sleep is a currency
whose price
fluctuates in
tender
sometimes
it is worth
the exchange rate
other times
its worth
devalues
everything else
sleep is a currency
whose pace
fluctuates in
tides
sometimes
it is deeper
than you are tall
other times
it is shallow
the enemy of
progress
sleep is a currency
whose presence
fluctuates in
time
sometimes
it is gentle
in daydreams
other times
it is indefatigable
never satisfied
with substitutes
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Monday, October 11, 2010
agon
using the phrase
“anxiety of influence”
is irksome
because someone else
thought of it
first
they say
creativity lives
at dusty crossroads
worn smooth
by bigger feet
with roadsigns
smudged
by older fingers
but that's
small consolation
“anxiety of influence”
is irksome
because someone else
thought of it
first
they say
creativity lives
at dusty crossroads
worn smooth
by bigger feet
with roadsigns
smudged
by older fingers
but that's
small consolation
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Intuition
sometimes
in the labyrinth of thought
you trip over a cord
and you realize
that you're on the outside
and have to find your way
back in
there's a minotaur
and it's sleeping
waiting to be killed
by you
and the cord
is tied
to its big toe
you know this
you can feel the gentle pull
and it isn't until
it's set
that you find
that the hook
was on your end
-matt
http://www.mypatchworkpants.blogspot.com
in the labyrinth of thought
you trip over a cord
and you realize
that you're on the outside
and have to find your way
back in
there's a minotaur
and it's sleeping
waiting to be killed
by you
and the cord
is tied
to its big toe
you know this
you can feel the gentle pull
and it isn't until
it's set
that you find
that the hook
was on your end
-matt
http://www.mypatchworkpants.blogspot.com
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Full Disclosure
have you ever thought
that everyone has one thing
inside
that defines their purpose
for living
and once they say it
or write it
or do it
or whatever
that they are tied down
to the spot
where it happens
and are forced to relive it
for the rest of their lives
in conversation or repetition
to satisfy the people
that need it
sometimes i think
i could find
what my something is
if i just wrote and wrote
and did and did
but
sometimes
i think
i don't want to be tied
so sometimes
i don't say everything
when it's my turn
and other times
i don't write anything
when i feel the pull
and i clutch my something
close to my chest
and stay small
that everyone has one thing
inside
that defines their purpose
for living
and once they say it
or write it
or do it
or whatever
that they are tied down
to the spot
where it happens
and are forced to relive it
for the rest of their lives
in conversation or repetition
to satisfy the people
that need it
sometimes i think
i could find
what my something is
if i just wrote and wrote
and did and did
but
sometimes
i think
i don't want to be tied
so sometimes
i don't say everything
when it's my turn
and other times
i don't write anything
when i feel the pull
and i clutch my something
close to my chest
and stay small
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Hey you
Hey you!
Let’s stop eating and see which of us drops first.
I’m ready to be mad.
I’m ready to be mad with you, too.
Have you ever kept a soul in your pocket for warmth?
I have.
It’s the saddest thing ever.
When your pocket finally breaks, it gets cold.
And the pocket never fixes
The same as it was.
And the soul just thuds angrily
Into the dirt.
Like you made the pocket or something.
Hey you!
Let’s stop sleeping and see which of us dreams first.
You dream like you're mad.
Do you want to be mad with me, too?
One time
I sewed up a pocket with dreams…
Let’s stop eating and see which of us drops first.
I’m ready to be mad.
I’m ready to be mad with you, too.
Have you ever kept a soul in your pocket for warmth?
I have.
It’s the saddest thing ever.
When your pocket finally breaks, it gets cold.
And the pocket never fixes
The same as it was.
And the soul just thuds angrily
Into the dirt.
Like you made the pocket or something.
Hey you!
Let’s stop sleeping and see which of us dreams first.
You dream like you're mad.
Do you want to be mad with me, too?
One time
I sewed up a pocket with dreams…
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Icarus
A thick blue mist crept softly over the dying party as they serenely danced away their tomorrows.
"I love you, you know," he gently breathed into her ear.
A knowing laugh.
"But we just met," came the playful reply, "...not even two hours ago."
The music continued, keeping perfect time with their slow shuffle. The hypnotic flicker of a nearby fire whispered desires that blushed their cheek-to-cheek.
"I love you, you know," he gently breathed into her ear.
A knowing laugh.
"But we just met," came the playful reply, "...not even two hours ago."
The music continued, keeping perfect time with their slow shuffle. The hypnotic flicker of a nearby fire whispered desires that blushed their cheek-to-cheek.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
finish me out
lost soul
i think we met before
while we were old
just in passing
watching a sun set
we didnt' speak
but old eyes never
need words to love
finish me out
lost soul
i love you
the way a child
loves a playground
in the distance
as a reader
loves a blank sheet
in an author's hand
like a farmer
loves a steady rain
on his fields
finish me out
lost soul
in your tears
i see the reason
for art
i think we met before
while we were old
just in passing
watching a sun set
we didnt' speak
but old eyes never
need words to love
finish me out
lost soul
i love you
the way a child
loves a playground
in the distance
as a reader
loves a blank sheet
in an author's hand
like a farmer
loves a steady rain
on his fields
finish me out
lost soul
in your tears
i see the reason
for art
Thursday, December 17, 2009
A Casual Breakdown of Everything
Silence first, then something to fill it. Sequence the filler. Suddenly, meaning.
That's it. That's all we get to play with.
Silence and sound. Pressure and release. Expectation and fulfillment.
Arrangement!
Points become lines become letters become words become sentences become thoughts become ideas become ideologies become actions become lives become communities become networks become…
In the end, it’s not really all that complicated.
It’s all just silence and something to fill it.
It’s all just a bunch of dots.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Deep Roots
Posted on fb: Friday, December 4, 2009 at 1:27am
I’m crazy for deep roots. The kind that tickle deeply hidden stillwaters, that at a squinted glance correctly infer more than what I know I don’t know, with that irresistible eye-twinkle of mystery that reminds me of the moon on slow-moving rivers at midnight. A slight, pleasant smirk of time-worn wisdom inevitably lingers around the face and peeks out of the most curious little nooks, only to disappear again as if, for some happy moment, you just imagined it.
These are the reincarnated ones.
Their silence is a music of remembrance; their walk, the calm cadence of a moss-covered sundial. Every word they use they have said before, and they could tell you a story about each syllable. A sad story and a happy story, too, if you like.
I want them all to tell me that I’m special… that they’ve seen me someplace before – 1945, in fact – and didn’t I go on and do some really swell things and help a great many people?
And, were that to happen, of course I’d have my reply rehearsed and ready: “No, no that wasn’t me, but I’m proud you think so. Would you mind telling me what they did and how they did it?” I’m still waiting for my chance… but I'm more than alright with just a quick story. A happy one, please.
They all buy cards. Piles and piles of cards. Stacks, mounds, wheelbarrows full of cards. Cradles full of cards. Hospitals full of cards. Hearses full of cards.
They know that all we got is connection.
And there I stand, watching them, a snot-nosed twenty-four-year-old child, staring a fresh life smack between the eyes… looking like a deer disoriented by the moon’s reflection on a slow-moving river at midnight… reaching for the stillwaters…
And trying real hard to grow my roots deep.
Let's Go.
Posted on fb: Sunday, November 29, 2009 at 2:41pm
Let’s go skydiving and hold hands on the way down.
Let’s go plant a tree in a forgotten forest and visit it over the years like an old friend.
Let’s go to a random concert and have a band sign t-shirts that we wear until the names fade.
Let’s go buy a pizza with anchovies, pick them all off, and share a hot meal with a stray cat.
Let’s go buy AFI’s top 100 movies and watch them all in one year.
Let’s go spelunking and not tell anyone.
Let’s go on a quest to shake hands with Steve Martin.
Let’s go on a week-long cruise and never visit the sleeping cabin.
Let’s go play piano duets in a showroom and put out a hat for tips.
Let’s go have tea with eighty-year-old women and reminisce about old times.
Let’s go read an entire novel out loud, using character voices.
Let’s go trace our ancestries until the trees connect.
Let’s go play Battleship on a battleship.
Let’s go eat a thousand dollar meal.
Let’s go be extras on our favorite TV show.
Let’s go downtown and make faces at rich people.
Let’s go fingerpaint a mural and hang it in the main room.
Let’s go ride together on a sled down a snowy hill in wintertime.
Let’s go learn a language that no one else knows, just for inside jokes.
Let’s go to a remote mountaintop at Perseids and count shooting stars until the sun rises.
Let’s go skydiving and hold hands on the way down.
Let’s go plant a tree in a forgotten forest and visit it over the years like an old friend.
Let’s go to a random concert and have a band sign t-shirts that we wear until the names fade.
Let’s go buy a pizza with anchovies, pick them all off, and share a hot meal with a stray cat.
Let’s go buy AFI’s top 100 movies and watch them all in one year.
Let’s go spelunking and not tell anyone.
Let’s go on a quest to shake hands with Steve Martin.
Let’s go on a week-long cruise and never visit the sleeping cabin.
Let’s go play piano duets in a showroom and put out a hat for tips.
Let’s go have tea with eighty-year-old women and reminisce about old times.
Let’s go read an entire novel out loud, using character voices.
Let’s go trace our ancestries until the trees connect.
Let’s go play Battleship on a battleship.
Let’s go eat a thousand dollar meal.
Let’s go be extras on our favorite TV show.
Let’s go downtown and make faces at rich people.
Let’s go fingerpaint a mural and hang it in the main room.
Let’s go ride together on a sled down a snowy hill in wintertime.
Let’s go learn a language that no one else knows, just for inside jokes.
Let’s go to a remote mountaintop at Perseids and count shooting stars until the sun rises.
Fond
Posted on fb: Monday, November 2, 2009 at 12:29am
What I done read at NGU poetry night, Oct 29, 2009
**I read this at the poetry night at North Greenville University. It was received warmly, but I didn't really get any feedback besides the "oh, you" kind of stuff. So yeah, I was curious as to what you maybe thought about it... i suppose you could call it the time-worn artist's lack of confidence**
When a chef cooks meat, only in rare and very specific circumstances does he use a non-stick pan, even though that would prevent a lot of mess and save him clean-up time. The surprising thing is, the little burned-up bits of meat that stick to the bottom of the pan during the cooking process… the stubborn, shoulder-straining, scrubber-resistant bits that a non-stick pan would prevent… they are some of the most sought-after bits in cooking. They are called the “fond.” This is the story of fond.
When raw meat is put into a hot pan, assuming you know what you’re doing, it doesn’t just burst into flames and turn into a pile of ashes. At the spot where the meat hits the heat, that place where there is the most action, the place where the mechanism of change is being transferred from a source, pieces of cooked flesh adhere to the cooking vessel and are torn away as the meat moves. Yet what takes place during this violent time in the cooking process is not burning, but a chemical process called the Maillard reaction.
Certain foods, like meat, need a good amount of heat to be rendered suitable for their intended dish. The application of said heat to these foods causes their proteins and sugars to react with one another, creating brand new and unique compounds that are responsible for a vast array of tastes and smells that wouldn’t exist otherwise. The Maillard reaction is what makes bread into toast and roasts coffee beans. Without it, foods such as caramel, maple syrup and chocolate could not exist. And it is a result of this reaction that keeps foods cooked in pans from having black layers of char on any surfaces that are come into contact with the heat source. In other words, it allows the food to bend without breaking.
When the meat has completed the cooking process and is GBD (golden brown and delicious… it’s a real term, look it up), it is removed from the heat, leaving the little casualties in the pan with the rest of what was lost during the cooking period (juices, fat, and the like). The chef does not wash the pan at this point, however. It would be a sacrilege, anathema! It is said that in France a novice chef would be mercilessly whipped with baguettes by his coworkers for wasting such a precious commodity. For the fond is used to create what is most succulent about any well-prepared dish: the sauce. The more fond, the better, as it is used to infuse the essence of the cooked ingredient into an accentual addition that transforms a one-note dish into a gourmet meal. Once the meat is done cooking, the chef removes it from the heat and places it on a covered plate to rest. Using a deglazing liquid such as water, milk, or wine, the fond is then coaxed from the bottom of the pan and becomes a flavor base on which to build the sauce.
Without the fond, a sauce would lack cohesiveness in its taste profile, keeping it from complimenting the meal. In other words, it would be a stranger, devoid of context, intruding onto the plate. The meal would be neither complete nor satisfying.
With the fond, a pan-built sauce completes a meal, unifying the disparate parts into a single work of art, worthy of high prices and snooty waiters.
Sometimes I wonder how much fond-ness I really want to bring to this party.
What I done read at NGU poetry night, Oct 29, 2009
**I read this at the poetry night at North Greenville University. It was received warmly, but I didn't really get any feedback besides the "oh, you" kind of stuff. So yeah, I was curious as to what you maybe thought about it... i suppose you could call it the time-worn artist's lack of confidence**
When a chef cooks meat, only in rare and very specific circumstances does he use a non-stick pan, even though that would prevent a lot of mess and save him clean-up time. The surprising thing is, the little burned-up bits of meat that stick to the bottom of the pan during the cooking process… the stubborn, shoulder-straining, scrubber-resistant bits that a non-stick pan would prevent… they are some of the most sought-after bits in cooking. They are called the “fond.” This is the story of fond.
When raw meat is put into a hot pan, assuming you know what you’re doing, it doesn’t just burst into flames and turn into a pile of ashes. At the spot where the meat hits the heat, that place where there is the most action, the place where the mechanism of change is being transferred from a source, pieces of cooked flesh adhere to the cooking vessel and are torn away as the meat moves. Yet what takes place during this violent time in the cooking process is not burning, but a chemical process called the Maillard reaction.
Certain foods, like meat, need a good amount of heat to be rendered suitable for their intended dish. The application of said heat to these foods causes their proteins and sugars to react with one another, creating brand new and unique compounds that are responsible for a vast array of tastes and smells that wouldn’t exist otherwise. The Maillard reaction is what makes bread into toast and roasts coffee beans. Without it, foods such as caramel, maple syrup and chocolate could not exist. And it is a result of this reaction that keeps foods cooked in pans from having black layers of char on any surfaces that are come into contact with the heat source. In other words, it allows the food to bend without breaking.
When the meat has completed the cooking process and is GBD (golden brown and delicious… it’s a real term, look it up), it is removed from the heat, leaving the little casualties in the pan with the rest of what was lost during the cooking period (juices, fat, and the like). The chef does not wash the pan at this point, however. It would be a sacrilege, anathema! It is said that in France a novice chef would be mercilessly whipped with baguettes by his coworkers for wasting such a precious commodity. For the fond is used to create what is most succulent about any well-prepared dish: the sauce. The more fond, the better, as it is used to infuse the essence of the cooked ingredient into an accentual addition that transforms a one-note dish into a gourmet meal. Once the meat is done cooking, the chef removes it from the heat and places it on a covered plate to rest. Using a deglazing liquid such as water, milk, or wine, the fond is then coaxed from the bottom of the pan and becomes a flavor base on which to build the sauce.
Without the fond, a sauce would lack cohesiveness in its taste profile, keeping it from complimenting the meal. In other words, it would be a stranger, devoid of context, intruding onto the plate. The meal would be neither complete nor satisfying.
With the fond, a pan-built sauce completes a meal, unifying the disparate parts into a single work of art, worthy of high prices and snooty waiters.
Sometimes I wonder how much fond-ness I really want to bring to this party.
The Statesman
Posted on fb: Wednesday, November 5, 2008 at 4:24pm
The Statesman
By Matthew Martinez
Once upon a vote night dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious channel, lying on the floor,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly the sounds of clapping,
As of some one bust-a-capping, capping on some distant shore.
‘ ‘Tis some loony punk,’ I muttered, ‘clapping for some Senator -
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak November,
And each news show’s whining member wrought its host to tell the score
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to follow
All the tales surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the dying Poor –
For the sad and stupid people whom the pundits name The Poor –
Nameless there for evermore.
And the silly sad uncertain rustling of each red/blue curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some miracle entreating entrance on the Senate floor –
Some late miracle entreating entrance on the Senate floor; -
This it is, and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
‘Wolf,’ said I, ‘or Brokaw, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so briskly you came yapping,
And so loudly you came clapping, clapping for some Senator,
That I scarce knew that it was you’ – here I peered right to their core; -
Partisan and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Horror!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Horror!'
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into my bedroom turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a clapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my television;
Let me see then, stay derision, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis McCain and nothing more!'
It is here I changed the channel, when, emerging from a panel,
In there stepped a stately black man that I think I’d seen before.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above the Senate floor -
Perched upon a bust of George Bush just above the Senate floor -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this Senator beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly slim young politician wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the statesman, `Not Al Gore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing such above the Senate floor -
Black or white above the sculptured bust above the Senate floor,
With such name as `Not Al Gore.'
But the statesman, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one phrase, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – only dollar bills he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other men have run before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as the candidates before.'
Then the man said, `Not Al Gore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Not Al- Not Al Gore."'
But Obama still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of man and bust and floor;
Then, upon the futon sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this Democrat man of yore -
What this slim, infamous, ghastly, gaunt, Illinoisan Senator
Meant in croaking `Not Al Gore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the screen whose fiery rays now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
Gazing on my wall’s thick lining that the TV gloated o’er,
But whose GOP stained lining with the TV gloating o’er,
Shall support, ah, not Al Gore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of before!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and the primaries ignore!'
Quoth the statesman, `Not Al Gore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if man or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the statesman, `Not Al Gore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if man or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore –
Tell this vote with sorrow laden if, within the distant future,
We shall get a man to nurture our sick land and drill offshore –
Get a strong and willing leader, whom the Senate won’t ignore?’
Quoth the statesman, `Not Al Gore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, friend or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the race and Senate floor!
Take thy words from out my heart, and tell me who I’m voting for!'
Quoth the statesman, `Not Al Gore.'
And the statesman, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of George Bush just above the Senate floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a statesman that is dreaming,
And the cameras o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Hence has voted – not Al Gore!
The Statesman
By Matthew Martinez
Once upon a vote night dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious channel, lying on the floor,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly the sounds of clapping,
As of some one bust-a-capping, capping on some distant shore.
‘ ‘Tis some loony punk,’ I muttered, ‘clapping for some Senator -
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak November,
And each news show’s whining member wrought its host to tell the score
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to follow
All the tales surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the dying Poor –
For the sad and stupid people whom the pundits name The Poor –
Nameless there for evermore.
And the silly sad uncertain rustling of each red/blue curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some miracle entreating entrance on the Senate floor –
Some late miracle entreating entrance on the Senate floor; -
This it is, and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
‘Wolf,’ said I, ‘or Brokaw, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so briskly you came yapping,
And so loudly you came clapping, clapping for some Senator,
That I scarce knew that it was you’ – here I peered right to their core; -
Partisan and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Horror!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Horror!'
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into my bedroom turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a clapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my television;
Let me see then, stay derision, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis McCain and nothing more!'
It is here I changed the channel, when, emerging from a panel,
In there stepped a stately black man that I think I’d seen before.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above the Senate floor -
Perched upon a bust of George Bush just above the Senate floor -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this Senator beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly slim young politician wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the statesman, `Not Al Gore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing such above the Senate floor -
Black or white above the sculptured bust above the Senate floor,
With such name as `Not Al Gore.'
But the statesman, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one phrase, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – only dollar bills he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other men have run before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as the candidates before.'
Then the man said, `Not Al Gore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Not Al- Not Al Gore."'
But Obama still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of man and bust and floor;
Then, upon the futon sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this Democrat man of yore -
What this slim, infamous, ghastly, gaunt, Illinoisan Senator
Meant in croaking `Not Al Gore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the screen whose fiery rays now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
Gazing on my wall’s thick lining that the TV gloated o’er,
But whose GOP stained lining with the TV gloating o’er,
Shall support, ah, not Al Gore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of before!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and the primaries ignore!'
Quoth the statesman, `Not Al Gore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if man or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the statesman, `Not Al Gore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if man or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore –
Tell this vote with sorrow laden if, within the distant future,
We shall get a man to nurture our sick land and drill offshore –
Get a strong and willing leader, whom the Senate won’t ignore?’
Quoth the statesman, `Not Al Gore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, friend or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the race and Senate floor!
Take thy words from out my heart, and tell me who I’m voting for!'
Quoth the statesman, `Not Al Gore.'
And the statesman, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of George Bush just above the Senate floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a statesman that is dreaming,
And the cameras o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Hence has voted – not Al Gore!
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