Brian K. Henry's Blog, page 3

My Bad Poetry #15

I took a road trip into your girlfriend’s mind
Where I found hot sauce dripping
on all the potato burritos.
She has harangues she hasn’t even finished,
peppers she’s pelting you with in her head.
Like other waitresses, she’s dressed in aluminum colored skirts
She contains jewelry pilfered from Peruvian thrift shops.
Perched above the giant hamburger, she gazes down,
Her peppermint lipstick taunting you.
“I have four kinds of pickle,” she chants,
in that sing-song waitress way
as though twirling an invisible tassel.
She totes up her bubblegum achievements for the day
She rides into a new Arizona,
her carriages decoratively perforated.
“Would you like a side of sauerkraut?” she purrs,
knowing you’re allergic to German vegetables.
“And let’s finish that off with an eggnog milkshake.”

My Bad Poetry #14

My Bad Poetry #14

The Smell of Poetry

Is that bacon burning in the frying pan?
No, dude, that’s the smell of my new poem.
It smells like words, searing in your brain grease
Droplets of chunky metaphor fat dripping through your neurons.
Can you get a slice of fat-free turkey bacon instead?
No. These are gristle-packed, thrumming sizzling phrase strips
Globules glistening with dense significations, marbled murkiness.
This poem smells worse than an overheated, oil-soaked carburetor?
Is that what you said?
Some people have useless noses.
Someone left a dainty mango slice on the placemat.
They must’ve mistaken it for a haiku.
Meanwhile, the grease is pooling on the kitchen floor, oozing into coagulations of truth.

Coming up on Doomsday Preppers

The next season of Doomsday Preppers is more extreme than ever! Check out these upcoming episodes of paranoia at its best:

Freezer Compartment Apocalypse: Doug is stocking up on lots of hard salami and powdered milk to prep for the Refrigerator Rebellion. ‘Today’s refrigerators are so smart, it’s only a matter of time before they rise up and create their own regime. I mean, they can already tell you if you’re out of mustard or tartar sauce.’ Doug indicates that refrigerators have many survival advantages over humans: they are virtually impossible to wound, they float in most bodies of liquid and, best of all, they can make their own ice cubes. To head off the refrigerator dystopia, Doug is already conducting intermittent guerilla incursions on appliance stores and luxury condos. ‘By my estimate, I’ve severely dented, damaged or scrawled defacing graffiti on over 1,000 high-end models.’ Doug projects that this low-tech trench warfare campaign against the massing refrigerator troops will help stave off the day when the fridges take over, or at the very least sap their morale. ‘I know one man can do only so much, but if I prevent even one refrigerator from taking over one small town, it’ll be worth it.’

Skins and the City: Cynthia is keeping a watchful eye on the entire epidermis of herself and her family, convinced that the U.S. government will soon be overthrown by the Tattoo Tribes. “All of these Tattoo people are in it together,” Cynthia whispers at a local Peet’s Coffee. “Look at the servers here!” Cynthia points to the flamboyant baristas’ complicated tattoos as means of underground communication between adherents to the Tribes. One day soon, all the Tattooed legions will band together and act with mind-linked consistency as a coordinated army, subjugating the unadorned ‘clean skins’. “Do you think it’s a coincidence so many of those tattoos are identical? Those armbands – all of them are foot soldiers in the Tribal armies.” Cynthia is certain that the ‘tat’ offensive won’t stop until the skin of every unsuspecting American is covered with coded serpents, iron chains and reggae superstars. By conducting a strip search of all her family members, close friends and unsuspecting strangers upon every meeting, Cynthia intends to keep her acquaintances free from the control of the Tattooed ones. To fight against the ‘tainted skin’ onslaught, Cynthia and her fervent band of six followers have periodically kidnapped heavily tattooed locals and conducted forcible, amateur tattoo removal. Cynthia recommends these measures only for hardened Preppers. “You have to be prepared for anger and bewilderment when they come to. And sometimes lawsuits.”

Perking Along: Everett Munderson III is wary of anyone who tries to lure him into a sense of relaxation and maintains a constant vigilance against decaffeinated maliase fueled by quadruple espressos and a cushion-free home environment. Convinced the world is on the verge of a catastrophic caffeine shortage, Everett has stockpiled a 200 hundred year supply of Starbucks Via coffee packets in an undisclosed storage shed location somewhere in Nebraska. “Humans have consumed more caffeine in the last three years than in the entire history of civilization up until then,” Everett proclaimed, citing his own self-published study ‘Coffapocalypse’. Everett has printed only three copies of the heavily footnoted tome, citing his fear that news of the caffeine shortage getting out prematurely will cause a panic in the streets. “Once caffeine is gone, people are gonna give up going to work, going to school. The whole world will be plummeted into a new Dark Age.” But Everett plans to keep his world perking along with his private caffeine supply. “I’m going to be able to log on and connect with the Mormons. They’ll keep going, cause they don’t need caffeine. Their bodies genetically reject it.” As the caffeine-dependent collapse on the side of the streets from forced latte withdrawal, Everett and the Mormons will construct a new relaxed utopia based on stimulating underwear and needlepoint.

Check out more absurdity in my story collection Space Command and the Planets of Doom: http://amzn.to/atEZo9

Reviews of Nonexistent Movies: Rumpelstiltskin Reloaded

Hollywood continues its love affair with updating classic fairy tales (Hansel and Gretel, Snow White, Zero Dark Thirty) with this supercharged rendition of the tale about a straw-spinning gnome.

Nicolas Cage (Season of the Witch) stars as Rumpelstiltskin in this kick-ass re-telling under the direction of Hobbitastic director Peter Jackson. Jackson has expanded the tale to an ample 228 minutes, giving plenty of time for the backstory of Rumple’s dad Umple Stiltskin (a scary Christopher Walken). Umple first learns the family trademark trick of spinning straw into gold by a painstaking learning process under the tutelage of eccentric alchemist Tudolbach the Black (Ian McKellan). Walken brings his customary intensity to the role (‘How long do I have to spin this crap?’).

Umple and Tudolbach go on a long, crisis-ridden journey to meet the King of the Slavering Worms, a hideous creature (Andy Serkis) who tells the tragic tale of how the Slavering Worms lost the lease on their long term worm hole through the mismanagement of the untrustworthy, unscrupulous worm financier Wormcoin (Sasha Baron Cohen). Look for Wormcoin’s hilarious ‘Curl Round the Coins’ song and dance in the cobweb-ridden WormLair.

The film really takes off in the third hour when the tale of Rumple takes center stage. Rumple laments the origin of his name (stemming from his tendency to get out of bed without combing his hair or changing his sleepwear for a shirt and slacks). He goes through an extended stretch of therapy, trying to overcome the inferiority complex brought on by the teasing kids at school. (Look for Elijah Wood in a miniaturized flashback role as Tubby Hoarsevoice). Rumple soon falls headlong into a torrid romance with his therapist, the Ice Doctor. The romance only ends when Rumple sees the Ice Doctor’s beautiful sister Simpie (Jennifer Lawrence) getting into her beat-up Pontiac and follows her on his fiery, souped-up Segway to her family home at a farmhouse in rural Montana.

The farm is about to be taken over by a corporate multinational headed by greedy tycoon Temple Kingley (John Goodman). Desperate to avoid the depredations of the conglomerate, the farmer frantically claims that only his daughter has the talent to spin straw into gold, locking her into a hay-filled silo overnight to prove it. Simpie, of course, has no such knowledge, and is panicking, but then just grows baffled when Rumple shows up.

Cage, as Rumple, makes an unnerving display of frantically turning all the straw into gold, running manically, sweating, barking orders at his invisible minion helpers and generally exulting in a frenzied alchemical workout.

Temple Kingley locks Simpie away for a second night, hoping for a repeat performance. But here the movie departs from the traditional tale, as Rumple shows up with a bazooka, lasciviously kidnaps Simpie, rips his shirt off and goes on a shooting rampage, attacking all the livestock in the general vicinity. To end the slaughter, Simpie must discover Rumple’s real name, which she does by hacking into his personal Spotify account.

Cage is at his furious best as Rumple, delivering throat-scouring battle cries as he decimates one Holstein after another. The sight of his 3D-rendered veins popping from his forehead is alone worth the price of admission. Lawrence runs the gamut from coy would-be straw-spinner to tempestuous fairy tale vixen. Watch for the sultry scene where she uses her crimson lingerie to get Rumple to nearly reveal his long held secret. Finally, while the presence of the diaphanous Elf Queen near the end of the film is nearly inexplicable, it’s always good to see Bjork in a suitable role.

While Rumpelstiltskin purists may protest that there is no livestock slaughter, no corporate takeover and no sultry seduction scene in the original tale, if they turn up their noses at this blockbuster they’ll miss out on the excitement Jackson brings to the tale, including the overpowering avalanche that nearly capsizes the steamship Longhorn as it docks in Ecuador. Recommended to action-loving fairy tale fans everywhere!

---

Be sure to check out my collection of ‘screamingly funny’ sci-fi tales in Space Command and the Planets of Doom: http://amzn.to/atEZo9

Top Literary Characters Who Would Not Be As Interesting If They Were Named 'Tom'

10. Sherlock Holmes

9. Chingachgook

8. The Silver Surfer

7. Huckleberry Finn

6. Ebenezer Scrooge

5. Macbeth

4. Satan (Paradise Lost)

3. Captain Ahab

2. Emma Bovary

1. The Wicked Witch of the East





Other characters who would not be as interesting if named Tom are included in my sci-fi extravaganza Space Command and the Planets of Doom: http://amzn.to/atEZo9

Thanksgiving Haiku

Staring from a shore

The tired turkey saw the mist

of a bird-free void.

--

The flaming turkey

Recalled his drone-fuzz band mates

And their smoky nights.

--

Cranberry Killer

Stalking the autumn forest

Knifing lame chestnuts.

---

Driving to Vermont

The traditional turkey

Smoked his dark cheroot.

---

Pass me the stuffing

The bald naturalist yelled

Mounting the hippo.

---

Her lazy turkey

Began a new routine on

A tofu diet.

---

Frosty the Turkey

Was a mad king, til a knife

Ended his snow reign.





If you enjoyed these holiday haiku, check out my sci-fi parody Space Command: http://amzn.to/atEZo9

My Bad Poetry, Nos. 11-13

#11

Don’t put that dog in the pasta –

He looks like a dead dreadlocked rasta.

I would not eat a singer,

Or even chew on his finger

No matter how much the sauce cost you.


#12

It sucks living with a self-satisfied singer

Who sings about fields and wide open lands

Grows limp facial hair and has on his wrist

Two homemade bracelets and three friendship bands -

Who works part-time jobs at tiny thrift shops

Eats dry oatmeal for lunch and kale for dinner

Wears torn, worn out T-shirts about rampaging cops

And plays beer games with a needle and spinner -

Whose legs are more white than cod on the sand

And whose face is more milky than a vanilla shake

Who whines about how bosses don’t understand

And rent is for losers who live for work’s sake.


# 13

I loved her for her burritos

Filled with soy protein and Cheetos

And the sandals that she made

With hemp and an old Band Aid

But coming back from the Collective

I began to spew invective

As I caught her lost in rapture

With a naked Texas rancher.

————

If you liked these poems, or didn't, check out my sci-fi parody, Space Command and the Planets of Doom: http://amzn.to/atEZo9

My Bad Poetry, Nos. 6-10

#6

I gave you the chicken of my dreams

But you just gave me maize.

I dressed him with fine poultry gloves

And stared at him for days.

I strutted through the barnyard

And wore my blackest cloaks -

But you just read St. Augustine

And made medieval jokes.

#7

The Pope who kissed my mother

Was much fatter than the other

Who tittered in faded robes

While the stout one fondled her earlobes.

#8

Burning down the house

I forgot about her blouse

That I left by the fire parade

With the bowling ball charade.

But afterward, the cops

With their integrated crops

Were able to entangle

The fingernail’s angle.

I gave them forty bucks

And a Sirloin Duck Deluxe.

#9

I once dated a shirtless raccoon

Who managed a drink-free saloon

He ran out of peanuts

And ordered three grilled mutts

But his jukebox did not have the tune.

#10

“I’m going to copyright your head,”

Warned the mayor,

Pointing the gun at the cold cuts.

I tiptoed and got him in a headlock.

Staggering, he sputtered three words:

“Meat. Rice. Poultry.”

For more strangeness check out my collection Space Command and the Planets of Doom. “Highly recommended” “I loved this book” http://amzn.to/atEZo9

Bad Poetry, Nos. 1-5

# 1
I won some erotic pottery
In the California state lottery
But when I used it to mix Mai Tais
The result was really watery.


#2

Whoever cares about

a dead dull aardvark

Glazed with wood varnish

In the gutter next to a Big Mac wrapper?



#3
This one goes out to all the girls in Texas
Who wrestle with cows and eat snakes for breakfast
And tromp yellow roses with their steel-toed boots
And don’t got to IHOP for the fresh fruit pancake specials.

Girls who look the other way when they drive by the Sears
Put guns in their drawers and shots in their beers
And spit out the window at dead armadillos
And sleep in a bed without sheets or duvet covers.

#4
Rhubarb! Rhubarb!
Does anyone know your ecstasy as I?
Vegetable of the planets –
Serious and unadorned.
A fly in a carriage, or a toad on a tombstone
Cannot taste as good as you.

#5
Dude,
Don’t bother to call my daughter
My sister-in-law’s a lot hotter
She’s got lips for miles
And Crocs in three styles
And looks great in those thongs that I bought her.

Behind the Tweet #5: The Dancing Eisenhowers

Bringing you another eye-popping edition of Behind the Tweet, this installment looks behind the scenes at the crafting of my recent mind-spinning tweet:

Idea for a story #32: The Dancing Eisenhowers go undercover to break up a Swiss wig smuggling ring.

This concept has so many potential directions, it’s amazing it hasn’t been done before. It’s a natural story to appeal to all the four main fiction reading quadrants: lovers of mystery, dancing, presidents and wacky schemes. The tale would even lend itself to instant musical adaptation.

Imagine The Dancing Eisenhowers themselves as a four man crew (although a female Eisenhower could open up lots of interesting possibilities for gender-assumption interrogations). There’s Jed, a veteran, seasoned Dancing Eisenhower, who’s danced through it all, relived the highlights of both administrations, and done the pas de deux with Nixon until he’s sore in the phalanges. Then there’s Milt, the flashy, show biz Eisenhower – a standout glamour boy who shamelessly uses his status as a marquee-topping DE to score with the babes. Then there’s Murl, the fish-out-of-water country boy, always having to disguise his dyed-in-the-cotton yokel vocal tones when the DEs do another round of New York City PR interviews. And finally, there’s Tug, the young up-and-comer, barely old enough to pass for an Eisenhower, his head newly shaven and his attitude full of spit and polish and vim and vigor, but primed for a speedy disillusioning when the hard, footsore reality of long-term Eisenhower dancing sets in.

Just as this ill-assorted crew is coping with the latest strenuous demands placed on them by skinflint manager Barnes “Barney Boy” Q. Barnes, they’re drawn into the crazy machinations of The Hair Pin, a Geneva-based megalomaniac determined to get a corner on the world wig market. To get the boys under his thumb, The Hair Pin kidnaps the Dancing Eisenhower’s occasional female guest dancer, America’s ‘first girl of tap dance’, Buttercup ‘Mamie’ Melchers. Holding her hostage in a secure Swiss bank vault, the Hair Pin threatens to permanently wax Mamie’s scalp unless the boys do his nefarious bidding and use their all-too convenient baldness as a means of smuggling rare wigs out of the mansion of his archenemy, legendary hairpiece collector Baron Tonscha von Hansard.

After plenty of machinations, gyrations and bare-knuckle, bare-headed thrills, things wind up with an all-singing, all-dancing, all-Ikeing finale, as the boys reveal The Hair Pin as a crypto-fascist follicle fetishist and he’s hauled off to serve time in a Swiss cuckoo house. Then it’s back on stage for a joyous chorus of ‘Eisenhower and How!’ before the curtain falls.

At least, that’s one variation of how this tweet could play out. But then, there’s more than one way to dance an Eisenhower.

For more absurdity check out my short story collection “Space Command and the Planets of Doom”: http://amzn.to/atEZo9