tears spill with my seed
sewn in sand not soil
Children fall and die, though,
I can’t hear their cries
of woe nor blasts from canons
Other than the one I grip,
squeeze to diplomatically relieve
tension, inner struggle, pestilence,
armed conflict, hand-to-hand
combat, anger, discord, strife Read More
Fear is a Rapist with papers–
Convicted sex offender–
So, keep your distance.
Listen, I know–
I have a witness
From the stars
And evidence–
Exhibit A:
My rectal scars. Read More
A Mermaid named Nala
Met with Jessie the Rabbit
To discuss what the Old Adage say.
While sharing a laugh
For each less than better half
(Fixed Fools who were long drawn away),
They pushed through the portal
Of the detailed dwelling
Of Wally the Wolf at bay.
He showed them his knife,
They giggled more than twice,
As he outlined why they should stay: Read More
Please note than an audio version is now available below the text.
I have a friend who says the “N”:
A Whiteboy who’s crazy as sin.
“What up my ‘N’!?” when my call
Reaches him. “Nothing much, Homey,”
I reply with a subtle stall
In my mind: “Sticks and stones is all
It would take to break his bony
Ass. Read More
Please note:
An audio recording of this poem is available below the jump.
The poem is read by the author.
Enjoy.
- The Editor.
That’s just messy, Jesse,
You are not Kanye,
Though, your rhymes
Are on time,
You mucked up
Th’other day. Read More
Please note that an audio recording of the poem is available below
She will come
Oh, yes! She will come.
If I have to sprain an ankle,
She will come, she will come.
She makes like she won’t,
but that is just dumb.
Before the cock crows thrice,
She will come, she will come. Read More
Please not that an audio reading of the poem is available below the text.
As hours flop,
And hours top,
And wiggle
side to side,
I laugh my self,
Guffaw my way,
Chuckle stuff
I have tried:
I feel it best
that I confess:
I have been
Called a quitter.
Just today,
I thought and lay
About a mound
of titters. Read More
The thought of it excited her.
She discussed it with her tender peers.
They were open with anticipation
For confirmation of their fears,
For reprieve from waiting,
For a taste of the Garden,
Which lay in their heads ahead
Where exposure hardens.
The touch of it fulfills her.
She gushes it to her curious mates.
They are anxious for information
To process on prying dates,
To understand what lies ahead,
To shed away the prim,
Knowing what they are in to,
But now what’s into them?
Here in GC land, we thought this poem was especially pertinent considering the recent brouhaha over Barack Obama’s minister.
Please remember to enjoy the genius of Sim Stafford responsibly.
Sincerely,
The Editor
We sat in our seats awaiting His return,
“In the meantime, a word from out pastor.”
It’s the same thing every Sunday, man:
What the devil are we here for?
When the collection plate goes by I remember
Why I leave my wallet at home: Sitting on it
So long throws my hips out of line. Good thing
We kneel, stand, kneel, stand, kneel, stand, but
Not before setting our tongues on autopilot
To reaffirm our ability to memorize and recite
In the drone of unison. Man, I can’t wait—
Oh! There they go, robes and all: Damn, Read More
We, the Scatterbrains, unfocused, unrestrained,
Random in our pattern, dispersed throughout
that Critical Mass—that info-terrain,
That moves our thought like a manic nymph train—
Our station is static with snow white noise,
As we mime the motions the whistle employs.
As Job we are dwarfed by the whirlwind’s shout,
Flung to and fro, and blown by skepticism.
We wonder what all the fuss is about;
We inquire to find the root of our route
(mapped without a destination in sight).
With water everywhere and bait to bite,
Scatterbrains exist and fish in Schism—
Swimming from school to school, playing the fool
with blues and rhythm and booze and jizm
(Our desire cries for exorcism,
Multi-tasking, and basking in choices).
Many directors help lift up our voices,
So that our song can be used as a tool;
Those melodies—colorful confetti—
Flutter from cloudy skulls like Babble’s drool.
Still, we wade in the cesspool of bull’s stool.
Precipitated by nothing at all,
Each day, each hour, sunup, sun fall.
