Poetry Break #5

DOW JONES DEATH SPIRAL WATCH:

Another down day for the DOW. I’m not reading anything in the MSM about the FED doing anything to stop the current slide. Whatever the powers that be are up too, it don’t seem to be working:

Index Value:	13,041.85
Trade Time:	August 28, 2007
Change:	280.28 (2.10%)

SOMEONE STOP ME BEFORE I POST MORE OF MY POETRY! Opps, too late. As always these are by me:

 

Men’s Lib

 

In an effort to build equality of the sexes

I pronounce myself liberated and will henceforth

Allow my dates to pay the restaurant and bar bills

Yes, date affirmative action!

 

 

When using the bathroom after a woman

I will scream at the top of my lungs

Damn woman, always leaving the seat DOWN!

 

Whenever someone refers to me as mister

I will insist on being called mers spelled M-E-R-S

Should someone ask why mers

I will ask why ms, spelled M-S?

 

I will never take out garbage or lawn mow again

These are considered “men’s work” by the sexist social structure

Men have been expected to do this kind of degrading work for far too long

 

I will instead spend hours or perhaps days

Running around the mall looking for

Just the right shade of chintz curtains

To match the new wall paper

 

When a woman tries to pick me up at bar

I will no longer accept a nice piece of ass

As has been expected of men

 

I will instead be seeking a gainfully employed financially secure provider

Who will bring home the bacon to build a stable nest

For the children I will bear

 

To those that say “wait a sec, men can’t bear children!”

I can only say this is exactly the kind of gender Based procreation myth

perpetuated by the chauvinist pigs who run this sexist, female dominated society

 

Brothers in liberation step away from that football game on TV

There’s quilting to be done!

 

How to Become a Poet

Step one

Be born into a dysfunctional family

If your family is perfectly normal worry not

Just claim they’re dysfunctional

 

 

Step two

Spend your childhood being abused

By one or more drunken parents

If neither of your parents drink

Convince them to start

 

Step three

Spend your teen years

As an unpopular, isolated geek

 

Step four

Turn to drink, drugs and sex

As solace for your fucked up life

 

I can’t stress step four enough

If you haven’t made

Sex and drugs and rock n roll

Your three basic food groups

You can’t be a poet

 

Step five

Get fired from job after job

Be broke all the time

Spend periods of your life homeless

 

Step six

Develop a warped view of the world

Write it down

Inflict your writing on audiences at open mike nights

 

Always remember

Being a poet is like being a rock star

Without all the chicks and money

These next two were inspired by a couple of blog friends of mine, whose bolgs I read everyday. They are Kristina and Little Indian, if you haven’t read their blogs just click on their names and check em out.

 

For Kristina; Who makes me question: What’s in the Cards?

 

Sometimes I feel stuck at a place on the path

The Hermit I am, ever striving to light the way

For other travelers who then pass me by

 

Am I ever to stand here lantern in hand?

Will I forever forgo traveling further on?

 

Can I ever gain The Strength

To take The Chariot back

Perhaps to The Lovers

 

To make the choice and take responsibility

For moving to and fro

On a repeating cycle

 

Perhaps on ahead to spin The Wheel of Fortune

Alas luck seems always to fail me

 

Better to find Justice

Out with the old, in with the new

Use well balanced mind to stir things up!

 

The other cards seem out of play

But the change of Death is ever present

Rebirth and renewal

 

But what of this present life journey?

I can always rush back to The Fool

Equipped with wand of will

Ignoring the warning of the domesticated canine

 

Over the edge of the precipice

In a leap of faith

Into the wild of choice

 

Then onward, toward The World…

 

For Little Indian, a Chief of Big Heart

 

When I read the words of my fellow writers like Little Indian
when they speak of the horrors of war

When I FEEL for them human compassion.
When I understand we are all in the same boat.

When the lives snuffed out by an “a” bomb
By a “b” bomb

By a suicide bomb
By a b-2 bomber

When my fellow writer makes me feel
That the dead are truly my brothers and sisters

That the pain and loss is ours to share

Then I understand just how free
I am to act for change

To stop the killing
To live in peace with my fellow humans…

Thanks for your words little indian.

The telepathic crickets on the ClapSotronics editorial board insist that my posting of my poetry now and then is having an ad-verse (pun intended) effect on the rhythm of their chirping…

 

The scientifically impossible I do right away

The spiritually miraculous takes a bit longer

 

 

 

 

 

~ by ClapSo on August 29, 2007.