I was inspired by a speech you just gave
You told me I was a rainbow
In the clouds of people’s lives
You said I should be myself
Achieve for me
Push myself a little bit
In everything I do
You are speaking at a conference!
For my work!
What is happening to the damn world.
Archive for March, 2009
Chris Cornell, what is this…what is this trash?
Are you hurting, my love, are you hurting for cash?
I get bad enough grief when I’m out with a friend
And they whine, “Is this Badmotorfinger again?
Have you noticed that now it is Two-Thousand-Nine,”
And I’m happy to fight for you. Truly, that’s fine.
And then Audioslave — I cringe but I listen
I won’t turn it off under one good condition:
You cease and desist this whole hip hop mistake.
It’s early still, baby, it’s still not too late.
If you still insist, well then, wounds — they will heal.
At least our man Reznor is keeping it real.
(I have encouraged several friends to experience the cathartic beauty of fast poetry. It can do for them what it did for me, was my theory, and I wanted to share that inner peace. Here’s a submitted poem)
by Bart Fitzhugh
Each day I rake and hoe
In my backyard garden
I also take men’s souls
I am a true assassin
I can’t tell if I have accomplished enough that i deserve (many) days like that, or if i will look back and curse the Sundays I wasted.
Part two in a three part series that begins here
“Look I haven’t been for-real in love in years.
Finding a girl these days has nothing to do with warm feelings inside,
It’s more like doing a jigsaw puzzle and
Trying to find a piece that fits.
The only girl I’ve had super warm fuzzy feelings for
is that girl in my department at work and she’s unavailable too.
Plus she wouldn’t even fit.”
Part one in a three part series, based on emails exchanges between three friends of mine who are experiencing the world from slightly different ages.
(this is by request: a poem about omitting all of the stupid jobs I have/had and the lifestyle choices I am living with from my totally non-representative pro resume, while I try to find a job that will hire me for grownup employment on the grounds of the small handful of sort of legitimate, low-paying work that I’ve done, that is vaguely related to “professional life” when looked at sort of out of context, that itself I was somehow “fortunate” to have been initially hired for on essentially no professional grounds whatsoever, and how this resume will eventually land me in the employment of a person who has no actual fundamental understanding of what I can do or who I am, but how this doesn’t matter because I will do my work well regardless, because any idiot can do 95% of all jobs. “Greetings From My Mid-20s”)
Shall I cut off my ponytail?
Shave my face?
What price thou, paycheck?
Thou sweet, elusive paycheck.
For thy sake I will
Drag myself into a Banana Republic
And pick out some chinos.
Chinos aren’t too dorky, right?
And at thy service I will
Eventually stop getting wasted
(I don’t think that now,
But I will learn.)
Your new billboard
Makes me feel as if
Are creeping slowly up my legs.
When they reach my brain
And I black out
It will be your fault.
Your fault, Pepsi,
That I lose control of my car
And crash into the median.
And at my funeral
Throngs of mourners will curse your name
And people will go around crushing Pepsi cans
And ripping up pictures of your CEO
And making tribute albums all about me
All the cool singers will want to be on it
And it will sell a trillion copies
And with every copy
Will offer a free 20 oz.
To anyone who brings them a chunk
Of every stupid billboard
That’s supposed to be cutting edge