November 26, 2010
Aunts and uncles, nieces and cousins
Come together for the annual feast,
But this time it’s a little different
When words are spoken least.
“Pass the potatoes, pass the gravy!”
Are no longer said out loud,
But happy fingers type commands,
Making digital markets proud.
Nine family members around the table
Are all quietly busy typing,
We won’t hear shrill arguments
Like granny always griping.
We’ll text for turkey and text for stuffing
And then text for pumpkin pie,
We’ll text between the forks and spoons
Between butter and carving knives.
Talk and chew is really rude;
Let Smart Phones eat our words,
“Welcome to Textgiving!” you type
Where words are never heard.
November 1, 2010
Once upon an election dreary,
I sat recluse, but ever leery
Of town hall rallies of Angle, Paul, and more;
I heard the teapots whistle
Like thorn bushes in the thistle
Could this be their epistle? I did implore.
FOX TV showed Glenn Beck
Like Lonesome Rhodes with red-neck,
Who failed to inform, but only infect,
The Teabag toads with fear-like spores.
Why do they always grab their guns?
Howl at the moon and call it the sun?
Loading bullets for this election?
What on earth do they have in store?
The FOX hot air began to fill
The balloonatics and corporate shills
Is this really how brain cells are killed
By Bill and Glenn and FOX Noise whores?
“We’re not interested in the facts!
We just want to ax the tax
For billionaires with deeper tracks!
So everyone sinks in quick sand tours!”
Bachmann, Palin are in overdrive
Their corporate monkeys fly the skies,
To scare us with their wicked lies
Like “Social Security’s deathbed door!”
But why not raise the cap
To tax the rich and ax the gap
Let’s get on the fiscal map
So budget deficits cannot soar!
And let’s protect our Medicare
From private insurers who want to scare
That entitlements no longer bare
The fiscal weight as health care soars.
So tax the rich! That is the answer,
So parasites of corporate cancer
Can no longer be the legal dancers
For billions of dollars accounts offshore.
Let’s beat these Ravers EVERMORE!
October 26, 2010
Nervous on Airplanes
(Reflections of Juan Williams’ comments about Muslims on airplanes)
Whenever I get on airplanes,
I always look around,
Who are passengers that fly by air
And don’t travel on the ground?
Old ladies, kids, white and black
No reason to be alarmed,
But when I look in first class,
I get nervous of future harm.
I see white men in Armani suits
Toasting their champagne,
They just moved their companies
To foreign nations with no shame.
Saipan, Guam, and India
Receive America’s labor,
Jobs that once were in U.S
Are now with foreign neighbors.
The white men in Gucci shoes
Are now laughing in first class,
I’m afraid we may go down;
Livable wages will not last.
May 28, 2010
B.P.
My Blood Pressure reaches the Boiling Point
Before Panic sinks in,
Billions of Petroleum dollars and gallons
Billow Pollution to no end.
Black Puffs cloud the Gulf and our minds
Beyond Putrid recognition,
Bigger Profits for bottom lines
Betray Public’s true suspicion.
Bastard Parasites suck the Earth
With Business Partners on Wall Street,
The Bleeding Planet cannot stop;
Brash Politicians pander greed.
Over the hills Beyond Prosecution
We’re Beneath Petrol’s contempt,
Busy Polluters Buy Politicians
Before Prurient payment’s spent.
May 9, 2010
This Mother’s Day
I sent a bouquet
To the biggest mother of them all.
In West Palm Beach,
His radio speech
Goes out for Right-wing calls.
He’s not a she
As you may believe,
But still a mother by unusual ways.
He doesn’t wear a dress
At least in public I guess,
But attacks liberals and gays.
This dumb mother,
Unlike any other,
Takes medication to keep him insane,
And for all his power,
I will send dead flowers
Since evil lurks inside his bad brain.
So as he lies and shouts,
This dumb mother doubts
That his anger keeps him so castrated.
At the sound of the flush,
We hear that Rush,
Is just a “mother” that’s half hyphenated.
May 9, 2010
RentBoy Dot Com
(As heard from George “Family Research Council” Rekers)
George Rekers
Picked a pecker
From RentBoy dot com.
Mister “church”
Felt the urge
To grease the 23rd Psalm.
“My back is bad,
My baggage lags”
Was Reker’s unholy plea;
“The boy is here,
But I’m not queer,
I have a Christian ministry.”
“My only plan
To lend a hand,
And help the boy with the Lord,
For twenty k
I’ll find a way
To stow his eight inch sword.”
“But now I ask,
You do not cast,
The last stone at little ole me,
My escapades
Don’t mean I’m gay
I’m just a fan of hypocrisy.”
May 1, 2010
since Read Write Poem is now history, Babbling on in Babylon has taken a journey to Writer’s Island to join a group of poetic castaways.
The first official new prompt is: MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE… pretend you found a bottle washed up on the beach here at Writer’s Island. Tell us in your words (poem, prose, flash fiction) about this message.
The Message is the Bottle
What was once transparent,
Now floats in a sea of crude,
The Earth Hemorrhages and cannot stop
From greed of man’s attitude.
The fish, the shrimp, dolphins and whales
Are casualties of the bottom line.
The bottle conceals dirty deals
For capital all by design.
How many bottles make up a gallon?
How many gallons does a barrel make?
It starts with making commodities
So profits roll in with the wake.
The message is the bottle,
As the bottle-nose dolphin dies,
Drill baby drill is momentarily lost
As the Earth bleeds and cries.
The Loyalty Oath and the Oil to Loathe
In the mirror of juxtapositions,
We see the face of the energy war.
It’s not the reflections of Osama bin Laden,
But Exxon and Mobile and more.
It’s the face of British Petroleum,
And Shell and Chevron that we see.
It’s the coalition of the filling stations
That exploits the Earth for greed.
It’s the Loyalty oath for the Big five,
As the president spouts “clean coal”?
A public servant for corporate order,
Who will cleanse the sins from our soul?
Poison pumps push the needles
In the oil fields off our coasts,
If you listen you can hear dead silence,
As marine life turn to ghosts.
The Big five plunder their poison pumps
For their economic loyalty oath,
But the mirror shows a sick planet,
From the lies and oil to loath.
April 30, 2010
I had diarrhea of the brain a couple of years ago and kept building this monstrosity. It’s like when Gene Wilder exclaims in Young Frankenstein: “It’s Alive!!!” The poem kept growing and building. I think the movie version of this poem is probably shorter. If you dare read the entirety of this poem, you are a much braver soul then most. Thanks to all of my new friends who made NaPoWriMo a very enjoyable experience! Best wishes to all of you and perhaps we’ll meet again as we write off into the digital sunset along creative digital streams. Until then, I give you…
What is Fun?
It’s the first three letters in “funeral”.
And the second three letters in “dysfunctional”.
It’s promo-sapiens in the wild
And the adverts marketing style.
It’s bungee jumping from an airplane.
And then trampolining on cellophane.
It’s agoraphobics at conventions.
And inflated egos in suspension.
It’s auctioneers with narcolepsy
And bidders with itchy gavels.
It’s an epidemic of trash TV
And how fast ignorance travels.
It’s waxing poetics
And watching the wax melt,
It’s holding up religion
With a loose Bible belt.
It’s Miss Appropriate and Miss Demeanor:
Twin sisters laundering at Mr. Cleaners.
It’s Xena battling xenophobics,
And sociopaths on psychotropics.
It’s calling my spirit guide without a busy signal,
And entrails of sit-coms with writer’s drivel.
It’s the Headless Horseman and the Mad Hatter.
It’s blue skies and grey matter.
It’s Auntie Em’ meets anti-matter.
It’s putting lampshades on luminaries.
While digging up old dignitaries.
It’s a three-piece suit and Rolex watch.
It’s Armani in a Ferrari shifting up a notch.
It’s a sentence hearing by James Joyce.
It’s a Pinto engine in a Rolls Royce.
It’s painting scenarios with sketchy memories,
And drawing conclusions about the Dead Kennedys.
It’s ordering double entendres three or four times,
And walking in circles and standing in lines.
It’s truth going out and rumors innuendo,
And erogenous zones creeping crescendos.
It’s a tele-marketing tele-kinetics,
Tele-evangelists and tele-pathetic.
It’s Santa Claus when he’s feeling bi-polar,
And a sadistic tooth fairy extracting a molar.
It’s a metaphysical stroll down memory lane.
And Waiting for Godot again and again.
It’s a Fuzzy Navel and Sex on the Beach,
And a White Russian slurring his inebriated speech.
It’s Silicon Valley and Silicon Mountains.
It’s Silly Puddy and youthful fountains.
It’s William Wordsworth running out of himself.
It’s Longfellow reaching for a very high shelf.
It’s shooting blanks after sweating bullets.
It’s a mortician cutting some very scary mullets.
It’s a mortarboard and mortar shells.
It’s buying a round for the sinners in hell.
It’s e-pistol-more-logical for the NRA.
It’s shooting off your mouth with nothing to say.
It’s a stream of consciousness leading to rivers.
It’s an ocean of notions that peptides deliver.
It’s an extended visa to the Imagi-nation,
And a black market for green cards and creative inflation.
It’s obsessive compulsive on how words are used.
It’s the English language stretched and abused.
It’s silly syllogisms and water logarhythms.
It’s opening doors with metaphors
And making iffy decisions.
It’s the gymnastics in linguistics.
It’s the logistics of pragmatics.
It’s similes gone spastic.
It’s a dangling modifiers and hanging participles.
It’s the fallacy of an analogy that only cripples.
It’s the Dialectics of Surrealism,
And the Dianetics of Hubbardism.
It’s Toulouse Lautrec when he’s all wound up,
And Jackson Pollock spilling his guts.
It’s real sarcasm
Meets a fake orgasm.
It’s a dominatrix with fuzzy handcuffs.
It’s the S&M&M guys who can’t get enough.
It’s the Keebler Elves doping their cookies.
It’s the Unlucky Charm owing his bookie.
It’s Kafka running from the Orkin Man.
It’s Porky Pig serving an Easter ham.
It’s Daffy Duck in a speech class,
And Elmer Fudd kicking some ass.
It’s Kap’n Krunch getting milked by his lawyers,
And the Turning Trix Rabbit looking for voyeurs.
It’s Colonel Sanders getting court marshaled.
And General Dynamics out for the hustle.
It’s Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines,
Double dating divas snorting up lines.
It’s fear today for the Pentagon tomorrow.
It’s a laugh track backwards
That only brings sorrow.
It’s extending Happy Hour
To Happy Hour and a Half.
It’s sidesplitting stocks
And he who laughs last.
It’s Twelve Angry Mennonites convicting Lars of Arson.
It’s trans-Atlantic transvestites who appeared with Johnny Carson.
It’s transcendental transportation.
It’s hieroglyphics and higher education.
It’s alliteration taken literally.
It’s figuring out “figuratively.
It’s hooked on sound bites,
And hooked on phonics.
It’s reeling in phrases,
And learning Ebonics.
It’s the right side of the brain laughing at the left.
It’s the troubling song’s trembling treble clef.
It’s speaking in tongues with Pro-Life Savers.
It’s being Born Again with Biblical flavors.
It’s Bible Biscuits with fortunes inside.
It’s Apocalypse Now and the Survivalist’s Guide.
It’s antiperspirant for the anti-Christ.
It’s aftershave in the afterlife.
It’s taking my inner child out for a walk.
It’s teaching inner grandchildren just how to talk.
It’s therapy for the humor impaired.
It’s comedically challenged for those who split hairs.
It’s anal retention for the sarcastically disabled.
It’s sleep walking through the American fable.
It’s a Wonderful Knife before Mr. Smith Gets Life.
It’s A Confederacy of Dunces and a Bewildered Nation of Idiots.
It’s audiophiles in deaf denial and the twelve steps for vidiots.
It’s dropping me a line so we can pick up the fun.
It’s the whole world laughing when the human race has run.
April 29, 2010
With the news of 5,000 barrels of uncontrollable crude oil leaking into the gulf of Mexico and infecting marine life for the capitalist bottom line, I thought it would be appropriate to discuss alternative energy sources to power our lifestyles. Here is a poem that discusses these ideas…
A New Energy Source
It’s not the carbon emitting fuels
Of dirty coal and greasy oil,
Nor the radioactive waves of grain
From nuclear waste gargoyles.
It’s not the clean emitting fuel
Of sun based solar cells,
Nor hydrogen and water vapor
As how a rainforest smells.
It’s not aunt Ethel’s ethanol farm
Where she grows sugar cane and beets.
Nor Mary Jane’s herbal garden
With her secret recipe treats.
It’s not the electromagnetic power
Or gyrating centrifugal force.
It’s not the carrot on a fishing line
That leads the hungry horse.
It’s not the static electricity
That’s found through disheveled hair,
It’s not the nylon Sheer Energy
That gay Republicans like to wear.
It’s not the energy in geothermal
Or undulating tidal waves.
It’s just our founding fathers
Spinning in their graves.
April 28, 2010
Intuition and Déjà vu
Tie the knot “again,”
They look into their braided lives,
As the laws of physics bend.
“I know I’ve met you here before,”
Said the pondering Déjà vu.
“I’m sure we’ve met in this same place
Like enigmas wrapped in clues.”
Intuition said:
“We will meet once again
in a strange Tautology class,
We will be Waiting for Godot,
As precious moments pass.
“We will conceive Coincidence,
And then Fluke and Lucky Shot,
Serendipity will bless our kids,
All in the same right spot.”
Déjà vu remarked as usual
“I’m sure you’ve said that before.”
“I knew you’d say that once again”
On this mystery tour.”
“It’s like we’re trapped in a temporal loop?
In a merry-go-round and again?”
Intuition said:
“We’ll become poets with A.D.D
But first we’ll start as friends.”
