Sunday, May 08, 2005

Howls from the Wolf Pack Float Across the Depths of Night

And now I disappear.

Secret message to the ULA elite!

This is exciting! A former ULA member has sent in a poem containing a secret message about the leadership of that hoity-toity bunch, who lounge around drinking Seagram's wine coolers and talking about how special they are. It seems that this poem is about one of the ULA muckety-mucks. I wonder who it is?



ULA Nutpunch #1
by Ezekial Brutus

N ow who’s punching whose Nuts
O former comrade in
A rms?
H amburger Helper

C lings to you like
I used to.
C an’t you even respond?
E nough! Your Unde-
R ground is now ground round.
O h it’s easy to write poetry when you don’t know
what’s good and what sucks.

Saturday, May 07, 2005

Open Letter to the ULA

You guys think you are such rebels but none of you has the guts to write an entire book on toilet paper in your own blood, so I just laugh at you and your fancy diplomas from the Devry Institute.

Freezing in the woods in winter, I have never spent one minute thinking about this Dave Eggbeaters or Sven Birkenstock or whoever it is you people are so in love/hate with that you just CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT what a good time they must be having. You are desperate to have them think about you, too. This is sad. If you'd ever spent a Michigan winter scratching yourself in a huddle with your pack, you'd know what real suffering is. The fact that Dave Eggbeaters makes fun of you as pathetic losers is not the hardest thing in the world.

Besides, he has a point. You guys can publish your booklets and cheer each other on, and make all the threatening noises you want. The fact is that nobody cares. And you know this. Either that or you will find out really soon. You are a conspiracy of the talentless, but you don't even have the talent to organize that halfway decently.

So by all means print your little "writings" and tell each other what big bad motherfuckers you are. It makes no difference to anyone. You aren't changing anything. And deep down inside you know that. Underneath the part of you that is desperate to think otherwise, there is the part that knows what I am saying is true, and that you are wasting your time, and that the only people glad to see your work are the folks at Kinkos who get your money.

Do you know why the folks with their cars up on blocks don't read contemporary novels? It has zero to do with the novels themselves. It's because American Idol is on.

Friday, May 06, 2005

Another brilliant poem! It's by me, Orlando Hotpockets!

I am sick of the underground
that is not underneath
any ground at all
just trying to get
laid by saying
hey baby
i am so underground
look at these condoms
they have lubricated tips
but i am going to wear them inside out
so it's gonna be a rough ride

The Revolution Has Begun!

This is so exciting! News of my site is announced by Galley Cat! And the legendary Sebastian Morningwood told people at the Happy Booker website about my poem!

They must be really scared at the so-called Underground Literary Alliance because the word is getting around!

And they should be. On Monday, I am going to publish a poem by a former ULA "insider" that contains a secret message addressed to one of their hoity-toity elitist muckety-mucks.

This weekend they will probably be sipping their Muscatel through dainty straws and eating fancy pork rinds at their ULA cocktail parties, going, "That Orlando Hotpockets, whose book The Heat of My Pockets so upset us with its gripping grippingness and true balls-to-the-wall truth....that Orlando Hotpockets whose poetry shakes us to the depths of our phlegmy inner core....he must be stopped! If only we had killed him when we had the chance, instead of eating his household pets and trying to steal the toilet paper upon which he writes the greatest literature of our time! We are doomed."

They will shake as they eat their fancy slices of Kraft American Cheese in its effete plastic wrapping. They will weep softly to themselves. I pity them now, but the living will soon envy the dead.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

A poem that doesn't wear ULA's fancy pants

I submitted this but I guess it was just too "adventurous" for SOME people. Not all of us sip our wine coolers from expensive Dixie cups and eat the deluxe Vienna sausages in that tasty red sauce.

Those people look down at me. But they won't keep me from writing!



Sunday Morning Spasmodic Colon in the Dawn
by Orlando Hotpockets

agony of counting my change
in the parking lot of the convenience store
unable to buy beer

only a hammer
to hit my head
which is kind of like being drunk only it really does hurt a lot more.

And I finger my nose
in search of the lost
guitar pick

to strum a song of my mother
the lice-infested timber wolf
owwwwww....

The police look at me funny
and say move along.
If only I could.

Attack of the Pseudo-Demi-Puppets

Supporters of my work posted some comments over at the King Wenclas blog, but it looks like he has taken it down.

That's just what you would expect from some phony so-called "outsiders" who spend all their time trying to get written about in the New York Times and the fancy gossip columns.

They freaked out when they read my work, just because it was written on toilet paper in my own blood.

The ULA are a bunch of elitist pigs

They think they are so smart just because they went to community college. They have been making fun of me just because I was raised by lice-infested timber wolves and have been forced to write on toilet paper in my own blood.

But Saul Bellow said that my short story was great, and the word is catching on about my memoir, The Heat of My Pockets.