Author: poetthatlikesvellum

Poem #141

The Poet on Barbiturates and Ritalin at Six

Fear: a cold window howls with dreams,
which wake the dead,
sweat-bath, and shaking;
Mother screamed as a train,

“Caveat!
Caveat,
you will go to sleep,
my Little-Shit, do not think the moon your friend.”

The door slammed sound as black!
And, the world: of broken glass,
and ghosts came, and stole me
as a puppet in their strings.

In the streets they’re waltzing
as abandoned pets.

Revised “Hallucination #2”, 11 November 2017

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Poem #140

Shopworn Rejection Slips

Dear cubic zirconium crystal from Home Shopping Network,

I am writing to inform you, if at first you don’t receive a rejection letter,
submit your poem, again. An accepted poem is one that didn’t receive a rejection letter. Not to call the color of our rejection letters coal,
but published poems do not make any lemonade to drink.
Only years slowly mash their gums about how old my printing press is.
Did you try WordPress? I might as well be worn as the Appalachians
before I read your poem, if it is sent USPS, and please buy the envelopes
and return postage yourself. We write many rejection letters each day.
Still, be as brave as a mouse at the feet of a Transvaal lion.
Be as glib as you are with friends and enemies, no matter how
much heart you devour, nor how many assault rifles you shoot,
I see you were raised behind a writer’s desk.
Were you really raised behind a writer’s desk?
Very well, then, you were raised behind a writer’s desk.
You are immense like your notebook, you contain pages.
I yawp over your pen, over the raisin stained wood to myself.
We are not belligerent at you, we are belligerent with you.

Sincerely,
Graffiti to appear on Trump’s Wall.

Fiction #2

World Building Draft 1(Preliminary)
Workshop 14 October 2017

Elms, like this one Benjamin
Harrison planted in Glen Miller Park,
are all dead, if not for a leaf eating beetle,
then, the Dutch disease. The limbs
have no leaves, yet all
the trunks are still standing
reminding they were once
living between worms and birds,
dead pathways that the ancients
reminded, “once carried
the dead up to the stars.”
They never mention
what happens to gods striding down from the Cosmos
in its bark to be born out from the roots on the trunk
out in a stem blossoming out of a flower blossom.

Sure I walk by plenty of Bellerophons
that have not made it to the clouds
around the apex of Olympus
blind because of a fly.

Trees burnt into the tar
where feet used to traipse.

Poem #139

Thank You, I Do Not Remember
Dearest Kay,

What magic did you put into my drinks, when
mixing one part Kraken,
one part butterscotch schnapps, splashed
with cola, two separate glasses of
buttery black spiced rum cocktails, one
a la mode, one
on the rocks?

We have a grinder,
we have both our glass pipes,
and we have a bag of reefer
and we have the end of a joint,

Kay, do you remember reading of the Caterpillar, there was a problem                                 when Alice visited him in Wonder Land, on a whim,
and he was sitting, smoking hookah upon a mushroom,
and neither of them could recite the poem,
“Father William”?

I do not remember
the rerun of Penny Dreadful,
weary in the throes of back trouble,
only I remember the title,

where John Clare, ward and alone, wishes to die,
to rest on the Northampton grass below–
above the cathedral ceiling sky.

And yet, my lover, you, too, were so high
neither to remember how I pry,
nor to remember how you reply
betwixt each hit.

You are forgiven. We went much higher, then,
when we ascended the stairs of the duplex, when
and where I do not discern where you end and I begin.

Victor
Frankenstein
has to exist opposite
The Creator,
as The Adam of his Struggle
is of The Fallen Angel.
I am too presumptuous, when
I assume God must be a man, but never have I held the keys,
and you rebuke, “No. She is a woman.” A woman I long to please.

What would transpire, after
the monster
of Victor
and Vanessa reciting together
a poem of John Clare, does not matter

I am much happier here,
where drink and smoke have led
me lying next you, my dear,
to finally sleep, without my pain and without my head.

Yours Truly,
Andreas

Essay #9

An Epistle to Rep. Luke Messer on the 11th of this month, October, in the year 2017

Luke’s way of handling locals not losing money to immigrants, but health care because of long unnecessary hours at work…

So thus the Tyrants of the 1 percent strike: Taxation without representation…

The problem I have with your statement is “our country”. We are far removed from the ancestors that fought for their rights in this country. And I don’t know your family history, Rep. Luke Messer, but mine were indentured in my adoptive family–I can’t speak about my birth family because I don’t know them.

I think you are grossly simplifying that struggle and the offset of indigenous peoples which your comment disrespects and will continue to disrespect. In an American Literature class, at college, a professor of mine asked a great question in terms of Literature, what is “American”. I think if you were to have any inclination towards history you would understand that it is “immigrant”. You sir, have as much right to this land as I do–and in saying that it isn’t much. I’m sure if you were to search your family history you would agree that through the concepts of manifest destiny and the atrocities in our own state which you choose to ignore made Native Americans suffer. At the state house you could start by changing the name of our state since folks like William Henry Harrison and Mad Anthony Wayne insured that we will almost never find a Native American in what? What was their hunting ground.

What about tax payers dollars that are misspent federally by our ole’ friend Pence. In fact I have a notion to ask you, “Can I not pay my taxes to your state this year?” If we are going to have representatives misspend funds that I am paying so they can have vacations when there are real issues you need to address, sir, then count me out of this mess. I am going to the peace corp to utilize my skills elsewhere as I consider your atrocity of what you feel best represents your people as an outrage.

Respectively Submitted,

–If our representative had any part of a brain he would understand that most of the working class in his state are working 70+ hours to try and get ahead, while they “our right politicians” take all expenses paid vacations on hard earned tax payers dollars so they can boycott a ridiculous sport; if you can prove to me that the gross accumulation of wealth held by sports members are actually helping anyone when they live in multiple mansions when we have homelessness then I am all ears. Try to prove to me that denying immigrants in a way in any state is helping the issue we have. I might lose money but they aren’t doing anything to help me get ahead and ensuring my health so I can help my family. The only thing it is doing is tackling one ecological issue of footprint, and all that is doing is making over population worse elsewhere because of our great advances in medicine.

Write your representatives and inform yourselves.

Poem #138

An Anti-Sonnet for the Koch Brothers

Worried with indenture to Billionaires and their kin,
I hurry to my cola and two shots of rum, when
I embark on an expedition through my head, then,
to work my brain when its vessel is broken.
For right then my premeditations, at a distance, where I sin,
aim at a jealous voyage to your dynasty of Kansas Cooks’ cotton gin,
when my back is broke, with bad disks, which constrict
through the nerves of my spine, and detain the illegals
or eyelids from falling down, and up pupil width, to shift calls,
to look on dread which the good prophets see; save that an addict
with my poetic spirit’s creative vision presents your destruction convict
to my visionless persuasion which like a fear in pleasant morn makes
white days dim and her new face ancient; So, therefore, by nights my body aches
and days I give my madness to you, and for myself, all your thunder shakes.

Essay #8

A POST ON THESE UNITED STATES OF BEACH HAVEN AND FASCISTS

With all the posts about “disrespecting” the flag I think about how we started creating it when we were torturing Native Americans that still do not have the same rights extended to them on reservations, and essentially forcing their mass-exodus across Wayne County at the hands of Mad Anthony. The red can stand for many things including those we misplaced for Manifest destiny. Thereby killing off of people with our diseases and the harsh situations they faced along the trail of tears, on the passing of Indigenous People’s day. I started thinking,  Do I really want to respect the flag? Then, I thought of the Statue of Liberty–there’s a lady I am disrespecting that needs my help. She can be a symbol I can believe in. Then Woody Guthrie came to mind as he often does these days since Fred Trump’s excuse of a son is in the Fake Tanning office–Good luck to the next guy getting oompa-loompa toned orange spray out of the highest office of the states.

P.S. Do I have to pay taxes if Pence continues to use mine and other tax payers money inappropriately? And well, hell, football was a ridiculous sport anyway. Maybe if we boycott all sports we could put a proper roof over the stadiums and turn them into affordable housing in inner cities for the homeless. Then we could take the extra millions and take away some of the players houses, since really no one needs more than one and maybe they could start to feel how the rest of the little people live, and generate enough revenue to improve infrastructure and education.

This land is your land…