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Month: March 2017

The Last Executive Order

for Colin Theriot

As you all know, so-called poetry
or this foolish unproductive activity
that goes by the same name has long been
a singular scourge of our great land.
It’s only practiced by the very weak
often sitting in a room all alone and
involves outdated, useless material
like books, which people no longer read.

No more. My action today bans poetry
from these United States. Let the poets
find another land where they can pursue
socialism and continue to earn low wages
while often criticizing the very successful.
With my signature today I hereby declare
this great country finally free of the
pestilent presence of poetry.

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Poet’s Notes:

No draft image for this available at the moment; it may be uploaded later.

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On Dorchester Road*

The snow has caked my car in.
From my window, a plump
overstuffed donut with
clumps of icing ringing it.

Soon enough, I may curse the
snow and God and everyone
who dares to stop to hear me swear
but for now I wait, stuff my face.

 

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Poet’s Notes:

  • I don’t care what anyone says — I really like this poem (I hear self-praise is “in”).
    And it’s all the sweeter (pun intended) because I just wrote it this morning
    and I haven’t written in about 10 days. An eternity for me.

The draft image of the poem is below. Notice the date (today’s!).

If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

 

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Ernest’s Poem

Sometimes you don’t write but read
and talk especially with friends
but occasionally with others
to see the sharpness of speech
flung at high speed to hit hard
the fatty wattled throats of the
overly stuffed and effete.

The morning after you arise
feeling a strange hangover
look in the mirror and touch
your now tender throat then
clear the day to write to better
become the mensch you are.

 

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Poet’s Notes:

No draft image for this available at the moment; it may be uploaded later.

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The Church*

 
She is hideous at times and
it’s not merely opinion; her
history tells of red hats sold
families sired in secret and
brave souls condemned to delight
adoring masses because they
did not believe as she believed.

Il Duce plied her open for his sick
pleasure as have too many priests
who swore exactly the opposite.
Despite the predations of men
over ten thousand generations,
I love her still. And I’ll be damned
if I can ever explain it.

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Poet’s Notes:

* The unflattering statements are well documented by numerous reliable sources. (Not “Fake News”.) Apologies to those offended. My purpose is not to offend but to speak candidly in a creative fashion. Feel free to click “Reply” and send me your feedback.

No draft image for this available at the moment; it may be uploaded later.

If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

 

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