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.