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Blah La La La La, La La La Baaahhh
(sung to the tune of Deck the Halls)

I don't like Christmas.

Deck their pockets with lots of money,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Being broke just ain’t that funny,
Blah la la la la, la la la bah.

But I used to love this season. Even after I stopped believing in Santa and Christianity. I guess somewhere along the way, the magic just ~poof~ disappeared as fast as it came. Maybe it was when the pressure was put on to spend spend spend, to feel feel feel.

Troll the stores with all the masses,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Fill their overflowing glasses
Blah la la la la, la la la bah.

In this supposed joyous season, everyone seems to be in a race for the best price, the biggest splurge, an urgency to land the golden fucking egg. When did it become such a symbol of materialistic posturing? Why don’t we tell the retailers to shove their Black Friday's, Cyber Monday's, today-only sales up their greedy asses? Maybe bake something for somebody instead. Paint a picture. Do something! Why can't it be more Thanksgiving-like than a spend-what-we-don't-got fest? I'm sick. I’m sick of it. I'm sick of the pressure from it.

See the sales set out before us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Cash or credit? Come join the chorus!
Blah la la la la, la la la bah.

This season, like all the ones before it, I am playing along to the holiday shuffle song. But my heart's just not in it. Each year I get more depressed. Each year I feel more stressed. Each year I feel obligated to sing along. Each year I find I "should" on myself for all the things I should be doing, should be buying, should be feeling.

Follow me in "fuck this season!"
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
But don't get caught, they’ll call it treason,
Blah la la la la, la la la bah.

One of these seasons I am gonna boycott the whole fucking event. Huddle up in the corner with my spiked eggnog and flip the bird to baby J in His holy manger and to fatman Santa in his sleigh. And to think, I really used to dig the sentiment of this season! But these days it has become a big-business, money-making, retailer-driven, theological mad mess. It's sad, I must confess, sad 'cos it's true.

Sing this madness, all together,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Disenfranchised birds of feather,
Blah la la la la, la la la bah.

Merry fucking Christmas!

Blah la la la la,
Blah bah blah baaahhh!

- Gianni Sacco

(featured in the poetry forum 12.23.13)

editor's note: A Consumer's Carol for all who "like" these sentiments to sing. - mh

room 168

dingy door open wide
lights glaring loudly
madness bouncing from boombox
muses floating on confused canvases
repeating over & again
   looping
half drunk beer
sweating on night table
keys keeping it company
bedside lamp fueled by cheap bulbs
   zapping
eyes snapping to kicked off shoes
posing in corner behind door
half upside down
   abused
peeks behind corners
calls for her
echo off bathroom tiles
phone winks its LED eye
sink sitting
blinks high
blinks by
   buzzes
tub sits half emptied
water murky with grime
hair slithers on side
unidentified floating object
   identified
clothes carelessly clinging
to paper laundromat hangers
favorite hat half twisted
in ugly grimace
   staring
back steps
snapshots snapping in mind's eye
madness continues to echo and loop
muses still confused
brushes bruised with hues
beer still half empty
sweating company with keys
lone hair ribbon speaks volumes
of what is now absent
   abandoned
back stepping away
snapshots still snapping
capturing the scene
escaping room 168
relieved no one was home
door wide open

   closed

- Gianni Sacco

(featured in the poetry forum 04.13.13)

editor's note: Love uncertain made certain, love no more; escaped within an inch of its life. - mh

Ground Control

We glided in guided by floated I love yous posted there by a soon-to-be-passed-out angel who was feeling each heart beat with heated feelings to the core of her being...or at least until the drugs, ecstasy we suspected...stopped working.

We met our hosts who promptly asked us burning questions like, what's your burner name? and what's your burning game? and...and...it was all so weird and trippy and wacky until finally we got to feeling just fine as the hand-slapped ecstasy kind of kicked in. We rolled down the windows of our souls just to see if we could fit in with this crew of wacked out party people.

Androgynous men and glittered girls, fire-eaters and glowstick twirls, rolling thru the twighlight hours, clenched jaws, bugged-out eyes, just ain't so funny when time's flown by and look at that, it's 4:00 a.m. and the night is oh-so-old and everything we could have said has done been told, we got burned out on these wacked out party people.

We said good night and bid farewells, broken was their burning spells...the party favors had run their course and in it's place came dawn's remorse, we said (or did we?) we'd be back for more and made our way to the door. Thanks for having us in your steeple all you wacked out party people.

- gianni sacco

(featured in the poetry forum 10.02.09)

I cracked open my lids

to the view of yet another
unremarkably unfamiliar ceiling

I awoke with
last night's breath
a stiff lower back
and a stuffed'n'running fuckin’ nose

And I'm not quite hanging-over
as much as I'm hanging-on

white-knuckled &
balls-to-the-walls

on the edge
of respect-ability
of reason-ability
of response-ability

Why, on this particular sunrise,
did the dichotomy inside of me
wrestle with such damned ferocity?

Black and white
began the same age ol’ fight
as my last grasp
began to slip

And now my conniving mind
is trying to find reason
in seeking just
one more ride
down the rail
on this quietly quaint
Sunday morn

The debate began
as I cracked my lids
and got vertical

No don’t.

Ah, just one more for the road.

You can’t.

You can!

My mind played the cliché -

stop/go
yes/no

- games

And the verdict
well, it took too damn long

‘cos it was dawn
and if it was gonna be done
then let’s get it on

Walking the line
I fell to my knees
and kissed her feet
one last time.

and one more for the road.

- gianni sacco

South of North

Following the bumblebee...

Flyin' down I-35
Headin' North
Head gone
Trippin' balls

My right hand rips into the wheel
as my left hand, unbeknownst to me,
reaches out and slams a hole
thru the windshield

Brake lights-spot lights
of the devil himself
tracing 'round this concrete trail of death
in these shoddy mechanical metal coffins.

The sky cries silver. No shit. Silver.
My eyes begin to drop,
hanging by threads of nerves.
I notice that my lap is coming closer

I see a highway deconstructing.
It's pointing to heaven, falling to hell
reaching for heaven, collapsing to hell
Going some where, going no where…

Tripping balls
Daytime, up I-35
Fleeing South
Sanity gone
Bumblebee buzzes

"Shhh," I say to the menagerie of ghosts,
"my FM is trying to tell me something.
It's saying shit I'd never heard it say before."
Echoes echo thru the madhouse of my mind.

Should I stop?
Perhaps pull over?
I am a couple drops over
the illegal trip limit
and after all…

The sky is raining, silver no less
and my eyes, my precious baby blues,
are rolling around the floorboard
vicariously at my feet
and that highway to heaven, to hell
is looking enticing to me right about now.

Maybe I should stop…
the car, the drugs, the games, the ride,
the madness, the insanity.
Hmmm.

But the tracers keeps tracing
and the sky keeps crying...silver
and my eyes keep hanging and dangling
and my shoddy metal coffin keeps driving
and I'm flying
trying to keep up
with the bumblebee…

Flyin north on I-35
Fleeing south
trippin' balls.

- gianni sacco

Don’t believe the hype. The fire’s not as hot as it looks.

Yeah sure, it’s true, I got turned on, I got burned out  and I got learned too. That’s just the way it goes. But who’s to say whether I minded the burn. And who’s to say the burning was a bad thing anyway? Pain is in the nerves of the feeler. Much like pleasure. And since pain and pleasure seem to bleed into one another, the pain of the fire can almost be called pleasure...the pleasure is in the pain. Pleasure begat the pain. Pleasure was the cause and pain the effect. Fire-burn-pleasure-yearn.

Mine is the story of the man-child who never learned that fire is hot, that hot burns, that burns hurt and that hurts pleasurable. It’s that initial flame is the game that’s got me hooked. It’s this yearning for the burning, it’s this craving for the misbehaving. The fire of addiction is an affliction of my soul. It singes my edges and brings me to my knees always begging please, baby please. When temptation comes a-knocking on my door, (knock-knock) dressed as a hot red head with C’s way up high and tight and a fire burning between her legs just dying for a lying in the sack. (knock-knock) The Asian girl who has a twinkle in her cat like eyes when she says “Hi” from behind the convenient store counter. (knock-knock) The big boned bimbo bottled blonde who’s fat tits push out of her push-up bra and says someday I can tap that fat ass, if I’m lucky. (knock-knock) The studiously bespeckled sex toy dealer with loud orgasmic blasts that lasts and lasts and echoes in the predawn light. (knock-knock) Temptation keeps a’knockin’  and I can’t help but reach for the flame, I am powerless. The misbehavin’ is what I’m cravin’.

Bad lil’ boys need the joys of wicked scenes and slickened toys, things of wet dreams but this time, just this once, I won’t wake up. I can’t wake up. I shant wake up. The beast in me must  nourish the lust and bust this gord wide open. I’m as stiff as a board and I dip my head down with a tube up my nose and sniffing the white rose of the devil herself as she holds the flame behind her fine behind and just as I am savorin’ the flavorin’, she’ll burn me to the bone and I’ll like it just fine.

Believe the hype. The fire’s as hot as it looks.

- gianni sacco

23rd Street Psalms

The hot blonde with a blue dress on
checking me checking her out
from over her vintage pink sunglasses
at 8:35pm, Saturday night, 23rd Street, Portland.

A walking sexpot
straight out of Bukowski’s sordid world.
She half turned that fuck-machine body
in that painted on baby blue dress
and caught me red-handed
checking those hips for grips
and fucking her hard in my mind…
...and she smiled as she walked away.

Walking feet strolling down 23rd Street at 10:15pm.
An out-of-towner looking for a friendly smile.
They don’t dole those out here
in Portland Oregon
like Big D does.
I walk in silence
thru Saturday night couples,
missing my woman,
my girl,
my friendly shadows...
my way back home.

To snatch a line from Mr. MoJoRison
“People are strange when you’re a stranger”.
‘Tis true Lizard King,
taking for instance this land-o-port,
no one seems pleased to smile at me.
Hippie chicks with hippie dicks
either not too hip or too hip, anti-hip if you will.
But such is the luck of the transplant walker,
such is the luck of me.

Seedy bar seat 23rd Street, 12:30 am, Saturday night
with cops in combat boots and motorcycle tights
looking for barroom fights to break up.
Don’t look my way officer.
You don’t got no trouble with me.
This stubble you see is a double of me
for the tough guy I was just trying to be.
There surely is somebody somewhere here on 23rd getting…

Robbed
Beaten
Raped
Stomped
Shot
Assaulted
Insulted
Abused
Invaded
Held-up
Held-down
Lying
Crying
Dying

Surely you should be tending to they
and look past me,
writing about you
in this corner seat,
23rd Street, Portland

- gianni sacco

The teaheads all gather round...

We're shadows on a spotlighted street, stretching and crawling and reaching for the light of the burning ember on the end of rolled up, dove-tailed, burning jay.

We stand around in a tight circle
to keep the cops away
to keep the smell away
to keep the others away.

We are a band of tea-heads inhaling to save our lives, chasing the thoughts that only serve to bring us down. Gotta get higher, gotta get nummer, gotta get goner.

We gather around and pass it around and if you're not in our circle then stay-the-fuck-away.

We don't need any passers by, tea-heads like only other tea-heads when we stand in the circle. Like the mad ones only liking the other mad ones, like the hipsters only liking the other hispsters, like the poets who stand in front of cold microphones trying to be someone, something, somewhere...

We tea-heads stand here in our circle and pass the rolled up dove-tailed burning ember from tea-head to tea-head and say tea-headed things like, "someday we'll be the ones, the firestarters"

and

"who knows where we will be lil allen, the whole mad swirl of everything to come begins now, dude. this is our on the road, this is our howl, this is our naked fucking lunch!"

But who gives a fuck what we do 'cos it's nothing compared to the truth, the words, or this tight circle of tea-heads standing under cold street spotlights, casting cold shadows on a cold autumn night. The rolled up dove-tailed jay goes wafting away and the circle breaks and we all go our seperate tea-headed ways.

- gianni sacco

A bit about Gianni: If you know Gianni, then you know all about Gianni. If you don't know Gianni, well then Gianni probably likes it better that way.

Work featured in:
Mad Swirl V