Saturday, January 22, 2011

Lo Mein Kamph

This is in no way related to the Chinese cook book, Lo Mein Kamph, that I will undoubtedly write after too many [Japanese] sake bombs with my new friends Moshe-Moshe and Hiroshi-San at their son’s Karaoke bar mitzvah.


What's with this Huff-and- I'll- Puff- and- I'll- blow You Your- House -Down mantra?

I want to buy all those raspy, spit-ballin’
spoken word poets an inhaler
so they can breathe while they’re on stage.

Maybe it’s just their art, their expression, their shtick,

but I have bodily gasses that enunciate better.
And what good is a sermon if I can’t hear the words
through the struggling gasps for air
innocuously trapped in the vacuum of their throats?

I want to punch them in their respective jugulars
so they can understand release
like the dove in Noah’s Ark.

Your words are in bondage, friends.
Speak like you are in the cells of Birmingham:

Eloquent in diction,
raw in honesty.

Be clear and concise in your convictions.

Even Jesus didn’t try to rap out the Sermon on the Mount
like he was having a panic attack during a drive by shooting.

Yet he drew crowds by the thousands.

Even Lincoln didn’t cough out the Gettysburg address like Emphysema.

Yet it’s remembered as one of the greatest speeches
in American history.

In fact, the only famous speaker that howled out his will,
akin to a Helen Keller tantrum,
and still maintained an expansive cult following,
was Hitler.

And no one could understand that asshole. Or his book.

Mein Kamph is really Your Kamph.
So leave your nefarious, sports induced Asthma on the court
or in your parents' bedroom.

But not on a stage that has a mic.

We don’t have the time, pay grade,
or inherent fear to be your fascist followers.

Or your Annie Sullivan.





And this is only one of many. Make sure you start this video at 4:49.

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