aayounga poet is a towering painting
in a sunlit gallery
of an ancient museum
gilded frame displaying
a livid angel whose face
gapes in horror at the past
fiery sword in one hand
cradling a cherubic baby in the other
whose innocent eyes glimmer toward
all hopes for the future
their wings raging
in the storm
of the present
i am a poet
my job is to chronicle
the time in which i live
then deconstruct it
invigorate thought
change minds
sway hearts
and screw
h,
hey louisville,
long time no hear from, don juan try hump fat
i’m about to get waynesburg on your stubborn ass
and i want you to know for years
i forgave you for blowing your head off,
hell,
i applauded your ballsy choice
you were nothing if not consistent
you were proof the most intelligent and keen amongst us
are prone to depression, suicide, and addiction,
because we understand how fucked up the world can be
and simply can’t bear the soul sucking siege and insult of it
no one should be made to suffer,
but you should be alive now
we need your voice now
more than ever,
gonzo journalist,
who thought the best was behind you
and it had only just begun
n’ don’t you tell me all the best kentuckians die young and grandly
you’re dead as a damned door nail
you can’t talk back
and aye, that’s the rub, old friend
i’m so mad at you for going away
if you weren’t already dead
i’d shoot you again myself
love you, fucker
a
perhaps one day
i shall meet a man whom
i’m too busy ravenously
claw fuck spit
loving
to have any war stories
to write about
poetry
is the purest
form of journalism
in an age stripped
of its innocence
.
where the huddled masses
are reeling from the latest
upgraded Halliburton version
of the vietnam war
.
as children of the eighties
we wore throwback peace signs
waxed romantic for woodstock
and tie dyed everything
because we wanted in on the optimism
the blatant irreverence
we wanted a hit off their cause
.
now we have our own vietnam
and our children are craving
the eighties
laughably
a time we considered
a decade of decadence
coining the phrase greed is good
yet they view it as a simpler time
.
i suppose
that is the natural order of things
in an unnatural world
.
besides
in the eighties
we still had food
that would biodegrade
because it wasn’t
made from polymers
.
pete rose
didn’t break my town’s heart
’til 89
after having made it swell to heaven
in 84
.
don’t make direct contact with another human
don’t believe anything the government tells you is the truth
and don’t drink the water
as mr. murrow would say
ladies and gentlemen…
good night, and good luck
Fucking labels
taped over my mouth.
Three years ago they called me sentimental,
then punk thereafter,
now i’m accused of being transgressive…
You know what i am?
A poet in love
whilst simultaneously horrified
with the times in which I live.
What are we?
Stunned. That’s what the hell we are.
The world as we know it, post 9/11.
The evening news is pornography.
Journalism is an old whore
leaning against a statue
of Edward R. Murrow.
How could any thinking, feeling human
with a modicum of awareness
not feel a bit disgusted or depressed?
We must be the agents of our own happiness,
twas always thus.
The older I get, the less tolerance I have for horse shit.
I’m simply documenting the beauty observed along the ride,
and that I mostly want to kick
human civilization’s lingering ass.
