should be happy, should be joyful, but the Prozac has worn off because the self-medication has been spotty as of late,
like a clot breaking on the underwear where the pad should be,
the bottom wants to drop out, the incompetence wants to win,
and the darkness wants to murder his being, turning him into a toxic soup that would evacuate the three corners area that James McMurtry made famous with immortal chords,
a lead weight might as well be there like the oil stench that currently befouls the Williston Basin in more ways than one,
but this isn't some bitchy little princess poem about cutting wrists and cutting hair into pageboy bobs, yet it might as well be,
there is a worry there that won't die, there is a pain there that won't subside, there is a nub there where a sharp point should be,
and all of the befouled socks and pieces of paper towel still don't rewire the brain back into some semblance of normalcy,
but this is reality after all, nobody's brain is truly wired correctly,
we have the propensity to murder others and parse it out into believing that is can't happen here and would never happen here,
maybe the Bible was right after all, we are as inbred and as backwards as a French monastery town, or a southern shithole also known as Deliverance for the less-than enlightened folks out there in the audience,
this is rage work at its less-than-finest, typed in minutes, fed to metastasis by Burton Cummings's rage-like vocals against Rain Dance and Albert Flasher and No Time types,
this is best worst work he could do on such short notice.
This rage work is some of your best...damn right, rage against the darkness, fight back, use every imaginable tool at your disposable.....it's the only way to win.
This rage work is some of your best...damn right, rage against the darkness, fight back, use every imaginable tool at your disposable.....it's the only way to win.
pretend it's all scribbled on an etch-a-sketch and just shake it up... running across lava rock, stirring brew with an oar, it get's more unbelievable everyday, doesn't it?
.... oh, and reality? let's not go there....
Damn Ken! Edgy as a scalpel, but a darn sight sharper. This is a spoken word piece, the speaker right in my face. (wipes away spit) The cadence builds, and the punch ending leaves me writhing.
Outstanding poetry.
And, I love James McMurtry.
Rage is - "Its my RIGHT to do as I pease WHEN I please and YOUR right to get out of my FREAKIN' way!" - 24 hrs a day. And its becoming more and more common as each bends to their own life's pressures and the surface of social mores continues to fracture and shatter as our sense of OUR importance and other's being somehow lesser in our minds grows and grows. Anger has no conscience or reason... just the echoes afterwards behind our eyes as we deny we actually thought or even did THAT.
. i find the subject of rage very fascinating ... and yours is a fascinating journey into its darkest corners ...
. in the real world, people accept the expression of rage in muted formats ... in the virtual world, there's far greater freedom of expression (on most days) ... you deploy your freedom well even "on such short notice" ...
Kenneth The Poet is an optimist wrapped in the candy shell of moroseness and cynicism. He lives between the two parallels marked 46 and 49, all while living in the state marked 39. He pretends that he.. more..