And there are better lawyers Better bartenders Better fighters Better musicians, barbers & better drunks But no uncorrupt politicians Who do or can do Anything interesting Or of much merit
At all
And no matter What you do or What you write Or who you are?
Your popularity Your anger Your blunt denial That you’re any Different than they are Any more human Or even less than
Doesn’t mean A thing
Because all Your rants Your words & all Your screams
Thrown up Upon the missing Pages of human history
Are all uniquely
Yours
Born out of all The beauty & All of the constant bullshit Of this world
To the myths & legends Disappearing only to be replaced By disgust & disease. By twisted Billionaire Nazis, Racists & thieves, rapists & psychopaths Taking the lead that make Stephen King’s Novels look like happy endings
For America is Fading
Fading Away
Hollywood is on fire & God has turned his face Because he really didn’t care in the first Place & left us all for dead But now he’s just said
“Fuck it”
So here’s to no tomorrow Here’s to your Hitler with a tan Here’s to all his flunkies With their noses up his ass
And here’s to what you wanted & To those who voted his name
To the end of all that matters To the end of better days
And because of YOU And only YOU Because of all your pathetic & uncaring stupidity, your idolatry & your lack of a brain
America is fading And dying in a world & a nightmare
Which you have made
A ridiculous dystopian TV version Of what your small minds can only create Full of idiots & slime balls, and lesser human beings Bigotry & hate
So congratulations
For whatever evil For whatever death Or destruction happens Now is and will always be Your fault No matter what lies or bullshit You say
Because America is fading
Dying
And you were the one Who put a pillow over its Head And killed it
There’s love everywhere It just seems that the few Who can’t find it are full Of hate & rage and that they Seem to want revenge on Those who’ve found it
More proof that Money isn’t a little King sitting upon his baby Highchair who doesn’t Know a God Damn thing About hope or kindness
Monsters are real Monsters exist because They’ve never felt the Love that’s missing in Their empty unfeeling
Souls
Trying to fill that void That hole with revenge Against all those who Have truly found it
Someone once mistook Me for some kind of celebrity
A celebrity Without money
Only words
But thirty years Passes by with each Passing obituary
The death of family The death of friends
The death of moments Of highs & lows Drunken sonnets & love & Unemployment woes
And if anything Poetry is made of just that
Broken love Broken souls Broken relationships Songs of protest Angry souls
And jealous haters Of things that their Own egos can’t even Begin to comprehend
To have a gift That you know will Never make you rich Or famous, beautiful or Amazing
And the list goes on
Like a poem badly Repeated over & over Again to the same Boring tune because they Can’t grasp the idea of Originality, their words Struggling to fit in that Makes them like every Other unknown poet with friends To become Part of their little click Or fan club
But never Never with their own Authentic voices
Born out of destruction Born out of struggling Poverty. Death
That’s real That’s said
Out Loud
Up on a big stage Under the bright lights Of the here & now
So they can call themselves Whatever they wish Here in Upstate NY Never making it to LA Or NYC, never even trying To publish a decent book Or speak out against all the Wrongs that they can’t make
Right
For writing Doesn’t truly equal fame Just because your social media Posts make you the king or the queen Of the entertaining bullshit prom
And once upon a time A long time ago Someone mistook Me for some kind of celebrity At the end of the bar
A celebrity Without fame Or fortune
Standing up on a stage
But I’d rather be a real writer Sitting alone at home writing In a world full of inhumanity Saying what needs to be said
Get a life. Live in reality and believe in a cause. Give a shit. Care about strangers. Care about your friends & the poor Become a real poet. And stop writing the mundane with no truth or soul, or casual moments
Vacant
Like some recycling machine Set on repeat
Without purpose Without a heart
And that’s Poetry
Being a real human being In times when being human Is at its best
Or at it’s worst
And there’s no workshop Or mentor can ever Teach you
