I sit here and write.
If you read it, good.
If you don’t, fine.
If you like it, better.
If you don’t, that’s alright.
Either way I’ll sit here tomorrow and write.
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Listening to Old Country Songs on Women’s Day
You don’t even have to read between the lines.
With all their talk about cold, cold hearts,
bouncing between heartache and chord progression
like a broken record, it’s apparent
why these yodeling old cowboys are obsolete.
Did they ever really sound that good in their time?
At least the melodies sound good, silly boys
if I could remove your voice, I would,
and in its place insert the songs of a woman,
who’s light shines brighter than your sorrow.
Mercedes-Benz – now that’s a song with heart.
The King’s Sad Song.
The failed King sat on his throne.
His Queen had already fled.
Watching his people die, he couldn’t shake the thought
of who would bring him his dinner tonight.
The chef’s were gone, the jester dead.
As for his Queen, well he could find another Queen.
And no matter how much blood was shed,
his people showed no sign of stopping.
It was nearly a 50/50 split – men, women, and children.
He couldn’t help but wear his grin proudly.
It was until he saw his son beheaded that his grin began to fade.
It wasn’t so much the action of it all but rather the one who’d done it.
Down there, past all the bloody corpses, stood his Queen.
What she was shouting he could not quite make out but it went something like this.
I’d rather slay my own kin than have them carry on your name.
Why had his son been down there with the poor and wild rabble-rousers?
He then took note, that he was alone in his castle. How puzzling he thought.
But this did not bother him too long, for he’d only needed what his people could give him.
A King has no need for the physical person, surely he knew this.
Then at the strike of noon, the King began to sing.
Through the screams and fury and onslaught of ravaged flesh, he sang.
It went something like this.
My God what have you done,
my Lord could you believe,
that there is no helpful soul
to serve me steak and peas.
Saying Goodbye.
It’s been like beating a dead horse.
From day one, it just wasn’t there.
But we often emote like light through a diamond.
We listen to fortune tellers.
And cosplay for our own reasons.
But bloody knuckles aren’t more than bloody knuckles.
I’ll admit, saying goodbye was never my strong suit.
So for the sake of getting shit done.
The horse, long since buried.
I’ll say hello one more time.
Hello!
And now I’m saying goodbye.
it’s nothing personal, it’s art.
All I need is –
a camera,
(flash)
a crew,
(flash)
rented lights,
(flash)
and a sync wizard
(flash)
to take pictures
(flash)
of your appearance,
(flash)
make-up and all,
(flash)
highlights and softening,
(flash)
to give depth
(flash)
and allure,
(flash)
to erase –
the real you.
A Fond Ambivalence for Social Media.
It’s
a
fine art,
the
art
of following.
Choosing
that
precise moment
to
stop
is too, a work of art.
Like
a
thief in the night.
It
is
frankly, what separates
the
Doomed
from the Damned.
Like
a
self-congratulatory hand-job.
Sad
in
a way,
contagious
in
another.
An eye
for
an eye
with
no discernible
end.
the straightforward poem
the
straightforward
poem,
like
the
straightforward
person,
is
often
the
one
most
curved.
It does not Discriminate.
It doesn’t effect you right now.
So sit back.
Relax.
And enjoy a warm Jimmy Dean Breakfast Sandwich.
A cup of Folgers, hell
have two cups.
It’s Sunday, right! What could go wrong on a Sunday?
Because the best part of waking up
is knowing it doesn’t have an effect on you.
And you’re safe.
Just save that Breakfast of Champions,
for the day your long since relevant,
and your children are up against the wall,
dying from the gross fact that it never effected you.
Words Of An Average White Male 