"dignitary" poems
Higher;
higher still
touching the sky,
on towers of finite currency.
How long does it last,
what is it worth
to be a member
of the bourgeoisie.
Head above water,
just getting by
ascribed or achieved wealth,
still living a lie.
Wealth above others
a sacrificial chamber
not what it's portrayed to be
but filled with lust,
loss and danger.
Faces of dignitary,
Laugh as they're spent.
While you invest in the world
and compare what you rent.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
Cry me a river.
Douse me in the irony of conflict.
I'm just a rock on the edge of it,
sitting patiently for your sigh.
We both sit idly by, tensed for the precious birth of words in silence. Trust the ever-living body of guilt that is boiling over the edges of my self-concept.
Don't speak to me as if I'm some dignitary for justice, but simply as if I might irk out some monochrome of truth whilst I sip my coffee in exasperation.
Irritation is also intoxication might I remind,
so I'm fumbling and tripping over my own flawed reasoning.
I got to this point somehow,
so let us examine it rationally and see why I drowned in the liquor of my own rhetoric.
Or, we can sit tentatively vacant waiting for some resolution to spring from the ether that is the growing chasm between us.
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
*Bus poems are shorties written on the way home,
riding the M31 thru Manhattan. Often silly, often not...*
There is a contest that does not involve my P.S.F.
(Preferred Sport Franchise) this weekend,
truly don't give a good ****** who wins,
but that is no excuse to deny me my sir sore-losing,
victim status,
so richly deserved.
A triumvirate of doctor, g.f. and medical tests,
have on the field ruled,
once a year, a conjugal visit permitted,
tween my arteries and chicken wings.
there will pigs in blankets demanding attention,
potato knishes, and cole slaw juices, and a
foreign dignitary, Sayyid Cous-Cous,
lining up along side the quarterback who will be
'winging' honey and spicy passes to his favorite receiver,
this couch coach and impartial observer.
This is my Sunday fare.
If insufficiently highbrow,
for all you poetic aesthetes,
have no fear,
this athlete gastronomic,,
victim of his victuals,
will prepare mentally
by hanging with King Lear once more,
sharing a verbal tasting menu,
the day prior,
who once called me,
at a Giant super bowl party,
*“A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a
base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited,
hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a
lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson,
glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue;
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a
bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but
the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar,
and the son and heir of a mongrel ***** one whom I
will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest
the least syllable of thy addition.”*
― William Shakespeare, King Lear
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
i choose to be a misfit, it's part of my artistry. i choose to be a misfit, a pirate and a bandit. a slave to my ministry. i outwit your chemistry and scream from the pulpit. i awoke to explosions and time lapsed erosions. the air filled with fire and rainbow smoke. i couldn't find my breath, the bed was ablaze. i inhaled the nightmare and began to choke... just then, things went fragmentary. i was more than just a dignitary. i found myself in a cinerary, facing someone legendary, and they were me. so i looked up my apothecary, knowing that i should be wary. i quickly dispensed with commentary, avoiding all things monetary. but nothing's free. speaking briefly of the goings-on, i stopped to berate the hangers-on. my mouth wove a verbal marathon, it was a virtual phenomenon. lost in my ego. restless, like the myrmidon, i was unsure of my prolegomenon. when i heard the ringing carillon, i went for a swim in the phlegethon. like abednego.
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
Look, no more swimming to the bottom of the pool,
Or looking in the closet for what you know isn't there,
No more trying to hang out alone because you know you'll never be cool.
And man, google it, bleach tastes like **** and you know you'd be missed so quit.
Sit and follow bit by bit as I list what you're in, because all I have to do is reminisce.
We've been there, man, so cut the crap. We'll draw you a map to get to your cap,
Your maximum capacity.
To be what your Dad could be before he started chasing secretaries behind your Mother's back
and lost his dignity as the dignitary of your household.
We see what you do and what you've lost, you paid the cost of false love and we know.
My friend, we know.
There's no reason, no rhyme, but it doesn't help to whine, nor wine.
We've been there, and we'll tell you, it gets better, my friend, we promise.
It deteriorates and decomposes at a fast rate that keeps you up late as you miss your mate, the one you believe made you great.
But you were great before the ***** walked out the door shaking what brought you there to a fake amour.
There's no reason to sit and cry by the fireplace and wait and waste until your waist is eight,
just because a girl you tried to date couldn't relate to your place in the world.
We know, my friend, we know. And we know it gets better.
So pick yourself up off the floor and dust off that kitty sweater.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
This one is for the bullies.
This one is for the cruel.
Try harder.
Because these walls were made with the intent
of keeping you out and instead
kept out the rescue party.
Too many are the tears which we have shed
over being too fat or too thin
or any other of these thousands of things within us
that define us as imperfect.
This one is for those that kicked us while we were down,
for the class clown addicted to our embarrasment,
to the flicked pencil that hits our back as we pass them.
If you've ever felt scorn,
if you've ever felt torn between the greatest two evils,
if you've ever as a kid felt that primeval urge of fight or flight
or spent a night crying over your bathroom sink,
It's okay.
I'm not saying that as if I could ever
make you feel as if that pain living inside of you
will abstain from your mind.
I'm saying that you aren't alone.
Simply let it be known how you feel
and you will real impressed
by how many others have felt the same.
This is one is for the playground bruiser, try harder.
This is for the girl writing 'slut' on her locker, try harder.
This is for those that will always insist
on testing the waters of an uncalm mind,
TRY HARDER.
Because it's never been an issue
of being smarter or stronger.
It's been about you holding on this extra while longer,
long enough that you can put all this behind you.
For all the gossips who acted like they knew you, try harder!
Because this time they are not getting through.
Concede to them nothing,
abandon no friend or creed,
let not their need for acceptance give lead to your self-loathing.
Remember, it is not your clothing or your skin that incurs their hate,
do not lock your gate to those who would help you.
The shallow brook runs the loudest,
the wounded dignitary the proudest
and so long as we allow them to hurt us
they'll believe they can get away with it.
We are many,
united in the trials through which we have grown.
Let us stand together now
and not any among us stand alone.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC
Thank you, February
You are the slight cold before spring
Just temporary
Foggy air silently flowing under a wing
Of the following months, you are a real legionary
Thank you, February
You are the soft entry into the year
For a soft assent, you are tributary
You are the air, the feeling, and the cold frontier
With you as the dignitary, we have nothing to fear
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 3:51 PM UTC
They abound this season
Flapping their wings
Blocking the sunshine
Carrying bugles and ostrich feathers,
Through their yellow teeth
The heat of yerba mate radiates
They make no distinction between
The dignitary and the mobster
Between the esteemed and the rascal
Only scarabs pass them by without reckoning
We still hear the drums in all parts of the village;
Drums made in a country not far from ours.
We are in the presence of the Holy Matron
We sanctify
Dust has settled over her garb
Having buried the phoenix,
Her children have left their houses
And some lost their direction
We strayed from one another
And the paths of the honest
Were blurred
We had our fill of worries for a thousand years
Despite the limitation of time.
Here we are at the bottom of the riverbed
And cannot row our way back to the source spring
When the day is short
So is the night.
To you Lord is my hymn and plea:
Will there be salvation,
Will it rain
Will there be sunshine
And will the birds
Flutter their wings again?
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
I fell in love with music
when I fell in love with women.
Cassettes will weep upon demand;
homing melodies for the neighbour
who lives across the green.
There's no sense to *** or violence,
and yet I'll teethe it all the same.
I'll give out tepid love, flashes of blood,
and a weekend of cemetery wander,
if it means I'll get a modicum of sleep.
Zopiclone, Citalopram, and long walks
will do a lot to elevate a mind.
You see a painted blue
and an ocean view; yet you've lost
that old dignitary smile.
I am told to separate my wisdom,
to quote history as if time were a fact.
There's no love in the decimated forest,
the Earth now calloused and fickle,
to shake off the parasite of man.
I fell in love with cigarettes
when I divorced with yesterday's papers.
I have no wars left to fight,
and no money more to make,
now all that's left to ask is:
where do I belong?
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC