Monday, August 14, 2017

THE TRUE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN (in response to Kipling et al)


The true White Man's burden
Is now in the White House,
Bloating the Congress and Wall Street
And in the streets
With angry white faces
Demanding that their
Ill-got Privilege
Be pedestal-ed once again
So they may freely murder
Any Black man they encounter
From whence to spit on
Womanhood
To jail all types of Queers
To kick Hispanic, Asian, and Jew
To the curb right quick
To oust any and all Muslim
Hold down all that are not "us"
These hateful whites are the true
White Man's Burden
For I, a Privileged
White Man
Must oppose them
More than those they
Oppress
For these damnable whites
Are My White Man's Burden

"THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN" RE-GEARED


With a special fuck you to Rudyard Kipling

Strike up the White Man's burden--
Send forth the worst ye breed--
Go send your sons to die
To stifle your captives' need;
To weigh in heavy harness,
On fettered folk and child--
Your new-caught, oppressed peoples,
Half-free and half-wild.

Strike up the White Man's burden--
Impatience to abide,
To veil your threat of terror
And check their show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
An hundred times made plain
To seek our own profit,
And work another's pain.

Strike up the White Man's burden--
The savage wars of profit--
Full tilt the wrath of Famine
And bid the sickness cleanse;
And when your goal is nearest
The end for others sought,
Watch sloth and white Folly
Bring all their hopes to nought.

Strike up the White Man's burden--
The tawdry rule of kings,
To toil of serf and sweeper--
The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall control,
The roads ye shall outspread,
Go mark them with your living,
And mark them with their dead.

Strike up the White Man's burden--
And reap our own reward:
The blame of those ye fetter,
The hate of those ye guard--
The cry of hosts ye strangle
(Ah, slowly!) toward our right:--
"Why brought ye us your bondage,
From our loved night skies?"

Strike up the White Man's burden--
Ye dare not stoop to less--
Nor call too loud on Freedom
To cloke your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent, fettered peoples
Shall weigh your gods and you.

Strike up the White Man's burden--
Have done with childish peace--
The lightly proferred helmet,
The easy, grudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manlyness
Through all the thankless years
Cold, edged with dear-bought blood,
The judgment of your fears!

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Peg Marlowe, a.k.a. Aunt "Pet", my godmother and one of my heroes (11/2/12-28/3/99)

The clock has stopped but time moves on.
A life fulfilled and full of life has run its course.
The Sandman has come.
No more pain, no more tears, only the fullness of existence and memories
She leaves behind to comfort our nights when we feel our loss.


Published as part of her obituary in The Ojai Valley News, 19 April 1999.

Monday, November 28, 2016

untitled (in Ireland)


Oh, what to do, what to do,
Should I, could I
Move cross the sea,
Cross continent to that,
Would I be welcome,
Or shall I be shunned,
Told to go elsewhere,
Could I find home?

So at the Cliffs of Moher I started to hike along the dangerous path, taking it slow, but when I was hit one way then the opposite by strong gusts of wind, I decided better of it, and went back, writing a limerick of what could have happened:

There once was a man from Seattle,
Against the winds of Moher he did battle,
From a sudden strong gust
Over the edge was he thrust,
On the rocks below his bones did shatter.

Friday, January 29, 2016

untitled (2016)

Why do I still love her
After all this time
With even a love and loss
Since that brief time with
Her
Knowing full well that
Being together
Could never work
Even casually
Failed in the end
For she could never understand
Me
As she paid no mind
Or ear
Only wanting her needs
Attended to
And I did listen
And I do understand
Which is all the more
Reason
But my stupid Heart
Will not listen to that
So on I go
Anguishing over the
Impossible

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

untitled (from last month)

Oh, pretty girl on the bus
Why do I make such
A fatuous fuss
Over a girl I don't know
I'm just an old poet
Watching a pretty girl
But you could not know it
As I look like any dirty old man