The Mezunian

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


En mi refujio nuklear

en ke me rekuperaba de

el kaso de “C++”,

ojeaba biejos kuadernos

y leí un mensaje de me de 2015

ke adbirtió kontra

“la tiranía de 2015”,

a ke solo pude responder,

<Tengo malas notisias de 2020…>.

In my fallout shelter,

recuperating from

my case o’ C++,

I flipped through ol’ notebooks

& read a message from 2015 me

that warned gainst

“la tiranía de 2015”,

to which I could only respond,

<I have bad news ’bout 2020…>.

Also, as I was trawling through my ol’ blog posts, seeing what haiku I’d forgotten to post, I came ’cross this brilliant work o’ art & began to worry that people might think I’d plagiarized Kanye West’s magnum opus, which I hadn’t heard yet, only to realize that this predated “Lift Yourself” by o’er a year. Though it’s unlikely, I like to imagine Kanye happened ’pon my weird-ass obscure blog ( perhaps he was an EarthBound fan & was looking up info on it & stumbled ’pon the blog post I’d published a li’l mo’ than a week before ) & took inspiration from that poem, knowing that this blog was too obscure for anyone to find out.

Well, I did. & I’m-a comin’.

Posted in Española, Poetry

I Miss E’en November ( diga más, nunca no quiero a hablar de eso ) [ DER JUNGE HAT KEINE VERDAMMTEN KLASSIKER ]

So cozy is the evening o’ the year;

but the new year…

               it’s opening blinds to blinding light

& yanking all the blankets off me…


The grandest meal that lasts is that last supper

cooked warm on death row.

                                                        But now

I’m leased to nothing but the clear-skied breeze.

& the’ain’t e’en any leaves.

                                                        But wind…

Posted in Metered, Poetry

Die Herbstzeiten eines Volkes

Accompanying music:

Ich möchte dich festhalten —

weicher Atem, schlagendes Herz;

während ich in dein Ohr flüstere,

ich will dich verdammt auseinander reißen.

You gorgeous gothic autumn withered firs

put on the perfect play for these uneasy zephyrs

round this o’ercrowded theater I attend.

Marvel as I push past

too many poems for this tired eye to render —

crowd maple feathers with their rockin’ letters

crying for ’ttention on these building signs &

uncomfortable cars, their neck-ache news screws tightened —

akin to pallored skin on fretting lightning —

a swoonful, sure, but omens ill inviting

as the smoke spread by my unspoken words

creep up to kill the sky without a thought.

Too much abundent love will smother us

with floods o’ sun. But I don’t dare stop —

Posted in Metered, Poetry