Throne Away, by Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

Torrential tributes

We will see

Funeral procession 

Honouring thee

But exactly how many

Does one remember

All those who ruled

Throughout history?

Can you name me

Every single Pharaoh

Who ruled Egypt 

In Antiquity?

Can you name every ruler

That ever ruled China

Japan, India, France

Or Pakistan ?

I can't name 

All our Presidents

I have to look them up

On the internet

Can you name me

Every Oscar winner?

Can you name me

Every NFL player?

Can you name me

Every billionaire?

Can you name me

Every single teacher

In your highschool

Or your college?

Can you name me

All your friend's parents and cousins?

Can you name me

Every poem I've written?

Off the top of your head

Without googling them? 

Can you name me

All 8 billion living?

Someone

Obviously knows them

In  a thousand years

Who will be remembered?

In a million years

More would be obscure

In 5 billion years

Your crown will be nothing.

Your platnum record

No record of being recorded

These words you read now

Are simply exchanging atoms

The object that allows me

To type and submit them

Will decay someday

I'd advise all who read this

To view a video

I highly insist

It is called "Pale Blue Dot"

Written and spoken

By astronomer

Carl Sagan

To me life is simple

Although complex

Full of beauty and destruction

Love and hate

Everyone, everyone, everyone

Shares the same home

Both friend and foe

All land the same

So take the time

To think of the other

As not being other

Just different colors. 

(end)

YES I KNOW IT IS SPELLED "Thrown", but in this case I way making a metaphor as to how fleeting power is "Throne Away".  Although I am a horrible speller, sometimes I am doing things diliberately to paint a picture or make a point. So if you are Hungry, you know what is at Steak, well not a Trump Steak, or casino or airline or pukaversity. 

The title and date this poem was written should be a huge clue as to why it was written. Every time a powerful ruler dies, like them or not, it always brings me to Carl Sagan's "Pale Blue Dot" speech. And he is spot on with it. Humans have been tribal and fighting and waring and killing and murdering forever. And the famous, the famous people we love still die, the famous artist, the famous actor, the famous businessman, the famous sports star, and yes, your famous poet too. Nobody lives forever. Not even Queen Elizabeth II.  It is not to put her down, just in that nobody lives forever. There is a debate about keeping the monarchy or dispanding it. But that IS NOT the point of this poem now. 

Here is the link to Sagan's "Pale Blue Dot". 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sb4WhNvLRFw

 "Qu'ils Mangent de la Brioche" By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

Take your Baguette 

And shove it

I ain't working here

No more

Bundt sacrafice fly

Raisins in the sky

Gnats you swat away

Day after day after day

Cake a triple play

The layers have no say

Looking down on them

Humdrum dismissive wave

Peasants in your eyes

Exasperated sighs

inconvenient insigificant lives

Why are they bothering you? 

Why do they

Distract me so

Why cant they just

Go go go

Not happy, not satisfied

Ungrateful underbelly

Hovel dwelling plebe

You are here only to serve me

Glorified bus driver

Your father called your brother

When he expressed a disire

To become an airline pilot

Everyone's below me

They owe me blind loyalty

I have no qualms or compunction

Of tossing them into the gutter

They want to be me

It's just their jealousy 

It is never never me

I am the dessert fork

The finger bowl

Well, more like the toilet

Who thinks he is

The bidet 

Keep thiking that way

We're not afraid of you

Orange zest compost heap

Lichen moldy crusty baboon 

In reality you are 

Jack's ripper slimy escargot

His bistro coq au vin

Grunion runner office squatter 

You're a hippopotamus

Not and elephant

Your baboon bottom is 

Vomit brick Christmas fruitcake 

Your vain posturing 

Billowing bluster 

Let me tell YOU  something

Brioche it up your ass. 

Foghorn with no legs

You're a fithy dreg

A rooster/cock

That whines. 

(end)

This is a "FUCK YOU" to the orange asshole. 

And yes I was having a word play double meaning with "bundt" in both baking cakes and the basebal term.

And a "Three's Company" referenace basically saying sarcastically and seriously that the orange asshole ruins everything he touches. And he'd have raped Jack's Bistro by displaying his baboon ass in it. 

And in french there really is a debate as to if Marie Antoinette actually really said "let them eat cake". But according to this article the real way it would have been said in French would be comparing "Brioche bread" which is softer and sweater vs a harder french baguette. Or, "If they don't have brioche, let them eat a baguette."

https://www.historyadventures.co/the-real-story-behind-let-them-eat-cake/

And there have been reports that Trump's dad belittled his brother when he told him he wanted to be an airline pilot, Trump's dad said something like, "Why would you want to do that for a living, that is nothing but a glorified bus driver." 

So we know how shit rolls down hill. Fortunately his brother cut ties with the family after too much shit like that.  

The "Go go go" line is like when someone is annoyed say, at a fancy 5 star restaurant, when the waiter brings them something they don't want or tells them to take it back and waves the back of their hand shoeing them away. 

 Third Fallacy On The Grassy Mowed, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

Of the grass he mowed

Is it little known

The reason most show

Subconscious vanity 

Aristocracy wanted

To be distinguished as above

The lowly famers who toiled

And farmed their very food. 

Manicured mansions

And pristine trimming

Scuptures they'd carve

Out of shrubs 

Here is a dose of reality

Grass does not cut itself

Naturally. We humans stupidly

Think we are not harming anything.

Yes, yes we are. We're going too far

Just on the fuel to start our mowers

That ads to the carbon emmissions 

On top of trucks, vans and cars.

I am not unrelistic in any sense

I know habbits are hard to break

But it is late in the day for our planet

We have to change our tactics.

Just learn from history, it's ok

We can create an economy

That fosters innovation 

Protecting nature as much as we can 

Mow your lawn less

Use electric

Sprinkle less

Just do your best. 

And to the current

Big wigs, in the boardroom

Stop marketing your haroin 

In fossil fuels. 

You've been the world's

Fentynal deadly song

You've ignored the warnings

For a century long.

Margo Price got it right

Your going to be 

Put in your place

Left with nothing to sell. 

So your soylent green

Is artificial, unatural

Rooted in the arrogance 

Of the third man and the grass he mowed.

It is a crippling fallacy

That we always think

We can grow indefinitley 

At a breakneck pace.  

(end)

A little serious and satire and sarcastic all in one poem. But in all seriousness, lots of the things that are marketed to society are vanity and not just vanity, but collectivelly not good for us, and especially the environment. The popularity of manicured lawns is only a couple hundred years old. But regardless, as I said before, grass does not mow itself, so in a very real literal context we are doing the unatural thing to our environment. And again, I do not expect anything to suddenly change over night, but we also at the same time have to make changes to our daily or weekly habits. The planet isn't going to give a shit about us, we have to give a shit about it. 

And no, the use of soylent green here is NOT based on the old si fi dystopian movie. But there is some irony that the plot IS about how our oceans are being polluted and climate change can eventually kill the currents and create more dead spots where life cannot grow or flurish. In any case, this poem still is a warning that we cannot keep the pace of exploitation of our natural resources and expect the planet to susstain us. 

 "Third man on the grassy knoll" is part of the bullshit JFK conspiracy. I am being sarcastic about climate change deniers like I am when I tell JFK conspiracy nuts there was no third man on the grassy knoll and Oswald acted alone. YES WE ARE HURTING OUR ECOYSYSTEM WORLDWIDE, by the collective things we do every day. It isn't a conspiracy on my part to say that. It is willful ignorance on your part and also to our species survival it is a growing threat to deny how we are hurting our planet. 

 How Much For A Graham? By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

The honey bee

has grabbed some  pollen

And deposited it 

In your pistil  

Nine months later

You want to force her

Regardless as to 

The health of the mother

Trigger laws 

In many a state

But even the reddest of red

Are rejecting all of this

You all pontificated

And read this verse

And that verse

Vociferous mandate

You'll be the first

To end that "precious life"

If you have an affair 

So don't you dare

The x in goat's blood

Over every house

Signifying the end

Of the Egyptian's firstborn sons

Dont you fucking dare

When your flood mythology

Would stand to reason

Even the death of women that bare 

Thier fruit, but becuase they

Didn't genulflect and fawn over you

You filled their lungs with water

Their baby bloated too. 

You treat that part of the plant

That recieves the pollen 

You named it the "stigma"

How kind of you.

Well, well, Lindsey

I can clearly see

You have not a Graham anything

Resembling sanity.

Even South Carolina's

State Assembly 

Said an all out ban

Was not what they had planned.

Actually yes they did at first

But the women of the nation

Even in the most red of states

Said, FUCK YOU!

How much for a Graham?

Religious Patriarchal goon

Wannabe Taliban 

Your body autonomy gone

THAT'S THE FUCKING PRICE LADIES.  Glad to see even South Carolina put somewhat of a foot down on a flat out ban on all abortions. 

 Stranded Silent Scream, (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and brianrrs37 on twitter)

I was Tom Hanks

With no faceless

Man giving me 

Advice behind a fence

FED X man it was a crash

I was on a beach

I didn't have a show

About improving my home

I was Carlton the doorman

Whom you never saw

Urkel's parents

Didn't want me at all

I was Howard's mom

I was stranded on 

That tropical beach

Rescue always out of reach

Invisible, Invisble, Invisble

Black and red basement carpet

A lone pillar pole in akward middle

My only two friends I had as a kid

Were my tv and stereo and that was it

The security guards wanted me quiet

 My adoption was more of a pound

Or pet rescue

They smiled and awed 

Passing each cage

Asking questions 

In inigma code 

Patting and hugging

Then leaving the room

Like the subway rush

The come and they go

The gaurds the gaurds

Had their shepherd dogs

Barking their oders

Lights out, lifeguard backboard

I slept on. The tourists, tourists

Where, where have they gone

Didn't they, why didn't they

They saw me, I know they did

I leaned on my cage

I panted my tounge 

I wagged my tail

I purred for them

Then they put me, in the hole

As if I was in Nam

In a blown out metal box

Holes from shrapnel my prison cell

"Your comming with us"

I thought I was a freedom fighter

And the allies had finally reached me

In Canes or Roen, or Trouville 

I've escaped Purgatory 

I've left that 9th ciricle of hell

Free, free, free, finally

But that was not to be

They were not the landers

On the beaches of Normandy

I was simply shipped

From one prison camp to another

I had new screws 

The prison warden 

Had moved me from San Quentin 

To Alcatraz

That putrid black and red

Outoor carpet pattern

In the always dank basment

Sump pump always broken

It was the baby picture 

Cosmic microwave background radiation

Accompanied by a meat freezer

I am sure they could have fit me in

These, these, these were my freinds

I could be shoved with the night stick

Muzzeled  shepherd chasing me

Back to my cell, where nightime fell

That back upstairs bedroom 

Was not much better

The shaddows on the walls

Were tentacles of ocean monsters

Waiting for me to make a mistake

To smash through my window

Like the evil tree 

In Poltergueist

Often I did make an escape

Only to be tracked down

By bloodhouds

Unimployed by the warden

They were heyenas 

Gorillas, using me

As a tackle dummy 

I was Wilson  adrift

I had only two choices

Hide like Anne Frank

Or go outside

And try to avoid

The boodhounds

The hyenas  

The liquidation

Of the Warsaw ghetto 

I was the mole

In that arcade game

But their mallets hit me

Every time , made of iron

Inside outside

I was the prey mangled

Torn apart by Camp guards

Pulling me in by my arms

And the wolves outside

Knawing and tugging

And dragging me

And still I was that seal

On the broken ice

The orca's prize was me

Metal ball in their Labyrinth

Tilting the ice, to and fro 

Until I fell in. 

 (end)

The first few stanzas are the almalgimation tropes of the unseen characters talked about or their faces never seen. I am mixing them on purpose to convey the overlap of isolation and facelessness and feelings of being deserted or imprisoned in fear of my jailers or the bullies outside.  Or the dramas of being isolated either in the woods or dessert or stranded adrift on the ocean. It is about my childhood, and feelings of isolation, my choices were to stay inside, and constantly be yelled at and fearing my parents, or go outside and get beaten up by the bullies. I did not have my first real true friend until highschool. To this day I still have trust issues and insecurieties. 

Now to be fair, I got through it, if anything, the good that came out of that was that I have learned that it is ok to be myself. I do not have to let others baggage be mine, and I don't have to put up with abuse. And it gives me tons of material in my poetry. I still would not want to re-live my childhood though. It sucked. My late mom to her credit did however, in your later years, gave up on trying to mold me in to her soldier boy, white glove pererfectionist attitude. But my dad though, he was an outright piece of shit. He had his school fooled that he was a really nice guy and gentle but firm to his students. But when he would come home, he'd get drunk and take it out on me. My mom did however constantly get me away from him, but she also was a bit of an authoritarian herself. 

This is my mental state as a kid, felling isolated, faceless, screaming and nobody listening and those who did hear me were the jailers, the drill instructors, the wardens, who wanted me to be a tough guy because life was tough. Or  go outside and get beaten up.  

We had this horrid looking red and black indoor/outdoor  carpeting, really flat crushed ugly pattern like the cosmic microwave backround radiation pattern. And the basement was always dampish, almost musty, but that was where I spent most of my time, avoiding the ire of my parents or refuge from the bullies. My stereo and my tv were my only friends. I do not say this for sympathy now, but just an observation, that when you are a kid, teen, an ugly duckling like I was, the world can be a pretty lonely place. 

 Rocky Road  , By Brian37  (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37)

A couple days visit

It should have been

Uneventful first day

Exchanging hugs and pleasentries 

Walking your dog

Then watching tv

Wheel of Fortune

Then Jeopordy

I noticed in the freezer

You had three big tubs

Of rocky road ice cream

I thought "do you have enough'?

But I passed it off, 

It was her money 

If she wanted all that 

Who was I to say

But then the next day

We went to the grocery store

Down one isle, then the next

Picking up items in the cart they went

Then we got to the freezer section

She asked me to grab more tubs

I was confused, and paused her 

"Mom you already have 3 in your freezer"

She snapped at me

Insisted she didn't 

I gave in 

And did what she said

The we got home

I put the groceries away

"You have 6 tubs now"

She didn't believe me

I said, "You made me grab 3"

Then I showed her the six

She didn't remember telling me

To grab them at all

That was it, I knew, I knew

Something was off

It was too sudden

Her memory loss

Mom, mom,

Hit that button

On your necklace 

Please, please, please

A bit stubborn 

She resisted at first

Then I showed her

The tubs again

Finally finally

She hit the button

A voice from the box

In the next room

"Do you need help"

"Yes" I responded

Urgency in my voice

Send an ambulance

To the emergency room

And several hours latter

Poking and prodding

Pushed through halls for scanning

Fnally the doctor came in

Confirmed our fears

But we caught it in time

Mini stroke could have done her in. 

I wrote this I am sure, after listening to the Pope, at the time say something stupid like banning contraception or condeming same sex unions(at the time).

FUCK UP AGAIN..... NEXT POST SHOULD BE FIXED. FYI I may have found a way to minimize my spelling errors, next post should work. 

  Attributing to the last post poem "Russell Island" if this post works, here is the picture of the actual piece of deadwood that was in the water in my friend's backyard in Russell Island. You'll have to scroll down to see it. 

DAMN IT THIS ISN'T WORKING! I just have to go back to the old way.

This poem I wrote back in 2001 and it is about the horrible events that happened that day. I cant remember if I wrote it that Oct, Nov, or December. But it was the end of that year after 9/11. Here is "Ego Divinely Inspired". 

 Pursuit Divers, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

They dove because they had to

Dropping like mail sacks

Thuds in search of no prey

Birds diving into the cement ocean

Gennets, Boobies, pelicans

Terns, interns, desk lamps

Desktops, desk chairs, limbs

Hands, feet, torsos, fire

Knifewounds gashes midriff

And in the neck. And the pigeons 

Above the impact, ducks flailing 

Wailing, waving coats and shirts

Turkeys don't fly, they just drop

Plash, spatter, splatter, smudge

Engine here, leg there, pleanty 

Of food for fear and hate

The pursuit divers cannot wait

The fire poker is at their back

The buddhist monk stayed behind

Immolate was not their choice

They don't have time to practice

Their Olympic dive 

Be it solo

Or synchronized 

Money sack, full of coins

Of hopes and dreams

As we watched on tv

Onlookers full of screams

Some head first

Some holding hands

Some slipped off

Trying to slide down

The fireman's head tilted down

As if he was a kid on schoolground

And the bully wen't up to him

"Look, you're shoe is untied"

Thud, thump, splat

Thud, thump, splat

Thud, thump, splat

Never, never, ever forget. 

(end)

"Pursuit divers", are those speices of mostly ocean birds, that nosedive  into the water at high speed to catch thier prey.  

"Money sack" really isn't talking about money, but the sound the bag would make when it hits the ground. Or something heavy like a mail sack, or military duffle bag that is full. 

I distinctly remember one man, kind of heavy set, try to wedge himself between the buiding and use his feet and back to try to slde down. But he only got about 3 feet and lost his footing. That was one of the most disturbing videos I have seen.

"The fireman's head tilted" is that famous video of the one guy, profile by the camera, but you could tell he was looking at falling people, and watch them hit the ground, and reacted with a "FUCK" look.  And it must have been horible for all those who were there, before the towers fell to hear the repeated thuds over and over and over or see people jump. 

 "Gashes midriff, and in the neck" respectively refer to the impact zones of each of the two planes that hit the world trade center. The first imact was closer to the top, the second impact was lower. 

It is a horrible image that even though I was in central Virginia, it will be an unfortunate memory burned into the witnesses of that day forever. 

My heart goes out to all the nearly 3,000 victims. And the brave people on the planes who called in to report the hijackings, and those who fought back knowing they were going to die. And the firemen who bravely went up facing the danger. And all police and EMT and bystanders who saved people. 

21 years ago, hate threw a party nobody wanted to be invited to.  

 18 Reasons To Vomit, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

"Dude, Bet you can't"   <---------------- This stanza is meant to be read like one daring the other, and the other taking the dare.

"Dude, Bet I can"

"Dude, I want 100 foreskins"

"Dude, Hold my beer"

Your daughter is banging

I won't just bring you 100

I'll bring you 200

Then I'll put a ring on "it"

Yea "it" because, well

She's currency, chattle

As alive as the siiver

I could give you instead

Who cares what she says

I brought you 200 foreskins

For murdering your enemies

Those evil Philistines 

You know Saul I would have

Brought you their testicles

Or their scrotums 

If that had been your pleasure. 

Hard to get that immage

Out of your head now, isn't it

But you do not get to blame me

I didn't write it.

It is vomit, no matter

Which way you spin it

It would never end up

In a children's book anyway. 

(end)

I do not see in any context, how this story is even good metaphor. Even without the forestkin part, Machal is treated like currency, like coins or a dollar bill. But in all seriousness, females back then, even in prior polythiesm were seen as the property of the male head of the household or the patriarch, the father, or the king. Offering females up for marriage was a way, BACK THEN to unify two families for grouping resources. Females really had no more rights than say a pet dog or goat or sheep. They were to be fields for men to plant their seed in, to speak only when spoken to, and to remain pure for the exchange, like an unwrapped birthday present you give a friend or co worker. 

The foreskin part of it makes it expecially smarmy and disgusting, but distracts from the fact that once again the female is lost in all that and passed off as a prop. 

 The Cost Of The Magi , Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

The snow yet to be plowed

Yet to turn into sludge

Yet to have tracks in it

Yet to understand the dangers of the sun

Oh Silvia, it is understandible

To look at the pettiness of adults

Their fighting, and wars, and bills

Thier failures,  their falls

The demands, the politics

The rejection, the apprehension

The betrayal, the burial 

They no nothing of a funeral

They only know to smile

Or to be colicy, teething

Pacfier, vulnerable

Trusting, crying

Our philosophies

Our democracies

Our fallacies

Our industries

It cannot know, of Romeo

Or the hot blood Hamlet drinks

Nor why Benito was strung up

Like cured meat for winter storage

It is you, half of you

And someone else

Of course, both of you

Brought into this world

It is the sunrise, the north star

The panda cub, the elephant calf

The baby giraffe, the fawn at birth

In the bassinet, and yet, and yet

You see the future toils

It can't see

The philosophies of fools

It is of worth to envy

Oh how all of us, if we could

Could be insulated from

What we know, their eyes follow

Looking to us, as if we know

This magi, of the unplowed snow

That's easy to get swelled 

With the beems of sunflowers

And Macy's Parades 

Look, look, look what I did

I created a life

Yes, yes, yes you did

But Silvia, look at the price

The Huns, the Conquistadors

The Dahmers, the Bundys

The Madoffs, the Yates's

That little magi, you pined about

In your prose, it grows, it grows

And who knows, who knows

What it will grow up to be

It could be good or bad

It could be a poet or prisioner

It could be a terrorist, or nurturer 

It could be a doctor, or robber

I could be, it could be, it could be

That smiling face looking up at you

Now knows you did yourself in

What a gift you gave the two

You became the tracks, the plow. 

(end)

I agree with Plath in that the envy of how innocent babies and kids are. But those kids grow up, and right now our planet has reached 8 billion. That includes all the good people in the world, and all the murderers, and rapists, and dictators, and monsters, that when born, their parents looked down at them in wonder too. Maybe some resented that birth and the baby became a burden and was abused as a result.

I do not write this as any type of judgment at all, other than to say it is easy to get caught up in the emotion of the intense sense of awe, especially when it comes to a child, who is innocent, and smiles and isn't privy to the strife and horrors adults know of. 

I am not impressed with babies. They only prove to me that humans have sex. It may sound cold and calous, but I don't mean it in an uncaring context. I get that that individual life is inspiring and a deep connection to many parents. But it has not grown up yet. And like I said, other parents see a baby as an accident, or unwanted or hated, and those kids can be serverely abused and or affected by authoritarianism or bullying, or even mere verbal abuse. 

It isn't enough to simply bring a life into this world. I am personally glad I have not had any children. I would have made a horrible parent. And While Silvia suffered her own mental illness and severe depression, and ultimately her suicide, she still in all that brought out the ugly beauty of the downside to life and the contrast to the good in life. But in no way is this to make a romaitic view of suicide. I suffer depression myself. I write about dark topics myself. I also see wonder and good in life myself.  And as others have said about sucide "It is needless solution to a temparary problem". 

I will never judge those who suffer depression, nor those who do commit sucide, but only in that, out of all the times I have considered it, I also know that if I had in the past, the poems you read today, would not exist. 

I love Syilva Plath, but to me, right now, the world does not need more humans, no matter how awe inspiring they can be as babies. We are becomeing a victim of our own success and we are collectively outpacing our planet's ability to sustain us. I think the world needs more poets, more cleaners, more thinkers, and not more billionaires, unless those billionaires become problem sovlers and not simply masturbators over their own vanity about how many shareholders they can get and how big their businesses can get. 

Right now, I would take a Plath over a Musk, a Dickinson over a Bezos. I would take the artist over the billionaire. We have enough billionaires. We need more artists right  now. 

 Plath inadvertantly became that track in the snow by her suicide her children would later have to grapple with. And that is the innocence she envyed but also took away too. 

I cannot speak for others. But I don't want kids, and even if I did, the biggest reason right now, is that we are becoming like that bar, that has exceeded it's capacity and is now becoming more dangerous to be in. I love life, and I love the innocence of kids too, but just like a cub grows up, that cub can be a very dangerous lion. 

It isn't an either or, but more like a pragmatic assesment of our planet's current conditions and our own species sustainability. 

But I also agree, it would be great if as adults, we did not have to worry like babies are very innocent in that they only have to worry about being feed, being clean, getting sleep and being loved. 

"Yates's" Refers to Andrea Yates who unfortunately had her own mental illness, and because she got mixed up with a fire and brimstone preacher, she ened up drowning her 5 children in her bathtub. 

Dahmer's parents never abused him, but look at what he did. 

We all would like to think every new life will turn out non violent and full of love and compassion. But the truth is, even if we never abuse them, many still turn out abusive sociopaths or worse. Many turn out fine, but stay poor their entire lives. Point its life is still ultimately a crap shoot, and you cannot look at  baby in a crib as an automatic gift to the world. 

 Thunder Gate, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

Red wasp's Chōchin

Diaphanous Kaminarimon 

The gods of wind and thunder

Distroyed many times over

Fūjin god of wind

Guard's the east

Raijin god of thunder

Guard's the west

Opposite reverse 

Tenrū on the east

Goddess Kynrū

On the west

This giant lantern

In black paint

On the front

Kaminarimon

On the back

It's official name

Fūraijinmon

1500lbs, not so light. 

Sensō-ji Temple

Is where I've been

22 years since

I'd love to go again. 

(end)

 "SECURITY!" By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet On FB/META and @brianrrs37 on @twitter) 

What if you ran into

Michelle Obama, Barrak too

Harriet Tubman, Maya Angelou ?

Could you talk, or would you gasp?

Could you breath, would you collapse? 

Or would they call security on you?

I am quite sure, in your past

There's been someone you'd love to task

For a chat or maybe an autograph.

But what if you were so excited

You stumbled down the stairs 

Or tripped over some chairs?

What if they looked at you

Like you needed a rubber room

Or someone needed to traquilize you?

I wasn't that clumsy those three days

I went to a convention in Crystal City

Keynote speakers, "The Four Horsemen".

Hitchens, Dawkins, Harris, Dennett

I wasn't supposed to get in, but I had a friend

Who new somebody, I was to follow around. 

The event coordinator I was to be her gopher

Do this, do that, do that it was as if suddenly 

I went from tarmac worker, to co pilot. 

What just happened to me? I became Secret Service?

Don't ask me if I was nervous, I think it should be obvious

I went from the hotel pool, to ocean lifeguard. 

Then I saw him, standing at the top of the stairs

My eyes grew wide, my mouth went agape 

"You're, YOU'RE , YOU'RE, NO WAY, NO WAY"

The evolutionary Biologist, didn't know what to say

Stunned by my sudden excitement, he squinted his eyes

Looked at my chest, for my access badge, and asked me

"Who are you?" Looking confused, "Do I know you?"

"I love your book Richard. All I have is this baseball cap"

I was warned by everyone, never to ask for an autograph

From him on a baseball cap, he thought it beneath him

He gave me a gremace, then begrudgingly signed it

Walked away with a look, "I hope I don't see you again".

Glowing and grinning, I was walking on clouds

"That was, that was, yes, oh my Darwin, THAT WAS!"

I could have left that minute, it would have been enough.

But no, I didn't just meet Elvis, there were 3 more to go.

Next up was neurosurgeon, Sam Harris, author of

"Letter To A Christian Nation" and "The End Of Faith"

 He was sitting for his book signing, I was waiting in line

I just wanted to say hi, didn't have money for a book to buy

But that was ok, just, oh just to shake his hand.

It seemed like rush hour, at the Motor Vehicles 

The line stretched for miles and miles

Exaturaging you say? Yea, but just to make a point.

My heart was fluttering, what was wrong with me?

I told myself to calm down, my mind racing, thinking

"What do I say, what do I say" and what came out?

"I like your book", perplexed he responded "Which one?"

Derp! , I could have said something philosophical

Pointed out one of his best arguments? But that? Really?

Ok, so now, two people I got tongue tied with.

With so many people here, that won't happen again.

Yea, you guessed right, this is not where the story ends.

Sooooooo, I had bought a licence plate 

With and "Darwin Fish" on it, hoping to get lucky

And someone would sign it. 

Went for coffee, out on the second floor balcony

To find a place to sit, OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT!

The man every theologian was afraid to debate!

Hitchens was the heavyweight, the knockout fighter

I went weak in my knees, what was wrong with me?

Those questions I had, days before, flew right out the window. 

"I am bother sorry to, could plate you sign, me for this?"

"Do you have something to sign it with" He asked.

How many "Derps" does this make so far? 3? 

In a panic, "I'll be right back, don't go anywhere". 

He rolled his eyes probably thinking "Dumbass".

Scurried, back to the coffee shop found a red Sharpie.

Relieved he was still there, he graciously obliged.

Relieved and embarressed, I wanted to sit down

But no, I could imagine to make things worse. 

I made a tripple play, I survived being a gopher

Had a blast that weekend, but as things go

It was time, all things end, time for me to go. 

Think of every metaphor you can, high as a kite

Walking on cloud nine, ready to catch the bus

I ran into an old man, I didn't recognize him.

"Were you here for the convention" I asked

"Why yes of course". Me"Look at my autographs"

"Those are neat" he said, "Do you want mine too?"

My fourth and final DERP! "Why would I want yours?"

And right as I finished the word "Yours" I saw his badge,

"Daniel Dennett" "Keynote Speaker".

Why didn't I throw my underwear at them?

I know what you are thinking

"SECURITY!"

(end)

This is a 100% True story. I went to a book convention of famous atheist authors back in 2007.  I lucked out because my friend asked me to follow the event coordinator arround, and that is how I got in. But boy did I get tongue tied each time. After reading all their books, and learning all sorts of new things. I really thought I was going to be able to have some sort of intelligent conversation with them, but NOOOOOOOOO. I was starstruck and full of dribble and spittle and DERP! 

 Anyone remember the "Monsters Of Rock" concert series? Kinda like that, but for atheists and skeptics. It would be like if the Beatles and Zeplin and Hendrix and the Stones were all there togther. I managed to embarrass mysel with Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, Sam Harris and Daniel Dennett. 

I didn't get Dennett's autograph here, because I had lost the red Sharpie at some point prior to going to the bus stop, and a regular pen wouldn't have stuck anyway. But he didn't take offense, he thought it was funny. 

I don't remember how I got Dawkins autograph the second time on this plate. I do believe it was because I was invited to be in the hotel room when my friend interviewed each of them seperately.  

The top left signature is Christopher Hitchens. Top right signature is former President of American Atheists  Ellen Johnson. Lower left is Richard Dawkins. Lower right is Sam Harris.  The one autograph I did not get, and I actually saw her, but didn't know who she was, was the author of "Infidel" Ayaan Hirsi Ali 

 They gained the collective nickname, "The Four Horsemen".  And me, captain DERP!

 The "I'm bother sorry to" line was on purpose. I am not sure what I said, but he could tell I was nervous and sighed as if to say, "Dude, relax,". 

 The Second Law Of Thermo Anne, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet On FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

When the sun turns itself off, like every other

There will be no more children to be planted

The stars death is our match lit song, It's been years

Since my mother's been gone. And my bones,

They'll be in some university, medical class.

Hair, what hair? Mine is going fast. My neighbor's debts?

Boy would I love to, but corporate run hospitals say "fuck you."

I'll write a poem called "Damn it Anne, you did it to me again."

I'll starve myself, with longing and waiting while everyone else

Will be passing, flying over me, without me, looking down

The planet the sun will engulf, there will be no one anywhere

No people to be scared, our atoms will perservere, nothing to fear

Yes we do die Anne, our conciousnesses always finite

But our atoms always take flight, and I'm ok with that.  

The sweet lemonaide of your words, our sun, still lives, for now. 

(end)

A response poem to Anne Sexton's "Yellow".  My take on it is that she wants all the suffering in the world to stop, and that we will perservere. It is writtin in hope for sure. But as beautiful as it is, it is naive to me, in that I don't think we need to worry about a "forever" existing. I am thrilled that I live in a world where I can be inspired by such brilliance. But even given that, 5 billion years from now, our planet will be fried, and nobody will be remembered.

BUT, that doesn't matter to me. My atoms stem from the Big Bang and consiquently the death of a prior, or prior suns which exploded to create our current sun and solar system. And the atoms when I was born, are long off doing something else now. Our bodies constantly rescycle and replace atoms. So in 5 billion years, my atoms will be doing other things. I am happpy with that. My consciousness was not here 4 billion years ago, why should I worry about not existing after I die? It seems like a needless waste of time to fear a nature none of us can escape.

I live in the now, and right now, I love being inspired by other poets and Anne is my most recent discovery. I've only read to so far, but along wit Plath and Mia and Dickinson, and all the local poets I read, I have the healthiest food their is, inspiration. 

 All Your Pretty Images, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet On FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twtter)

Are you Linda Lavin waiting in Mel's Diner?

I see you stampped with your own stanzas

Melting question marks of madness, sadness

But that tilted head and inviting smile

Says come in, have a seat, listen for a while

I see you sitting in some white whicker chair

In some Carolina room, how is it you write of such doom

You have palm to face and a playful "You got me laugh"

In that obvious Jacky O'nassis dress. Underneith, your poems confess

Watercolor's wash off of you, I am angry, angry , angry at time

It delayed me, I could have seen myself, standing over you

Lying on the slate stone walkway in that blue dress with flowers

Your sultry look could stop traffic for hours and hours. Morso than that

Words of infinite power, yellow tobacci photo album nameless faces

Broken promises, mistresses, loveless, scary carpenter's tools of death.

 Defiant, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

I've heard of orchids, dasies, tulips, roses

I've heard of moons, night time, clouds

I've heard of suns, oceans, rain, torrants

I've heard of pain, joy, sorrow, birth

I've heard of fathers, daughters, sons

I've heard of fascists, greek gods, stones

I've heard of survival, suicide, death

I've heard of trees bushes and drugs

I've been told to never make it about me

I've been told to bury my secrets in mystery

I've been told to be prim, precice and manicured

I've been told to follow the rules or suffer arrows

I've been told to give up, that I will never live up

I've drunk from the wine of pros, of prose

To never look up, or have an influence

To never look around, never to dig and find

To never reach the beach, to  never fly in the sky

Don't you tell me, my pen is not mine, 

I write what I write, and I do just fine

I've been torn apart many a time

These hills I climb, frustrate, stifle, scare me

But you do not, go away, I will not stop

I grow flowers, and they bloom

My taunters, my mirrors, my razors

My gloom, my muses, my muses

Live in every room

Outdoors, indoors, computer

Tv, pets, lost loved ones

Friends, trends, disaster

Murder, rescue, resentment

Isolation, adulation, dull sensation

What flower is there  to represent

The one thing I know the poet's truth

If you don't lke these stanzas, FUCK YOU. 

i know of Frost, and Plath, Sexton, Dickinson

I know more, far more, poets unkown

My pen is mine, not yours, mine, go away

Your arrows will never work on me.

I will build the obvious if I wish, 

I will rub you raw, push you, annoy you

I don't give a damn about you, why?

Pick up your pen, you have one too

But don't you dare, tell me what to do. 

Flowers are not illusions, flowers rot

Become compost, they die too

The orchid's daisies, tulips, roses

That moon,  white moon, you slur

And treat it like a whore, as if it were

You never say anything positive about it

It is the guardian of the nighttime ghouls

The symbol of bats and brooms

And lonliness, and empty bedsheets

A lover, sneaks out before daybreak

The spouse has not one clue

And you, you dare tell me

In what meter, what words

In what cadence, insistant

I am worthy of you to prove

Do you walk in rhyme 

Do you fuck in rhyme

Do you scream in couplets

Do you dail  in Iambic pentameter?

You've never heard of freeform?

You have? Now we're getting somewhere

Do you, be you, I will support you

But as I said before,  my pen is not yours.

I'm mad you say, I am insecure you say?

I only lash out because I am angry

Ok, I'll take a billhook to this garden

Shred this entire poem, become yours

This sycophant adors, I'm you, I'm you

I will become that school, blend in

Be the fish in the middle, dodging

Darting, fleeing the preditors

In agonizing conformity

I want you to like me

I don't want to be Ford

I don't want to be Van Goh

I don't want to be King Tut

I don't want to be Plath or Poe

I don't want to be on the news

I don't want to be that rose

I don't want to be that onion

I don't want to be that mushroom

I want to be that tempest

I want to be that hydrant 

Defiant, obnoxious, not quiet

Don't tell me to be silent

I will use the sunflower as I choose

If I am in a happy mood

I will pick up that streight edge razor

Of garages, and kitchens, and ovens

Of scabs, and stabs, and drowning

And here you are impatiently reading

What am I, what am I doing you ask?

If you got this far and I know you did

I am proving my point, I did something right. 

Leave the moon alone,

She has served you well

To cast her in such evil dark light, 

Is to forget you are the thorn on that rose

You are the thick star thistle 

Clinging to my sock, pestering gnat

Whom has nothing better to do

Than to tear down others, who refuse

Refuse to be a clone of you. 

Flowers, you want flowers

You want colors, you want raw

Your pen is yours, my pen is mine

Get to work, write it down, get it out

Stop worrying about me, you see

You have your own pen, mine is mine

Not yours, don't tell me what to do. 

(end)

I love the giants, but far more important to me is being myself. Even outside writing poetry, growing up, I spent far too much time chasing other people's ideas of what the script to life is. I tried too much to fit in, and that most of the time ended up making me a doormat, more often than not. 

Back in the late 80s I joined a local poetry group, and the guy who introduced me, was a very kind gental man, Sam Hurst, and he is relitively unknown outside the D.C. poetry scene. He will always be a giant to me. And the most important thing he taught me was to be myself, never try to force a poem, and I agree. He also taught me to never be afraid of putting it out there. And after a few meetings, I understood. Our groups could get as big as 75 people, but for the once a month we had them, it averaged about 30. 

It became quickly obvious to me, that sometimes you will like something, and other times you may not like a work. And sometimes others will like your work, and sometimes they will not.

Poetry is my blood, it is my breath, it is my food. It is my frustration, it is my pain, it is my joy. I will never give it up, not ever. I shy away from being a critic of others, because something I may not like, and yes, there are poems of Plath and Sexton that are not my cup of tea, but I will not tell you which, because that is not for me to say. I learned long ago, as with any art, and it is a true, always true axiom, "beauty is in the eye".

 Fuck the man in the moon. I think women are far better gardians. 

 Excuse My Vulgarity, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

Yes Anne, these are times

Times of turmoil, the churning

Of blood, in jungles, trails

Of drafts, to do a tour, or more

Only to be, and wrongfully so

Spit on, despised, vilified

When the real enemy was a dog

Named Checkers, and G Gordon Liddy

Yes Anne, humor must be at hand

It is the only way to put ugliness

In it's place, the real criminals

To be put in the chair or chamber

Are the pompous, the proud, the arrogant

The stagnant, complacent, redundant 

Squaters, purvayor, admirers of God

If so much as to peep a harsh word

It is all powerful, it should not need

Need these pathetic mere mortals

To take up arms for it, what does this say

Say about such a colic baby?

It is "vulgar" to speak ill of it?

These loyal soldiers will kill for it

One logo a torture device, one a star

The other a cresent moon, all goons

You don't need to be excused Anne

They are the truely petty ones

Their false confidence is comical

I wish I could sell the invisiible

My invisible pink Lamborghini Countach

How much, you ask, does it cost?

Oh, not much, say ten bucks

And your intelect, reason, compassion

Your blind loyalty. Don't you worry

Your minion little scull, over that child

With cancer, dying in agony, or 

Of the famine, growing worldwide

Or of our  home we are distroying

By our narcissism, stupidly

Like army ants, raid, invade

Exploit and rape.

Yes, yes, I can see

I will never be

Able to pull your mythology

Out of your cold dead hands.

Are you listening God? Good.

Your manufacturing skills suck.

You own the Acme Company

The Coyote buys in bulk club

Walmart worshiper, tapistries

Of stooges, slapping, biting, kicking

Three blind mice, see how they run

When the skeptics are around

Rattling sabors over a being

Who needs a rattle, diapers

Who couldn't bother to separate

Our eating and breathing tube.

Such a carring father, isn't he?

My three sons, show them how it's done

I'll sell all of you guns, and bombs

Put you in this cage, talk in secret code

Stand behind each of you and say

You're may favorite, you know it

You know I am just pretending

I would never cheat on you.

Thrice amused, unwitting fools

You are in the colosseum, his cage

He is looking down on you, laughing

You are his lab rats, his Rots, he beats

Grooming you for back ally batties

While you place vegas bets

Over the odds on favorites

Who will win eternity and be his pets

 Morbid rimshot, the childish "ta da"

Lanquishing in insecurity, drowinng 

In conformity. No, cetertainly not for me

I'll watch "The Life Of Brian" 

You are all individuals. Vulgarity Anne?

You use that word like it is a bad thing.

Vulgarity to me, is the needless cruelty

Of my species failure to see, we are all the same. 

Vulgarity to me, is a feckless toddler

Floating somewhere, out there, everywhere

Warning me not to call him names, and runs

And hides and gets others to do his bidding.

What ever your name is you selfish whiny brat

With your dusty coloring books, with crusty begats

And your stories of drunken fathers fucking their daughters

Your heros asking for foreskins, your infanticide, genocide

You mole, bridge troll, hiding,

When scrutiny comes to call

You are the Coyote in the shed,

Gloating about yourself

What a super genious you are.

The train's horn, you ignore

Filling those carrots with nonsense

Thinking  it will neutralize the bunny

And all that you can do

Because you know it is too late

Is pull down the blinds

The shed and you are smithereens 

Don't look down God

You ran off the cliff

Gravity does not work

Until you realize it

But I will do you

One last favor

I will make you a sign on a stick

It will say "YIKES" 

(end)

 I was listening to a Anne Sexton reading her poetry by invite of a college. Inbetween poems she said "Excuse my Vulgarity", I guess refering to her use of language in her poems or whle commenting on them, and about to read another saying that life has a lot of shitty things in it and humor is the way we cope with these dark issues. (basically that is what I got out of her brief statment).

But this pretend convestation in response to her, was strictly about the meaning of "vulgar" nothing else. It simply triggered me to write this poem about what I thought was truely vulgar. I think an all Powerful God that would worry more about being picked on, than say childhood cancer, famine, global disasters, innocent victims of crime, especially against children. And would go out of it's way to demand it's flollowers subjugate and opress others, or kill them for even the mere transaction of not wanting to be part of that club, that to me is the real vulgarity. 

And it also speaks of the efficacy of such a claimed being. How can it be "all powerful" if it would need mere mortals to defend it?  God is a comic book character that doesn't know it is. 

AND NO.... Once again this is not a poem advocating the forced end of reliigon, or promoting hate. It is blasphemous yes, of course. It is hate of the expectation of blind worship with no ability of questioning. It is pointing out the absurdity that a God would need humans to protect it. It's colic behavior in throwing fits when you dont pay it attention, or want to play with it, or coddle it.  It is the lax co worker who overloads the forklift and it tlts over causing the entire wearhouse to collapse in him. God is the roofer high up carrying stacks of tile and slips on a banana peel and flies of the side of the roof wide eyed in a panic wondering what went wrong knowing the inevitiable fall will come. 

 The Furry Of My Flaws, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

Every time I want to write a poem

My cauliflower cranium coral betrays me

Do what I say, write it the way I say 

You bastard, why don't you listen to me!

You are off playing hookie, why ?

Come back! I keep telling you come back!

And you keep ignoring me when I desperately need you

To listen you hit the wrong key, you ignore me!

You defy me! You make me look like a fool!

They read, they leave, they laugh, scoff

Who is he? Why does he bother, and you

You do this to me, you put me on display

Like a circus monkey cranking out of tune

Grabbing your pant leg, drop in a dime

Or something, they go on their way

Glad to be rid of me, but you, you

Traitor, my only secritary, I cant fire

Stop pissing me off, I can, I can

I can take you out with me

Do you fucking realize that?

(end)

Once again, the battle of my acceptance of my maladies, vs the constant embarrassment and fear of judgment. I get angry at myself, and get depressed that I cant do what seems so obvious and easy to others. I can think and have images in my head, and my brain when commuticating with this divice, has it's own reaction to my neurons telling my fingers what to do, then submitting and feeling like a dog who just shit on the carpet waiting for my master, me, to rub my nose in it to train me not to do it again. But then I feel like the dog who wants to bite the abusive master and say, fuck you, I cannot be trained, i have to live with it or kill myself. 

I really struggle sometimes with this. I know it is a matter of calming down and stepping away and knowing that those close to me who know me know I do good work. I am not feeling sorry for myself, but just fucking frustrated. My rational side tells me you cant dwell on it, it will be ok, you are doing fine. But one can also be irrational at the same time, and it still gets to me. Others cannot punish me any worse than I punish myself. 

But I always come to the same conclusion. I cannot afford to give a fuck. I suffer enough depression outside my poetry, poetry is my lifeblood, it is my thearapy. I will not give it up. And if that means the prossess is messy, and you end up seeing it. I will still not stop. I have no choice. I can beat myeslf up fine without your help. 

 Beautiful Maladies, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

I have a great face for a podcast

No video, no print, that is where I am at

I coiuld use a comma here, I could,

I could use a comma here I could

I could use a period here. I could.

I could use a period here I could

But when you here it, as I read it

You don't see it do you, do you?

you don't see do you do you

My style, my style, my style

My style my stlye my style

my style, my style, my style

do you here it, do you hear it?

I know if you picked this up

And you

Read it

I know if you thought

"Inflection here"

"Intonation there"

It wouldn't sound different

Wouldn't it?

This is what diversity is

Chosing between the orchid 

Choosing between the ragweed

Choosing between the sunbeam

Choosing between midnight

Choosing between midday

Choosing between December

Chosing between spring

Or chosing to be dead

Having no life to live

My style my stle my style

Is to be spoken, not just simply read. 

(end)

This is a very serious poem, it is meant to be read 3 times, or 4 or however many times the reader wants to read it. 

 It is to point out that you can take anything and give it your own interpretation even outside what the reader intents. 

1. First read it as if you are criticising the style or message of another writer in a sarcastic manor.

2. Read it as a writer in fear of judgment, or having perormance axiety.

3. Read it as a writer who is suicidal, and desperate to be heard in a serious mannor. 

4. Read it as yourself too. Whatever that is. 

One poem of an Sexton that struck me as odd was her poem about Plath's death. Not the message itself, but the way she put it on the page. It was powerful for sure, but it also made me worry less about my own print. I loved the message in that poem, but I would be lying if I said that layout appeald to me. Again, the more I read, the more I focus on message. It would be like ignoring that fat beer bellly toothless guy who told you had a uneaven dark spot on your skin and you passed him off as crazy, then you go to the doctor and the dermitologist tells you have melinoma. Sexton was a genus for sure, but I simply did not like the format she made of that poem. It was a powerful read though. And no, I was not refering to Sexton's real life physical image. I was merely refering to that one poem in print and the format, only. 

And try this too, take any poem, famous or not, print it out in three different formats, remove or add punctuation capitals, whatever, then make one of them like this, backwards. Tell people you are going to read them all, each different layout of the same poem, but don't tell them which one is which. 

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                                                                                                                       you do you do see dont you

                                                                                                                         style my ,style my ,style My

                                                                                                                            style my style my style My

                                                                                                                          style my, style my, style my

                                                                                                                      ?it hear you do ,it here you Do

                                                                                                                          up this picked you if know I

                                                                                                                                                      you And

                                                                                                                                                        it Read

                                                                                                                                   thought you if know I

                                                                                                                                          "here Inflection"

                                                                                                                                       "there Intonation"

                                                                                                                           different sound wouldn't It

                                                                                                                                                   ?it Would 

                                                                                                                              is diversity what is That

                                                                                                                       orchid the between Choosing

                                                                                                                    ragweed the between Choosing

                                                                                                                   sunbeam the between Choosing 

                                                                                                                         midnight between Choosing

                                                                                                                           midday between Choosing 

                                                                                                                       December between Choosing 

                                                                                                                             spring between Choosing

                                                                                                                               dead be to choosing Or                                                                          

                                                                                                                                  live to life no Having

                                                                                                                          style my style my style My

                                                                                                           read simply just not ,spoken be to Is

                                                                                                                               (end)

This was all done by hand, no copy and paste or special software.  It is to demonstrate that when writing be yourself, when you force something it can sound michanical, and when you read something, your work or someoene else's, they cannot see the format, just like you cannot see a speech written down on a podium when you are in the audience just listening. The impact is in the voice, the message, and how it is read. Not just simply looking good on paper.

And again, this example can be done with any artist, famous or friend or unknown. It can be a serious subject or not. Just be you and if you do that, it will show. 

 There is one line that could be read backwards and forwards, "you do you do see dont you"

                                                                                          "you dont see do you do you"

The Do's And Don'ts Of Poetry, Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37)

Whoopi Goldberg answered this

When an actor asked her this

"Will I sit where you sit someday?"

She said what most dare not say

"You are all capable of being great actors

but most of you, if not all, will not"

Being in that spotlight, and poetry, ouch

It is the love you must have, for itself

It cannot be for most, an apex, a Poe

At least not for most. I will be thrilled

If you make it, I would envy you sure

But again, in the end, you must love it first

There are far more lost words, unknows

That I have gazed my eyes apon

Just as good, if not better, in some cases

Names you will never see on marquees 

Or in documentaries, or in movies

People who don't even read them

In coffee shops or open mic nights

Whom read them to their friends

And that is where it ends

It is a road I would not wish on anyone

If they have a thin skin, you must be brave

Insecure, and secure, and open up your wounds

And be naked, for all to see, your pock marked face

Your uneaven breasts, your failed love lives, your firstborn

Your infertility, being rejected, the ladies don't like you

Your poetry, your prose, your freeform, your slience

Your screaming, your meter, your cadence, if you do make it

You willl be in a a fishbowl, a CERN collider, making you feel

Smaller than the Higgs Boson particle. But if all you do

If all you get, is to read them to your frends 

Or at the coffee shop, don't worry, don't fret

The love of the love of the love, of the process

Is most important, don't ever forget

Just one more thing, be yourself, 

Your brain is your office, it can be neat, tidy

It can be messy, disjointed and crazy

I can be melodeous, mellow, dark, scary

It can be mysterious, delerious, dark, ominous

It can be a conversation, confessional, lyrical

It doesn't have to rhyme all the time,

It just has to be you. 

And most importantly to me at least 

Don't be a critic, unless you are asked

If you refrain from that, you won't be an ass.