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Three Types of Men
Those civilized types recognized
by dependence upon the intellect, yet not
usually what we would conventionally refer to
as intellectual, they have a decent chance at success,
you see they usually fall right in line, they get it, early on.
They are able to co-exist without ever showing resentment.
Unlike those more brutish types,
men of passion abiding in primal disposition.
Emotional and physical, they are led by anger,
love, remorse, and various fleeting fancies.
Their pride, in not ever really falling into line.
Yet, they also have a shot at making it.
The world, after all, needs them.
Without these men who would fix
the things that need to be fixed
or build the idols of the realm?
Certainly not those civilized men, they are soft.
Its the suffering artist types, Bohemian clichés,
proverbial square pegs, that have the least chance at bliss.
Beings of the mind with the creative bent often walk a mundane line,
finding themselves to soft to exist in the slovenly world,
yet possessing sometimes, a primal passion.
Displaying the cerebral office cred expected of
the more civilized men they are often able to function among them,
yet the passion bubbling just below the surface
like molten, seething, seeping, steaming,
makes these breakroom Shamans unpredictable,
hard to mold, therefore their chances for success
appear the least of all.
That is unless they are identified at an early age,
and instructed in self-reliance and confident independence.
In these cases, it can be brought about by sheer force of will alone.
But this, as one might expect is rare, very rare.
Meeting Notes Puerile corpo-fascist drivel,
flowing unfettered into my life like
ugly-bad pisswater.
I find I
slowly die,
in the head then
my heart shrivels like
sweaty balls already removed,
metaphorically.
Why must I
endure these suffocating situations
sitting repeatedly, ass cheeks clinched,
tongue bitten down on hard, suppressing
a scream?
I am neither poet
chasing immortality
nor lover of sweet Sophie
engaged with mythic journey
becoming something more. My
life as father, less than nothing
in this room.
In a callous sub-culture
devoid of spiritual sustenance,
a corporate culture, I am a very
small sad piece of dog shit, sitting
solitary, in a room, surrounded by the
dead and dying growing always smaller,
passing time.
Illuminated
It
was in the shadow of a new millennium
when he had figured a few things out.
About a shadow government.
About a ruling elite.
About deception.
He was sitting in a small square cube,
1 picture of the family, smiling
He was answering the phone for the type,
the type who were the problem,
and he was a part of the problem,
strapped in front of the CRT
where he could always be seen and heard, if need be.
You see, out in the vast virtual wasteland
beyond the teen pornography
and penis growth pills
and get rich quick pyramids
and man seeking woman seeking man,
there were faint rumblings, dissatisfactions
and there were books, and more books
and it all kind of, came together.
Egyptian eyes on dollar bills. Exploding buildings.
Journalist buzzing with buzzwords.
Politicians promoting paradigms.
Agendas behind agendas behind agendas.
globalization, militarization, privatization
Free Masons, Free Trade, Free Radicals
New Word Order, World Banks, World Trade Organization
Council on Foreign Affairs, multinational corporations
CIA, FBI, DEA, ATF,
Sub cultures saturated with illegal drugs
2 parents making the living that one used to.
It was then, among all of the labels
the generation Xs and Ys and baby boomers
among the junkies and homosexuals and blacks
that shared his fate
Among the cancerous gene-spliced hormone food
Among the prosaic and paxil and Valium
Among steadily shrinking expectations
not just his but everybodys.
It was then that it got less fuzzy for a moment.
He saw himself as if he were watching himself on television
as we have all inevitably started to do
but he had become conscious of absurdity,
it was one of those Twilight Zone moments
at the end, where the camera pans back, or way up
and the sympathetic character has this realization
this epiphany,
where he realizes what we already suspected
that he is fucked, totally fucked.
So he just sits there,
unable or possibly unsure about
actually doing something different
or if there is even anything different left.
So he just sits there
with wires hooked to his head
repeating the same words over and over
grubbing for his meager imaginary money
making just enough to keep the house going
while sinking into debt, living
the American dream, or at least what they say it should be.
Pretending that being an artist makes him different.
And only the end days lie waiting,
his and everybody elses.
The Women
It's the women And they are always talking. Many are mothers,
or mother-in-laws. Most are divorced. Most have been through a man or two since the divorce, but all the men were bad. They
were bums, they didnt work hard enough, they were stoned, they were all somehow abusive, either physically, emotionally, or
verbally, These ladies usually agree when in groups that its really hard to find a decent man. (only sometimes excusing any
man in earshot). They always have issues with their men, those that still have them (usually younger), and they always MUST
discuss it. They are always dispensing advice. They have a great deal of admiration for one another, especially for the older
ones who have disposed of their men. They refer to them as strong, or independent. When the topic comes around to any woman
that is considering leaving her man, they almost always agree that she should, that it is justified because he has let her
down, because she CAN do better. There is always a justification, something that sounds logical, and it always seems pretty
clear cut. They say that she, whoever she is at the moment, shouldnt waste her life with a man that doesnt completely satisfy
her, as if it were somehow possible to completely satisfy a woman. She either will find someone to treat her right (in theory)
or she has gained enough experience, or money, that she no longer needs a man, holding her back, keeping her from attaining
complete happiness. There doesnt seem to be any doubt here, even the children will be better off, out of that bad situation
(its always a bad situation). This is the modern woman, this is the bi-product of a word gone sour, with cynicism in every
nook and cranny. Where the old priorities are gone, and making ones self happy seems to be the new religion. We are after
all put on this earth with the express purpose of being completely satisfied, or making someone else completely satisfied,
depending on your birth. And love? Well that has bee reduced to a formula. LOVE=needs met X (LISTENS TO YOUR NEEDS) squared.
Yes, this new woman is your woman. Your mother, your wife, your aunts, the lady at the grocery store, your boss. They are
all of the woman that you meet. your women that is, not mine, I delight in Shangra-la, I bathe daily in the fragrant rushing
waters of the majestic river Nile
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