And Now for the Rumors Behind the News

I am taking a blogging break to work on a project.

I’ll be back at the end of September.

In the meantime, enjoy some forgotten greatness.

The Firesign Theater is best known for its biting and complex social commentary.

The group mixed the conventions of radio drama with the recording and writing techniques of The Beatles.

The result was rich multilayered surrealist satire.

“Animals without backbones hid from each other or fell down. Clamasaurs and Oysterettes appeared as appetizers. Then came the sponges which sucked up about ten percent of all life. Hundreds of years later, in the Late Devouring Period, fish became obnoxious.

Trailerbites, chiggerbites, and mosquitoes collided aimlessly in the dense gas. Finally, tiny edible plants sprang up in rows giving birth to generations of insecticides and other small dying creatures. “

An account of evolution from “I Think We’re all Bozos on this Bus” 1971

The group’s most successful album is “Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers.”

Released in 1970, “Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers,” is the story of George Leroy Tirebiter who lives in a world under martial law. Tirebiter is a former child actor who spends his time watching himself on late-night movies, a staple of broadcast television in the 1960’s.

Rolling Stone calls it the greatest comedy record ever made.

‘The Death of Marion Crane’ (c) Rob Goldstein 2014

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#Poetry: As Was Is

As was

is,

her dress

those ruffles

and torn–

As was

is,

her touch

we cry

such wet

such searing

tears–

As was

is,

she hides

those

Track marks

in bed–

As was

is,

her body,

those bones

dried blood–

As was

is,

her smile

her love

these memories

my questions

and grief–

As was

is.

Multicolored Abstract Digital Painting
The Looking Glass

Image and Poem by Rob Goldstein (c) 2016 – 2017-2019

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Felique Dupré in the Haunted World: Among the French Cymbalists


(symbol.crash)

She has strolled the
twenty yards among
the desperate Italians
who sleep on fine couches
beneath that crummy hotel
over Washington Square.

The wind as a Southern Storm
lifts her up to the land of
wildflowers and Irish seascapes.

Flemish belles wring

A clarion call!
An armistice! And
Felique is alone on a
subway that goes
nowhere.

As surely as the clock ticks,

Just as surely there is a way
to escape the Village

But for Felique, whose anguish
has never been televised

And whose skirts are off the rack

There is no escape to money
and romance.

 

This poem was first posted in March 2015

 

Poem and Image Rob Goldstein (c) 2015 All Rights Reserved

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The Jesus of Insurrection

The Jesus of insurrection

ascends from the flames

of Gehenna,

He walks on waves

in black and white

He leaves fingerprints

on my lips,

flames leap

to absolute green

He settles and waits.

Events condense as fog.

I wear my reality as tight

as skin; the slightest

break will kill

me.

RG 1986-2015-2018