colors and books sent as colorful thank yous and updates
sorry, boys and girls, I had to take the link to the movie down. Too much personal content up there for any unscrupulous content collector to collect and pass off as original. I will put the soundtrack up for music collectors to enjoy and for the more unscrupulous to claim as their own odd composition.
Anger
that shit will
fuck you up
hold you down
make you do
what it wants
you to do
Fuck!
Are you fucking stupid?
Fuck him up!
The soft voice
that is almost always
wiser
is drowned in the roar
of Anger
foaming at the mouth
like Hitler.
Storms pass
birds start singing
everyone gets back
to work or siesta
but while Anger
whips the crowd
like a livid Klansman
it can be easy to forget,
pitchfork or torch
in hand,
that this popping veined,
spitting motherfucker
is a Ku Klux Klansman,
is Anger.
Needs to be calmed down
not followed
screaming
into the dark night.
Idealists
have never ruled the world,
grow up!
It’s hard enough
to get rich
without worrying about fucking ideals.
Be serious,
you know very well
what this world does
to people who try too hard
to be saints,
lacking the power to nail it.
Put it this way,
if Jesus had had
the Pope behind him
they’d have put every one
of those crucifiers
to the sword,
end of story.
Wednesday 2-18, downtown A train
“Oh, happy fucking day,”
said a bitter old face
like mine
ceiling sprung a new leak
drip, drip
onto my last nerve
woman at Obamacare
didn’t know much about benefits
but read my 1099s to me,
including the one I received yesterday
“Do you still work at EVCS?” she asked
teeth and eyes not
needed for our health
not here
in the land where we no longer
tolerate
the lynching of former slaves
here
in the land of the free
and the home
of brave
corporate personhood
“Whoa! calm down, man…”
“Don’t you fucking
call me ‘man’, man,
don’t you fucking call me ‘man’!”
There was a time
my hand would become a fist
where humans
forced to wear signs saying
“I am a man”
would have made me want to holler
arms hard,
ready to strike
“Who is there to strike?”
a voice asks,
reasonable, kindly.
“Those who benefit
from the murder
& enslavement of others,”
I say.
“Ah, yes,” the voice says,
sadly,
“but one can never touch them.”
ii
“When were you wont to be so full of songs, fool?”
“Since every sweet lake, sire, receded to shoals of piss
a cool drink not sold by the bottle
living now only in fond nostalgia
while the priapic, tireless
thrusting, twisting, plunging
forms the rhythm section,
the recoiling cringe replacing dance.”
“There is more hope
for a dog returning to his vomit
than for you, fool,” noted the king
“Yes,” I said,
“another song, sire?”
Had we not
bullet in the head
been forced on top
of our neighbors’ corpses
in that festive
Ukrainian evening
Had we not
willing ourselves to forget
plunged
bottle deep
in spirits not our own
Had rape
not been the law
but mercy instead
Imagine
the songs we would have sung
the happy noise
scattered over bright chords
ecstatic leaps
and skiing madly
down the perfect slopes
of upturned breasts
under the thinness of silk
gratuitousblahg 