Writing Samples

Poetry by Jon Raasch


Thriller

O Michael,
when they photograph you dead on,
	there's two cameramen in aviators,
the Joker's lips
and your plastic nose.

O Michael, you're so winning.
You own the Beatles
and still define pop.
On NBC you go shopping for golden furniture,
	and sell your home videos to Fox when you're broke.
Tiffany and Debbie are all grown up,
	but you still shine in Neverland.

Pop stars compare themselves against you and fail. Brittany 'Pepsi' Spears copied your career, but she certainly can't walk like you did, with her chubby-thighed schoolgirl thing and accidental cussing into the mic. Her clumsiness stands out against her well-paid dancers, while you put your dancers to shame; even Gene Kelly says you're the best.

One time Gene and I were watching one of your videos, And Gene (in white J-Crew three piece) turns to me: "Damn I wish I could dance like that." And I say, "Shit Gene, you did pretty well in the rain." But he was already lost in your twirling
      mesmerized, he followed as you pulled yourself right,
      pulled yourself left.

But in Brittany's video, Nelly and his band-aid, or some other Disney rapper—LL Cool J, maybe Timbahland and Magoo. Justin Timberlake in an Abercrombie sweater on the cover of his new rap album 'Justified'.

Justification: a Banana Republic hoodie with fancy things in his nose once told me, "I don't listen to rap, I only listen to hip-hop." (from hip-pop, as in Nas and the Black Eyed Peas.) Then he asked "What kind of jazz do you like?" before asking if I like Jazz. (Karl Malone was clearly the best) What do you think of Bill Evans?" (DMX is a veritable Ionesco.)

O Michael, thank God Diana Ross and Toto were there to save you from these bad influences, these philistines, these crows. As she took you down from your metal cross you scoffed at your impotence, so she consoled: "you're just the product of some negative thinking." But you just pulled out your paper fortune, reading gently: "Ignorance is the night of the mind, a night without moon or star. Confucius said that." and took off your paint-can hat... "Garbage!" So you eased on down the road, off to see the Wiz, off to ask Richard Pryor for some brains, arm in arm with Dorothy and the tin-man, the personification of modern pop. He opens the cabinet door of his heart and cries, "Nobody's home in Soulville." 

O Michael,
you embrace entertainment,
not calculated or forced,
you exude pop.

You're not like other guys.
You're different.

2004