The Return of the Bad Penny

Argo always hid under his hats and hoodies in plain sight and he invented pseudonyms for his creative projects, he confided, because he couldn’t handle the anxiety that fame always brought him. Then he’d pass out (distribute) all of his published literary magazine poems and self-promoted band cd’s for free and say it was never about the money. And when he invited people to his shows, he’d keep them waiting, while he got too drunk to perform at all well, but drunk enough to think he had.

Sunk by DNA, he blamed, he believed himself to be a ghost that was cursed to watch his widow mourn,

witch (which)

often triggered his wife into a fit of cuss words that intimately described his failure to take out the trash,

so that eventually Argo only begged that she’d keep his cremated remains clean, if not his actual memory.

He wanted to bend the metal of a long saw to make it sing and found himself listening to men who could draw on such serrated blades to weep, with envy.

He could neither quite howl or croon like the dogs he emulated;

but he felt time was still worth (being wasted)

even as it was running out on him,

if he looked back at all the near misses and close calls as divine luck,

equivocating it with dumb luck, like that made him smarter than everyone else.

When Argo learned he could make his rhythm sticks sound like oinking pigs it felt like the impossible day where pigs could actually fly, and even though he was busting to let others know of his ability to bring home the bacon, he refused to point out how Pink Floyd had already been there done that, and waited to hear from anyone who had truly listened…

He didn’t expect feedback. He waited to be discovered.

Although he bragged that there were a few backstage whores who asked for his John Hancock, they ultimately made him feel sorry for them, so he refused to give them the time of day.

“Knit Dicks” LipWear (lipstick/chapstick holder) by Heather Forte and (Fuck You) Pom Knit Hat by Sourpuss Clothing from the Angry Young and Poor Collection featured by Bitter Sweet Place (a Fleeting) He(art) Gallery (February 2020)
The Coco Rosie “Restless” (Music Video) is being posted by Bitter Sweet Place, a Fleeting He (art) Gallery for No Commercial Purpose.
‘Restless’ – the new track from CocoRosie – taken from the upcoming album ‘Put The Shine On’, out March 13th 2020 on Marathon Artists. Pre-order the album ‘Put The Shine On’: Listen to ‘Restless’: Follow CocoRosie:

Lyrics: Her heart is restless and ready to fight On a white horse all blue in the moonlight She rides with grace in the wrong place at the right time That’s how she found you But that’s how she lost you too She’s got her shoes fixed with glue, sole like brand new A stranger’s place, that’s where she takes her heartless rest Her restless soul fell asleep at the wheel counting sheep And dreaming of days out West With her rodeo clown, her man, her best She walks the streets with bloody feet preaching to birds She lost head, voices of angels calling her name Her loveless grace, the trial of her life, ready to burst her destiny ripe It took this long for him to be gone for her to say goodbye Dirty tricks, crucifix, had enough of this, life of cuts and nicks, ticks and fits Alchemist of light and dark, tried to keep that little spark Her love with blind, it shattered her mind And now she’s gone wild in the moonshine with no mother and no child She had to leave her old man behind A deadbeat dad, another clown sad Traded their love for cheap wine And now she hit the road without a Jack or a John And the story goes on, one day she’ll find her Don The trial of her life, ready to burst her destiny ripe Her love was blind, it shattered her mind It took this long to leave him behind She lost her way She lost her way She lost her way She lost her way And with no trace to find her way home The trial of her life, ready to burst her destiny ripe It took this long for him to be gone, for her to say goodbye She lost her way She lost her way She lost her way She lost her way She lost her way She lost her way She lost her way She lost her way And with no trace to find her way home

Dragons Don’t Do Hotdogs. . .

LipWear-CookWear “hotdog pink” #1 (mixed media) by Katie-Rae Jean, January 2020

As she applied her brand new lipstick, it dawned on her that it was the same shade as hotdogs. . .

This made her frown which didn’t help the appearance of her mouth.

Her father named her Purity, but her mother never liked it, she finally confessed to her like it’d been pent up and pending on her bucket-list. So when Purity was old enough to know the truth and several years after the divorce, her mother said she had wanted to name her Susan, you know, after the the Lazy-Susan her grandparents kept on their dining-nook table, that spun circles of sweet pickle relish, cold butter and mustard within reach. Her mother said, “But your father wouldn’t let me. He had too many horror stories from the pickle factory.”

LipWear-CookWear “hotdog pink” #2 (mixed media) by Katie-Rae Jean, January 2020

Her father explained that he had wanted to name her Chipko when he found out about the tree-huggers and how “Chip” for short felt like a chip off the old block, but her mother drew the line. “You are your father’s daughter.” He told her, “And you’re braver than your brother. When he was a toddler he’d crawl on his hands and knees backwards down the stairs, but you just held the rail and took ’em in stride.”

At about age nine her father had given them a basic self-defense lesson. He said, Fight to win. Don’t be afraid to pick up a two-by-four and bollocks to honor. You wanna maim and run like hell. He then proceeded to show Purity the vulnerable points that would incapacitate a larger foe. The heel of the palm for instance, with a quick straight jab under the nose would theoretically shove the attacker’s delicate bone into the brain. A key between the knuckles, held flat inside the fist for grip, and a thunk to the larynx was another effective method. He said to take that one to heart being it was a tip for a latch-key kid. After a series of mock sparring bouts with an emphasis on sustained eye contact and accompanying poker-face, Purity’s father instructed them to come at him. They pretended to be bad guys and took turns failing to resist their headlocks.

Purity’s brother said, “Papa never did let us win.” He said, “We’d jab, he’d grab. And Lock. We’d stab, he’d grab. And Lock. We’d be bad, he’d grab. And Lock. We’d be mad, he’d grab. And Lock.”

Purity’s father’s move was literally called the Prison Cell Block.

She found herself busting into the pop ‘n lock as her brother’s cheeks flushed with red determination to free himself from his father’s grip and her father said, “Stop that and pay attention, Purity. These are battle tactics, not tap dance lessons.”

“um… I was using my arms, Pop. Not my feet.” Purity clarified.

Occasionally Purity and her brother would watch their father do sit-ups with a twenty-five pound weight on his chest. After his reps, he’d face them, suck in and tighten his abdomen and say, “Go ahead. Punch me as hard as you can in the gut.”

Her father said, “You see, culling is the instinct for basic symmetry, which is not the foundation, but the evolutionary cornerstone of all animal attraction. . .”

He said, “And that’s why you can Never truly trust hotdogs.”

The Billie Eilish “Bad Guy” (music video) is being posted for No Commercial Purpose.
© 2019 Darkroom/Interscope Records
“LipWear-CookWear hotdog pink-mustard mouth” (mixed media) by Katie-Rae Jean, January 2020
The Jim Croce “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” (music audio) is being posted on Bitter Sweet Place for no commercial purposes.