In Memorium; Chuck Hugh Farley… March 11, 2010
have discarded the used condom,
that great white hope…
this poor drivel of words like an old man too long at the toilet cannot encompass the breadth of that
which you did unto death
Chuck, we hardly knew ye.
Chuck it here boy
Keep on Chucking
Let’s take a walk through the ground Chuck of the latter days
Have a few Chuckles
and do a little Chuck and Jive
before we get Chucked out
Terrorism and politics were not always happy bed fellows
not in the former democracies of the West
in any case.
But the precedent now set by the president-
who has not met a limitation caused by lack of judgment or character that he could not evade,
who has not met a bar he could not lower,
nor a truth he could not distort,
has given you…Chuck;
hope of the once free world,
champion of chicken pots of multiplying roasters, cross-dresser par excellence of all things
appearing to be other than…
has given you the opportunity to make our world the champion no interest,
3 car monte,
one used owner only,
deal of a lifetime,
drive it away today-
answer to the prayers of millions struggling into polyester pant suits
as if for hornets and locusts
to remove the stench of their need and feed from the abandoned house of their being.
For all of these who have lost the power of speech themselves, Chuck-
now walking on all fours
with the rhinestone broaches and garrish unknown gems bedazzled upon fat sausage fingers,
for the non-push-up capable whining children, jiggling like Jello walking to the video-game shop,
inhaling half-gallon Big Gulps….
low tar cigarettes and
some kind of soft shit from the pastry shelf..
death has given you opportunity.
for all the drunk daddy’s lusting after/or
fondling 13 year old breasts through,
“I’m Yo Bitch. I’m Yo Ho” sequined t-shirts cut off above the impaling navel rings…
yet further above scant emerging pubic patches already trimmed and buffed…
because “you’re not getting any younger”, as the due date approaches…
For every young boy in the brush past the roadside restrooms dreaming about
“fuck, I don’t know what.”
For the halcyon-eyed housewives and that 10 minute temptation fuck in the afternoon
between drinks and missed appointments
now to spray yet more mists of unearthly hues and sticky stinking excresences of Dow
and Dupont unto Monsanto beneath the bridge strained through the Sterno filters of other dreams more
dead, more remote…
but really not that far fucking off when you think about it from where we are now.
Chuck…my virtue tis of thee, cheaper than stolen, freer than free.
For all the once wretched refuse
evolved by faith, effort and determination
into a bedrock American Gothic portrait in the brief camera shot of a prime too short;
now blown past too fast to recall
and once again wretched refuse,
now of its own making-
retching, stumbling, fumbling at zippers and stays…
flesh bulging like Susan Sarandons eyes or that Morty Feldman guy-
from the lobster tank…unsure, uncertain slithering..
if not drunk then certainly insane
lurching down enormous aisles of nothing but potato chips,
turning into the ‘soft drinks only’ aisle…
on into the frozen pre-prepared food section of dinners and deserts-
with an ingredient list that might as well be Chinese
unless you are Chinese .
Onward to the doctor,
to the pharmacy,
to the Barcalounger,
to the grave…
oh mighty race of once bright hope and strong facial features…
we now bend over for the Huns at the gate…
not only without fear
but in anticipation Chuck….
for the faux-Blackwater men in Iowa who nightly patrol the perimeters of their split level ranches…
for the Mormons and Scientologists,
the hippies and the girls on the Internet,
Thank you Chuck. Thank you very much.
Thank you for not only the bad things but for
the relentless hearing about them
the buzz in the atmosphere -radio waves of nonsense like
chickens cackling on the astral plane
like frogs fucking in jello
like shit running uphill in January
downriver the legs of murdered monks sticking out of the flooding river bank to the tune of
♫you can trust your car to the man who wears the star♫
It seems like everything we do is murder Chuck.
It seems like second and third hand murder
It’s like looking into the toilet bowl between Larry Craig’s legs
and Larry King is looking back.
Time Warner wants the funeral pictures
Peephole magazine wants the autopsy photos
What’s next after fist fucking Chuck?
It seems like everything we do is murder a few times removed
Thank god for all of it
How could we ever need redemption so desperately if not for this
How would salvation mean anything if not for all of this
There’s your silver lining
There’s your light at the end of the tunnel.
To find the living light you must
imagine your zeal like that of a drowning man
seeking oxygen… seeking the surface but
actually the depths
they say that sort of thing happens but
you wouldn’t know about that Chuck
torment is the purification rite that
strips away the blinders
the ever closing confinement of the energetic lost
the magnificent heat of the pressing density of matter against matter forming the diamond that proves
no matter how dark and confining it gets it ends in deliverance and perfection
and light or something to hold it
something to reflect it
something for it to pass thru
That endless irritation which forms the pearl
That is their value
What they remind us of
the gas that fuels the keep on trucking keep on keeping on.
high in the highest Shamballa
the most pristine of worlds
touches the densest murk and proclaims them one
for the one
one for the one
thank you Chuck and may the roses bloom upon your cross.