I,
Defy the paradigm,
The escapist void,
Lines of code I refuse to obey.

I defy,
Defy,
All emotionalogic.
I make no sense,
Or a dollar that pays my way to ignorant bliss.

'Tis the streets upon which I so selfishly make my way and,
My gears turn with no source or destination.

I am the,
Status quo of the chronically out of place.
So,
Take that next step,
Show me.

We break bread with bricks.
Catch our thumbs every time.
Blame those neighborhood ******!
Isn't misplaced hate sublime?

                                 -Richard J. Treitner
                                      Dec. 29th., 2016

I am the American Man.
I stand strong and tall,
Heads above the rest.
I shout my name and proclaim my greatness.

I am blind, yes.
I am deaf, yes.
But I’ll be ****** if I am made mute by progress—
Equality,
Change.

I revel in the status quo.
I thrive in inequity,
Sitting in my penthouse above the mindless throngs
I am privilege.

I do not see poverty.
I do not see race.
I do not see systemic oppression.

I am blind.

I do not hear the gunshots of the police.
I do not hear the protests of angry young men in the streets.
I do not hear their demands for rights guaranteed them under the Constitution.

I am deaf.

I speak out against the immigrants,
For they are rapists and lazy to boot.
I do not turn down those who would support me,
**** though they are, they are more like Kin to me.

I yell change while promising the status quo and I am invincible and strong and God-made and immortal and I am invincible and I am all that is right with this world.

My words fall on hungry ears,
Desperate for a turn away from change and Socialism and progress and politically correct speakers,
They gobble up my words like they are sides at Thanksgiving.

I am not mute.

I am—
The American Man.

Eighteen years old with a big ego.
But I can't love myself - that's a big no.
Who the **** have I become? I don't know.
Now I look just like them - from head to toe.
They got me all ****** up - I'm real low.
Got holes in my plans but can't forgo.
Gotta fight for the real me - can't let go.
Cause fake people can't tie me down no mo'.
I'l rise above and watch them burn below.
As they trade love for hatred - quid pro quo.

Two linked sugars
make up a disaccharide.
And that’s what we are-
simple, plain table sugar
dully passed back and forth
to sweeten our taste.
Sometimes I'll accidentally
switch the shakers for breakfast,
hand you the salt
just to change up the spice.
And sometimes I regret
the bitter words
you exchange in return
for breaking the boring
status quo.

I want it smooth
Poetry, rough and smooth
Therefore, play me the
rough melodies, not to
the sensual ear
You soft trumpeter,
keep on playing though
Just get new lungs
Change is good
So play the trombone
Play it hard,
I want it rough
When my heart beats faster
than the speed of light, and
my mind experience,
a forceful mental awakening,
a turnaround, new perspective.
Rough is soothing
Rough is healing
That rough melodica.

If independence is intended
for the masses is the Average Joe
as abnormal as the status quo?

© Matthew Harlovic

When we met I knew you were kind
there was a gentleness you exuded
we were drawn, one to the other,
and it was good, comfortable

friendly conversation, blue eyed smiles
turned up lip grins, chuckles ...
shared dinners delightfully enjoyed, savored
medium rare, tasty faire feast, fondue
and you ... you whom I have come to know

lighthearted glow, I wonder ... does mine show?
Yours does in your every glance my way;
being cuddled by you feels like
a warm blanket ... I don't want
to experience numbing cold again

unsure if either of us wants to take it
up a notch or two from deep care
to true lasting love ... I must admit
the thought frightens me a little...
maybe it holds some trepidation
for you as well, therefore, perhaps ...
we should leave things as they are.



© Carmela M. Patterson, All rights reserved