Mightyafrowhitey• Show poetry

     There's a skinny dog in the

     Backyard barking
    

     Who hasn't been

     Fed in a year
     

     He's got

     Blood on his knees
     

     He's got

     Liver disease
    

     When he barks I just

     Give him a beer

Thus describes my life pretty aptly. 

     What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

     Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,   

     You cannot say, or guess, for you know only  

     A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,  

     And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,  

     And the dry stone no sound of water. Only  

     There is shadow under this red rock,   

     (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),  

     And I will show you something different from either  

     Your shadow at morning striding behind you  

     Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;  

     I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Three main things sustain my life in this odd, insanity-stricken world:  My beautiful son Brandon, drinking WAY too much then regretting it, and playing the guitar/singing in my band.  I don't have a band at the moment though.  Number two kind of blew number three all to shit.  Other than that, I read, play on my computer, listen to music (I'm a Beatles FREAK), write poetry, learn about history, watch videos of Michael Jackson dancing (do NOT snicker), Look at paintings (Picasso kicks ass), and watch old movies.  I guess you could say that art literally IS my life.  It would be nice to connect with the real world once in a while.  To talk to a real person.  But what IS real?  Is one more lonely when one is alone, or when one is surrounded by absolute foreigners?  No, I don't understand people much, and they don't much understand me.  Most people think I'm weird and that's OK.  I've been this way for 29 years.  I'm used to it by now.  But I can understand my weirdness better than I can understand all those so called "normal" people.  THEY'RE the freaks to me. 

     so much depends
     upon

     a red wheel
     barrow

     glazed with rain
     water

     beside the white

     chickens.

I love the concept of having friends but I don't like many people.  I do have a cat though.  I like my cat.  Her name is Bongo and she can meow for almost 10 seconds.  She won't stop doing that until you scratch her behind the ears.  She likes that...A LOT!!!

     To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
     Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
     To the last syllable of recorded time;
     And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
     The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
     Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
     That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
     And then is heard no more. It is a tale
     Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
     Signifying nothing.

I hate clothes and generally only wear them when I go outside.  I mean, we weren't born with clothes on so why the hell should I wear them if I'm just going to sit around the house by myself. 

     Whom did you call when you were a tiny

     boy, and were frightened, in the dark?

     Your mother? No. Me. We let you cry.

     Then we moved you out of earshot, so

     that we might sleep in peace ... you

     didn't really need to have me listen to

     you. I hope the day will come

     when you'll really need to have me

     listen to you, and need to hear my

     voice, any voice.

I used to play in bars so if you're a girl and I call you "babe" or "baby" or something like that, Don't take it the wrong way.  Just tell me to stop and I will. 

     The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
     Petals on a wet, black bough.

I tend to fall in love WAY to easily and always get my heart broken when they don't reciprocate the feeling.  It's my own fault though.  I hope this doesn't happen to you.   

     So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

I really miss being on up stage.  I'm so relaxed.  And people love me not for who I am but for what I can do.  Especially the ladies.  I'm like a god up there.  Down here on earth; nothing.  It's so fulfilling.  If that's not reality, then so be it.  I wish the show would never end.

     While the bombardment was knocking the trench to pieces at Fossalta, he

     lay very flat and sweated and prayed oh jesus christ get me out of here.

     Dear jesus please get me out. Christ please please please christ. If you'll

     only keep me from getting killed I'll do anything you say. I believe in you

     and I'll tell every one in the world that you are the only one that matters.

     Please please dear jesus. The shelling moved further up the line.

     We went to work on the trench and in the morning the sun came up and

     the day was hot and muggy and cheerful and quiet. The next night back

     at Mestre he did not tell the girl he went upstairs with at the Villa Rossa

     about Jesus. And he never told anybody.

By the way.  If you wanna see some really bad (meaning low quality) videos of my old band click on the link below.  I'm the guy with the Black Gibson Flying V.

     And all shall be well and
     All manner of thing shall be well
     When the tongues of flame are in-folded
     Into the crowned knot of fire
     And the fire and the rose are one.

Finally I wish to give special thanks to Tom Servo, T.S. Eliot, William Carlos Williams, William Shakespeare, Samuel Beckett, Ezra Pound, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway respectively. 

     Weialala leia

     Wallala leialala