Posts tagged ‘Male’

September 9, 2017

logically you are not even if you say you are on account of your actions and that language’s histories

i wonder if when I,
poets, activists, or protesters
disparage Western concepts, culture, constructs,
in their precious american English
they realize that they are
wading in the deep waters of
conflicted ideology.
(i am not defending or attacking it, just a thought.)
i wonder if they realize how careless they potentially look.
(tho it could be misread or misinterpreted, easily.)
the language of the Oppressor
suites well for an offensive, good thought… Lorde’s

master’s house with master’s tools (as explained):
same with antifa violence–end’s means,
or narrow-mindedness politics, not for me.
some things are only those things in name.
i want actual world peace.
i literally want equality.
i have begged for equal parental leave rights for fathers.
(and sometimes i just want coffee or beer.)
i can’t care though in a world of apathy towards definitions;
maybe you can see what i look like through texts.
there must be a proper algorithm for that.
i write in it,
i teach in it,
i think inside my head in it,
how do you do in it?
language is that prevalent, do you think in second languages?
probably told something
about how i am in it by someone i don’t “know” in it.
but i must re-reflect in it, hypocritically.
do i wear cotton clothing?
most likely my parents did, and their grandparents did…
that crop we should truly burn for its despicable history.
who is this building i live in named after?

Occam’s razor a bit more and start removing those bricks too.
every pattern is another pattern resembled: what did it mean, again, then?
that lovely beach you go to, named for?
he must have friendly-fired at some point, making it somewhat ok.
did the Viking‘s not sack Dublin perhaps
raping and killing and plundering that Emerald Isle?
something about my favorite football team that doesn’t win…
the homeless may sleep for free in that structure’s shadow, cold tho.
i can’t recall because i wasn’t there
but these poets, activists, and protesters,
perhaps, they are backwards really–me too,
with language rooted in vile pasts they (and i) despise,
so fluid its will can change fast daily
just to make some poignant moral point work out for a new sign;
like media statisticians, i can make numbers speak too.
get them to sing like a well-oiled machine at church.
a few words in print, alas, but my Narrative… shit.
i can speak another language.
i have visited new and different lands.
i will never stop reading or changing my mind on anything and everything.
perhaps, if you are a globalist who has
never left the States and who only speaks
one language, mother tongue, how good are your big ideas?
practicing and preaching are two different things.
no big deal though, just saying, reflecting.
so how would you like to say what you think now?

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February 14, 2017

this poets plight

there are 10,000,000
of the same exact
trying
to do
what you want
to do… the same exact.
so, how do
you prove
what you have to
prove, the you
and what you do?
write about
social justice,
write about your
city, write
about oppression,
write about love,
or if you don’t feel it
fantasize about it;
society gives you truth.
(where is the lens?)
for me,
it’s different:
minimum parental leave,
as a dad,
diapers and breast milk,
little to no money,
full-time work with college debt,
no covered movement,
cis pale male,
no publisher,
i tell people what i think–
no groups,
no promotion to climb a ladder,
just words.
and i make myself happy.
yet still for a poet
like me
my plight isn’t
trendy…
there are bigger memes.
more advertisement to be had.
so forget it.
now, it doesn’t matter.

November 12, 2016

what is art?

last night i picked up a Bukowski again and
read something from his THE CONTINUAL CONDITION

then i thought in the parking lot
after the lady behind me bought my lottery tickets
and dark coffee because
the guy behind the counter
in the unwashed and untucked shirts
didn’t know if they accepted credit cards
or not and the line grew,
and no more money came from my pants,

what is art?

rat is art
tar is art
tra is art

i guess anyway you look
at it, those letters are art.

and the lady in line said: take it, no just take it.
and threw $2 on the counter.
she had a gallon of 2% milk and was serious.

like any-thing is any-thing
else.

perhaps decomposition of a loved one
since the year 2014 is art,
like pumping milk from a cow is art.

or maybe since the year 4201 is art.

i don’t know.
don’t i know.

i watched from the car
as breastfeeding went down in the lot
i didn’t want to be followed,
what a major calamity of sorts.

the gas station lights could
sense my growing shame and
how my patience was lost
in staring at walls or looking
for a cd that wasn’t scratched,
hoping for B.I.G..

crystalline frost formed on the vehicles
near the front lawn.
and i am happy they were there.

we rolled up late, an hour of stationary
before we got back on the road
and i tried to dodge deer
where brown and red smears said they died.

like the leaves piled and decomposing
they are tra, or rat, or tar

or art.

whatever you call it it is that.
like those bleeding hearts couldn’t take a loss.
like losing the lottery in america.
like driving at night with desert eyes.
like coming in late without an excuse.
like not needing one, but you do.
like knowing before others and pretending to not.
like apologizing for everyone like you for guilt, your guilt.
like feeling sorry that you don’t.
like telling people to move on in your shoes.

i suppose

maybe that’s why we all drink coffee
and tell our friends what we think.

and one day the sun won’t spin,
so bring a few extra layers,
everyone will be there.

November 22, 2014

Comely Civilian

Sipping hot Chai Tea,
When bitter came sweet.
Numbers change degrees,
Perspective saw discreet.

Early time of day,
We met along the way.
Present here now sit,
A life made of odd bits.

Notice slight turn of head
Sparking bulbs in the mind;
Wait, watch, and reflect,
Faint to smell of Dandelion.

Supple as shone flesh,
One acknowledges dewed must,
Affective thoughts to pass,
Words spoke, open mouth trust.

Salacious centerfold,
Touching each endpoint nerve,
Appointing minor tasks-
Let eager subjects be served.

Sit perked straight up,
Lace bound tight round back;
Pictures opened doors,
Imagined forms one retracts.

That fiend- the mind, moves fancy to bust.
That fiend- the thought: human nature of lust.

September 3, 2014

Day One: Campus Type

Cigarette ashes hang like eyelashes

of campus distractions,

from broken hand sinewy seams

this be the death of me-

 

…  and some;

carless,

embarrassed,

 

No Feelings: numb.

 

American Literature and computer generated poetry; as art- good start to the semester, the sun is out in all its glory.

 

Covered in leather and bruises, she moves, tattooed, wounds fester, pimple-faced and searching for pleasure and adventure, no more mommy and daddy leisure.

 

It’s true.

 

Beautiful green lost confused, children adults on the move; me too,

How about you?

 

Choose.

 

Brilliant fulfillment,

United States we live in, lucid livid.

 

Self –surgery

type urgency.

 

Bearing my frown like a leaky raincoat in the center of this rainstorm,

maintaining a productive stance on consuming all there is to absorb.

 

Advice: Mornings are easier when you don’t drink every night,

but for what I’ve just seen I just might.

 

Educate me on this system.

Please, teach me now. 

September 6, 2012

Everyday New

A new life; new walls, new people, all involved.

 

Walk small, walk tall, and most of all don’t fall.

 

All inside, now clean it out.

All about, now go without.

What have we left?

 

Just one phone call-

 

We had a small portion of a six pack left and a moderate buzz, which was more like a hangover.

 

Whatever it is we will throw it away.

 

Like a new day.

Like a new tomorrow.

On a new track.

Hold back.

 

Burn the rest.

Burn it to the filter.

Burnt out.

The rest is filler.

 

The fire smoldered until vanquished by lack of accelerant.  The light was heaven sent, yet I was spent in a moonlit residence.

 

A different location, more pretty girls.

Locomotive at the station.

A different world, we notice

We notice more.

 

Choo-Choo.

 

A new life just ten blocks up and down.

Homeward bound, lost and found-to hear the sound of a familiar voice.

 

She cried when she left, I left with that…

I cried before and held my breath.

 

I tried but couldn’t die.

 

Friends lost in sorrow, we borrow…

We mourn, we are bored.

We take all in suspicious tolerance and then ignore.

 

That day was so bright, we almost couldn’t let go, but you had to.

You had to.

The grass is greener.

You had to.

 

And then you did.

 

There is nothing new under the sun; there is no originality, only authenticity, especially in this city.

Sadness and smiles have been around all the while.

This is not special.

 

Yet, we hardly notice things we hardly notice.

 

The sunshine was brighter in the loss, Bosnian (the language) seemed fathomable and old-fashioned-she said, “Fuck off Mother.”  I said, “I am not your brother, I am just here for the money.”  She said, “Lovely, now get back to work, Honey.”  I think we had it mixed up a bit, but I kept working. I looked at her crossly as I picked up the broom.

 

And then…

 

I took off.

Like a rocket.

Punch.

On to the next big everyday situation.