i guess, when your facebook predicts it
in so many memes
and the weather team can’t be wrong,
how does one cope by just stepping outside
into nothing that was said,
into the alternative universe
by not just going along with a crowd
that may or may not be right
uniquely defined by such honed definitions
and individuals turned to
what amount to metaphorical piles of snow,
losing ground in May
and not exactly sure of what to do
or say in text about anything anymore.
i guess, when your facebook predicts it
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 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.
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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 …
A bright sun crawls over
a hot sunroof to meet
the working day,
as bulbs on a computer screen flash,
amass the made up page.
Men and women slip
become unaccounted for.
Unknowing they go, thinking alone,
believing in bold font & sharp tones—
subjective as fact, living each & every
day for a quick read, drink, and a sweet snack.
Then they are taken, as every other,
to a grand pasture, heaven.
Set out free on their own accord—
until a fence is met.
How quickly their heavy chains they forget,
how relaxed their time was spent.
They are mammals all the same,
animals until their dying day.
“For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” -Audre Lorde
Human lives matter (Do only certain lives matter?)
When people around town or on social media express their thoughtful views I wonder,
do they think by using phrases such as:
black lives matter,
white lives matter,
native lives matter,
yellow lives matter,
gay lives matter,
purple lives matter,
red lives matter,
green lives matter, etc. etc.
(in no specific order, but always separate),
that they are not employing the same ideological tools
used to perpetuate segregation, generalization, hatred, and “-isms”?
Are we in 2015 separating groups with phrases?
Where is the community?
Don’t human lives matter?
What’s wrong with saying that?
Things just work out
In acutely unique states-
All around the world,
In many different ways.
In a quiet room
Surrounded though alone,
Eyes stare blankly-
Mind’s stuck in a phone.
Some keep Significance going to Social Media –
I keep it, walking the Park –
With a Book for a Link –
And the sun, for a like –
Some keep Significance on the Interwebs –
I, just wear my shoes –
And instead of wasting the Day, for Scrolls,
Our little Writer – reads.
Man converses, a skilled Intellect –
And the thought is only skewed,
So instead of being Relevant, realistically –
I am every-day.