Unanswered

You asked me if I liked to watch
men fall under my spell,
as if I weaved a clever message,
subliminal in my lines.

Let me tell you,
man I have never spoken to
face-to-face,
I don’t.

And my poetry isn’t crafted
to ensnare unsuspecting men
like you,
but happens
almost compulsively,
to better understand myself.

I keep shreds of paper near me
at my desk, in my car, near my bed,
and somehow make sense of
fragments and pieces. It is like a
jigsaw of words, trying to escape
my mind, and I want to understand
the way that they build thoughts.

As for men, they are not my trophies,
nor are they my victims,
and if showing men my poetry makes
them fall in love, then
should I don a habit and
marry to a church?

Am I such a danger,
wielding a pen? Do my words
make you come alive?
Are you, too, under my spell?

Le Fou

There you are on stage, beads of sweat
rolling down your face, but you smile,
speak to the crowd, trying to illicit
that same reaction of laughter
you first recieved when
it felt so natural.

Now you stretch and fixate on the wrong part of a raunchy story,
and work a crowd much
hungrier for wit, and humor.

You forget I have seen you at your peak, and how you admitted you
were ashamed that your timing and
subject matter was questionable.
Still, you trek along advising seats
if people don’t like your “humor”,
which is laughable for comedy, because
nothing you say in ranty posts
on femenism, gender roles,
thoughts on introverts, and body shaming, is even remotely funny.

If you claim importance
to dissect life in order to find humor, perhaps you should go
back to Medieval medicine, with blood
letting and the leeches.
Truly, even Swift warns about public
dissections, Lewis was against them too.

But seriously? You self-important pig,
to tell us that we don’t know funny because
occasionally you say something
offensive, demeaning, and untrue,
passing it off as some pearl of wisdom.
You have no idea the amount of time
I spend, looking to make myself laugh.
How, I can laugh for hours at
Aziz, Dana Carvey, or Craig Ferguson,
but with you, I find a cringe to be
a better way to express my emotions.

Take away the anger and the hatred,
it pours out when you perform.
This isn’t a soapbox for you to play
to fans who love when you are crass.
Ignorance begets ignorance, and
I am done with trying to pretend
I’m entertained by spotty punchlines,
and thinly veiled misogyny.

I Hate Velveeta

(I don’t know how to talk about this poem. I’m kind of ranty today. So, a ranty poem seemed fun to do. ^_^)

Every Christmas somebody makes it,

and while most are more catious

by loathsome vegetable pizza or fruitcake,

there is only one thing that I fear:

someone will call out that queso is out

I hurry to check, and find it’s not.

Putting Rotel in it doesn’t help it.

No amount of seasoned meat will disguise,

the flavor is anything but delicious

and calling it cheese is offensive.

I lose my appetite when I see it

I imagine the long term effects on my stomach.

It’s plastic. It tastes nothing like what it pretends to be.

An assault on your nose and mouth

like burned rubber tasting

worse than soured milk,

and people call it “liquid gold”

I just turn my nose up and sneer.

You can’t pour it into a bowlful of chips

call it nachos and present it to me.

I will feel sick, and go to bed,

don’t try to force me to “Just try it.”

I won’t change my mind in “one bite”.

You can’t fool me! This isn’t cheese!

Go eat your weird plastic food with the others.

You can pretend that it’s cheese among them.