In this second episode of Poetry with Mr. McLeod, Ian offers you a glimpse into his mind as he ponders the possibilities of postmodernism.
Poetry with Mr. McLeod (I)
I hope you are all having a wonderful new year thus far. My job situation has regularized somewhat in recent weeks, which means I am no longer working 70 hour weeks, which means I have returned! This is but one of many poems I’ve written, and I’ve decided to share my best work with you, American Nonfiction’s loyal readers, in this new series of posts. I may, at times, post public domain poetry and commentary as well, for your edification. I hope you enjoy.
Irish Guilt
New Year’s Eve has come and gone. Most of us remember the night when ball dropped. However, Irish Guilt is a work of prose for those among us who can’t remember a thing. Ring in the New Year with a remembrance of times forgotten.
Which Is
Heartbreak is a tiny city square, one stop up from my local buss stop, and every Sunday I take the trip up to Heartbreak, where my friend runs a coffee shop and I read on the over sized furniture while sipping Lattes or which ever drink best represents the right mood for the intended literature. Which is to say Life, as binary, is a repeating series of on and off switches.
B-load
Flitch…Flitch…Flitch...Flame
i bring the lighter to the bowl
i suck and puff and suck and puff and suck.
pull the chamber, free the carb
and fill my lungs until the slightest pain hits
my receptors.
the pain becomes meaning after
a short ahgh! ahem! ahgh!
The Count of Monte Cristo (Trinity Verson)
This last Sunday, Wesley took his first stab at Open Mic with his poem “The Count of Monte Cristo”. In honer of his brevity to stand up in front of a group of people he knows, we post the poem here for you to enjoy.
Big Brother
do what they tell you
or you might find happiness.
listen to them and learn
to live in the dark.
follow them blindly
to see all your pain.
do not question authority,
you may discover reality.
Stoned Ego Freak
i got so stoned
i forgot to laugh
at myself while i instead
inside my head
shuddered at the dread
of my convictions
Cop Haiku
the police lie a lot
makes me sick
demented fuckers
once involved they stick
their head right
up into your ass
Crisis of Faith
The sun reaches for the horizon and peeks through window blinds. The frustrated and sleep deprived shove long pointy objects into tires. The vehicle’s owner operates powerful, pneumatic drills that screech and whine beneath sublime pillows. Can’t write, can’t sleep, left to feel remorse for red hot blooded acts. The sad face with a tire iron in hands remains the headstone of remorse.
Irony strikes at the strangest moments, a quality of it’s namesake. The off hand comment to a lack of insomnia becomes a raging case of insomnia. Murphy’s luck and law. When it rains, the sky pours a full black book and I end up empty handed. Love in rose colored sweaty palms. No sleep from nocturnal admissions. Plan B, plug in earphones, crank Warren Zevon, and write till the fingers hurt and the head spins. Tiny problems rise in the application. The right words flee the fingers.
