The Future Pope

Her Odyssey

I thought the picture here was beautiful and decided to write a story around it (both physically and metaphorically).

A Dusty Mesa

The Last Hour On Earth

This poem means a lot to me for a number of reasons, the greatest being that I read it as a humorous poem about love, and I made it from a story about the Westboro Baptist Crazies. That's what I like about these blackout poems: making something new and sometimes completely opposite from the original words.

Here's the poem in during the creation phase (complete with picture of said Crazies).

Appearances.

I found these two pictures and think they go together.

The Final Act

Crash

A lot of my poems are a bit depressing. I'll work on that. I posted a more uplifting one just now called A Special Democrat

Salinger

I wrote this one from the New York Times article on Salinger the day after he died. I think it sums up his life pretty well.

A Special Democrat

Mom-and-Pop Delusions

A Graying Cadre

Youthful Intensity

Jobs

My father was a singer. He traveled Europe with some other singers, bumming rides and praising God and making his vocal chords grow like biceps. He was good, and is good, and I'll hate the day when he isn't good. It's his thing, his paintbrush, his 67 Chevy, his elected position because lots of people think they sound good, but my dad KNOWS he sounds good and he ain't ashamed.

My father was a printer. He loved drafts and rulers and pencils and desks with lamps attached and working hard and seeing what he created roll of the press in its bright yellow, blue and red ink with steam, metaphorical steam, surrounding him. He put up with the boss from hell who didn't appreciate him or maybe appreciated him too much but either way he came home everyday to a wife who cooked him hot meals and told him everything was ok. What else can you say?

My father was a telephone marketer. He took orders from people all over the country and he gave them what they wanted and what they didn't know they wanted and what they didn't know that they probably didn't want. But he sold it to them anyways. And he was good. He knew he was good and I think that's what he likes in any job: to know that he is good at it. It doesn't have to be being President and after all, he wouldn't like it because what President ever honestly did a good job?

My father was a purchaser. I still barely know what that means but he does and he does it well. Or did it well. He got laid off. it didn't really mean much to me but it did to him. Like a slap in the face and a short simple "You didn't do good enough". What's that supposed to mean? And who has that right? Capitalism can be a bitch.

My father is a handyman. He holds a house together like Atlas or the freaking Kings' Men (if they were better at puzzles). All this time I thought he was a masochist or a workaholic or some O.C.D. patient but I get it now. He's good at it.

My dad is good at what he does. All the time. And if he isn't he pays someone else to do it. Isn't that what everyone wants? To be good at something, anything? I know it's what I want.

****************

Been watching some spoken word poetry by a guy named Anis and I decided to make an improv poem so here you go.

p.s. here's some anis

Colin Bear

My friend Jason introduced me to the original version of Knockin' On Heaven's Door by Bob Marley early last December. Even more so, he introduced me to the scene from the movie Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid which the song was written for (Bob acted and made the soundtrack for the film). This scene is one of the greatest pieces of film I've ever seen and I think that this has a lot to do with the music. Bob's genius is clearly shown in the way the music makes a haunting scene even more haunting. I can't do enough to do it justice, so I'll go ahead and let you watch it yourself: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MgubwywhiU

I know. I recently saw this scene again (I finally got around to buying the song and I just needed to see it again) and doing so reminded me of a poem I wrote about it when I first saw it. I think I'm gonna name it after the sheriff.

With blood dripping
And vision blurred
We drag ourselves to the water
Flowing, brimming
With life
With hope
And as the sun begins to fade
On the days
The months
The years
Reality dawns
But there is nothing we can do

Madness

On the train I met a woman
I never did catch her name
She'd got on at Reno
Had seen all there was to see
Knew the crew by name
She had an odd magazine
An Italian one named "Colors"
But it wasn't about color
This issue was entitled "madness"
And she showed me the stories
Of people who lived in a slightly
Ever so slightly different
Dimension

Yes, I am getting taller.

I delivered cookies today
To neighbors on my street
Enjoyed some small talk
About the weather
The future
About how much I've grown
Despite the fact
I haven't grown taller
For at least two years
But I don't have the heart
To tell them they are shrinking
So I agree and laugh
And wonder when my prime will peak...

Intentional Mistakes

I didn't write this with the intention of it becoming a limerick, but that's pretty much how it turned out.

I know the consequences and I don't give a damn
Lead me to the slaughter like a righteous lamb
When the feeling's gone and the pain's in sight
I'll probably look back with a curse for tonight
But right now I just don't care.

Supply and Demand

This poem was actually inspired by a Mitch Hedberg joke, though I thought it out with darker implications.

The rows of bleachers lie unclaimed
As silence rules the hardwood floors
While miles away children stare
As the cement courts are stained crimson
And gunfire fills the night skies
On the highway two lumber trucks pass
But no one stops to wonder why