"secretarial" poems
reverence in poetry. everything to every person.
reader claims they can a necessary skill for
uncover the reverence. successful hypothecating and
in the scripts that (buying)poetry-creation outta nothing,
life straight hands me, tell them what thy want to hear,
for collection & correction, and they’ll call you laureate,
secretarial transcribing, instead of good listener
binding, typo correction or just a keen observer-fakir
mundane are the tasks, just take what they give ya,
that’s all them muses ask, dress it like Joseph in a
don’t interfere, taken what’s given, coat of many colors,
bow, curtsy, show respect, don’t let on your plagiarism
treat its aspects/instincts correctly is all them, redressed legally
you’re just the pass through agent, true you, gotta be smart about it,
patient for no payment expected, variant spellings, swinging verbs,
be our adherent, not our truant, be discreet, they’ll call your script
we appoint don’t disappoint, a real keeper and give love or sun,
accept our patent, render legit mucho poem emojis accoladeya
as for this reverence thinge devil in a blue dress, walk the streets
if I do my job ok, on any day, grabbing snatches of overhearings,
any poem could save a life, pressed into a single tunic, you think,
if I get the commas placed, he a genius, knows my thinking,
just right, the periods period, exactly, what a great poet and
while obeying the speed limit con/hu-man par excellent
them muses so **** pleased even fool muses, too full themselves,
by this true confession released, muses who think we stink and
and self deprecation, couldn’t do it without them
they call me reverend, great pretenders by stealing
imagine them silly folk, everything in everybody and
calling a big fat liar. all thieves and cape riders,
reverend, duh, the end original liars, pants on fire
before midnight and after 3:20am April 7~8, two oh nineteen
any message you send becomes my intellectual property, fool....
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:24 AM UTC
So I've been thinking lately
What if
he's on a journey out to find himself
reading Hemingway and Emerson (his namesake) and roughing it at Walden Pond
smoking foreign cigars
and staring deep into coffee
to decipher the meaning of the swirls of smoke
that rise from it in the morning?
What if
he's asking ChaCha! the meaning of life
or trying out a new brand of shampoo
or attempting to set a high score on Tetris
or out burning down bridges just to see them ablaze
or doing volunteer work,
reading to disabled children at the local library?
What if
he's decided that this is all too much,
that he'd prefer to live in anonymity
trading his celebrity for secretarial work or carrot-harvesting
or breeding exotic fish
or renting out those inflatable jumping-castles?
What if
he's tired of all those books in Technicolor
all the paparazzi out to get him
and commercialize his favorite beanie
just because he's on vacation because he pulled some strings at the office
thus catapulting him into some movie set halfway across the world?
What if he's sick and tired of them hunting down his girlfriend
his dog
that random wizard mentor guy that's a deadringer for Dumbledore?
What if he would rather sit at home and watch the Game Show Network
and change his name to something boring like John instead of living up to a thinker's expectations?
Or maybe just the opposite, he's just watching Family Feud to pass the time because he WANTS to be a thinker
but doesn't know how?
Or maybe Family Feud just makes him lonely because he doesn't have a real family,
just that evil guy with funny glasses and ****** hair and an awful Hamburglar taste in clothes?
What if he's decided he's on the wrong path
and needs to turn his life around?
What if Waldo doesn't want to be found?
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:05 PM UTC
Typing was not my strength, it was my shame.
Typing is a skill to make words legible, not for me.
Letters were rarely in the right order, what a shame.
Things change, typed word can create order.
Secretarial work was not my thing.
Typing purchasing orders all day was not for me.
One typo, the order goes in File 13, to erase my error.
At the end of the day my wastebasket was piled high.
I typed a purchasing order and things changed.
It was for 50 tapes, my fingers flew to my shame.
My boss called me in his office, asked to read
I ordered 50 rapes, you read it right rapes.
He laughed, showed me a pencil and asked.
Do you see what is at the end? Yes, an eraser.
Learn to use it, use it to erase and correct your mistake
Do not throw away your experience.
He added: in 5 years your mistake is forgotten
In 10 years few will remember your mistake or name.
In 100 years from now no one will know who you are.
I wish to be remembered as a woman activist poet.
I no longer use File 13 to delete a shame.
You see, I write and type about the shame of ****
The shame every woman who is violated feels.
It a shame but not her shame, file and record his shame.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
prayer reminds god to grieve.
paragraphia
in its entirety
is anecdotal.
my mother, in two acts: secretarial / secret exile.
noumenon / father. together,
the one that got away.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
TS Eliot said, “Paris is a strong stimulant.”
It is - but it has nothing on Manhattan.
If Paris is a Café Crème espresso at a café-en-terrasse under the stars.
Manhattan is a ‘Black Tie Bawls’ cocktail at The Crown bar (the skyline!).
We were going to relax - in Manhattan,
instead, keep those seat belts fastened.
Lisa said, one night, “Want to go out for a bit?”
Since then, I’ll admit, our nights have been lit.
We have ten days, and we’ve decided to try every Michelin-starred restaurant we can (there are 68 in NYC). So far, we’ve been to Eleven Madison Park, Le Bernardin and Per Se. This was Lisa’s idea.
The food is delicious - if you like a corn-flake with something on it or a steak the size of a bouillon cube ($250 per person with cocktails and dessert). As we left ‘Per Se’ I asked, “Can we get something to eat now? I’m starved.” I was only ½ kidding.
It’s MY idea to visit every beautix rooftop bar in Manhattan (there are exactly10). So far, we’ve been to, ‘The Peninsula,’ ‘230-Fith’’ and ‘NoMad’ - we’ve only been at these tasks for three nights.
We’re doing other things too. We’re going to Broadway shows (& Juliet, the Great Gatsby, Oh Mary!, Wicked) and to see Idina Menzel (Wicked, Frozen) in concert and a John Oliver and Seth Meyers comedy show next Monday. We do these, as in - Dinner, show, rooftop bar.
OH, and we’re dancin’ like we’re sentient - no cap.
Our sordid troup, is Lisa and Dave (her boo), Charles & Ms Charles, Lisa’s folks (Karen and Michael) and Lisa’s little sister Leeza and Meeeee. Luckily, we have one of my Grandmère’s conglomerate, executive secretarial minions (François) booking reservations for us. He’s got ‘contacts.’
Yeah, we’re drivin’ full speed towards summer’s end - “fo-shizzle” (to quote Snoop Dogg). We figure we can rest, a few days, in New Haven.
Wasn’t Snoop fire at the Olympics?
.
.
dance club songs, for this one:
One Kiss by Calvin Harris & Dua Lipa
Lipstick by Kungs
Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
Levitating by Dua Lipa
.
.
slang…
café-en-terrasse = terrace cafe
Black Tie Bawls = (cocktail) Blavod black ***** lemon, and Bawls energy drink.
beautix = top drawer, rizz
No cap = no lie
fo-shizzle = for sure
fire = great, a standout
[E] = explicit
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 4:57 PM UTC
I placed an ad
outside my office
offering a job in my small company:
*The applicant
must be computer literate
and possess secretarial skills
and must be bilingual*
(and proudly, I added)
*WE ARE AN
EQUAL OPPORTUNITY EMPLOYER*
and this dog came in
and indicated with barks and snout
he wanted the job;
and proved with paws and limbs
and tongue and tail, and with various barks
he had all the skills
Astounded, I put up all sorts of barriers
but the dog could not be stopped by any one
And so I finally said:
*“You have demonstrated your skills, sure;
you have barked – but you don’t seem
to know any other popular language…
I can’t offer you the job -
I need someone bilingual!”*
And the dog replied: “Meow!”
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
To sit in a suit
Trimmed and pressed
By the hands of those
You would never get to know
And to read your papers
That don’t really make sense
And evaluate oddities
That you probably should know.
To fix yourself a drink
And give yourself a smoke
When problems arise
That can’t be solved
By your secretarial mistress
Or her typing skills.
To eye your lower men
And see their grimaced faces
Struggling to serve your powers
To feed their families
While you fatten yours
With the fruits of their labor.
To notice the holes
The dents in your wealth
And to locate your peers
And congregate for discussion
Over whose head to roll
For your own mistakes
And over whose piece of bread
Will be taken away.
To find that man
A fine yet lacking man
With a mother at home
And a family to feed
With a bill to pay
And a debt to owe
That simple young man
With a heart of gold
But a brain of lead
That weights and drags
Your own wealth down.
And to say to that man
Whose life you’ve not known:
“You’ll go without your piece of bread
And your children will know
That you won’t bring home
The things that your wife married you for
And you’ll never be whole
And never rise up
But clear your desk
And we’ll send you your check
It’s nothing personal:
It’s just business.”
To watch as he leaves
With his lead head limp
As he asks himself why
He must starve and deprive
The only things he’s loved
From their piece of bread
For his own carelessness;
His own foolish head.
To gorge yourself
On this extra bread
And to never think twice
Of that poor young man
Or the meals he won’t see
And the children he can’t feed.
And to lay your head down
On your crisp linen sheets
And the end of the day
Of crushing and burning
While your lead-headed man
Weights himself down
From a rope you weaved
When you left him without
His piece of bread.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
I wanted to show the secretarial assistant
the mashup, parody skit of the grumpy cat snoring under a
lampshade
but resisted for the fear she might think me strange
I am very lonely
Yesterday the girl in my team replied my email
with gnawing, jagged words that tapped on my skull
about how my prep materials belong to the basement
shelves of a blank, barren attic
and how the world would be a useful place
only without me
in barbed, lofty italics
that slickly slices open my skin
Perhaps she is correct
for my social life is the bluntest thumbtack in a drawer
like a black hole ******* me into the hollowness at the pit of
my stomach
I sometimes say
"I want to change the world"
but really, if words could ****
all I want is to write poems all day
with my face a moving canvas for animated poems
like razors, stabbing into her black-widow lips
or a hero slamming his fist
handsomely into the villain's chest
as she mouths "you're no good",
once again.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC