Posts for June 24, 2017 (page 3)

Social Justice Warrior
To me means a college kid
In a balaclava
Pepper spraying a co-ed
While protected by campus police

But it may mean something different to you

Each word so rich in texture

Warrior – a person whose profession it is to kill

Justice – Official fairness
As officials change and change and change
What is fair
It was Just to gas a Jew in 1942
And Just to throw a gay off a tall building today
In some places

Social – means a lot of things
From ice cream to media
But combined with justice
Has always been another synonym
For socialism

Now Marx may have been the most smartest genius
Who ever thunk a thought
But his ideas have been tried and tried and tried
And succeeded exactly zero times
In Venezuela right now it’s working so well
The average guy’s lost 20 pounds

When I was young we were taught to say
Question Authority

But a Social Justice Warrior
By definition
Must have some authority 
They cannot question

They wouldn’t kill in the name of nothing
Would they?

he is nothingnow. with a
broken shadow between
his thighs, a swingin’ sorrow.

he is hollownow. he rattles in
the breeze, a subhuman calabash
spilling calamity on the shoulders

of the chaste… hate him. he is
haze. his Great Faith composed
of a flimsy fabric. he believes in

nothing but decaynow. himself. bacteriabody; a polluted penis,
an askewed skeet…

he is manless-minded. soulless. if
you see him, you should SHOUT! no;
if you see him, you must shoot to kill.

in the sleeve of night
you dream a story 
first ghost
in a mean sleep

in the lap of spring
remember the tender
green openings in their
gone-to-seed garden

A found poem among the titles of Karen George’s found poems.

Sorry.  I used to worship you; bare
my skin to your golden rays like
a supplicant.  I allowed you access
to the most intimate parts
of my anatomy.

You, in return, dispensed
vitamins A and D, burnished
my whiteness to a warm, amber glow.

I thought we were on the same page, thought
we had a flare for each other.

You tricked me.  You exposed me.

All those years of naked devotion,
senseless!  I never dreamed
your ultra-violet tongue could be
so cruel, turning my own flesh against me,
causing scaly dots on the surface
to spread tendrils of basal cell cancer below,
like vicious gossip.

You’ve burned me one too many times.
I’m blocking you.

Cough
pee
wheeze
pee
sneeze
pee
I
hate
colds
allergies
I
hate
wet
undies

Lost the path during time off. 
Recreation, recreate, do all over again. 
Vacation, vacate, empty your spot. 
Abdication, abdicate, drop your title. 
In other words: 
What you have is not good enough. 
You leave your nest behind you. 
Stop the car, you want out. 
And besides that, 
Bugs bite,
Sun burns,
Sand scratches, 
Icees melt,
Kin fight,
Food costs, 
Engine overheats,
Motels fill, 
Gas evaporates,
Sunscreen spills,
Towels mildew
Hallelujah!
                   The 
                       Garmin 
                               lady 
                                    still 
                                         knows 
                                                   the 
                                                       way 
                                                            home. 

Montego Bay  

She stares at me like a cat,
waiting to leap
into grass.

We were never parallel.

The initial attraction despite
our different modes of being
too strong for either one
of us to walk away from.

Our azimuths differed
by just a few degrees
that stayed the same on paper
as they widened with time.

The nest emptied out
and exposed a wide gulf
but not before its occupants
cemented a kind of
quantum entanglement
between  their parents.

Now we dance that arrhythmic
Quantum Entango you see people
doing as their parties wind down
maintaining what Einstein called
spooky action at a distance while
still living under one roof.

How to Ruin a Date, Part Deux

I thought to ask
why you didn’t

show up
but I didn’t–

even if you had,
even when I did,

our hearts
were feinting

behind other
walls.

The patrons signatures are
jockey silks as they swoosh by.
With IQs of rack wine and craft beer,
they cannot hear the little buttercreams
who lie on the counter ample as Germantown.
By george, they’ll dance a high rye around Louisville!
Their Saturday morning seize; a most elaborate social standard.