Excuse Me, Are You Finished With That Hegemony?

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Hey man,

Respect the dynamic.

Our empire can’t be erected

On the backs of other’s babies.

 

Again. Can it?

Oh, and speaking of erections

Ladies, maybe if you let us touch your bodies

Every once or twice or three times

 

We’d let you have a say

About your plumbing or that place

Down there wherever the stork

Deposits the twinkle in God’s eye.

 

Alls I’m saying is it’s tough being white.

Hard to be WHITE. The WHITER THE HARDER.

It’s almost, almost like trying

To not there at all.

 

Type B

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Born nameless without sin

We exit otherwise;

Meh, what can you do?

 

Live up to our names and sins

Or risk pissing off the Gods?

Better then being pissed on, eh?

 

Keep it moving Guthrie,

Your songs don’t play

On this jukebox.

 

From sea to shining sea

The gods burn upon re-entry

With nary a fizzle or kerplunk.

 

We carve ice sculptures in hell,

Fashion thimbles from granite boulders

With our bare hands.

 

Other times we nap.

Dreaming of names and sins,

Lonely as all get out.

Living on the Bus-Line

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I went down to the crossroads

To catch a cross-town bus.

There was swinging with great violence

In a benevolent cacophony.

 

But the empty pleading eyes

And the emptier pleading hands

Only seemed to say sadly

You have to sit through the whole presentation

 

In order to get a round-trip ticket.

But there’s coffee and doughnuts.

Except the coffee’s bad

And the doughnuts were gone by 9.

 

Wetting the tip of my pencil to gauge the wind

I remembered an ember can travel miles

Before being extinguished so I asked my neighbor,

Hey buddy, you got a cigarette?

Distance To Empty

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Shave the day’s ass and walk it backwards

For even a blind rat finds a sewer now and again.

Hear the tapping of their tiny canes,

The scuttling of their street sharp claws,

 

My friends, this is a movement

That has blossomed from an inchoate

Bead of sweat into fully-formed salty tears

Rising like the oceans,

 

A palpable fear beyond metaphor,

Scripted and hidden away for years

Beneath a lonely boy’s pillow,

Dampened with dreams and kisses

 

Right next to a mule’s champed bit,

Divinity’s teeth marks on the carcass.

The world’s not flat. Its an infinity pool

And we just sold out of extra-small sunglasses.

Bumper to Bumper

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What frightens you, Norma?

What high holy terror

Can drop like a veil

And curl your toes?

 

Is it Love?

Is it the sunburned grandchildren

Of your sunburned grandchildren

Roasting along the equator

 

Where we’ll all move

To peek across the belt

Holding the world’s guts in

To see how the other half lives?

 

Norma, I am troubled.

I want to mock and deride you

But know it isn’t right.

That’s between you and your god.

 

Who called by the way

To say he’s stuck in traffic.

Seems Apollo’s chariot got a flat.

This high noon may last awhile.

Polishing the Throne

 

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Open your mouth

Let the sunshine rattle your teeth

Open your ears

Let the clouds contain your thoughts;

 

We speed through the American night.

We crawl through the American day.

We have been charged like convicts.

We swallow palatable truths.

 

What does it tell us

When our greatest poet is

Dead and Canadian?

The throne is empty.

 

Buck up, Despair, there’s a lottery

To see who gets to shine

The 14k seat of it.

They sell tickets down at the liquor store.

The Daily Snark: Vol. 1

claude-akins

Boy, wasn’t Claude Akins Great in Sheriff Lobo? What a Great time in American TV. Simply Great. I mean who knew he could top his Great performance in the Great F Troop? But he kept changing, evolving and never allowed himself to be content with being a Hollywood Icon. He pursued Great. And finally he emboldened Great. And what a lot of people don’t know thanks to general obfuscation and other proletarian tactics by the LAMESTREAM MEDIA is that he was Donald Trump’s father. So consider this: Claude was an Indian,  Lobo is Mexican for wolf, his deputy on Lobo was a hermaphrodite (at least I’ve been told) and last but not least, is there any word that rhymes with orange? So you see Herr Trumpf had all those bases covered, those boxes checked, way before Killary was procuring sex babies in pizza parlors and secret passageways to ivory towers up and down the Elitist East Coast. So come with me and embrace a Great past that never existed. One catch though, I think all the TV’s are going to be in black and white…sad_frowning_smiley_face_post_cards-rc3c949719fb14aba8fd28854be72ae41_vgbaq_8byvr_512