poetry

In response to Mr. Mugs’ recent post concerning the morality of the honored and respected profession of teacherhood

poetry

Dear Roger Mugs,
The teaching profession
may indeed be evil
but be it hear known
that said profession
is currently paying
me more than i have
ever made before,
which is probably
more of an indictment
of my past jobs
than a qualification
of the profession.

Creed

poetry

You are the voice of my heart
You are the voice of my soul
You are the voice of all reason
You are the voice of my whole
*
You teach me life lessons when it needs be
And at this, You teach me always and forever
You teach me about your way to salvation
You teach with a patience that won’t tear or sever
No matter what I show of understanding
You will not thrust me into the black abyss
But give me the chance to find my way back
To Your voice through Sin’s haze and mist

why the teaching profession is indeed evil

poetry

forcing our words
whether created from inspiration or vomited out
of necessity
requiring we turn them in
as though ratting out our own parents

these words
we say as we staple our pages together
were written to be judged
so go ahead and mark your red all over
these pages
tell me my style is inappropriate
or i misspelled things by ‘accident’

then grade these words
and throw them to the wind
unless YOU decide MY words
are worthy of a refrigerator magnet

for the chains i drag with me

poetry

i am so tired
of the trading of paper
and the loving of traitors
and the words that they staple
words oh so hateful
to the trees made of maple
ever so faithful

and i am so tired
of the silence pervasive
after the laughs have all faded
the glances we traded
i hope i can save it
wont try to escape it
or find love belated

and i am so tired
and probably always will be
for the chains i drag with me

i hear new jobs can be scary. but i suppose it depends on the field

poetry

trifle lucky not quite ready
pardon every man stand steady
trigger pulling till its coming
pointing fingers prodding throwing
pick him up without a gab
place him face down in the cab
never any quite prepared
till they’re thrown in downright scared

baked and prodded
floating, lauded

time for someone else who dared

(in the end it was a matter of blood)

trained my thought (of)

poetry

the days have been less kind to me
lately
i find myself more prone to awkwardly timed
bowel movements
than i did when i was young
depends
i suppose. what did i eat? where?
was there lactose? spice?
the days i suppose it depends, was there spice?
i find myself more awkwardly prone
to lactose timing
lately
less kind to my bowel movements
days lately. lactose and spice
awkwardly kind
where i suppose i eat
prone to when i was young
it all depends

dreams of a budding politician

poetry

i’ll dress in silk and finest cotton
thread count higher than my favorite sheets
wearing suits from companies whose
names i’ll only know once i consider
a grand here and grand there spare change

i’ll nod the the concierge as he accepts my
vip card and passes me a glass of brut
just to let them know their place i’ll shake
their hands and act uninterested

i’ll call them george, vladimir, bill, and steve
they’ll call me dr. mugs and i wont give them
the time of day (i have a secretary for that)

to no avail

poetry

i sit
unaware of the slow rate in which the paint on my walls is crawling towards the floor as if even it would like to leave

i sit
in complete ignorance to the fact that millions of ants are building a penis shaped tower that you can see from space

i sit
with all the momentum one could use to sit, all of the gravity and kinetic force that one can do nothing with

i sit
and i sit
and i sit
and in all of my sitting i never once get up to stand, i only do so in my head, and when i do that with my head i stand on a ledge, you could stay i perform a headstand on a ledge, a ledge that is very high up above some building and i hold my balance there as if i had performed this one headstand my entire life, and with the grace of the greatest ballet dancers, salsa dancers, street dancers, naked dancers, and all other kind of dancer, i let the wind push my headstand to wherever the wind has decided

i sit
and i sit
and i sit
and i fall off of a ledge in/on my head
the wind as my chair.