happy birthday marek

for you, the poem i wrote for your birthday way back when ...

1:30 a.m. Birthday Poem for Marek

Pick up the bat,
chipped wood offering slivers,
feel them break the skin
cut my palm and the
creases where my fingers bend.
Little bit of blood never hurt
me.

Walk the streets, hungry for
something to make sense,
Find myself there
without knowing when or how,
See the red convertible
parked to perfection, six inches
from the curb, outside
the overdone estate
that son of a bitch CEO
calls home.

The glare off the hood
screams at me from
across the street
alarms going off
in my head
RUN you stupid
shit.

With my bat I have
only wishes and dreams
no one and everyone knows.
I cross the street slowly, take in
the chrome wheels and
flawless finish, glaring,
mocking me.

Before I lift it
high above my head
I don't think: and then what?
I bring it down with the force
of fire, speed of wind,
feel the connection
the windshield give way,
and then
shatter into snow
that rains
on the pavement in
a rainbow tapestry
of joy.

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Tags: poetry, blogging, web 2.0, marek, kominat, marekj, gonzo marketing, gonzo engaged, the solution is poetry

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stand up

Dear Bitch,

No I will not stop blogging nice things about you. Do you know why? Moxie. Your guts that's why. Because you write your way vulnerable, bite into what's wrong and taste it, cryoutloud and seize on shag carpets in a fit of mortal so-human justice when Those People with their Armor-Alled posts come to this place and try to outshine our worn tattered leather souls.

Their shiny-protected-stronger-than-tortise-shell bullshit, in that know-it-all way they have, are no match for you. They will not show their wounds, their open oozing lesions because those wounds cannot be monetized. Because they may scare the Audience away by being who they are. And then what? No money no honey. Then what? No fans no plans. Oh dear!

Pretenders.

You stood there and said Hey Now, Waitaminute, when few other women would. Shelley did. Ronni did. Marianne did. Toby did. Even harder for the men to do: misyoongenentoitousetists!

Have you stopped beating your fucking CAT YET? WELL HAVE YOU?

Did you laugh? You-R-Evil.

That is why.

Why do you think? I know you know the scary places, not the scary places where people might come in your house or yard or workplace and off you, but THOSE scary places where you are your own intruder.

You heal my inner boogie man. What? You want I should go away? No way, sister.

Kiss me. I'm crazy.

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