an agglomerate of crap
The Colors of Feminism
violet is a lavender hue
of a black and blue
blur mottling bruised
faces beaten unjustly
for phrases of construed
insolence that is
a defiant demand
for equality
where is the purple?
go ask your mother, she'll tell you.
red is the saltwater
angry network of
veins in tear-suffused
eyes after crying
silently for centuries
conscripted in basements kitchens pantries
slaving for an illegitimate master
where is the red?
go ask your aunt, she'll tell you.
black is the vacuum
absence of words
voice stifled unspoken suppressed
by a billion paunchy bald-pated viscounts
primarily for reasons of
impotence and self-insecurity
where is the black?
go ask your sister, she'll tell you.
blue is the tide of changing
horizons redeemed and rightfully restored
protests and dissidence
upheavals and public outcries
Molotov cocktails on the menus of bigoted politicians
and bedlam in the venal institutions
and archaic chambers of chauvinism
where is blue?
go ask yourself.
_______________________________________________________________
I admit,
i am somewhat fearful that one of these days
someone is going to take a peek inside my skull
and find the interior as vacant as
the caverns at Tora Bora:
THERE'S NO EVIL GENIUS LURKING HERE
maybe they'll sound a holler.
my poor compromised cranium
will rejoin
with echos of emptiness.
_______________________________________________________________
hum-drum poo-paw gew-gaws plans for novel ideas
verbatim(though not without editorializations): begin transcription
parks bike by a bench locksitup "mind if i sleep here" Hilton ha ha Once you've tasted the charcoal burning and biting your nostrils, carried in on a chill October breeze, theres no returning, no going back, no giving up that kind of freedom. and so the streets became my home. the state, the continent, the world, wherever i wandered, there i was. i met a bum, dragging around a rucksack. in it:a thousand miscarried dreams, aborted plans, abandoned schemes all drowned in a boatload of empty liqueur bottles.
the band, of course, was only imitating the song of the city on a smaller scale. the honking buses people laughing crying and plaintively sighing, engines rising and fading as automobiles passed the tempo rhythm cadence murmurs of civilization. there were there indeed, mingled with the strains of the saxophone and trumpet, singing the city song. ubiquitous sky, yawning impersonally over this commune.
in the morning, the bicycle was gone but the box of books remained. journey forward toward the sea.
burning books on the beach, my private bonfire of the vanities and i was playing Girolamo Savonarola. grinned, noticing hemingway's dry pages burning especially brightly. write name in ashes with the toe of shoe, turned, walked away and did not see the flakes of charred paper lofted and spurned by a rising winter breeze behind him. a storm was brewing, and it was going to blow. that was a certainty.
_________________________________________________________________
A TABULATION OF CRAPOLA
1. affluence and effluence
2. interview with bookstore management
3. born into a culture of middle aged sellouts and mid-life crises
4. abney says:satan exhumes those who assume (hey, he may not be much of a tap-dancer, but the guy sure knows his fallacies.)
5. KIN OF DINOSAURS
6. opportunity looms like a snowstorm before ski-season
7. Sigmund Freud and the Cosmic Father Figure
__________________________________________________________________
I Love You.
violet is a lavender hue
of a black and blue
blur mottling bruised
faces beaten unjustly
for phrases of construed
insolence that is
a defiant demand
for equality
where is the purple?
go ask your mother, she'll tell you.
red is the saltwater
angry network of
veins in tear-suffused
eyes after crying
silently for centuries
conscripted in basements kitchens pantries
slaving for an illegitimate master
where is the red?
go ask your aunt, she'll tell you.
black is the vacuum
absence of words
voice stifled unspoken suppressed
by a billion paunchy bald-pated viscounts
primarily for reasons of
impotence and self-insecurity
where is the black?
go ask your sister, she'll tell you.
blue is the tide of changing
horizons redeemed and rightfully restored
protests and dissidence
upheavals and public outcries
Molotov cocktails on the menus of bigoted politicians
and bedlam in the venal institutions
and archaic chambers of chauvinism
where is blue?
go ask yourself.
_______________________________________________________________
I admit,
i am somewhat fearful that one of these days
someone is going to take a peek inside my skull
and find the interior as vacant as
the caverns at Tora Bora:
THERE'S NO EVIL GENIUS LURKING HERE
maybe they'll sound a holler.
my poor compromised cranium
will rejoin
with echos of emptiness.
_______________________________________________________________
hum-drum poo-paw gew-gaws plans for novel ideas
verbatim(though not without editorializations): begin transcription
parks bike by a bench locksitup "mind if i sleep here" Hilton ha ha Once you've tasted the charcoal burning and biting your nostrils, carried in on a chill October breeze, theres no returning, no going back, no giving up that kind of freedom. and so the streets became my home. the state, the continent, the world, wherever i wandered, there i was. i met a bum, dragging around a rucksack. in it:a thousand miscarried dreams, aborted plans, abandoned schemes all drowned in a boatload of empty liqueur bottles.
the band, of course, was only imitating the song of the city on a smaller scale. the honking buses people laughing crying and plaintively sighing, engines rising and fading as automobiles passed the tempo rhythm cadence murmurs of civilization. there were there indeed, mingled with the strains of the saxophone and trumpet, singing the city song. ubiquitous sky, yawning impersonally over this commune.
in the morning, the bicycle was gone but the box of books remained. journey forward toward the sea.
burning books on the beach, my private bonfire of the vanities and i was playing Girolamo Savonarola. grinned, noticing hemingway's dry pages burning especially brightly. write name in ashes with the toe of shoe, turned, walked away and did not see the flakes of charred paper lofted and spurned by a rising winter breeze behind him. a storm was brewing, and it was going to blow. that was a certainty.
_________________________________________________________________
A TABULATION OF CRAPOLA
1. affluence and effluence
2. interview with bookstore management
3. born into a culture of middle aged sellouts and mid-life crises
4. abney says:satan exhumes those who assume (hey, he may not be much of a tap-dancer, but the guy sure knows his fallacies.)
5. KIN OF DINOSAURS
6. opportunity looms like a snowstorm before ski-season
7. Sigmund Freud and the Cosmic Father Figure
__________________________________________________________________
I Love You.