Rock Accountant

Month: January, 2016

Breasts

Breasts simply are not given the credit they deserve.

I started out being kept alive by them. Then they disappeared, encrypted in bras and starched dress canopies. I, of course, was hormonally designed to think of little else.
I spotted not one until I found a National Geographic Magazine, which permitted the naked breast under the auspices of anthropology.
That was pretty much it until high school when dark automobiles established the breasts as “first base.”
In college, as a hippy, I plowed happily into the women’s movement. Women used their breasts as a symbol of liberation, and I never knew a man that quickly did not come on board.
Corporate television maintained it’s ban on them. The major networks CBS, ABC, and NBC, hold on to this righteousness to this day keeping some aging folks happy.
The rise of cable TV is indebted to naked breasts. It simply would not exist without them. Nor, as it happens, would the internet, which uses information as an intermission for its porn.

Poem: To Please Him

He climbs on me at night
to do bug things.
“Remember our first time,”
he whispers in the mean humming pitch
of warm August night locusts?
“Always,” I whimper.
He smoothes his antennae over our pillows,
like the handsome actor.
“Are you ready to die?” He sighs,
like small talk.
“Yes, I will die.” I plead.
He is pleased,
and I am safe.

It knew
I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped it in thick brown paper
and ran straight home
after it raped me.
I could not leave it there.
Not knowing where it was.

At breakfast
he asks, “So what shall we do today?
So casually that I am confused.
He touches my hand, his carapace hard
and unalive. I watch my thumb caress
the shell.
In small back and forth dread.
“What would make you happy?” I said
He smiles
and I exhale.

I told him tonight
His grubs live in me.
I feel them tearing to come out.
Praying daddy longlegs scraping
and burrowing for air.
His head on my stomach
listening and whirring insect songs to them.
I stroke the needle hairs on his back.
I know he loves me.

My deceit holds no estate in him.
I have vanished into what has hurt me.
Life forbids I feel nothing at all.
I will love my children.

Its Great Not To Be Black

There is a glaringly uneven and racist distribution of concussions going on in America. Black students are lured to the college football plantation under the pretense of a free education while white kids protect themselves from skull fractures simply by paying their way out.
It is the Vietnam War playing itself out again on African Americans only, this time, it’s on the gridiron. These universities have more than enough money to give scholarships to needy students without demanding they earn it in their stadiums. But they love money. They need to gain tenure. How else can the NFL survive?
There is an undeniable parallel between the percentage of blacks in prison and the players in the NFL. I’ll bet though I am not certain the same holds true for our armed services. Three doors, concussion, prison, or battle. It’s great not to be black.

Go Patriots!

 

 

The Oscars

I have decided to boycott the Oscars unless the concussion film wins for best picture. I come from a generation of athletes who were presumed, accurately, to be profoundly stupid. But this movie made me understand that the athletes of today relinquish their potential careers in academia to play football for us.
I think to myself, ” Is the specter of the Syrian refugee crisis, even a tragedy compared to the horror of ex-football stars bumping around the walls of their thirty-two million dollar mansions, forgetting which is the guest or master bedrooms?” I think not.

Poem: The Unanchored Mother and Her Cupcakes

The unanchored mother
is sure-footed
when she bakes.
She floats the cupcakes in shallow seas of Crisco.
Riding them in neat lines
side by side
In crimped colored tissue,
like well-dressed immigrants,
on an ocean voyage
to the oven.

The unanchored mother
broke from her moorings,
today.
The husband is gone.
Cakes will take his place.
She daydreams of icing slapped mouths
and what she will say
about the hole,
at the end of the table
where their anchor used to sit.
The Cyclops eye of long marriage,
that photographed the past, is patched and blank now.
She has only her two eyes left
To remember the children.

The unmoored mother bobs in her waters
of empty plates and crumbs.
The kids hurry through the suppertimes
glancing rarely at the hole.
Then they floated away.

The unanchored mother,
rocks in her childless, noiseless sea,
and reaches for another cupcake.

 

 

Poem: To Be Weak

 
I hunt for proverbs all day long.

To steer me through my day.

They don’t help me much,

melting as they do

like ice,

against my determination

to be weak.

 

 

 

Poem: Wondering About Wisdom

I have come to wonder about wisdom.
I doubt such a thing
could be real.
Philosophers reason,
the novelists report.
But all are only
small moments of cleverness.
Like Platitudes and Proverbs
coaxing a better behavior
that lasts a morning.
God offers certainty and hope
but charges you death.
If that is wisdom,
what is nonsense?
Is wisdom ever a tool?
It disappoints me
that I am not wise
I expected that by now
I would be.
Wealth and prestige come with age,
the sexy petticoats of envy.
They confuse you
when you are young.
And the old are stubborn
and ashamed to admit it.
So they whisper to the young
” come near for I am wise.”
And they do
At least for a while.

Concussions

I find myself on the wrong side of everything. I refused to go to that concussion movie because I felt it might eventually interfere with the violence in professional football. I mean, I watch it for the violence. Then I hear that the wife of the star of the movie is all pissed off that her husband didn’t get nominated, and she is trying to get Chris Rock to pull out of being the host. I was only going to watch the Oscars because of Chris Rock. My day is proceeding darkly.

Squirrels, Hating Trump,and Smart Hot Women

It is lucky for all of you I am not part of the voting electorate.
I want Trump to win.
All the Republicans hate him because he is a New York Jewish liberal and deep down they know it. They also hate him because the wealthy party members have spent so much money buying off the other idiots. The Tea Party hates him because he has never eaten a squirrel.
The Democrats hate him because he is male and surrounds himself with strong, smart, mostly pretty women, ( just like the media does). Unlike the news women, however, his can do mathematics. These are females who do not fear to piss off Oprah Winfrey. Women who deserve what they have because of what they have earned. Not because it is their turn.
The media all loathe him. Talk radio, CBS, NBC, ABC and FOX detest him because he makes them look ridiculous. It is he who has bought them.
He says things we are not allowed to say. Walls should be built to keep living in America valuable. People who hate us should not be shoved into our country because we are afraid to say no. We should drive hard bargains in trade. What dream world have we fallen into where it matters if other countries like us? The real world is not FaceBook. We should demand that the world envies us; it will give them something to do.

We need to manufacture things, so our poorest cities like Chicago and Detroit can grow again. Black people are poor because the Democrats want them to stay that way, and the Republicans could care less. They should be the most powerful people in our country, instead of living in the narcotic bread lines. If Black lives matter when cops extinguish them, don’t the millions of black men rotting in prisons while their families disappear matter even more? It is not racist cops that are the problem it is the racist laws.

Presidents have purchased the job before and have done quite well. At least half of our Presidents came from this pool of the wealthy. Certainly many were better than those picked by our media.

Women are the Problem

Women are the problem. I have been stewing all day about that snake incident in Eden.
Eve and that Serpent were right. God and Adam were largely full of shit. After all, what kind of Deity forbids a woman from doing anything. First, he puts her in the Garden of Eden, then threatens her about not eating the centerpiece fruit of an apple tree. Holy hamsters!, How dumb could you be? I can’t stop my wife from eating the top layer, and best-buttered, of my popcorn before the movie even starts.
What exactly was God’s point insisting on this Jeopardy clue about an apple?
Remember this was even before He invented apple worms.
Granted this was God’s first shot at creating a universe, and fucking Adam had landed out of nowhere, by himself, with no real-time life experience at all. This blockhead wasn’t sure he was even naked until Eve show up, and he got a hard-on. On top of that, our hapless deity had forgotten to pack an extra rib in His toolbox.
God of course, in his infinite pettiness, got all over Adam’s shit about the whole episode and Adam picked up from there and laid guilt on Eve like linoleum for the next ten-thousand tears.
But of course, women are the problem.
Go Steelers!!!!

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