Politics

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

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

Tree of Memories

Branches hang low
Heavy with leaves at the end of summer
The breeze comes strong
Then calms a little, creating a complex beat with the rustling of leaves.
This tree so tall and strong
Signifies our love and how far it has gone.
Memories tied so tight at the root
And future hopes mingling with the leaves at the top
Memories of a blanket stretched out
Kids running without a care around us.
Memories of sweet nothings swim
As I sit here underneath the leaves, the branches, and a past hope.
Standing, taking down the rope swing,
So many times I pushed you forward
Then awaited your faithful return.
Untie the knot from the wooden plank.
The park is empty.
With the ropes that gave us both joy,
Fashion a loop 10, 11, 12, 13 rings around for tradition’s sake.
Toss it over the branch we kissed on,
And test the length
Standing on the edge of the plank you sat on
And pull the rope around
Count to the date we met and slip,
But feet don’t meet ground.

By Austin S. Bouchard