Posts Tagged ‘poetry’
A Day
“You know the way you smell in the morning? That’s how I feel.”
The man was saying into his cell phone as he dug in his pocket for a quarter.
Producing two shiny prizes he put them in the machine and pulled the handle, then with out removing the phone from his ear (using his elbow to hold the spring-loaded door down) he pulled out a newspaper.
“No, no I don’t need any of that,” he continued to someone, somewhere else.
Opening the paper in a flourish he eyes darted back and forth across the page,
“Here it is,” he suddenly blurts out, and almost drops the phone.
by Brian Feist
In A Motel in Hayward, California
What is the point of pain
if it doesn’t teach one how to live
What is the point of emotion
if it doesn’t teach you about yourself
the only point of losing is to learn how to win
fucking, sucking, smoking, joking
are all games to learn about the value of love
the importance of those around you
We hate only to learn the value of distance
the pain of faith and belief
God foresaketh thee to a wilderness of empathy
Everything is battle
a game of winners and losers
wandering through the field unequipped, untrained, and unprepared
By Brian Feist
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
Ode to the beautiful
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
“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
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
Voyeur
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.
Little Sister
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
Blank
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
Old Drunks
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
Dinner with dunces
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
It Is Forgetfulness
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.
If I Were In Charge of the World
If I were in charge of the world
I’d cancel school,
Older sisters,
Any kind of school work, and also mean moms.
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
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
Coyote University
. . . is completely contained in
this poem right here which
tells how anyone–yes, even you!–
may award themselves or another
a degree from C.U.: can the candidate
answer Yes to these three questions?:
One: Has the candidate, as a true
daughter or son of our revered founder,
Coyote The First,
stepped onto our world campus
overflowing with false assumptions?
Two: Has the candidate then
tripped over ignored vital facts
to pratfall alarmingly?
Three: Has the candidate then
wandered off wounded and dazed,
misunderstanding all that had passed?
There we are!
And there we are again!
If you’ve found you or yours
fully qualified to join us, then,
Welcome! and, Congratulations. . . .
Our self-awarded diplomas
are completely invisible and
perfectly suited for framing
behind glass that views closely
the wall immediately behind it.
Prophecy
I predict
November will
be full of promises
I couldn’t keep
bills
I didn’t pay
and lovers
who wouldn’t lay.
Some modern day Methuselah,
I am a prophet
who can assure you
that each of her prophecies
will come true.
The Secret War
A leak somewhere
Along the wall
And the rushing catastrophe
The freezing water freed
It bites through the skin
To the intestines
And suddenly
It’s waist deep
The water is thick
With dirt and everywhere
Waist deep
The color of flood
poMotion poetry 