The poems:
Enough of the Progressives 12/17/2017
They listen to the
stories of our pains,
absorb them like
siphoned patrol, gasoline
and fuel their gains.
They don't like us, really.
They adore our suffering.
The mastication began
before the beginning,
and those of us eaten
just assumed it was our
origin to come in limping.
******
Mirror 1/17-18/2017
It is diamond-sleek and clear.
Like a yearly wait, decades confine it there
in a restroom.
It is a dedicated and lonely square.
It will never view the medicines and other
contents behind it, occasionally as a door.
This is an actuality and a metaphor.
Showcasing every form that passes it and all
toothpaste splatters dried, gone unclean, it
announces each presentation without telling.
Reflections are both accurate and abusive,
and will never freeze for prosperity.
Those stand-in-the-ways, noonday blind spots
and 3pm shadows are spared when winter
and storms arrive impaired.
Work concludes in a sense but it still replicates
what features it can hold within its devised
growth and girth.
A little or an unlikely legend, it will reciprocate
what makes ways for duplication.
Despite all the shows, there will always be that
half statuette on a high stand and the opposing
crème wall that are its eye-staring games awaiting
changes, shifts and transformations.
******
Ho Speak 1/24/2017
Selling out the long term goal for a short term interest.
I ain't gone be broke.
I ain't gone be broke for nobody.
Gotta make my bread.
Gotta make my bread.
Gotta make that bread, bruh!
I'm talkin' reality out here.
No martyr over here.
Bye, bye, politics!
Bye, bye, hope!
Bye, bye, principles!
If you don't spread like dope,
then I don' know ya.
If you can't give me my
money, than I gotta take mine
from the enemy, man, and do
what he say da do.
I'll find my corner;
If I gotta come up outta my
drawls to get away from
bein' like ya'll, it's all good
dog.
That's just the way we go.
That's just the way o’ the day.
Humph! Err'body know!
I ain't make that way!
Yeah, this how I scratch. I itch
Better than a broke ass.
I take my coins any which-a-way.
I be that bitch.
******
Inspired by Carl Phillips 2/19/2017
Here I am born to be born, defined
as existence; the sound and lights
come on - proof of cognizance; on
my caps and life lines first when I'm
completely away from apparent
cupping arms; then my soles will
equal to the feel of my toes; this
portion will pack on and steadily
shadows what was small as I come
into being tall, more noticeable and
glean greedily, or should the influx of
evidence and wonder external to
provide material be always edible for the
well, unlike that ordinary source long
pass my tongue, more power into
the internal farm and progress never
enough by numbers and be one
immeasurable.
******
To the High Fructose Corn Syrup Store 3/2/2017
(A special thanks to the late Mark Baumer)
my tongue dries every fifteen
minutes.
that's the brew of
the starting ticket.
saliva trials demand
those
tampered-with-products.
crack and meth
are no longer
the greatest of
faux havens.
though i never engaged
these...
i live rampantly by a similar
need.
infected, an oversight
is a ledge,
and i shiver whenever
my stomach
is noticed
in my
head.
******
Someone's Life 7/17/2017
A deadly digestion of crumbs collected
in a dent pressed by the leg where
a coffee table seems welded to sit, several
diffused brown cockroaches on their backs,
scrutinized the same thin-lined tasteless stains
of bark, tan, sage, maize, forest leaf and apricot
of the carpet, burnt by neglect; to the right are
tear trails of a dried splatter no one rescued
from cornering the crash of careless art on
the ugliest shade attached to the side
of a couch.
@ 2017 "Enough of the Progressives," "Mirror," "Ho Speak," "Inspired by Carl Phillips," "To the High Frutose Corn Syrup Store" and "Someone's Life." Jarrod C. Lacy
