poMotion poetry

Politics

lickmypoetry — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 16:37:47 +0000

by A. Little-Greenman

Politics is not
ohh who’s going to win the election?

Politics is the action of deciding how best to use resources

The people who have “earned” the distinction to be the ones who make the big decions, call themselves:
Politicians

But that is only because they have no real job. They are not electricians, or plumbers.
And yet electricians and plumbers also have to decide how best to use resources. So they too are politicians.
Why do they call themselves,
Journalists or Firefighters or Professors?
Because they have real jobs.

Forget about politicians and focus on politics

Pot is such a wonderful drug. -The poem

lickmypoetry — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 16:35:39 +0000

by A. Little-Greenman

Pot is such a wonderful drug, that one can stop using and actually lose weight.

That never demands anything of you. Way too hard to write this while stoned. Don’t print that.

Beauty, beauty, beauty, ha ha ha ha,,
Very long green stems of bliss that force themselves to flower out yellows and reds
even blues and purples

How can you go wrong with a purple flower of spongy moistness?

And fire
don’t get me started on fire.
The red glow and the heat and the movement, and the …
oops there I go off,
but then you bring the two
together

they consume each other, the fire goes into the flower and the flower pulls the fire to it with each breath.
The fire dances while you exhale then leaps back to action at the moment of suck

suck suck blow
is there a carb on this

cough cough
ha ha, beauty, beauty, beauty!

Then to not have the fire dance, or the flower is only
Meh

not vomiting in dirty closets, or sweating in dirty clothes. Or aching, just

Meh
ha, beauty, ha! beauty, beauty

almost forgot the best thing about pot…
ahhhh
crap I forgot, again

Ode to the beautiful

lickmypoetry — Fri, 20 May 2011 21:33:43 +0000

thank you God, or Shiva
for uniting and creating

than you Kali
for destroying

thank you mom
for teaching

thank you friends
for comfort

thank you
for the dance, the game, the adventure, the bouncing tigers, the hidden dragons, the falling leaves, the growing flowers, the flying insects, the confused pets, the missing links, the ugly, the misshaped, the intervals of pain and pleasure, the fact that there are no facts, the first the last the middle in no particular order.

Thank you Beauty
for you are

and for that I admire you

Prophecy

lickmypoetry — Wed, 04 May 2011 20:57:57 +0000

“I don’t really know,” he said, his hands covered in blood, “h-how this happened.”
He could remember the screams and the cold rush of adrenaline climbing up his spine.
The face on the floor was contorted in such a way it seemed to be saying, “Ahh”
It had an almost angelic glow. The blood was sprawling out on the floor making wings for the departed soul.
“It wasn’t supposed to go like this,” he kept repeating in an awkward whisper.
He thought back to the chow mein he had earlier.
The cookie with its poigently phrased fortune:
“You will change someone’s life today.”

Work in progress

lickmypoetry — Sat, 30 Apr 2011 04:08:54 +0000

I have sat in noisy rooms of telephone wire begging ghosts for pennies
I have hauled ass through cars and pedestrians honking charging with flaming red sauce meant for upper floor apartments
I have gotten drunk and drove top speed down US 36 vomiting out the window crying

I locked my self in bedrooms, bedrooms, bedrooms staying one step ahead of the on coming onslaught of company
went dancing but ended up making out at a bus stop, lost on new adventures
been broken by the glowing howling fuck called love
but was stupid enough to do it again

I have thought and wandered…
why
what if
only to wake up sweaty in a puddle
totally lost on acid in 99% humidity not sure if it was raining or not, worried that they would know:
what if I had no job and woke at ten to a cheerio’s bong?!
what if I tossed out all my books for class because I realized they had never seen the things they claimed to explain?!
what if I stayed up all night reading anarchist lit discovering that I was an anarchist all along

Once as a kick I worked for two years in a ballpark
hotdogs beer pretzels
the repeated remarks about how much this costs or how much that costs while throwing money at me
I winked as I shoved their money in my pocket
this place pulls in thousands a night they won’t miss a few hundred, I consoled myself while smoking my menthol cigarette

then while delivering in a red toy car, I peddled round disks of Italian ‘pride’ to the mansions where they kept their money tight and under surveillance
and laughed, as only the poor can laugh, at their stupidity

in rented vans I have seen corn fields, flashing police car lights and snow
jumping out to put on snow chains only to discover we don’t know how to put on snow chains
fumbling around with frozen hands while wiping snow from the Japanese instructions
but not caring, knowing this is the best trip I have ever taken
sleeping on the floor of an abandoned theater full of history and coughing and groaning
smiling radiantly
finally to wander to the stage full of electricity
but instead I watch the fog roll over the hill in rising crescendos

have seen perfect sunrises that seem to last an eternity while cheering on the dawn like pagans
in drunken rituals of debauchery
to arrive home beaten and tired but ready to howl at the moon if need be

called senators and congressman, high, demanding equal treatment
shouted from rooftops and into forests about my problems, national problems, rational problems, irrational problems
seeing no one listened I crouched in the corner and smoked

jacked off to illustrations of Molotov cocktails believing myself to be radical
just as the books told me I would
became who they said I would be when I swore I would be anything but

Poetry – Shmoetry

lickmypoetry — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 23:10:30 +0000

To write something with power
with meaning
That is the goal
to do it while your butt looks good all the better
but
short of
flinging words at pages
drunken
with the sounds of Kansas
or football fans screaming
walking out the seven steps of the fellow craft degree of freemasonry
they hang elusively out of reach

the words
that ring true
or incite, or invoke
or inflame
lie beyond,
off this page

the distance larger than space
and time
can only be overcome through work
and patience
and I have neither

Pain seems to be truth

lickmypoetry — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 01:03:07 +0000

picture me in my fucking flunky uniform

flipflopflipflop

frying

fries, burgers, buns, ketchup, mustard, fuck

the ketchup. A red puddle on the floor.

“My boss is going to be pissed!” I exclaim

half to convince myself to clean it,

half to see if my boss is paying attention.

Moving faster than if cracked with a whip the floor is

wiped, swept, mopped, polished

flipflopflipflop

frying

fries, burgers, buns, mustard, the fucking unpredictable ketchup.

I’m addicted to frying

Addicted to monotony.

But what is an addict if not a seeker of truth,

but the only route to truth is through pain.

Minute pain is minute truth.

Was I talking to myself againflip

flopflipflopflipflopflipflop

frying

fries

Untitled 2

lickmypoetry — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 21:16:07 +0000

My throat is hoarse
from yelling at robots
about the beauty of difference
and the benefits of change

They just smile and nod
bob and weave and
dance and drink
lost
looking for an app for that
waiting to clock out so they can get on with their lives
only to get up and do it again tomorrow

The smell of singed flesh
fills my nose as I watch
these “beings” surrender
to ticking and tocking
limbs become electronics
electronics become god
and wife and friends

“can I buy you a drink?”
I ask the blond
whose blouse is buttoned to her
neck
collarbone (just barely visible)
shows stress and strain
“Huh?” she replies never taking
her eyes from her phone

“one for the road” I shout to
the bartender who had long ago given
up on life
I am on my way to join him.

Brian Feist

Voyeur

lickmypoetry — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 07:25:45 +0000

A shadow blowing smoke.
I am a single orange eye
across the parking lot.

Two shadows dance
framed by a night bright gazebo,
a velvet forest backdrop.

Music in their heads
pulses rhythm lower.
Flesh of hands, of face have become
naked bodies.
Flesh, unashamed.

Lips meet.
Persistent butterflies
battling for the same space.
Small gasps escape
mouths half open.

Even the trees seem to turn away, embarrassed.

I wait a moment longer.
A flash through my mind (you) and
I leave to go home and feed my cats.

Sue Zalokar

Little Sister

lickmypoetry — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 06:44:25 +0000

little sister
hold that sneer
do you honestly believe
these hips
havent been there?
do you think
the scent of your smile
hides
the lack of laugh lines
around those beautiful eyes?
do you think
i havent felt
the fear behind the flirt?
or the desperation
in the promiscuous slide
of those arms
around his neck?
rest assured
little sister
a grown man
doesnt require
the honey
between your thighs
to grant his protection…..
and he can’t
be your validation
no you ain’t
the next barbie doll queen…
u just another
little girl
trying to get grown…
rest assured little girl
that when
beauty was my only weapon
i was
a beautiful woman….
don’t let that gaze slide
over these scars
in such a sinister fashion
hush up little one
and listen….
they rest on my skin…
because
i valued my loved ones
over vanity
they are marks of honor
not shame or sin….and i am not
gonna hide them
to ease that smile
or your comfort
back into place…..
rest easy child
i own the skin i live in
its values or content
isnt contagious
you wont catch anything
by sitting next to me…
except maybe the ability to see past
those narrow little misconceptions
you seem so intent
on keeping

Julie McCurdy

Dream. Follow. Repeat.

lickmypoetry — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 18:07:36 +0000

I teach Adult Literacy on the Quileute Reservation. As part of my ongoing instruction and mentoring through the goal setting process, I set the goal to read 52 books in 2010. A list of the books I actually read this year follows below. I had my heart set on achieving the whole goal. I didn ‘t make 52, but I DID read 40+ books that I might not have read. A persons got to have a dream. Dream. Follow. Repeat.

From all of us at poMotion: may your dreams come true this year.

1. Gallo, Kenny & Randazzo V, Matthew. Breakshot: A Life in the 21st Century American Mafia.
2. Lansing, Alfred. Endurance:   Shakleton’s Incredible Voyage.
3. Tobin, L.     What Do You Do With a Child Like This? Inside the Lives
       of Troubled Children.
4. Peavy, Linda & Smith, Ursula.   Full Court Quest
5. Piercy, Marge.    Woman on the Edge of Time
6. Crow Dog, Mary.    Lakota Woman
7. Finkel, David.    The Good Soldiers
8. Piercy, Marge.    Early Grrrl
9. Harrar, Sari.     The Sugar Solution
10. Larson, Luke.     Senator’s Son
11. Craighead George, Jean.    The Missing Gator of Gumbo Limbo.
12. Murdock, Bob.     Untitled Manuscript.
13. Avi.      Wolf Rider
14. Dorris, Michael.    Guests
15. LeGuin, Ursula K.    Sea Road: The Chronicles of Klatsand
16. Mortenson, Greg.    Stones to Schools
17. Valliant, John.    The Golden Spruce
18. Hrdlitschka, Shelly.    Dancing Naked
19. Delaplane, Keith, S.    First Lessons in Beekeeping
20. Akpan, Uwem.     Say You’re One of Them
21. Alexie, Sherman.    Ten Little Indians
22. Kingsolver, Barbara.    Animal Vegetable Miracle
23. Butler, Octavia, E.    Kindred
24. Seibold, Alice.    The Lovely Bones
25. Paulson, Gary.     Dog Song
26. Wroblewski, David.    The Story of Edgar Sawtelle
27. Kristof, Nicholas, D. & WuDunn, Sheryl. Half the Sky: Turing Oppression into Oppourtunity for
       Women Worldwide
28. Berlinski, Misha.    Fieldwork
29. Krakauer, Jon.    Where Men Win Glory
30. Gilbert, Elizabeth.    Eat Pray Love
31. Robbins, Tom.     Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates
32. Ferlinghetti.     Her
33. Salinger, J.D.    The Catcher in the Rye
34. Pahalnuck, Chuck.    Pygmy
35. Sayles, John.     The Anarchists’ Convention
36. Mapes, Lynda, V.    Breaking Ground: The Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe & the
       Unearthing of Tse-Whit-Zen
37. Atwood, Margaret.    Wilderness Tips
38. Brooks, Geraldine.    People of the Book
39. Halpern, Justin.    Shit My Dad Says
40. Stein, Garth.     The Art of Racing in the Rain
41. Rawles, Nancy.    My Jim
42. Truss, Lynn.     Eats Shoots and Leaves
43. Chabon, Michael.    The Escapist I, II, III
44.      *See above
45.      *See above
46. Woolf, Virginia.    A Room of One’s Own
47. Stieg, Larson.    The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo
48. Hinton, S.E.    The Outsiders
49. Franzen, Jonathan   The Corrections *unfinished*

Sue Zalokar

Blank

lickmypoetry — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 23:54:30 +0000

Outside of anger is forgiveness
outside of forgiveness is fear
fear of forgetting
the guns pointed at people to protect them

remembrance is inside of anger
anger is inside of fear
fear is the one unifying emotion of both
sides
fearfulness is out side reason

we have no reason for the treatment of cattle or people, or which one is which
“It can’t be helped, we have to move on,” is
the mantra or the mooing
the cattle prod reminds us where we are
fear of the cattle prod keeps us where we are

Brian Feist

Old Drunks

lickmypoetry — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 18:54:33 +0000

late nights on public transit
are always an adventure

old drunks
try to pick me up
all the time

they gravitate to me
as if it is so apparent
how sympathetic
I could be
to their situations

and somehow appreciate
that I don’t give a fuck
about them

Cassandra Kolsen

Dinner with dunces

lickmypoetry — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 17:23:03 +0000

right now the melting pot is boiling
the cream has become diluted
watered down on top
while the mixture at the bottom
full of rich colors and flavors
burns

the stirring and mixing has increased
only to the dismay of the powerful, but blander
flavors
causing tension to undiscerning palettes
the garlic, soy, and potato once diluted
with salt and sliced thin
have become the staple of the dish

while the spices, the fringe has been
forced to the back of the throat

Brian Feist

It Is Forgetfulness

lickmypoetry — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 17:35:38 +0000

www.telegraph.co.uk

Right of perpetual ownership that non-memory
Nor its name by aspect of province seat.

She, a young person
When returning late from grammar school

I knew of the its
Death knew that
That One believed!

And that I am a person of energy?
If there is to the saying
By the people that brought the news

I must believe, without vacillating a point,
That my name is in the pupils.

Noah West

If I Were In Charge of the World

lickmypoetry — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 00:33:29 +0000

If I were in charge of the world
I’d cancel school,
Older sisters,
Any kind of school work, and also mean moms.

www.layoutsparks.com

If I were in charge of the world
There’d be nice sisters,
Higher allowances, and
Basketball baskets twelve-inches higher.

If I were in charge of the world
You wouldn’t have sadness,
You wouldn’t have bad times,
You wouldn’t have messiness,
Or “don’t hit your brother”
You wouldn’t even have brothers.

If I were in charge of the world
An ice-cream sundae would be for dinner
All movies would be scarier.

And a person who sometimes forgot to wash,
And sometimes forgot to shower
Would still be allow to be in charge of the world

By: Julia Guzman

(Adapted from “If I were in Charge of the world” by Judith Viorst)

Open Letter to the Perp

lickmypoetry — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 08:28:50 +0000

pssssssssssssssssssssst
we know who you are
we carry the sight of you
out of the corners of
eyes that no longer
stay still or sleep
we carry the putrid scent of you
between the thighs
you desecrated
in memories
we pulled it from the hearts of
our mothers
who used their own bodies
to shield our souls
from the
sight of your wreckage
we carry the knowledge
of your attempt
to sacrifice the sacred
and to profane the mother
herself
make no mistake
we still own the skin
we live in
you didnt win
we still stand
but we dont
stand alone
our own
stand with us
because
we have dropped this information
like a bomb
deep
into the hearts and souls
of our fathers
of our brothers
and we slammed it home
between the hips of
our lovers
(what did you think we were bereft of options)
pssssssssssssssssst
now THEY know
who YOU are
and wait
hungrily for your return
deep into the heart of the concrete jungle
they will sing our songs
they will celebrate us home
they will reclaim what you desecrated
and they will
bring you
what you
brought us
and then
we will
celebrate
our own
warriors
home

Julie McCurdy