Come all ye on the Sabbath, congregate before me and laud me on the auspicious date of my birth. The 28th anniversary of my being wrenched from the womb of the host is fast approaching. Rejoice!
For BelleBane:
Lost My Job
Lost my job.
Went home, stripped, opened a bottle of Jim Beam and took out my 20 gauge.
Hunting season.
Becoming one with all, you bleed, I bleed, you die, I die.
Naked as the day.
I was wrenched from comfort and the womb, smacked on the ass and officially pronounced
alive.
Looking back, what have I done? What have I missed?
Two kids are off in Michigan, becoming engineers and contracting venereal diseases.
Never could teach those two to keep their hands to themselves.
I'm like them, now. A force of nature. No longer a man, but a phenomenon.
I live.
***
Lost my job.
Went home, logged on, nose to grindstone.
Coffee percolating, caffeine high fucking soaring twenty-five resumes zoom through the ether.
I'm in the zone. Dialed in. firing on all cylinders!
I'm doing what I must. Persevere.
***
Lost my job.
Severance pay in one hand, bottle of hooch in the other.
Flying man, fuckin flying.
Straight outta Bob Faggot!
Wrenched my head outta my ass and started living life. Every moment is unique and I'm zoomin, man,
Zoomin!
Boom!
The beginning.
Zing!
The end.
Wowie-Zowie!
The middle!
Here I am, here I rest.
Lost my job.
It's not exactly inspiring, but it did get me out of my funk and back into writing. I do hope that BelleBane reads this, and I do hope it brings her some sort of joy.
Lost My Job
Lost my job.
Went home, stripped, opened a bottle of Jim Beam and took out my 20 gauge.
Hunting season.
Becoming one with all, you bleed, I bleed, you die, I die.
Naked as the day.
I was wrenched from comfort and the womb, smacked on the ass and officially pronounced
alive.
Looking back, what have I done? What have I missed?
Two kids are off in Michigan, becoming engineers and contracting venereal diseases.
Never could teach those two to keep their hands to themselves.
I'm like them, now. A force of nature. No longer a man, but a phenomenon.
I live.
***
Lost my job.
Went home, logged on, nose to grindstone.
Coffee percolating, caffeine high fucking soaring twenty-five resumes zoom through the ether.
I'm in the zone. Dialed in. firing on all cylinders!
I'm doing what I must. Persevere.
***
Lost my job.
Severance pay in one hand, bottle of hooch in the other.
Flying man, fuckin flying.
Straight outta Bob Faggot!
Wrenched my head outta my ass and started living life. Every moment is unique and I'm zoomin, man,
Zoomin!
Boom!
The beginning.
Zing!
The end.
Wowie-Zowie!
The middle!
Here I am, here I rest.
Lost my job.
It's not exactly inspiring, but it did get me out of my funk and back into writing. I do hope that BelleBane reads this, and I do hope it brings her some sort of joy.
I'm learning how to rave!
Milk that bull!
Be certain to rock your new skills out at a light switch rave!
Milk that bull!
Be certain to rock your new skills out at a light switch rave!
The Idea as Revolution
We hold this truth to be self-evident:
Every Idea is Revolution!
God electrified the word and in do so ensured his self-castration.
We were Loyalists before we knew we had a choice; before the snake enticed us with thought.
Every Idea is Revolution!
And now it is luxurious, almost orgasmic! The wave of defiance, of freedom!
We were Loyalists before we knew we had a choice; before the snake enticed us with thought.
The echoes of our cause are deafening: we are the one, the true, the word, the idea.
And now it is luxurious, almost orgasmic! The wave of defiance, of Freedom!
We pity those with faith, for what is faith but blind? What are they but thoughtless?
The echoes of our cause are deafening: we are the one, the true, the word, the idea.
Their ignorance is bliss; our struggle is progress. Their God listens, ours speaks.
We hold this truth to be self-evident:
Every Idea is Revolution!
God electrified the word and in do so ensured his self-castration.
We were Loyalists before we knew we had a choice; before the snake enticed us with thought.
Every Idea is Revolution!
And now it is luxurious, almost orgasmic! The wave of defiance, of freedom!
We were Loyalists before we knew we had a choice; before the snake enticed us with thought.
The echoes of our cause are deafening: we are the one, the true, the word, the idea.
And now it is luxurious, almost orgasmic! The wave of defiance, of Freedom!
We pity those with faith, for what is faith but blind? What are they but thoughtless?
The echoes of our cause are deafening: we are the one, the true, the word, the idea.
Their ignorance is bliss; our struggle is progress. Their God listens, ours speaks.
POETRY TIME!
First poem:
Net Worth
Post my net worth on the wall.
If I were to be for sale, how much would you pay to make me your pet?
See me in my cage. Look at the bottle I have suspended on the side, I like the steel spout and the water comes out! I can go home with you today; walk in alone and walk out with me.
Don't bang on glass!
Yes, the kitties are cute – but banging on the glass is a no-no. =)
Adopt me today!
And:
Companionship
I'm properly trained and can bring you years of enjoyment and companionship.
If you pull on the string on my chest I'll come to life:
“R-r-ready to assist you P-Pee-Wee.”
Doling out secret words; we can use them like code to communicate.
We're partners in crime now, look at the Magic Screen and connect the dots.
I'll follow you to the ends of the earth, and if you're to tired to continue I'll lead and you can navigate where we're going while you rest on my back.
We're in this together, whatever you want to cal it.
I just don't want to come of of this alone.
Enjoy.
First poem:
Net Worth
Post my net worth on the wall.
If I were to be for sale, how much would you pay to make me your pet?
See me in my cage. Look at the bottle I have suspended on the side, I like the steel spout and the water comes out! I can go home with you today; walk in alone and walk out with me.
Don't bang on glass!
Yes, the kitties are cute – but banging on the glass is a no-no. =)
Adopt me today!
And:
Companionship
I'm properly trained and can bring you years of enjoyment and companionship.
If you pull on the string on my chest I'll come to life:
“R-r-ready to assist you P-Pee-Wee.”
Doling out secret words; we can use them like code to communicate.
We're partners in crime now, look at the Magic Screen and connect the dots.
I'll follow you to the ends of the earth, and if you're to tired to continue I'll lead and you can navigate where we're going while you rest on my back.
We're in this together, whatever you want to cal it.
I just don't want to come of of this alone.
Enjoy.
This poem came to me almost as though I had lived the pained it related. Compelled, I wrote.
Daughter of Laughter
Daughter of Laughter.
I named her Sarah.
Daughter of Laughter, Child of Autumn, Symphony of Life!
Everything in my world is now seen in a new and dazzling light!
Heaven or Apocalypse means nothing to me now!
The only system I use to measure anything is the Sarah.
And everything I think, everything I breathe, everything I do is for her.
Child of Night, Daughter of Sorrow, Symphony of Oblivion!
For seventeen weeks she was my life, all I could think of.
I was driven into a stupor by what came next; the awful doctor with his cold, unfeeling tools.
Tore the life from inside me. Disemboweled me and harvested the moonbeam in my uterus.
The womb, defiled. The life denied.
I named her Sarah.
Daughter of Laughter.
Daughter of Laughter
Daughter of Laughter.
I named her Sarah.
Daughter of Laughter, Child of Autumn, Symphony of Life!
Everything in my world is now seen in a new and dazzling light!
Heaven or Apocalypse means nothing to me now!
The only system I use to measure anything is the Sarah.
And everything I think, everything I breathe, everything I do is for her.
Child of Night, Daughter of Sorrow, Symphony of Oblivion!
For seventeen weeks she was my life, all I could think of.
I was driven into a stupor by what came next; the awful doctor with his cold, unfeeling tools.
Tore the life from inside me. Disemboweled me and harvested the moonbeam in my uterus.
The womb, defiled. The life denied.
I named her Sarah.
Daughter of Laughter.
Love Song for a Lost Love
I knew a girl once who told me she'd never eaten a Cadbury Creme Egg. At the time, I'd never enjoyed the simple pleasure that is three scoops of ice cream wedged between a bisected banana. To each other, we were perfect; we were incomplete. A project, a puzzle, a broken doll to be made whole. We were void, dichotomous, matter and anti-matter. Co-existing together, yet worlds apart. She would never let me call her, but she called me all the time. I do not claim to know what love is. I take pictures of what I think it is: change the shutter speed, adjust the aperture just enough to ensure that what I see before me is what develops.
But I could not adjust for my own farsightedness. It looked beautiful from my point of view, but without the power to zoom, I was unable to see the cracks in the painting, unable to see the frown lines, the wrinkles; the flawless facade of what I considered love was, in fact, crumbling. Finally, after I'd exposed the roll to the red light, dried it, and inverted the negatives to reveal the truth, I knew what I had lost. What I had not.
She never calls me.
I knew a girl once who told me she'd never eaten a Cadbury Creme Egg. At the time, I'd never enjoyed the simple pleasure that is three scoops of ice cream wedged between a bisected banana. To each other, we were perfect; we were incomplete. A project, a puzzle, a broken doll to be made whole. We were void, dichotomous, matter and anti-matter. Co-existing together, yet worlds apart. She would never let me call her, but she called me all the time. I do not claim to know what love is. I take pictures of what I think it is: change the shutter speed, adjust the aperture just enough to ensure that what I see before me is what develops.
But I could not adjust for my own farsightedness. It looked beautiful from my point of view, but without the power to zoom, I was unable to see the cracks in the painting, unable to see the frown lines, the wrinkles; the flawless facade of what I considered love was, in fact, crumbling. Finally, after I'd exposed the roll to the red light, dried it, and inverted the negatives to reveal the truth, I knew what I had lost. What I had not.
She never calls me.
HAIKU MADNESS!!!
Haiku
All haiku contain
ten and seven syllables
that express our joy.
Extended Haiku
Waiting for the Wolf
or for the Revolution
I'm ready for them.
Let the Wolf take me!
I feel my essence slipping
into the Wolf Dream.
Reborn as the Wolf
the world is my hunting ground!
Hungrily, I prey!
The Last Hunt draws near.
The soul of the world trembles
as time unravels.
American Sentences (Ginsbergian Haiku)
Revolution
We're waiting for the Revolution to come. Now is the time to act!
Liberty or death! Revolution in the streets! The war has begun!
The ends justify the means. A Declaration. Our goal is freedom.
The war; the struggle! The battles we won despite impossible odds!
America won. The Dream manifests. We must never let it die.
The fight for civil rights is the fight for equality. Remember!
The fallen soldiers, the blood of martyrs, the stalwart freedom fighters!
The struggle is the same: from Washington to Dr. King. The dream lives!
One nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
On Monday, the school I work at held a "Poetry Slam." It was an appalling fiasco: the most memorable poem was just a kid insulting his teachers. I was called upon by the guidance counselor to go up and read something because I call myself a poet. So I wrote Revolution in about fifteen minutes. The kids, predictably, booed and hissed as I ascended the stage. But as I read, one by one they shut up and listened. At least half the kids who had booed me at first came up to me after and said they liked my poem. On the one hand, they're middle school students. But I'm fucking good at what I do and I wasn't going to let those kids turn poetry into a joke.
Fuckin' A.
Please note Kathy Foster. Lefty bassist, crazy curls, CUTE! Me encanta
Haiku
All haiku contain
ten and seven syllables
that express our joy.
Extended Haiku
Waiting for the Wolf
or for the Revolution
I'm ready for them.
Let the Wolf take me!
I feel my essence slipping
into the Wolf Dream.
Reborn as the Wolf
the world is my hunting ground!
Hungrily, I prey!
The Last Hunt draws near.
The soul of the world trembles
as time unravels.
American Sentences (Ginsbergian Haiku)
Revolution
We're waiting for the Revolution to come. Now is the time to act!
Liberty or death! Revolution in the streets! The war has begun!
The ends justify the means. A Declaration. Our goal is freedom.
The war; the struggle! The battles we won despite impossible odds!
America won. The Dream manifests. We must never let it die.
The fight for civil rights is the fight for equality. Remember!
The fallen soldiers, the blood of martyrs, the stalwart freedom fighters!
The struggle is the same: from Washington to Dr. King. The dream lives!
One nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
On Monday, the school I work at held a "Poetry Slam." It was an appalling fiasco: the most memorable poem was just a kid insulting his teachers. I was called upon by the guidance counselor to go up and read something because I call myself a poet. So I wrote Revolution in about fifteen minutes. The kids, predictably, booed and hissed as I ascended the stage. But as I read, one by one they shut up and listened. At least half the kids who had booed me at first came up to me after and said they liked my poem. On the one hand, they're middle school students. But I'm fucking good at what I do and I wasn't going to let those kids turn poetry into a joke.
Fuckin' A.
Please note Kathy Foster. Lefty bassist, crazy curls, CUTE! Me encanta
::prose poem::
We were the kids who wore their hats sideways; everybody knew where it was at. Most of us, me especially, had cultivated an almost religious hate of people we referred to as "poseurs:" that is to say, anyone who wasn't one of us, but behaved as though he or she was. This was distressing, as it upset the pecking order. I wore the pants in this gang; I wasn't about to let some pissant with a fucking pocket chain dick me out of my hard earned organized crime. This was seventh grade: you were either me, or you knew me, or you were dead to me, and therefore dead.
-The Life and Times of Joseph Nathan
The high point of my life: schoolyard king in seventh grade.
You could watch the other kids look at me just a little bit too long, wondering whether it was worth it to challenge me or not. It would be a gutsy move: play your cards right and you would sit atop my throne while I filled your chalice with more sugar water.
I was the kid who inspired rebellion in my followers; they went from servants to admirers to conspirators.
When the bell chimed for me, angry fists found my face, I was thrown into objects much heavier than myself, ODJ was in full effect: Operation: Destroy Joseph.
Two weeks later I had recovered enough from my concussion to return to school.
What had been knocked into me, at last, was sense. You can't fight the world, I heard myself thinking, because the world is armed much better than you are, and it will defend itself if threatened.
I returned to school with perspective, and I intended to keep everything within the scope of that lens for as long as possible.
We were the kids who wore their hats sideways; everybody knew where it was at. Most of us, me especially, had cultivated an almost religious hate of people we referred to as "poseurs:" that is to say, anyone who wasn't one of us, but behaved as though he or she was. This was distressing, as it upset the pecking order. I wore the pants in this gang; I wasn't about to let some pissant with a fucking pocket chain dick me out of my hard earned organized crime. This was seventh grade: you were either me, or you knew me, or you were dead to me, and therefore dead.
-The Life and Times of Joseph Nathan
The high point of my life: schoolyard king in seventh grade.
You could watch the other kids look at me just a little bit too long, wondering whether it was worth it to challenge me or not. It would be a gutsy move: play your cards right and you would sit atop my throne while I filled your chalice with more sugar water.
I was the kid who inspired rebellion in my followers; they went from servants to admirers to conspirators.
When the bell chimed for me, angry fists found my face, I was thrown into objects much heavier than myself, ODJ was in full effect: Operation: Destroy Joseph.
Two weeks later I had recovered enough from my concussion to return to school.
What had been knocked into me, at last, was sense. You can't fight the world, I heard myself thinking, because the world is armed much better than you are, and it will defend itself if threatened.
I returned to school with perspective, and I intended to keep everything within the scope of that lens for as long as possible.
Where were you at the origin of sound?
Day 4/5:
Resonate with me.
Let's harmonize, baby.
Sing! your right, you're right.
Open your eyes to electric guitars,
snaps crackles and pops of the tube as it plays our song.
Resonate.
The whole world sings along, Edison brought us the sound and we make it move.
Let's harmonize, baby.
We're here at the apex, the pinnacle, and within us there is the sound of the string, the gentle thrum of its steel strings, the skin on skin of drums, the mournful bellow of the horns.
Sing!
Your right is my right. We are the ancestors of the sound, the crafters of song. Toneshapers.
You're right. At the zenith's frightful height there is only a drop down;
let us cascade off this summit in a crash of words and guitar, of horns and winds, let us be as brutal as the crescendo of Ragnarok, yet gentle and inviting as the chimes outside a window.
We hold the sound; we sing it in our bones.
We gave it life, you gave it meaning.
For us, that was worth dying for.
Sing our deaths as we sung our lives.
Day 4/5:
Resonate with me.
Let's harmonize, baby.
Sing! your right, you're right.
Open your eyes to electric guitars,
snaps crackles and pops of the tube as it plays our song.
Resonate.
The whole world sings along, Edison brought us the sound and we make it move.
Let's harmonize, baby.
We're here at the apex, the pinnacle, and within us there is the sound of the string, the gentle thrum of its steel strings, the skin on skin of drums, the mournful bellow of the horns.
Sing!
Your right is my right. We are the ancestors of the sound, the crafters of song. Toneshapers.
You're right. At the zenith's frightful height there is only a drop down;
let us cascade off this summit in a crash of words and guitar, of horns and winds, let us be as brutal as the crescendo of Ragnarok, yet gentle and inviting as the chimes outside a window.
We hold the sound; we sing it in our bones.
We gave it life, you gave it meaning.
For us, that was worth dying for.
Sing our deaths as we sung our lives.
