THEORY OF RELATIVITY
I hear the unemployment rate
is staggering, people crowding
sidewalks smashing heads fighting
to get in the door, score a
gainful opportunity
but see,
I’m staggering too, crowding the
door and smashing heads fighting
to get the hell out, shout my way
down the street into obscure
unproductive retirement...
Theory of Relativity.
- Joseph Roque
(featured in the poetry forum 12.02.11)
editor's note: Tag-team again - we wanting out are more than happy to make way for those wanting in. Both directions seem like the best direction at the time. - mh
WIRES ON FIRE
Mostly I sit at my computer,
disciplined and well-behaved
with every good intention,
no dysfunctional requests
or assumptions—
then suddenly: hit a key, nothing.
Try again, nothing.
Try ESCape, nothing.
CTRL, ALT, DEL—nothing.
So now I’m just sitting here,
undisciplined, not so well-behaved,
no more good intentions,
staring at this fucking screen,
piece of crap thing
frozen to stinking shit. . .
hour after ass-neck hour I
can’t do a thing with it.
Wonder what
exploding glass and monitor,
wires on fire sounds like.
- Joseph Roque
(added 10.16.10)
SORRY ABOUT THAT
A new day. New morning.
Up and at em' Sparky.
Remember when we were kids,
and that slingshot you made for me
that I shot your right eye out with
the very first day, and you never
spoke to me again?
Well, today we apologize.
Today we try orderly, politely in
unison, to forgive each other.
You, for being such a bastard
that I was forced to shoot you.
Me for missing the second shot.
- Joseph Roque
(added 10.16.10)
THE APOLOGY
Ever get the feeling you’re
apologizing constantly to
somebody for something?
Curious isn’t it?
Even worst,
why the hell is that?
I’m not sure, but I could swear
I don’t remember
being anywhere doing anything
so wrong so many times that I
should just
blanket apology the universe.
The confusion of why I should
give a damn what people think
is short-circuiting the few nerve
endings I have left, so my shrink
suggested sending a short
questionnaire, wherein I could
just ask for a list of offenses, real
or imagined.
Based on results I could insult
myself publicly into reclusive
coma status; persona non gratis
myself into isolation exile.
Shrink says it might be fun.
- Joseph Roque
(featured in the poetry forum 10.16.10)
ALL TOGETHER NOW
What about the others?
What others?
The others about
what we are talking—
the ones live in the hut.
No,
the twos live in the hut,
the ones
are not about what.
Then if they
are not about what,
and
don’t live in the hut
what are they about?
They are just about.
Just about what?
And where are they?
There, just about
to get thrown out.
If the ones
are thrown out,
what about the twos?
What twos?
The twos
that live in one’s hut.
The twos
are stuck in a rut,
and
don’t live in one’s hut
anymore—
neither do
the threes or fours.
- Joseph Roque
(added 01.14.10)
ANTI-CHRIST OF VOGUE
I was twenty that July when I
first knew my father’s fashion
antenna was broken.
He was at the picnic table in our backyard,
feeding his pet squirrel peanuts, when I saw
the black dress socks with sandals, plaid
Bermuda shorts pulled nipple-high by wide
paisley suspenders stretched straight and
true over ironed white tee shirt, name
spelled out with sequins. Up top, multi-
colored neon baseball cap from Vegas.
When I asked him about it he got very defensive.
“Don’t kill the messenger,” he said, “somebody
in this family has to be in fashion.”
- Joseph Roque
(featured in the poetry forum 01.14.10)
THIS BUS SUCKS
It is not the soldiers you should dread,
not the talking heads in Washington—
fear the ad-men, fear the media.
They control your destiny.
They can prep, polish, package, wrap
and sell anything to anyone, Hell,
they can sell popsicles to Eskimos,
condoms to a 6 year old, creases to a
fold, and stick-on moles to trolls.
Fear the ad-men. Fear the media,
they say:
“Advertise and they will come.”
And we, dummies that we be,
line up automatically, happily numb
and ready to make them all wealthy—
bring it on, bring it on, we all love
tall white blondes with the “NO BRAINS”
tee shirt on, sexy women, handsome studs,
shiny metal, designer duds, oh so much
to buy, oh so little time.
We pay huge to get screwed, royally,
repeatedly, wrongfully and willingly,
so,
step right up to the cashier,
and smile—
“you’re on dumb-ass camera.”
- Joseph Roque
(added 11.13.09)
ONE ON ONE
The experts say: hug yourself,
love yourself, befriend and hell,
have a little chat with yourself
if you want to.
Go ahead, tug mug and bug
yourself, grab your hilt until
your kilt tilts, if you so choose,
it’s all good news at least for
all of you who love yourselves.
I say, where the hell do these
people come from? Have they
hibby-hoo-hummed themselves
into numb delirium with this
wacky-jack pablum, or do they
just lack oxygen?
So, how does this work, if you
think you’re just a jerk, and
don’t much like, let alone,
love yourself?
If you love yourself, you can
be your own whore, bang yourself,
and scream for more, and never
be afraid of prosecution, but,
if you don’t and still proceed,
you will have nosebleed-raped
a stranger, who will smile at you
but still believe--
that loving self is not all
that it’s hyped up to be.
- Joseph Roque
(featured in the poetry forum 11.13.09)
GOOD SAMARITAN
It’s been a long winter’s day.
Tired, hungry, in no mood to compete,
I just want to get home. Instead I find
myself with a bunch of crazed student
motorist graduates from the K-Mart
driving academy for the unconscious.
I’m stuck in traffic, heavy snow falling.
I stay well back, as I watch three cars
ahead, trying to get up a hill. The first
car is sliding backwards, wheels spinning
and smoking, as it hits the second car and
turns it sideways, then this driver keeps on
turning the wheel, right into the third car,
which was already facing backwards.
They all come to a dead stop at the bottom
of the hill, each pointing in a different direction.
The second driver gets out of his car, beats the
first driver unconscious. The third driver punches
the second driver, and throws him into the first
car’s trunk, then, wakes the unconscious
first driver and beats him unconscious again.
In the meantime, two of the cars roll off the
road into a lake. Insane from watching all of this,
I exit my car and ask the one conscious driver,
“are you okay?” “Go to hell, you moron,”
he replies.
Still unfazed, I smile and rescue the trapped
driver, gently wake the unconscious driver,
get them all up and about, wish them all well
and merry, then, consciously, concertedly,
run the three fuckers over.
- Joseph Roque
(featured in the poetry forum 10.04.09) |
