back in the end. No apology for disdainful treatment will give absolution to your disgusting collective mirroring each other in strokes of vanity. A simple chair for a child would have been enough, a simple high-chair for my firstborn.
Let me tell you because you have not yet learned. Every flick of guile, cigarette-fumed conversation, every lofty gesture of championship that arouses you; these are nothing but a flash in the pan for your company because you have already lost. All things live and die. The end is sadly and swiftly coming for your place; this because of your own stupidity and greed. All of you, no matter what your origin or nationality will live to see shame brought upon you. All of this because your own actions. And I will live to see the Great and Abominable Day of your pretty little joint. Purchase some high chairs and encourage your employees to offer them and The Darkness, blessed be his name, the name of Parley Angerbliss, might have mercy. You forgot your customer on the record-breaking night, the holy night, the high beginning of a swift end for Taormina Sicilian Cuisine. Those you have mistreated, both customer and employee alike, shall see the black day of reckoning. The curse that I leave upon your establishment can not be revoked; it can’t be withdrawn except for your sincere and heartfelt change.
You must change or be prepared for frogs to fall from the sky upon you, for your waters to be filled with blood, and the Ghost of Christmas Past to take a dinosaur-size shit on your establishment. You’d get sued if you didn’t offer seating for the disabled – not so much luck for infants though. “Well, we try to preserve a fine-dining ambience,” is your weak excuse. “This guy is just fucking crazy talking about curses and shit.”
Know this. Florence, Tokyo, La Rotta del Vino Slow Food Contest, none of these trophies will amount to anything more than a sad demise. Within one year’s time you will be out of business. The doors will be closed. No lawsuit here, complaining to the manager, no comp food, no future visits, no humorous reconciliations. This has been a curse upon you and all who enter your establishment. Death is upon your efforts - all this for your disdain against mine. In the name of Enoch, Leviathan, and Abaddon.
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