Poem; At The Poetry Slam

I don’t know how you feel about poetry, but I don’t care for it much. To me, it’s just a job. I write poetry to pay the rent, and finance the work I really care about, like this blog. You’ll find information about how to acquire my recently released book of poetry at the end of the poem.

At the Poetry Slam

So who have we got here at the poetry slam

A paunchy, and balding, and bearded old man

 

What could this old fart possibly have to say

He’s not young, he’s not hip, and he’s not even gay

Well there’s nothing on earth that my verse can’t reveal

If I can’t describe it then it can’t be real

And the poems that I am about to read

Will make you all laugh till you fall down and bleed

Then when you try to get up and sue

Just about the silliest thing you could do

Because I am a poet without any money

I’ll write on your summons a note to my honey

Fill it with lots of vain sentiment

In hopes that I can get her to pay the month’s rent

Now when it comes to poems, there’s a lot to hate

And even the best really ain’t that great

Some read Cummings, and write in blank verse

That crap is always some of the worst

Some act thuggish, and all hip-hoppy

Those beats are so lame, and the lyrics are sloppy

Then there’s the ones that are strung out on booze

Thinkin’ they got nothin’ else to lose

They scribble a line when er they are able

At least one or two before they’re under the table

What does it matter if their poems are good

If they can’t keep their head up off a floor made of wood?

So who have we got here at this poetry slam

You know that I really don’t give a damn

Unless its a chick who digs guys that can rhyme

Then its my lucky night and I’ll have a good time

The above poem, and about 40 others like it, appears in my recently published book of poetry, titled: Please, Not Poetry, Anything But Poetry; A Terse Book of Verse for the Poetry Averse. You can purchase your own copy of Please, Not Poetry, Anything But Poetry at Booklegger Books in Eureka, and at King Range Books in Garberville, the only bookstore in Garberville that celebrates local writers.

 

Poem, Summertime in SoHum

A Poem: Summertime in SoHum

 

They say this is a lovely town

Its reputation quite renowned

It’s where the hippies made a stand

When they got back to the land

Where now are these proud stout folk?

Or is this just some kind of joke?

Surely you don’t mean the dealers

Driving ’round in their four-wheelers

Maybe perhaps you mean the growers

You couldn’t set your sights much lower

They cause all of our diesel spills

And make a mess up in the hills

They drain the river for their crop

While salmon populations drop

Just so they can make a buck

Those people never gave a fuck

Or do you mean those Humboldt Hotties

So eager to show off their bodies

Perched atop their high-heel shoes

In little more than their tattoos

Somehow I don’t think they’re the segment

‘Cause by age 18 their mostly pregnant

Or do you mean the other ones

The ones who really love their guns

They love to shoot them night and day

Just to prove they are not gay

Or perhaps I am still wrong

What of the others in the throng?

Aimless drifters, shiftless thugs

Junkies all strung-out on drugs

Homeless people and their dogs

In a schizophrenic fog

If there’s anyone that I’ve left out

Please stand up now and give a shout

‘Cause I’d love to meet these rumored folks

And learn that they are not a hoax

Still this place it suits me right

Not because of, but in spite

Of the industry that’s changed the face

Of this charming little country place

The saving grace, this is no lie-ee

In winter time they’re in Hawaii

Or perhaps in Mexico

What do I care where they go

So Summertime please hurry by

I really hope that time will fly

‘Cause when again it starts to rain

These folks will all get on a plane

then I can go and buy propane

Without them driving me insane

 

postscript:

There’s just one group that I’ve left out

The folks that I can’t live without

They’re always there in sun and rain

And do their jobs without complaint

Those are the folks who work in town

And make our little world go ’round

 

Two Short Poems About Death

When Death Comes Knocking

When Death comes knocking at your door

He is not one to abhor

But ring his bell and run away

For that, my friend, you’ll dearly pay

 

Now you’re Dead

You’ve lived your life, and now you’re dead

Was there something else I should have said

Last rites, to you, have been read

Now the worms will eat your head

 

My 100th Post, and First Apology

My 100^th Post, and First Apology

 

First the apology: if you read this blog regularly, you know I’m an idiot. Last week I included an image in a post that I very much regret including. I have since removed and replaced it with a more appropriate image. The image included text in a foreign language that did not say what I thought it did. While I am an idiot, and stupidly neglected to translate the text before I posted it, I’m not that kind of idiot. I very much regret the mistake, and sincerely apologize to everyone who saw it, and especially anyone it offended.

 

Other than that, anything else you found, or find offensive in this blog was intentional. Fuck you.

 

By now, there’s plenty else here to offend your sensibilities, because this is my 100^th post here at lygsbtd.wordpress.com You might not think its a big deal. After all, for you, this stuff just magically appears every Tuesday. For me, however, this blog is a constant struggle to find something to write about. This 100^th post means something to me. It means I’ve reached a milestone worth celebrating. It means I have a body of work here to reflect on, and most importantly, it gives me something to write about this week.

 

I started this blog about 6 months ago. 100 posts later, the blog has begun to take shape, develop its own character and attract its own audience. So, you have here, a collection of everything I’ve felt like writing about for the last six months.

 

Clearly the most popular regular feature at lygsbtd is “On The Money, Financial Advice for the Working-Class”. While the airwaves, internet, and newsstands overflow with financial advice for the investment class. I recognized that Working-Class Americans have differing financial needs and economic interests from the investment-class. You’ll find the advice I offer, radically different from what you find in Barons or The Wall St. Journal. You’ll find 17 “On The Money” columns among the first 100 posts.

17 “On The Money”

It’s Smart to be Dumb

Who’s Default is it Anyway

Double-Dip or Banana Split

Labor Day and NPR

Too Much Information

Why Can’t We All Get Along

Time v Money

Work

The Collapsing Middle-Class

Cultural Bankruptcy

A Golden Opportunity for Investors

The Blue Chips

Stock Market Investing

Unemployment

The National Debt

Public Education

 Investment

You will also find 17 “Word Power” pieces. This is kind of a “milk-carton project” for lost words. I regularly scan the dictionary for words that seem to slip through the cracks of our modern lexicon. I post them, with their definitions, and encourage people to use them in context. That way, these words can get out and socialize a bit. Words that only appear occasionally in print, rarely get to associate with the spicier expletives that pepper my, and my readers daily speech. My blog is one place where where the vulgar and the arcane can mingle.

17 “Word Power”

Misericord

Myrmecophagous

Cathect

Jeroboam

Crepuscular

Zymurgy

Thaumaturge

Balanophagy

Zeugma

Isochronal

Vulpine

Perionychium

Apotropaic

Suigeneris

Picaresque

Emolument

Invaginate

Among these first 100 post you will find 12 poems. I don’t know how you feel about poetry. I don’t care for it much, myself, but it pays the bills. Ever since my first anthology of autobiographical poems about growing up in an old New England whaling town came out, I’ve had the luxury of doing what I want in life without having to worry so much about money. “The Man From Nantucket” quickly became an American classic, and I still receive royalties every quarter from the x-rated film adaptation, which I also starred in.

12 Poems

The Second Dip

Please Vote for This Blog

We’re Going Bowling

For the Birds

Dr. William Gilly and the Humboldt Squid

Patriotic Poem for Ronald Reagan

Moderation

An Apotropaic Moment

The 3:00am Phone Call

A Wife’s Discovery

An Existential Poem

Poem???

My real passion, however, is writing, including the occasional poem.  Like many writers, I often write about my local community:

Local Humboldt Co. Flavor

A New Emerald City

Humboldt’s Lesser Known Festivals

Riot at Romano Gabriel Exhibit

Economics of Shit in SoHum

Andrew Goff, Romano Gabriel Win Me a Sundae

SoHum Suffers from a Shortage of Homeless People

New Courses HSU Should Offer

Stay Away From the Water in SoHum

So Long, Old People

Only in Humboldt County

SoHum Town Attempts Bold Makeover

My Blog Ties for 5^th

When I really can’t think of anything else to write about, I’ll review something I like. So far I’ve reviewed one band, one album, one zine and one grocery store.

 

4 Reviews

Grocery Store Review, Eureka Natural Foods

Album Review, Aphrodite’s Child 666

Zine Review, The Black Lamp by Ocra

Band Review, CMKT 4

Of the remaining 38 essays, These are some of my favorites:

Some of My Favorites

How to Party now that the Party’s Over

How to Score With Women

The lygsbtd Giftshop

A Feminist Critique and T-Shirt Offer

How to Mainstream The Tea Party

Hello Necrophiliacs

Terrific New Product, and Site Sponsor, MyPee

I Report From the Paris Air Show

New Drug Infused Junk Foods

Don’t Call Me a Journalist

Invasion of the Google-bots

Including this post, that adds up to one hundred posts, enough to build a pretty long fence.

 

Poem, For the Birds

For the Birds

In pentameter iambic

In my sweater most Icelandic

Reading you my latest verse

Your response was very terse

Struggled I to choose these words

You said they were “for the birds”

I wondered why you thought that those

With feathers might just like my prose

So, I went out to the feeder

To see just how they liked my meter

After just one stanza read

Some poop came down upon my head

I came inside, took off my shoe

The birds have said my stuff’s for you