Don't like it, take it back, bring me a new one.

 

...First, a solemn prayer: With each new person who agrees to speedily send me some likely small amount of their precious money, my strength and willingness as a notable and relevant writer will grow, like a turtle with two loving parents. A turtle who some other virtuous and intelligent turtles consider good, and beautiful at times, and having some potential maybe still, and a fairly impressive vocabulary. Now listen here: it is a categorical fact, in late, sadistic, rather flammable August of 2023, that it's no longer in poor taste to ask for money, when you write despite everything, including your morbid, relative laziness, and disdain for the world of women and men and States. After doing this with no financial motive for years and years, prior to now. And if you think it is gauche, etc,. to write such preambles to germane, timely poems, then i'm forced to disagree with you, and add a few words here and there in order to waste your time and cause you to sniff. I understand completely that it's not exactly endearing or very palatable to directly ask for money just because i feel i'm a valid and somewhat worthy writer, but i can promise you i do it intentionally, meaning it would have been easy simply to monetize the web-log or move to a different format with more secure and sanctioned means of accepting donations, etc. Yes, some people who read this shit have good reasons not to donate. Other people, sadly, are just cheap chiseling motherfuckers who might consider writing their own damn poems and essays of very necessary moral contempt and outrage. I'll monetize, etc., in my own damned time, or I won't. I sincerely feel there's some odd, small dignity in asking directly, and even more than once. Or perhaps it's just the laziness and my being a bit of a pushy, lately more brittle bastard. Only two people have given me money since I swallowed my decorum and undertook this mendicancy, and they aren't wealthy (and one of them is a single mother, and i hope her husband pays out of his motherfucking ass once the barristers have done their sleazy job). These two helpmeets of mine are certainly rich in terms of taste and kindness, though. You're smart, and if you're game, you can figure out how to contact me or be my modest benefactor. Also i came up with the idea for using the internet to directly, financially support small, local and distant, sometimes lazier artists and spitting screed-writers and the like, way back in 1998 but you don't see me suing anyone or getting stabbed to death in San Francisco, do you. The Great Architect keeps really precise records and when i get to Heaven i'm going to have a giant expense account, and all the beggars, artists and homeless people I've known will take me to the bar and we'll have a raucous sing-along. And now for the poesy let's get right into it please like comment and subscribe and be sure to follow me everywhere, just don't make it too obvious i'm warning you i have great peripheral vision and situational awareness...

I don't like google, anymore.

I don't like sexting

Don't like tinder,

don't like LinkedIn

Or Grindr either

I don't like scallops, and never have,

Or Nazis at all for sure

Or communists

Or braindead democrats

Who bray and

Love saying the phrase,

"Cunspeercie theery"

Like vicious, nasty children

Singing mean-spirited

Little bratty songs

To a bullied loner, at recess,

Or

Rather just like the weak non-leftists

and grubby,

off-shoring union-gutters the

D's have

Actually become, since at least non-11,

Which seemed to make them

Forget a lot of things,

Like how to oppose

Capital and MIC-imperialism

And the murderous fascist deep state,

Or admit that powerful conspiracies

Are horribly real and

Super-significant,

Or even bray about them.

As I was saying,

These weakling spineless

Sybarite democrats,

Repeating themselves,

Cunspeercie theery cunspeercie theery

Just to bully

And exclude and be

Mean in spirit,
and also, i suspect,
the motherfuckers are simply lying and faking,
and hiding under
their cribs of mock-rationalism.
Motherfuckers never heard of Abe Lincoln or the Kennedys, i guess.

Malcolm X knew wtf he was talking about when he called you out,
you white penises, you pale scrawny pussies.

Don't likem,

Not very much at least.

Or only as much

As the R's

And their much more

Consistent,

Somewhat less addled

World-view and prejudices.

Don't like my neighbors,

Probably,

Don't like the modern version

Of cartoons or government

Or pop music

I don't enjoy

Striving towards very distant retirement

While dodging

A seasoned army

Of multiplying and dependably reproductive Cancers

And being more or less

Poor along the way

What I like

Is free time,

kindness

And decency, and

People thinking of

Things other than

Themselves

I don't like

An excess of opinions,

Which should mostly

Be kept to oneself

Unless goaded,
Or writing poems,

Or having a proper

Discussion or debate

With someone else who

Is principled,

In earnest,

And not hopelessly dumb

Or mean-spirited or

One of these sociopaths

Whose numbers are

Well-known to be

Increasing,

For various reasons,

Some of them spooky,

As far as I'm concerned.

Don't like capitals
or small depressing towns
except my own,
don't like having to
copy and paste
these necessary but admittedly indulgent and drawn-out poems
from one shitty format to another
and then debate with myself
whether or not to go
and chop down the ugly capital letters

at the beginning of each little line,
thus i added this stanza.

To recapitulate,

Sincerely, I don't like

People stating

What they like and do not like

Quite as much

As they tend to.

I bet some real hunger

And poverty

And effective martial law

Would

Shut us quite the fuck up.

I don't, or rather,

I tend not to like people who

Don't own any plants,

Which are not barred

By any known housing lease,

Like animal pets often are,

Being messy and

Potentially dangerous,

As we animals may be.

I dislike with a

Particular and impatient focus

people

Who say they hate jazz.

You can dislike jazz,

But don't be a philistine asshole

About it,

You sad,

Noisy pervert.

I don't like getting old.

Nor falling down accidentally

Or because I've been attacked,

Or struck by a more

Insensible force of nature

Like a giant steel girder

Or earthquake.

I don't dislike a good pratfall though.

I do like

W.C. Fields.

And the popular French-negro comedian,

David Chapelle.

I've even written

A song in DC's honor,

in nonsense-French.

I don't like newspaper editors, generally.

Or other kinds of

press secretaries.

Don't like monkeys dressed in

Tutus or Tuxedos,

Etc.,

By blunt tool humans

Who think that's funny.

I don't like the blunt tools

Themselves when they all

Willingly wear business suits

At weddings, funerals,

Award ceremonies and

Job interviews,

And every dog and pony show

Of both politics and business.

Am I to suppose

Everything is business,

Or suitable?

Or that a better model

Of "suit" has never

In about 150 years

Been imagined?

We are pawns in a mysteriously ancient game that few understand,
but most pretend or are blind to,
Facts.

Are the standards of necktie

And cut of lapel

Really that inviolably perfect?

Fuck you

I doubt it.

Bad dog! Dumb dog!

Don't like cruelty

To poor folks,
black, yella, tan, and white folks,

or to insane and mentally ill people,

Or the non-housed.

Or even to the elderly and senile.

I won't stand for
illegally obtained adrenochrome.

Don't like extremely cold weather

Or extremely hot climates,

Do not like calamities

Nor state-sponsored psy-ops

And falls flaggereh

I really, really don't like

this new craze of 

global, mass murderous arson.

This evil, devious giving of a bad name to forest fires,

when it's just devilish fucking arson.

Don't don't don't

Do do do

Don'ty Doodie Duty