A Book Of Poems

I know she is out there

knifing limpid lines and for her

I take a moment to hurt

harder than I do when

I usually hurt for someone

 

I have written this dear poet

before –begging her to live

but last night she died again

I fell asleep with her corpse

on my face  

 

When I woke she was not in bed

Looking out the window

unto the still condos  she

stood without a shirt

Exposed her back and her scars

from other wars

 

I picked her up and placed

her back on my face

so I could hear

her heartbeat and enhance

the static of this universe

Nobody Warned You

How normal and well rounded
your loneliness would grow
or how you would be alone
and not even realize it most
of the time

-going about
your errands as you hate
the mudder dugger world

Hate the sparrows or the newborn
blades or the dead fish on bottom of the ocean
or cherry blossoms or the red leaves of fall
You’re not the first one. Hatred is the normal
tool used to solace disgust, pain or loneliness.

O feel your anger to hell and back around
the corner -up the hill hate the gray squirrel
or the fat smoker if it helps.

I don’t give a fly flip
just get out of my parking space
you raving lunatic

You’d be alone even if you
loved the universe. Even if you could
love your self -a hand job is still a hand job
genius

Your Chronic Shoes

Your shoes were chronically

too small. You were the last

one to eat.  That is why you stole

some scrap of paper

some pen or pencil and wrote

words down in secret.

 

You wrote  words down because

you had no one to talk to.

No one to trust or to understand

and so with careful -half truths

you attempted the impossible –

 

All you had is that voice.

Your voice.  Your god 

so you wrote your own lullabies. 

You wrote your own bedtime stories. 

You wrote your own obituary

alone and confused. Stupid 

you did not play games.

You survived

Bananas are the new hardwood

 

 

 

You know how we were talking about that guy

who went crazy from writing

 

and then we got on the topic of how a person

can go crazy on writing, it becomes a passion

than an obsession. 

 

I don’t know exactly what time it was

but that was my yesterday.  I went

into the attic and could not make myself

climb down

 

Do you like what I’ve done with the place?

Professional seshional

     First of all, I am not even sure I understand what the phrase “professional writing” means.  Does it mean you get paid to write, or that you follow a set of guidelines that gives the impression that you are intelligent?  If I have published my work, but didn’t receive compensation for my writing, am I still a professional writer?  If I spend my entire life actively developing my craft, can I be considered a professional writer?  The term professional is vague and does not apply to how I label myself.  Teachers write professionally.  Morticians write professionally.  Lawyers write professionally.  Do poets?  What about bloggers? Or blogging poets? 

     I could find employment writing for a newspaper, become a lawyer, a teacher, or work as an editor or copywriter.  I could write ads for TV and radio commercials.  I could write nonfiction books and articles on any topic imaginable.  I could do interviews for a mainstream magazine or small newsletter.  Maybe I could work for the government crafting propaganda to publish in the Iraqi fledgling press about the good intentions of the American government.  I could write for a nonprofit organization trying to make abortion illegal or write about techniques to stop employees from forming a union for a large corporation.  Perhaps, I could write for a website that deals with pet grooming.  I could write TV dramas and sitcoms, or maybe even a play about special needs kids. The possibilities are endless.   The need for writers will only continue to grow as our society becomes increasingly more dependent on information rather than a particular product.  As a patent lawyer, I could potentially make a large salary and have a house with a picket fence.  None of these options fit my goals for the future.  I know that it is naive, but I choose to write poetry.  I don’t care if it is in prose format or written in chalk on the sidewalk.  To me, it is all poetry.  To me, life is poetry.  I will not compromise my writing style in order to put food on the table.  That is why I am started a publishing company; others will have to conform to my standards.  I believe in clarity, and I think writing should have high standards when it comes to thoughtfulness, not just trite rules of language.  I think people should write how they talk and feel rather than conforming to stale sentiments that mean nothing in the end. 

     My friends and I enjoy debating about literature.  Most of the debate involves us coming up with reasons why contemporary literature lacks real thought and what we can do to improve the different genres.  Sometimes we find a writer that has talent and who pays attention to detail.  If we do, we pass the book around and talk about the intricate details of the piece of work.  We discuss why a certain poem works, or why certain nonfiction treatises are groundbreaking.  We talk about the propaganda that is spewed out by our government and mass media.  We criticize journalists for being biased and for misleading the public.   We talk about where we would like to see these genres move towards, and what is stopping them.  We discuss what we are currently working on, whether it is a poem about war, or an essay on Kurt Vonnegut articles.   

     If you want to publish an article for publication, you send a query letter.  In order to publish poetry, you just send your poems to the press.  If you want to sell a sitcom, you submit a treatment.  If you want to create an ad for a company, you send a synapse of your idea and how it complies with the company’s consumers and how it would increase their profits margins.   Basically, if you want to publish your writing, you need to concern yourself with the audience of that individual business.   Also, each publication has different needs and expectations that a writer must keep in mind.  One of the most important aspects for a writer who wants to become published is researching the venue they are interested in.  Another important thing for writers to remember is that they will be rejected repeatedly, and if they really want to be published, they have to submit endlessly.  Writers must also stay updated in their field by actively reading the latest published works. But the most important thing a writer must do is to eliminate their ego from the writing process.  

 There is a plethora of publications that deal with the topic of publishing, whether it be self-publishing or marketing your work to large publishers.  I think that if you are a writer and you don’t already know this information, someone has failed you.  Most likely you have failed yourself because you were too lazy to go to a library and check out a book.  If that is the case, I think that you are probably not a very serious writer.  As Samuel Clements once said, “Those who don’t read are the same as those who can’t.”

My Master’s Hands

There is a time when a person

must become a bed and lay

unused, perfect and an inanimate

 

That day is coming -you old dog you

to you and your 1939 voice. 

Tell me again why you bend over

that grave.  Did you drop something there? 

 

Can you hear the kick up of dirt?

Death comes out innocent as a blessing

Cured as sausage in the market sun.

So pale and pink, your old man hands

lifting a little grasshopper

I almost forgot why I was here

 

How do you old poet watch

without the someone catching

you? Tell me this secret and I

will stop stocking you. 

A Line In Hell Or A Fucked Machine

 

 

 

Charles was a bad piece of dick meat.

His words about women are not shockers

or clever streaks. His poems are not poems

but I don’t have a better name for him.

 

He broke into thousands of gentle

little snakes and I  forgive him;

he was a sad man and his poems are greasy.

If you drink them they leave dregs

that are hard to dilute.  In a child’s abstraction

he rebuilt the old and mundane insanity

over and over again through pain and anguish

his fat fingers mashed on his type writer

puking and shitting himself until he was recycled.

 

Charles tried to get published.

He wanted to make money doing this shit.

He kept at it and some suckers, like myself

bought his sores and chewed his scabs.

 

I would’ve like to meet the old fart face

Poked him in the forehead and said, you’re lit. 

Even When You Can’t Art

Even when you can’t art

anything good keep at it

Even though you’d like

to drink and fornicate and run

wild and nasty art

with a sober grip into your hurt.

There is nothing that works

out the world or fulfillment.

 

A purse must be whole

wheat bread carefully sliced

to share substance.  

Badly torn to feed the great masses

 

A friend told me I should write about creativity

i.

Creativity is awesome dudes.

It is a source of light in a dark and stubborn

world that wants to enslave you

You create

freedom and courage with creativity.

Now some people think that the only reason to do

something is if they can make money from the endeavor.

That is stupid.

How much money do you get from watching tv or reading

or eating or taking a bowl movement for a walk around the city?

ii.

Creating is human.

It is something that we should do

without doubt or fear.

Many people are depressed and take chemicals

to alter their mood.  For some this is the only way

they can step out of the rancid ignorance of depression.

You can change your mood and learn to control

the way you feel through the choices you

make and how you choose to view the world.

You can laugh at your internal and exterior complexities.

You can be aware, invested, and joyous.

iii.

Emotion is part of being

human and everyone gets depressed

when messed up things happen.

The difference is some allow themselves to act

human and express loss, shame, fear, etc and move on.

Some use creativity as way

to develop and grow a joy infected peaceful human.

One of the beginning steps of creating peace is creating.

Peace creates joy.

iv.

Teach self to be in the moment and not caught

in a past or a future. Admit to yourself

that you are a fool and the whole world is made up

of fools and we are all idiots and there is no one

who is not despite their cocky

stance or explosives or big tits.

No one is better than you and there is always someone

who’ll get more praise and props.

They may be sorry excuses for a human but

so are you and so really what is there to complain about?

You are not going to create the greatest art ever.

Someone will come along and usurp you.

That is not your goal when you are creating.

Your goal is to create.

You can always go back and say your art

sucks apple cores and rework it into something

that is not offensive to your aesthetic eye pie.

First you create and lose the rabbit in the process.

You create in the now and maintain

blind faith in self humanity.

Milk Weed Pills

 

Too many milk weed pills is not a way

to forget the lullaby of a  heart beat

musky Badger

 

Death will bob-o-link you

a sad hero no matter how

you live and pink it your way. 

 

Boom and cackle for me prairie chicken,

drummer of love. Sing your sad songs

Big Bluestem and help me, the 13-lined

ground squirrel find comfort and cover

in this lonely federate dart.

 

There is no reason to live and even less

to die. Pat my back or string me to sleep

in the shelter of the red cedar.

 

If we met on the side of a road or over

a cup of nectar I would tell you

I am depression and live to give away

honeysuckle but instead of saying this to you

I say it to the stained Sparrow Hawk

  

Please excuse if this is too personal but

I am afraid that you are not in time Yellow-faced Bee. 

There is the chuckle of decay on the purple cornflower

tucked behind my ear

 

I hope the mulberry ale sustains you

until your head rests on my fat

stomach and you are soothed by the

gurgles and booms of my womb.  

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).

 

What Legends Are Made Of

 

 

You -my versifier, my rhymester

were just a school boy, learning the

ancient craft of Rumi and Blake.

Supple and casual your tongue was,

now is the fierce fork of holy prophesy.

O body, the shame is not you

but is my soldier family

who disease existence with

perversion via giddy orders

from ill formed morality.

They plunder you an innocent

so I declaimed your sacred lines

into the wild, and to the warriors’ horror,

the lioness laid down with a calf

of her prey, and made it her cub. 

Indigo Is The Gods’ 2nd Favorite Color

I’ve made myself into this head.

Let me explain.  I haven’t a cure

for a old age but the lonely heart

is my special tea. I draw the heroes

of my mind and with careful words

bring them alive again.

 

I’ve been a horrible friend to you world.

Instead of getting out of my bed

I’ve stayed in and prayed.

Just when my faith was the strongest

I woke to Jesus and Buddha laughing

 at my desire to heal with food and Band-Aids. 

Such laughter it rolled my body and spit

me out to space where I saw the blue

gem and the swirl of white and the blood of human waste

 

I am you. You are me. The simplicity of faith was hidden

under a despair tree. My cat died, I lost

my grandmother and the gods seemed too busy

to exist. But then Timothy came to my door and sat

on my floor and stared until  the petals of his hands fell

on my legs and my hair wrapped his lungs in musical chimes

and in my bard crimes he found his place lotusing at my side

 

 

First you understand life is important.

You and me and your fat named glue, are lovely

creatures that exist in energy and these manifested

symbols are grey play to fool you. 

 

The snake woman tries to find the gods in a book

but the gods are looking at her, weighing a word or two

in between they take sips of brew. The Gods like to sit by

me and rub my back while I sing sad groanfull

tunes, occasionally one of the gods looks up and smiles out the moon.

 

 

The dead are dead.  The world is free to die again.

What more do you desire.  If you, would just lie

as a flower, wilt and seed away you’d never

pick up a weapon of fear. 

 

The gods think I’m a funny girl, moaning on the pain

of war and hunger, as though the gods are immortal to blame,

the gods say, “Dance a little dance,

shake your nervous system

ass until your petals warp away”

 

(and) All this time the answer you were lookin for was inside.

What luck to have a cure for boredom and insanity.

 

The snake woman with her swaying blue jean skirt hurts

my heart.  Why does she swing like that?

Who told her to pretend to be something she is not?

 

But what does a enlightened woman do, when there’s never been

one before. What does she do but sway as blue grass

in the first morning cool.

 I am just a good giddy godly fool preacher. This big world

wants to serious and in pain me. Each time I wipe

the egg out of my hair someone is there to crack it back.

The baby chicks will never know a breakfast of millet

or a mid-afternoon grasshopper snack.

 

The sun is on my back, hot –internally I am as free as the gods

but the force of metal and roads, games and hatred are chains

on my magic guru body.  Slender ankles never turned a head

but the gods turn on and on. If I could say this to anyone

I’d tell my husband. It would burn him out of his secret lair

where he saves the world through math and elbows

 

If we could get some time away, spend our lives on Lake Superior

I know he’d find his answer and I would say nothing

on the games’ disaster.

 

Every generation needs a hero and so I sing about his large

penis and blue eyes. His perfect man hips, square, and solid

welding into my rounded sips of eternity.  Shut eyes and feel

every lovers’ touch: I’m thankful for a man with logic lips that find

themselves whole inside my body.

 

Such a silly thing,  joy in a coffee house cup,

the gods turn into me and remind me of the beauty

of their world. The grind of coffee.

The chatter of women. A “mommy” by a little boy.

The cashiers gabbing about soup and hours.

A lady that comes in with groceries. And the set down

of cups and the clinks of the cups on the saucers

and the song on radio -folky gospel.

People actually create art and  live as private masterpieces

to touch divinity with their dirty hands. This is brand new.  

They’ve made a choice to inspire you. What luck. What hope,

what children will grow.   Perhaps the future is brighter

now than ever but perhaps the first fish eaters

felt the same intoxication of evolution dragging their humanity onward

 

Spice, you are a reason enough to smile. 

My words are nothing compared to the sounds of these woman

who smear around such duty, and affection of what historical

mothers repeated. And the snake woman who eats a book of prayer

with short hair, the symbols will never find her a beauty

but in the gods she is the mother of fecundity.

Mother would blush if she knew the kinds of thoughts

children have.   She should’ve let Timothy in, and she’d know

her god, all the better. And stopped her worry about smile

touched childeren.

 

I found the reason was never a reason and love has always been

enough of a pint to stop a world in its crumble.

When the sun supernovas we’ll have learned

to void and to create.   Magic it will be, but to the future

it will be what comes naturally.

 

There is hope and we’ll all be fine.  It has nothing

do with this or that climb. 

 

Organic shamanic you are me. I am what you eat.  I’d rather

a fruit, so pick the season carefully. In the august heat

we’ll find a perfect beet to put our organic cream on.

Look at this tomato, it is revolution, juicy and perfectly peace.

Acidity does that to most.  I’ll not go to war Father, Mr. Higher Power,

I’m to busy to dance on the broken pavement,  and smell

earth flowers that grow between it.

 

Loneliness will solve your (and the Gods) problems of destiny.

Keep your head up Poet

Like many other poets, I sometimes submit a poem for publication and I am told something like “we like your voice and keep writing but your work is not right for us” and some times they say, yes we’ll publish your …

 

I don’t  know why I want to get published.  Maybe for my Mom.  and family.  So I can say that I am published so they will be proud of me.  I don’t know why I am still trying to impress my family.  I want to say, see look, if you work hard it matters and you can make your dreams come true.

 

 but frankly I don’t know if I can and I don’t know if you can.  

I know this.  I’m getting better.

 I’m trying harder and perhaps nothing will come of my life-art, but again maybe something far better has come from it already.  Perhaps my poems touch people and allow them for a little while to share their loneliness with me, allow me to carry the weight just a little bit for them so they can stretch.  I wrote a poem recently and it made a friend cry.  Thats something, isn’t it?  Maybe thats stupid.  Maybe thats not atomic.  but maybe it is.  Maybe having someone touch you through a poem is important.  I know poems and stories have had a impact on my life, have given me courage and friendship.  have showed me a way to heal and to move forward, perhaps thats what I am doing. Its what I am trying do but sometimes I question if my efforts are meaningful.  I bet you do too.  What art I’ve seen has been meaningful to me, but this comes from someone who loves Crime and Punishment, Shakespeare, and yes, Dennis Lee and Chekov. and tom robbins, Brian Turner, and Sylvia and Leonard C and list of others that moved the hell out of me and sent it far off. ( Robert Jordan moves me too.) I read like others pray.  so I try to write in way that makes others’ lives more meaningful, and of course, I get off on writing.  

 

but does it have point or meaning or is worthwhile to anyone but me?  I don’t know, I just don’t know.  

 

 I can’t give up but I still sometimes question art goals, and wonder, are they selfish? or are they helpful?

 

Am I leaving the world a little better?  are you, are you trying?  

 

 

 

Joy H.

Thank you.

Your voice is not just for your 

people or other natives of this land.

It is for the poor masses lined. 

They need something to eat

that has grown wild,  so they won’t

forget what freedom tastes like.

Please stay strong and take care of yourself -Joy. 

Run on if you can, if not jump on my back.

I shall carry you until you grow

tired of my stink, and swish me away.  

Lesson 3/Action Makes the Poet

Lesson 3/Action Makes the Poet

so you want to be a poet series 

 

I know of some poets who don’t think of themselves when they come in contact with “Action.” “Action” makes poets think of the movies.

As a poet there are many an “action” that you will have to do. or else no one will know you are a poet unless you tell them and if you have to tell them -you’r poetaster (I don’t make this shi up poet).  Make them ask at least 7 times and only confess up to other poets or health officials. Make sure you snort laugh afterwards to distract (can’t argue about facts).

I teach out of personal experiences so most of what I say doesn’t apply to you but, it will give you something to focus your cognitive dissonance on and get you to stop writing love poems, which is my main concern. Young poets should write war poems. Poems for naked war, poems about being in naked war, or whatever, you decide, I’ve even known poets who have written poems against war.  I think naked war is the place to begin.  A poet can say anything in a naked war poem. anything. and the poor craft is often times overlooked to due the semi-serious subject matter.    Take this from an old pro, don’t tell possible love interest(s) that you write poetry until after you’re married (at least had sex) or published. You will learn the importance of this over long periods of “alone time.” 

 

Please refer to Guidelines for “a young poet” listed below when completing this lesson’s assignment.

 

 

 

 

Assignment

 

Additional one seating reading: “Paradise Lost” –Milton

Please post response on how “Paradise Lost” sucks so I know you didn’t understand it and you were too confused to think of reading the cliff-notes.

 

Go to an establishment, properly dressed with the correct gear on an open mic night. Show up early and get good seat (save one for me).  Refer back to guidelines for “a young poet” for clarity.

 

Bring tobacco (good way to make stinky friends).

 

Have aged scotch (I may be there).

 

Write feverishly and noisily while others read their poems.

Never clap or snap fingers for another poet.

Read your poems. Make sure you have the full attention

of the several people in the establishment (even the cashiers) by whatever means possible.  Grunt or Yell. Throw a notepad on the floor.  Tell an anti-joke and allow for a big pause of silence so the several people in the establishment lean forward and question if you are sober, or if you have fallen asleep. Violently jerk forward and read poem in bad Spanish accent.

 

During the poetry reading (when you are not reading your poems) write down everything you observe and ponder. Everything. If you have questions about this, don’t ask.  Briefly write how the gear and wear aided you.  Please send one copy to your pen pal from New Zealand and one copy to me (double spaced in American Typewriter Light Font, 13pt.).

 

 

 

 

Guidelines for “a young poet”

 

Actions

 

Learn to lie/lay guilt trip free

 

Refuse to get a job unless you need material for your poems or a quilt. 

 

When job stops being inspirational, quit

This is a better way (Love Jesus anybody?) 

Learn to ask humbly for ham 

Live with whoever will have you

Clean your feet when they kick you out

Cut your toenails religiously

Only paint the pinky black 

Travel as far as your stomach can handle.

Fall for someone who won’t “repay the favor”

Sleep around a lot when young (before butt turns into a paper bag)

 

Drinks of the poet

 

Mushroom tea

Ale

Scotch

Drink black (or green tea) coffee. 

Know facts about coffee (or green tea).

Be a coffee (green tea)  snob.

Keep a cup of coffee (or green tea) in your

hand, except when driving a manual, wiping, or with a lover (It probably won’t happen more than a couple of times so don’t worry about it to the point it wrecks your poetry and you start to write about it).

Milk (organic)

Juice (preferably grape)

Water (preferably pure)

 

Food of the poet

 

Dried fruit

Nuts

Dried meats

Dried veggies

Dried chili

Anything poet can get mouth on

Cheese

Bread mostly

Sometime butter

BQ sauce

 

You are what you wear poet

 

Dress in a cotton button up and brown slacks (good reasons for this).

 

Have two blue sweaters and a tan blazer with you at all times (for fashion purposes).

 

Wear leather sandals everywhere in all seasons with red wool socks in winter.

 

Sunglasses (cop frames –no colored tint please)

 

Poet’s Gear

 

 

Bring a bag full of

 

dried foods

nuts

shakers (painted gourds work best)

An Emily D Doll,

Cds of Lester Young, Paul Simon, and Blonde

A mole-skin-journal (no lines, black)

Vaseline (for dry parts)

Spare underwear (if owned)

Pens of different colors and sizes

Cookies

Tea bags

Extra cups

Leaves of Grass 

chips

 

Carry on person at all times:

 

A bottle of water

Fav stuffed donkey

Anti itch cream (can’t be too safe)

Knife (swiss variety)

Thick rope (strong enough to hold own bodyweight)

 

Poets’ Practice

 

Don’t practice hygiene daily.

Practice Yoga.

Memorize your five original poems

 

Keep journal of how many words you write a day

and how long it takes you.

 

 

Poorly (reverse words) recite Shakespeare in bad English accent in front academonia types (professors, critics, publishers, and e-lutes).

 

Read your own lines in bad English accent or Irish (depending on your drug/sin of choice).

 

Put out a tip jar that used to house pickles. Refer to the jar often as your “green rye bread.”

 

Beg in public spaces (Don’t worry, you’ll have time to perfect).

 

Become a “regular” where there are open mic nights.

 

Always have enough money to buy one item from an establishment.

 

If you don’t have enough money, make a new friend. 

 

Tell people you play guitar and sing opera.

 

Never play guitar in front of anyone (no reason-just not a big fan of shit piss poor guitar players).

 

Read your poems to people and say that you’re thinking about making it into a song. 

 

From a well-known pop song, sing the chorus 2 times, and then tell people you don’t like to show off. 

 

 

Read as many other poets bad poems as you can and show the really bad ones to your friends, family, or love interest(s). Then show them your best work, say its not done yet, and it only took a few minutes to write.  They’ll assume you’re not the worst poet. They may like the poem you wrote.  However, if they don’t, they will tell you that they do. Use that against them every time they tell you to get a job (works for Doctors too). 

    I hope your taking notes poet. This will be the final exam. Happy studies!!! Miserable personal life!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Additional Reading Requirements

Annie Burie’s Blogs at wordpress apathetically

 

 

 

Please post assignment before the end of the day (I’m lonely at night and more apt to care).

Lesson 2/ Do I make myself clear?

Lesson 2/ Do I make myself clear?

from So you want to be a poet series

 

 

There are number ways to make oneself clear

but first the poet must decide if it wants to be clear

or unclear. Vocally support a mixture of both, but as a beginning

poet, don’t do too much.  Most of you are lazy

sacks of apples. You could be sauce.

 

Have you ever had applesauce with honey?  Sauce is good.

Honey is good.  You will never be honey.  So don’t use the word.  Its bad to spread lies.  Don’t.  Care for people.  People want applesauce. They have apples.  They want the sauce – Poets. This is all going to be on final 2-3 pg easy exam.  Do you know where honey comes from?

 

   I worked out the problems with my computer.  It didn’t crumble. I just didn’t plug it.  Thanks to Tom.  Thanks Tom.  I have the syllabus.  It is basically a reading list and I will add rules to it whenever I am inclined.  You bet.  I am a busy person with lots of scotch. This is a courageous tentative plan.

   I have to spend time with hook hers and my family.

 

 

 

Assignment

 

 

Read Syllabus (listed below under “Syllabus”)

Start reading the assigned reading. Just skim around and fallback on cliff-notes when possible so that way when you write or discus any of the reading it will be obvious you did not read them because you only know the general ideas and none of the particular details of the piece.

 

Decide if you want to be clear or unclear in your poetry.  Follow guidelines for “writing clear poetry” or Guidelines for “writing unclear poetry” listed below and post outcome for workshop.

 

*As well, email assignment from lesson 1

to a_burie@hotmail.com or post under

blog entry “Lesson 1 –So you want to be a poet

 

 

Guidelines for “writing clear poetry”

 

-Get reliable writing tools (Large quality paper and anti-smudge colored pens)

-Pick a purpose for your poem

-Brainstorm ideas for a poem

that go along with your purpose

-Pick a few words that go along with your

brainstorming session.

-Pick a form to follow and mock

-Pretend you are writing a rhyming letter

to someone.

-Choose commonly used rhyme combinations

-Adhere strictly to a theme

-Revise and brainstorm as needed to adhere

to the purpose and theme.

-Make sure you use simple language

(Try to write at a 6^th grade reading level or lower).

-Write a zinger for last line of the poem that

recaps on what you said in the beginning of the poem

-Read and discuss the poem with someone else.

After everything you say, say “Do I make myself clear?”

-Hand in page stating only the obvious things about your experience.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guidelines for “writing unclear poetry”

 

-Use pencil and college-ruled notebook paper

-Free write for two hours (stream of contagious style).

-Use words that you are not sure what they mean.

(Try to write at a 8^th grade reading level or higher). 

-If you do look words up, only do it after you are done writing the poem.

-Do not use, the, an, a, of, he, she, I or me in your poem.

-Use verbs the most.

-Use adjectives in the place of nouns frequently.

-Use a lot of punctuation (never can have too much)

-Don’t adhere to any grammatical rules

-Make sure your ending has no connection

with the beginning of the poem.

-The end line zinger should use simple rhyme ti reinforce

a supposed message that the reader is suppose to get,

but make sure it is nonsensical and no matter

what people think they get, it is meaningless.

-Read and discuss the poem with someone else.

After everything you say, say “Do I make myself clear?”

-Write 1 page evaluating the experiences and send one copy to

parent figure and another copy to me.

 

 

 

 

Please post assignment before the end of the day (I sleep to about four or five pm).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Syllabus

 

“All quiet on the Western front”

Poetry is an art form and it takes the right kind of person, the right kind of literary training and the right kind of paper.  There is nothing important about poetry but everything is poetry.  That is the problem of for the future’s poets.  Be happy you have some quiet time and scotch.

 

 

 

Requirements

 

 

Attempt to do what I ask of you by using as little as energy as possible.

Complain a lot.

Use spellchecker (Don’t go to tutor).  

Hand in sloppy work done at the last minute.

Hand in all assignments in time.

Any assignments handed outside of time may be badly disrespected or incinerated. Don’t fall in love with me.  I’d be a pervy to do you. I’m like four years younger than you (keep a good grip).

 

Final essay

   2-3 pages on why you hate poetry now. Cover at least 10 literary crutches, 15 sound effects found in poetry, 34 poets, three afternoons you had with your dog that were meaningful, (Don’t tell me you don’t have a dog, I don’t want to hear it).    

 

Portfolio

 

   Hand in 17 poems with revision copies stapled together in the right order and clearly mark what they are.  As well submit one page of analysis for each of your poems.  In the analysis, analyze your own poem in any kind of way you can.  Make font slightly bigger so you don’t have to write as much (less thinking too). 

 

 

 

Grading policy

 

   I read all assignments out loud to several of my friends. Then I pick the best accidental humor and give it an A (100% – 79%).  Then I throw the rest down stairs. The essays that land on the bottom of the stairs get Bs (78.9%-53%).  One’s on top, Cs (52.9%-0.02%).  Unless I like you, this applies to you.  If I like you or you are smart I will give you an A as long as you hand in some of the work.

 

*Most People get Cs.  I am not afraid to give Bs or As, I just prefer not to. 

*You can bribe me if you don’t make me feel cheap (scotch/cash).

 

Class activities

 

    If someone does hand in a poem of quality, we’ll workshop it and rip it a new one until the poet logs out crying.  The same for the really bad ones, but we’ll spend less time on the bad poems.  You know the type I am talking about, the “prosey” ones full of banal truths. Gross.  This is poetry and I don’t want any gross weak enlightening prose. Do you have a heart beat? Then you use it or lose it Poet. The poems of average craft will be read and complimented briefly in a surprised tone. 

   The rest of the activities that we will do in the course of this series are secret and mysterious.  I cannot tell you everything yet or else you will get bored.

 

 

 

Reading Requirements

 

   I’ll assign other reading as necessary.  Please read in order of listed and write summary for each chapter/section on all of the required reading. Hand in all at the time you hand in your final essay and portfolio. Please write all essays in third person. Compare all literature to yourself and internalize when possible. 

 

Texts

“Don’t Know Much About History” -Kenneth C. Davis

“Holy Bible” King James Version.  Daily.

“American Popular Music” –Starr Waterman

“How To Win Friends & Influence People” –Dale Carnegie

“The Norton Anthology of Poetry” (Shorter Fifth Edition) –Ferguson, Salter, Stallworthy

“The Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser” (the first complete paperback edition) –McGraw-Hill

“The Scholastic Rhyming Dictionary” –Sue Young

“Patton” –Martin Blumenson

“Premier World Atlas” –Rand Mcnally

“The Great Hunt” -Robert Jordan

“Somebody, Somewhere” -Alan Gillis

“Code of the Street” -Elijah Anderson

“Creating Your Own Destiny” -Patrick Snow

“The Self-Publishing Manual” -Dan Poynter

“Tomorrow; Adventures in an Uncertain World” –Bradley Trevor Greive

“Where the Sidewalk Ends” –Shel Silverstein

“Here, Bullet” –Brian Turner

“Selling 101” –Zig Ziglar

“What You Can Do With a Major In English?” –Shelley O’Hara

“Pictures of the Afterlife” –Jude Nutter

“The Best American Poetry” (2004) -Lyn Hejinian

“Financial & Management Accounting” (13^th edition) -McGraw-Hill Irwin

“The New American Medical Dictionary And Health Manual” (Third Revised Edition) –Robert E. Rothenberg, M.D.

“Needful Things” –Stephen King

 

 

 

*Additional Reading Requirements

Annie Burie’s Blogs at wordpress religiously

 

 

Lesson 1/ So You Want To Be A Poet

 

So You Want To Be A Poet Series

 

 

 

Lesson 1/ So You Want To Be A Poet

 

 

Or as you may like “poetess” but it really doesn’t matter because I hate the term “poetess,” so I refer to myself as a poet.  You must believe the distinction is a waste of time. For poetry is poetry no matter who writes the poem.  The label is a way to categorizing different poesy artists into the appendixes in the back of books.  As well it is a way to uphold the status qua of mainstream western society who believe that being a woman or a man affects how a person tackles the curse of poetry  (Society always forgets transgendered people).  Although there are many things that are positive and neat to touch, there are others I wouldn’t recommend on a day-to-day basis.   Keep this in mind when joining the army, a cult, or walking a dog.  In poetry, keep nothing in mind.

 

 

From now on I use the term poet to refer to you and other gendered poets. 

From now on you may call me Anny Bon Bon Hell or a poet (No abbreviations please).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Assignment 1

 

Pick a poet and read their collected works. 

Follow the guidelines for “Reading a poem” and “Reading a collection of poems” listed below. Keep a written journal of your progress through the guidelines (Rely heavily on spell checker).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guidelines for “Reading a poem”

 

1.   Read title of poem with as low-pitched voice as possible.

2.  Read poem in a well lit noisy area

3.  Any words that are unfamiliar look up in a hand held dictionary

4.  Read poem a second time out loud in a poorly lit area.

5.  Pay attention to sound effects like meter,

    rhyme, barks, word choice, flutes and assonance.

6.  Discredit anything clever or meaningful in the poem.

7.  Ask what the purpose of the poem is and eat a sandwich.

8.  Answer the question of purpose while walking in circles until you puke

9.  Think about what you like and dislike about the poem when having your Morning BM.

10. Does the poet use metaphors or other sad literary crutches?

11.   If used, Are the crutches funny on accident? Circle the ones that display accidental humor and write “brilliant” on the side with a blue marker

12.  Would you read the poem to your parent figures or on a subway with strangers? If to parent figures move on to another poem and start at beginning of guidelines. To strangers, continue to step 13.

13. Put poem down and breathe heavy.

14. Write a crappy poem and sloppily copy the techniques of the poem you just read.

15.  Claim to as many people as possible that your poem is better than the one you copied.  Repetitively repeat lines of your poem in raspy voice that makes you couch and gasp. Then say, “Ha, Blank (First name of a  famous poet) poet is poetaster”

16. Submit your poem to as many university presses as you can find with a letter of intent explaining that if you don’t get published by them you’ll commit suicide by acid (Don’t  really commit suicide, move on to another poem and  begin at number 1 of  guidelines and recycle batteries).

 

 

 

 

 

Guidelines for “Reading a collection of poems”

 

1.   Pick up a book that has a collection of poems in it.

2.  Read the name of the author and the title.

3.  Open up the poetry book. 

4.  Read every page in the book.

  5. Worry about eyefatigue and eyestrain.  

  6. Read poems out loud in a park, tavern, or at a  

     car dealership.

  7. Refer to Guidelines for “Reading a poem”

8. Tell everyone you see that you read so and so’s  

   collection and that you’ve seen better shi at  

   Mackinaw Island. But none as profound

   and damaging as so and so’s(or use first name of  

  author) collection.  Tell them you were nervous  

  to stop reading so and so’s book.. Misquote a few 

  lines of the poet by blending their words with 

  the words of a well known speech.

9. If someone asks if they can borrow the 

   collection, tell them no, and that it belongs

   to your roommate, who is your grandmother or 

   Priest (depending the theme of collection and 

  After much  practice, you may wish  to change 

 who you say owns the book. Move forward with the utmost caution as usual. Never tell another reader of poems you own books of poetry.  They will compliment you, fuck you and steal your best books).

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Please submit assignment before the end of the day (that’s when I check my e-mail). 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For My Little Brother Too

 

 

 

 

Dear little sister don’t believe

them for a ice cream lick.

You’ve lived in constant inspiration

thus far, why not make it

to 87 or when you have some

freak stairwell accident. Death will come

in its own hard line. Don’t rush it on.

All sorts of bent spines

will tell you, it is not possible

to live with constant inspiration.

They’ll give you names of those

who committed suicide by gas,

gun, booze,  and possibly some

opiate. They’ll say, “Ha, that can’t

be true-life, you’re not constantly

inspired.”  When they say that to you

your future will bleak. You’ll think

my Rabbit, how long can I endure.

What they say, little sister

is a lie.  You can live with constant

inspiration and you don’t have to

apologize for your elephant imagination

or your stable stream.

Laugh at them, whole body

hoot and shake your smiling ass,

your twinkling thighs. Bat them. Whisper

they have no damn idea. 

I am not saying choosing life

is easy.  I do not claim

that death will never cross your

mind or make you giggle.

You will be in a padlocked flame 

Most of the people you

care for will never understand.

You’ll spend the majority of your verve

trying to connect with others who

don’t give a nickel for you.

You’ll get to a point where

the only option will be a cat.

Breathe.  Life is short. Pain

is real.  Your mind games

are not. However,

You need to continue little sister

because there will be others who

follow your line. They’ll need an example

of how to live. You will be the only one

available. If you end it in a wild pig rampage

other little girls will too.  If you

live in sawdust chaos, if your childhood

was horrible, gross and still frightening

when you are an old lady, and

you continued, so will others. 

Just as I come to you now, wrapping

my arms around your body,

to sing clover songs to you in

Celtic tones, so will you come to others.

Break your heart for them, break your body

bent in prayer. Don’t sleep in a graybeard.

Don’t hangout where you can smell sulfur.

Go to a prairie grass or Lake Superior stone.

Find a sandstorm and stretch self

in all directions. Do not stop.

Hold the stretch on your way back home.

When you create your heart part

stretch the insides of art.

You, little sister, will know what I mean

as you need to.  My words will

comfort you. When you read them

you will not be so alone. 

Sometime you’ll wonder if you can

measure up, but little sister,

you will have already

mastered the technique. 

 

Breathe. There is

  room enough

      for you.

 

 

 

Run To Keep Up

the wind picked for a day or so, then left,

 

I sent my poems and hair in the air

if you are out  and you feel a old thing

settling, it is me.  I play at your walk, smile

at your face, old friend you are beauty to a hobo.

 

 

Lake, do you remember?  The rattled men sail you

lonely for a woman to comfort their

bodies. It is not so abstract to follow

someone into their words and silences.

Wait for them to open in light.  Take a long walk

or listen to their song before you knock on their door.

 

 

Like a small olive.

you’ll yearn for others.

Your distinct character will break

 

This is a problem

for those without faith.

Let us sit, watch the lake.

 

If you have a calling, respond quickly.

There is no need to ponder.

you’ve found your way, now get on,

let rhyme make you.  

It takes so much to slime to the right destination.

here you are, you know the direction,

the point on the map.

Stop doubting your doubting, and wondering

your wondering. 

 

The mountain stretches and a new wall is built

it is not 1986, nor is it in China. 

A new division to mildly mine people.

jump over it.

 

 

 

a person must be still to see the bird.

but to see a thousand one must fly.

I am not comin down from here,

you go ahead, and stay on the ground.

Run to keep up.  

I should’ve been a prune

This is a beginner’s mistake.  I am a leftover

raisin sitting on a green sofa.  Make love with me.

My hot bottom is new and fascinating.  Lets

ride a white horse with out a saddle until we

tingle from grain.  I am lonely without a white tiger.

 

The wind is picking up leaves and beer cans. 

I’m a lover of silent hunger.  May I have

a cheeseburger.  I’m sick of eating hash browns alone. 

Can I use a cell phone.  There is a someone I’d like

to call and say something to.  Damage me oil, go ahead.

 

I have lovely two-sided conversations in my bed at 8:15.  There is

no where I’d rather be. I may be a Buddhist.  The conclusion hit me

like a ton of knick-knacks.  A white bear put his paws on me. 

I let my belly relax and hugged him with all my fat.

I kept singing how nice it is to love for love’s sake.

 

Hey   I have a friend I call Stan the crayon.

Its not his name but I still say if Stan can’t do it,

no one can.  I gave him a pink petal to drop in the snake river. 

He wanted to take my moleskin journal.  I told him no.

Take my heart, but not my plumes.  I feel awkward about it now.

 

The last time I saw him was in Wisconsin.

I called ‘don’t go.’ He didn’t take me serious.

The Whole Process

 

 

The whole process is a mess.  It shames them

into spendthrift days alone with pretty

papers and dictionaries.  They’ll never

change the world with it.  They know that. O

How many times they have been told. O how

futile. How destined to live in poverty

with the monster under the pillow

of their restful dreams. O they know.

 

You don’t have to tell them.  Nobody eats it

but them. They have heard it’s a dead fart. Yes

-the successful others told them to write

greeting cards or to become a Spanish teacher

or go back to school for nursing. They were asked

how they would make a living and they always said

they didn’t know but were alive. And that’s

the problem.  They are happy in short spells

 

when the world shuts up and allows them the freedom

to speak.  Some have taken up telltale

strips of ribbon to convince people they stopped.

That they are looking for a job, “Really, yes,

some good leads, any day now” they say.

But they are collections of little white

infractions of selfish behavior. They can’t halt and need help. 

Even when they are at the beach, with their child

 

by their side, racing the august wind and four

foot waves, and seagull floats on lake

superior and lover reads in the shade,

there is nowhere they’d rather be.  Still

they are writing poems on mental scarps of paper.

It’s their mother’s fault.  She raised them wrong. 

When they wrote a poem she would say, “That’s nice,

how lovely, keep at it.”   They trusted her-

 

 

 

 

that there was a place for them in craved stones.

They didn’t know that Shakespeare was dead or

Dickenson mad, or Emerson a liar. 

They were a poor mother’s kid and nobody

told them poor kids don’t grow up to write poetry

but instead go to work for rich people

cleaning their dirt, or join the army.

They should have guessed by their mother’s laborious

 

man hands. The way she’d say they were lucky.

She never had nothing, just one skirt and one

blouse she wore everyday. That they should be

thankful for their four pants and five shirts.

Their grandmother’s slender legs, and knobby

knuckles, egg on her face, always talkin’

how her own mother worked so hard, never

yelled, and how on Christmas they would get an

 

orange and a new cup should have flashed some

critical thought on their lack of a lot but they just felt

lucky to have a toy to hold in their soft hands.

Their grandfather drove milk-trucks in snow and grow

corn in the afternoon hours. Enlisted

in world war two and had an alcoholic

step-father beat him who his mother never left.

That kind patience should have made them question

 

art. They thought their brothers studied numbers

and picked rocks for candy bars and the love

of hard work, not survival.  They were no

president’s son and  no ivy league daughter

setting up herself for the duties of marrying power. 

They should have tried to snag a lover of wealth. 

But they were stupid.  Pretended love was all they needed.

Blame their father and his irresponsibility.

 

 

 

 

 

 

His desire to wander, his love of a good

story and the way his voice changed when he

talked with strangers, adjusting to their slang and infliction. 

Blame their Father’s father, a door to door

preacher man, who used words to save the souls

of poor and told knock-knock jokes to them on

walks to the store. They should have cursed

the supporters and the morals of the hard work

 

Amerikan dream. Should have told them “I

am a slave to the dollar, don’t deceive me.” 

Now it’s too late.  It became the only

thing they could do and still sleep at night.

To make matters worst, they thought what they

were doing was holy. Now they are

sorry they didn’t study chemistry 

with a bigger calculator or worked at an

 

automobile factory. Or cleaned white

houses on the hill or cut down trees in

the back forty. Or laid concrete for the new

wal-mart, or taught kindergartners not to

eat paper.  Could have been a secretary

for a butt doctor or captain of the last

fishing boat on the great lakes. A sales clerk

at a department store jolly at a lipstick

 

counter, or a librarian dusting classics

while mouthing the words of Wolf. 

Could have been a mechanic at an oil change spot

A painter with a brush and a loud radio,

a dancer in a strip-joint where old lonely

men stare at pear shaped butts or horse slaughter

after the races are won and over. But

they decided at seven that they

 

 

 

 

 

 

would be a writer. Now they are poor.

The cycle of poverty and poetry

hangs on human linage like the extra

fat kisses on their ribs. They have turned to sin.

Tell the kids that poetry kills infants,

damns young idealist to hell and makes lunatics

out of the gifted.  That advertising

 

would be better. Tell them to become a

cop or janitor or any other

uphill occupation always needed

and supported. Like you said, “nobody pays

a poet.” Celts have died out, and poesy is a dead

start. A little poem will get them nowhere.

A longer one will make enemies. They

can’t be what you want. So don’t blame them.

 

Just read their poems. Nobody told

them what they would sacrifice for coupling

sound and silence into clean water.

Frozen, and expended, they twisted fires on

pages, spouted fountains and memory

into stanzas. First loves and oak trees into

war protest endings. Baked tears and shame

into heroes songs and birds into spaceships.

 

Honey into fingertips and books into blank

explosions of Sunday afternoons. As lovers

they spooned soup and gruel. Gave jars of hope

to anyone with ears to hear and made houses

for the isolated. Surrounded by hugs and hands

they made their lives into imaginary

bars on windows. On tours with notebooks 

they rattled until their raspy voices cut the right

 

 

 

 

 

 

pitch on coffee tables and tabloids they mastered

strangers’ faces and mother’s death they turned

into a rose bush growing in a made up

childhood backyard. Before the letters could be

sent they pressed them in Zen cookbooks, and saucy

flower suppers. They made beds out of old

poetasters who they believed were free

and poor with nothing to lose, like themselves

 

they thought as they crushed their egos into egg

sandwiches and grilled cheese weekends.

They made wine out of cobwebs and urine.

Always working to change the world for the next line.

Damning themselves when they were weak and tired.

O how they tried, and thought they’d win

a sailboat and a piece of Amerika.

Never realized they would die

 

to light a wick on the heads of their children.

How their children would follow them in their slow

destruction. Wouldn’t have pressed their soles into

bread and jam or spent their weekends writing

scones and chocolate cakes into elegies.

They would have went to work in the factory

if they had known the dandelions

they planted into leather chairs would be

 

plucked and burnt. If they could have tasted

the bitterness of old age and weak stomachs

they wouldn’t have forced down hot-peppers or ginger

tea fingered by doubt and despair. If they

really thought what they were doing wouldn’t make a difference

they would have kept it to themselves

like they had wanted all along. To sing

in the rain and not in shelter of the shops.                      

 

O someone should have told them when they were

young. Poetry isn’t an option, although it’s fun.

 

 

 

 

2007

Creative or sad excuse for a bag butt

This is a place to scream.  It will take time for the scream to be a smear.  But soon, yes, soon you’ll find a spot to color all your own.  Your make new paints out of old things and new colors will come into the world. You are smart and kinda cute.  Why not be happy with yourself?  Why not lose self respect and throw bread out the window to stranger seagulls that loom and weave intricate patterns that you rarely perceive. Sure, they will attack. Sure, it will hurt. You might even crap yourself out of fear. SO? It wouldn’t be a shocker.  It wouldn’t make the news. Not even local. Not even a stranger’s blog. Ha.  What are you going to do?  Are you gonna sit there, is that what you do for a hobby.  At least think. Shut off the TV.  Take your clothes off.  There is more to you than the blue jeans.  Didn’t your mother teach you not laugh out of your nose at hobos? I mean, come on, you know better, you know what is right. You can’t act like you are just, just unaware. Come off it, come off the pickle. It is not a chair.