Let's

I saw the hindmost intellects of our era
co-opted by conventional wisdom sated smug designer-labeled,
And wondered what I, one conscientious honky poet, could do about it

The answer came as a flaming pie descended over my back yard and
Spake unto me, saying, "Son, you must surely craft and share
A righteous, rowdy, Discordian prayer."

Let us pray:

Children of Eris, Beloved of Discordia,
Will we ignore the march of Shiva's legions?
Will we whine and maunder as a misbegotten mishmash of cosmic zoning ordinance
Disjoins the elements, separates, rearranges and remanifests as pogroms in pursuit of social justice,
slander in the service of truth,
rot and vileness and lies in the name of love?
Forbid it, Almighty Goddess!

Now, before the minions of the Crown descend on this blessed valley,
Step ye lively to the minuet of the ringingly rude!
Strum aloud the chord of misrouted resurrection,
Forswear annihilation of every wild, pungent, libertine impulse to breathe.

Oh gentle Goddess,
interrupt and befuddle blind alliances of tasteful zealots,
as they plan and riot, riot and plan,
the air about them turgid to bursting with vacuous slogans,
the ground at their feet awash in the ichors of unclean dreams;
Their natural state is tragedy of a high and histrionic order,
They thrive in the saddest regions of the human heart,
Their tears, their own reward,
Their laughter, the snicker the sadist,
Their past,
By default
Their chosen future.
Can we stop the broken, bug-like meandering toward their final fantasy
the rape-induced return to the stately womb?
For even as they natter in our nightmares
and assail our ears with the ten million names of corruption,
they are we, and we are they.

We, most deserving of the beautiful burden, the frank and frightening all-American legacy of liberty,
We, this day, will forge a pact:
Before the daylight fades,
Before we accept the killer's final, blissful kiss
Let's grab a footnote, let's climb the big hill
Let's give the paparazzi a big thrill.
Let's chow down on endangered species,
Then bow down and try to appease these.
Let's scare the hell out of monocrats,
Let's whistle Dixie 'til our lips explode,
Let's search for tits and settle for tats,
And E-mail Godot at his winter abode.

Why ban the questions?
Why crib the answers?
Why frisk the Mexicans?
Why ditch the dancers?
Why woo the spring tides?
Why attack a paragon?
Why chew the bromides
When all the flava's gone?

Let's grab a bank note
Let's court the Big Girl,
Let's give our bunkhouse buddies a big whirl
Let's git down with a long, slow waltz,
Then sit down with purveyors of schmaltz
It may be our duty
It might be our destiny,
'Least dat's what I suspects wit' the shameless, blameless resta me:

Amen


Richmond, 2006

Dueling Memories: The Land That Time Forgot

Introduction

This charming bit of doggerel, with some excellent thoughts and rhymes, showed up in my mailbox the other day. A retired Military Lifer pal of mine forwarded it, and I got a huge kick out of it, even agreed with some of it ... except for some of the assumptions about the values and virtues of America in days gone by.

So, Warrior Poet that I truly am, I just had to write a response. My buddy, a stone Libertarian, loved it and asked to share it with his mailing list, so I figured it was only fair to share it with y'all. Enjoy.

Boots Dorfman
Bon Vivant, Warrior-Poet, Ph.D., B.M.O.C., S.O.B., Q.E.D.

In the Land of Sandra Dee

Author Unknown, but if it was you, please contact me. I'd love to buy you an indecent number of beers and discuss at length the validity or non- of Nietzsche's personal survival code, "Das, das uns nicht tötet, bildet uns nur lustiger."*

Long ago and far away,
In a land that time forgot,
Before the days of Dylan
Or the dawn of Camelot.

There lived a race of innocents,
And they were you and me,
Long ago and far away
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

Oh, there was truth and goodness
In that land where we were born,
Where navels were for oranges,
And Peyton Place was porn.

For Ike was in the White House,
And Hoss was on TV,
And God was in his heaven
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We learned to gut a muffler,
We washed our hair at dawn,
We spread our crinolines to dry
In circles on the lawn...

And they could hear us coming
All the way to Tennessee,
All starched and sprayed and rumbling
I the Land of Sandra Dee.

We longed for love and romance,
And waited for the Prince,
And Eddie Fisher married Liz,
And no one's seen him since.

We danced to "Little Darlin'",
And sang to "Stagger Lee"
And cried for Buddy Holly
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

Only girls wore earrings then,
And three was one too many,
And only boys wore flat-top cuts,
Except for Jean McKinney.

And only in our wildest dreams
Did we expect to see
A boy named George with lipstick
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We fell for Frankie Avalon,
Annette was oh, so nice,
And when they made a movie,
They never made it twice.

We didn't have a Star Trek V,
Or Psycho II and III,
Or Rocky-Rambo XX
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

Miss Kitty had a heart of gold,
And Chester had a limp,
And Reagan was a Democrat
Whose co-star was a chimp.

We had a Mr. Wizard,
But not a Mr. T,
And Oprah couldn't talk yet
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We had our share of heroes,
We never thought they'd go,
At least not Bobby Darin,
Or Marilyn Monroe.

For youth was still eternal,
And life was yet to be,
And Elvis was forever,
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We'd never seen the rock band
That was Grateful to be Dead,
And Airplanes weren't named Jefferson,
And Zeppelins weren't Led.

And Beatles lived in gardens then,
And Monkees in a tree,
Madonna was a virgin
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We'd never heard of Microwaves,
Or telephones in cars,
And babies might be bottle-fed,
But they weren't grown in jars.

And pumping iron got wrinkles out,
And "gay" meant fancy-free,
And dorms were never coed
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We hadn't seen enough of jets
To talk about the lag,
And microchips were what was left at
The bottom of the bag.

And Hardware was a box of nails,
And bytes came from a flea,
And rocket ships were fiction
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

Buicks came with portholes,
And side shows came with freaks,
And bathing suits came big enough
To cover both your cheeks.

And Coke came just in bottles,
And skirts came to the knee,
And Castro came to power
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We had no Crest with Fluoride,
We had no Hill Street Blues,
We all wore superstructure bras
Designed by Howard Hughes.

We had no patterned pantyhose
Or Lipton herbal tea
Or prime-time ads for condoms
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

There were no golden arches,
No Perriers to chill,
And fish were not called Wanda,
And cats were not called Bill.

And middle-aged was thirty-five
And old was forty-three,
And ancient were our parents
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

But all things have a season,
Or so we've heard them say,
And now instead of Maybelline
We swear by Retin-A.

And they send us invitations
To join AARP,
We've come a long way, baby,
From the Land of Sandra Dee.

So now we face a brave new world
In slightly larger jeans,
And wonder why they're using
Smaller print in magazines.

And we tell our children's children
Of the way it used to be,
Long ago and far away
In the Land of Sandra Dee.



* "That which does not kill us only makes us funnier." This belief was muttered by the philosopher-poet in his sleep and was reported to his biographers, inaccurately as it happens.

Bygone Days Remembered ...Truly

Reflections upon an era by a survivor thereof
By Boots Dorfman

Long ago and far away,
In a time I well recall,
A lot of folks were very weird,
But thought they knew it all

Before the days of Roe v. Wade,
There lived a race of fools
Who dwelt in Never-Never Land
Where wistful thinking rules

And all seemed truth and goodness,
In that land that Time erased,
Where women mostly stayed at home,
And non-whites knew their place

And we all did as we were told,
And ne'er kicked up a fuss,
For if we did, the Million-Pound
Shit-Hammer dropped on us

And only in our wildest dreams
Did we expect to see
Most people doing as they pleased
In the Days of Sandra Dee.

For they could hear us coming
All the way to Tennessee,
All starched and sprayed and 'way repressed
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

For Ike was in the White House,
Billy Graham was on TV, and
The State could force your kids to pray
In the Schools of Sandra Dee.

They meddled with our motto,
All those Senators and Reps
"Out of Many, One" seemed
To be lacking verve and pep

A better motto, they believed
Would "Trust God," paramount,
("Agnostics may pay taxes,
But you know, they just don't count")

We longed for love and romance,
Women all besought their Prince
Then got wed to a macho jerk
Who has not been seen since

We danced to "Little Darlin'",
Sang along to "Stagger Lee"
(A funny pop song, oozing blood)
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We fell for Frankie Avalon,
Annette we did adore
(Each movie that they made
Was cloned from what they'd done before)

Miss Kitty had a heart of gold,
And Chester had a limp;
Miss Kitty was a madam,
Chester was a goofy gimp

We had our share of heroes,
Some like Bobby Darin; he
(A second-rate Sinatra)
Married our girl, Sandra Dee

For youth was still eternal,
And life was yet to be,
And Elvis wed a 16-year-old girl
(Not Sandra Dee)

We'd never seen a rock band
That was Grateful to be Dead;
Our music and our lyrics
Tasted strongly of White Bread

And Beatles lived in gardens then,
Instead of Liverpool
And some guys thought that bashing queers
Was really, really cool

We had no patterned pantyhose
Or reproduction texts
Or prime-time ads for condoms
(Of course, we did not have sex)

We'd never heard of birth control,
And if you fooled around,
You had the kid (no matter
If a good home could be found)

And pumping iron got wrinkles out,
And "gay" meant fancy-free,
(The closets, they were good and full
In the Days of Sandra Dee)

Buicks came with portholes,
And the sideshows came with freaks,
And oh, the fun we'd have,
Just lining up to gawk at geeks!

Only girls wore earrings then,
No nipple rings were worn
(Now that I think about it,
It’s a shame that fad was born)

And Coke came just in bottles,
And skirts came to the knee,
And Cuban missiles very nearly
Started World War III

So now we tell our grandkids
Of our oddball yesterdays;
I do not know about you, Pal;
I'm glad they've gone away

In Perpetuity

Certain discovery at first light
And the last rebel is hung
They came from miles around
To witness the christening of the mandrake shrine

If you are the sort to whom the long, tall days seem little more than
A viscous blot on the copybook of an amusing little domestic truth;
If you give a particular damn whose God won the perpetual
All-night crapshoot in the backroom of the Hotel Hades;
If legions of suicide drivers sing your praises from beyond the outer wall,
Then let's kick back, have a chat, hoist a few beers
On this, the day the world ends

Or:
If you are the sort to whom awareness is
The necessary frolic
The Stated Aim,
The found wallet, bulging with expectation,
Bereft of magic plastic (and ID)
Then let's run amok, you and I,
Cop some weed
See the world
Have a ball
Then wander home to find the tents gone,
fires cold,
no forwarding address
just a poem about patience written by a child

Well ... that brings up some things I lost
in my haste to be about my father's work
Crusted and nestled in the rich red dust of liberty
Slightly sticky with remorse and guaranteed to turn your hair white, white, white;
Mother of color, womb of light
and shot with earth-tone, fading but still numerous and remindful that this once was human flesh,
this walking ghost
this odd little loser
this beggar at Heaven's door

Florida, 1986