Dear White Male Legislators,
I had no idea you all have vaginas!
It seems like you can all take them on and off
At exactly the instances in which it benefits you politically.
Perry, *******, Bright
You all seem pretty concerned with making reproductive rights for women
Fairly obsolete.

Dear White Male Legislators,
You see, we, as females, do not have the option
Of running the other way if our partner gets pregnant
Leaving her in the dust of our mistakes
Being able to pay a fee every month
Not because we care about our children
But because it will keep our deadbeat ***** from seeing the inside of a jail cell
No, we as women do not have those choices
Men do.
And our bodies are not made for your
Political platform or religious debate
No, our figures exist because we exist
And we are people, too.

Dear White Male Legislators,
Our bodies are ours
And they do not belong to a male-dominated government
That seeks to attack them and by doing so
Deems **** culture socially acceptable
Without uttering a word about it.

Dear White Male Legislators,
Have you experienced the shame or stigma
That comes along with even just visiting an abortion clinic's website?
Clearly, if you are ***** and your abuser is not kind enough to use a ******
Not having your body shut down as you say and I quote happens during
"Legitimate ****"
Putting yourself and your unborn descendent at risk if you deliver
Having *** and being unable to deal with the unintended consequences
Makes you a *****, a ****, or a *****
While the man who put you in this position
Cannot control his urges to knock up the first woman he finds even moderately attractive.

Dear White Male Legislators,
You must be pretty important
If you can play God and judge all of these helpless women
Call what they are doing a sin
And **** them to Hell both
In death and in life.

Dear White Male Legislators,
I hope you never get any woman pregnant
Who hopes to be even slightly independent
Or make any decisions on her own
Especially if they involve the rights to her body.
With you,
She will be a byproduct of sexism
And so will your offspring.

Dear certain White Male Legislators,
In closing,
If you truly care about the good of our country and its people
Never procreate.

The young poet Evmenis
complained one day to Theocritus:
"I've been writing for two years now
and I've composed only one idyll.
It's my single completed work.
I see, sadly, that the ladder
of Poetry is tall, extremely tall;
and from this first step I'm standing on now
I'll never climb any higher."
Theocritus retorted: "Words like that
are improper, blasphemous.
Just to be on the first step
should make you happy and proud.
To have reached this point is no small achievement:
what you've done already is a wonderful thing.
Even this first step
is a long way above the ordinary world.
To stand on this step
you must be in your own right
a member of the city of ideas.
And it's a hard, unusual thing
to be enrolled as a citizen of that city.
Its councils are full of Legislators
no charlatan can fool.
To have reached this point is no small achievement:
what you've done already is a wonderful thing."

Legislators of social stigmatization
hand out identity before child birth,
reluctantly judged by your pigmentation,
you're given a name
and a pew in a church,
assigned to a gender with implications,
while ATM balance determines your worth

Bugs will certainly inherit the Earth

Disguised as your neighborhood
privacy invaders,
cops kick in the door
at your mother's front porch,
enforcing law written by legislators
for a routine seizure and search

Police brutality couldn't mask the depravity
of their warrants nomenclature
Capitalist crusaders terrorize Americans,
but can't keep the bugs
from their Earth inheritance

Men will shroud their evil nature
Malicious intent hides below the glacier
Camouflaged vindictive behavior
is electing dictators across the equator

Truth serenaders lobby for
congressional persuaders
to pardon these murderous
capitalist crusaders,
fitting agendas with tailor made suits,
who infect Mother Earth deep in her roots

Antibiotics couldn't heal or stop this
infection these players gave her
Pray for fire and fury
to burn away worry
when bugs surely crawl from the dirt
to inherit what's left of our Mother Earth

i do remember the scorn your encountered by the next of kin, for not having memorised the alphabet, to some stupid degree of accuracy, fetish of the french i call it... why not put all the vowels first and all the consonants after? so why care for the diabolical aristocratic monopoly on these symbols, having to cite a, b, c, d, e, f, g... rather than a, e, i, o, u, b, c? idiots! or should i say... ***** *******?*

i see friendship as a two tier system,
a friend allows you
to forget your reflective nature,
spelled out in the affirmative (
not compounded): your self...
but allows you the medium
they know you by, in a sense
the reflexive nature, spelled out
in affirmation: yourself.
the reflective nature of things stands
in unison with all the things
required: photosynthesis for example...
god still remains a complexity of language,
or how far language can complicate
matters so that no horrid activity can
fester... god is a word presiding over
the complication of the expression
of language, everything else is dumb-struck
deity orientation where we can laze
for an eternity: drunk, or gluttonous
or otherwise... but find me a drunkard who
composes on the additive? how many
drunk and therefore violent fathers
have crossed the threshold with drink
but wrote no single poem by medicating
on alcohol as an active sedative?
and how many partied on other drugs?
and dumb things drinking, while
the legislators caste in shadow of neither
vishnu blue, scandinavian bleach
hair and ivory skin or the african with
chocolate and auburn and short tailing-off
of curls turned to scorched frizzle of afro...
where among them the true identity of legislators?
nowhere... the masked identity to involve
a hidden tidal wave of the many,
later disrupted by a collective-consciousness
that democracy is, preceding jung's theory
of the collective-unconscious,
democracy is not carl jung... but it's its chiral
composite pair...
so friendship is the allowance of the self in reflex
akin to knee jerking or heart peeping into
rhythms escaping a finality / banality of
the measure of stone of standing still...
there is no friendship when the self disengages
from its reflexive naturalisation into social
circumstance (spelled yourself),
and engages in the reflective naturalisation
into anti-social circumstance of
body tiniest like among jupiter moon alaska
and all other shares of size (spelled your self)...
so then the inverse numerology:
C, one hundred... there is no T unless it be
the time concerned suffering on a crucifix...
but then there's the XI... eleven...
turn numerology on its head...
peer into something abstract associated
with the twinning of words, words twinned
to a bare minimum... so akin in misguided
uses as to appear so akin as to be readily
misused, upon the matter of twinned-pronunciation
without a necessary dichotomy that's already
there, for the optics dare not like,
but the tongue makes a porridge of the sound
then usurps the twinned sounds to opposing
spelling that the optics finds appealing.

Faulkner's comment, I imagine him
tossing it off like Yogi Berra between games
of a doubleheader. The hero, the expert, the virtuoso
has no real control, is going to feel
unmitigated, unsparing forces, a mighty sun
swallowed by a black hole, coughed up into a big sky.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

Versus Wayne Gretsky's formulation.
When I think of my death, I think of returning
the chemicals and microorganisms I borrowed.
If my plane goes down, when we hit the ground
fruits with names will be waiting - squawbush if
in the desert uplands, rose hips on a Vermont farm.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

I realize I have a religion, a science fiction
the size of Jupiter which is, as these things go, small:
Chardin's theory unifying physical matter, rocks
and all sentient beings into one - here's the catch -
conscious organism. Having said that, why not claim
the same for the entire universe? Rock + DNA = soil.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

These trees cannot feed me.
Self-sufficiency is relevant only in context of community,
      economy.
Every drug, every vitamin is wrung from plants,
tools and shelter are ore.
A tincture, infusion, decoction, a ******, a compress,
      poultice, a salve, a syrup.
A war president needs war.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

5 a.m., first of Spring.
Robins still in flocks, not paired off. But crows
mating on the sky - two couples dating
a sign of luck, that Celtic god passing Peter talked about.
8,000 generations, I reach only to my grandparents
but history and the naming of things extend our vision.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

I was handcuffed but not beaten. Humiliated but not insulted.
And when I came before the judge, he was uninterested
in vengeance or restitution. He had his own death before him,
probably. I keep wanting to go back
to before the big bang, reading books about the cosmos,
FLO, LUCA, the texture of reality, consciousness,
      God-seeking.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

For the next 5-10 years my goals are: geographically
compact and contiguous Congressional districts, term limits
for Federal legislators and judges, election of the president
by direct popular vote, public financing, spending limits and
      free
air time for candidates, abolish UN vetoes, consent of the
      governed
before governments can sit in global councils.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

No greater tragedy than the death of your children.
Yet you live on, eyes drained of color. Old,
you make plans. To know the names of every flower
in the temperate zone. Every bird by its song.
Just as you're about to reach your goal, a tipping point
comes along: a nuclear detonation or it gets too cold.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

The Race Card: Whether it be in suggesting that anyone who doesn’t vote for him because he is black is probably a republican, or in blaming Bush administration racism on a slow response to Hurricane Katrina, Obama is quite comfortable playing the race card.

2. Anti-Indian: After the Obama campaign released a paper disparaging other candidates for their ties to the Indian-American community, the chairman of the bipartisan US India Political Action Committee, Sanjay Puri, stated that the Obama Campaign was “engaging in the worst kind of anti-Indian American stereotyping.” Of course, Obama denied any hand in the racist document put out by his campaign.

3. Corrupt Buddies: Tony Rezko, a long time friend and fund-raiser for Obama, was indicted last fall on federal charges that accuse him of demanding kickbacks from companies seeking state business. When asked about his friend, Obama said, “I’ve never done any favors for him.” This turned out to be a lie, as evidence turned up proving that Obama had written letters to city and state officials praising Rezko’s business practices.

4. Wal-Mart Ties: While bashing of Wal-Mart’s labor practices in public, Obama has been profiting from their business through the money his wife made as a member of the board of directors for a company that produces food for the mega-corporation.

5. Religious Ties: Is Obama a Muslim? Is he a Christian? Nobody is 100% sure, but it is true that Obama was raised in a Muslim family and at one time attended an Islamic school. He currently claims to be a convert to Christianity, but some are concerned about his Muslim upbringing.

6. Anti-Second Amendment: Obama is one of the most anti-Second Amendment legislators in the country. He supports a ban the sale or transfer of all forms of semi-automatic weapons.

7. Gas-guzzler: Obama might attack American automakers for not making enough environmental friendly automobiles, but when he goes home he drives a gas-guzzling V-8 hemi-powered Chrysler 300.

8. Obama Ringtones: The most annoying campaign tool ever.

9. Obama Girl: I take back what I said about the ringtones. This girl is far more annoying.

10. His Unelectable Name: Barack Hussein Obama, ’nuff said.

We’re your friendly Republican
Legislators! Yay!
Whether state or federal,
We are here to stay.
We will change the laws to make
Sure that we maintain
All the power that we want;
We won’t let it wane.

We will use all strategies
To get what we desire--
Even if we have to lie,
Hoodwink or conspire.
If we make it hard to vote,
That will help us win,
As we watch opponents fall
Into a tailspin.

If opponents get perchance
More votes, we won’t grieve,
For we have something really quite
Sneaky up our sleeve.
It will be an obstacle
Easy to surmount:
We’ll find devious ways to make
Opponents' votes not count.

If you look into our eyes
And see we have no soul,
That’s okay ‘cause all we want
Are power and control.
If sacrificing democratic
Values in order to keep
Our power and authority,
We don't give a (bleep).

-by Bob B (3-26-21)

LONELY TELEPHONE

September 20, 1989 – London

City teenagers hurling about within their lives
Absurd places to live in, I feel
Consequences never being understood
And so, mindless action and devastating hurt ensues again
And times are uncaring
Didn’t you know?
Walls bare, barren and sweating frightening you
But why?
Pay shall be low!
So it was decreed
By legislators light years
Away from us
So bleed on;
Your brain is unaware
Friends fade soon
Opportunities sinister and momentary wanted you
Lonely telephone
That you gaze at
In your gloomy, wet room
Irrelevant information piles up within
Recognizable faces mean little to you
Glamorous personalities all conform
Times are repetitive and cliché-like
Humans!
Growing older so soon?
Days monotone continue passing by
And so your life styles remain intact.

----

Parliament's headquarters--Back alley for smokes n' such.
Politicians deliberating on the bread and the butter
While the starving go hungry and the Truth begins to suffer.
Never point to the signs on the wall
12 steps, Denial before the fall.

Consumerist, zombie shuffle back to the car, the market's full up.
Look for the polyethylene creamer. Metallic coated groceries
For the plastic (PORTIS issued) consumer.
"Coke is it" they would say as they take the morning grind (black/two sugar.)

Racists make the sea of Policy makers and warmongers,
Bathing in other's poverty, hunger and pain;
Fearing death before the climb, G-d before the fall
Slashing at the necks of basilisks until they turn to stone.  
Blind and petrified to the core,
I swear God, Parliament will smoke no more.

Comes along the Harbinger, you've got one new message.
Message one, There is no god, only me. I'm your Hypocrisy.
Cry to an empty thought, kid the kidders, sin among sinners.
Shamble back to Parliament's sanctuary, the legislators are in,
Let Smokes n' Such begin.

You have your demagogic president-elect,
Dreaming in shades of Mussolini
And will sit in his downtown skyscraper and laugh that all the populists
Were not in on the joke,
And thus could not be in on the punchline.

The progressives hotboxed the shower the night we handed the country to Trump.
Pennsylvania, the center of the cataclysm.

The vortex has opened and engulfed all the steel,
All of the illegal immigrants have been scooped up and swallowed,
Reproductive rights will be voided in a stacked Supreme Court validating the opinions of white male legislators.

Tensions twisting to contort and ignore the onset realization
That all progress is halted to return the country to the era of segregation,

Deportation Gestapo formed with the lone intent to displace the children of those who dared to dream of a brighter life.

America, look what you've done and face yourself with your objections.
Look dead in your eyes and see all the minorities, tears in the diaries of closeted teenagers,
And the judicial dread of the gentleman who only wants to live comfortably with his husband.

You've made stepping stones of the counterculture, all crying in dorm rooms or next to their gardens,
All together in sorrow.

Underground America has been sold out,
We're a social experiment for what can happen when sulfuric acid is poured upon the voiceless.
The silent majority has shut us up.
We've been yelling to change history and now are tracking back.

Bigotry is back in style and I'm terrified.

that litre of whiskey last night, downed in one session
seriously did the trick.*

the unacknowledged legislators that we are,
sure enough, we are,
taking quills from angelic wings and hoping
for pigeon **** on us in trafalgar sq. reverse
logic of a black cat crossing the street and the no. 13.
our lineage dating back to the caucus is worried,
will we survive, earn the credential of middle-age
and middle-class?!
i don't know, art and work are akin,
although the former stressors are said as:
i'm working... i'm working! but i'm not getting paid!
in the latter scenario... well i think i'm working...
but i'm just looking busy... and i'm getting dough
for that... smiling a fanciful card trick of the
sociable with a stranger passing along the way
of my muffin / coffee stand, pop-up in a busy linchpin
of economy known as the shop gallery -
now imagine putting a pound coin in the shopping gallery
and a pound coin in an art gallery... obviously
there's a 99 pence store you could buy something
and get enough frank sinatra losing the change
outside... but in an art gallery? a pound coin on the mahogany?
you were asked to donate your own trusted allowance
at the door... donate the quid and admire the canvases,
don't be one of those 191% increase of theatre ticket sales lot
taking a questionnaire then booking tickets to
define old school bourgeoise as exclusively theatrical,
this is the west end - everyone's pompous...
or as aristotle said: tourism begins with awe...
all these tourists are perfect actors of philosopher...
mouths open walking with flashlight frenzies
they almost look like philosophers... awe-struck...
mouths open... a pigeon could just about do a blitz
drop into their mouths;
yet something worries me... for such a courteous
nation as the british claim to fame are...
why seriously throw all the cursors and vectors of curtsy
onto placards on the street for reminder... like this one t.f.l.
advert asking the english "gentleman"
to excuse his knackered limbs
of farting into an office seat for 8 hours for an old lady
on the tube? why... big brother said it had to be advertised,
this english curtsey of the gentlemen with
sexism clarified with tampons and public space urinals -
but as all white big bangs go... i guess it's an
evolutionary fear... we'll never beat the insects...
we can beat the dodos the lions the mammoths...
we can't beat the insects... we already know
there's a worm for every **** ******* eyesight scented
talking hole once we die and aren't cremated;
we're in the atomic playground, atomised i hardly
think is an adequate congestion of comparisons...
then if not atomic then humanoid,
or just black-void to stress known origins...
while mama caucus sells chickens...
originally there was only one bull solomon for the
perfect breed... reverse of man the cows said:
you send men to war like bulls to slaughter
keeping the king and the queen oriental to
poke and point at the next living man dead...
we're the lactose ganges, people dye burnt human
remains in the twirl and sidewinder of nature that
defines us... but let children chuckle and suckle at
our *******... but most of the beef you see sold
comes from those akin to bulls...
you keep one and adorn him with india's tear
that's sri lanka... and churn the rest to war...
while the she of each she that is left for milking,
is then discarded among the bull corpses.

By: Cedric McClester

Just another day
Of gun violence and fear
In the United States
So by now it should be clear
That our legislators
Must not even care
They haven’t taken action
Since they’ve been in there

Just another day
Of gun violence and fear
Permeating acrid smoke
In the atmosphere
Bodies lying motionless
After the smoke clears
And it’s happening so frequently
We’ve run out of tears

Just another day
Of gun violence and fear
But we’re not talking Middle East
It’s happening right here
Every week we seem to have
Another cross to bare
But the NRA will usually say
That we shouldn’t despair

Just another day
Of gun violence and fear
The question is how do we
Make it disappear
Before we meet our Armageddon
In a clearing near
If you have a good answer
Would you care to share?




















Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015.  All rights reserved.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                       Poets Seldom Order Missile Attacks

         “Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world”

                     –Shelley, “A Defense of Poetry,” 1821

In truth

Poets are the acknowledged legislators
          of nothing
                    Let us thank God that it is so

Poets can be tiresome in their own ways
Among other shortcomings scribbling free verse
Without any consideration for meter
And failing to understand the rhythm of iambs

Poets can be tiresome in their own ways
Hogging for grants and television time
Some writing more for politics than for truth
Obsessing on the I instead of All

Poets can be tiresome in their own ways
But they seldom order missile attacks

Poets are the acknowledged legislators
          of nothing
                    Let us thank God that it is so

A distrust of details…
Ample amounts of reporting,
And eroding authority;
More freeze-thaw cycles,
Upswells, dead zones. Early signs
Wash up onto the shore, as the
Earth’s core continues to warm.
Hurricanes play mercilessly with
Uninsured lives, and earthquakes
Evolve from tickles to fissures.
Snow disappears from
Whole mountainsides.
The floodgates HAVE opened, temperatures ARE
Rising; Perception is always partial
but there’s plenty of evidence, regardless -

When we start to question the record-keepers
And legislators, those omitting parts of history;
People who willingly walk into the sun, selfishly
Sidestep the natural order and equilibrium of all things,
Exactly where does that journey end?

I think, somewhere around the place
Where we start to forge our own histories,
Or indifference begins.

and like dante i’d write the geometric of heaven
likened to his hell,
although instead of the ix roundabouts
i’d write of the x winding paths,
harry potter en route 9 & 3/4
buddha between motorway 4.5 and 5.5
and jesus on the crossroads junction between 2.9 and 3.1.
of course i slow down sometimes, i figure,
write a boorish poem dependent on sloth,
write a prosaic poem in vain hope of mirroring equal speed
of the reader,
never write: poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world...
instead write: poets mediate all mediums of art the easiest,
and sometimes do more than the ostriches could
and attack philosophy.
but then there’s this memory i have of myself
sitting in a room with rodin’s kiss marble statue at tate modern,
sketching the statue from all the vivaldi angles,
just before the statue was given an s & m makeover
by cornelia parker, wrapping the statue in the next best thing
to leather gimp masks... petrifying sexuality like
that can scar the hardest metallurgy product, including my eyes,
the ******* rope will not make the hellish couple cling tighter...
but a mantis or a black widow overshadowing the couple
probably would to make the male petrified to stick to
providing for high heels handbags and feminism;
i know the modern word rope = ***** in pink,
but come on... the contortions are not even exfoliating under
the ropes...
i guess i never learnt the art of “pure” and “animalistic”
expression everyone is into... verbiage and all kinds of vegetables
for me it would seem...
moving in between different art forms with an eel slippery ease...
giving due admiration for composer, visualizer, synchroniser,
post stamp / card artist, metal techno indie rapper, busker
and prose exerciser - it’s not that we leave our footmarks
almost idly, almost too infrequently, almost too lightly,
it’s because we are changing lanes on the motorway of sounds & colours,
while people like tolstoy and stephen king are stuck in
the traffic of prose, while people like beethoven and mozart
are stuck in the traffic of music -
but never you mind that quote from picasso...
that quote: all children are artists; the problem is how to remain
an artist once you grow up...
well... there’s an answer to that... retain a childish element
in your art... like picasso did in his work although womanising like
a strong alpha gorilla balancing both testicles in the abyss
of the crotch and a coconut on its head...
perfect cubes with triangles and squares on rectangular canvases...
or start talking like salvador d. about the paranoid expression
using sniffs of ammoniac substances to remember the stench of cows’ **** in the surreal.

there no doubt about it - with each day there's always a falsetto poem, always at the end of a binge - the mind goes blank, words lose meaning, every day is like a simulation of old age - there's a method to this madness - i'm not afraid of critique concerning such poems: true virtue is unafraid of critique - for one, i can just as well criticise myself - so after each binge i end up with mediocre poems - conceding this point, words lose meaning, associations of meanings disperse - pollination in full swing - i end up writing noises - perhaps because my own silence is so chilling i have to resort to oscillation around the onomatopoeia, and all respective quasi or pseudos or pseudonyms of all required ventures - but the rewarding aspect of such writing is best summarised by a jazz drummer and a jazz teacher combined into one: the crescendo must go on - the movie? whiplash - the moment, the moment, the moment is too sudden and too short - it's essentially everything and nothing at all - always a heart-out-of-beat, at least a feeling of having a heart without the unconscious rhythmic pistons with whatever scientific explanation there is to match - they always come, the trail offs.

i didn't finish the Cantos just in order to remind myself
how i miss the time when it all began with
the second Odysseus of the 20th century -
both this disguised Odysseus of the Cantos,
and the blatant portal of time-warp beginning and ending
in Dublin - Homer's resurrection and reinvention -
perhaps all this Grecian nostalgia is what fuelled
the 20th century altogether - but how anaemic
do the Roman poets seem in comparison -
i could never write along this root toward that
tree near the Parthenon - but taking root in
the Roman tradition has only been accepted for
historical relevance only once since - without
Virgil there would have been no Dante - but still
Dante uses more accuracy of mathematics than
of spontaneity - a clarity of mind is necessary -
trinity rhymes - all clearly presented, cut up -
but no one damns him for the theological impetus -
happily prancing alongside them in hell -
through to the seemingly pointless purgatory
and then elsewhere into what can only be seen as
humanity's limit of imagination: subatomic particles
and a realm were visible to the naked eye we float
in and out of conscious states - well - if what i'm attempting
is an attempt in good faith - then my guide is no one
else than Horace - and already the style between Greek
and Roman is staggering - the selfishness of Roman poets -
the must include item: i. no Trojan horse, but a wooden
barrel of wine - no heroes, only leeches and poking fun at
them like Spartans at a drunk given undiluted Burgundy -
Roman selfishness, self-loathing and all jokes on me -
the 20th century's nostalgia for all things Greek isn't here
anymore - you will not find such legislators of a second
fancy at Ancient Helen - this century has no great conflict
of gathering - and therefore no great victory to parade with -
it's a silly century from what looks like an even sillier 80 or
so years to come - and is there a nostalgia for the Roman
past? there was a nostalgia - it's too practical to think about
it - esp. with the writing kept, even if they crucified an
important, the wrath of the supposed father was not as great
as it was with the Egyptians and the Babylonians -
Sanskrit is just as old and it survived - those two phonetic
encoding systems haven't - you can't say they were
inefficient - civilisations surrounded them - but the wrath
was too great - and they became instinct -
but perhaps the wrath for his phonetic encoding is the digital
age? a ****-stain on human interaction - or a smear
of fondue chocolate? i think the latter - imagine me running
around the publishing world like Asterix in the *twelve tasks
of - the place that sends you mad - including Hercules -
who did, managed to **** his children when his muscles weren't
up to speed with bureaucracy - oh hell, bench-press a cow -
but run with a little leaflet between offices... bonkers.
i really do miss the Cantos - the feel of them - the obscurity of
some of the references i'm not ashamed to admit -
or just the sheer ease on the eyes as is the case with any poem -
(a poem a day keeps both the psychiatrist and the optometrist
away) - so yeah, plenty of apples - and poetry, supreme democracy -
i could reread them, but i'm of a democratic cult -
i have to allow someone else to borrow me their shoes -
tom verlaine's album around - a rare gem, doesn't get listened
to a lot, but unlike other music, it's not something you'd
listen to in a gym, something that's a pleasant but mundane
distraction of pop metal pop rock or pop pop - the o of adore -
as suggested by a Scottish music shop assistant / owner in
Edinburgh - that magic city of where the 21st century's heart
of the literary scene resides - forget Paris, it's too much of
a little Casablanca - the Algiers of the North (Edinburgh being
Athens of the north) - i admit it'll be hard not to be nostalgic
about the 20th century let alone Ancient Helen -
but as the monkey said: got to push on and meet Darwin -
silly hands, silly feet, silly tail... and i'm not wearing Gucci
without Brazilian wax job all over, except for appropriate
places - sure - we'll just wait for the Apache hairdresser -
we only to scalping. however, there is a subversive thing
i want to mention (never mind that i already wanted to stick
in Thesaurus Rex on the matter): Kant (yawn) -
started analysing English aged 8 -
started synthesising English also aged 8 (a few weeks
if not months, from nothing, to gut sprechen -
piuma'h not pooma'h (Puma) -
but it took me 20 odd years of unconditional surrender
to the language, 20 years of synthesising it - blind -
to come across another chance to analyse it -
the difference being it became analytical a posteriori -
that's the thing with philosophers, they have spaghetti
for brains, tangles, they over-complicate things, but sometimes
they get it right, and you read them and then end up
using their labyrinths to find secret passages at places
like Versailles that Louis XIV used between visits to his
concubines - that was the trick, the upper-hand on the Arabian
practice - amuse yourself by not owning them -
but technically owning them - concubine power - the sixth
Spice Girl - dirrrty spice - but yeah, 20 years to get a second
stab at the analysis of the English language -
20 years of synthesis will do that to you, like any chemist
might feel, aged 20 does an analytical study, something
new and never done before, then he lands a job at a
pharmaceutical company and has to synthesise and synthesise
and synthesise the same thing over and over again -
20 years pass, aged 40 he gets another chance to analyse something
that it's just quality control - i know there are puritans out
there who'd lash out at what i'm using here -
but i want the practical side of philosophy, nothing overloaded
with words, theories, knowledge whatever that means -
i know crude, but necessary - a priori (from the earlier):
well, i wasn't a mute aged 8, proof?
an etymological void about to be filled: w środe poszłem do
lasu (on wednesday i went to the woods) - etymology here,
i'm sure of it - etymology or the resemblance of
a Thesaurus Rex roar - a piquant case of synonyms -
środa (wednesday), originally? derived from środek:
the centre - oh look... friday thursday ś tuesday monday -
the days off don't count, we all know that.
etymological spontaneity then, i wouldn't force myself
to practice a detailed inquiry using it - spare of the moment
thing... more pleasant that way;
but as you can see i am at the point of analytical a posteriori:
clearly shown by what i've already noticed in nuances
of the English language - i won't go through what i've
noticed - but having crossed the threshold of
analysing English after having automated synthesising it
for so long, i would naturally end up writing poetry -
the 21st century kind - look ahead! said Columbus,
but please have a sacred respect for your memory as
your own citizen with Friday on Bermuda -
treat memory like a potent hallucinogenic drug -
after all... the state doesn't respect your memory, at school
they cram in all those pointless things you have to
memorise - arithmetic, spelling (well both are kinda useful),
but so much else you will not care to remember -
it's not about how important you think you are when
you're not given there's 8 billion of us - don't get
fooled by this self-importance gimmick - look at what
the education system of the state is eroding... yes... your
memory - so you forget yourself at the happiest of times...
memory is more sacred than thinking and can be
more potent than an Amazonian or a Swiss hallucinogenic.

I dont know if it was because of the book you were reading
Or if it was because the curvature of your sloped spine
insinuated you were tired
Or maybe it was because you just looked lonely
But, you looked like you could write poetry
it could’ve been the pen marks on your fingers
Or the tan lines across your neck
But eyes like that don’t just sit down

Eyes like that start fires in my cheeks
And picket signs in my chest
And ******* legislators
But more importantly they make me want to write

I don’t know if it was the way your jaw clenched you
Or the way your tongue bit your teeth
But you looked like you could recite poetry

And even worse, I wanted to listen

I wanted to be your commitee, outreach, moral support
I wanted to be your pen, paper, microphone, clothes on your back
I wanted to be anything that touched your skin, touching me

You’re least favorite feeling is when your holding back tears and your face is about to explode
There’s reasons why the clouds look so heavy before falling
God can hold so much in

You said you don’t believe in luck, but you’re a firm believer in hope
That three leaf clovers weren’t done growing when they were plucked
That when a lady bug didn’t land on your hand,
A premature baby somewhere is using his grasp his mother’s finger
For the first time

I want to hear the poetry that you’ll write about the
spaces between your fingers
It will be the closest i’ll ever get to holding them

you were born an angry baby.
with tears in your eyes
But i use to poetry to say they weren’t angry.

just eyes dancing.

I dreamed the day finally arrived
When ALL people realized
And understood why Donald Trump
Deserved to be so despised.

People everywhere saw through
His empty words, his lies, his act,
His bigoted, odious promises,
His thought process so inexact.

No one acknowledged his asinine tweets
Or listened to his divisive rants.
No one went to his vacuous rallies
And started shouting racist chants.

No one let him- or herself
Be duped by the man's endless stream
Of worthless gibberish and hateful talk
That once made non-supporters scream.

Our country had respect again
From countries worthy of respect.
Foreign relations were also mended
After having suffered neglect.

No longer did we admire
Autocrats and dictators.
We looked up to our allies and praised
Diplomatic negotiators.

The voices of white supremacy
Were drowned by voices of love and inclusion.
Voting rights would be protected.
That became a foregone conclusion.

Russia and other countries couldn't
Interfere with our elections.
All people living in
The U.S. had equal protections.

Religious freedom meant that people
Could practice beliefs across the nation
And NOT use religion as
A handy excuse for discrimination.

Clean air and clean water
Became a focus, AND what's more,
Climate change wasn't considered
A silly hoax that we should ignore.

Children were not separated
From parents at our border gate.
People weren't dehumanized
And made to feel second rate.

The taxation system was fair
And benefited not only the wealthy.
Everyone had health insurance
With emphasis on being healthy.

To presidential abuse of power
Legislators said farewell.
And egomaniacal Donald Trump
Languished in a prison cell.

What a dream--what a vision--
Where joyous hopes began anew!
If only it could come to fruition!
It would be a dream come true.

-by Bob B (7-19-19)

What are we doing right now to save our teenage girls and boys
Out on city streets selling their bodies and being treated like
Throwaway toys. We need to raise protesting voices to our legislators
And really make some voting noise in an effort to save
The unprotected children every girl and boy. This is a daily problem in
Our country. We see with open eyes our children hurting and dying
And far to wise. We owe it to all of our children in Philadelphia
And around the world a clean and loving childhood every boy and girl
Human life people, should not be viewed as cheap
Far to many are dying away from home on the mean and ***** streets
And before you lay a tired head down  to sleep tonight
In your warm and clean bed, what about the children?

poltroonish authoritarian skunks ruling
for decades & helped out by hellhound-like
guards authorized carrying guns, fE̲w friends
[law enforcers, personal security service agents & army]
from young adulthood turned partners in unruly
enrichment, pesky agents of cyber—
—space censorship, an unjust jU̲di—
[the "partners in crime" phrase]
—ciary, submissive legislators for power
abuse, plus bullsh#t-
and hatred-spreading information supp—liers (wassup, y'all schmucks)
["liars"]
a whole palace of corrupt tU̲[ʊ]shlicks
[the main thing ones mentioned have in common]
deserving to end up chastened by fire (chastened by fire)
which is one of the proposals I wO̲U̲ld give
["witches", which connects with "end up chastened by fire"]
as a reply on "how shO̲U̲ld ******
that hold power & are sick with
cold-bloodedness be treated?"
of course, the world has some gO̲O̲d things
to o[ɑ]ffer, but human—
—kind; for the most part, it's o[ɑ]ff-putting
like an option regarding wha[ʌ]t should be
done with that ******[ɑ]tic **** ruling
in the underdis—banded mafia lA̲nd east
of Europe (nullify the ****** mo[ɑ]bster)
["off [the surname of the dictator of the area mentioned]"; "bandit"]
it's a world of wro[ɑ]ngdoing
which is why it requires ones whO̲'d be
like mechanics, getting the ***** jo[ɑ]b done
getting Earth purified fro[ʌ]m
walking pieces o[ʌ]f dung
such as key figures o[ʌ]f ***
autocratic regimes & mo[ɑ]b ****
————————————————————————————————
you know what's a[ɑ]musing? I've be—gun putting (down)
together this one listening to some dumb music
party-fine tunes with
wicked E̲DM sounds, whI̲ch can be found in different styles
["different" is supposed to be read/pronounced the 3-syllable way]
amongst which is twerk
like a dance by a magic-practicing gal wI̲th her stern
bouncing; not a life teacher learned
["witch's twerk"]
heaps 'bout it, but here's something wise: since this world
["hips", which connects with the twerk subject in the preceding lines]
is sick, like the NO-WAVE-made
tune "Direct Action", or like that spite-ridden verse
of "POAA"
[the producer's name is spelled as "N O W A V E"]
[the phrase "this world is sick" is the most repeated part of the tune's lyrics]
[the rhyme piece "punishment of an autocrat" written by me]
sometimes it is worth
distracting our mind by things preferred
by us, esp. when our spirit's hurt
like hell; wish I sometimes could, like one free of coarse
language, no[ɑ]t give a curse
[the "to give a tinker's curse" expression]
about what's go[ɑ]t mE̲ disturbed
not sure if this is fine for uplifting words
like a penalty charge issued for
giving an encouraging speech, but I̲f you're short
on high spirits, or feel destroyed
or even feel so hor—rible that this flipping world
you want to see it burn
just like the mentally *******, yet supply—
—ing-food-for-thou[ɑ]ght guy
introduced in "Dark Knight", try doing wha[ʌ]t I
think can be of some help during hard times
[the Joker from the film mentioned & the Alfred's quote about him]
[which goes: "some men just want to watch the world burn"]
[both, the world & the Joker referenced in the latest lines]
[are sick (crazy), hence the choice of "flipping" (going crazy) toward "world"]
whatever unwicked, whether it's artistic, sport
or recreational, you like, or are eager for
(there has to be something)
just ge[ɪ]t immersed
into it, like someone who dives, leaving worth—
—less weighty stuff like doubts, fears ashore
get immersed & get enjoyment
out of the respective moment
————————————————————————————————
wish I had
a mind arranged like that

By: Cedric McClester

The profit motive inspires our lust
Money is the god in which we trust
And justice hasn’t ever been for us
Seems like all the breaks
Go to the upper crust
Those on Wall Street love to speculate
On the backs of the middle class
Who must carry the freight

Prisons now are being run for profit
State legislatures casually adopt it
Increasingly more states are tryin’ to cop it
Is there anyone, anywhere to stop it

Neo-slavery has become big business
Avarice and greed caused them to rig this
And none among us can afford to ig’ this
Is it necessary for me to go down the pig list
As legislators continue to shoot the breeze
Like an orange Puerto Rico has been squeezed
And Islanders are forced to beg the US please
They’d just like a chance to get up off their knees

Prisons now are being run for profit
State legislatures casually adopt it
Increasingly more states are tryin’ to cop it
Is there anyone, anywhere to stop it

Some clearly might question
Has the deck been stacked
Against a certain class of people
Who have been attacked
And if they had the resources
They seem to lack
They might be better equipped
To fight back

There are certain facts here
I’ve tried to expose
That have been camouflaged
For how long God only knows
It’s high time they’re revealed
I would suppose
And that’s the role here
That I must have chose

Prisons now are being run for profit
State legislatures casually adopt it
Increasingly more states are tryin’ to cop it
Is there anyone, anywhere to stop it

The profit motive inspires our lust
Money is the god in which we trust
And justice hasn’t ever been for us
Seems like all the breaks
Go to the upper crust
Those on Wall Street love to speculate
On the backs of the middle class
Who must carry the freight

Cedric McClester Copyright © 2016.  All rights reserved.

The White House game of musical chairs continues.
Trump has once again a change of taste.
Rex Tillerson, who has been serving as his
Secretary of State, is being replaced.
The new appointee will be Mike Pompeo--
A sycophantic yes-man through and through.
Trump will soon have the cabinet he wants,
He says--in short, his loyal retinue.
Why always this constant change of heart?
Why not pick the right ones from the start?

The personal assistant to the president
Was walked off White House grounds without his jacket.
He must have done something pretty outrageous.
Take THAT political nut and try to crack it!
Serious financial crimes appeared
To be the cause of McEntee's removal.
But he now has a job on Trump's campaign;
So much he has the president's approval!
Such a move: could you call it smart,
Knowing what we know from the start?

House Republicans investigating
The Russia connection say the case is closed
Without having conducted a thorough query.
Their true motivations have been exposed.
How sad when our legislators' desires
To seek out truth and clarity are sparse,
And favoring Party over the American people,
They turn an investigation into a farce!
Republicans on the committee did their part
To sabotage the process from the start.

-by Bob B (3-14-18)

working at the bookstore,
searching for the words

though I’m 49
still at times a Theo-nerd

poetry beats prose
it’s a truth some cannot face

the unacknowledged legislators
of the human race

Shelley was quite right
a Pythagorean who could own it

the music is the mystery
from the sacred silence shown it

so write your verse quite carefully
and sing from your deep heart

future folk will listen
and live by your true art

He was, to be sure, very impressive indeed,
His bearing and carriage not of someone on his way
As much as one who had truly arrived:
Sleek, self-assured, possessing the calm of one
Who fully understands just how powerful he is,
One who has not embraced the company culture
As much as self-immersed in it,
To the point where it has so permeated his structure
That is hard to tell where he begins and it ends.
And yet, there is something unsettling there,
The odd non sequiturs, disturbing enough
In their utter and unconscious wrong-headedness,
But even more so
In the motorized, perfunctory method of their delivery,
As if it were obvious that it is we who are clearly incorrect.

Some three hours of drive time away,
Past any number of Holiday Inn Expresses,
Past numerous faded and shuttered Catskill resorts,
A handful of people carrying standard-issue banker’s boxes
Containing the detritus of twenty or thirty years of work
Exit the vestigial office the company maintains in its birthplace
(Only there as a nod to history, a sop to the locals and legislators.)
We hate to lose good people,
The HR person who drove up for the occasion
Intones solemnly to a handful of reporters
Who slouch nonchalantly in folding chairs
Scattered about a small, Seventies-wood-paneled conference room,
But there are certain market inefficiencies at work,
International incidents, kinks in the supply chain,
Other anomalies the forecasting tools
And business models couldn’t have foreseen.
And as he speaks, one of the newly superfluous
Wordlessly enters her car, pointing it homeward,
Across the sluggish, ice-clogged Susquehanna traversing  a bridge Commemorating a giant of cash registers and calculators.

If in the basket of deplorables must I be,
To quote a term most used by sweetest Hilary,
Then let me state this best I can,
I'm voting for our country, not the man.

A country where race and gender aren't the bait,
But where everyone is open to debate,
United by a sense of common pride
Holding back divisions’ surging tide.

Where knowledge of our strength is used for good,
And our intent for peace is not misunderstood;
Making clear to tyrants our firm resolve,
So that by dialogue not war may they
squabbles solve.

A nation where our people are first in line
And not succumb to disadvantages or imported crime,
From open borders with illegals pouring through,
With misguided politicians caring more for them than you.

Where doctrine is replaced by common sense,
From the fringes seeking dominance hell-bent.
Boys competing fully in girls sport,
No reasoned thought for when children to abort.

Politicians’ vanity projects not worth
Squandering our money with intent and
unrequited mirth;
While millions live in poverty and need,
Ignored by legislators craving fame and intellectual greed.

I want our leaders to respect our flag,
And not applaud when to the ground protestors stomp and drag;
And for why, but to score a series of cheap shots,
Empowering radicals to ferment those never ending plots.

So yes, my vote goes to just my country,
And if a name must I choose, I say this humbly,
My selection won't be for one that's woke,
Or that will seek to send our country broke.

Politicians convince themselves they're special,
They are in fact a wallowing empty vessel,
Using their guile and mimic to impress,
When truth be told, they almost invariably depress.