The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten

The Bearded Man – An Excerpt from The Economicon

Rain scattered o’er his face & chin & eyeballs. The sky was bluer than blue chairs. He was hungry. He was skeleton thin. His joints were somehow both sore from sleeping on the drywall & numb from the ice box in his heart. His fingers were crawling with hangnails.

‘Twas while trudging through the sky’s slices o’ swamp in his broke jeans full o’ pulled springs that he met the bearded man. The bearded man wore a rich robe o’ blood red & held a scarlet scepter whose star-&-sickle head twinkled in the moonlight. So did the bearded man’s eyes.

The bearded man held his hands out & said in a soft, slightly whispery voice, “I know what you need…”

“No…”

“Shhh. It’ll all be OK. Come with me. Our kind shall rule destiny.”

Our hero’s knees stumbled & fell. Our hero was now in the bearded man’s stomach.

Posted in ¿What the Fuck Is this Shit?

MIENTRAS ESPERAS SENTANDO Y SIENTES MALO POR TI MISMO PORQUE SABES DONDE SERÉ ENCONTRADO

¡Por ahí! ¡Mira!

¿Ves aquello espacio de estacionamiento

que tiene las grietas y los bultos en la corteza?

Es…

No, viento, no puedes tomar este poema.

Malo, ¿cuándo estaba yo?

Por supuesto:

soy eso espacio agrietado yo.

Ahora, ¿Ves aquello espacio con la boca erótica de tormenta?

No soy eso.

No seré eso nunca.

No.

♪ …así arrugamos… ♫

¡There! ¡Look!

¿See that parking space—

the 1 with the cracks & the bumps in its crust?

That’s—

No, wind, you can’t have this poem.

Anywhere, ¿when was I?

O yeah:

that cracked lot is me.

Now, ¿see that parking lot with the swanky storm drain?

That ain’t me.

That’ll ne’er be me.

♪ …so we creeeeeeease… ♫

Posted in Española, Poetry

& Then It Leaves Me (HOJAS MUERTAS EN EL SUELO SUCIO CUANDO YO SEPA QUE NO ESTÁS AQUÍ)

To all the

chewy chocolate that’s

‘tween my teeth,

to the tears

o’ stormy clouds both

sour & sweet,

to early

evenings’ smeared lemon

restless lights,

to bus wheels’

jingling thunder-struck

keys on kites,

to flapping

jackets that make the

cool winds warm,

to clapping

firs both ecstatic

& forlorn,

to the tea

& coffee scorching

cherry leaves,

to the bats

that flap their purple

tapestries,

to night planes

giving me a wink

as they pass,

to sluggish

November lunchtime’s

foggy mask,

to the wood

spiders chillin’ on

the drywall,

to skylarks

shrinking into blues

without calls,

to pop-up

ghosts drenched darkly with

neon green,

to buttered

toast drenched starkly in

strawberries,

to the gift

that mixes the moon

& the sun,

to the warm

opposites present

within the

light that’s only bright surrounded

by so many crevices so

dark. Don’t not be gloomy: fountains

freeze next year still always missed, though,

still when I watch shadow pines

brushing far away I find

like I almost like to pine

death’s demise

shaped like fallen maple twigs.

Autumn’s cut so thin.

Hope I get to ‘gain begin…

Posted in Haiku, Senryu y amigos, Metered, Mezunian Sonnet, Poetry

Sorrow Ugly (SOLO TIRA TU VIEJA VIDA Y SÉ CRIADO POR MURCIÉLAGOS)

Blue in red hell,

not where the roses rot,

but where the rotten roses sniff unsmelled.

The heart’s not warm, but caged in cold,

told the warmth-made water would only feed mold.

Cleanse the black rock o’ fuzzy green monsters.

¿Why e’en bother with those who don’t e’en bother?

¿Find these fish fit O so snugly

in the sunset-drenched canyons o’ Sorrow Ugly?

Show you on the newsprint where the ink smudges—

I just fudge it,

’cause this isn’t it the grudge pit?

With femurs & hamshells,

where the woods sip lakes from the moonlit elk.

That’s such a flimsy pelt.

That’s such a flismy fingernails.

Catch the yolks in all the rain pails.

Find me where the bent cardboard boxes hug me

in the charred forest corpse copse called Sorrow Ugly.

¡Night!

strikes so early;

but its early strikes are stricken so early,

trampling the trampled grass in a hurry.

¿Whither to wither unseen?

Come with me

to the moondown that is Sorrow Ugly.

Coming this fall

that fells us all.

Posted in Poetry

Demon Dog Howl (QUEMANDO AHORA TE TRAIGO EL INFIERNO)

I heard it,

& we’re the worse f’it.

I try to prop it all on my scarlet dictionary,

when the spiral binding should’ve sufficed.

You just can’t fuck with the fluoride fairy.

If you try to, you just might

grow a rosy boil that always feels greasy

—perfection’s perfect foil.

Easy, toy…

& yet I’d ne’er sown my reply;

¿Why,? when aware my awareness is boozed

to arctic hell, where the only thing clean

be the breakfast bell.

Well, we’ll well well in the well-welded well o’ wills

till we realize we ne’er realized

why we faced the inferno

o’ the 1st place.

They will still burn, though.

Posted in Poetry

Brat Country

What’s all o’ this trash doing in the middle o’ your room?

Why don’t you be responsible for once & clean it up?

You have too many ‘o them, anyway.

Look, you don’t even use any o’ them.

They’re just taking up precious space.

They’re bound to go bad, anyway.

If you can’t throw ’em ‘way, why don’t you put them in some o’ these drawers?

There is too room.

You can just cram them in like this.

I don’t know why you put so much effort into getting so much stuff from other people’s houses if you’re not going to even use it?

You know, they could probably make better use o’ it.

Just look at you.

I brought you up so well.

You had everything.

You’re different from the others.

They weren’t brought up with everything.

You were.

& what have you done with it?

Take more o’ their stuff & pout ’bout how everyone’s gainst you?

Why shouldn’t they when you take all o’ their stuff?

Yes, you are.

Uh huh.

Just keep telling yourself that.

Yes, ‘course I remember you were student o’ the month @ Normandy High School.

How could I forget?

You keep bringing it up.

That was years ago.

You’re 24 now.

What have you done now?

What have you done with those great grades now?

Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it a million times ‘fore.

Sure, you don’t want to “sell-out” to the “establishment.”

Yeah, yeah…

That doesn’t stop you from expecting free stuff from them, does it?

In return for staying round those crooked folk

Who always do their dirty dealing in the alleys o’ K street;

In return for letting them step all over you,

Going right ‘long with them as they break those very principles you claim to hold.

O, I know exactly why you stick round them:

You’re a coward.

You’re just as bad as the parasites you criticize.

I’m ashamed o’ you.

When will you finally grow up & clean up your act?

Posted in Poetry

Shroomy Sonnet

Accompanying music.

Heralding the rainy fall,

spotted aliens, you bring

color to this misty pall,

dancing, happy, moldy springs,

mixing well with jungle drops

that humidifies the air

elsewise empty. E’en when not

eating you, you taste o’ pears.

Bounce me to the magic kingdom,

teach me songs so I can sing them—

all that sugar till we ring done.

Posted in Metered, Mezunian Sonnet, Poetry