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My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

tough guy poetry and manly stories of loneliness
all contents copyright Jon Rolston 2004, 2005, 2006

October 18, 2006

Can Someone Send Me An Editor Please???

Incest is the most intimate love you’ll know, but it leaves a retard in the community.
So wile we have fun fucking our brothers and sisters, consider the people on the other side of the bedroom wall, with their lights still on while they sit up doing taxes. Practice responsible journalism, but you’re a poet. Responsible poetry – drunk drivers against point oh eight, it doesn’t exist but when the blues flash we wish it did. !!!!WE NEED A VOICE!!!!!!!! WW’¬ĚRE A $%$#*&$ COMMUNITY!!!!!!!WE’RE HERE!!!!!!!!!VINTAGE!!!W0W;}!!!!!!!L88K!!!!!

Poetry has been struck by a very large vehicle, bounced up under the tranny and is cascading styles across pavement, they will be making an id from a drivers licenxe found in the leather wallet a half mile back when it first went under. There is nothing to identify but the clear prose of our government forms.

Poetry is an abused senior sitting in shit, no one comes to visit and who gets paid right to keep it living? I do {not} have to be {un} clear about an order of operations. You lay down with whoever’s close and you wake up related. Don’t forget the walkabout, don’t forget to roam around. Would you share a glass of water with an HIV + stranger> (a typo, but it looked good)

We need breathing room, time to think. People are dying and we want to last.

Be careful. People you think are crazy have a powerful message. Everyone is busy believing no one really knows anything.

Someone will come to you offering you a new experience. See here, this card, it shows a river. You can’t step in it twice, but it is always there. Danger awaits, but if you make a court appointed recovery program work for you, you will see the danger and know how to address it:

To whom it may concern.

I saw your ad on craigslist and believe I have all and more of the qualifications you seek in a potential employee.

Handle cash deposits and train new employees. Soon we will all talk about the same things. This is community. I have learned how to talk to the people who I work with in such a way that no one can prosecute me for sex crimes.

I can write a few lines of HTML. I like to think about computers. I like to think about My Computer Writes Poetry. A simple algorithm with high hat and snare. There’s so much concern with one-of-a-kinds these days, because that’s the only thing no one expects from a computer.

(a.k.a. )

My Dear Aunt Sally
Every
Acid
Dealer
Gets
Busted
Eventually

Why don’t computers remember by learning phrases? Wouldn’t that be more interesting? I’m not impressed with something that can think more clearly than me if it only has to remember 1, 0, 1, 0, 0.
But that’s my community. Human. Kingdom phylum, Genus, species, etc. etc. My learning bridge failed. Google it.

Lead follow or get out of the way. So poets got out of the way. Some time around 2001.
Stepped back, couldn’t afford bar tabs at slams. Poetry isn’t a job. Immigrants aren’t poets. Educated Asians aren’t applying to this program. English as a second language, then law school. Refugees from paper tigers come here and boil donuts or assemble motherboards.

Here’s a list to get mad about:
Indians run motels and convenience stores
Cambodians run donut shops
Sikhs drive cabs
Vietnamese file nails
Africans, Africans, so many different Africans

Ethiopians, Eritreans, I’m color blind,

Don’t know blacks from here or from there. black. What a color. Encompassing. So we figure they’ll eat us alive.

“Africans despise me because they were never slaves.” Never easy being owned.
“You’re better off fucking your brother because he’s the only one who knows you”

What country finds it’s citizens floating here on lottery scratch tickets and used nikes to be given a chance to write poetry?

That’s what hip hop is for, and we’re busy in college trying not to rhyme.

2 Comments

  1. are you drunk? but i *really* love this: Be careful. People you think are crazy have a powerful message. Everyone is busy believing no one really knows anything.

    Comment by rosie — October 19, 2006 @ 10:29 am

  2. This poem was written with the aid of alcohol, fersure.

    Could you smell it?

    Comment by jon — October 21, 2006 @ 10:26 pm

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