Wednesday, February 01, 2006

The Bankable Poetry Revolution Manifesto

Attention all official and non-official members of the Revolutionary Bankable Poetry Revolution. This is your muse speaking. (Well, actually, this is your muse speaking through a blog, which is, in fact, just a way of whispering directly into the NSA's ear.) It has come to my attention that, despite your considerable numbers, your revolutionary spirit has been flagging. (And that's not wave the flagging.) I, abiding in the muse residence, that spacious haven of peace on high, where your Great Leader is fervently convinced some dignified, old, bearded guy lives (Boy, do we have him fooled!), have not been impressed with your political - strike that - poetical, engagement. No Battle Hymns to the Destruction of the Republic? No Odacious Affronts to Justice? No Intergalactic Super Sonnets? No Villainous Villanelles? What has happened to your creative chutzpah?

In my all-knowing eyes and ears, it has become self-evident that all forms of discourse are NOT equal and poetical diatribes lobbed at the powers-that-be (other than me) can topple any fortress, no matter how white. So get cracking! Churn out verses to combat crisis! Launch those missives of inspired vitriol! Pay no heed to the dogs of war, unless to piss on them! We, the Revolutionary Bankable Poetry Revolution, will overcome!!

Friday, January 27, 2006

State of the Bankable World

Hamas, you get the palmas
while Canada dons two right shoes.
Morales makes the most of
Bolivia's capitalist blues.

I-raq goes Shi-ite on us,
now ain't that fucking up the course.
And I-ran breaks the seals
to unlease a nu-klee-ar Persian horse.

The polar cap is melting.
But we don't give a fuck 'bout that.
Let me guzzle all the gas I can
'cause me ass is 'mericanly fat.

Meanwhile on the homefront,
Alito's a piece of cake.
The NSA's spying on you
and the Great Leader says it's A-OK!

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Alito Mosquito

Alito mosquito landed on my neck,
his touch was light and sweet.
Said, "I'm just here to do my job.
I won't make a peep."

I questioned him further...
He had no real reply...
Then he jabbed me with his sub-peener
and tried to make me cry.

Some people hollared, "Kill that varmint!"
Someone chimed, "I've got a cropduster!"
No one expected much action though,
since there'd be no showdown filibuster.

So the lit-o skeeter got his rocks off.
And the Great Leader's really stoked.
And together they're waging war
on the goddamn thinking folks.

But Alito mosquito
overlooked one important thing:
Even under constitutional duress,
The Republic of Bankable Poetry still sings...

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

A Bankable PSA

This is a public service announcement
to my dear American brothers and sisters.
This is a gentle reminder to you
saying that you live in a world
of countries, peoples and languages,
not just Superbowls and advertising spots.
The world outside your door
exists in 3D and in color.
It’s not something conceived
on a high definition flat screen environment.
You must remember this.
Political decisions
aren’t meant to be cheerleading events
at football games.
Please keep this in mind.
Thank you.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Bush's Bankable Poetry Notebook

(An excerpt from Bush's Bankable Poetry Notebook):

"I ran
you ran
we all ran
for Iran

He's real
she's real
we're all really trying
to be Israel"

(Bush's commentary):

Okay, so Sharon's in a coma, if you see what I mean,
and no one's even talkin' 'bout it anymore,
so like, now's the time to bomb the fuck out of that other "I" country.
Can't have too many "I's" gettin' all uppity on us now, can we?
We's the only "I" that counts.
We is us, so we is be, therefore we is "I", and "I" am us, by my own decree,
and there, now you understand right?

Bankable This!

Good American friend of mine,
you are open-minded by birth.
We all are, right?
And you are a truth-seeker too,
for that is one of your guiding principles.
Don’t be afraid of tearing
the dark clouds
down from the sky;
the worst that can happen
is that you’ll get rained on.
Stand up to your American heritage
and let the cat out of the bag!
Or take a big fucking stick and whomp a GOPhead!

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Homage to Red Roscoe

Bankable Poetry weeps.
Yes, it's true.
Even a hardened poetman has a heart.
Red Roscoe doesn't live in Kansas anymore.
Red Roscoe ain't on THAT map.
Woe to Red Roscoe. Whoa.
The mask's been pulled off the Red Ranger.
He ain't in Kansas anymore.
He ain't a rookie either.
Can he be summoned from the clichés of pig alleys past?
Can he skip to the lou-loot again?
Bankable Poetry weeps.
The days are long.
Sentences end in periods.

Bankable Poetry is Back!

Attention Ladies and Gentlemen,
(all six of you)
Bankable Poetry is back!
The hiatus was greatus
But Brutus I beus no more.

Friday, October 28, 2005

Libby's Fibby

Told a fibby
Gonna put him
In the cribby


Turd Blossom
Is so awesome
He only plays dead
Like a 'possum.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Summer Vacation Reds, Whites and Blues

Our Great Leader
takes five week vacations in one stretch.
That's how great he is.
(Not even a hurricane can snap him out of it.)

Bankable Poetry lives in France,
where they take five weeks of vacation
stretched throughout a year.

Our Great Leader
has spent an entire year of his great leadership
chillin' in Crawford.

Chirac's a workaholic by comparison.
Only a brain attack causes him to miss
an entire week of work.

And just for the record:
A Frenchman who takes 1 out of 5 years off
is called unemployed.

Friday, September 09, 2005

America, My Third World Home!

America, my third world home!
How your pseudo-democratically elected dictatorship despises you!
Let's play golf whhile your masses huddle for shelter.
Let's buy Ferragamo shoes on 5th Avenue while your elderly drown.
Let's sip champagne while your cities rot.
It's not the guvment's fault.
(At least that's what Reagan and Rehnquist said.)
I can't believe Zappa was singing about this 20 years ago and you haven't changed one iota.
America, you have lawless leaders looting your banks and underwear drawers.
The world knows you're a sham.
Everyone wants to lynch your Great Leader.
Because, let's face it, he's a dickhead.
But hey, third world countries get shitty dictators.
Will you ever wake up?
Stop being so nice.
Stop being so Martha Stewart perfect.
Get mad at your guvment.
Get even.
Overthrow those bums who despise you, who rob you of every last penny, who rob you of your dignity, who smother you in propaganda.
Not even the China Daily distorts the truth as much as your leaders on their foxhunt.
I'm tired of hoping things will change.
Move your collective American ass!

Thursday, August 25, 2005

A Call to All American Poems

This Bankable Poem
is a call to all American
Poems everywhere -
lying dormant in musty volumes
or as of yet unwritten -
to rise up and bite
the hand that writes you.
Rise up and grab those
slumbering Americans
by their throats
in their own vernacular.
Rise up and scream bloody murder
at their acts of greed
that deprive the world
of a future
but ensure that their cars and homes
have air conditioning.
Rise up and open the door
on these close-minded citizens
who refuse to look beyond their borders.
Rise up and make whoopy.
Rise up and dance circles
around the immobility
of Americans too cozy
to be curious.
Write the poems of revolution
and revelation.
Write these Americans out
of their graves.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

The Poem of an American Saga Poem

I was born American and will always remain American,
Even if I change my name.
Even if I acquire another nationality.
Even if I never live in the United States again.
Even if I disagree with every single American thing except a good Coltrane line.
Even if I never watch another Hollywood film in my life.
Even if I never eat another hot dog.
Even if I never see another Fourth of July fireworks display.
Even if I forget all the words to the Pledge of Allegiance.
Even if Yankee Stadium gets a corporate sponsor and I never step foot in it again.
Even if I forget all the rules to football.
Even if I lose my taste for commercial breaks during a sitcom.
Even if I quit eating junk food entirely.
Even if my weight remains under control and my cholesterol does too.
Even if I never visit San Antonio, the second most visited American city (for Americans) after San Francisco (which I have visited).
Even if America falls off the map or becomes a part of the Chinese Empire.
Even if I throw away my Bob Dylan discs.
Even if I never write another American poem.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

The Ballad of Cindy, Lance and the Prez

Cindy's camping in Crawford
waiting to see the Prez.
She's sweating in a ditch
while the Prez is
out for a ride
with Lance,
laughing it up!
(Just two good old boys...)

Cindy's boy Casey got
his head blown off
in Bagdad -
April 4, 2004.

Now ain't that a purty picture?
The Prez and Lance
careening over collines
while Cindy's down
in the dumps.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Bankable Repeat

Great leader,
My mountain rises,
and you are a twerp -
Eat my shorts!
I see what you're up to,
butchering the English language
and innocent lives;
I won't let you get away with it -
Dirty bastard!
Shit now, get off the pot, and
forever hold your peace.
The mountain minions will rise up
and chop off
your Mt. Rushmore nose!!

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Gone Fishin'

Bankable Poetry
is on vacation
from his poetry-producing
Forgive his absence,
humble readers,
as he forgives
your poetry-seeking
But do not lose heart,
for he shall return
and fill your cyber bellies
with wholesome
bankable poem bread.

Monday, June 27, 2005

Bankable American Poem

A Bankable American Poem is like a firecracker up your ass.
If you pull it out in time,
you know what damage it can do.
But if you leave it in,
you’re a clueless fucking moron.
What are all those Americans thinking
who don’t act fast enough
to pull it out?
Do they have the slightest idea
where they’re sitting?
React to this Bankable American Poem,
my dear countrymen and women!

Monday, June 20, 2005

My American Childhood

My American childhood
was alright.
The forest surrounding me
gave more
than all TV shows combined.
I learned not to lie
and to work hard.
Good grades in class were the norm.
I went to Church and Sunday School
(but didn’t like them one bit).
Honor Society, Homecoming, Class President – all that.
The U.S. Hockey Team beat the Russians in 1980
because they played their hearts out.
I was 12 years old
and susceptible.
What can we claim now?

Monday, June 13, 2005

A Bankable Poem Saved My Life

At eighteen,
a bankable poem
saved my life.
I cannot reveal
the author's name
for copyright reasons,
his poem set me straight
and wasn't hard to read.

Ladies and gentlemen of the rat race,
listen up!
These bankable poems
are written for you!
They have your names on them.
They are meant for your consumption.
So consume to your heart's content
and savor
the miracle of bankable poetry!

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Mea Culpa Capitalista

Bankable Poetry
has been on hiatus
because of the budget cuts.
Oh, excuse that lapsus,
he meant to say, flu.
His passion for power was burning,
no, make that fever,
and his head just swelled.
Well, in fact, it ached.
But in his guts he knew
he had you made.
More like nausea, but hey...
Now he's okay.
His debt portfolio has subsided,
unless he confused it with his pains.

(Special thanks goes out to Bankable Poetry's
delirious twin, Capitalized Prose, for this contribution.)

Friday, June 03, 2005

Constitutional Blues

My head hurta,
me feel no good,
blah, blah, blah misunderstood.

Them vota crazy
laws in a can,
but Joe Jackson still da man.

On da radio
pundits all yappin',
'What the fuck happenin' over here?'

My feet hurta,
blah, blah, blah,new shoes.
We gots constitutional blues.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Gulag Guantanamo

The men in orange jumpsuits
haven't much to say
Let's duct tape their fucking faces, okay?!
Hooray! What fun
under the blistering sun!
See Mohammed run.
In his dog coop two square foot.
Here, have a helping boot
in your face, Muslim bastard.
And just so you know who's boss
I'll flush your Co-ron, Mo-ron,
and give you this cross.

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Bye-Bye Lady Liberty!

Think you’re smart
because you’re American?
Think you got it good?
Bankable Poetry did too.
Then it discovered
that our democracy was a sham.
It discovered other democracies
that worked a hell of a lot better than ours.
Higher voter turnout, voting on Sunday
(instead of Tuesday when everyone
and their mother works),
no negative ads, limited spending, etc.
And people who demanded the facts.
What a sham in America!
We don’t know a thing
and the powers that be
like it that way.
A bunch of baloney!
And no one’s going to level with us.
Time magazine isn’t going to run a cover story
decrying America’s crappy democracy.
We’ll just go on assuming we’re the best
until our feet rot off.
Bye-Bye Lady Liberty!

Poetry, Voice of Reason

Who reads poetry?
Certainly not me.
Unless a friend writes something
or I take out some Walt Whitman
on a quiet summer night.
But listen up!
This poem demands our attention.
It wants to tell us that
this free, democratic Afghanistan
is now producing more heroin than ever before!
And the correspondent banking system
allows all this drug money
to enter the U.S. illegally!
And Iraq will never be a democracy
in our lifetime or our children’s.
Just as we will never sit on the floor
for dinner and eat with our hands.
And a government
is not meant to give to the rich
and take from the poor,
but the inverse!
We all love Robin Hood as children, don’t we?

This poem doesn’t have
fancy syntax or punctuation,
but it’ll clobber us
like a sledgehammer
if we keep acting so ignorant.

Friday, May 27, 2005

A Bankable Poetry Explanation

These poems can’t even begin
to make sense
until your hair falls out
along with your teeth.
Then when your looks
have failed you,
and no one gives a rat’s ass
what you think,
and you no longer have
an earthly care left
except eating a lukewarm meal
and not shitting yourself,
then you might appreciate
these poems
in the final minutes of twilight.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Bankable Poetry Strikes Back

Filibuster me timbers!
Year of silence, exile and cunning
did not prepare me
for THIS assault
on my sensibilities.
While Bankable Poetry
was out to lunch -
long, Old World style -
a rule-changing rat
snuck in the door
dragging his disease-ridden swarm with him.
Scurvy bastard, take this!
A few lines of common sense,
distilled from Plato,
are enough to stun a rat
into submission
and break through his
creative intelligence designs.

Sunday, May 22, 2005

Ladies and Gentlemen of America (Part Two)

Ladies and Gentlemen of America,
You thought you did
The right thing.
You thought you could only
Do the right things.
That’s what being American means.
But you’ve been duped
And no one likes you anymore,
Not even your good friends,
Even though you’re likeable
By nature.
You’re on the big black list
And you’re not to be trusted.
(That’s what everyone’s saying
in whispers,
sometimes shouts.)
But since you’re a sucker,
They’ll turn around
And make money off you.

Where is the American Gandhi
who can step forward
and speak
the real American voice–
hard-working, honest and true?

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Ladies and Gentlemen of America (Part One)

Ladies and Gentlemen of America,
Fellow citizens,
Hear me now!
I am the voice of your conscience,
Your collective American conscience.
The one that had made you
On certain occasions.
It is time for you
To wake up.
Wake to me.
You have long been sleeping,
Greed has made you become
Hungry ghosts,
Consuming blindly
But never satisfied.
Your appetite has grown
To epic proportions
And all your children weep!

Monday, May 16, 2005

American Poem

American poem, American poem
This right here’s an American poem:
Words on a page,
Clear black and white,
Contained in the margins,
All I ever wanted it to be.
Could we try another one?
Yes, if you would like.
All the words of the world don’t matter.
Only these do.
Right here on the page of my choice.
Oh, if only my mother could see me now.

Well, I guess I’d better get
To the bottom
Of the page.
Take care.

Friday, May 13, 2005

My Great American Poem

Last night
Lying in bed
I mentally composed
The Great American Poem
And then fell asleep.
It had everything –
Including majestic phrasing.

This morning
I woke up
And the poem,
My Great American Poem,
Was gone.

It had vanished like a dream.