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  1d ConnectHook
I went out to find
Some value in me,
So I sold what I had
For little a fee.

My eyes for a penny
I sold to some fools,
They're blind and useless,
Mistook for jewels.

My lips for a nickel
To the sweetest sin,
So they'll know the love
That has never been.

My ears for a dime
I sold to a lover.
To hear sweet nothings,
And silence uncover.

My hands for a quarter
I sold to a ghost,
So that she might feel
What I've wanted the most.

Finally my bones for a dollar
I sold to the earth,
But as for my soul-
There was found no worth.
What happened?

What was lost between
Point A and Point B
That made you believe
Love was bought with currency?

What led to this misconception
That you pay for love with perfection?
You who live with this deception
Listen close, give me all your attention
I've seen every flaw you care to mention.

Everything from unthinkable to unpleasant
And it will never change the way
I love you, future, past, or present.
ConnectHook May 13
Oh oh my identity
You must recognize me
Fashist is bad
We am good
We is genderqweer
We am POC
Whiten mens is dangerous
Be more gender race identity konshus

This are POETRY.
Feel me.
Modernist is a visual artist, poet, and contemporary identity to foist upon others, then complain about when they do not respond correctly. It earned its MFA in poetry from the traditional territory of the Ts’umpa peoples (now Rubber Band of First-nation Indigenous Indigents, Choctaw White Folks of Greater Oklahoma, and United Kazoo Band of Minnehahaha) and Tsoy Tzaw’z peoples (Mushu, Mixed Happy Family Kung-pao). It writes semi-coherent verse about genderfluid alienation, belonging, and inability to write poetry.

Drivel is a queer poetess, spelunker, living caricature, and weekend gynecologist with a private practice in identity-mongering. She lives with her aging but sassy Purple Republican “Mitch”, a friendly 80-pound lapdog. Recent work can be found in Better Not Review, Austin Journal of Berkeley at Cambridge, Cute Made-up Online Journal Name, and in the shredder behind the water cooler in that weird room off the English Lit. department.

Modernist and Drivel team up for an excitingly dull LIVE POETRY event in which readers read from their own work for fifteen seconds and then answer questions for an additional ten hours after everyone sighs.

Modernist/Drivel Dream-team is interested in hearing from ALL writers except those who are not part of disenfranchised communities such as people of color, immigrant populations, native and indigenous people, LGBTQ+, d/Deaf and Disabled, strident psychopaths, non-tertiary people, members of non-dominant religious groups, women, Dreamers, formerly incarcerated women dreamers, white people who seem kinda too white, and more.
ConnectHook Apr 29
         The Hostess
Crowned in Afro-tribal headdress,
On her chest a Slavic tunic;
Appearing as a prophetess
Or a schizophrenic ******…

On her wrists ring Irish bangles—
Wrapped round her waist a bright sarong;
On her breast a pendant dangles
Like some Oriental gong.

Multi-kulti represented
As a woman, weirdly dressed.
Every ethnic group is feted
On arrival to the West.

          The Dinner
Everybody bring your dish!
The ethnic potluck has begun.
Afterwards  your guts will wish
Your culture had remained as one.

Foods collide and almost mingle
In the cultural melting ***;
Yet it’s hard to find a single
Way to describe this mixed-up lot.

Curry mingles with Kielbasa
Chinese dumplings, Jello, slaw
Deviled eggs, the odd samosa
Beans and rice, cheap sushi raw.

Soul food, Kimchi, Spanish rice,
Pad-Thai, grits, potato salad;
Gastronomic paradise?
Or a nauseating ballad . . .

Out of many, not quite one—
You bravely burp. It’s quite diverse . . .
But as your stomach comes undone
Digestion goes from sad to worse.

E pluribus to Alka-Seltze®
Groaning in your bed at three:
Let it fizz and hope it helps, sir
Lest you doubt diversity…

I’m Diversity. I am strength!
Sings the undigested food.
Perhaps we all shall know, at length
If global change was for the good.
Write your own two-part poem that focuses on a food or type of meal.
In the poem, describe the food or meal as if it were a specific kind of person.
Give the food/meal at least one line of spoken dialogue.
ConnectHook Apr 28
[Infernal Dialectic of Ongoing Struggle]

Spoke Mao Zedong to Kim Jong Ill:
We languish here in deep red hell—
Let us confer and analyze
What factors revolutionize
The contradictions still.

Replied Lil’ Kim: The running dogs
Beguiled by class and capital
Have overdrawn and overspent.
They bank on debt, and make lament
And flounder in their fogs…

Kim chee does stink, but tastes so good
Do have some more, oh comrade Mao.
Fermented cabbage goes so well
With Hennessey and blondes (in hell)
Juche’s in da hood!

The Fearless Leader (now a shade)
Responded thus: Just give them time.
Our doctrines spread, their God is dead
Their sons shall sing ‘The East is Red’
Our party’s got it made.

Ill Kim displayed a wicked grin:
Our rocket-launches make them fear
They scold and cluck, and then they duck
While Hillary tries to pass the buck
I think we still could win…

The Chairman thought and sipped some fire
In communistic reverie, and feeling very clever, he
Replied to Ill: This place we’ll fill
With dead reactionaries still—
fifth columns to inspire.

Now let the thousand flowers bloom
And let one thousand thoughts contend.
Remember **? Remember ‘Nam?
We triumphed over Uncle Sam—
He’s limping toward his doom.

A wizened ghost now drifted in
Because his name had been proclaimed
A wispy beard (as yet unseared)
Revealed the mastermind once feared:
Old Uncle ** Chi Minh !

** **—old friend! Draw near! Draw near,
Spoke Mao: In solidarity
We hail your work upon the earth
You showed them what a war is worth
You’re always welcome here.

Ill Kim and I were wondering
How best to make the forward leap—
conspiring ******* their cow
and smoke their duck and drain their sow
while they are buying bling.

** Chi, old warrior, why the frown?
Upon your wisdom now we wait.
The forces red you bravely led
You staked your claim until they bled
And brought their nation down.

Old uncle **, the sage revered,
did smolder with his cigarette.
Viet Cong thought is hard to grasp
It slithers like a jungle asp…
** paused and stroked his beard:

You speak without the people’s light!
I criticize in strongest terms
Your revolutionary thought.
We need to ask our friend Pol ***
How best to steer this fight.

Such gradual change, a halfway measure
stalls the Bourgeoisie’s demise.
Our true Khmer Rouge was not a stooge
of Kapital. His fame was huge
for plundering their treasure.

True, he had to purge his nation
such is revolution, gents…
The traitor classes see the masses,
through reactionary  glasses.
Death or re-education!

We ought to sow his rural seed
for pure agrarian reform.
The bodies in the rice can rot
to fertilize the harvest plot—
the people’s mouths to feed.

When Pol *** heard his tactics lauded
he flew in to join the jabber:
Take a tip from Kampuchea!
Listen well and I will teach ya!

Kim and Mao applauded.

City folk are useless eaters
glasses-wearing foes and cheaters!
let them slave – and always save
their corpses for the fertile grave
Until they love their leaders.

From the barrel power grows—
(I don’t mean kim chee barrel, boys).
Now learn my way.We’ll have our say
Their weakened states will wither away.

The Red dictator rose.

Prepared to ramble on for hours
(the way Fidel so loves to do)
Pol ***’s harangue now fired the gang
like rockets falling on Da Nang
emitting sparks in showers.

Hell is known for lack of stasis—
Sudden throes of quaking fire;
fitful flares from from Satan’s lairs
and constant similar affairs
the population faces…

Thus Saint Pol ***, still naming names
along with Mao and Kim-Jong Il
while ** Chi screamed, and then blasphemed
were swept en masse, and unredeemed
into the surging flames.

Yet still they plotted in the blaze
with dialectic deviousness.
Philosophizing, strategizing
stinking sulphur brimstone rising;
ghosts in the yellow haze . . .

        ☭ END ☭

ConnectHook Apr 28
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FOUND POETRY from: Bad Haiku
ConnectHook Apr 27
Predatory in superficiality
Full of false dignity
Brimming with self
Loading my mind with puteríos
Esas vaginas vainas

Screaming for objectification
Parade before me:
Televised Americanized Latinas
Projecting pseudo-sexuality
Celebrating vanity:
Controladoras culonas
Dramatistas inseguras

Hyperdramatic gesticulations
From calculadoras dolarizadas
Miami Syndrome: terminal stage
Stares out from their chrome-plated eyes
Calculating appearances.
write a portrait poem that focuses on or plays
with the meaning of the subject’s name.
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