Bad Poet• Show poetry

A Visit From St. Sigmund,

T'was the night before Christmas, when all through each kid,

Not an Ego was stirring, not even an Id.

The hangups were hung by the chimney with care

In hopes that St. Sigmund Freud soon would be there.

The children in scream class had knocked off their screams,

Letting Jungian archetypes dance through their dreams,

And Mamma with her bra off and I on her lap

Had just snuggled down when a vast thunderclap

Boomed up from my unconcious arose such a clatter

As Baptist John's teeth made on Salome's platter.

Away from my darling I flew like a flash,

Tore straight to the bathroom and threw up, and -- smash!

Through the windowpane hurtled and bounced on the floor

A big brick -- holy smoke, it was hard to ignore.

As I heard further thunderclaps --lo and behold--

Came a little psychiatrist eighty years old.

He drove a wheeled couch pulled by five fat psychoses

And the gleam in his eye might induce a hypnosis.

Like subliminal meanings his coursers they came

And, consulting his notebook, he called them by name:

"Now Schizo, now Fetish, now Fear of Castration!

On Paranoia! on Penis-fixation!

Ach, yes, that big brick through your glass I should mention:

Just a simple device to compel your attention.

You need, boy, to be in an analyst's power:

You talk, I take notes -- fifty schillings an hour."

A bag full of symbols he'd slung on his back;

He looked smug as a junk-peddler laden with smack

Or a shrewd politician soliciting votes

And his chinbeard was stiff as a starched billygoat's.

Then laying one finger aside of his nose,

He chortled, "What means this? Mein Gott, I suppose

There's a meaning in fingers, in candles, und wicks,

In mouseholes und doughnut holes, steeples und sticks.

You see, it's the imminent prospect of sex

That makes all us humans run 'round till we're wrecks,

Und each innocent infant since people began

Wants to bed with his momma und kill his old man;

So never you fear that you're sick as a swine --

Your hangups are every sane person's und mine.

Even Hamlet was hot for his mom -- there's the rub;

Even Oedipus Clubfoot was one of the club.

Hmmm, that's humor unconcious." He gave me rib pokes

And for almost two hours explained phallic jokes.

Then he sprang to his couch, to his crew gave a nod,

And away they all flew like the concept of God.

In the worst of my dreams I can hear him shout still,

"Merry Christmas to all! In the mail comes my bill."

-X.J. Kennedy

I was introduced, officially, to different forms of verse in my freshman year of high school. I wrote one poem that wasn't assigned to me that year. One. The rest were formatted crap that was forced. I was mainly prose, and focused on chaotic, scattered plots, undeveloped lines, and humor. I like humor. You‘ll see that most things I find funny, really aren‘t though. But that‘s what’s so funny about them. I mainly wrote because I was supposed to. My creative writing teacher was a dyslexic Jamaican woman who'd been hit on the head as child. Needless to say, she was crazy. Due to her short term memory, she gave long term assignments. A portfolio per quarter. I learned what it is to be a real writer, and have deadlines. The atmosphere was free, and we sat in round tables. More often than not, we didn't focus on our writing, but conducted that at home, and discussed topics such as religion, politics, and various other things during class. Unfortunately, a little bit before the third quarter, my teacher was noticed as crazy finally and was removed from her position. With her passion for teaching though, I’d like to fully believe she’s teaching backwards iambic pentameter to her fellow mates in wherever she.

My Sophomore year, I took the class again. It was structured, with daily work. I had to actually work, but I found my ideas were strained. I can with confidence say that my poetry from that class was horrible. The poetry book at the end of the last quarter was thrown together in haste from pieces saved from the previous year. God Bless Magic Markers and Glue Sticks. Glitter helped make it look like I actually took the time it takes for the glitter glue to dry. I wrote… nothing of value that year. If I'm right, and I'm usually not, I didn't write any original poetry.

This was also the year I resurrected Literary Magazine. It was small, and had died over the past few years. It was the lesser known of all the publications, the student government pamphlets being more known that Lit. Mag. It even had a name that was illegally changed. I wasn't the editor, I wasn't even a coeditor. But I stuck by it, stayed with another boy till late at night, we wrestled down the demons that are IMacs and we put out a magazine we lovingly call our baby. I'm proud to say that after that year, my dedication was recognized and I was given the position of Editor-In-Chief, which I retained for the remainder of my high school career. If the my path hadn’t turned drastically and plummeted off a cliff during college, I might have completed starting at literary magazine at UCF as well. (And then I went to FAU, and then BCC...who knows what's next...)

The two following years of high school I worked closely with the sponsor who I had frequently butted heads with my sophomore year. Not only was I her Editor-In-Chief, I became the exploratory teacher for her class, and unlike most intern teachers, actually taught the class frequently, and diligently. I never tried to force poetry, only provided the means in which one could improve it. I also was exposed to the world of curriculum teaching, as an English III Honors instructor.

It’s been some time now since my High School career has passed. Life has taken a turn unexpectedly. I’m attempting to start a new life for myself, and it’s quite the adventure, laborus no doubt, but exciting. I can finally joke that I am a true artist. I don’t write nearly as much as I used to, but it’s at my core. I've worked as a freelance photographer,as well as a coast-to-coast children's portrait studio. I had the privliege of being the resident photographer and manager of South Florida independant band Osiris Rising (www.Osirisrising.tk and www.myspace.com/osirisrising )until their guitarist's untimely death which lead to the end of that project. (The lead singer did continue music, and is a personal friend of mine. Currently he writes his own music, playing with an acoustic guitar and jamming with anyone who will play along. He keeps a myspace page with music up, and if you'd care to check it out, it is entirely different from the bands music. It's acoustic rock, varying in style.. It can be found here... www.myspace.com/boredominbodybags1 and I'm sure he'd appreciate the time you take you'd take to check it out, friend him, leave a comment...so on so forth.)

Years into school, I still have no idea what I want to do and reside to the major of "Liberal arts." Yeah. That sums me up.

I’ve had very little time to actually sit and compose some actual masterful pieces. Recently, my poetry has come in the form of ‘journal’ entries to help me collect the thoughts of the day. I find that I am not just a poet, but an artist as well, and in having so many forms of expression open to me, don’t necessarily need to compose literature to emphasize my emotions-- it can come in any form to me. I will attempt to update as much as I can, but understand that is a flimsy promise.

And now for a brief interlude...

A Sonnet, composed by Jonathan ROBIN, for me,

A search for space, autonomy, provides

Life's theme, life's dream while an observant mind

Intense finds focus seeking far behind

Appearance superficiel most guides.

Linked energy so rarely coincides

In fact with multitasking, yet we find

Alone within the crowd her weave will wind

Left, right, dark, night, and then, coherent, bind

Ideas into a skein which coincides

Always with and overview which rides

Like Pegasus above most of mankind

Intent on causal chain, much more besides.

Although projected image seems to show

Image vagabond, control's not slow ...

On a final note, my poetry is not what it used to be, I must say. If you’d like an adequate feel for my style, stick out your tongue and try to touch your nose. If you can’t do it, yes, my poetry can be that frustrating and just as pointless. If you can do it, turn around and look in a mirror. Yes you look that stupid. So does my poetry sometimes.

ALL POETRY STANCE ON ROLE PLAY (10/08)

here's the sites offical stance on RP:

Question: Is Role Playing allowed in the CB?

Answer: At this time there is no policy against role playing in the chatterbox. However, if the role playing breaks ANY of the above rules OR there are excessive complaints regarding its disrupting other chatters, you will be asked to remove it from the cb immediately.

What does this mean to those that role play? Basically it means that your role playing must be kept suitable for a 5 year old. No killing, bloody gashes, swirling daggers/talk of weapons, biting, kicking, fighting, sex, arguing etc. It really is best to do your role playing in a group chat room or via personal IM.

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