The bands that played at Woodstock, they were giants in their time,
and those too at Monterey.
All the old guard, from Woodstock to the Isle-of-Wright,
all they wanted was to play.
The bands that played at Woodstock, came armed with beaten Les Pauls
piped loud through towering stacks,
looked almost alien, decked out in their leather fringe,
hair flowing down their backs.
The bands that played at Woodstock, never cared much for being civil
though sang ’bout right and wrong
in folk and rock lessons with smashed up guitars and
youth’s nation sang along.
The bands that played at Woodstock, threw some anarchistic bombs
into that great body sea
that exploded back in waves and ripples of screaming love
and tie-dyed memory.
The bands that played at Woodstock, never thought of cashing in.
Back then who would dare foresee
members of their tribe turning rebel anthems of youth into
TV theme songs for a fee.
Pete Townsend, if you’ve got in you – STOP!
for the sake of memory,
Pete Townsend, we might have to skin you
for selling out history.
CSI is on! Sons and daughters come!
Out here in Fox Fields,
let’s heat up our meals.
Let’s get our backs
into our living
CSI is on! Sons and daughters come!
CSI is on. Let’s watch it and be numb.
Based on Rudyard Kipling’s “The Men Who Fought at Minden”
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 30, 2010
He’s very grounded
that Sheriff Andy Taylor
not the kind at all
to go off in a Casita trailer
binging on cocaine
or hop a midnight flight
to make a sex tour of Thailand.
He won’t leave Mayberry
in a sudden fit of self-actualization
to hunt wild boar
instead of jaywalkers
alone in some dense jungle
with a handmade spear
living off the land and
He’s not the type of bad lieutenant
who pulls over female drivers
hoping he can cower them
blowjobs for a warning
or steals money
from the Armenian mafia.
He never needs to
call in forensics
or an FBI profiler
to find out who stole
the apple pie from the fair.
Doesn’t loose any sleep
some serial killer leaving
a doll with parts missing
in his fridge.
Now we only want
a dependable light lamp
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 29, 2010
Not a nice man at all
Terrible things he’s done
Evil in those eyes
Don’t ever want to meet him, but
On the street?
Sssshhh! Slink away
To tell the police
Enough to nab him and you’ll get a
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 28, 2010
entered into that world
level with all things
one with the one and the many
no more pushing against the barriers
in the innermost circle
no more a lesser than
giving up the self to fusion
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 27, 2010
Blows through the
entrance, no waiting in
line, no rope line lullabies,
onward loudly into this loud
gin and tonics at the V.I.P bar
“Nice place I own here, ain’t it
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 26, 2010
We did a team-building exercise
in our departmental meeting today.
The scenario: everyone in the room would be
stranded together on a deserted island
with rescue in no way guaranteed.
We had to write down the one thing
we’d take with us, but the item had to say
something about who we really were.
The only limitations were ONLY ONE thing,
and NO persons, computers or electronic gizmos.
I felt a little guilty writing down
”a Staples box filled with notepads and pens,”
thinking it was a bit selfish on two levels.
The first being its utter uselessness for survival
and the second, the suggestion that I’d want to spend my time
stranded on a deserted island somewhere off alone,
in the shade, with my back against a palm tree,
just writing until help came. My only semi-justification,
admittedly weak, was that it would be good to have
pen and paper to map out all of our brilliant plans
for escaping the island or being rescued
using all the much, much more practical items
that everyone else would bring along. But as we went
around the table and revealed our choices
I didn’t feel that badly. They were:
a bag of golf clubs
a pair of running shoes
a pair of hiking boots
a second bag of golf clubs
a soccer ball
a bag of books
a box of notepads and pens
a Brita water filter.
I think the list indicates we’re either
a very impractical group who should
absolutely never ever be allowed to travel
en masse where there’s even a miniscule chance
of winding up all stranded together on a deserted island.
that it’s just a Friday in summer.
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 25, 2010
Our Whole Wide World
could have been
one big continent
in one big ocean,
but dusts storms and drought
or seemingly endless ice age
if we had only gotten here
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 24, 2010
Last summer we had some problems
with our bathroom doors
suddenly refusing to open
after a series of twelve-year old girls
barricaded themselves in there
and wouldn’t come out
unless we coughed up some
Jonas Brothers tickets.
Carol had to tell me who
the Jonas Brothers were.
“So they’re sort of like Hanson?
OK. Got it.”
Someone had told them that
we knew someone
who knew a guy
who had gone to law school
with their manager.
I wanted to call the police,
but Carol said,
“I think some of them
are cops’ daughters.”
So I bought ear plugs for both of us,
and whenever we found
one or two of them in there,
they didn’t get the friggin’ Jonas Brothers.
Oh, no. They got
The Allman Brothers baby!
“At the Fillmore East”
blasted under the door
as loud as I could get it
and by morning they’d all be gone
and we’d have our bathroom back.
I think the lesson learned is that
nothing gets rid of today’s tweeners
like long-haired Southern white guys
rockin’ the blues.
And maybe that we should
be a little better about
making sure the front door’s
locked before we turn in for bed.
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 23, 2010
You and me
We’re gonna have a showdown
A kinda old school throw down
Where we say the words into the mike, shit
Not in English, my man, we do it all in Sanskrit
Say things like [I apologize that I'm am unable to convey Sanskrit on my Western computer]
and [Sorry, again. You'll just have to trust me that this a very, very good rap.]
Yo momma said [That was a really good one.]
[God this is frustrating. I'm totally calling him out.]
Cause you’re like a [He'd start crying like a little girl at that one. No doubt.]
[Yes! The coup d'grace. If only I could convey it better. Do they make a Sanskrit keyboard?] road kill.
So now that I dissed you
I’m not gonna kiss you.
I don’t throw down just by chance.
The motions of my dance
like a butterfly’s wings
without any meaning, just all about the here and now thing.
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 22, 2010
Things can get out of hand rather quickly
doing things that you used to do,
but now don’t do quite so often
like painting the town vodka blue.
We were with friends at a dinner
dining at their posh country club,
when a few harmless martinis
turned me into quite the sad schlub.
After thrice sick like I’m sixteen,
after my men’s room convulsions,
strode straight – BANG! – into a clear glass door,
and felt the whole room’s revulsions.
“Are you OK?” one friend asks me
as I slink back to our table,
offers a ride to the station
if I’m not yet sober or able.
I pilot a green olive Nautilus
through the empty martini sea.
pop up a pimento periscope
but just see old stupid me,
drunk not from vodka
but from amplification,
those little words on the bottles
“Warning: DO NOT mix alcohol with this medication.”
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 21, 2010