I’m a very busy person and should not be blogging. I’m fighting illness but should be working. For people who love political poetry, here’s page 1 of my live chapbook vol. II: The Lime Squeezes; The End of The Beginning
When I ever get time to edit vol. I: The End of The Lime, I’ll be printing a handful of copies with the photos. However I don’t know how I’ll end of selling them as I’ve heard so many horror stories about Paypal. Nobody should want to pay for this anyway, but I’m also planning to whip out a free PDF with vol. I. And it will be different and poems will be heavily edited, free for you… one day hopefully soon. Don’t hold your breath, it may never come out —
Maybe I jumped on the bandwagon of this #metoo too quickly, and my story is more than what’s happening with this #metoo activist uprising. It’s more than just women being assaulted by men. Men are also victims of other men and its horrific what isn’t being said.
My story includes moguls and what happens to the content in data usage; my #metoo is a digital kind of rape and includes murderers at large; don’t worry… they’re just military agents assassinating willy-nilly and have been for a very long time.
Reminds me of my favorite band back when I was in middle school: The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.
Because this structure of Poems Found was supposed to bring you famous poems (from the dead [mostly]), I feel I can’t break the rules… except, the rules were broken at times and I don’t post enough for the reason that I’m beyond busy and should never write here ever, and the reasons why I shouldn’t are the exact reasons why I’ve been writing the behind-the-scenes manuscript for what’s happening to historical facts and government abuse — A poem chosen today from the GB:
A ROOM IN THE VILLA
(written by William Jay Smith)
What is the mirror saying with its O?
What secret does the still, untroubled surface lock?
What terror told by chair, by unmade bed and bedclothes?
Now the clock is speaking; hear the clock.
Hear it tensely ask: Is someone coming?
Did someone just then step into the hall below?
Is someone there upon the stairway, whistling, humming?
The solemn mirror’s mottled, mocking O,
Like some black lake, absorbs all things in silence.
A tattered curtain flaps; the coals within the grate
Are kindled to a brief and unremarked refulgence
While, patient in the eaves, the shadows wait.
— more about William Jay Smith