It's June, 1967.
Nature, still lying through
Parsley green teeth,
Breathes the last of spring,
Hints early summer warmth,
Pre-July's cicada whine,
August's heat and wind.

Crops, still tender green
Quiver beneath a humid sky,
Under a glowing sun.

Bicycles amuse our early lust
To soar untraveled ground,
Entering lazy summer's ennui,
We scan a hawk riding drafts
On the edge of our hill.

Dust, drifting up the graveled road,
Five miles below us,
Piques our interest,
Causes the dog to raise his head.
He ***** an ear
Toward a sound we cannot hear.

We hear gravel slapping rocker panels
Before the traveler's roof rises into view,
Catch our breath as the engine slows,
Start running for the house.

A stranger's arrived,
A traveling salesman,
Better than an aunt
Only stopping in for tea
And woman talk.

Dad keeps his welding helmet down,
Repairing broken things.
The hired man inhales his cigarette,
Acts disinterested.

My memories linger on the past....

Salesmen brought the latest farming gadgets:
Additives for fuel and oil,
Battery life extenders,
Grain elevators and fencing tools,
Produce and livestock products,
Lightning rods and roofing,
Chrome-edged cultivator shovels,
Insurance for everything:
Fire, water, wind, hail.

Pitches came without exception:

"Top o' the morning! Looks like you're busy.
Don't want to take your time."

"Looks like you could use some welding rod,
And I have something new for you to try."

"Have you used chromium additive in you livestock salt?
Guaranteed to put on weight and protect from bovine
Tuberculosis!"

"Say, have you heard about the effectiveness of a new
Insecticide called DDT? I've got a sample gallon here
For you to try. Works better than Malathion!"

Dad, eventually intrigued, began the slow dance
Of dickering, haggling over this thing or that.
Most salesmen, closing in for a ****,
Hadn't grappled with my father.

At noon, deals still in the air,
My mother called the men,
And we all trudged in to wash,
Waiting in line at the tub,
Scrubbing with powdered Tide
To remove the grime and grease,
Drying on the darkening towel,
Finding a seat at the table.

The salesmen expected the meal
As though it were their right,
A standing invitation:
Stop in at noon,
Make your pitch,
Sit at table,
Close the deal after.

We boys sat and listened
To man talk.
Eyes wide, we marveled
At gadgets,
Wondered at Dad's parleying,
Winced at the deals he drove,
Commiserated with squirming salesmen
Surely made destitute by Dad's hard bargaining.

In retrospect,
I know the game was played
On two sides,
That the battery additives
Bought for five dollars a packet,
Even with the two Dad finagled free,
Cost about five dollars for everything,
Returned forty-five and change
To the smirking, full-bellied salesman
Who left a cloud of dust on his way
To supper a few miles down the road.

By: Cedric McClester

They promises us
A chicken in every ***
By telling us things
That are not
Worth a bucket
Of warm snot
I’m sick of them
The whole lot

Simply put
Snake oil salesmen
Will say anything
Just to win
But they’re short
On the deliverable end
Despite the messages
That they send

Promise us anything
But give us Arpege
They embrace issues
That have a wedge
Sometimes their bets
They try to hedge
Before they take us
Over the ledge

Snake oil salesmen
What can I say?
Sell the same ****
Day after day
And they won’t let reality
Get in their way
While we’re being led
Should I say astray?

My mother was
a first generation lesbian.
My father,
a first generation divorcee.
His father was the one child
of a public school teacher.
He found my grandmother at 18.
A farm child, one of seven.
A painter, a baker.
My mother's father
a single boy to three sisters.
His aggressive masculinity
kept the line clear and thick.
He found my mother's mother at 17.
A middle of seven Pentecostal children.
A beauty queen, an agoraphobic.
Each had five children.
The door-to-door salesmen/
homemaker and mother of boys duo
bet it all to open a hobby shop.
They were by far the poorest of the
watermelon farming siblings.
They were artists and explorers.
The high school graduate and ladies man,
was a logger before a father.
And the single mother of 25 he left
scarcely left her home at all.
Neither pair made it big.
But they made my father.
A lonely, post middle aged man.
The poorest of his brothers.
A used to be pilot,
and could have been teacher,
a want to be pioneer.
A nuclear family super fan
who never got his way.
And they made my mother.
A nervous, eccentric hippie
who doesn't know how to talk to her siblings.
A woman working her *** off to excel at lower middle class.
A builder, a fighter, a **** good mother.
Even if accidentally so.
She has plans to travel.
He has dreams to live by a lake.
And they made me.
A single girl among three boys.
A quirky, nervous tomboy.
A thinker, a gardener, a climber.
A loser and a dreamer by blood.

I thought Snake Oil Salesmen were
a relic of the past, standing up on a stage dispensing
blatant lies and bogus even dangerous cures for
exaggerated imagined illness and or personal fears.

I thought we ran all of them out of town,
suitably tarred and feathered,
Riding on a hitching post rail.
Perhaps some things never change.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry.
Step right up folks!
In this little bottle, I hold in my hand,
is a magic elixir of my own imagination and invention,
That is absolutely-unconditionally guaranteed
To Make America great again,
All I ask for this be all, cure all, is one small vote
cast for me, crowning me King of all there is."

Now where did we put that rail?

these days
looking around the globe
one might believe that we are travelling in time

just in the wrong direction

regression as progress
seems to be
the dominant notion of the day
creating wannabees in various disguises
     populist czars, sultans, nationalists, dictators,
     assorted self-appointed snake-oil salesmen
     and saviors of their peoples’ wealth and health,
trumpeting fences, walls, tough immigration laws,
etc., etc.  
to keep out all those aliens

     who otherwise are welcome
     as our partners in the global trade
     that seems to dominate the world of greed

so we can all be ourselves

     whatever that might mean

claiming to solve the problems of tomorrow
     with romanticized memories of yesterday
is hopeless and quite dangerous

do you remember
what that glorified past
actually was?

Assembly line broke down as the mirrors crashed and cracked.
"Angelina!!!" the crooked boss man yelled.
"Get in herre" the crook socks rang like bells.
Angelina poured sweat of the yellow blouse she had bought two days before for another interview in another office and another profession altogether. The room spun for her even though she would rather have it stay still.
"How much longer till this mechanism shifts and all of this stops altogether. Have their been madder women then me? Has there been madder men then me? Have their been madder times or are the times the same just with different tools and gears and nuts and bolts to tirelessly continue, heaving the corpses through the concrete cracked and littered streets?"
"Angelina!!!"
Another nail gun dropped to the floor, firing twenty rounds into fifty blue collared men's tie clips, deflecting them all to the near by wall which held the coats, the hats, the work shoes which the men were not allowed to wear due to "safety intrusions" and "labor union by lateral horizontal negative dairy laws". Another unfortunate fortune from the cracked mirror case but that, of course, is not the story, our story is...
"Angelina!!!"
Angy hurried up the hungry, empty metal n' holy stairs. She lost her high heels in a crack in the stairs but left them there due to the fear. 2011 had been a good year until she had been forced by her landlord, also her boyfriend, to get a real job rather then stuffing her knitted socks with her poetry and trying to haggle them to new age modern morons of the hip near sighters whom glasses were unintelligible but necessary. The mirrors of the conveyor belts reached the top of the platform but the door was shut. The mirrors bent and shattered leaving the splintered pattern of the world outside of them multiplied by the millions.
Noon was her lunch break and it was noon oh two. Angelina would be late with her lunch and the landlord, Nick, was planning to stop in with some home made sandwiches and home made potato chips.
"Nick will have to wait." Angelina thought to herself. "Nick hates to wait."
Angelina entered to stand in the wake of a shaking, sweating purse wearing, purse lipped boss boss. His hair was tossed to one side, struggling to hide his baldness. The subtelty of their relationship was difficult considering Angelina had slept with boss boss to get tossed this job. The act was actually enjoyable, Angelina thought him a good lay, but boss boss was not a fun person to be around, and he was a much worser boss.
"Angelina!!!"
"Hi."
"Your FIRED!"
"Bye then sir..."
"ANGELINA!!!"
"Yes sir?"
"AREN'T YOU GOING TO ASK WHY YOU WERE JUST SO HASTILY AND VIOLENTLY FIRED?"
"It is not my place to inquire why I was fired sir. If I was not doing my specific duty well enough I trust you, as my superior, to have thought what this subtraction would do to your company. If I had questioned you I would be questioning yourself as a boss and I would never want to do that...sir."
"VERY GOOD. DISMISSED!!!"

---

"So he just fired you, no explanation, nothing?"
"There was nothing really to say after the fact."
"You could have demanded an explanation."
"I was in a hurry to meet you. I know you hate to be late for our dates."
"That's sweet."
"And boss boss shouldn't have to explain himself, he IS a professional."
"He works in mirrors which doesn't make at all make him a ropes course supervisor."
"He's very handsome when He means what He says."
The home made potato chips had been burnt because Nick had fallen asleep while watching old re-runs of run marathons from the 80's. Nick had trained for the Olympics in 83' but while home after training and drinking an OK shake, Nick had stubbed his toe while drinking the OK shake and trying to get to a ringing telephone. Nick had collided so perfectly, so quickly and with such for that his right big toe had bent all the way back, his big toe fingernail touching the hairy patch on the top of his foot. The doctors said amputate the toe and save the foot or chop the entire thing off altogether. Nick, not being a dumb ****, opted for the entire foot. He never raced again.
"Are you going to try and get your job back?
"I don't know"
"Well. It's the 28th tomorrow and I need the rent either way. The insurance agency I'm with has been bugging me about percentages and utilities and...well, you don't want to hear about my worries."
"I don't mind sweety."
"Thanks doll. What're you gonna do?"
"Find more work I guess. I haven't written anything in a while, maybe it's a good time to get back on that train, see what comes up."
"I saw a help wanted sign at the mall nail salon."

---

Baby stroller wheels lined with pink and grey gum were lined up against the overwhelming glass wall enclosing the shops from the streets. Trees reflected green with the sun light lined across the clear wall. Birds flew at the top of the block near the ceiling crop, they wanted to come in but were confused how to do so. Children came through the valley with lollipops and balloon powder and strings lined with meats, they were headed to the capitalistic circus, a wonder land that only brought guilt from lovers and their future children's shame.
Angelina stood outside the electronic moment to moment receivers. She was afraid of not being allowed entry. Everyone entering entered easily, but what of she? Would she be accepted? Clicking her unpainted fingernail atop her leopard print clip purse and what was worse she had no cash to get her orange Julius or perhaps see a film if she couldn't conjure of the courage to stop off at the salon. That was why she had come here, right?
"Where had the salon been?" Angelina said aloud.
The mass of the mall was vibrating with a ferocious congruity. Through the fog of meaty torso's lay blank and content faces. Gripping their wares, their steaming quick food, some of it dropping to their foot only to be kicked around on the dirtied floor. At times a rat would scurry from underneath a traveling underwear salesmen to grab a piece of fried bread, half cooked meat, or small pieces of children's hair which floated softly down to the wet and mud streaked floor. Mall cops waved their sticks to each other, some kind of HAIL or CHEER that they were the one's in charge round' these parts and there wasn't nothing no one was going to do about it.
"Do I really want to work here?"
There was no choice though. Angelina needed to pay the rent or her landlord/boyfriend would kick her out on the street and from there, she had no clue where the blue sky would take her. Her parents, both dead thirteen years ago, would be a terrible place to set up camp, especially in a graveyard. Angelina's brother lived over seas working at a ***** clinic trying and failing to heal the weak and unwanted. He had tried to heal her through voodoo practices he gathered up drunk through his 6 month stay in New Orleans but it had only given her a bright blue and red rash for three to four weeks. She never longer trusted her brother with any kind of healing or "feel better" techniques and was no prepared to make the trek to Europe anytime soon, she was in a relationship at the moment anyway and she had a feeling she might be in love.
Angelina stepped through the glass exchanging doors in unison with a family that was entering at the same time. The door seemed to open for any body but was tentative if it would accept hers, this time, it seemed to.
Inside she made her way up "the miracle marbled stairs" which shined bright and blinded Angelina in certain parts of her eyes. They flashed bright red and greens and whites so visciously and fast Angelina thought she might have some kind of seizure. She planted her feet directly on each step as she walked up the 20 to 30 stairs, going very slow and gripping the handrail. People started to gather around behind her shouting "HURRY UP LADY" and "WE DON"T GOT ALL DAY" and giggling to themselves.
"Were they not seeing these lights?" Angelina thought to herself.
"Do you kind people know where the nail salon is?"
Angelina then realized that what she had just said made no sense. Her eyes were gripped shut, her hand tight around the shiny gold handrail, her feet pointed strictly out like some kind of paralyzed summer penguin. The people which had gathered behind her stood bare, jaw slacked, wondering who would step forth to help this poor helpless creature.
A little girl with red sparkled shoes and a orange bow atop her head stepped forth. She smiled even though she knew Angelina had her eyes tightly shut, maybe she would feel the warmth? The girl's mother reached for her so not to get to close to that "crazy lady" but the little girl pulled away, her father saying "If it's her time to go, it's her time to go".
"Miss lady with the tiger purse, I think the hardware nail pull on is on the 8th floor next to the people that sell bread with meat sticks inside."
The little girl stepped gingerly back as Angelina loosened her grip on the now stained golden handrail. She shook her hair out and ran her fingers through it, straightening herself up as if she were about to perform a song or late night poetry reading. Angelina opened her eyes and peered down at the girl.
"Thank you little girl. What's the best way to get there?"
The girl child said nothing. She pointed to a large metal box shooting up and down the length that looked like a rocket straight to heaven. People were gathered all around its foundation, oooing and ahhhing at the sight of the one's which entered. There was a sign over the line of tubes reading "A Shot at the Void".
"A shot at the Void..." Angelina tentaively breathed to herself.
Angelina stepped up the last couple glittering stairs and made her way through the thick crowd of stale clothes, cheap tricks, obsessed teeny boppers, hardware for wear, shoes with no laces, strips of bacon hanging from mouths, lettuce all shredded, soda cans with their lids torn clean off with small splatters of blood lined on the rim, and a perfectly painted fingernail was drawn on the number eight where the long lines and rows of numbers were there to guide the one's to the shot.
"Number eight. Easy enough"
Angelina pushed the button.

---

Inside the tube there was a slow light hum of jazz transfusion and children breathing. There were three little daughters gripping their mother's hands as they bit into their soda pop straws, ******* up the soda inside the plastic and cardboard cups. All three children stared up at her, maybe wondering what she was wondering, which was exactly what Angelina was wondering, a combination of mistaken telepathy, an accident of consciousness that would be never be talked about between the four of them but most surely existed between them.

Smooth as clay they drifted up the translucent clear glass tube, shooting skyward like a man made rocket shot from a man made gun. They passed shops hocking wears of angelic colors: clear pearl pastels shone through the clear blue glass shining into Angelina's eyes forcing Her to squint, dog barks could be heard through the whistling air begging for treats of black and brown, teriyaki chicken strips and duck heads spun absurdly fast with a rhythm that resembled the wave of a crowd at a baseball game waving wildly like children flying from swings never wanting to land in the sand; all this as the three and one flew higher and higher and higher.

---

Ding.

---

Angelina stepped forward, leaving the three children behind Her to fend for themselves. From the looks of the button they had pushed they were headed East. She gripped her bag and peeled Her eyes, twisted her hair in a tight knot to show her aggression, her vigor, her confidence and stepped into the rabid salmon like crowd.

She saw no signs of the nail salon. She saw only posters of rabbits holding artichoke legs and nail guns firing rockets of ice cream and corn bread. These were the mirrors of the supposed revolution but had nothing to do with her nail salon, she needed the cash and she needed it NOW! How hard were the numbers to acquire? How long must she wait before the envelope is sent and the letter read and thrown out? How long Lord, how long?

Questions for a time when the pay checks were easy coming and Her man was by her side. She passed by a little boy playing William Tell with her sister. An apple on the little tots head and in the boys a small, tight and silver ray gun. The boy pulled the trigger but only a small plume of smoke came from the top making the boy ball over crying and wailing and kicking and screaming, nearly catching Angelina in the shin, what a mess...The little girl stayed still in Her spot though because her brother told her "Now don't move a cinch." Wise move my girl, wise move...

At last! Angelina, reaching Her destination saw the brightly neon colored corner of her beloved Nail Salon. The windows shone with pure red glitter, miniatures of poodles lapping up puddles of ice water, women laying out on the sun to catch rays from the Earth, and husbands shaving their backs all in a circle and row.

"How beautiful..." Angelina breathed out.

She entered the store front. Greeted from every corner were beautiful young cupid like angels faces shining divine but with no torsos, floating heads of angels ***** but crying and smiling. Asking Angelina "What would you like today miss?" or "What are you after?", beckoning for her requests, begging for her touch of vulnerability and lack of knowledge of where she was or what she needed.

"Just an application...I heard you all were hiring?"

"Hiring!!!?" the cupid heads screamed in unison.

"You want to become one of us?"

"Yes, part-time...?" Angelina said hesitantly.

As soon as the words "part" had been uttered from Angelina's wise and brave mouth the many heads of cupid began spinning and spinning around Angelina's body. Faster and faster they spun until Angelina herself was spinning with them, unified in a quadruple hurricane stripping her of her former self and slowly manipulating her body, her hair, her other self into her new self.

As Angelina's torso lay in the corner of the store un-bloodied, clothes tattered as well as some scratches  on her elbows from the toss, Angelina's head was floating in the perfect center of the other three hovering cupid heads.

"How beautiful...how beautiful...how beautiful."

"Isn't it?" the three cupid heads answered.

"Yes, everything here is so beautiful," the four of them whispered.

And as soon as Angelina had entered, she just as soon had left.

END

rock smashes scissors
break our swords
Scissors cut paper
tear up our poetry
paper covers rock.
shielded by policy

we have our voices.
all rock, all scissor, all paper.
all spock, all lizard
we do not play games, we Speak.
We throw spock hands like Gang signs
spit parsel tongue at pride haters
we write love letters to revolution
We cut red tape with our long fuzes
Hit rock bottom, more bass in our
Voices than god knows what to do with
So we tell him exactlly where it should go.

Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock

They hold their pens like scissors
carving history books into erasure poems

We would swing our pens like swords.
But no leader we trust has been elected yet.

We would have a leader to guide us
But snakeoil salesmen plague our trenches.

There would be no snakeoil salesmen if
we had a stable government

We would have a stable government
but the stability was sharpied out of our history books.

And To history, loud voices sound
like the fires of god.
And are we not the voices with more bass then God knows what to do with.
without words on the wind,
There is no flame
so aren't we fire.

We all have tealights waiting in cold oven hearts.
stone hearths begging for Ignition
eager for bootleg promises of warmth
The orange rhetoric of our future
no warmer than tinders logo.
or a video recording of a fireplace
flickering on a flatscreen at best buy.
We are distracted constantly.
misdirected by Houses of paper cards
origami swans we don't dare unfold
Staying ignorant of the tire track liner inside.
origami swans are so much more beautiful
when they have secrets, right?

I have a matchstick
watch me strike it lit
flare this paper swan into a pheonix.
And hold it in my fist.
there will be fire.
and it will not be a metaphor
But It will be a revolution
And it will be a pheonix
and the pheonix WILL be a metaphor

The Rabbi at Temple Beth El
said when a mans consumed by gods fire
it is a severance from faith, a spiritual death.
what have we done
if not lost faith in our government?
Been consumed by the fires of god.
and why not tattoo pheonix feathers
on our backs?
at least this death gave us warmth.
a home in the world's ashes.

I stared at the dragons fire that stormed towards me
thanked it for the oppurtunity
to walk out of this world
holding dragons eggs
Like Daneris Tygareon
and they will be real dragons.
incubated by REAL fire
despite this crumbling cataclysm
you call a great america.
Spock handed Lizards larger and louder
with all the rocks
paper and scissors they need
to set the world on fire.
To Finally see something beautiful be born.
A Home that keeps them warm.

Now,
You see,
Society has changed us.
Salesmen are now the worshipped,
And the pastors the wronged.
Who knows what will happen next,
Maybe we’ll be speaking dog.

IMMEDIATELY PLEASE REMOVE ALL OF MY INFORMATION FROM YOUR DATA BASE FORTHWITH.  ALSO,
ADVISE ANY AND ALL CONTRACTORS, SUB-CONTRACTORS, AGENTS, SUB-AGENTS, AFFILIATES, PARTNERS, COLLEAGUES, ASSOCIATES, CLIENTS, WEBMASTERS, WEB BASED LINKS, WINKS, TWINKS, COLONEL CLINCKS, BOSSES, CO-WORKERS, EMPLOYEES, VENDORS, SUPPLIERS, SALESMEN, ASCCOUNT REPS/EXCS, ACCOUNTANTS, BROKERS, CO-BROKERS, HACKERS, SLACKERS, WHACKERS, JERKS, PIMPS, HOES, HOBOS, BUMS, DERELICTS, DEGENERATES, DOPERS, DEALERS, TWEEKERS, GAMBLERS, RAMBLERS, SOLICITORS, SIDEKICKS, COHORTS, WINGMEN, WHEELMEN, LOOKOUTS, OUTLAWS, IN-LAWS, RELATIVES, FIANCES, GIRLFRIENDS, BOYFRIENDS, FAMILY, FRIENDS, ENEMIES, EVIL NEMISIS', CANVASSERS, INQUIRERS, QUEERS, QUEENS, COWBOYS, KINGS, ****, DRAGS, HAGS, HETEROS, HOMOS, TONY ROMOS, FEMALE IMPERSONATORS, (PRE OR POST) MALE IMPERSONATORS, *****, *****, VAN *****, **** VAN ****, LESBIANS, LIARS, BUYERS, CRYERS, CIGAR SMOKERS, CARPET MUNCHERS, RUG RATS, TODDLERS, TEENAGERS, YOUNGSTERS, SENIORS, SUCKERS, TRUCKERS, MOTHER shut yer mouth, LAW MAKERS, LAWYERS, ATTORNEYS, JUDGES, POLITICIANS, PECKERWOODS, LEADERS, FOLLOWERS, DISCIPLES, PROPHETS, EVANGELISTS, SAVIORS, SINNERS, SAINTS, SOOTHSAYERS, MEDICINE MEN, GYPSYS, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES, WITCHES, WARLOCKS, VAMPIRES, LYCANS, ZOMBIES, WAR MONGERS, PROTESTERS, SOLIDERS, GENERALS, GOVERNORS, PRESIDENTS, PATRIOTS, PACKERS, LIONS, BEARS, BROWNS, BLACKHAWKS, REDWINGS, RIGHT WING, LIBERALS, OR LAW BIDING CITIZENS, THEY ARE NOT TO CONTACT ME AND LOOSE MY NUMBER.
BUT IF YOU SEE MY MOM, TELL HER TO CALL ME.

............................................................­............BA-ZING..............................................­......................

I sold smack on a playground today

    biding time to scrounge the rent--

Two months ago I had never even seen the stuff.
    I'd never procured it for personal use,
    let alone sold it.

Now I'm a full-time pusher of prescriptions
for problems that can't be cured,
a modern-day snake-oil salesmen
schlepping panaceas for every conceivable ill.

Trying to cope with depression?
    This'll give you a shot in the arm!
Your boyfriend just broke your heart
mere weeks after breaking your *****?
    Here's a ***** that you can depend on...

I thought I was better than this,

but who can afford scruples
                      with bills to pay?

Internally
I struggle to compete
with people who would never deign to take note of me.
My revenge is in undermining their immaculate lives,
a pill-peddling Socrates
keeping creditors at bay.

I'd always envisioned being someone's hero--
at least being remembered for an act of creation.

Instead I'm an enzyme for eradication.
A cancer cell at best--
    A ****** wrecking ball.

                 One day I woke up a sidekick
to a heroine that's never saved anyone...

Light spreads darkly downwards from the high
Clusters of lights over empty chairs
That face each other, coloured differently.
Through open doors, the dining-room declares
A larger loneliness of knives and glass
And silence laid like carpet. A porter reads
An unsold evening paper. Hours pass,
And all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds,
Leaving full ashtrays in the Conference Room.

In shoeless corridors, the lights burn. How
Isolated, like a fort, it is -
The headed paper, made for writing home
(If home existed) letters of exile: Now
Night comes on. Waves fold behind villages.

Fewer adults are laughing,
It's not funny any more;
We leaned on poles to direct our titter,
Quite harmless in its day.
And Engine 9's been derailed,
We're catching tigers,
But It's still okay.

We rolled our eyes at Jewish jibes,
And salesmen in the barn;
Or the Newfie warning,
Don't slip on the ice,
Don't ya know, bay, it's hard frozen.

We've pulled our collective heads out,
We're sniffing old world air.
I liked the self-effacing glibs,
Affected with a brogue.
Now there's a hard line on a country bridge,
Across a brook, or penal school ditch.
It's just not funny any more.

When I look out from the smudged and cracked windows of home,
I know there's no place quite the same as right here;
No place I could find that quite catches my ear,
And no place quite the same that can swallow my fears,
To the depths of this heated and comfortable box,
In which I am protected by numerous locks,
From intruders and bandits,
Salesmen and clerks;
I am the legal intruder,
And for me, that's what works.

Yet I'm here when, in fact, I am meant to be there;
Not far from my home,
I'm meant to be learning whats fair.

I am meant to be learning what's right and what's wrong,
Yet 6 hours of my time a day seems quite long,
To be spending on verbs, nouns and pronouns,
On algebra, fractions, and abnormal word sounds.

This life is not theirs; this life is all mine,
Such an old and used system would appear to be right,
Yet I beg to differ, as revolution now squeaks,
To push through the systems cracks and cause leaks,
In which free-thinking filters the words of the old,
Who believe themselves better, for they're trained and so bold.

When I look to society, what is it I see?
Is it a throng of a thousand people who seem to be free?
Not quite, yet at the same time, that seems quite close,
They are free in a box, in which authority is the host.

"Civilization has to be defended against the individual,
And its regulations, institutions and commands are directed to that task."*
Quite an obvious command,
And it seems that at last,
Man is learning to embrace what they each see as free;
And it does not simply stop at being free to simply be,
It goes beyond such in mind, matter, soul, and in trust;
For it is the systems denial,
Towards which I lust.

The institutions, and nations,
Corporations, news stations,
Stateism, classism, all attempt to control,
Who I am, what I do, where I go, who I meet;
They tell me to relax, and just take a quick seat;
Yet I know what I want from life is free feet,
To be who I am,
And take all the heat.
To do what I do,
And ignore what's 'elite.'
To go where I go,
And control, as such, my feet.
To meet who I meet,
And next to them, take a seat.

I am not a name,
And I am not a number.
I am always awake in my mind,
As I slumber.

Today a ten-year-old girl
threatened suicide at school because
a trusted uncle had molested her.

What kind of ******* world
has this become?

Police were called,
Child Services arrived,
statements were taken.
no doubt social workers
were stirred into the mix.

I am a man of the 20th Century,
just old enough to remember outrage,
to remember when too much was taboo,
to remember personal honor.

When I was a kid, this monster
was snatched from his bed
by righteous neighbors, dragged begging
to a private place beyond help
and been beaten nearly to death
by the fathers of other potential victims.

Imagine a circle of men, ordinary men,
mostly World II and Korea veterans:
insurance men, car salesmen, farmers,
store keepers, salesmen, even a lawyer
tightening the circle in the torchlight.

The monster begged, pleaded, wept,
wet himself, **** himself, whimpered.

The sheriff  watched, smiled,
and then rearrested the pervert for resisting.

Had he lived, the monster would never
have touched a little girl again in our town,
knowing that his life would be forfeit
and end abruptly and anonymously.

Probably, he would have just slunk away.

This new state of bureaucracy cares nothing
for the victims it claims to protect.
It only wants the paperwork filled out correctly.

I was 11, 1962 in a quiet sleepy town.
My father took me to see what evil brings,
the best lesson he ever taught me.

If I had been old enough I would have joined in
without so much as a twinge of regret.

You liberal ostriches can call this brutality if you like.
I call it community action, community justice.
People protecting what is there's to protect
when the official guardians just go through the motions

I miss the 20th Century. I miss justice.

  ~mce

UNDERDOG RAP

We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes;
No chance to know what rich is,
While graduates are digging ditches
Immigrant PhDs are doing dishes.
Never quite knowing which is
Snake oil salesmen pitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.

Fools don’t know where the hitch is
Whatever the larcenous pitch is;
Reacting with kneejerk twitches
Due to governmental glitches.
And creeps like that guy Mitch is
Are rapacious sons of *******
Hunting for Democratic witches
In all the freedom fighting niches
With hearts as black as pitch is.

And the rich have a wish list
In which they scratch their itches
Regardless of what our ***** is
By wallowing in stolen riches
Punishing watchdogs snitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.
We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes.
No chance to know what rich is.

Brent Kincaid

March 19, 2015

How many of us are trapped?
So little are those that make writing
A career
So many of us
Starving
For an opportunity

How many of us are Nurses?
Engineers?
Doctors?
Retail salesmen?
Teachers?
Business people?
Students?

Life is so different outside of
The four corners
Of our screens

But here we are
Forgetting the day-to-day

Embracing
These 5 minutes of
Free
Creative
Salvation

Hellopoetry
Goodbye society

its
the TV commercials
the fake ****
the campaign trail
the welfare recipients
psychotic shooters
bible thumpers
and athiests
salesmen
gangsters and
special interests
its junk mail
the court system
its the poor paying more
the ignorant
the scared
the recluse
the extroverts
the sales tax
the hospital bills
zombie ammo
beggars making more than me
nuclear threats
starvation
animal abuse
drug addiction
half assery
its the bullies
the police
its advantage
in retreat
the lies
the masks
the crys
the laughs
its all the ******* that ******* annoys me

Your rhymes were a bin bag thrown
in the trash, couldn't even write a
         sentence, dyslexia of meaning


and ****** up sentences that
    weren't even spelt write.

Couldn't even spin a line,
   as it was meant to be straight


but your words were more wavy than
                a bad perm.



  There isn't room for a failed wanna be,

                    alone in your room *******
hard,

But your more empty than the raisin
                   ***** your trying to spit out of...

Non consequential wording that doesn't flow
down stream,
                   more like your floating bloated
breath  releasing putrid gas

that stinks more than what they were belching out.


I never insult the cadavers of dead lines,

but your words were buried even before
          you opened that hurse of dead beats.

a handful of rhymes that were more powerful than
           your buried career,

sorry you were a foot in the grave even before you
                                                   opened your mouth.


Song I wrote after I used your girl..


I wasn't the one she wanted it was you,
                but I gave her what she wanted

and that never included you..

Every thing you wanted I stole,
  and gave her fake wishes that were
tarnished but she never looked beyond
                 the moment seeing the stitching
of us was more fake than the smiles I gave her.

I knew she wanted to be with you,
   but I was the salesman of woman..

While you were the boy next door, I was the salesmen
                     showing her fake dreams..

Don't worry you can have her after I've used her enough,
          I'll even trade her in for a good price..

Ye, she'll be broken..

           But everything is always defective
after I've rode it enough...

Her crown maybe cracked,
  but she'll be yours even though she'll be thinking
of me even though your in her, I'm the length
        she'll remember but she'll be your crack queen.

Now this is enough of wording.

                   and I'm moving on to the next one.

The beat-down
    disciple
        knows

Someday she'll
    ...have
         new clothes

And the
    bitter
        God-transmitter
        
Having taped
    two thousand
        shows

Laying hands
    on all,
        he rose,

Had his coffee,
    spoke his
        prose,

Tuned his ear;
    thumbed
        his nose.

The sweet, sweet
    smell of
        spring,

Ah, the crisp
    olfactory
        ping,

And the
    honey-
        jar of money

Takes away
    the winter's
        sting

Different people at work and                                                                                Different moods too ...                                                                                           Employees are different from                                                                               Their employees anytime ...                                                                                  Customers are different in                                                                                     Their attitudes ...                                                                                                     Salesmen or vendors are pushing                                                                        For their stuffs to be sold ...                                                                                   Delivery drivers are those go                                                                            In-between anytime ...                                                                                       All factors work together                                                                                  Including the climate itself ...                                                                           Shoplifters and thieves are                                                                               That part of life ...                                                                                               There are many things that                                                                               At work .

Casa of all blocks
Thou art hidden between thorn berries
And years!!!!

Thine windows sell thy tears
To salesmen
Of deaths door!!!

Darkly shores
Thou hast arrived to
Fine
Plays thou hast blended
Thy do of hahas
And wanting more for the taking!!!!

Decourous thou art
Wallstreet handler!!!

Yet,

When the stock market closes
Thy wallets benevolent
Forces are unseen

On barstools, people drone on endlessly
about meditation and yoga and hot yoga
or cold jogging, and bicycling in special pants.
‘It gives you a high,’ they say.
‘You’re on top of the world,’ they scream.
The saps push their new religions
with the gusto of car salesmen.
When it’s a woman, I politely listen
between mouthfuls of whiskey and ginger ale.
When it’s a man, I shut him down
early in his ramble. I tell him to
grow a pair.

Curvaceous women with long hair
and ***** that easily get wet,
bourbon that melts the top layer of ice,
pocketing a few bucks after sinking the 8 ball,
those are the legal addictions,
I tell punks
that give a man small escapes,
the sins he commits to feel whole.
A man who knows the desperation
of fulfilling temptations always
works harder to stay one step ahead
of the game.

Those are the addictions,
I tell men in designer clothes,
that **** us
slowly
when we least expect
our demise.

We’ve been in this place before.
A winter day in the Inland Empire,
So why not give it the respect
It earned in the annals & anals
Of American Land Scams,
Right up there, with
Arizona and Florida,
Desert & underwater “premium” lots,
“Premium” leads for CLOSERS,
Like Glengarry Glen Ross;
Hard telephone salesmen,
Cold-calling in its infancy.
Riverside and San Bernardino:
“A Development Too Far”
For many speculators
Since the 1970s,
But we may be on the brink,
Of another California Gold Rush,
Should many more of us over-55s
In search of lost community
And Cold War nostalgia
Come out here.

Yes, it’s déjà vu.
Here I am, all over again
Locked-down in my
Gated, golf-coursed
Lunatic Asylum,
Located in Hemet,
Riverside County,
Southern California,
A place I affectionately
Call Hemetucky.
The sun shines bright on
My Old Hemetucky Home—
Written by Stephen Foster,
An early American genius—
Stephen Foster - Wikipedia, the  free  encyclopediaen.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Stephen Foster‎ Stephen Collins Foster (July 4, 1826–January 13, 1864), known as the "father of American music", was an American songwriter primarily known for his parlor . . .

But I digress.
Here I am once more
Comfy in easy chair leather,
Enjoying another bottle from Temecula’s Doffo Winery,
Listening again to Pretenders—
The Isle of View,
Grooving to the sultry,
Come-hither,
***** voice of
Chrissie Hynde!
Amazon.com: The Pretenders - The Isle of View: The Pretenders ...
www.amazon.com › Movies & TV › TV‎ Fans of the Pretenders' 1995 live CD, The Isle of View, will be delighted that the DVD release of the band's televised performance at London's Jacob Street  ... isle Of View PRE-TENDERS UK live chrissie hynde 1995 - YouTube ► 52:18► 52:18 www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9BlVFT0x4s‎ isle Of View PRETENDERS UK live chrissie hynde 1995. Amazon.com: Isle of View by The Pretenders (1995) - Live: Music www.amazon.com › ... › New Wave & Post-Punk › New Wave Shop for music deals on CDs, MP3 songs and albums, and vinyl records by Pretenders and more.

(That’s right, Grasshopper!
This is how you finally
Make poetry $pay:
Sell ad space right in the
Middle of a ******* poem!)

Oh, Chrissie!
Take this for
What it’s worth, Babaloo:
For What it's Worth-Buffalo Springfield - YouTube
► 2:37► 2:37
Ka-CHING! Ka-CHING!
Oh, Chrissie!
I’d eat your ****, Babe,
Just for old time’s sake,
“But there's a woman
With a gun over there,
A tellin' me, I got to beware.”
Have you met my girl friend?

Skyscrapers jut towards the heavens
middle fingers to Mother Nature
or sun-bleached white ribs of some poor beast
who tangoed with a toyota
and lost.

The stench that wafts through the streets could easily strip paint
but the locals don't seem to mind.
They march through their mundane Mondays
like maggots in goose-step.
The cacophony of their carrion communion is grisly and deafening.

Garish billboards burn
obscene advertisements onto assaulted retinas.
Street salesmen descend upon naive tourists
like vultures after fresh meat.

Policemen **** and pillage
what they were sworn to protect and serve,
and the Mayor's fungal tendrils
reach deep into the criminal underbelly of his city.

The voracious human hunger for wealth
knows no boundaries.
The grey-on-grey urban tragedy that is this concrete corpse
is always changing. Growing. Advancing.
however, it is not without waste.

Abandoned asphalt arteries stretch as far as the eye can see.
Somewhere, in a derelict parking lot, a flower is blooming.

We may spit in the face of Mother Nature
with every tree we cut and river we dam,
but soon she will be the one laughing
over our shattered
concrete
corpses.

Now mail comes through the letterbox,
Not as often as before,
Now it’s just bills and other shocks,
That rock me to the core.

Now calls come by the telephone,
Not as often as before,
Mostly it’s just the dialling tone,
Voicemail just as before.

Visitors come and ring the bell,
Not as often as before,
Now just the salesmen come to sell,
Not the ones I adore.

Now I live here just on my own,
Not just as it was before,
Lovers and family have all gone,
They visit me no more.

Invites out come now and again,
Not as often as before,
Kids and grandkids don’t see the pain,
The suffering and the sore.

I fall asleep so well at night,
Not as often as before,
Comfortable in my bed by right,
But resting is so poor.

The fire for learning Plato’s philosophies and the history hidden
behind the Iron Curtain had burned us out. We were restless, sleepy
and thirsty. Mischievous by nature, we were sick of going nowhere.

The blooms of the red schizanthus and yellow calla lilly’s against the sun
blazened sky bid us farewell as we traveled west toward the city of emerald raindrops.
After all, freedom was only one tank of gasoline, two Red Bulls, a bag of bugles,
a handful of mixed CD’s and four hours away. We were going to lose ourselves.

Plummeted forward by the up down, up down rollercoaster
of the seaside landscape our faces shine brighter than ever
because we find ourselves in rainy day adventures

Pike’s Place Market found us braving the stench of tuna, bass, salmon and sushi
for crepes and chai. Strawberry, vanilla and salmon crepes made by the man
with skin the color of milky chocolate and a foreign accent that we lusted after
because we’d never heard it before. We weren’t running away from home but instead
were living in African slums where the skin comes smooth like milk and
the music has a character, full of power and pride, of its own.

Wandering the drenched streets where downpours don’t stop the salesmen. The sax
player and the bread maker still ask us if we’d like a sample. Rain is no matter. Coveting
warmth from the storm we find a steel slab of a parking garage downtown where
mirrors on elevator ceilings occupy our time and attention until  security shooed us.
Shiny objects attract the shadows on the walls who proceed to make funny faces.

Watching America’s sport in cheap seats with over-priced beer and nachos
helps us remember our roots and value tradition a little more. It draws us closer to home
where any storm can be weathered. The drive home after a surprising win and
spirited riot is quiet. The crisp night air and booming bass free our minds of the
mischief caused as we chatter ourselves voiceless away from the emerald raindrops.

Shadow cars and shadow feet hassle home
in the meagre rain advancing ****-
sapien slowly, blending the day through multiple holes
in tall buildings where the lights come on and the key turns in,
and mind comes to life and substance, more visceral,
than a thousand Eden’s that are now franchises and factories
counting themselves in back alley dice games
and the tears of glass buildings bayoneting the sky
with still fluorescent arms painting nothingness
in a morse code flashing red then black,
birthing in repent to open night; the automatic
hands of love firing faster than you can escape, antennas
orbiting the globe spitting from TV screens covered in paw marks
from the dust of hopeful, but forgotten salesmen,

the hallways accept you in, the machine clicks off
and the saints curl round a loop hole and a strippers pole
inching the shower on, sliding lava breathe
of uber spirit down your back exploding
heart-thought and no buzzing coming
from strange messages
or complex dream,

pull your reflection across the mirror and towel down,
fuels of organic loss drag perfection across the skyline
in peach rememberance(es) shouting out in mutual joy of the city,
like a mouthless crow diving across the landscape
into the jaw of itself, un
metronomed, as you take off your coat too,
and the crowds of harvesting fumes are blown out
by your silent smile,

and even from the rotting beauty outside,
we are the within the painted walls of our
home, a conjoined pulse that shatters each
season, with single shots of melody undoing
our forms like fog settling into hands of light,

– ahh,
so!
…
Even the thoughts of tired pages,
are mutilated by the balance of my wine
and your water, the burning smell reads
like an axe for our cheeks, combined with temperance
and taste of meat, spiced between pinch,
as we lay it out,
the style of our eating,
always more,
than the meal,

our race now nameless, the colours of our skin
lost from machine and time,
neither of our hearts can diminish the walls
of solid
liquidic song,
history moulded by a changing of clothes and shoulder
bones, moved down to mattress or road,

again the architecture is moved by our city
again the street lights bulk
fed by our voice,
down from hue, to repeated family chime
we rip open the odours of tar mac, replacing the rain
with burying fur into the one body of our spirited
field, arched mouth of coyote
and playful worker,
one,

our water plant eyes moan in the morning and wonder,
where the night sun has gone, migrating steps from the bed,
hang low in reflection of the past, one of us still sleeps
happily
and begins an hour later,

I take your mask from the white sheets where you lay,
with a glance, and a grin, and place it on, and look at the day
through mercy holes, cut through the holes,
where it fits like my face,

showing me the day as you

with no need to shave

or ever wash.




the image to go with this poem:
http://kerosenechronicle.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/thevalencianplayunit.png

We are on the "no call" list
Yet, our telephone still rings
We've a sign that says "No Pedlars"
But, there's people selling things
Showing up and disregarding
The sign that we've put there
They won't accept the fact they've trespassed
They really do not care
We get calls from companies
Who aren't allowed to phone
And when we say "we're on the list"
They leave us alone
It last for just two hours
Then they call back again
We start the "No call" salsa
From the beginning once again.
People drive by and they stop
They say our house needs work
They saw it from a mile back
They must think I'm a ****
I figure that their eyesight great
For our problem's not out front
The problem is around the rear
They're just searching on a hunt
Have you ever asked yourself
How do they "fly by night"
For they're all so full of *******
They couldn't muster any height
They tell you that they did some work
For the lady who lived here
But if they're work is so **** durable
Why did it only last a year
They're nothing but cheap hustlers
Who want to rip you off and leave
They're just out to get your money
They practice to decieve
They've never got good papers
To show just where they're from
And when you ask to see them
They hightail it and they run
The honest ones leave me alone
And they do not cross my step
For they read my sign "No Pedlars"
And they leave my place...with pep
They move on to the neighbors
They do not wait around
They don't look inside my windows
They just evacuate my ground
There's salesmen doing driveways
Professionals, these guys ain't
All they want to do is
Cover up my drive with paint
They ask about my eavestroughs
It is blocked, that's why it drips
But, it has a gutter cover
That's help on with plastic clips
They phone me during dinner
And they say, "Hi, my name's Jay"
But they sound as if they're calling
From an office in Bombay
They know that my computer
Has a virus I can't fix
And if I let them in my system
This problem they will nix
They prey on you not knowing
And they catch you unaware
So if you don't know these people
i'd advise you please take care
You can tell them really nicely
Or you can tell them go to hell
But right now, my phone is ringing
It must be Jay upon my cell.

Grandmère = Grandmother

Peter and I are in Paris, we arrived this morning. We’re staying at my Grandmère’s Champs de Mars residence - near the Eiffel Tower.

One of my Grandmère’s oldest and dearest friends is a Catholic Bishop. When I was little, he was ‘Monsignor Jean-Marc’ but now he’s ‘Bishop Jean-Marc.’ He’s been around so much of my life, he’s almost part of the family. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that he has his own apartment somewhere in each of her houses.

Jean-Marc is old. I think that’s fair to say. He’s white haired and the kind of short that comes on slowly, with age. He’s a disciplined kind of thin and his deep wrinkles are tanned from years of gardening. His teeth, always visible in his salesmen’s smile, are as white as altar candles.

When I first glimpsed Jean-Marc from the hallway, he was sitting on a cream satin settee, in conversation with my Grandmère. I knew something was up because he was wearing his red trimmed cassock and red sash, instead of his usual black suit.

What I couldn’t see from the hall, was that the room was packed with matronly ladies, dressed in matronly dresses of glittering white, glittering beige, glittering yellow and glittering gold. Argh! I was wearing a white Polo tennis dress, Keds mini canvas sneakers and my hair was ponytailed. I wasn’t dressed for a social. I swiveled to give my Grandmère a sharp look, but she took that moment to be interested in the drapes.

As I’d come into the room, Jean-Marc stood and greeted me cordially saying, “AnnAAAas!” raising both hands up over his head as if he were channeling the pope. Ok, I thought to myself, this is happening. I offered my most innocent smile. “Bishop Jean-Marc,” I said, while performing an involuntary curtsy, conjured from somewhere deep in childhood reflex-memory.

I don’t like priests. Slam me, sue me, **** me. When I’m around a priest, I’m reminded that I’m a sinner and I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. It’s the worst kind of guilt for a Catholic, because we don’t earn any credit for it.

Opp! I just thought of Peter, so there’s lust, right on queue - that’s a sin. Unfortunately, Peter’s not here. He and Charles went on a chauffeured driving tour of Paris. Envy - there, another sin, I’m on the road to hell but I can’t seem to stop, one thought just follows the next. Where’s a priest when I need one? (to confess) Just kidding, there’s one right in front of me.

The bishop began asking me a string of unimaginative questions, like an old friend catching up. “How’ve you been? How's university? As he grilled me, slowly, like a steak in a smoker, the herd of matrons ambled slowly our way, closing in to listen in. It was a scene straight out of the walking dead. I wanted to escape but my Grandmère held me in place, with the full wattage of her proud smile.

Ordinary boredom is an un-experience and all you need to free yourself is a phone. High society boredom is one of Dante’s circles of hell, because you have to interact with strangers when you could be doing something fun instead. The gathering finally broke up about 7pm and I was free to go. I was starving, my throat hurt from talking (about myself) and I hadn’t heard from Peter. When I checked “find my,” it showed him there, somewhere. So I went in search.

Peter was in his (our) room, on his back near the edge of the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on. He was as still as a corpse but a soft snoring suggested he wasn’t dead. I leaned over him, his black hair was somehow more disheveled than usual and his lips, moist and slightly parted, looked invitingly ready to kiss. I didn’t do it though, that would have been asking for trouble. Instead, I smelled his breath, slowly and deeply. Cognac. Charles had gotten him drunk. How helpful.

Once I tucked Peter in, I went looking for Charles, only to find him shooting billiards with Jean-Marc. He looked none the worse for wear and the gleam in his eyes told me he knew what he was doing - avoiding me with the bishop.

As I prowled the room, trying to decide what to do, while picking up objects and weighing them as objects to be thrown, a server brought in a tray with three bowls of cassoulet,* which smelled incredible, my stomach growled, and I remembered I was starving.

Charles, sensing a shift in the mood, said, “He (Peter) needed to reset his body clock. He’s young, he’ll be as good as new in the morning.” I just laughed. Charles knew I’d come looking for him and he’d ordered me dinner. I can’t stay mad at Charles; he knows me too well.

The cassoulet was to die for.
We’ll start our vacation, for reals, in the morning.

behaving like a ******* salesmen, behaving like a godcam salesman, the best one in town, who has no wonder where to run to, who is exhausting his best supply, who asks just the right amount of questions, wondering why wondering why, with questions and with answers, midght, ******* dancers, thanks kid rock, for your contribution to my confidence

One night in December,
The streets were army gray
And hurrying strangers
Rushed home for the day.
Nimble legged salesmen
Sold flowers by the street
And rhythm was the rumble
Of voices cars and feet.

The young were dressed for parties
Some sang with radios
And over-friendly women
Assumed their favorite pose.
Trashcan colored beggars
Searched gutters with their hands
While uniforms saved sinners
With sermons songs and bands.

Patrolmen sang the pop songs
From slowly cruising vans
As nighttime changes faces
Pushers change their plans.
The movie marquee lightning
Put movement to the sound
As nameless children squabbled
For pennies they had found.

Uptown they're making movies
For Hollywood L.A.
They listen to the sirens
Downtown far away.
The Civic Center phantoms
Are easy to forget.
Folks simply close their eyes
And they haven’t seen them yet.
They haven’t seen them yet.

Not everybody is interested in everything.
Everyone's got their own particular sphere and multi-limbed web of general interests.
When one goes on about a topic that another finds uninteresting, then their listener is bound to get bored, (and boredom is the precursor to annoyance.)

This is where tact comes in. Tactfulness is the ability to read boredom (as well as uneasiness, embarrassment, and any other general anxiety-inducing feelings) in your listener. Someone with tact knows when to change the subject and/or shut up altogether. It's a subtlety.

However, the more passionate one feels about a subject, the harder it is for them to show tact when talking about it.

This explains why nerds and drunks get such a bad rap for being annoying. (God forbid, a drunken nerd . . . )
Because they feel so passionately about the topics that they're interested in that they'll often talk at great length about them without any regard for their audiences' boredom. (And prolonged boredom invariably leads to annoyance.)

This is why the nerdiest of nerds is often regarded as a god amongst their peers (with "peers" in this sense really just meaning people of similar interests.) Because they have such vast knowledge of such a particular subject (which is often of very little interest to most Others. ("Others" in this sense meaning people who are outside of this particular circle of peers.))

The same may or may not be true for drunks.
(Although, there's something to be said about both of them being the most likely to have conversations with no one but themselves.)

This also explains general aloofness (a.k.a. coolness, i.e. "being cool.")
The types who seem so disinterested in everything that people often become interested in them if for no other reason than to simply find out what it is that they actually do find interesting.

This is why cool people tend to be so popular. Everyone trying their hand at gaining their attention by drawing it to this thing or that thing, with a weird need of validation being thinly-veiled beneath it.
(This might also explain why "cool" people tend to be such *******; often dismissing these constant attempts to grab their attention as either pathetic and/or depressing.)

Then, of course, there are the word-smiths. The Salesmen.
Those who fancy themselves so intelligent as to be able to twist what their audience would otherwise find disinteresting into something that they can't live without,
often through some combination of communication manipulation and nonverbal tricks.

But just don't listen to them.