Bankable Poetry

The Bankable Poetry Revolution Manifesto

2006-02-01T17:21:00.000+01:00

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!!

State of the Bankable World

2006-01-27T17:03:00.000+01:00

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!

Alito Mosquito

2006-01-26T12:04:00.000+01:00

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...

A Bankable PSA

2006-01-25T11:50:00.000+01:00

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.

Bush's Bankable Poetry Notebook

2006-01-24T11:53:00.000+01:00

(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!

2006-01-24T11:49:00.000+01:00

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!

Homage to Red Roscoe

2006-01-19T15:54:00.000+01:00

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!

2006-01-19T15:48:00.000+01:00

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

Libby's Fibby

2005-10-28T22:56:00.000+02:00

Libby
Told a fibby
Gonna put him
In the cribby

BUT

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

Summer Vacation Reds, Whites and Blues

2005-09-13T20:38:00.000+02:00

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.

America, My Third World Home!

2005-09-09T08:55:00.000+02:00

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!

A Call to All American Poems

2005-08-25T16:34:00.000+02:00

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.

The Poem of an American Saga Poem

2005-08-24T20:11:00.000+02:00

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.

The Ballad of Cindy, Lance and the Prez

2005-08-17T12:44:00.000+02:00

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.

Bankable Repeat

2005-08-13T17:11:00.000+02:00

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!!

Gone Fishin'

2005-07-07T17:59:00.000+02:00

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

Bankable American Poem

2005-06-27T02:35:00.000+02:00

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!

My American Childhood

2005-06-20T13:40:00.000+02:00

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?

A Bankable Poem Saved My Life

2005-06-13T12:36:00.000+02:00

At eighteen,
a bankable poem
saved my life.
I cannot reveal
the author's name
for copyright reasons,
but,
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!

Mea Culpa Capitalista

2005-06-07T11:24:00.000+02:00

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.)

Constitutional Blues

2005-06-03T08:34:00.000+02:00

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.

Gulag Guantanamo

2005-06-01T09:48:00.000+02:00

The men in orange jumpsuits
haven't much to say
today.
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.

Bye-Bye Lady Liberty!

2005-05-31T10:33:00.000+02:00

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

2005-05-31T10:12:00.000+02:00

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.

A Bankable Poetry Explanation

2005-05-27T15:12:00.000+02:00

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.

Bankable Poetry Strikes Back

2005-05-24T10:13:00.001+02:00

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.

Ladies and Gentlemen of America (Part Two)

2005-05-22T14:39:00.000+02:00

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?

Ladies and Gentlemen of America (Part One)

2005-05-18T15:10:00.000+02:00

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
Noble
On certain occasions.
It is time for you
To wake up.
Wake to me.
You have long been sleeping,
Comatose.
Greed has made you become
Hungry ghosts,
Consuming blindly
But never satisfied.
Your appetite has grown
To epic proportions
And all your children weep!

American Poem

2005-05-16T09:05:00.000+02:00

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.

My Great American Poem

2005-05-13T14:21:00.000+02:00

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.

A Hymn to Greatness

2005-05-09T16:06:00.000+02:00

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!

This Poem Goes Out to All You Golfers...

2005-04-28T14:39:00.000+02:00

Hey, you’re halfway there
To becoming a rich CEO
Or slum lord,
Two important American posts.
Keep working your way
Up the corporate ladder
Buy a gas-guzzling SUV
And a really enormous and
Wasteful house in the suburbs
And be proud of the fact
That your yearly
Country club membership
Could put 500 Nepalese kids
Through school
From K to 12.
Or you could golf from one
terraced rice paddy
To another.

The Truth and The Lies that Hide It

2005-04-28T14:36:00.000+02:00

When I was a boy
I was proud to be American.
Because honesty was the best policy.
Because the truth shall set you free.
Because the Beatitudes were fundamentally American.
What has happened to the America I knew and loved?
Lying makes us rich.
Lies have conquered our hearts and minds.
We don’t want the truth anymore;
falsehoods are much easier.
Now we swallow lies whole.
Word lies, sentence lies, paragraph lies, chapter lies, book lies, administration lies.
It’s too bad we’ve become such dumb cows.

The National Pastime

2005-04-20T22:13:00.000+02:00

As an American,
It is my God-given right
To channel surf
To my heart’s content
And to read worthless trash
Like People magazine
And Field and Stream
Instead of making
An effort
To learn.
Learning is for kids
‘cause kids don’t know nuttin'.
Furthermore,
We Americans
Don’t have to vote
Because we’re already
The Greatest Democracy Show on Earth.
(Even if our voter turnout is the 149th lowest
out of the 163 Earth-born democracies.)
Who cares?
What matters is money,
Not principles.
The rich have the right
To do what they want,
Just ask Louis the 14th and Marie-Antoinette.
So let me get back
To my evening of channel surfing,
The national pastime.

An American Victor Saga

2005-04-18T18:52:00.000+02:00

I once knew an American
Who was fat.
He had a thyroid problem
and was named Victor.
Now almost all the Americans
I know
are fat.

What the fuck?

An Explanation for Greatness

2005-04-18T18:51:00.000+02:00

America is an open-minded country, right?
So all the immigrants came.
We are curious about the world.
We want to know.
We don’t hide in our living rooms watching TV.
Our films and shows come from all over the world.
That’s why everyone likes us.
Because we are open-minded.

Americans Like to Think

2005-04-13T13:42:00.000+02:00

Americans like to think.
We like to read, study, learn and think.
We don’t take rash decisions
like murdering thousands of innocent people
for nothing.
And we don’t like murder either.
Because we are a peace-loving society.
Our President said so.
And that book we all talk about so much…
What’s it called?
Oh yeah, the Bible.
The Bible and its main character, Jesus (good Hispanic name),
talks about turning the other cheek.
That’s proof that America is peace-loving.
And wise too.
But it’s also because we like to think.

Bankable Poetry Hoorah!

2005-04-12T15:07:00.000+02:00

Everyone should read these poems.
Every American should have and read them.
These are poems
with no bones
to pick.
These are poems
with no forms
to deduce.
These are poems
like your front
or back yard.
And think how good this book will look on your shelves:

“Bankable Poetry: The New American Anti-Neocon Poetry”

Advice to High Achievers

2005-04-08T21:45:00.000+02:00

Don’t go to Grad School, Martin.
Don’t go to Grad School, Jane.
Don’t become a specialist.
Don’t forge a career.
Pretty soon you won’t know what to say.
Spend that year sitting in a field,
watching the birds fly
and the seasons change
and you’ll know more than all your classmates.
Grad School is for wimps anyway.

Beach, Business, Boobs

2005-04-08T21:27:00.003+02:00

I saw an American woman at the beach in Florida (America’s paradise).
She had great breasts.
But I didn’t like her,
even though she married someone I knew. (I don’t like him either.)
She worked for a big corporation
that sucks
the life out of people everywhere like a money-pumping vacuum.
Money, resources, time, vitality – all sucked up forever.
Too bad she didn’t work as a doctor
in a famine-stricken country in Africa or at a shelter in NYC.
With those fabulous breasts,
she could have healed hundreds.

Ode to the Twin Towers

2005-04-04T04:49:00.000+02:00

My whole childhood
revolved around New York.
All my relatives talked about it.
The Yankees played there.
And the bag ladies of the Bowery lived there.
Every time we drove from the Poconos
to New York though,
the first glimpse of Manhattan we kids got
was of the Twin Towers.
And the first kid who saw them won.
Now the towers are gone.
But we stopped playing that game
a long, long time ago.

Feed On This!

2005-04-02T17:21:00.000+02:00

American food sucks.
It’s time we admit it.
Don’t be ashamed, it’s not your fault.
There’s not one single healthy thing
from sea to shining sea.
Not a one.
Our colons are clogged.
We’re fat cows with bad skin/hair/body odor.
Asians have better food.
So do Europeans.
So do Indians.
What’s our problem?
I declare a State of Emergency
for the American food problem
and this poem will come
to your personal rescue.
This poem is nutritious nectar.
Suck on it slowly,
and you’ll be nursed back into health.

Word Diet

2005-04-01T09:24:00.000+02:00

Americans are so fat
they no longer resemble humans.
Pick a human – any race – and stand it next to an American and you’ll just scratch your head.
The human will look like an action figure
in the hands of the big, fat American.
Cripes.
All my countrymen and women are blimps.
Americans are so fat that–
Oh, nevermind…

(In support of my fellow Americans, I’m going on a word diet and not finishing the rest of this poem.)

Bankable Poetry

2005-03-29T13:50:00.000+02:00

My poems are right here
like the nose on your face
composed of words
and erections.
My poems don’t care
about the weather
or the stock market,
not even for symbols.
My poems don’t care about symbols either.
My poems don’t like SUVs, golf or NASCAR.
But my poems are more American than you are.

My poems don’t watch Oprah
or Fox News
or MTV.
My poems don’t listen to Britney
or Outkast
or Madonna.
My poems are outcasts of their own madonnas.
My poems will never win the Pulitzer,
but they don’t care.
My poems just want to make a lot of money to help poor kids in India…