[lit-ideas] Sunday Poem

  • From: "Michael Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Sun, 14 Aug 2005 19:16:25 -0500


WHY I HATE MYSELF
> When mosquitos fly in the Sierras
-- David Ritchie

It is with great pleasure and moral clarity
that I kill mosquitoes on me.  I refuse to be
their free lunch even if that stance is Republican.

"These mos-SKEET-toes",
as my friend used to say,
"prove that capitalism is insectual."

But he's dead now,
my friend.
So too are all his dreams of a Really, Really Great Society.
But really,
how many people would ever be willing
to forgo a free-lunch-tax-break?

You might say, Hey!
It's the poor and the working stiffs who pay everyday for the brunches and lunches and midnight munches
of the write-off class.
And indeed, by every creed I know, they've been written off.

Well then, why didn't they vote -- huh?
those tens of millions of poor and working stiffs?
They have the numbers if only they'd vote,
take control and oust the demons all, Why didn't they vote? Huh?
Because they're stupid motherfuckers -- OK?
They're so stupid they actually admire their exploiters. That's why.
No way around it. The poor love and admire the rich. And want to be just them -- even if it means becoming just like them.
God how I hate the poor -- hate them more even than the rich. Sometimes.

Mike Geary Memphis






----- Original Message ----- From: "David Ritchie" <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
Sent: Sunday, August 14, 2005 5:41 PM
Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Poem 


Written Last Sunday (approx)


When mosquitos fly in the Sierras, they
do an up-and-down dance that I, risking bites,
will now try to paint, al fresco, as it were.
Not Irish quite, or Scotch hopping in great clans,
or the balletic leaps done in Spanish bullfights,
to shove in spikes on sticks,
that pinion and rip,
reducing the bull,
to agony, puff and drool...,
but definitely prancing that has a dash of menace within.
The rare bad case of West Nile Virus up their sleeve,
causes these beasts briefly achieve a primo dance-of-death grace,
but blink and they're again reduced to mere irritants,
out to prove delusions
about the grandeur of nature.

David Ritchie
Portland, Oregon

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