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Mom, look what I drew in school today --
A child in a tub with open veins. It's up on the fridge for all to see The drawing's the best I've done of me.
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One day.
Soon. You'll kiss your wife goodbye and leave. That's the last anyone'll see Of you. Vanished. Gone. Plucked from the streets and not seen again. They'll find just your car and your left hand. One day. Soon. There has to be a set of rules,
A formula that equals An amount of clout displaced When dropping one name or another. Your name floats when you’re a nobody. It turns no gears. It moves no wheels. It's worthless for the work it does. When you’re a “Mister So-and-so” You must be really important. You need a prefix and a suffix One in front and some behind So your name doesn't capsize But sinks evenly and fast. And when you’re hot stuff, You're “Sir”. Dense little word. Sinks to the bottom And moves the fluid that gets those gears turning. What does “Sir” mean, anyway? I’m no linguist, But isn't it Latin for Stupid stuck up self-important bigoted jackass? I've got a fist in my left pocket,
and I'm gonna punch out all your teeth. I've got a knife in my left pocket, and I'm gonna stick you full of holes. I've got a gun in my left pocket, and I'm gonna plug you full of lead. I've got a bomb in my left pocket, and I'm gonna make the news. I've got a flower in my right pocket, and I really wish you'd notice me.  A cold man slumps against a skyscraper
dreaming the days away as he sinks deeper into the bottle. Meanwhile the salmon in the suits fighting the current put their days up their noses. The man in the snow's got that thousand yard stare and Pete Townshend sings: "I can see for miles and miles..." The bottle never fills but gets bigger every day. Standing at the bottom looking up, its mouth laughs and stretches ever skyward. Someone once said that there is no art without angst. If that's true, then what follows qualifies as art, though we have our doubts. We've always been skeptical of our own poetry. Nonetheless, for your reading pleasure we present you this week's feature, a poem entitled The Light Under The Basket, which reminds us that when times are dark you can rest assured that they can only get darker. And so, without further ado... I prefer not to see the light shining through hard times.
When it’s dark you can’t see just how bad you have it. But when even the faintest of light glimmers in, is when you realize The mess that surrounds you. If there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, It’s probably the train headed my way. Better that the light be off, So that I needn’t see the number of the train that hits me. Take me down. Put me in a cave. You can take my eyes but not my vision.
Lock me up. Throw me in a cage. You can take my wings but not my freedom. Chain me down. Stick me in your irons. You can take my hands but not my works. Stuff me up. Wire shut my jaw. You can take my mouth but not my... Nothing short of a delicate haiku can express how royally ticked off I am right now. The accompanying rage comic (aptly named) is just icing on the cake. * * * Dressed for work. Hornets made a nest in my car. Called in sick.  If there's a certainty to life
It's that some things never change. The universe is impotent, Deaf, dumb, and deranged. Once I knew the dream was dead, The future all but lost, I shed a tear and tossed the dirt, Called a priest to make the cross. And on my way to heaven I got lost in the halls, Knocking on the doorways Painted on the walls. |
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