Help me write a poem.
Say good words, we can do this together.
I already gave you the inspiration.
You gotta go for it.
I aint the poet.
Just the muse. . .
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:35 AM UTC
From Capital Hill they rule for The People
Age wearied eyes from a blood wearied steeple
protecting Our kind, from all of the Rest
from 'rag heads' in the East, 'niggers' in the West
From Rio Grande to Lake Eerie, the eagle knows its nest
The American Dream is Male, White, and Strait
it's their ideology or Guantamo's gates
Brother, I love you, but you are the other.
When you're running an Empire there's no time for hospitality
third world 'investment' is the new police brutality
blinded by Democracy we fail to realize
that when we **** the other it's a person that dies.
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 1:33 PM UTC
I do not think it’s important to do
I think I would rather just think
I’ll think about all of the books and the arts
And even my own kitchen sink
I’ll think about how the world's gone wrong
And all the injustice I see
I’ll contemplate everything and then think some more
When I eat, when I sleep, when I ***
There’s so much to do, so little time
But there’s also just so much to read
How can I know if my actions are good
If I don’t know where my motives lead
I stare at the corkboard in university square
Ten thousand calls to action thereon
I think and I think about which is best
I’m sitting there thinking till dawn
Perhaps Marx was right, and all of these causes
Save one, economic, is right
Perhaps all the rest are just there as distractions
Keeping us home from the fight
But then again, perhaps that’s not true
Perhaps they all DO need some help
Perhaps each struggle for justice is just
Lets save all the whales and the kelp
But I think, I think, I don’t know what I think
But I’ll know when the thinking is through
And when I’m done thinking I’ll have an Idea
That will dump all my thinking on you.
I think that this thinking ‘round which I center my life
is really a tool of The Man
And I think that they think that I’ll lay down my knife
To think about my empty hand
And I think that it's working because I don’t fight
Rather, I sit here and think
I think about all of the books and the arts
And even my own kitchen sink
I think about why I think what I think
I think about why I exist
I think about why they all hate them all
I think about why they enlist
But I never stop them, I just don’t have time
There’s really just too much to do
When I finish this Zizek I’ll move on to Sartre
And then, I’ll read Heidegger too
I look at a billboard and think to myself
That’s propaganda He wrote
I give it no notice and keep walking by
Give it barely a mental sticky-note
But ten thousand billboard and ten thousand signs
Now that stops me dead in my tracks
I look at them all, and analyze each
Criticizing their mindsets; false facts
Too many opinions too many books
made far too open, too free
I sit, I absorb, don’t know what to do
As people die not blocks from me
I’m lost in the maze of my ivory tower
Trying to get to the top
To get to the cheese that I know I can smell
And regardless, by now I can’t stop
I think revolution at graffiti strewn walls
What who when how I should fight
And cries of black children beaten by cops
Go unheard by my ears each cold night.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 7:41 PM UTC
I get home.
tired and hungry and so sick of school
shoulders slouch with comfort, crossing the threshold
between the public and my home.
It's snack time.
open the fridge and what do I find?
what marvelous things, upon which to dine?
a leg of chicken and a big *** of beans,
say what you will, moms can be queens
I chop up an onion splash! in the pan
a dollop of oil [extra ****** man]
add half a pepper, minus its seeds
yum! I think I know what this needs
A large pinch of cumin, a whole chicken leg
and so many beans, if beer twould be keg
then add some turmeric for fusion and flair
splash of red wine, kids: we're almost there!
I check in the freezer and Yes! I was right!
almost a dozen tortillas in sight.
I take out two, cuz they're pretty big
I yodel with pleasure, as if at a shindig
warm up the flatbreadz, and pile it on
all of that chicken and beans and herbs from the lawn
get in my tummy, get in there so fast
that I dont realize I'm eating until I'm holding the last.
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC