(my poetry-hand’s been waaay off lately.
this is just me scratching around, and for now,
might be the worst thing i’ve ever written)
aahhh, yes, “the dystopia”, right?
with its broken neon, ashen sheen; bedtime
stories of sex and soot. we are in s&m
to what we mistake as “beauty”…
cocooned. spooning the echo
of an older era. encapsulated, we are,
to whimsy and its flimsiness; trapped
in paranormal paradise. each of us
a time-capsule isolated.
the grown-folks-home is completely
full, having capsized to a youth
too bored to even bother brooding;
this silver-plated civilization a faux-chrome,
a spritz, a sprayed paint over its dna
in hdr / this is the bloated malaise
we all have in common: an indoctrination
to the apocalypse that’s come and gone.
welcome to bedrock. forgive us if we’ve
mistaken it for a 21st century - it’s the way
the sun shunts to the side sliding into
the mandibles of those who hate the sun;
you’ve just been baptized in bedlam.
"this space is for hire - call now
17 like your status update.
maybe we’ve gotten off on the wrong
foot; allow me to lighten the enlightenment
with a joke: a vampire, a zombie, and
a werewolf walk into a bazaar;
the vampire shows off his brazilian wax
and says "i’m a writer!"
the zombie, his gucci jeans dishoveled,
says, "no shit, me too!"
- ba-dum, duhm! - that’s the joke.
the werewolf gave up the howl
and became a haberdasher for
refurbished disco; he runs 4 blogs,
this one included.
hovers over a dead sound;
haunched over, scratching
at his scales and hunches,
no punches pulled as he culls
cleft notes from blood clots,
his brainstem a rotted hymn.
he mulls over every letter
but in truth, who among you
we’ve all become the Mayans:
in our classrooms
white women write
of coming to the aid
of black maids 60 years ago,
redeeming the “unseemliness”
of servants demeaned.
while black writers, practicing
reversed-roles-ism, are said
to rehash the seediest sides
of race; no forefront for
their features; a background
of black faces… …now,
"modern lit 101"
every sigh is self-important;
dragging out the hubris
until fully exaggerated;
the conflagration of ‘swag’.
every sentence becomes
itself, a social network
overly animated. IF
we are to be taken serious.
in fact, the newsprint
this poem is written upon
no longer even exists. "poof!"
says the magician, spoofing
himself. fact or fiction,
who among us still maintains
( just as i thought )
all those who think “conflagration”
was used correctly, move to the right.
those disagreeing please move to the left.
unsure? then all yall are free to leave…
…or be free to teach / your choice.
i’m not bullshittin’.
they say that every successful samurai
started off writing calligraphy. but today,
our warriors txt #anshit; which is the PhD,
imho, to being a very fine taxi driver.
and just think: we’ve liberated our feminists
to subjugate themselves to bondage sex
in our best-selling books… 50 ways
of degradation choosing raunchiness
over Rashomon. well,
lit happens and it rolls downhill:
a) quite frequently
in this example, the word “lit”
appropriates the historical connotations
for the comical use of the word “shit”;
but is it a metaphor or a simile?
document your answer.
the day after
is just more
end of days.
a thirsty man in hell wants water.
at a distance, the fool and
the wise man have a debate
the future is fodder
for the well-informed poet
(but only if he or she is in
and the people only know
what they want when unvetted
celebrities point them to it.
what an unfettered vacuum
this virtual realm with William
Carpenter at the helm and
drunken sailors at his hem;
the whole world, on a whim,
flatly tatted to a mermaid’s fin.
their philosophies are hollow…
follow? or unfollow?