Thought Police

Make me jump

Make me think real fast

Make me

faster

wonder how it came to be

that

I was whole two

waves, pieces, so-to-speak that it was time for another

one to follow in my

footsteps

and

they knew all about it ahead of time they knew

everything that

was going to happen

and I was

so

powerless

to stop

it

I couldn’t do

anything

and I’m just

crying

I’m in tears

I can’t stop

the water

gates

are flowing

it’s over

man

it’s just

barricades

floods

and woe

and words

won’t save us

this is it

this is

never enough

is it

never

the end

i have

no control

any

more

i’m so

sorry

my friends

i’m

so

sorry

Books 2 and 3 will be out later this year.

I am trying not to be angry in them because that’s just evil and makes everyone’s life worse.

Ever seen an evil author?

=(

Tell Me Again

Your notion of nation

Your notion of hood

Your notion of station-

Ary denunciation of crime and

Love incest too soon

Will stall

The Pall Mall

Between his lips

But don’t plan on kicking your hips

In the right direction

There isn’t one

We’ve done this job before, son

And there’s the trail:

Just to the left

Just to the right

Out of sight

As usual…

Out of sight…

What Is the Role of the Poet?

Makes me wonder: What is the role of the poet in society or elsewhere? I really don’t have an answer to that question, I haven’t thought about it nearly at all. And I’m going to have to, if I want to monetize the career path in any mean. I mean to say, is it about something for yourself, or something for others? A mix? Fixing? Other things?

It’s hugely complicated and I’ll try to write an essay on it at some point, if just to (among other things) prove to myself that I can still write essays. =/

We’ll see. We’ll see how this all pans out. It’s so chaotic and worrisome I really have no idea what to expect. I hope you all survive the lens flare among other demons who partake in our juicing.

While Trespassing I Note the Sadness of Old Fences — O at the Edges

While Trespassing I Note the Sadness of Old Fences I write poems when I can, in late morning or during the afternoon, between chores but before dinner. And sometimes I duck through spaces void of wire barbs, and consider how to fill the incomplete, which words, what materials could repair those particular holes. I […]

While Trespassing I Note the Sadness of Old Fences — O at the Edges

What? I don’t get it. What’s sad about this poem and the fences in it? He cuts out a hole in one in his house so his dog can get through. He makes sure it can’t escape. Somehow this is sad? I don’t get it.

There is not more than one fence in said.

Help

I torture you

To the rap

To the hip hip

Hit it

We all

We are

Sometimes

To be

Flawed

Other than

Never time

Come again

Cement the play

Hit me

Hit me like I care

Cuz I don’t

Silly butt

Shit in the face

Just like grandpa

To escape the concentrate

But of course

This is not a play

It’s always dang’rous round these parts

My words mean so little

I do what I can

Hah!

You never knew

How much I cared,

Did you.

You never knew

That I was in disguise

That I was secretly

Crying

Because of your meanness

Your ugliness.

You never knew

I was one

To spit back.

No

You remember me, the chair

You will not get anything in return

And I had better get used to that

If I am not already

Then this has surely been a painful journay

An observation (besides that some people are pricks):

I forgot

Whatever