Tag Archives: pulp fiction

Ten Sonnets for Electric Motherfuckers: The Second Decad (Prelude to Acid Motherfuckers United until the End of Time)

Photograph by Jose Padua
These Boots Were Made for Acid

Some velvet morning when I’m an electric motherfucker.
Some velvet morning when I’ve spent my whole life without
ever having watched ET. Some velvet morning when I’ve
spoiled the tailgate party by being so high on antidepressants
that I don’t give a fuck about who wins or loses but how
enormously I’ve killed everyone else’s enormous high.
Some velvet morning when my brain is filled with visions
of roadkill and dark swamps at midnight when it’s daylight
savings time. And I am the apparition of America made great
more than four hundred years ago. I am fetal acid syndrome
in the downward facing dog position. Some call me Feliciano
Balastiqui, some call me Bobbie Gentry when I am really Nancy
Sinatra. Flowers growing on a hill, dragonflies, daffodils, and
dumbass turds, all because of the virus that was going round.

What Thou Lovest Well Remains High

You must remember Nancy Ly, the loveliest girl in seventh grade?
When she smiled the sixties melted away into seventies dominoes,
toppling over into communism, threatening coach, corner store,
Karen from corporate, because what thou lovest well remains, the
rest is napalm: there’s nothing more American than having the
chance to kill and taking it, nothing more dead than someone made
dead by America (unzip your pants and whip out your freedom);
when you piss in the wind you’re the greatest pisser in the history
of the world (when you piss, all other countries hold out their
hands). And the war in Vietnam ended and another war began:
war is in the heart, piss is in your veins, the scent of burning meat
wafts through the air like glory, morning glory, and the widows
are so young and beautiful, and the widowers rub their hands
together as if cold, their hearing diminished, the memories fading.

Introducing Lucille Alvarado Paquin

I missed so many parties in the 80s being so straight laced, you know.
Lots of coke and shit and disco on the sound system all night. I had
a boyfriend then, his name was Vince, I’d say Vince let’s do something
and he’d say I know what you wanna do, Baby. He was wrong, like
predatory lending. I had a car, it was brown, I had a scar, it was pink.
I got this tattoo in ’91 in San Francisco. I was a divorcée, hanging out
with Ted from Flipper. He was cool but too intense so you knew better
than to ever think of marrying him. I got a job. Moved up the corporate
ladder. Bought a condo in the Mission. You know the deal. Life. It’s the
only thing worth living for. I got a bigger place now, with a parking space
that’s just for me. I go to the gym, work out like a fucking hurricane
that’s been downsized to a tropical storm. Then I get back to work. You
know what it’s like. You’re my friend. I feel like I’ve known you all my life.
And that one day, like Aeneas said, it will please us to remember even this.

Introducing Fruit of the Loom Billy

When I was a boombox blasting tunes at the gazebo and
you were a package of frozen Jimmy Dean sausages, I’d wait
until the last Merle Haggard tune I had on cassette finished
playing, until you were all soft and defrosted and started
smelling less like ice and more like ground pork to take you
home, put the frying pan on the gas flame stove, then dropping
you in there, sizzling out that sweet burnt meat smoke, making
my lips quiver, my tongue moisten like my long gone old lady.
She was never fond of Ray Bolger, never learned to wait out
a traffic jam with cigarettes and southern junkyard style, but
man could she put those sausages away, crack eggs until all
hostilities ceased. We lived our lives out, there in Florida, improving
as well as we could, loving up every last link, using up the oil,
frying on up to the day our frozen faces turned to soft frowns.

Poetry Is Metaphor for the Whole World, Motherfucker

Poetry is the diaspora of the soul’s elements, set adrift
by empire and exploitation, capitalism’s gravity, oppression’s
guardian angels, its memes and its tropes drifting from flower
and tree like pollen and weed, covering poetry with layers
of allergen, making us sneeze or even shit the moment
a beautiful truth takes aim for frontal lobes, turning memory
into a warehouse of logo and product placement. The poet
gives sanctuary to the refugees, gives them shelter until
they’re ready to go out into the world again as poems, until
some reader for some establishment lit mag throws them in the trash
or clicks delete with a smirk and sends the poet an email saying,
“we are honored you sent your poems to us,” or some bullshit line
like that, “although we won’t be using any of them, we hope you find
a place for them elsewhere, motherfucker”—or words to that effect.

Feliciano Balastiqui in Apocalypse for Upper Class Concepts of Time

And in 1982 I was punk rock Stephen Dedalus
or was I punk rock Leopold Bloom, either plump
everyman or hard core artist with involuntary grunts
and twitches, a wannabe funk pioneer playing bass
like Bootsy or a government worker for the department
of one way streets. No, this is neither celebratory poem
nor congratulatory panegyric full of happy cultural
references to people who inspire you, or simple good
examples; I am neither cheerleader nor prophet of doom
and lost elections, but a reminder to fight fire with shit,
which fuels the fire and makes the flames go higher
burning up the institution, filling up a fascist’s nose with
a big fat stink. Do you smell that? I love the smell of shit
in the morning. It smells like [shrug] revolution, motherfucker.

Introducing Bob Dobalina, Karen from Corporate’s Husband

Karen call the cops, there’s a man blasting Wu Tang Clan from
his mini-van, his kids look like two junior socialists and his white
wife has obviously been indoctrinated by liberal professors and
doesn’t know the danger she’s in and how good Americans will start
to suffer even more. Karen, call the cops, he’s waiting by the curb
reading Colson Whitehead’s least popular book, I can smell him from
here, he’s wearing Pakistani musk, furrowing his frou frou eyebrows
as he finishes the second chapter like a dude who’s never watched
Fox News. Oh Karen my Karen, the way you move reminds me of the
dancers at Hanna’s on Savannah, makes me think dirty words like carburetor
and diesel fumes, or Harry Crews around the time of Feast of Snakes,
so come on hop on my choo choo, ride my great big straight to the lower
peninsula. We’ll drop a bomb on the commies, we’ll host a massive
tailgate tequila party, so wake up, Karen, wake up or we’re all through.

A Mild Philippic Delivered by Godzilla on the Occasion of America’s Pandemic

For I have forsaken all boats and sailing ships, persisted in my
efforts to walk treacherous paths toward America in this its summer
of sustained disease, for I am devoted among all monsters in my
distaste for the lumpen bourgeoisie, their wicker chairs and their
sentimental black velvet portraits displayed on living room walls.
For I appear upon the horizon amidst furious storms, full of fury
and indiscretion in my actions against the agency of colonizers
and other usurpers of nature’s crown, power passed on from one
generation to the next through primogeniture. So, cease ye your
jollifications, I am here, with my fire and big teeth. Take me to your
leader. Take me to your knowledge management specialist so I
might know all your history and understand mine even more. Then
bring me, in all its disgusting privilege and heretofore untempered
glory, like a burger on a paper plate, bring me the head of Bob Dobalina.

A Minimalist Wind for a Minimalist Sailboat

What difference would it have made if the seventy-six hundred island
kingdom were named after Philip II of Macedon, instead of Philip II
of Spain. Would indigenous people have escaped slaughter, would there
be no Rodrigo Roa Duterte death squads today hunting down suspected
drug dealers and other manufactured bad guys, and would my people be
allowed to get high in peace? Would a philippic would still be a philippic,
Philip Seymour Hoffman dead, and Philip Glass’s magnum opus Godzilla
on the Beach
begin “One, two, three, four, five, Godzilla arrived on the
beach holding his giant boombox playing Steely Dan’s ‘Hey Nineteen,’
twenty, twenty-one” and all the way up to seven thousand six hundred
something? When I lost my job we moved out to the country where a
woman smiled at me because she thought I looked like Cheech Marin
in his younger years and I thought, Man, she must be fucking high.

Like Caine in Kung Fu

Wednesday morning in our rented house, with my wife and daughter
out for a bike ride, my nine-year old son in the living room, I’m in
the shower with the door open when I hear a voice from down the hall
saying “Dad?” and I say, “Yes, I’ll be out in a minute,” because sometimes
he needs assurance that someone is there just as I treasure the comfort
of knowing I am here, still, in this world, where in a movie Val Kilmer
played Philip II who ruled over Macedon until his assassination in 336 BC,
and Samuel L. Jackson played hitman Jules Winnfield in the 1994 film
Pulp Fiction. When I finish my shower and get dressed, I join my son
in the living room, happy that I am neither king nor hired gun, but am simply
a father and husband, walking the earth, living for a time in rented rooms
under a sky that sometimes storms and sometimes shines over lovers and
thieves, murderers and learners, and the trees, mountains, and rivers that
flow everyday and endlessly, giving back what they owe to the sea.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Pulp Fiction, Part Two

Photo by Jose Padua
Putting on my shoes
this autumn morning
I notice how my ankles
aren’t swollen
and that the skin
on my lower legs
is no longer taut and dry
the way it was
this past summer;
and the poem
that comes to mind,
as spoken by
my vascular specialist,
is a simple one:
compression socks.
And now,
for the rest
of my days,
whenever I walk
the Earth like Caine
in Kung Fu,
or like the bad motherfucker
Samuel L. Jackson plays
in Pulp Fiction,
I’ll be wearing
my compressions socks,
gliding across sidewalks,
travelling over dirt roads,
forging new paths
under the starry sky,
ready for what happens
next.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Pulp Fiction

Photograph by Jose Padua
This afternoon a bum on the street mistook me for a drug addict.
“It’s that CRACK that’s making you sweat,” he advised me.
I nodded and said, “Yeah, I really ought to quit,”
as people walking near me picked up their pace to get away from me.

Later, I’m crossing the street when a carload of scraggly haired kids pulls up beside me.
“Hey, man, you got any rolling papers?” one of them asks.
“No,” I say, “I just drink, that’s it.”
“Come on,” he says, “just give them to me, all you Filipino motherfuckers smoke reefer.”
I keep quiet and walk ahead as they start to jeer and yell at me.

It’s been said that the meek shall inherit the earth.
But I’ve got bruises on my arms from running into people
on the street who expect me to scurry out of their way like a rat.
I’ve got dark patches on my soul from people who move out of my way
because they think I’m going to kill them.

People always either see me as the lamb who’s ready to sacrifice himself
to the gods of their ambition
or as the wolf who’s going to set his fangs upon them,
tearing them limb from limb, eyeball from eyeball,
when the truth is somewhere in between.

“Do you speak English?” people in bars often ask me.
“No,” I tell them, “I’m from France, I speak French.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” other people say to me.
“No I’m not,” I answer. “I’m from Saturn and I’m here to mate with Earth women.
Is that your sister who’s sitting next to you? Nice tits.”

It’s been said that he who makes a beast of himself gets rid
of the pain of being a man.
So I drink straight from the bottle till the hair grows on my cheeks.
I steal the drinks from in front of other people
until the fur forms on the back of my neck.

“I was born here,” I used to say to people,
“I ate my first McDonald’s cheeseburger when I was 4,
recited the Pledge of Allegiance for teacher when I was 6,
and by the age of seven I could speak the language better than you do now.”

It’s been said that the truth is what sets you free,
but whenever I speak the truth no one believes it,
and whenever I hear the truth it makes me feel like a prisoner
on death row.

So I tell stories to keep the truth alive without telling it.
I create history to keep me from becoming history:

“I was raised by flying cockroaches until the age of seventeen. Could you lend me a buck?”
“I’m a crack-head pimp from the planet Liechtenstein. Would you like a job?”
“I’m a millionaire from Muffberg, Ohio. I came here two years ago with a dollar
in my pocket and a smile I could pry open doors with. Would you like a tip on
the stock market?”
“I’m vice president of a mid-sized consulting firm making
two hundred grand a year tax free. Can I pay for your groceries?”
“I’m Johnny Depp’s garbage man, wanna go out?”
“I’m Conan O’Brien, wanna fuck?”

This is the way I spend my days.
This is the way I earn my nights,
walking the earth telling lies, spreading rumors:

“And blessed is he who in the name of charity and good will
shepherds the weak and ignorant through the valley of darkness
for he is truly his brother’s keeper.
But I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance
and furious rebukes those who attempt to poison and destroy
my brothers
and you will know my name is The Lord
when I lay my vengeance upon thee.”

It’s been said that that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
I think that that which doesn’t kill you simply lets you live longer.
There’s a difference.

-Jose Padua

The film, Pulp Fiction, is twenty years old this year while this poem is about eighteen years old. I took the photograph of the Ontario Theater when it was in the process of being demolished last year. The Ontario was where I saw The Sound of Music when I was about six years old. When I was around twenty-five was when I saw The Gang of Four play there. And it was across the street from the Ontario, when I was about thirty-nine, where I was mistaken for a crack addict, which was what inspired the poem.