On the Snowy Road

i should not just sit
and try to kerouac away
but should think first
ponder, be more deliberate,
and think about, deeply,
what i am trying to say.

Proud of Myself

i was thinking
a rare event itself
of writing a poem
expressing
the depth of passion
and innocent wonderment
the unbridled joy
dare i say ecstasy
of writing this thing
this little ditty
this minor poetic work
almost without using
any fucking curse words

change in tone?

am i more angry
less content or
just plain old pissed off?

what is that word
from my youth? 
from my sophmore year
the best year to be a
real true communist
in the purest sense
what is that word?

just kidding...
i knew it all along
discontent
i am discontent
disenchanted with
the stupid economy
collective greed
the widening disparity
in rich & poor & the end
of the american century

i should write all my poems
during bored meetings
choking on the spreadsheet cell
dyslexic points of power
focused on the ugly truth
sow's purse, silk ears
blah blah blah...

too white to be a rapper
too old to take up arms
too lazy mostly

i suppose the tone has changed

output

two poems in two days
be still my racing heart
two poems in two daze
with almost no meaning
or insight, devoid of feeling
with symbolism so subtle
even i don't see it

but look at the productivity
two poems... unphased

poetic drought

my muse
is on sabbatical
basking
in the south
of france
or
maybe... well
I just don't know

she, herself,
never writes

A Healthy Purge

Well… echoing Ronald Reagan

While hazy hot dawn sun pours

Through almost dirty windows

Trying to cleanse out cobwebs and

Years of moderate underachievement

(Except in my imagination)

Does that count?

Why not?

Oh to be Independent

I should be writing outside
Under a, uh, whattya call it,
Oh yeah, a Banyan Tree
Fecunding profound sounds
That might even mean something

But no…
I am sitting inside watching TV
And typing a kinda poem that
Well… ok… I’ll just say it,
Will never ever go viral