IT’S CRUDE & RUDE, BUT THE TITLE IS “A JISM OF ISMS”


I used to feel so old and crushed,
As if my voice had turned to rust,
Killed off by the carelessly carefree
Indifference of my “Stage-of-Life” and “Where-in-Life Irrelevance.
Then one day, I was thrilled to uncover, find and discover
A little-known fact:
We’re actually DESIGNED for Obsolescence!
Now it all makes sense!
I’ve since exchanged my Personal Angst for Existential Angst,
And NOW I am simply relieved
By the very simple act of
Simply-Wearing-Black
And putting on a “Fuck-You” and “Fuck Everything”
Apathetic Act!
This technique provides,
The path which unhides
The requisite relief to
Cope, ease, and qualm me,
Unquease and calm me,
At least Personally and Existentially,
Or until I’m okay to exist for
Yet another useless day!
Where? Anywhere but especially HERE!!
In This Giant Hellhole
Called “Life”,
Filled-to-Ugly with Spite,
Covered in Wretched Disdain,
Coaxed-into-Putrid-Shades-of-Putrefied-Hate.

Oops, hold up and wait! Please wait!!
Did I confuse Nihilism with End-Game-Fruitless-Fatalism, Dystopian Fantasy, Hormonal Fluctuations, and/or Garden Variety Grouchy Pessimism?
I probably did!
In fact, I’m convinced.
It’s always been transparent
And clearly-for-all-to-see-apparent:
The only Ism I am
Or am even acquainted with
Is a very quaint anachronism.

(And No, “sarcasm” is an “asm”, not an “ism,”
But if we’re going to speak of “isms” and “asms,”
Why stop here?).

DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO CALL IT

I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO CALL IT

It certainly wasn’t love.
It wasn’t even friendship.
I don’t know WHAT it was… perhaps some of the younger ladies could help me understand?
I think it was a giant bunch of nothing, and I have no idea why, but I allowed this giant bunch of nothing to distract me for an inordinate period of time.
However much time it was, you can rest assured the interval was inordinate!
Because he wasn’t even worthy of distraction, so clearly I must’ve been in love with myself the entire time?
In this pseudo-ship of a pseudo-shit that I just survived?
The only residual problem might be…

I think I made a TOTAL ass of myself over this Big Lug of Nothing.
As in: got the emotionally embarrassing equivalent of “sloppy wet drunk,”
highly-hormonal, possibly puberty-level of embarrassment,
Only compounded by the significance I placed on something of such Apparently-Obvious Insignificance which wasn’t Significantly Obvious to ME!

So, I don’t know, Girls and Boys:
What DO you call “IT” when you act like a Mindless, Stupid Twit over a Useless Heap of Shit these days?

A Great Face is Hard to Fake


No amount of time
Can stake a claim,
Claim to waste,
Or attempt to erase
A truly great,
Greatly True face.

To even acquire One
Requires EXTRA time
To build and bake,
Then disgrace
Into The Greatest
Of All Faces.

It’s The Last Act
That’s halfway Gracious,
So Accept it,
Don’t disdain it, and

Shine for the Sake of
ALL That’s Beautiful
Inside AND Outside of
Impossibly Gorgeously
Beautiful You.

Don’t worry, I’ll gladly
Shine with you; will YOU
Be Chance-of-Shining
With US TWO, too?

The latest and greatest of
Good News globally for you is:


“You no longer have to await
The Sun’s Return
Before allowing
Your OWN baby rays
To blaze reflectly through.”

Even a shadowy glimpse of my skeleton’s bared-toothy grin darkly deflected back at me in the middle of the night has glared me into a terrified, startled response.

AN AGING FADE IS EASY TO FAKE

To Whomever says “Aging Sucks”,
I offer a flimsy rebuttal:
If you should find from clouds You hide,
Raining your Droplets of Pain
Into significantly-pesky puddles;
The older you are
The more vexed and perplexed
You can pretend and play.
“Minds in a muddle”
Are easily faked
And of minimal Trouble.
Truly, the sole choice of Sense
For those Plagued-by-Age
Is to slap on a sign screaming “Ignorance.”

POETRY BY AGE ISN’T POETRY BY NUMBERS


POETRY BY AGE ISN’T POETRY BY NUMBERS

I decided what separates
The poems of the Young
From the poems of the Old
Isn’t the song sung nor story told;
Rather it’s down to The Style
Which captures a Frown or a Smile.

Do You prefer to mentally copulate
With the first prick of fresh heartache,
Or do you prefer the dejection,
Pain and unspared despair
Of often brutally-inflicted
Repeat Rejection?

It’s simply a matter of taste.
A Choice doesn’t have to be made.
We can Break your heart Either Way.

Memo Regarding The Prior Memo

MEMO REGARDING PRIOR MEMO

TO: All Recipients of This Memo
FROM: Me
RE: The Last Memo

This memo regards my Last Memo in which I instructed All Recipients to immediately evacuate their homes and Head Directly to Hell.

No detours will be tolerated save for the one mandated below.

The sole purpose of THIS Useless Memo is to follow up with a few questions:

1. Are you there yet?
2. Are you at least in the car?
3. Do you have your phone? I’d feel better since you won’t leave without it.
4. Do you have your wallet and something to drink? You might be getting thirsty soon.
5. Are you in possession of sufficient fuel to remove Yourself and Your Property from My Neighborhood?
6. [I don’t think you’ll be needing an overnight bag]
7. Lastly, are you heading in the Correct Direction?

You’re welcome to Head OVER to The Hotel California: I don’t THINK you’ll be checking back out, but if you do, the correct direction is

HEAD SOUTH AND NEVER STOP.

Thank you for at least being Able To Read (it’s terribly difficult to find Legible Help these days), but I can’t say it was a pleasure doing business with you.

In fact, the Only Place I’d entertain even a Terrible Whiff of a Suggestion of Repeat Business with You is if…..

MANY YEARS from now…..

BOTH downtrodden and down on our luck (or DESPERATELY horny; either works)……

We BOTH turn up looking Far Older Than Our Years, fully realized into
The Most Liver-Pickled Barflies of All Tine…..

In the Lobby Bar
at The Hotel California.

A Dinosaur Among Us

Thanks to barneydew.com for the photo

TALES OF A DINOSAUR

Who the hell do I think I am?
No one cares what I say on Instagram,
Facebook is too fake to face,
And they treat me like a
Stupid boob on YouTube.

I honestly think it comes down to Matters Of Age,
And what Matters most these days
Is a youthful, pretty face.

The former offends me,
The latter flatters me.
I guess 50% of Both
Is Good Enough for me.

Lying About My Age, “Mature”

LYING ABOUT MY AGE, “MATURE”

I don’t mind if you call me “sexually mature,”

But don’t you DARE call me mentally or emotionally mature!

I’ll have you know I am immature, shallow, and narcissistic.

You can’t believe a WORD I say, whether in agreement or to the contrary!

Be deceived, but DON’T take me for my word.

Getting a Clue

GETTING A “CLUE”!

Given the rise in popularity of the “True Crime” genre of entertainment, I decided to improve the Clue board game.


It didn’t seem – to ME, at least – that the theoretical mansion was particularly large or the theoretical murderers particularly adept. I decided to improve your play by adding new rooms (“crime scenes”) and killing objects (“murder weapons”). My generosity isn’t endless, however, so you’re still stuck with Miss Scarlet and Colonel Mustard.

CRIME SCENES:

Attic
Breakfast Room
Cabaña
Den
Eat-in kitchen
Family Room
Gym
Hobby Room
Indoor Pool
Java [the] Hut
Kitchen
Laundry
Media Room
Nursery
Office
Pantry
Quarters
Rumpus Room
Sunroom
Toilet
Underground Pool
Vault
Walk-in Closet
Xylophone Jam Room
Yard, Front/Back/Side/Prison
Zen Garden

MURDER WEAPONS:

Antifreeze
Bare hands
Candelabra Dagger
Electricity
Fire
Glass
Heroin
Icepick / Innuendo Jackknife
Kill Kit / Kindness Louisville Slugger
Mixed Martial Arts
Necktie
Overdose
Plutonium Quill
Rattlesnake
Sword
Talons/ Taser
Uzzi
Vibrator, X-tra Large Water
Y-incision
Ziplock Bag

P.S. YOU’RE WELCOME!!

RECIPE FOR A POETIC SOUL


I. MUST BE

•Fully right-brain
•Fully left-brain
•Overly-Sensitive to Light
•Unafraid of the Dark

II. MUST POSSESS

1. A PAST Littered With:
•Mistakes
•Traumas
•Regrets
•Memories of Extasy

2. A PRESENT Marked By:
•Pervasive, Persistent Longing
•Innumerable Unmet Needs
•Building Frustration
•Mounting Tension
•Growing Childishness, and an
•Increasing Focus Inwards.

3. A FUTURE Colored by:
•Tides not Turning
•Limited Options
•Fear and Loathing Everywhere
•Faded Beauty, and
•An Inability to Dream Anymore

III: MUST HAVE

•Broad Vocabulary
•Limited Resources
•Hungry Heart
•Thirsty Soul

BAKE FOR AT LEAST 25 YEARS IN TEMPS AS HOT AS HELL (or 900 degrees, to be safe).

The poem’s UNIQUITY


Mine seem to come to me either fully formed,
as if speaking to me through a voice in my head,
or they’re rooted in the flow of inspiration,
where I use a little more deliberation and playfulness.
I think they both make good poems.
every single poem is unique. other poem writers might have the same message and say it differently
or say similar words differently
or the same words extra-consecutively,
so that makes each poem wholly and completely unique.
No one could ever say what you do
the way you do
like you do
how you do
as you do
when you do
just like you
other than you
in your own special way
every single time.
and as far as I’m concerned:
that is the definition of UNIQUITY


The Kind of Girl I Remember

So Snarky

With me, you have to strike while the iron is hot,
And my iron is hot for about 3 days.
I’m not a “ hit her up down the road” kind of girl.

HOWEVER:
If you miss the 3-day window,
Just 2 short days later,
Once I’ve lost any mental trace or shred of recollection of you,
You can start over.

GENERATIONAL FATIGUE

FROM YOUTUBE OF COURSE

They were all making snarky comments over there calling Amber’s lawyer a “Karen,” so I was forceed to jump in:

Could someone please explain the official criteria for being a “Karen?” No one has ever been able to, and unfortunately I have aged into what might be considered official “Karen Territory.” Fortunately, it DOES beat the alternative.

Bonus points if you can name all the generation names because I haven’t got a clue! I thought Millennials were anyone born after the Millennium (aka “teenagers”), so somebody please school me on this topic.

I’d hate to be a Karen without knowing it.