FREE POLITICAL POSTER: The Abominable Snowjob – DONALD TRUMP My Tax Plan Was Pulled From Heaven. I Have Star Power – TAX CUTS FOR RICH in yellow snow.

Donald Trump and the congressional Republicans announced that they have agreed upon a tax scam that will come up for a vote next week.  This tax legislation has not had a single public hearing! This tax scam has a worse public approval rating than even Donald Trump. The delusional Don even claimed that Democrats love this bill but can’t say it; bizarrely, he can’t even see the opposition. Congressional Republicans’ response to the public decrying a tax giveaway to the rich was to lower the top tax rate for the richest Americans, which neither the House or Senate even had in their original bills.  Prez Donald Trump’s wet dream of tax scam looks to the average American a lot more like being pissed on. So, in honor of congressional Republican tax scammers and their psychotic party leader, The Don, I bring you my latest parody poster: The Abominable Snowjob – DONALD TRUMP My Tax Plan Was Pulled From Heaven. I Have Star Power – TAX CUTS FOR RICH in yellow snow. Please feel free to share this poster with friends and enemies alike.

FREE POLITICAL POSTER: The Abominable Snowjob DONALD TRUMP My Tax Plan Was Pulled From Heaven I Have Star Power - TAX CUTS FOR RICH yellow snow.

FREE POLITICAL POSTER: Trump Republicans Bring Back Coal and Declare Mission Accomplished with TAX CUTS for RICH

Trump Republicans, with their current tax scam, have inspired Santa to bring back coal. Mean wile, Prez Donald Trump and his Republican cronies simply declare mission accomplished. Funding tax cuts for the rich on the backs of poor and middle-class Americans is nothing knew for the Republican wish list to Santa. Of course, Republicans latest scam has some new twists, such as: killing the individual health insurance mandate which will bring US 13 million more uninsured Americans; opening the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil drilling, a dark wet dream for the oil industry; giving fetuses legal status as people  inasmuch as it allows parents to buy their unborn children 529 college savings plans for unborn children — all wile repealing the adoption tax credit; repealing the Johnson amendment that prohibits all 501(c)(3) non-profit organizations from endorsing or opposing political candidates, opening the floodgates of churches wading into partisan politics; repealing tax deductions for student loans and eliminates tax exemption of graduate tuition waivers; and repealing deductibility of high medical expenses.

So, in honor of this unfolding catastrophe of a tax scam, I have created another free poster in my “Parity or Parody” series of free posters. Please feel free to print and/or share this free political poster: Trump Republicans Bring Back Coal and Declare Mission Accomplished TAX CUTS for RICH.

 

 

 

 

POEM: Trash Talk

God is culpable
Of more than you can
Imagine
Your momma
Fodder unknown
Know Job
A dyslexic dog
Dissembling I’m OK, you’re KO
Unsporting
A boxer of tiny portions
And don’t get me
Going
On
That big, ugly, unmentionable cistern
You don’t no
Jacked up
As if
To win some race
In venting
All ready
Only hopping
To swear out
You’re welcome
Err flailing
Too give a peace of your mind
Brain dishing a bad as gratitude
For feigning
As mite be Abel
To kick the biggest brass of awe
At the Guardin’ of
Eatin’
Up The Big Apple™
Arboring a grudge
Match
To the hole place
As having conned him
Impotent
As a rubber
Ball
A real bouncer
Off me
Sticking it to you
How in
Sensitive too
The sores of your being
So stoned phase
Tow to tow
As without
A life less stand
Erect it awe
Wanting nothing
Except falling silent
As is
Sow miss taking
Not wresting
Till you
Accede
Punch drunk
Or even wurst
Bared neck deep
Be forgoing your sole
At the bottom of the wring
Floored affront a missive audience
Still
He lives
Fore this dream
In this verbal spar for the coarse
And dumb struck in aptitude
For all else remains
Stairing him down
Forever helled
In his hands dealt
Before any anti-up
Down with that
In a blink if an I
Never the first to given
To a choir
Such hush
Money
In a life unfare
And projecting big
However mum
However long
Too menned
As fraud eons lip
Silently psyching out
As sum unspeakable whore
With a price honor head
As taller rating a lowly art
In sending some alpha mail
Those sacred techs
And incipient twitter
Having never
Really metaphor
Sow allusive
To sum
At best semi-for
Better off
The mirrorly suggestive
Un-intimated by ancient versus
And ode records
An old man in a Jung man’s game
As if
Some ark-type
A pare before them
Where only won is going down
A know lose proposition
What madder
Is an other
Head swimming
As taut from the bottom up
As must be
Know one
Hear
Knot fallen
For that agin
And in
The tacit turn
Of events
Awe is ink or hear it
Or in mortality by a million bytes
Or the numb-er of hits
And what can won do
As trash talk
The next best thing
Too silence
And bring a bout
As know more
A self-maid man
Having a fuel
Fore a maker
As surly as
A chicken before egged on
A can o’ bull
As self effacing
Is only fare
In the whirled heavy wait
Division
Of those in the arena
Where countless I’s are fixed
On good byes
As behind
They’re back
To the wall
Outside on the billing
The name on the mark he
Can
But don’t halve two
In the singular
Word

This long poetry slam offers an energetic and frenetic take on the modern, secular resistance to our metaphysical nature.  A Conclusion Is The Place Where You Got Tired Of Thinking SPIRITUAL BUTTONThis poem employs the metaphor of a boxer trash talking his opponent before the big match, a grudge match: pure physics and impure metaphysics.  This poem intentionally juxtaposes in-your-face physicality, profane language and plenty of attitude with the stereotypically staid and academic stance of philosophical discourse and theological erudition.  This poem mocks the scorn often evident on both sides of the theism-atheism, materialist-metaphysical debate, that fracas awe, aka the no master versus the master debates.  Don't let your victories go to your head, or your failures go to your heart. SPIRITUAL BUTTONMy love of parodies reflects a sense of lightheartedness in a chord with the soul and doing a body good.  For the main event, we all love a parity of parodies.  There is little satisfaction in a blowout.  There is a nagging root for the underdog — whoever that, may be.  What ever weigh, the show goes on.  And the truth lies somewhere between showing up and showing up.

POEM: Unforgettable

She was a spark
Spanning but instant generations
Clothed in stardust
Naked to that place before birth and after death
As thought of God
Less of a dream
More of a smile
Merging within that space-time continuum
On the face of awe that is
A hopeful fuel
In the tinderest of worlds
As an owed flame
Meeting for the first time
Caught up
Not in making memories
Sow much as the unforgettable

This poem is about human life lived in the presents of our mystical or divine nature which is both immediate and ceaseless.   To love another person is to see the face of God. Victor Hugo, Les Miserables quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONThe joy and assurance of ever-fresh possibilities and abiding, sublime companionship sets the bar much higher for what a full life encompasses.  A full life is leavened by unforgettable experiences more sow than a mere collection of memories.  Life is more fully characterized by lively experiences than sheer existence.  This poem seeks to present a daringly dual encounter of both first love and oldest friend, the simultaneous experience of the freshness of emerging love and the comfort of a steadfast confidant.  May your life be steeped in such marvelous moments.

Being A hopeful fuel/In the tinderest of worlds speaks to the vulnerability of unabashed hope and irrepressible joy in a world that is far too fixated on command and control, and is busied with armor more than amour.  May love overwhelm your every defense.  May your life be less about getting and more about un-forgetting.

Got Joy SPIRITUAL BUTTON

ELECTION POEM: Democracy Takes A Dive

Like that
Mourning do
After a cold night
Looking over
That nasty bluff
When the populace says jump
As if
Only culpable
Sane
How high
Falling for everything
Accept gravity and physics
As mirror opinion
Reproving such an eminent nadir
As democracy takes a dive
For the biggest dip ever
And with celebrated ruins
Hour only hope
As tour US industry
For what’s left
Of the wrest of the world

This poem is dedicated to that huge, really huge part of America that is looming amidst shock and fear of a Donald Trump regime.  Sometimes the Empire Makes a Bad Call -- POLITICAL BUTTONI am definitely not a fan of things having to get worse before they get better.  It's A Planet Not An Empire POLITICAL BUTTONI intentionally rejected that notion wholesale years ago.  While we can learn stuff by getting hit in the face by a 2×4, this is a bankrupt rationale for hitting people in the face with a 2X4.  In a Trump dystopia, the biggest dream I can muster is that his capricious governing will cause American empire to falter in its hegemonic domination of the rest of the world. [editor’s note: I had to add “dystopia” to my blog’s dictionary]  Trump’s America first credo is, of course, perfectly aligned with traditional and endemic American exceptionalism.  ANTI-WAR QUOTE: Price of Empire America's Soul -- PEACE SIGN BUTTONMy hope rests somewhere in the neighborhood of one’s greatest strength becoming one’s greatest weakness.  While many aspects of a Trump regime are uncertain, there is little doubt that hubris will not be in short supply.  May progressive and humane forces take advantage of whatever cracks may appear in the predominance of well-disciplined empire.  May we forge a future beyond the false choices of neoliberalism and fascism, a future of solidarity and equity between all peoples and justice for the planet in which our life ultimately depends.

Feel free to browse anti-imperialism and anti-empire designs.

ACTIVIST POEM: With Eyes Fixed — Owed To Shannon Frye

She was tired
Enough
Fore sentries of human bondage
Still
Those precious wons
With eyes fixed
On the prize
Forever remanding us
Stay qualm
And carry on

All the darkness in the world could not put out the light of one small candle. Jewish Holocaust victim's epitaph POLITICAL BUTTONThousands of candles can be lit from a single candle and the life of the candle will not be shortened - Happiness never decreases from being shared -- Buddha SPIRITUAL BUTTONThis poem was inspired by Shannon Frye’s blazing commentary that I recently included in my blog.  Her response to why she delivered this heart-on-fire outpouring was simply “I just got tired.”  May we all get so tired!

This poem is also part of a larger, lifelong project and dream of mine that every person on earth have a poem dedicated to them.  And Shannon Frye, you are poem-worthy!

I have witnessed many candles in the wind, their flame not ensconced within an enduring heart.  I have seen too many young people embrace cynicism, unwell earned, hermetically sealing hope within suffocating rationalizations and fatal truths.  Shannon is a breath of fresh air, awe about inspiration, and connecting the unseen stars for those waiting to exhale.  May the flame in her heart set the world ablaze.

POEM: Rousing Fresh Fortune

To no what is possible
Sum look too the passed
To undertake certainties
Too due dreams untested
Some are moved
Bye this present
Liberating futures seized
And undo
The knot tied
And never tried
How
Ever prospecting possibilities in awe that is mine
From now on in
Rousing fresh fortune
Or die
Try in

The past is the best predictor of the future, except that will always be wrong.  Unpredictability is an essential aspect of the future.  Like Yogi Berra noted: predictions are difficult, especially when they are about the future.  It's kind of fun to do the impossible. Walt Disney quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONI am fascinated by existential possibilities, trying something and seeing what happens.  This is perhaps the truest life science: taking action and paying attention to what happens. Somewhere between overanalyzing the past and dreaming about what things could come the present unwraps the future.  Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards. Soren Kierkegaard quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONAs Kierkegaard observed, “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.” And as Homer Simpson might say: “Mmmmmm…the present.”  Dreaming with your eyes open is not merely realism, but the basis for enlightened action. Surfing the future is at least as much an art as a science.  Of course, this present reality is not meant to be some exacting, and perhaps depressing, data collection in a notebook, but rather the experience of rousing fresh fortune.  May you discover much joyful anticipation and spirit rousing serendipities as your present unwraps the future.

Feel free to browse Top Pun’s many spiritual and life philosophy designs:

Make Peace With The Future PEACE BUTTONBe willing to give up what you are for what you can become SPIRITUAL BUTTON 	 Don't let your victories go to your head, or your failures go to your heart. SPIRITUAL BUTTON

Don't Look So Hard At My Past, I Don't Live There Anymore SPIRITUAL BUTTON 	 If you are in control, then you are going too slow. SPIRITUAL BUTTONAnd in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years. Abraham Lincoln quote SPIRITUAL BUTTON

Find Your Own Way -- Buddha SPIRITUAL BUTTONHe who never walks except where he sees other men's tracks will make no discoveries. J.G. Holland quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONWhy not go out on a limb? Isn't that where the fruit is? Mark Twain quote SPIRITUAL BUTTON

Don't take life so seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyway. SPIRITUAL BUTTONExperience is what you get when you don't get what you want SPIRITUAL BUTTONBe daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers. Sir Cecil Beaton quote SPIRITUAL BUTTON

The Beginning is Near SPIRITUAL BUTTONThere Is No Gift Like The Present SPIRITUAL BUTTONExpect Miracles SPIRITUAL BUTTON

The cure for boredom is curiosity - There is no cure for curiosity --Dorothy Parker quote SPIRITUAL  	 Life Isn't About Finding Yourself, Life Is About Creating Yourself SPIRITUAL BUTTONEver Wonder? SPIRITUAL BUTTON

Got Awe SPIRITUAL BUTTON

POLITICAL POEM: The Whole Damn Nation

Oh no
No no
A nation divided
And so so partial to the whirled
As who elect
Who to rule
Over US
The select select
Culled before we can even vote
In the worst OKs scenario
Effaced with know choice
Picking our no’s
Only too feel shamed a bout
What fore
Positively maddening
Even abashed buy partisan fauxs
In their first for winning at all accosts
A media large for won size fits all
In choiring mines knot aloud
Who might ax candidates
For the least of these
Such modest dreams
Bargain aweigh
As all ways done
Know madder what you due
Until red or blue in efface
Look past
The elephant in the room
Or the for most ass
Both too big for their breaches
Two big to flail
Sow uninviting
Some third party
When we don’t even have a second to lose
Meting that urgent call of nature
Which we halve in common
Breeds identical
The same stinking results
In the long runs
And there will be no platform shoos
Lofty enough too overstep
Such inspiring stench
Triangulating hope
Beyond any worthy err
Dissembled buy a con vocation
Enacts of commission lacking
As holey plan it
A cross the globe
Lock stock and barrel
For if there is anything worth wile
Wee will suck it
Living in a vacuum
Flagging as the whole damn nation
As grieve US consolation price
Paid by the wrest of the world
Conscripted to buy
Such wore torn democracy
In reckless abandon
Let them eat ballads
Dedicated to just US
And deem a little dream for me
As if
Mother Earth
And her oft spring
Got won vote
And awe America
Was not full of sheep
Scarred of losing their position
Excepting a world of hurt
Sow backwards and screwy
Pathetic vassals
Under sway of loan some shepherds

This poem is an ode to the two-party duopoly of dysfunction as the current state of unfairs in the United States of America.  The American electorate gets their breaches all in a bunch over the all-too-obvious lack of choice in the so-called leaders of the free world.  Defeat The Elite POLITICAL BUTTONThe prestidigitation of political elites leaves US somehow settling for the best we can do as picking our no’s in the voting booth — pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!  Wile awe of this may seem quite mourn worthy for sheepish Americans, the wrest of the world has long paid the accost, underwriting the much lauded “free” world. Our tried and true means of dividing and conquering, that has won US our unfair share of colonial/imperial rule and the world’s resources, quite inescapably comes home to roost.  The political elites who run US run the world.  The domestic squabbles between Republicrats are decidedly effective means to distract short-sighted and privileged Americans from the fight for our planet and the ability to secure freedom and justice anywhere on our globe.  Nation of Sheep, Ruled By Wolves, Owned By Pigs POLITICAL BUTTONWile we prey for well-adjusted imperialists to secure our wealth of nations, we outsource the prize we have taken our eye off to other planetary citizens.  The curse of the world may simply be the blind first-world privilege of the whole damn nation.  Unity in imperialism is no victory for humanity or the planet.  While the frenzied, megalomaniacal reign of a Donald Trump may appear frightening to our privileged penchant for predictability, there is meager-to-pleas comfort for global citizenry in a Hillary Clinton proven track record of loyal imperial rule, running roughshod atop nameless hoards, an X’ing more than have of the world’s fortune.  In the belly of the beast of imperialism, with its won-sided wealth and power, there should be indigestion, with its unquenchable appetites and parochial fears.  Deep national division may be precisely that which is re-choired to vomit out our inglorious privilege, liberate the retched of the world, and sing in harmony as won humanity.  Earth But One Country Mankind Its Citizens--PEACE QUOTE BUTTONThe world is underwater in debt and we don’t even no who holds our note.  May the only debt we owe to our fellow planetary citizens is shared gratitude for the courage to act justly wherever wee might find ourselves, on the short end of imperialism, or in the belly of the beast.

 

 

ANTI-WAR QUOTE: Price of Empire America's Soul--PEACE SIGN BUTTONIt's A Planet Not An Empire POLITICAL BUTTON

Feel free to browse more anti-imperialism designs.

POEM: A Choiring, Raw Youth

Their raw youth
Was tenderly witnessed
By age owed eyes
In awe
Their awkward glory
Surpassing polished learning
More than could ever anew

This poem is a reminder to both young and old about the raw beauty of youth, the vim and vigor, dream-filled ebullience, and grace-filled awkwardness.  This poem can be understood without additional context, though the title — A Choiring, Raw Youth — is perhaps both a clue and enigma.  This poem was inspired by a high school choir performing at the retirement community where my dad lives.  I was youthful in compare to the rest of the audience, but, I am at that age where high school kids look look younger every year — and eventually either they or I will be issued diapers!  The experience and perspective of age — age owed eyes — may be uniquely able to appreciate the stunning juxtaposition of adolescent awkwardness and untainted talent.  For me, this elicited great compassion and hope.  It is a rare day that I would trade age for youth.  Though I frequently quip that youth is wasted on the young.  Still, even this quip is a cloaked compliment at the glory of youth, in awe of its awkwardness and blooming energy.  Their performance made a home for joy.  And as they headed out into the world, I trust that their freshness will continue to make this place we call earth ever anew.  I was bettered by the presence of their performance.  May people of awe ages give way to their fresh hope and awkward glory.

POEM: To The See Tossing

Even
As a serious looker
She wore a millstone
Round her neck
Never experiencing a vocation
Long enough
Too go
To the see tossing

This is a Monday mourning poem for awe of you wage slaves.  It is far too common for working folks to dread their work, particularly Monday morning.  I suspect that the overwhelming majority of workers have fantasized, perhaps even planned a little, about embarking on some other vocation than their current trajectory of work and career.  Given the tumultuous nature of many workers’ work life, I am at times taken aback by how “even,” or even fateful, they seem, and how even relatively few “serious lookers” actually take the plunge into the apparent abyss.  I reflect on my own multiple years process of disentangling from my own long (17-year) career path and “regular” job.  After taking the plunge, my income dropped precipitously and my quality of life catapulted to previously unimagined heights.  As deliberate, measured and astute that I thought I was, I profoundly underestimated the benefits of taking the plunge.  This counts as one of the greatest lessons I have learned in my life.

This poem alludes to the metaphor of a millstone around one’s neck and being tossed into the sea, found in the Bible, Matthew 18:6-9:

“If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea. Woe to the world because of the things that cause people to stumble! Such things must come, but woe to the person through whom they come! If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life maimed or crippled than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into eternal fire. And if your eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into the fire of hell.”

This passage sets a high bar, the death penalty, for causing a child of God to stumble, to block the highest hopes in life.  This is a powerful condemnation of the bosses and powers that be that crush our dreams in the coarse of their business.  I don’t blame workers, wage slaves, for their predicament.  They deem me mad because I will not sell my days for gold; and I deem them mad because they think my days have a price -- Kahlil Gibran quote POLITICAL BUTTONStill, the stakes are high for the oppressed worker.  Better to “enter life” maimed or crippled than live in hell.

Due, you need a vocation.  Longing enough/Too go.  However slim it may appear, may you find that ever precious opening to life-affirming vocations…

 

POEM: The Miraculous Doubt Her

Due
You believe
In miracles
Yes and know
Awe or nothing
Beyond your current
Imagination
And resounding may be

This poem of hope and expansive imagination is intended to both stretch and comfort your heart and mind.  There are wondrous things of which we know little.  Not knowing doesn’t have to lead to fear or anxiety.  Not knowing can spur curiosity and leave open a space of immeasurable size where hopes call home.  Only the haughty portend that there are no marvels outside the reach of human finitude.  Willingness to explore, hope, dream, and chart fabulous possibilities is the perfect complement to willfulness, a tenacious navigator of gutsy hope amidst fields of dreams.  Life can be harsh and disappointing.  Yet, inasmuch as we are the captains of our own fate, we are built for sailing, not the safe and limited usefulness of harbor.  While it may be trite that life isn’t fair, there is little doubt that life is excellent!  If your life isn’t a miracle, I strongly suspect that this isn’t the fault of God, real or unimagined.

POEM: Keep Your Eye On The Ball

The red ball bounces
Like a metronome
But with less rhythm
Over every lyric uncomposed
Like a wrecking ball
But less harmonious
A juggernaut emblazoned
In fire engine red
But less melodious
Like a no alarm fire
But with less refrain
The only words aloud
Keep your eye on the ball
And you need not no
Its whirled of hurt
A bouncer of chorus
And ballads unkneaded

This poem employs the metaphor of the little bouncing ball over the lyrics in karaoke as a distraction from what is really important in life.  This poem sets up a double-take as it reverses the usual meaning and positive association with keeping your eye on the ball.  Karaoke is unoriginal mimicry at least.  At worst, karaoke is skin-crawling, nails-on-blackboard-scratching, cat-in-heat-howling torture.  The powers that be in life benefit from the distractions of “harmless” entertainment as opposed to mind-provoking and heart-expanding artistic endeavors which erode social control.  In modern Western civilization, the risk-averse obsession with safety and security routinely leads to a dull relationship with the precarious risks inherent in living fully.  At least karaoke offers an opportunity to put yourself out there and make a fool of yourself, a good skill to practice.  The whirled of hurt that characterizes a substantial portion of human existence is often enough to leave us overly defensive, even walled off, with untold, unwritten and unsung ballads.  Perhaps even worse yet, avoiding hurt, discomfort, and presumed foolishness, regularly provides ready-made rationalizations for even considering dreaming as dangerous, leading to trouble, and supplies built-in blinders to the fortuitous perks of risk-taking.  May you dare to write your own lyrics, sing out loud to your own tune, and discover deeper harmonies than simply pop culture.

POEM: Dream Catcher

A daze work
Over
Come
Bye sleep
Sow few dream catchers
Sow many dreams
And that’s the catch

This poem is about work, vocation, passion, and burnout.  This poem is mournful in that so many dreams go unrealized, uncaught.  This poem is a hopeful invitation to pursue your dreams with more vigor, focus and intent.  As the Bible so aptly points out, “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few.” (Matthew 9:37)  Work is often tiring, as being impelled to do stuff that is tiresome.  Enough work and we burnout.  Vocations, on the other hand, unleash passions and dreams.  With excessive work we miss both sleep and dreaming with our eyes wide open.  Vocations both generate dreams and actively invest time and life energy in pursuing said dreams.  Still, having sufficient dreams is not generally the rate-limiting factor, unless we are totally burned out.  Most often, paying dear attention to those dreams and befriending them with the freshest and best parts of us is what enables us to catch our dreams.  May you organize your life in such a way that you are well-suited to catch your dreams.

Obama: I Am The Bomb

As the world careens toward the increasingly surreal, we now officially live in a world where one Nobel Peace Prize winner, Barack Obama, has bombed another Nobel Prize winner, Doctors Without Borders.  I nominate Barack Obama as the worst Nobel Peace Prize winner ever.  I think the the Nobel Peace Prize committee should rescind its award, and, at least, add a proviso that any Nobel Peace Prize winner who violently attacks another Nobel peace prize winner will have their award rescinded.

Obama Nobel peace Prize Winner Bombs Nobel peace Prize winnerPlease feel free to widely share this graphic, which can also be printed out as a poster.

MLK I Have a Dream - Obama - I Have a Drone ANTI-WAR BUTTON

Here is my previous take on a juxtaposition of Nobel Peace Prize winners, Obama and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  Please join me in reminding Mr. Obama that we want our dreams to be realized, not our nightmares!

POEM: For Awe That Has Been Urned

In her dreams
She is wanting
To be moved
By more than
Slumber too slumber
Mirrorly to a wake
Daze unending
With that annoying buzz
Thirst thing in the mourning
The pique of the day
The latest snooze
A stay of execution
From a commute
Never quiet arriving
In during
The same owe same owe
A mounting to nothing
Carrion on
From dead line to dead line
Only hopping
To meet your destiny
Long the weigh
Too the beat
Down
Of a humdrum
In exhaustible work lode
Sow being a ware
Only dealing
With sum strain
Of staff infection
A little off
And on and on and on
Without a brake
Wading
For some kind
Of savor
In any respect
Of a Jōb
Well
Done
Succeeded by rehash for dinner
A little bit like
Looser
For awe that has been urned
From dusk to dusk
And willing succor
For a weak end
And easing into won bunk
Affording seconds of fuel’s goaled
Mine razing
At the prospect
Too due it
Agin

This is a good Monday mourning poem for all of you enduring slave wagers.  To me, work is simply doing that which you do not want to do, that which we do when we would rather be doing something else.  The conventional wisdom is that there are inescapable compromises that must be made, such as selling large chunks of our life to finance the remains.  Wee are part and parcel of this so-called American dream, which George Carlin so aptly observed, It's Called the American Dream Because You Have to be Asleep to Believe It - George Carlin Quote - POLITICAL BUTTON“It’s called the American dream because you have to be asleep to believe it”  — that is, if you can fit sleep into your schedule!  Frankly, I can no longer afford to go to such conventions, though I’ll meet them half way with the whole whizzed ’em thing.

Having to wake up to an alarm strikes me as one of the great bastardizations of true awakening.  If you get up and it is dark out, you might want to make a note of that, hopefully, plenty of notes, see notes!

If you are going to sell yourself, I would definitely hope that you get a good price.  Still, there is a whirled of difference between getting a good price and a good prize.  Selling your own passions, your own heart’s desires for someone else’s notion of productivity is perhaps the real idolness.  Far too often, no one can even really identify the specific person whose notion of productivity is being served.  Wherever it is, it’s the birthplace of “It’s not my job” and “I’m only doing my job” as workers serve nameless and unaccountable masters, and can’t help, but serve in their master’s apathetic and/or irrelevant image.  The bulk of so-called work in capitalist cultures represents an immeasurable opportunity accost of passions passed and hearty lusts lost.  Even awe that has been urned echoes in time off, weather having perpetual rehash as eve approaches or dread as eve withers a way in the dread of coming daze.

May you find work indistinguishable from play, an awakening without alarm, and find no idolness in site.

POEM: Are You A Friend of Dorothy?

As a friend of Dorothy Day
I wood ax
More than won quest in
A bout
Her call
As a tenet in passable saint hood
As if a priest to nun
Or mirror lay person
Aborting gaiety
As an infallible sign of God’s presents
Kneaded, sow kneaded
As abandon plays on
The Catholic work her
Inn to their starting lyin’ up
With little roam for others
As prize winning dogmas
For sake others
Worshiping sons of bitches
Of average Joes and Mary not
Engendering grace
Threw con genital souls
Full of wholes
As if litter
Miss carrion
Never coming to term
Without a hitch
Only finding one self
One to an other
Side by side
Fitting awe
For lives filled with scant do
An offering more than
Sum well
Published comic marvel
As if conceivable in a man’s world
A loan
To the wrest of us
She could never look down to prey
And yet sow much
Heaven unearth
Her whole life sew true
And in those untolled smiles spanning eternity
She most lovingly waives
It just
Saint so
What
Ever you due
Don’t save
Awe of the gory
Fore God
As will only
In yore wildest dreams
Hand it
Back to you
With teeming interest
As got yours
And every body ails

This poem was inspired by the occasion of Pope Franky coming to America and highlighting the possibility of Dorothy Day becoming a saint.  This is deeply ironic, since Dorothy Day explicitly did not want to be written off as a saint, but cast her lot with the poor and dispossessed of the world.  As a former atheist who lost the earthly love of her life by converting to Catholicism, which he rejected holy, she was familiar with heartache.  As a women who had an abortion, I find her consideration for sainthood more intriguing.  Her founding role in the Catholic Worker movement challenged and vexed religious folks — and people of faith as well.  Her living with the poor and downtrodden is a model of solidarity.  This poem posits questions of elite status, which she resoundingly rejected, as holy separate from her understanding of Jesus, the spirit of God incarnate.  The title of the poem — Are You A Friend of Dorothy? — is both a question and a reference to the cultural necessity of gay folks needing code words and phrases to navigate in a culture where they are rejected.  Dorothy Day, about as keenly aware of class as possible sought to transcend it.  She was an itinerant peace-monger, ever-seeking creating those sacred spaces where one side fits all. She knew that salvation was not far off, but right in front of us, in awe its gory details.  She knew what second-class citizenship was, not simply by being a woman in a man’s world or a man’s church, but by daring to embrace the poverty of more than one class and bring a bout wealth, and the privilege to serve.  Her rightness with God is dishonored by trying to capture that spirit in the form of graven images, mere token substitutes for her authentically beautiful and unique, but totally accessible life.  I don’t suspect that Dorothy would approve of a title of sainthood.  I do suspect that she would want us to walk with her.  And in this case, that would be walking among the dead and the living, and everywhere in between.

POEM: Halving No Interest

Wile a capital idea to sum
I halve no interest
In how you make a living
Rather
That which
Makes you
Come alive

I would dare say that most of life lost is in the chasm between making a living and doing that which makes you come alive.  I would even dare say that being distant from having to worry about basic needs — “having it made” — is a greater threat to coming alive than what life palpitates within us when we are connected to struggling for basic human needs.  This narrative runs counter to the liberal, artsy dream of not having to worry about money so you can be free to pursue “more important things,” presumably art as luxury rather than art as necessity.

The art of living is essentially doing that which makes you come alive.  This is where art is a necessary reflection of our overflowing aliveness, or, in less flowery language, art is a basic human need.  Art lives coequal with our basic material needs of food, shelter, health care, an environment free of violence and full of affection, and the long litany of human rights inalienable to humanity.  Art flowers in our connection to others and creation.  Revolutionary art serves as a critique of alienation and destruction, which often comes at the hands of money first — sometimes driving a cruel bargain for our humanity; more often offering a seductively easy price for our humanity.

Personally, my art is rooted in both the privileged experience of a first world nation and the surrounding larger reality of vast material deprivation more common than not on this planet we share.  I was literally born into this conundrum.  As a helpless baby, I was not helpless.  While I was born in Haiti, the poorest nation in the western hemisphere, I was not fated to live a life anything like the countless babies born within a stones throw.  I was born to well-educated, white Americans — a doctor and a nurse.  As a toddler, I would fly off in an airplane, already then cementing myself solidly within the experience of less than 1/20th of the world’s inhabitants.  My rant above is perhaps one of privileged hope.  I may never know for sure.  However, as I grow in my art of living, I find it much wiser and productive to root for humanity, not money.  The truth of any above assertions is probably best demonstrated by the fact that Haiti has the largest concentration of artists, predominantly painters, of any nation on earth.  Perhaps art is a necessity, not a luxury.

 

 

POEM: A Musing Co-Mission — Nein Poems! Owed to Know One

This is nine separate poems comprising one poem, each and all on the theme of the muse mercilessly striking in the middle of the night with irrepressible inspiration from God knows where.

God bid me
Higher than I
Was willing to go
Only to in
Form me
Of whys infirm a meant
That I am
All ready
Hear

He slept
Into conversation
With that God of dreams
Where I’s are not necessary
Only more acute
And in their wake
Brake loose
Countless dawns

Apprehending
I am
A kept man
In my place
Beyond my own
Yet as if
More than
A game
Playing only
For keeps

In the mettle of the night
God has a Lot to say
In that language of silence
A partner
Worth more than
One’s salt
Never looking back
In a God so forward

He said “YES”
To harvest time
In the land of nod
Where more dreams are forgotten
Than anyone could ever “no”
Those fated few under
A night’s protection

The muse strikes
Beyond mirror daze
In the we ours of the night
Where there is know work
And never clothing for busyness

My hand rights
And awe that is mine
Mirrorly follows
Giving
One
A pause
Word
Without sound
Of won hand
Clapping

Amid night rambler
Beyond what is still
Drunk in slurs
Of lucid dreams
Never to be penned
And in mourning will
Be for gotten

The wrest of the night
Is yours
The muse supined
And you knead not worry
I will take care
Of hour many
Fine appointments

I wrote these nine poems one night over the course of a bout two hours.  The singular theme of a poet’s helpless relationship with a muse was not designed by me but a mirror reflection of this relationship.  My futile resistance was to know a veil, and pun in hand, I consider this my formal certification as gloriously disabled.  With the sole of a poet, flat on my back, I have long a go matriculated to the knead to get up and answer the muses booty call.  It is simply the write thing too due!  Sow, a light bulb goes on, and as pen is in hand, what comes is worthy of the papers.  A lass, what may be fodder to some is a parent only too me in sharing presence of what is awe to gather hours.  May you find yourself a basket-case of poetry like a sickness and a cure to gather.

POEM: Constipated Destiny

He knew knot
Exactly where
He was going
As fate would have it
Seized by easy convictions
Big house
Auto, pilot
And every won else’s
Re-guard
Of one self full
Filled
Buy in
And sell out
In humanity
A sure thing
The gold
In rule
A void
Apprehensions
Of vassal late
Making one’s self
The whore of certain knowledge
The john of dreams undared
Unfailing in his coarse
Fining himself
Scared to dearth
Of his constipated destiny meting

This poem deals with the vanity and danger of pursuing material success and cashing in on conventional wisdom.  The good life is all too often pawned off as having fine possessions or relishing in status or celebrity.  Possessions have a way of possessing us.  In a world where so many have so little, fine possessions can be devilish.  Status or celebrity has a way of simply highlighting our own emptiness or hypocrisy in a pressurized or scrutinized existence.  Fine possessions and status are typically acquired through the successful use (and misuse) of conventional wisdom, or simply through unmerited privilege.  Albeit, celebrity sometimes comes through more notorious means.  Still, we all know where this leads: the well-worn hierarchies of winners and losers.  In a constipated destiny, everyone knows their place.  Predictability (sometimes better known as ‘security’) and fatalism serve as poor substitutes for true daring and bold hope.  Well-worn rules (and rulers) of the game leave little but cheap thrills and expensive highs to assuage our stultified lives.  The bulk of our lives are leased for weekends.  Passionate vocations are bartered for passing vacations.  Awe sold for certainty.  Dreams pimped for fear of being a sucker, or worse.  May you live a life where you are not scared to dearth, settling for mere material finery or tranquilizing status, a constipated destiny, or hellish blandness.  May you follow your dreams in a way that literally scares the hell out of others!

 

POEM: A Wrench In The Machine

He was having one of those lives
Where he woke up
Only to find himself
A wrench in the machine
Threw and threw
Putting his whole life into question
What kind of tool are you?

This poem was triggered by a recent conversation with my lawyer about a pending criminal mischief charge (for stickering poles downtown Toledo in the criminal justice district with stickers reading “JUSTICE FOR DANNY BROWN .COM”). In this conversation, I used the metaphor of a wrench in the machine. There is a growing realization in my life that jail time is in my destiny. Eugene Debs, perhaps said it best in his statement to the judge prior to his sentencing for resistance, stating:

Your Honor, years ago I recognized my kinship with all living beings, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on earth. I said then, and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free. [see full speech here]

Quite a few years ago, I had a dream. In this dream, there was an image that has stuck with me: I was dancing effortlessly amidst the huge, moving cogs and gears of a giant machine. I was unhurt and at peace, even joyful. This image reminds me of the possibility of being at peace in the dance with the machine. Of course, this image does not include the pain and death of being ground up in the machine, a reality every moment. I believe that the best meshing of these two realities is to practice disciplines cultivating joyful dancing as we throw our whole beings into resistance of the machines of death and into the reawakening of the deadened souls who find necessity in siding with death.

Power requires consent. Our consciousness of this helps free us to choose to better align with the forces of life than the forces of death. My unofficial motto is “Screw ’em,” as modeled by the character Col. William Ludlow, played by Anthony Hopkins, in the movie, Legends of the Fall. This may seem unduly negative, or even juvenile, to some; but, the impulse to withdraw consent from unjust authority is divine. While such rebellion may only be a first step, it is a necessary first step to confront the powers that be and to speak truth to power. Either way, without consent, aka complicity, humans cannot multiply their worldly power beyond their own, short, God-given reach. People do bad things, though having their reach limited to a relatively small human scale mitigates the worst of it. When living a human-scale existence we find our kin within grasp — a grasp of hands, minds and hearts. This is enough. To want more, is to trade our humanity for mere stuff. Consent and complicity is required for technologies of death to persist, whether they be armaments or corporations. Let us examine our lives for where they are forged as tools, not as artisans and creators made in the image of God, but as artifacts to be bought and sold. Let us withdraw our consent to such dehumanization and create a joyful dance in which all can freely participate. May you be joyful in your resistance.