I set astride my ass with big lance in hand, It is pointed at the white domed windmill afar; I am challenged by all of its inanity and frivolity. Sancho is by my side. We are eating pears and apples, as if they were going to assuage the hungry-anger that rots the insides of our malox-lined stomachs.
I set astride my ass with big lance in hand, It is pointed at the white domed windmill afar; I am challenged by all of its inanity and frivolity. Sancho is by my side. We are eating pears and apples, as if they were going to assuage the hungry-anger that rots the insides of our malox-lined stomachs. With frustration and ire, we stare unbelievably at the gluttonous horde wiping their mouths with green money laced handkerchiefs, all gifts of the devil. The armor of our absurdity, which we so vainly wear, rots from the vile sea green mist, emerging from the dome. Motion of the illogical windmill is gyrated by hot air spewing from garrulous mouths of insipid ones inside. It spurs us on to our mission of banal-deleting. Forgetting my cheap Chinese cell phone making deleting impossible my thoughts go to erasing. I place a pink illogical mass of rubber on the end of my trusty and poetically insignificant lance. Inside I hear the unreasonable choir blissfully singing no, no, no. I observe the white frustration of the wimpy mice to their left. I hurl my poetic eraser spear at the rotting edifice and watch it sink into the soft oblivion of tons of paper. I listen to the hordes and find that the Supreme Court just handed the election of all officials to the Corporations. I hear a thunderous applause from the right. I wonder if it will make any difference in altering the broken way Congress spews rhetoric while doing nothing. Maybe I should lay down my poetic rubber tipped lance and run for office. I could support removing all regulations from corporations, promote drilling for oil in every ocean and pond available, and fight for offshore tax-exempt companies, so they can hire cheap labor. That way, our faltering economy can sink further into the proverbial toilet. I could write bills to stop taxation of the richest of the rich to make sure the poor die without jobs, homes, or health services. I could even call myself a super, super duper conservative! I just noticed my rubber tipped lance went limp, maybe I should get hired at the UN to write mindless rhetoric. Maybe I could get a high paying job like Palin, O’Reily and Limbaugh and gush forth trivia to the brainless red masses of tea who believe everything that gushes like volcano ash from their over heated and ill informed mouths. I might love being an old white guy neo-conservative too, and lie, cheat, carouse, steal, and say no to everything all the time. I could then laugh and make fun of the sterile, naïve, wimpy, Democrats. Amen.
BIO
James earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University. He earned a doctorate from Brigham Young University. He is a retired college professor and spends his summers along a river, reading, writing, and penning poetry.
Two of his relatives, John James Piatt and Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt, were prolific poets who wrote their poetry in the eighteen hundreds. Contemporary American Voices (featured poet), Word Catalyst Magazine (featured poet), Apollo’s Lyre, Caper Journal, Vox Poetica, Shadow Poetry Anthology, The Penwood Review, Wilderness House Review, Front Porch Review, A Handful of Stones, Autumn Leaves, Hanging Moss Journal, Phati’tude Literary Magazine and Poetry & Writing, have published his poetry. Word Catalyst Magazine, Caper Journal, Everyday Weirdness Magazine, the Cynic Magazine, Suspense Magazine, Clockwise Cat, and Medulla Fiction have published his short stories. He has had eight non-fiction pieces published in professional journals.