The biggest, most poignant pen
writes the antithesis of the expected,
the people with lives expressed
experience, embarked upon
out of necessity
to insulate from the severe
of a marginalized people
fucked up our entire species,
ethically and genetically.
Speaking truth is necessary;
we can’t worry about
transcending race or gender,
there is only
a singular consciousness,
lived at all moments of our lives.
We are merely its witnesses.
Thank you for sharing
your visions of truth
and illuminating my perception.
You are my teacher, my ally,
my person of interest.
Don’t we all take for granted
the stag’s leaps or the hyena’s skips
as perpetual representations of a group
that denigrates the works of mankind?
Too many toads take too much time
to throw titillated molotov cocktails
betwixt the orthogenetic felons
of our once-forgotten past,
whistled between a shar-o-ise
and a heart.
The chamber solvent
has a triumphant shield
quite unlike the present-minded
earth warbler, unmade
as a man of science and marked
as a man of knowledge
in the community that really matters–
the one that brings us
to a crater of conscience
that may easily be sustained
if pursued in earnest.
I’m tethered to this
as though I deserve
this form of punishment.
I didn’t even do anything
other than invent
my own form of potato masher.
What’s wrong with innovating
a new design
for starch delivery?
I think this government
has really got to get a grip
on itself and forget the politics
that brought us
to such a politically correct time.
Next thing you know, someone’s
going to be making cracks
about the Great Potato Famine
and drinking pints of Irish whiskey
as they stammer all over the floor,
filibustering for as long
as they can stand upright.
Who even much cares for
rudimentary road maps and hackery
imported from the minds of drudgenous drones?
Refinement falls to the critics, does it?
You put something out and get an issue in return,
to be repeated ad infinitum
for the good of the paying public
and the pauper poet.
perpetrated by years of aching bellies
and glowering doom receptacles
we’ve come to know as the media–
you, Filth, are responsible
for the illiterate cauldronful of bubbling babblers
that belittle each other every chance they get.
The sugar packet parlor gleamed with artificial charm
in the dull summer haze we call liberty.
Somewhere, somehow, someone knows a better way
to portion sugar.
nobody made an effort to explain the intricacies
of our package-centric society,
the landfill-clogging generation
content to leverage children
for bleach bottles.
Doesn’t nature have its own ingenious packaging
already set in motion?
We obtained our paper and plastic
from butchering the landscape and its inhabitants
and dumping their carcasses into vast piles
for our lacking wits.
Give us that speed of transaction courtesy, will ya? We’re valuable customers, and we deserve instant purchases (not to mention fund transfers). Our stable contributions to the economy have earned us the right to complain and demand homage for our courage in spending.
The well-adjusted, socially-conscious
representation of Man’s better half
is fully cognizant of just how shitty
a person he really is, but she can’t help
hoping there’s some way to change
his behavior in a permanent way.
She’ll undertake a relationship as a challenge,
a ceaseless battle to be fought until:
a) she wins
b) she gets fed up with the whole thing
c) she dies while suffering under unlimited contractual obligation.
A pretty verse is all you ever wanted, you say. Pretty. Pretty dull. What does it challenge? What does it make you think? Why does the rhyme scheme have significance?
Does it look forward to recounting the past as the present sees it?
If it’s a vacuum, a glass jar preserving cute language like a vat of liquid nitrogen poured on a rose, you’re in the wrong place.
I am well-versed in the perpetuation of this filth, this inexorable dust clinging to the shelf life of an English Writing grad in limbo between academic fulfillment and the beatdown waiting for him in the dank corners of the business world.