Thursday, January 31, 2008

Thursdays without being thirsty suck.

So it's thursday... Usually I would be eagerly awaiting a thirsty thursday at someones house, but not today. I decided a few days back that I'm going to stop drinking for a while, and I can't smoke ganja either. So I'm completely in my mind... God that's fuckin' scary. To be stuck with yourself is bad enough, but to be stuck with ME... Hope I survive it. Either way, I've got another poem, and on a side note, I've decided to run for president for 2012... Seriously.

A Vantage on Campus

I watch all the people walk by,
I wonder how many of them are high,
Maybe I should ask?

I read a chapter called "how to wonder,"
People don't have that skillful thunder?!
I would perish if I were them.

I watch them walk,
More like lumber or mindlessly stalk,
I hope none of them are terminal.

I saw a shirt that read "Hurley,"
Written in a fashion that reminded me of a swirley,
I contemplate if those are given anymore.

I watch the waves of bodies flood in,
Enemies? Friends? Possibly kin?
Any of the above are fine,
As long as they're optimistic.

Monday, January 28, 2008


I've got another poem though this one was inspired by those "there once was a man from nantucket" poems.

In a Bucket

there once was a man from Nantucket,
Who was sure he lived in a bucket,
He hated me and he hated you,
All because his house was blue,
He had absolutely no friends,
Liked his roads to have lots of bends,
Had a dog, actually a beagle,
Utterly despised those "god damn seaguls,"
He wasn't scared at all of death,
Even though he smoked pounds of meth,
Believing we are one with the Earth,
Although he was taught Christianity from birth,
Sometimes he'd play tiddlywinks,
And often he would watch races for pinks,
But it all came down to life in the bucket,
Which is why one day he finally said "fuck it."

Monday, January 21, 2008

Martin Luther King Jr Day

I'm not doing much of anything right now aside from finishing homework and waiting for a friend to call. I've got a poem for you guys, not that I'm experiencing what it's about (obviously) but I thought it's alright.

Writers Block

Seemingly insurmountable,
Anger ensues.
Life seems to stop,
As though a phantom stole your soul.
How and why are questions that ensnare,
Though they fall on the deafest of ears.
One true cure is a new muse,
Or a change of scenery,
But nothing short of a miracle,
Will stop such carnage and agony.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

English 2

So I'm sitting in my English 2 class, not listening to my Bulgarian teacher speaking in her accent. Nothing against Bulgaria/ns but I'm not sure she should be teaching an English class. Since none of you have really looked at my post about being robbed I guess I must have bored you and will now add a few poems.

Who Knows Where It Is We Go

It's an impossibility to know
when, where, or why we go
After death, that is.

I wonder how religious zealots
came to their conclusions?
Maybe too many drugs.

The only thing that is absolute
Is that some time we will go
Though the mystery of such a thing...

It's what drives us to be the best
the top-tier humans of our time
The unique thirst of recognition.

Hopefully one day we'll have an idea.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

What in the mother of fuck...

Yes, angry title for an angry post. Usually I take rejection quite well... BUT this is a fucking travesty. I didn't get published in my schools paper for my poetry, which usually wouldn't piss me off EXCEPT for the fact that "Who First?", "Flavor of Captivation", "Mosaics vs. Tile-Flooring", "Routine", and "The man then the TV" didn't win over any of these:

First place goes to:

Marilyn M. Winkley
Night Watch

I sat beside you in that pale room,
watching eyes move beneath translucent lids
fragile as a Luna moth’s wings. You,
who had been so strong, trembled under sheets,
plucked at your cathetered penis,
mewled like an infant
caught in the sweat of night terrors.

I sat by helpless, remembering
those hands, knuckles swollen
from too many fights, brushing my chestnut hair
gently, struggling to tie it back in a white satin bow.
You gave up on an exhale.
That day my hair swung free,
tangling with each rise of the swing.

The orderly said you would never wake. I
thanked him for his help, silently
wishing him to Hell. Later,
eyes dark as mine opened.
“Who took the air out of the room?” you rasped.
I had no answer as
midnight moved over and into us.

Not ready to die, you asked that I wash your hair,
clip your nails. The orderly, amazed, brought a tray.
I massaged thick liquid onto scalp, removed it
with damp cloth, towel dried your hair.
I kept the white crescents of your nail clippings.
You gave up on an exhale.
I did not cry.

Second place goes to:

Shelley Peckham
How Stella Got Her Mojo Pin Back

Tradition poisons
The death of purpose and the birth of evolution
It’s survival of the sheepish
The dream of clarity with a Das Kapital “K”
Conscience abandoned, left bleeding in the tangles of the emperor’s new clothes
Pistols at dawn, day, dusk and darkness
Wasn’t it easier when
Intelligence was ink
Death was a phone call
And you paid no attention to the man behind the curtain?
Your cause is shocked and awed into the maimed limbs of the lucky ones
My signature forged into the side of the bomber
Enola Gay Marriage Banner
Flown by those Hairy True Men
Drunk on the blood of Christ and
Choking on His flesh
Who invented new words for liar
But still, the extinguished have more to burn
And so you wave your white powder for the chemical surrender
It’s only a party after all
Purchased status of substance
Just like everything else
Get it up, slow it down and keep it together
And walk beside the new prophets
While the fifth horseman lives next door
His viscera smacking its lips
He stayed the course
He followed the tracks on my arms

Third place goes to:

Kay Kartechner

As the butterfly metamorphoses
within its private chamber,
to emerge and unwrap
its fragile wings of dust,
so do our souls transform…
unknown and unseen
and mysterious,
encased in ego
and earthy matter;
the grist of God’s alchemy.

Now honestly, can anyone please look back at the poems I listened, and compare them to these to either tell me I'm nuts for thinking I was robbed, or tell me that I'm right and that this is bullshit? Thank you.