when Facebook is stealing our faces
and phones are stealing our minds
we can find ourselves together in protest
or we can ask for help, and stand in line
when Facebook is stealing our faces
When you sit down to write a poem
it mostly happens. I believe that anyone can do it.
Writing poems is easy, depending on the poems
you write and the audience you write to.
If you were a press and your goal was to make money
off of poems, then your audience would be donors.
I assume they are harder to write to than bloggers.
I guess an idea that blew my mind is
publishers would have competitions
and offer cash prizes and then after they rejected you
they would send out emails about
how they need your money. I never got that.
People asking for donations after they rejected your work,
as if the words you wrote lacked the luster
and the importance of the words of others.
I suppose certain grant writers get more money
for certain words, certain editors need salaries,
and certain ideas hit closer to home.
I mean, I am a father, a husband; I am white and male
(but none of that matters; but identity is chic now);
I have tried hard as any to get to where I am.
I would say I am a poet but by most accounts
and the emails I get, that means I am a failed poet.
I don’t make rent or pay bills off of my work,
it pays in smiles and a sort of pride
that only you and I would understand.
What I do is safe as a handrail on icy stairs.
What I do is very, very, very easy
because doing something you love shouldn’t be hard.
What I do isn’t exactly defined, thankfully;
in a scene you have to either be or not
or just keep going until someone notices you
and either says “shit” or “genius” or “you are that poet”
and that really depends on the time of year
and who you are close friends with,
and what kind of poem you read at the open mic, and how.
So, I have noticed, when you sit down and write a poem
it usually happens, and you can do it,
though I would say most are worried about perfection,
how other people feel about their ideas,
and would hide their art because
it might lack meaning, identity, or a soapbox purpose,
absolutely defined by others in a social vaccuum.
But we will never know. And that is why I wrote this poem
precisely for you. I find it a huge success.
Writing mostly happens, or I guess it doesn’t.
Easy as mom’s Facebook post or Trump’s tweets.
Easy as pressing keys and not marketing.
Posted in @sirterryscott, American, concept, creative, culture, English, idea, language, media, medium, observation, Poetry, Prose, satire, season, theory, Uncategorized, USA, write | Leave a Comment »
dude… shut up.
my hair does not look good…,
KT is always
did you know
are still on Facebook?
put your name
in it still
it’s going to
it costs you
just delete that
picture of me;
mom, i told you
i will take it down.
what’d you say
did you like,
i didn’t like any
i don’t like
any of them!
(i can find
myself right here.)
issue of the day,
and then i am better.
it’s like a light
came on in
utter twilight dark.
we couldn’t ask for more.
we couldn’t ask for less.
we couldn’t ask of ourselves.
calling signs of the time
in sighs and glaring
red eyes, we stayed
up all night to
make it to work
by nine, and tried to forget.
others complained, they had
nothing, just their words with meaning.
just their issues emboldened
of the day on social
media, so displayed.
surely we all know, and
surely we can all relate,
because we are here too
just as you, and
though you try to say,
while hoping for change
on a scrolling page.
Posted in @sirterryscott, adult, age, america, American, argument, art, city, common, concept, creative, culture, death, dream, dreams, experience, expression, free association, free play, human, humanity, ideas, langauge, language arts, lifestyle, Literature, Local Literature, media, Minneapolis, Minnesota, modern poetry, modern prose, modern thought, pastiche, performance art, post-structuralism, post-structuralist, social media, Uncategorized | Leave a Comment »
when verbose people
hiding behind screens
is how it is,
beyond the windows
wisdom in meaning.
when a gut reaction
as hard “fact” meaning,
and intuitions have
been burnt to ash.
stream of conscious thought
is the next
judge waiting patient,
one more line,
one more guess,
for one more anything
contemporary to tell it
how it is–
some existence merely
the expressions of
how there is no
fact in feeling,
no definitions exact,
only words and thought
to a person,
telling this is right
and this is wrong,
like they fucking “know”
the difference anyway.
Now if you die
the newspaper will proudly display
the worst selfie that
you ever took in your whole life
on its front page,
next to big bold print
and bullshit ads and sports team’s
and then there is you…
This image is
the only photograph of you
that they could find
on your social media page—facebook fame,
quick, fast, now,
through a Google search of your name.
This is the best they could do
for the article, for the paper—for you,
just by going
on the news of your death
and your name,
to your unique page.
I grab the limp paper now
does the family even know?
I wish I had coffee,
I wish other more realistic
less bias things
made the news…
Hillary Clinton goes to jail,
perhaps? But who is she
to me anyway?
See, I don’t care…
I am worried about my selfie,
my image, my name:
What they will show when I die
on the front page!
This is what life has come to.
I think it costs about $1.00 …
your cellphone died…
when’s the funeral?
could you go to sleep
your social media accounts in?
how many selfies
would be unhealthy?
why does there
always have to be something
on my mind?
connected with who,
what, why, and when…
when in real life will I see you again?
when in IRL will I see you again?
Sometimes it’s better to listen to the wind.
In a quiet room
Surrounded though alone,
Eyes stare blankly-
Mind’s stuck in a phone.
Overreliance on technologies;
I need my smartphone to:
take out the trash,
go to work,
take notes in class…
I need the whole world to shut down…
I need to get off of my ass…
When I push that button
And watch the screen glow-flash
I know I’m wasting my time
I know I’m not alone in that.
Full shoes rock smuggler
In the basement before dirt
Hopscotch walk muddler
Parted smirk with mirth
In a place with no character
We (they) find a shiny coin
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
Are insignificant to a point
No spokes in the wheel; full circle
Disdain, now, no wound to ‘oint
The Players show empathy to Ros and Guil, no disjoint ;
they are also at the mercy of the elements i.e. Hamlet
They desperately avoid blunder and blood red moist
However they can’t undo fate with any willed choice
Lifestyle of livelihood
Real-life social effect
In that case I’m dead
They’ve been gone this whole time
stuck with inquistion in purgatory
They relive this act on track
This fact amends the story
We see it in un-, sub-, and supernatural forces:
They are caught in between.
And so on…