Laughter hope sock in the eye's Blog

The Decider

I stepped into the river
It was wet and it was cold
My bones began to shiver
Just like I had been told

I stepped deeper in the river
And it didn’t get any better
I felt my body quiver
And my clothes were getting wetter

I kept descending deeper
And it didn’t feel so nice
I’m a plodder, not a leaper
But it felt as cold as ice

I continued on my quest
My parents did not raise a quitter
I would not fail this test
But the chill was getting bitter

I did not question why
As hypothermia numbed my brain
I’m not the kinda’ guy
Who is threatened by mere pain

They found my body on the shore
No more frigid quests for me
No more chances to explore
No more Brave New Worlds to see

It is true that I am dead
And it’s too late for revisions
But it never can be said
That I don’t stand by my decisions

by Richard W. Bray

What did you do in the Global War on Terror, Daddy?

(Editor’s Note: I am not the person who brought Mr. Goldberg’s family into this. It was Jonah Goldberg who hid inside his own daughter’s skirt when it came time to fight in a war he so assiduously promoted)

People move into violence by a disposition to treat the world as entirely theirs.

–Alfred Kazin

Every ten years or so, the United States needs to pick up some small crappy little country and throw it against the wall, just to show the world we mean business.

Jonah Goldberg

What is a Crappy Little Country, Mr. Goldberg?

What’s a crappy little country, Mr. Goldberg?
When cluster bombs are dropped upon its conscripts
Is it fecal matter rather than blood
That drains from their bodies?
When a little girl in a crappy little country cries
Because the car transporting her family
Was shot to bits at a checkpoint
Does she cry saline tears, like your daughter?
Or does liquefied shit ooze out of her eyes?
Or am I just taking your metaphor too literally?

by Richard W. Bray

(We are thrilled to announce new guest poster”> Wade, an artist who expresses himself in many media. He paints self-portraits on a variety of surfaces including toasters and other people’s artwork, and has recently turned his attention to dismantling, reconstituting, and painting discarded, often headless dolls which are then nestled together in the “basket o’babies.”

He is also a fixture at Southern California poetry readings and has published a book of poems entitled Madcap: Spontaneous Western Haiku by a Guy Named Wade. One of his first art pieces involved a doll’s head impaled on a skimmer pole, entitled “Baby Wade’s Head on a Stick.” It was utilized for emphasis during his poetry readings and lead to his self-portrait series.

He lives in Southern California with his wife and their furry children and is hard at work on the next painting in his admittedly egotistical self-portrait series.)

INSTRUCTIONS TO THE READER

Spontaneous Western Haiku #1996

Old places, new days

Old roles are recast

A clown (The Ghost) sits alone

EDTIOR’S NOTE:

Hey Kids! Want more poetic bang for your buck?
Rearrange the order of the Spontaneous Western
Haiku’s first three lines and repeat the previous
instructions

Low, Dishonest Decade

I sit in a Starbucks
In the town of Bill and Ted
As my once-great nation,
Founded with bold words and blood
Against the imperial yoke,
Horrifies the planet
With our lust for “revenge”
How did we who warded off
The brigands of Tripoli
Transmogrify into
Petroleum pirates?

by Richard W. Bray

Minor Chords

I’m the fly on the wall
The varnish on the table
The ghost in the doll

Yet, I am never truly noticed.