Tag: poetry (Page 5 of 9)

You think you have rights
You are adorable
And I love you

Point to them
Show them to me
Maybe you left them in the car
Maybe you set your rights down
–accidentally–
In the freezer
Next to the banana guacamole
Go check
I’ll wait
And I love you

You have needs
And then there is what the bastards allow
And what they don’t

You have rights like you have
Names like you have
Religions like you have
Passports like you have
Money
Somebody wrote something down and you believed it

You have needs
And there is what the bastards will allow
And what they will not

You have one power
Inalienable
But small

Fuck you

Fingernails and families
Can be removed
Fuck you
Can only be given
And a middle finger can burn like a candle in the darkness

You think you have rights
You have needs
Fuck you
And then there is what the bastards will allow
And what they will not

And I love you

If the night seems dark,
It is.
Trust your eyes.
Your nose is useless,
And your ears collaborate
With liars’ mouths.
Unless they hear nothing.
When the jungle is quiet,
Something is about to die.

Do you see what I see?
His slouching done!
The beast is come!
Great gosh-a-mighty,
What a long time comin’.

The miners
–a mile down–
Argued with the canary.
“You can’t be sure that’s poison,”
One said.
“You are too dramatic, canary,”
Another said.
The canary did not say anything.
The canary was dead.
Canaries never get to say,
“I told you so.”

If it seems dark,
It is.
Trust your eyes.
Your nose is useless.

Alaric is in the White City.
We guarded the southern gate,
But the vandals were everywhere.

It will be all right,
Eventually.
But eventually is a long way off.
And we have to make it through today.

My father used to ask me,
“Who told you life was fair?”
And he taught me to be proud
To be an American.
One out of two isn’t bad.

We buried him off the Parkway, and
I hope six feet was deep enough
To keep the newspaper
From being delivered.

I wish you were here, Dad;
But I’m glad you’re dead, Steve.

I saw a beast with seven heads,
And fourteen pillows for his beds.
One head was slothful, one loved wealth;
You can guess the rest yourself.

His hat rack was a mile high,
Dessert: a bakery full of pie.
Tons of socks for all his feet,
A church pew was his only seat.

And when one head made up its mind,
The others never fell in line.
An argued life that never ceased.
Now aren’t you glad you’re not a beast?

I’ve got the brain of Ron Jeremy,
And Shakespeare’s meat;
My hands are like Pele’s,
On my legs, Glenn Gould’s feet.

I’ve got Walton’s durability,
And Vin Scully’s height;
Hit the curve like Michael Jordan,
Hit the three like David Wright.

In my next life,
I’ll invade Russia.