Listening to music about fools in love; dancing without worrying about matching the beat; humming along because there is no shame in not knowing the words; glancing out the window at a blue sky; the mimosa flowers waving from the neighbor’s yard; writing poetry about the potential of the world which humanity does not deserve.
Our only noble purpose as a species is to adore the raw beauty of our earth.
Perhaps our role is that of an audience. We were never meant to participate in the play, we were meant to enjoy it, appreciate it, applaud all its hard work to become something sustainable for a species as miserable as humankind who has war and money and all the small chaos we insisted on inventing.
We take for granted the things that we are not credited. We act unimpressed at the pure magic that is this existence –
Perhaps if we slow down, if we watch and listen and sit very still, we can enjoy the show which has been created for our pleasure.
Katrina Kaye is a writer and educator seeking an audience for her ever-growing surplus of poetic meanderings. She hoards (much like a typical dragon) her previous published writings, links to publications, and additional information on her website: ironandsulfur.com. Check out her latest chapbook, no longer water, available from Echobird Press! She is grateful to anyone who reads her work and in awe of those willing to share it.
it rained last night and through a cloud of aromatic steam i look at the tree tops from her porch as i sip my coffee and listen to the delicate savagery of birds in the morning.
i like it.
soon though a static wave of disquieting, obsessive compulsion and indoctrinated, brainwashed, plebeian adherence will rise with the sun and the coming day; vexed, as if some specter’s trained dog, so too will their slumbering cars be awake, and what’s left of the deteriorated arboreal beauty and beleaguered atmospheric global balance that once was will be laid siege to; yielding terrestrially yet again, its’ crude essence, to those countless self-perplexed, ego driven, vehicular, asphalt distractions stuck between the imperialistic, pneumatic breath and billowing exhaust of churlish, multinational, corporate verbosity and the militaristic threat of a towering, particle smashing, sub-atomic, bathtub crank, bio-engineered, mega-death tally.
determined, to meet head on this apocalyptic ultra comic book existence from her bed, i turn to go back inside, whereupon, i spy a small rabbit crying out from the mouth of a calico trotting up the alley, next to the house. it stops for a moment… they both look at me, in silence.., then it turns and moves on with that poor desperate bastard firmly in its jaws, kicking its unfortunate little feet and screaming once again to no avail. so should life be, i thought, but it’s worse than that.
in this time of great social upheaval, a looming economic catastrophe and a civilization, along with all traces of humanity, teetering on the brink of extinction, comes this ill-mannered knucklehead, Gerard Padron, an american poet, on the ground, who writes under the pseudonym Botched Resignation. like many of the oxymoronic, idiosyncratic writers of his day, he is a lover of women, hero to children and champion of the poor. Botched Resignation is everything that is disdainfully fashionable. just ask him. he drinks heavily when he can and can’t dance. as to the many things which have been said about his personage, one cannot expect everybody to be as bright, clever, and optimistic, as they are self-assured and talented.
from the hypocritical top down, the collusive heads of every department on the globe, have insisted that everything we do, must be… from this point forward.., state of the art… fuck’em… it is not as though Botched Resignation, has not sent notice. the village idiot, elevated a tremendous fool, Botched Resignation is The Venomous Dog of the House of Padron / High Chancellor of the Witless, the Ardent and the Tawdry, who that on more than one occasion, has been mistaken for Jesus, and declared a much smarter man by more than just a few staggering drunks.
an inebriated rogue, inspecting from head to foot, an intoxicated, duplicitous, secular pride, he is his own worst enemy. on the field of poetic contention, Botched Resignation has no rival, no job, no money and no prospects. none. he is the point and shaft of an elegiac spear, as well as the archetype who wields it. however, odds are, up against it he can never hope to win and doesn’t give a damn.
Jay Passer is the author of 14 collections of poetry and prose. His work has appeared in print and online publications worldwide since 1988. A native of San Francisco, he currently resides in Venice, California.
Brother Merritt (AKA Friday’s Storm) at The 10th & “Final” Gonzofest Standing in front of “Obey Giant” by Shepard Fairey High Horse Bar in Louisville, KY, 2023
Merritt Waldon is a 50-year-old poet/artist who has been published in a wide variety of magazines/journals, and has four books published. He has devoted his entire life & being to Poetry. He lives in Austin Indiana.
