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jesi Gaston Mar 2015
“I've realized,” I write, “the Groucho Marx of the mind is chaos personified. The Groucho Marx of *my mind *was chaos, I revise and already think I should revise again – “you never know where you'll end up,” I think, of me and of Groucho. Either way, Groucho Marx came to me in a thought when I was thinking about a poem I will not finish, that would have been about him. “We were just four jews looking for a laugh,” Groucho says at least twice – once when he was alive and once now as I invoke him – the heavy glasses, the synonymous greasepaint lip, the cigar – lit, with smoke that surrounds and engulfs me, threads tangibly through the air, through my eyes, and through the insides of my sinus densely, like mossy Eldritch Horrors and old movies somehow without stopping my vision. He has a mouth but it doesn't move, he is not alive – instead he is a ghost, instead he is dead but standing there, with me, in space lighted from within – space that's white like the smoke – thickly. Among all this, a ghost in a black suit. At least, I think the suit is black, or bluing black. It is tinged with 50 years of rotting celluloid, and paired with a white button up underneath – no tie.
         Growing up all five of them were poor, very poor – so poor they were Jewish-in-New-York-in-the-early-1900s poor. Forced outside of the world, into their world from birth, while their mother, Big Duck, put them up to instruments and got them begging early – vaudeville was their daddy after all (“after all” being a refrain in the poem I'll never finish, repeated like a mantra – after all! after all! after all! after all!– in that text, and used like a drug – afterall – and always driving deathward to an end that never came and can't, after all is written down) – with the jokes they told and sang and played, on their piano, harp, and banjo, all the time – and here is how she learnt how well Chico could play the piano, and how well Harpo could play the harp. And how poorly little Groucho played the banjo. The shame she felt, the shame she must have felt – but here my poem consumes them, because I am already sure that childhood is wrought with fear of birth order, sure as I am that middle children lack something, and maybe have something for that lack, but It's me, not Groucho, that takes over, saying Groucho was the obvious middle child, and of course lacked Big Duck's approval – Big Duck hated the banjo strumming and myriad puns he threw, I say – puns being a part of the poem, the poem which would have (but never) ended on Groucho ducking soup. I wanted it all as a joke and still do, but who will disappoint? Who could? There are options – Groucho, myself, the poem, etc. all working poorly. It is hard to imagine the lack that would culminate in a poet – maybe this gap is wider than a middle child – writing three brothers into a brawl, cartoonish in the streets. May be even harder to imagine the discontent and fear at work inside a child of five – birthing chaos. Maybe I misspoke – I can't know,  I'm not a child of five.
                  Groucho is dead, is still standing in front of me expectantly, not moving. Right in front of me when again I hear his voice – reanimate and filtered through a phonograph – weakly rising above it's own eroded texture – “I was misquoted, I was misquoted... Quote me as saying, 'I was misquoted.'” I wanted his life entropically spinning this place, spinning throughout this place, a ghost – to live forever is to die forever in every gaunt lie, misquote after misquote re-shaping our dead selves until grotesqueries we never intended are held comfortably under our name. Groucho, aimless, escapes because he pre-empts – he uses his whole self to decimate his cultural body, to save the self he's sacrificed. Groucho means to become a void, or Groucho becomes a void more correctly – Groucho means nothing, can only mean nothing, because he's focused his words – his self – around his lack – the words' lack. Because the words always lack, and Groucho is all words. I see him take out the greasepaint container, which is in a shoe-polish-looking canister, and then I lose Groucho again to facts – he was the outsider using words to one up them. I see his wit like a weapon. His being in Hollywood was a stress on Hollywood's peace of mind. I see him tearing balsa wood from up under the street and chucking it into styrofoam towers, which crumble. I see the SUVs that swerved to pass him run into walls, deflating the cars and the walls while the drivers run screaming with ketchup pulsing from the real wounds in their necks. This is where my poem was – more or less. My poem had Groucho gleeful – “Groucho skips, Groucho skips, Groucho skips,” it said, “down the streets throwing rocks at cars...” – the melodies of my naive poem's schoolboy nihilisms never broke enough – “In Groucho's perfect world every day would be spent disrupting traffic, smashing bugs and ******* everywhere,” it said because it was too young to understand, because it had no void, and could offer no revolt from meaning – revolution being radical agency expressed through violence against every order, hatred for every structure including itself – in Groucho's perfect world really there is no language and no one knows what happens after all.
            Lingering is the thought that Groucho means something – lingering is the vaguest, most insistent and warlike imprint of a metaphor on Groucho's face, ineffably moving me to continue but Groucho is no friend, and Groucho is not with me, because the Groucho of the mind is not Groucho, Groucho hates the mind, and Groucho negates all possible Groucho's so the imprint is not Groucho's. The ghost is a misquote, the poem is a misquote, the letters are a misquote, I am a misquote – and this is a misquote too. His cigar (growing bigger) is puffing out that white cloud smoke but still I can see him – the smoke just goes into the space around us, the space that redacts and recreates itself every time I consider it – a copy of an 18th copy, with only Groucho remaining in all iterations, like the borders of a decomposed jpeg quietly losing logic. Groucho the lie, Groucho the memory – a man shaped around the falsity of metaphor and language – floats, as subject, through my memory – punctum with no point, void. Here he is – naked, a stark black silhouette I'd never claim. He's staring, but he's not staring at me because I'm not there. What's left is overstated nothing – the ghost of a man who negated logic, left in the mind of a poet who has long since given up on the man, and soon will give up on the poem.”
There is nothing left here. I am alone, I am dizzy – overcome with boredom.  I want to say, “Groucho is not here, was not, cannot be here” – I know instead I need to end on a mute point.
formatting is wonk for this one anywhere except libreoffice. It's always prose but there it's prose with cool spacing (which is to say it fills exactly a page in 12 point times new roman font single-spaced)
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Let's not make this long speech
    my best moment to reach
    Casablanca-*******
Day in and Craker Jack out what!!
Please the kiss needs to be longer__

The piano plays incredibly stronger
So short the "Cheez Wiz" visit

Oh! My the lovely edible dish
The long wish
too long its been
way too longare we short on

The strawberry short cake
Please make no mistake
   ******* Barrel crackers
I am Jamming sweet grape jam
Orange marmalade home run slam
New Orleans  Southern hospitality
Don't rain on my parade

    Robin-Tweet
C-R-A-c-k-E-Rs
Cozy-Real
A++ Collection can't be beat
King Eternity the Queen *******
Cheese deck what a home wreck
Green Guacamole animal
 crackers green Scrooge

"Long story Witchcraft"
The spell his magic fingers
French Tickler ******* winner
Those finger foods gift matcher
She sees little red riding hood
Getting the right Judge Judy
homemade Country fudge

VIP ******* may I RIP cracked
the code computer hacker
Afterthought but don't
come towards me she's bulletproof
It's today coffee dark swirls
Proud Mary got cracked mug
I only have eyes for
      Sunny

The Leap jump for all
Easter bunny
Long appetizers in her tray
The longer the wait like the
Meisers
The same star how I
met all the losers

Moms *******
Saltine stuffing
I am longing for English crackers
Like a ritual, out of time lips chuckle
Sweet Berry cheeks and lovely dimples
This life will burn and crumble

Over crumbled crackers?

Dog wear collars of polka dots
Vacation spot Meditterian crockpots
by the sea
Sea salt sprinkling saltine
over the shoulder, good luck
Feeling love sick her revolver
crackers to meet her four leaf clover

This is not only__New York City
  "Apricot" cracked wheat dot dot
What white as a sheet
Longshot transformation
To the Stepford wifes
Robot desperately seeking crackers
The best honey milk

 bedroom eyes like
Star shape crackers
the ship watch your salty lip
The shepherd's pies short skirts
Vampires blood jelly
Be Jolly Santa's baby *******
wicked plot "Santa Claus"
*** of gold belly at a glance

Cheesecake Factory
Trampling over crackers
What a time for a boycott
What fine attribute of
girl scouts
Getting blondie
brownie points

Someone passed her
screen test mirror mirror
cracked the glass shot
Astronaut gravity goes insanty
The third eye three reasons

"Soap Opera Diamonds"
three times got cracked
*** matters lips sensually
Madonna Vogue
The oyster's long love rumors
She just loves her jelly roll and
Mr. Graham crackers

Just appreciate those cracked
wheat ladies
Sesame melba toast short top
of the crack
Whats the matter?
With your daughter
He longs for her divine crackers
That's another short chapter

They crack up those actors
The writer needed to
find more movie extras
Groucho mark with
joke of crackers
The jackpot was hard to hit
Everyone was better to
crack the safe long neck
My lady Giraffe*

The true lover's knot
Your poem is worth the shot
Astronaut I brought you
The perfect flight the men
with the mustache
The salt and pepper shaker
Elvis the King is shaking
Long shot ******* butter fingers
Happy Holiday to all
This is a long shot to wherever you want to go but I cracked the safe what crackers can actually do it is a long shot we arent through
Every now and then
I go deep inside my mind
Just to have a little rest
And see what I can find
I don't go in there often
It dark and I must say
That sometimes I'm afraid
That I may lose my way

There's a little corner café
Where Groucho sits alone
Stan Laurel sits there writing gags
And Greta Garbo sits and moans
Sinatra sings for all of them
John Lennon talks to God
Brian Jones gives swimming lessons
There's Liz Taylor and Mike Todd

Over in the distance
At a table in the corner
Hemmingway sells movie scripts
To mogul man Jack Warner
Elvis does a hip shake
Ruth and Gherig playing catch
Bud and Lou do Who's on First
Humphrey Bogart lights a  match

Charles Dickens playing darts
A red balloon comes floating by
Andy Warhol sits with Nico
Where German pop songs go to die
Marilyn and James Dean
Sit quietly talking on the stairs
John Kennedy and his brother Bob
Just pretend that they are both not there

Chico  plays piano and
Harpo  with his  harp
Bad jokes float around the room
being told by silent stars
Phil Everly and Phil Ramone
They're new here so they're woozy
Sit talking of the songs they'll miss
Rick Nelson sings of Susie

You see it is a mad mad place
in my head when I may wander
I don't go in too deep
And I've  met Henry Fonda
There's images, and icons
Family, and  friends
on a little street inside my head
That's a circle with no ends
Robin Carretti Dec 2016
He's singing
Bergdorf Blonde
Conde Nast Traveller
Rude or ****
Explode Bombshells.
He's singing I'm getting
married
Such a Pushover puppet?

Slave over the silken magnet
Oh so swift and swell let
the show begins

Those ritual love sin's
Miss Polly String smile say cheese
He's the Maneater enticing grins
His Trump Tower bell?
Oh! Hello Poetry
People like twin packing
Playgirl smooching
her lips pillow talk

The puppet stalk
their suitcases, but surprisingly
she falls down and trips
Play up your string's
Love act of rings
Her killer lace went into his face.
They all had a puppet inside.

A daredevil ride
Nowhere to hide
Las Vegas Nevada,
Like no other place.
She was in her prime
Diva,
Donna so Dollie, he had
a craving bank her they all
had to thank him
The foursome the Follie's
Do him
Torn to be so trendy
Such a spendy

Walmart of walnuts
Two amazing dollies
She's the magazine of
Italian Fendi.
Pulling her hair more flair
The whole shebang cashew's
Pushed by his split so
picky pecans.
How it went to her
Big little liar nephew's.
Like puppet curfews
  Hello, Poetry New.
The white wedding blue's
Magnifying big lip's.
He needed a Holly-doll
The next clue?
Silk strings taped up
That puppet took a mighty
long trip...

Did I say plastic puppet is real porcelain skin faces?

Playgirl's cries needed
a dominating diet
Hefner smoking jacket suit

What a demonstration,
pulling on hemming mini
skirt trims chances
dangerously slim
So condemning
caused a riot.
The other crowd what
Oscar Meyer Wiener.
Going to the Vet doggie collar he
was tied to be fit silk suit
Las Vegas show trainers.
Who got caught with the puppet
Honey tricked peanut butter playgirl
Puppet show went all hobbit
over "Twitter" mixed whirl
        
What a nut sometimes you feel
like a nut
sometimes you won't and she
knows you don't

The rest going to H---.
Must I B dreaming?

He's singing I'm your puppet man,
Elephant nose cleaned out the planter's
Such a big spender and tipper.
Brooklyn his name Lucas @ the circus!

Like a physic knows your inner thoughts,
hanging on a string.
Everything that comes out of his mouth is two!

I have a puppet surfing the internet
wrapped her around
Felt an undercurrent_ it was
like pieces of glass
soundproof,
his crafty fingers.

Is he doing the best he can?

He's pulling her madly
Puppet computer search
Penny the dreadful
He expects us to jump when
he's oversexed active
looking for his puppet chair,
in the back.
A ****-day puppet!
He's the pig face twilight zone
muppet's
Well doing the can-can two
Playgirl's
hit the fan
The puppets became
the Gentleman

  Playgirl's shuffling "Rose" deck
   Hollywood screen bedding
    Puppets skillful  making

        The Poem Day.
         Puppets pray
         String cheese display

Obsessed stories Puppets.

Playgirl's color gypsy Rose Leah  
Miss Natalie from the woods preach
Silken Marionette.  
So wrapped like someone's gift
But used thrifty bed
He's in his red-hot Corvette.
Instead of roses, his thing french brie
Stock market up and away tie
I rather have my pasta bow-ties
Swiss, the air she's the playgirl
  Swiss Alp's skiing
he ripped his pant's Swiss Alps hole.
Marilyn Monroe playgirl presidential
dancing on the Christmas pole
Love tropic Pineapple dole
  The bed red hot Corvette. console

Instead of roses, his thing was cheese.
"So Swiss" with holes of lace my face
I hate to burst your cheese,
He dragged his shirt open

Twice the fun playgirl she eloped
I became his string cheese pet!!
I'm not your string cheese.
Hello Godzilla, puppet collection
Bella bella Genie mozzarella

"Puppet overpriced sales
All your friends are a puppet male.
Make a wish blowfish

In all the year how I tracked men's nuts,
she had to string together nut job's,
eat a string cheese.
Polly didn't want animal crackers,
Groucho became like a ******.

The puppet master showing
his game piece
and pull on someone else's
This is kinda playful and with quite strings of an edge
st64 Jul 2016
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
  


Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children



Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana



Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims

She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother



Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts



What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin

Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare



What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it



So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon



You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!



Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!



Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
howdy :)
Charlie Chaplin, set the pace
Buster Keaton, old stone face
Groucho and the brothers Marx
Margaret Dumont for some sparks
Harold Lloyd, The Brothers Ritz
Did I mention Zazu Pitts?
Stan and Ollie, Keystone Cops
Chases that just wouldn't stop
The Stooges, Larry, Curly, Moe
and then theres Shemp and Curly Joe
Bing and Bob, and Dean and Jerry
Two could sing, while two made merry
Bud and Lou and who's on first?
Harry Langdon and Charlie Chase
I think who is on first base
Mabel Normand and Mack Swain
Always tied before the train
Pie fights, slapstick in black and white
This was when we laughed all night
Mack Sennet, Roach, and Our Gang
Spanky and Alfalfa sang
Words were twisted, spun and turned
People splashed and others burned
Remember back to days of yore
To when they had you on the floor
Rembember Baby Rose Marie
She started at the age of three
Many more could make the list
For many I know that I missed
Make 'em laugh and take a pie
Get sprayed with seltzer in the eye
Go and watch their films again
So comedy will always reign
Thank you to the funny folk
Who taught us how to take a joke....
Jae Elle Mar 2012
my 30 gb iPod

the garter from my senior prom

a tiny golden cross that had
faith & hope
inscribed into it

the base to my son's car seat

& his monkey mirror

my husband's suit jacket

& seven years of my
life written into
various paper journals
with colored covers



these were all stolen in the
first car I ever owned

her name was Lydia
"She was the most glorious creature
under the sun."


that comes from a
Groucho Marx song if
you didn't know

my Papa used to sing it to
me all the time

anywho

she was a 2000 Dodge Neon
painted black

two stickers on the back
"COEXIST"
and
"SUPPORT THE ARTS
KISS A MUSICIAN"

I got her my first year
of college from
a man who's like a father
to me

we've been through many a
busted radiator hose
& flat tire

last summer my husband was on his way
to work when Lydia gave out on him
so he left her at the side of K-15 and MacArthur
in Wichita
& told the cops not to tow her away
'cause he'd be back for her

when he returned after his shift
she was gone
nowhere to be found
a vanishing act of pure mental hell
& unanswered questions
to this day



I miss her terribly.
spysgrandson Jan 2015
once a collage
hung on a wide white wall  
with monochrome photos of  
all creatures great and small  

Dali juxtaposed with Doris Day,
LBJ atop JFK, and Joe DiMaggio,
grinning Frankenstein and frowning
Frank Sinatra, not far below

Hemingway, Groucho Marx, Marlon Brando  
occupying three of four corners, the bottom right
a curious cat, in stretched repose

dead center, a cracked crucifix
and four Beatles all, Paul the biggest
with the cross crowning his frame    

a Corvette,
and Stalin in his tomb  
were also given ample room,
on this black and white piece of art  
as were *******, with cap,
Jimi Hendrix with axe  

another three score
and a couple more, completed
this cacophony of sight, but absent
were J. Bieber, Beyonce, any of the Simpsons
of Fox fame, revealing the artist of this gray masterpiece  
was blissfully blind to cyber sacrilege,
Steve Job’s toys, and the lost soul
of Lindsey Lohan
Inspired by a collage of images used as a cover photo by Joe M. I think you have to be old to relate to this one...
It is with great sadness that I must announce that wit has withered and died. Actually, it probably died years back, but, like a character on a soap opera, it returns in flashbacks on occasion.

The ability to use wit to insult, as Will Rogers, Dorothy Parker, and the great writers of the past is no more. The use of wit to make someone leave feeling good about themselves, while having just been put in their place verbally, is an art.

I told someone the other day that he was a veldt of intellect, he didn’t know what veldt meant, I could see from the complete look of “duh” on his face. He told me *******….and then after I laughed, he said it again.

This is the replacement comeback now….*******. Witty…at the least. Groucho Marx, was great with the witty comeback, Noel Coward was a genius with his ability to use wit to disarm a situation. Now, *******. yep….that’s it.

If, wit has a resurgence and there is a verbal afterlife, let’s hope ******* is left at the door, holding a copy of watchtower.
Shaded Lamp Aug 2014
All that will remain is bones and rotting meat
Toss it in a cheap wicker box for worms to eat
Topped just with wild flowers and no cement
Plant a weeping willow instead of a monument
It can do the weeping, please don't you cry
There is a chance that I'll be busy when I die
For if I am wrong and there is life after this
I have plans with whom I'll dine and reminisce
I'll be dining with Oscar Wilde and Caravaggio
Cocktails and conversation with Kant and Plato
Then with Bellini, Verdi and Rossini I'll take a Show
An interval tipple and discourse with Rousseau
An after party with Bakunin and Proudhon
Whisky and blues with Howlin Wolf til I'm gone
I shall breakfast the next day with Tz'u Hsi, Homer and Malcolm X
And take morning coffee with Gandhi and Marc Bolan from T.Rex
At noon a spicy ****** Mary with Mary Queen of Scots,
Freddie Mercury, Lou Reed, Picasso and lots of tequila shots
Lunch that day with Saladin, Karl and Groucho Marx
Then smoke a pipe with Newton whilst discussing quarks
Afternoon tea with Queen Victoria, Kipling and Colin Ward
Followed by a game of Tafl with a viking on a giant board
Dress for flamenco with Carmen Amaya (then dress the blisters)  
Then pre-dinner drinks paid for by Geronimo and the Bronte sisters

So you see, if I'm wrong
And we actually move along
A fascinating after life awaits me

Yeah, when I'm gone from here
There'll be plenty gin and beer
Cucumber sandwich's and tea

If you wonder what I'm doing
Give your watch a quick viewing
Then just check this poem and you'll see
Just in case
Robin Carretti Jun 2018
We’re walking through magnetic fields.

We approach the stop sign yield.

How lovely someone’s name
“WC Field”

Bondman what a con man.

Going West “May I May West” I’m a fan.

What names do we like the best?

Rosetta, she keeps smiles and

gets wet-a his eyes tell her

he’s in the sunset to get her

Someone to bond “At-Last”

The different era desperate housewife.

One is Rosetta meets one of her friends

Violet-ta what drama Ra Rata

Frank Sinatra says well that’s life.

Holding two names eyes of a magnet

in one hand.Powerful love garnet

God’s name expressed love command

So sacred in a new land.

Rosetta please get your friend.

He addresses her as a poinsettia.

Garlands Of Judy extend.

The poinsettia his finger points

until Emma visits hum?
What is she up too?

She is quite the dilemma give her the evil eye.

The violin sounds Heather lilac meets Violet-ta.

Beatles play with “Sweet Loretta.”

Sipping Camilla Cafe I want to hold your hand.

She marries her best man best-spilled the margarita.

How’s Rebecca organically has grown to Omega?

Movie star suspenseful Marx Garbo so Groucho.

What a pain Mr. Panetta eating his
words Mucho gracias

Shark -fin soup Chinese delicacy.

He bite’s the bruschetta his ballot Presidency.

How he expressed A secret Emma the Emmy

Got caught in a big Dilemma with Remy

The wrong ***** of a vendetta

Smell the coffee wake up you betta or else?

That computer mouse true or false.

Billy Joel stranger met his counterfeiter

Going Uptown girl sings on his piano expressed A

comment to kiss her.
But you’re a stranger?

Rumors with leaks of plumber’s Raven birds.

Don’t flood my words.

A perfect rose how he gave it to Rosetta.

We need more names what about Tatiana.

I saw her dancing at the “Copacabana Wella.”

A-Men that’s how I met Rosetta.
This his all names maybe this will wet someone whistles so many names not enough time  who do we really blame for having the most unusual name
j carroll Oct 2013
one time it was two am and i was outside a bar
when the air was just crisping from its summer bake
and naked trees matched shivering girls in micro-dresses
you asked if i lived in the city
i was a pumpkin-beer-drunken, kohl-smeared mess
so i grinned sloppily and fumbling, lit a cigarette
while i replied "for now"
how ******* mysterious am i?
i am patronizing this well-meaning boy in a polo shirt
but thank god for liquor cause luckily
he laughed and snorted smoke out his nostrils
"heading somewhere?"
i took another drag and exhaled
maybe for emphasis?
am i that ******* contrived?
"i'm thinking australia?"
there that felt sincere
did it look sincere?
and he asks why of course he asks why and now
i can laugh and say
"it's very far away"
because jesus christ i need to pretend i have depth i guess
i'm a mirage begging for substance
he taps his cigarette and grins at the ground
"running away from problems?" he asks, suddenly mischievous
i try to match his smile but i have to think fast because
i don't have the kind of problems that make you run away
my family is loving, big, rooted
my friends are devoted, they better me
i could stay in comfort if i had the patience but
my feet just want new pavement
and my eyes are snow-blind by now
so i demure, i think.
if that eyebrow quirk and downcast gaze
is what demurring is
captain morgan chucks my chin and i am
all smiles again
i stick the cigarette in my lips and spread my
arms wide
"i prefer to think of it as running towards different problems."
i smile the way i know shows off my dimples
because i can't help but be a facade
i guess he's charmed because he texted me a few times
for the next few weeks
until my silence
exhausted his interest
he failed the test marx talks about
no not that one
groucho
i don't want anyone who would want me
since i'd rather be a story
sooner a paper-thin memory
than an illusion revealed.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2014
upon being invited to add to a collection here called Brokenness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He he
** **
Ha ha

it has been awhile
that I recv'd an invitation
to add to anything
or join a club,
just like Groucho (Marx)
worth being invited to...

but when yours arrived,
I chuckled and jived,
for this broken biz
be an area of expertise,
about which I gladly can opine,
since most of which I contact,
is inevitably in that state demised,
marriage, children and other trifles

so to the topic at hand, let say but this,
if not eloquently, then perhaps,
gravely, for that is where the
broken pieces oft call home
or cemetarily. a final resting place...

perhaps you were unaware,
there are 449 poems in attendance,
where the word brokenness
doth appear
in this sanctuary of broken children
and adults too,
easy discovered in the memory of
Hello Poetry

but this will not be, I hope, the
four hundred and fiftieth
as I decided to nomenclature this oeuvre
as Brokeness, with but a single N,
since a good N
can be hard to find,
why use two
when one will do?

if a faithful ecrivant thee be,
you won't be shocked that there are
so many Brokenness in this world,
the dictionary doth recognize its multiplicity
as a word legit, accepting as a plurality*

brokennesses!

which is a whole lot of broke

so let us poets to the process repair,
with a tikkun here, a tikkun there,
a tikkun everywhere

so that the healing never ends
and that someday we will delete
all words of humanity in disrepair,
let the broken be the unbroken,
and let's all say amen
and get started...

Ogdiddynash
Wikipedia
Tikkun olam (Hebrew: תיקון עולם or תקון עולם[1]‎) is a Hebrew phrase that means "repairing the world" (or "healing the world") which suggests humanity's shared responsibility to heal, repair and transform the world. In Judaism, the concept of tikkun olam originated in the early rabbinic period. The concept was given new meanings in the kabbalah of the medieval period and has come to possess further connotations in modern Judaism.[2]

9/11/14
Time moves on as I do too
I felt I had to come to you
I only came to bid adieu
Hello, I must be going

I came here once so I could say
I am here but can not stay
I said goodbye, in my own way
Hello, I must be going

I am here as you can see
I have to say, it can not be
I have to leave, it's time to flee
Hello, I must be going

I'd love to stay and join the fun
Stay here all night, at least till one
But I'm here to say, I have to run
Hello, I must be going

There's nothing you can do or say
Not one thing will make me stay
I'm telling you, I'm on my way
Hello, I must be going

Now, I leave and shan't return
There's lot's of things you need to learn
I'll exit with a spry left turn
Hello, I must be going

I am Groucho, as you see
My characters are part of me
I sing to you this time with glee
Hello...I must be G O I N G! (again)
Donall Dempsey Dec 2017
A BIRD SOMEWHERE SINGS

He smiled.
Death smiled too.

Took a tiny sip of water.
As did Death.

Death now
mimicking his every movement.

Shadowing him.
Becoming him.

....in time.

Death stared
out of the mirror.

But the man didn't
recognise

that this was
his death.

He had only 2 minutes
left to live.

The man went on doing
some insignificant

ordinary things.

D.I.Y.
finally getting around to it.

Death copying the least
gesture

like a comedy duo
in a vaudville act.

Each little tic
exact.

Like Groucho.
Like Harpo.

Death lying on the floor.
Adopting the same posture.

Arms flung out.
Eyes staring up

...into the nothing.

The radio keeps on
talking.

The phone
rings.

A bird
somewhere sings.
Anais Vionet Dec 2023
I received a re-invitation email this morning. A ‘come on, why don’t you want to?’ note that struck me as odd. See, I’ve been ‘tapped’ for a couple of final clubs at Yale. It can happen if you earn top grades and interact easily with male friends by day (the crew club scene is ol’ school patriarchal).

Three of my roommates have been tapped - for one thing or another. The upper-crust, traditional networks and secret societies are a huge part of why young men and women choose Ivy League schools.

I’m not talking about frats - I enjoy flippant misogyny as much as the next breasted-American and really, does “Yo bruh,” sloppy binge drinking, and ****** assault ever really get old? Yeah, it kind-of does.

And I’m not talking about the more open and popular ‘eating clubs’ - no - I’m on-about the elite social orders that enjoy a subversive and exclusive appeal.

Some students desperately want to be ‘IN’ and believe those memberships prove they’ve somehow ‘made it’. Let’s face it, someday - if you can’t actually earn it - that skull & bones handshake might open some doors.

I’ve attended a few meetings, meals, and parties in “tombs” (in upstairs libraries and houses) around New Haven, but I guess I’m just not a ‘joiner.’ Groucho Marx once said that he wouldn’t want to be a member of any club that would have someone like him as a member, maybe that’s it for me too.

Anyway, this harangue is sponsored by the glower that that silly email put on my face.
“What’s the matter?” Leeza asked, seeing my expression.
It reminded me of watching people ****-up and ‘social mountain climb’ to get into my grandmère’s (boring) circle. If your club is so exclusive (email sender), why on God’s confused earth would you want me?

Hey, I like parties, dances and hanging out with eskimos - but I'm a pre-med student and the time/value equation just doesn't stack up for me - I’ve got the M-CAT tests next summer and prepping for those has taken over my life.

It’s ironic though, how by day students at Yale go-on about ‘elitism’ - in stylized outrage - and then by night they strain to join these crew clubs.

slang...
final clubs = elite clubs and secret societies
eskimos - really cool people
crew = elite (crewing is seen as a sport for the elite)
(*BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Glower: a look of sullen annoyance or anger*)
Rob-bigfoot Dec 2021
The Poet of the World
Has nothing to lose, but their chains
Poets of the World unite!

Thanks Groucho!

© Robert Porteus
Fun
When did fifty shades of grey,
become an accurate description of my face?
Rob-bigfoot Feb 2022
Poets of the World!
Be creative, shed your chains
Unite and publish!

Apologies to brothers Karl and Groucho!

© Robert  Porteus
Another rewritten haiku. Made a right hash of the first attempt. Always willing to learn from mistakes
I'm a stand on top, while I'm at the bottom of the rock, my dock,
Of the bay, yo what they say, what they say, I'm a spit it like Otis,
Driving in a Lotus, yosef dont loose focus, magic ****, hocus pocus,
Who could out loc us, I'm Frank Lucas blaze my soul to the buddha,
Getting mad Goudda, that's cheese so just relax and breath,
So you can recieve, the deadly intrigue, empresses I breed,
Check the sights of my seeds, even could be felt in the afterlife needs,
My babies, it's so crazy, I'm off the head like JFK or MLK,
Wait excuse me for that say, mercy mercy mercy, Lord just dont curse me,
I know the hearses around me, sharks leeching for me,
But ain't blood to see, in the seas, I lay more rhymes than the trees,
To leaves, on the branches, sticking to my membrane, so insane,
Go against the grain, black Caesar, bruise a chick, cuz I'm a pleaser,
Ghost as Ebenezer, after im done, then I'm a leave her, leave her,
Make her a believer, its G O D status legendary, take sin to my cemetery,
It's all gravy, this for my lady, chicana loca baby let's cha cha,
Standin like the Godfather, haters kiss my rings, while I make a sting,
Selling y'all careers, while my money soak up ya tears, no fear,
I'm living by, how when I'm the pie, fools chasing crumbs only left to die,
Grimy source, mixtape corpse, but watch me bring back a life source,
Of course, I'm chilling in Belize low breeze, wife beater and my khakis,
No longer chasing keys, I got the master key, to unleash all of misery,
Company, cops cant even touch me, I'm free like Cosby, tried to rob me,
Causing I called dibs on NBC, black man crucified for the industry,
Shady me, I'm just another bear, stingy with the honey, word to the Commies,
Groucho Marx personality, so why yall cats tryna battle me,
I'll leave ya thoughts on E, that's empty that means bullets shooting freely,
Deliver like Mr McFeely, in ya neighborhood and there I stood,
Holding my black wood, cigarillo I hold so thoro, haters still gotta borrow,
Just to make it glow, yo I spit it from the soul, dig the divine vessels,
Yall taking steroids, but still got no muscle, trust I could out touch,
Any ******* on the beat, I could **** a beat, and not get charged,
On a repeat, thats double jeopardy bombarded ya legacy,
I'm a mic barbarian, following the gusto of wind, theres war up again, again,
time for me to position,
Catch Kyle listening, tell me when to snipe within, my range it's so strange,
How muthafuckas use ya name, but barely know ya name,
I could light a flame, of a frame without proper aim, danger man,
Mystical with the principle, I draw thoughts from the spiritual, homicidal,
Cant escape the visual, cover the issue, break bread from here to Brussells,
Fools I slide like Byron Russell,  watch for the MJ when I take the game away,
Its blood on the horn, watch for the thorn, circling in the eye of storm,
I walk straight, amongst the rap turbulence true artist, signed independent,
See the distance, got em breaking see em shaking, got em baking,
Ya bodies oven, 380 degrees which means, you caught the germs, of the deaths sneeze, please believe,
I'm climb to top like Clark, Expedition see these haters whispering,
Mumbling cuz they know I be crumbling, iron micz, blow like dynamite,
Beirut up on ya sight, it's like that, so be ready to fight for a might,
I battled shogun, with hoochie nuns, drink crown, and chew bubblegum,
I'm on a different drum, follow the voices that hum, slain a kingdom,
See the outcome, theres too many laying in the battlefield, best fights I've held, without raising my shield,
Yeah and that's real, 48 laws of original power, minds I devour,
A lion airing out these cowards, I draw more critics Stern like Howard,


P
Acme Jul 2020
A pound of flesh an ounce of truth
  scales of justice fool our youth.
  Hammer and sickle we all embrace.
  The clingers gone without a trace.
  I'll die without complaint for Marx.
  We change the world with red sparks.
Jester Aug 2018
Entice us with the future
Move to the music

Livin in the past is done and gone now I want somethin new

You call it eclectic
I say that's it electric
Aint got time to lie and hate that's why imma get elected.

Weekend doesn't end when you with the crew-
Hit the street, cruise the strip and let the air in your lungs.

This is the life you always want and but never took, the one you always bordered
I say its just what the doctor ordered.

Bull by the horns
Aint got no time to get caught up in the thorns.

Movin past you, movin up this quality of life
I left the traffic now you late to work
History is written by the winners
its sad for you that you're still missin them chicken dinners.

I move on authority that's how I was raised just to keep
individuality.

The week is here and home is where the heart is,
its why I march to my own drum much like Tommy Lee is .

I spray paint freedom on a wall
make a mural out of self expression
only way to fight through this depression.

Left the mark sayin Kilroy was here
Expressionist like Klee
Marxist like Groucho
I don't wanna rant so I''ll leave that to Harpo.
a limning rush of sinister
     fiery angry flames bent avast
analogous copse,
     where every limb bough, bore full

     roaring furnace hot blast
spewing weighty incendiary volcanic
     magmatic eruption out classed

Krakatoa, no longer the benchmark,
     sans most powerful trajectory arc
this latest supernatural phenomena poetic
     pre sent dent trumpeting not don
     shearing, slamming,

     and stripping off tree bark
(most definitely paging the innocuous Clark
Kent, where like loess lain
     during Pleistocene Epoch
     rendered, manifested dark

kenning shroud likened
    to world wide webbing em brace
where lava floes easily did
     (like a poetic souped up Chevy)
     out to chase innocent prey
smoothing over (akin to mason,

     or gigantic glazier) clearly shining deface
of planet Earth with a smooth glassy like face
though starkly barren, bereft, bilked
     every last trace of civilization
     nonetheless exhibiting amazing grace

which global catastrophic event poo tin brake
fast upon ONE haughty, egoistic
     arrogant **** Sapiens chief drake
particularly ***** king machine "FAKE"

superman usurping free reign crowning himself
     totalitarian American tyrant,
     bare ring his right arms
emulating gesticulation sans dictatorship

     of the Proletariat make
pact with credo of Karl, Harpo,
     Groucho, and Chico Marx,
     where mortals DID NOT quake
especially empowered youths
     asper grassroots action they did take.
A pound of flesh an ounce of truth
  scales of justice fool our youth.
  Hammer and sickle we all embrace.
  The clingers gone without a trace.
  I'll die without complaint for Marx.
  We change the world with red sparks.
Courtesy of Marx (albeit Zeppo,
Harpo, Groucho, and Chico), whose
acts (along Seuss iz Zacks Fifth
Avenue) brought generations of
laughter to Vaudeville, and then
the Silver Screen adlibbed, linkedin,
and ransacked skits zoid material
Bing very loosely based on his best
known writings (Oh *** Yet Of The

Masses) by Karl Marx (no relation
to Bros Grin), and Friedrich Engels
whar they **** instrumental qua
Cingular Capitalone political philosophy
paradigm as spit, and (shoe) shining,
seducing, and salivating players trans

formed Msn Netzero Linkedin Petsmart
Aleck outlook and pinterest, when their
collective insight did cents how masses
(i.e. bourgeois) took a rakish (otherwise)
up standing Norwegian bachelor farmer
for comic relief to break monotony of
agrarian obligations, and serve up one

heaping healthy portion per production,
sans whatever whims would crop
up by infusing thespian showdown
incorporating commune nic cache shun
(disproportionate) app peals studded terrain
with locked havens avast re shtetl ment.

Hoi Polloi re: common folk in sore need
of distraction and belief in a brighter side
of life, than saliva dehydrating brute nose
to the grindstone pathetic existence, yoked
as oxen to plows, where plodding tattered

shod feet scraped a pencil thin line, whence,
seeds sprinkled into futile ruts forecast angry
birds to shutterfly, twittering like bada$$
beastie boys Dharma bumming while On
The Tyellow Brick Road.

Inn ascent bystanders avian avatars initially
supposedly sprung from ergot, mushroom
and/or **** spores, whereas the myth of
one mortal idol (Matthew Scott Harris) did
rival Vladimir Ilich (frequently corrupted into

I gotta n itch) Lenin, where alien archeologists
from outer limits of the twilight zone unearthed
(com) bust stubble rubble yes likeness of Guy
Richie Rich Noir, whose couture, the best skid
row wardrobe.

He sported longish wavy (fluffy when washed
once every fort McHenry night), which character
wrist ticks evoked Chaplinesque down on his
luck Dickensian doddering dude, who cast an

immediate vagabond er dishabille, he happened
to be plenti none the poorer and ranked near
top Facebook listing of Forbes Plenty Of Fish
list, and whose trivial pursuit with flickr ring
idea to GoLong.

As a poet by fashioning his adversity into discord
ant clumps of clichés, facsimiles, idiomatic limply
mixed metaphors in a per verse manner reflecting a
discombobulated egghead delivered an ova night
fashionable fame, though syrup prize zing lee met
with profound success, and bore fruit of the loom

(one of his countless “FAKE” offspring’s begotten
unbeknownst to him iz this schlepper) constitutes
this blimey dorky and fluky guy, whose weakness
when communicating about extemporaneously usually
leaves the reader like totally tubularly confused like
ha cool and totally tubularly groovy man.
Riding on wisdom saddles,
Looking at those in a babble,
Social media, bubble heckles,
Souls spotted like a speckle,
I can't help what I seen,
Can't unseen what I saw,
My soul is so keen, to the unseen,
Universal signs of law,
Angels blowing trumpets like satchmo,
With a humor like Groucho,
Marks this day in age,
Another turn from the page,
In the day of life, closed in on strife,
Death cuts like a knife,
Deep inside, we try to hide,
But we can't hide, forever,
Life and death can't be severed,
Fading footprints, of the unconscious,
Talks of nonsense,
Trying live up to that and this,
But life goes on and on,
These media freaks have us leeched on,
To less of right, and more to wrong,
It's just that same sad song,
Repeating in our carnal minded heads,
Everyday we make our beds,
Walk out into a world,
Where no words are said,
Spiritually dead, in a mental coffin,
To often, I feel the soften,
Acting with a heart of stone,
But deep down, they're alone,
Waiting for the day of atone,
Another place where only, the
Angels roam,
I see three heavens along,
The side of the earth,
Lighted beings, being dimmed,
As Azreal, makes his trim,
Fear not, those who **** the body, but rather the soul and energy,
Who am I, I am he and he is, an imagine of me, the darkest energy,
Move only by the multiples of three,
Six and nine trilogy,

"So mote it be"
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
A BIRD SOMEWHERE SINGS

He smiled.
Death smiled too.

Took a tiny sip of water.
As did Death.

Death now
mimicking his every movement.

Shadowing him.
Becoming him.

....in time.

Death stared
out of the mirror.

But the man didn't
recognise

that this was
his death.

He had only 2 minutes
left to live.

The man went on doing
some insignificant

ordinary things.

D.I.Y.
finally getting around to it.

Death copying the least
gesture

like a comedy duo
in a vaudeville act.

Each little tic
exact.

Like Groucho.
Like Harpo.

Death lying on the floor.
Adopting the same posture.

Arms flung out.
Eyes staring up

...into the nothing.

The radio keeps on
talking.

The phone
rings.

A bird
somewhere sings.

— The End —