Liberal & Complicated


getting by these days, glad you asked
but not ecstatic, see I’m self-sufficient

digesting the latest Radiohead album
and my upped dosage of Wellbutrin

it’s empowering not to care about the gov’t,
old friends, new friends, whomever
stands on two legs; they all exhaust me

it cost too much to run away, in many ways, and
I thought about ending it but
in the end it was easier to just check out

show up to class, find a routine
watch TV with a friend or two

ridicule commercials for not getting me
say I Do to five miles twice a week

maintaining distaste for the status quo
still acquiescing, getting by

swearing, if I can’t do something with this life
I won’t try

IX

The queen quakes.
She slumbers, unencumbered by callous thoughts
or splintered, shredding worries.
Her bed is soft, but bears my
blistered hand by her side; a
bold brandisher of battle-blade
and blood-bludgeoner.
It trembles amidst comfort, laid
in domesticity.

Nothing to say about this one. Just a return to the eponymous 'Plain Praetorian' poem.

Expect more, for better or for worse.

Radio


Mary loves everyone

listens
to the radio

doesn't mind
commercials

likes knowing
somebody's there

loves to
listen

guards her heart with an
infinite kindness

sleeps in

asks the ceiling: "have I not been
Good enough?"

waits for answers

has doubts

pounds the wheel
at night in her driveway

takes a
deep breath

turns on the radio

loves everyone

i have a mild fascination with the name mary, as gunter knows. he put it better himself than i could: "on one hand, mary the mother of christ, on the other mary magdaline, the prostitute. every man's ideal."

this doesn't deal with that at all, but it's a fun way to judge anybody you know named mary.

i'm james by the way! howdy! harass me at http://kidjumpsearly.blogspot.com/.

Marathon

Twenty-six bullets and the Marathon's
run rampant and rancid,
a soured delicacy of despoiled human
glory for the sentience of outsiders
to sample;
gory champagne.
Dunrandal's dismayed, persuaded away,
and I am gunslinger-champion. Chaplain of
Christ-in-chamber; pistol salvation, holy handgun.

Just a unimpressive poem in an attempt to get myself back into updating this. It's written about Bungie's Marathon game, reflecting on the fact that I always find myself having to fall back on the handgun. I tried to make it as minimalist (I guess it could be called) as possible, but really didn't execute that effectively. Word choice and diction are alright, I guess, but probably on the bland side. It is an update, though.

Screw artistry and its opinions.