Two New Poems, Communicate and Rant
Communicate
I don’t know what to say when I sit
down to put the words on the white
space and my thoughts are shards of
glass in a vortex, shredding reason,
piercing logic. The aftermath is my
voice screaming, the words are the
delusional ravings of a madman.
All who hear turn away and wonder
why would he go on like this if he
wants to say something about the
state of US then he should put his
words into something non-combative,
fair and measured, foregoing the
foul language, never lowering to
insults or personal attacks, even on
people he wants to attack personally.
If he’s going to call himself a writer
then he should show and not tell, he
should say something that says some-
thing not rant and rave about what
it is that he’s pissed off about, because
we don’t care if he’s pissed off, every-
one gets pissed off, anyone can rant
anyone can scream, anyone can swear
as if they were born to it
if they set their minds that way.
I know what I wanted to say, when I
look at the white space with the murky
passages of my dark heart bled out
upon it. I know that the point was
between the verbs and the nouns with
the modifiers, constructing my similes
and metaphors, held together by
my marks of punctuation which I don’t
think I will ever master. I know that
somewhere in my words I’ve placed
every idea I wanted to state, but I know
that this rant will only mark my
disillusion, my opinion, for all it’s
selfish trappings only serves to
better express my confusion, until
the vortex subsides, and I abide but
here’s my rant, I really did try.
Rant
Everything changed after
nine, one, one ‘O one
add six now ‘O seven,
the number of heads on
the beast, at the end of that
book, which seems to leave
so much to interpretation,
that it seems like it could
mean just about anything
at all, if you read it in just
the right way.
Who are these people
that can’t talk a strait
talk not matter how much
they talk about how only
the strait should marry
because it would hurt
an institution to allow
otherwise, but I don’t
live in an institution,
not yet, Orwell said I
might some day but I
told Big Brother to Fuck
Off in no uncertain terms.
Stick that in your pipe
and smoke it, Dick, when
you send more youth to
die in the desert for crude,
it’s rude you know to shoot
at folk when you’re supposed
to shoot at the farm-raised
caged bird with the clipped
wings that never had a chance;
Dennis the Menace, with
the sling-shot in his pants
pocket, you make me feel
like poor ‘ol mister Wilson,
I need my nerve tonic. Election
day can’t come soon enough.
After all the constitution’s just
a piece of paper, dubba-ya said
so, though it’s really parchment,
asshole, take a history lesson
before you pretend to run a
country. Go clear some bush
for the cameras, I’d love to clear
Bush for the cameras because
I really can’t take anymore of
that eyesore. The drafters of the
constitution were flawed, they
weren’t stupid, there’s a difference.
How can anyone read so much
about history and know so little
about it? Read some more “My
Pet Goat,” you know, it was upside
down, the camera’s don’t miss
a thing. What were you thinking
for seven minutes – counting
millions? – while the thousands
looked death in the eye like you
never did when you didn’t even
show up for roll call, much less
an unpopular war, for a country
you wouldn’t fight for, but send
others to die for. You fucking
hypocrite. I hope you believe in
hell, because there’s a room
reserved for your end of days.
We were told years ago that
oil was cheap and plentiful, and
we would not go cold within my
lifetime, but I’m still alive and
the wells are dry but the demand
is high and only the rich survive.
Why shouldn’t the poor die?
Born to suicide. Just climb
on our backs, we’ll give you
a ride. You lied when you
said you didn’t divide,
the fissures so wide you could
get lost inside. When a city died
and Brownie got a pat on the back
for his lack of ability to do anything.
You chide, but the right don’t shake
the lefts hand anymore and all
the negotiations are out the door,
as the fissure grows wider and the
ideology divides us into those
who think, and those who think
what they are told. It’s cold, and
the routine is old, the modern
baroque, grotesque, extravagance
bringing back the fat, the pork
that clogs the arteries of our system
and causes the final heart attack.
Our dollars worth less than half
of the Monarchy we once spat
upon and fought off, His Excellency
might cry, that the men who died
for the freedom you decide is not
needed if an iron fist will chide
the dissention from a policy of
hate, of hate, of hate. It’s not why
they hate us, it’s why you hate them
and why you don’t care about us.
They laugh at the divider, the powerful
decider, the chider, the liar, the
ignorant squire, who can’t see
his ass because his head
is stuck
inside it.
posted by Zoner at 3:36 PM
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