I've been here since 2006, and I still haven't found a place for myself. Both in my first account, and after that one mysteriously stopped working, my second account. Haven't a clue, until I was taking a shit in the bathroom this morning - where else would one take a shit? Don't answer that. I was reading a poetry book, Good Poems, compiled by Garrison Keillor.
with the words howsoonthankyou
ohmygod which crossed his lips and drove
through the wires on the backs of ions
As one long word as one hard prayer
of relief meant to be heard
by the sky.
Keillor didn't write it. I don't think he wrote any of the poetry in his compilation. It's from "Calling him back from layoff" by Bob Hicok.
That's when it hit me. I've seen poetry and fiction in Rolling Stone, the New Yorker, and the Atlantic. I've seen poetry and fiction here on DK. That's for me, too. I'm no damn good at straightforward political essays. Wish I was, but I'm not. There's already a bunch of fiction and poetry here, let's have a little more! How more progressive is it than to summon up the ghost of Upton Sinclair? He combined both fiction and activism, whimsy and politics. So why not?
Ted Nugent
Reading poetry while taking a shit.
Good words, loose bowels.
How I struggle to get myself
clean
afterwards.
I hate the idea of shit anywhere
near my clothes, even my underwear.
How desperate one would have to be,
fearful,
deeply afraid -
To shit himself on purpose,
crust up his jeans, ruin them.
Anyone else would rather martyr
themselves in prison
or flee far from jobs and friends.
But to humiliate oneself, walk around for
weeks in crusty jeans, no point to it -
- other than one's own fear,
selfishness,
and egotism.
Better to resist
than shit your pants.
Better to be a martyr for resistance,
prison,
Canada -
But then, to leave the girls, the money,
the drugs, the sycophants, the orgasms behind?
You go with what you love,
I guess.
But me, I'd rather use the toilet paper.
Here's another, inspired by the recent execution in Missouri.
10 pm in Missouri
They dragged him to his death.
Those in judgment had not yet spoken.
Herbert Smulls,
any coincidence that he was black?
They did not care for justice, instead
dragging him away from the phone.
His lawyers screamed,
"There is an appeal!"
Missouri did not care. The state
was desirous of Smulls' flesh.
"They are now like unto beasts," as the Old Book says,
"ravenous for the blood of others."
Does it even matter who?
The guilty, the innocent, pushed by frantic hands.
What next? Children? A man on his way home
to dinner, dragged in to feed the beast.
"What have I done wrong? Where is the judge?"
"Who cares?" they reply as they strap him down.
There is the killing room, a perfect fit for anyone
who stands in the way of their hate.
Where is the calm heart in this tyranny of anger?
Where is justice?
Not here.
Fled away to other realms.
Everything's a work in progress to a writer. We've been known to rewrite entire books just for the second edition.
I'll continue this on an intermittent basis. This doesn't mean I will stop posting the occasional conventional political essay, just, this is more my style. I hope you enjoyed the poems. Next time, a short story maybe, perhaps in installments. Or another poem.
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If you haven't had enough of me, here are some links to my blog, my web site, my twitter, and my amazon page.
http://rpbird.blogspot.com/
http://www.rpbird.com/
https://twitter.com/...
http://amazon.com/...