Dear Homeless guy

http://thehomelessguy.blogspot.com/         <Please check out the Homelessguy’s blog

 

 

If you can,  support the homeless guy, and the homeless in your region.  We all need each other. I know I need you.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lesson 4/Poets Choose the Words

Lesson 4/Poets Choose the Words

 so you want to be a poet series

 

Just a reminder, scoliosis is not in its self a reason to be a poet. I think there has been some confusion about that and I just wanted to clear it up. Any hoot -to the lecture. 

 

Poets always have a favorite word, and secondary favorite words that destroy the surprising nature of their poetry. Humans who read like constancy so poets give readers constancy anyway they can. There are words and combinations of words that a poet will continue to use/misuse throughout their entire literary career. Poets sometimes call the repetition of word usage a “theme” that supposedly unites their work. You may pass off a small vocabulary in this way as well. You may also pass off an unhealthy obsession with the “one” that got way before you got off in the same manor. 

Many famous poets were people who were insane (rich women). I am sure that a handful of you wonder if you are insane. You are on the right track (fake it until you make). Some of you may have had the award of insanity granted to you.  You are the lucky one. You will not run out of words and can write any kind of nonsensical trite bull shi that you want and people will praise you because your are insane. Props!!!!!  Ever heard of Emily D?

The rest (you sane poets) will never measure up but having favorite words is one way poets have tried and had a small measuring cup of success (c 1/8 C).  Another way is to pick a topic that you will continue to write about such as silverware, ham and old men. Some poets pick war or a religion and write exclusively about it and make money off of the sympatric followers of that particular warm blanket.  You may choose whatever topic or theme you want but you will be expected to B.S on the topic/theme. Make sure the topic/theme is one that you already know something about because you, poet, are lazy and don’t like to study anything but your own poetry.  You cannot pick poetry.  That is called writers’ blockhead (Stay out of my cellar. I know it was one you lice infested poets who stole my special jams. You are not Harry. I’ll show you, fat laced Rabbit!)  Grammar is only acceptable topic/theme for education majors who write poetry in their spare time. But if you do that no one will consider you a poet besides your mom (ask your Kia dealer). Computer lingo is never acceptable (abbreviations are four bad spellers).

I am sick of reading your piss poetry Poet; you make me so conscious that I am ready to edit your work. Where is the accidental humor?  Tom is the only poet that has made me laugh. Not only does Tom have a great eye, Tom also Commeasures with the great poets of antiquity (aged scotch).  The rest of you are diet soda pop and light beer types. That should shame you to stop handing in poems or at least make a small effort to avoid eye-contact with me.      

Make sure you have words and combos that you hate. It doesn’t matter what stupid reason you have for hating them. As long as you have long list of words and combos you hate.  Muster up whatever you can. I hate aides and sleigh rides.

      I am not going to edit your prose ass poems today because I have a dinner date with a can of spotted dick and a tall Porter. I cannot be swayed to fly on the back of barn swallow.  I don’t know why you poets are constantly bringing it up. They are big but not that cosmic. Do I have to explain every shampoo detail to you?  Heavens to beat you.  Shut up about the barn swallows and its peapod sized.

      Today I expect you to write a poem that is bad (no bird or saving the bee poems allowed).  I most certainly know that most of your poems will suck ass.  They will.  I know this Poet.  You will want me to read over your brown grass poems and tell you that they are good.  I may just yet for revenge.

      Encasing, you would like to avoid pissing in my mouth; stop using words a fat teenager would use. I am going to give you a list of words and combination of words to never use in a poem. Do not misjudge on word choice or people.  

      I know some of you will not care and still use the words.  Young poets say something like, “Why can’t I use that word or combo?”  And it is always some dumb thing about water or stars sparkling and hope of love springs forth kitten kitten eyes on the pie. I have told you before Poet and I’ll say it again… that’s sucks old man back tits. But still you’ll get all tomato on me. Where are the noodles? The sauce? This is not Denmark! Snack -my ass!

      If you use any of the words on the list you must describe war or dead cows. If you do I’ll pity you because you must be going to war and cheer is clouding your word choice.  That is my read on you poet so go ahead and write what is on your sack fluster mind.  See what it gets you (you want a hand job? good luck deep poops of eyeball pools).

      I expect that you will continue to write bad poetry and that is just they way young poets are. 

You are still afraid to write an ok poem because you have realized I will rip it. I will continue to trick myself into thinking that one of you will use words that don’t cause me to think of cheap graybeards and pennies (pennies are for losers- cash/scotch please).  

      I have tomato on my new shirt.  How do I get tomato out of my new organic cotton?  This is going to be on the test that you are going to breathe on at the end of this lesson. 

      I am giving you this surprise test because I know all of you will fail, (except Tom-thanks for aged scotch and not wearing underwear, clever-thing).  That is fine. You need failure Poet.

Too many people have given free condiments (catshit is not cool on a hot dog). This is not how poetry works, Scotch or cash poet (however ale is better than an empty glass).

 

Where is your cup of black coffee/green tea? Is that one mind -copy a cat? I had the cow one. Get original. Tisk-tisk.

 

Assignment

 

Additional two-seat reading: Ramazani, Jahan; Richard Ellmann; Robert O’Clair    Vol 1 Modern Poetry, Third Editon

Please Pick out 50 poets (don’t pick on Wallace Stevens or else I’ll C- you) from volume and explain why they suck ass because the poets use words that are unfamiliar to you and you are too depressed to look them up in the old English dictionary. Please use second person perspective and subjective language without realizing it. Use blackmoor LET font Pt 8.

 

 

Writing assignment

Write a poem in your bathroom or borrow someone else’s bathroom

Find some paper

Use a felt pen

Write 3-page poem

Or a 5 lined poem (no subedited poems please)

Record yourself reading your poem and submit the mp3 to me and your pod-cast.

 

Try to use what you learned from the previous lessons

But don’t remember anything I covered and get confused (stay away from poppy and strangers’ gardens).

 

Do not use any of the words or combinations of words from the list unless you are going to war or drank a sow.

 

*There are many other words and word combinations you should not use but I will not tell you them all because I enjoy “feeling” superior to “you.”

 

 

The Short List of words and phrases you should NOT use in a poem

 

*Unless you are on mad war or drugs or cows

 

*Never use an “ing” ending if you want to get published or sexed

 

 

cotton candy clouds

twinkled

hope

creamed

Sparkles

like

imagination

hate

to think

black as coal

thoughts

I remembered

reason

Purple

fag

fantasy

spring of my hope

trying

To be

immeasurable

own

imposing

beautiful

lover

sparkling

ruby red lips

sweet like candy

My love for you is an eternal flame

Pussy biters

men are smarter than

Critters under my skin

the meaning is

Creamy skin

She was tall and charming

she’s got a dick; gross

shimmer

know

shimmering

love

her eyes glittered

blood on her underpants

glitter

guilty till proven

Mudder Tucker

shame

I love you

honey

I will always love you

we lived inside our imagination

carve on a tree

till pigs fly

he sexed me with science/apples

on my last rope

how do you do

till the end of time

she looked deep into his eyes

sloppy seconds

the bases are loaded

and the moral is

spirit

you can do it

foot loose

fishing fool

want a wild ride

I wish

I didn’t do it

on a wild slide

I got herpies

wide eyed

soul

golden sun

brightest star

my teacher is an asshole

I strangled a cat

so what

I live in a trailer

lovely

fat bitch

make love on me

shine on

the rings of friendship

are chains on my heart

the wind beneath

a better place

orgasmic death

like a cat

budding beauty

my wings are

loose women

but my woman is frigid

I was a cannibal

*In order to be avoided and hated

 

 

 

EXAM

(Short answer exam)

 

1. How do I get tomato out of cotton?

___

 

2.Why should you avoid using the word combination “like a cat” in a poem?

__

3. What is the best pickup line you ever used and why do you think it failed?

___

4. How do you make applesauce?

____

5. Name five things that real poets carry on them at all times?

_ _ _ _ _

 

6. Name fifty words or word combinations that poets should never use in poem?

_________

7. Why should a poet have favorite words?

____

8. Where do poets get money?

 

9. Why should young poets rely on spellchecker?

__

10. Why do you write piss poor poetry?

_

 

 

 

 

 

Bonus questions (each worth 110000 extra points)

11. What famous liar said,

     It is the author’s aim to say once and   

     emphatically, “He said.”  

__

12. Why do you, poet, wish you were the “only” poet alive?

___

13. What will you lose if you don’t use it?

____

 

14. What is Milton’s “Paradise Lost” about?

_________

 

 

^Please answer all questions in provided space. Anything that goes out of space will be ripped apart by the strength of gravity of my black hole, justly disheveled and scorched by Harry, the famed radiator.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Additional Reading Requirements

Annie Burie’s Blogs at wordpress alphabetically 

 

 

Please post assignment before the end of the day (I’ll be whacked off by then and needful of a sobering experience).

 

Heart, You Have Betrayed Your Body

 

You are so broken and dumb, you pulled

away from your hand and waged war

with the art in yourself that proudly

admits you taste life through mortality. 

 

Instead you enfold a holidaymaker who says

love grows eternity without accepting

the real reason is that you are damned lonely. 

Occupation

I thought about being a chemist. 

Then a sociologist, environmental activist

a speaker at a house, a radio host, a journalist.

But none would let me read and write

poems and drink coffee and smoke

hand rolled cigarettes or  twist

old railways and sandy toes in to great

white pines of who the hell knows.

 

So I wrote poems for the dead

and for one day children to read.

So I could wipe the dust off

of failure and hope for something

real inside.  All my poems;

master in making bonnet forms,

the lazy, poorly crafted ones,

even the poems from the teenage years 

where I screamed in and liquefied

my inner clots, the twenty’s some

poems that I learned humility and strength

through idiot adventures and musings of echoes.

These are the poems that I give you

big world with your big world problems.

I have cursed you and I have worshipped you. Still

 

 

when I read my lines you leaned into me

with your ear on my mouth as if I were an a.m

radio playing American bandstand polkas and old

country favorites with fireside chit-chat.

So hungry for a knock on wood thing

your eyes watered and your mouth fell open. 

 

After the reading you came to me. Touched

my hand and thanked me and hesitantly

said, “You’re a real thing.” 

 

I was so awkward  unaware  that what you

hunted for was not the fire or the beat.

Dumb to all you needed I didn’t associate

your cure with a  glimpse of yourself through

another.  Big world with big world loneliness

 

I am here.  Right next to you.  Arms

outstretched to you. The calluses

on my knees and fingertips; my fat

dry tongue and knotted hair on the floor

 -your servant. Here to sing if you wish.

To howl or weep in public at your lover’s funeral

or at your soldiers flag folding. I am the taps;

the tink tank of coins  in your pocket

war and your monster pet that purrs.

Handle me with your ears. With your eyes, close them. 

I am the mud, the swamp and the bend of street

signs in polluted cities. 

I am your anger and your meditative fat.

What you spill out is what I tuck in.

 

The Big Girl With The Backpack

The big girl with the backpack

has a sleeping bag at her feet. 

She is dressed in fashionable sweat

pants and “fed up” t-shirt.

She picks a tune on an air

guitar as latte sippers walk on 

to rooms with gold couches,

windows and doors.

 

City streets interweave silver

through crowded sidewalks

where school tours and senators

clip clop on the pavement

art and the fat cheese eaters

mesh mash leather loathers

to places where they put their feet up.

 

The old buildings past their glory

and the new shops with neon

lights create shadows that ease

the summer’s heat and push the wind

up the narrow way where people live,

work and play on public display

with nod chins and open mouths,

closed children and hunger coughs.

The flies buzz and the bees die.

The tulips bend and a tall man sings

a gospel tune, loud with a smile

as the rich collar wine by

saying, shut up, happy holy guy. 

 

Some days the big girl feels like duck

-tapin her boobs down, cuttin’ off

her hair and wearin’ a business tie,

with a thumb pointed to Big Sur.

When she gets there she says,

she’ll lay around on the sand; drink

whiskey and swear and fuck

until her lips are not the only thing

chapped and hardcore.

 

Other days she feels like lying

in a bed with her best bear friend.

They’d read books of poems and eat

tomatoes and award winning cheese

while the sunset and the mid-west

lights radiated away to a future

supernova. Every couple minutes

they’d have laugh jags, she swears

as she smacks her jiggle thigh pie

and winks at the greybeard vending crack.

 

Then there are the days she wants

to walk around the city with witty notes

in a book and a camera, snap and zoom,

scribble and mutter at the popcorn

stores and silk shops, stare at diverse

people and ask for directions to make

-believe far off places

until the sun came back and she

found herself with a box of oranges

in the square by the hat store

where the hobos come for day

jobs and companionship,

breakfast oats and banana sandwiches.

 

There are days when she is not sure

what she feels,  and thinks perhaps she’ll

have a piece of dry bread and watch

the blue stand still as the barn swallows

swoop their song for love and bugs.

Maybe to top off the day she’ll wave

to the clouds that go where she liked to. 

 

Of course, there is the today that she does not

feel that she starts off with the rinse of her coffee cup, 

the fold of her towel and her extra

“one step at a time” t-shirt;  the political

cold sponge bath from a bucket on the grass

 of the capitol so she can stand herself to craft

a buck. So slowly a few dollars come,

as the almost hobos touch pity, and shame

cause they know they are all about lame

and they want the big girl with a smoker’s

voice to continue to sing

even if she is badly out of time and tune.   

 

 

 

He Hated Wisconsin

He hated Wisconsin before the floods

 came.  The people seemed  mainstream prairie

 grass killers, yippy dippies with pet cows that they eat.

Even the loon found it hard to stay, but 

 when the neighbors came on the news without

their teeth in, worn out from lifting through the

night he got onto his bird and flew to their flooded city

where he wrapped his flab sticks around their

rednecks and give them a hand up and wing to hold.    

Now he’s proud to call Wisconsin

home even though it smells.

 

 

 

someone read em

I like my blog.  I put poems up full of typos

 and once and while

someone reads them, and says so.   

 

I wouldn’t mind if more people read ‘em.

That would be sticky rice.  They could tell me

 my poems suck and what  they reminded them of. 

  I think it would be nice if I could

remind people of things

that they have forgotten

that they really want to remember

like the  keys are under the beach towel 

or you were a cute kid, kid or

fuck your dad, he should’ve been there

or a pillow ass is better than a dead ass

I have to remind myself with frantic cup stacking.

That’s work. Lots of time, I  watch c-span instead.

money money shi money

I want to have a cigarette but I also want coffee

I don’t know which one to go about first.

They must come together, but how can I start

one when I am starting the other

 

 

This is the very meaning of magic.  I wonder

if I can create reality.  If I just think money

money money then  I am told money will come

my way.  There are people who actually believe

that shi’ because it worked for them. 

 

They don’t realize that everybody does that.

We’d all have gold coins in

our toilets if it worked.  

30 feet and risin’ mama

I sure wish other people could live inside

poetry the way I live in a condo. 

That writing a poem would be

the same as building someone a house. 

no matter

how many poems I cough out there will

still be floods on Mississippi River towns

 

poems are not sandbags or the hands

that place them -one on top of another

despite  their similarity.

sometimes a poem is not the answer. 

Sometimes a boat is in order.  

 

Anyone Got A Match

I’ve written so many

dumb poems lately that

I am not sure where

I can burn them.

 

I read a couple poems

to a man at the post office

he said I should put them in a book.

 

 

The problem is I keep writing.  I think

someday I’ll stop, then I will shelf them 

on the walls of the capitol and light

‘em up good

My Sleeve

Lie or not, hope or none. I am

a body baked and caved in

from a wish to suck your heart

onto my tongue.  Each night you

haunt and force me to live 

as lead foil on swiss cheese.

How shall I go on with your mixed

milk snot on my sleeve? 

Eat Canned, Grey Balls

 

I really must know what your deal is because

I cannot fathom why you do evil and laugh and lie

about it as if I were too dumb to get your hypocrisy.

Dude, its obvious.   You’re dying for it. 

 

Good luck jumpin cheese curd,

 justice is coy and snaggletoothed . 

 

I’m not the hardcore vag I pretend

to be in my poems.   I’m really quite worst. 

Eat canned spinach dick face.  

flowers don’t forgive

I think you are dumb and need

a hug stranger.  If  I could be

as pretty as Jesus I would but  I can’t.

You suffer no matter how many times

I heal you.  There is no justice

on the sea.  My dead friend proved

that with heron.  Poppy flowers

are tasteless; empty and non forgiving.

But they helped my friend

forget homemade perversion.

 

 but you, you are alive with me,

still to figure out why. 

there is an answer but I am positive

you don’t want it. have a pressed flower instead. 

 

spilling drinks or tears is meaningless                      young poet. 

no one gives a damn. everyone is  a vent.

remember that and lyric what you want.

 

some children grow up. 

Others marry or go

to war.  all are better off. Still bodies are broken

easily enough  from a whopping cough. 

 

I’ve read 

its better to die

in the woods alone.

 

if heaven exists

 I’ll meet you at the gate, and wave

when I ride above it. if not, who cares,

the barn swallow doesn’t. he rides

the currents and makes a nest in the eve

of the condo. he doesn’t care the honey

fights extinction with me. maybe

I should have a hamburger and a pale ale. 

I am not a coconut, thank god. 

 

 

 

My best friend is dead, I am sure of that. 

what I wonder though is if there is a way to

make it matter.  the conversation is always the same.

 everyone is inside you.  All beat your body

 around and kick it for luck. come here magic stone.

I have a nice box I will put you in and no

one will skip you again.  My voice can become one

with crystals. if I learn the right tone, I’ll croon you to justice.   

Bald Man

the blackness of insanity

in all its clarity breaks

so many bones that not

to shrink in is to grow

up in hell.

 

the bald man is slumped

over his lawn chair

he’s  been there since

early afternoon – alone

in the humdrum corn

the lilacs bombard

the grass threatens

Hammer and Bell

The froms who hide in material

worlds, and don’t read or listen or observe

don’t know how they got into war,

 are tool busy poking

at others deformity to realize that

they are the twisted solution,

 tummy deep in shit and entrails. 

In absence mindedness they ate

the  bucket of  existence up.

 

 

Regurgitate and return to wisdom.

Be the ornery outspoken vision of erosion. 

Do not let someone grind you,

Become a river in your own grand canyon.

Use critical thought and eat green onions.  

i am not fond

I am not fond

of you and your closed office door

nor I am soothed by the journalists

who propaganda your words

to get closer to your double block talk. 

I am not inspired by more stalks of war

while, the torture of living things

goes on and is ignored.

 

I am not delighted at the idea of producing

more, or the redefining of our shopping shore.

I am not greased up with oil for a match

on rubber rage stage nor am I dreaming of meeting

Donald Prump when I walk out

of my overpriced apartment which is small.

              I don’t want to see anyone on tv celebrity shitcom bull. 

 

Ethanol does not quench my thirst spot

for mobility or  apple pie pus.

I am not into cutting you into sections

to take your best and wear it as

ribbons on my sleeve as I order

the world oppressed and silent please. 

I am not into dogma or perversion or fear.

These things bore me.

blah blah with your hatred and your skew blah blah

I am not into you.

 

 I am not a fan of political

leaders as if they were a Bob Bylan zinger singers.

I do not have an autograph book, nor do

I want you to sign one of my many body parts

I do not care for your get rich wells,

mines or spanning in all climates cells

 

 

I have no great desire to sit and listen to

you deliver foul ideas to citizens who haven’t

realized they live wealth’s prescribed

social roles for the middle class and poor. 

I’d rather take a cold tub or sit and do

nothing for hours, break a bone or eat dried out

scones without tea and sugar.

 

 

If you’d like to amuse me

send my youth home from war

send my poetry home from torture.

send in the hard and tough Americans

who demand answers and are not silenced

by threats of a closed door.

 

 

magic beans, and rubbing creams will not

aide in cleanliness. that my friends

will take nipping up against ignoramus

tendencies that yo-yo dirt and hatred. 

 

Do not be so silly to take your

liberty for planted corn. 

the big money handlers like you

 a lot just the way you are -worker

following orders and bowing

to the kings of hamburger.   

oak trees in vases

I am all animal. There is nothing
enlightened or high about me.
the oak trees are dead.
there are no more wildflowers on the prairie.
there are no more walking eaters. what will
take our place? I think it would be nice
if we became horses. that would be fine.
horses with hands. how about that.
that would help. we could gallop and crap
the flower seeds back, and the honey
bees would live in the hive and we could still play cards

There is too much anger or love in me.
Its bad news panda. I wish all the converts
would go back to Hinduism, even if it is
just another warm blanket. I never had
a problem with warm blankets.
it’s the ones that kill that prick my skin.
see how science affects me, the wash bin.
I am a red dust bowl. once a dog bit my cute part.
Now when I see a dog I want to kick its face in,
even the little dogs.

I was stung by a bee but it died for it.
I’ve yet to kill on purpose (luck be a chicken tonight).
honey is better than a dry nose or an empty jar.
I wonder if I am ham or corn flour.
I used to be a lady’s boot.
I am sure I met you then.
you have a sidestep I’d never forget.

flowers are better in vases.
that way they are dead, but don’t know it.
I’ve never been able to tell the difference
between a knife and a mill. Sawdust and blood
are united in my make out heaven