Blackhumouristpress's Blog

July 17, 2019

America- 2020 Poor Vision

America 2020- two visions one schism.

One part Racism one part socialism and stir to a boil.

 

Bubble gum bubble gum in a dish which candidate do you pick? Attack the president and hope it sticks before the electorate gets too sick.

 

Some salute the flag and some kneel… this is a free country do what you feel… Unless you don’t think or look like me. In that case you’re the enemy.

 

Children, I have to warn you

Because I’ve been to California.

Needles is not just a city and there’s a reason the parks are so shitty.

 

The woke spoke and want to build moats along Nevada and near Philly. Those fly over red states are just dang silly. Gun loving hicks chasing queers in big trucks.   I just can’t believe those xenophobic fucks. They don’t even like Starbucks.

 

There’s no reason for a border

Things will work out and we’ll keep order.

We are making preparations, free college and reparations. How could the middle class have reservations?

 

AOC- can you see? We’re on the cusp of anarchy. All the people you might reach are in favor to impeach the president, undocumented residents, in an unprecedented age devoid of decorum a la Jerry Springer. It’s okay to shout when they speak and give them all the finger.

 

24-hour news propaganda that overloads the subliminal. At a minimal it looks like a mushroom cloud that covers the sun. Nowhere near where we once begun. Where do we begin?

June 21, 2019

Game Face

Filed under: divorce,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:27 am
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I got a secret. Maybe you can see it in my eyes

I can’t you let you know there’s nobody on the other side of that wall. Ask me how she is and how’s it going. Can you see it in my eyes that it’s gone? Doing this crazy thing alone. Fool them when they ask. Make them think it’s like it should be. The way it is everywhere they go. Are you alone? What do you mean exactly. Sorry, no not at all. She’s beyond that wall and the kids are upstairs where you remembered them when they were young. How are you? How is it going? I’m not offended even though you don’t care. I look at you and know I can take the pain a lot longer than you. I’m stronger than you and can tighten up in the face of pain knowing that it won’t last forever. Somewhere over there where the sun tries to hide. Never bring down the flag. It’s a matter of pride. “Give my best to the kids and bride…” I’m on the island and I do not see a ship at sea. You’re out there too maybe a bit like me.

June 5, 2019

From Canada to England

Tell my secretary to call Pierre. Tell her that I am going up there. I want to be courtside like Jack Nicholson to watch some hoops and rip the president.

 

“I want to apologize for everything…”

Pierre stopped Barack

as the woman began to sing, Oh Canada for the first time at an NBA final.

“Our people know all the words be it French or English.”

 

Speaking of English- Across the pond, carrying tariffs like a well armed sheriff.

“I like what you’ve done with this place, your majesty… You want to see a real palace? Come visit me… Nah, not that place in DC.”

 

The people on the streets stressed with the thought of Brexit. The British Trump looks poised to fix it. The mayor and various MP’s joined in with protest of the modern anxiety of this right winged Wehrmacht rolling across Europe from over seas.

 

Somewhere today on a beach far way, old men remember a truly hard day. They secured freedom and democracy. Nobody thinks to ask the elderly what they think of where we were and where we are today. And maybe it will always be that way.

May 29, 2019

Hold The Phone…

Filed under: america,cell phones,humor,humour,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:34 am
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I’ll take a picture of my food in exchange for validation. It’s make believe and I want you to believe everything is good and we’re happy. Ask any friend you’ve never met via the Internet.

 

Smile goddamit! This cost a fuck load and we’ve been on the road for ten hours passing Wall Drug, the Badlands just to see those presidents on a wall. And what’s it all for?

 

To feel as though there is purpose and direction as you jog on that treadmill of life to nowhere. Study hard and you’ll get somewhere you cannot stand to be with your jaded family. Your wife’s not listening, she’s on Instagram and the kids got the phone cam pointed towards them making duck lips and the peace symbol.

 

It’s all a symbol of misdirection in the age of technology and your phone knows the way. Your phone is your friend, the entertainment for the evening. You on the couch, her in the bed and when you sleep you can clear your head of all things you saw and all the things you read. There is so much out there for you to discover in life. Luckily it’s all on your phone.

January 31, 2019

To Be or Not to Be

I’m really worried about baby turtles on the beach

Wringing hands hoping they’ll reach shore… TURN OFF THOSE LIGHTS! and there’s more

I want a salad with no meat, no cheese… Are you aware the animals are raised with disease? in pens… Those poor hens

Spotted owls, alligator boots and those that become fur coats

 

I’ll stand at the gates while some poor soul waits to be executed for what he did on bad days…Anyways murder is wrong and I wrote this song about the travesty of ending a human life.

 

Don’t call it abortion, that’s a contortion of every woman’s right. Speaking of right, we have the right to stop the right to re-write Roe when we lose Ruth Bader. There will once come a day when you have the say to arrest on a birthday to prevent the fat, red headed, special needs or gay.

 

It will be like 23 and me for what’s growing in me so don’t call it infanticide. I thank Albany for thinking of me and standing for all that’s right.

 

Speaking of right we need to fight those evil Nazi misogynists. The racist, Russian loving wall builders who separate immigrants from their children… Yes that’s the key… the children, right?

June 23, 2018

Mommy and Daddy Voted For Trump- A Kid Book

Children I know you heard that once upon a time that momma and daddy voted for Obama back in 2008. Things then were not so great. Back when you were just a tadpole in dad’s bag and we were trying to secure Baghdad. Eight years of hope. Eight more? Nope.
Along came a man with a strange tan down an escalator. He told your parents that life could be better. Against all odds, against all predictions at 10pm eastern came the revelation. The American Brexit was born.
Now Aunt Tilly, the one married to Milly, both believe in freedom of speech and democracy as long as they agree. They told your parents that they were stupid and silly and yelled, “you are dumb… Racist, sexist and straight up deplorable.” For your parents the thought was unbearable the idea of Hillary as president. No borders and permanent illegal immigrants. Free college and a government job for all and no need for borders, passports, fences or walls. North Korean bombs headed for Guam, Syria feeling little like Vietnam with no hope or plan for ISIS or the return of the Tailban.
They probably would never admit this out loud but they are proud that as a boy, you wear blue and like firetrucks and they quietly believe it sucks that their values are the enemy of Hollywood, the press and talk show TV.
Russian collusion, Mueller commission fishing for obstruction and mom and dad are just so glad about the economy and their 401K and the prospect that Korean missles might go away. What do they do? What do they say? Nothing out of fear of being yelled at, belittled, attacked and driven away. Oh and by the way… You better hide this book today. Aunt Tilly is on her way. I shudder to think what she’ll think or what she’ll say and that’s just how it is everyday.

May 11, 2018

Forward

Filed under: poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:32 pm
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He wakes and sees himself in the mirror, squints like Clint
“I’m the boy I’ve always been… am I too old? I still feel young.”
Life’s a curious thing, miles of road in the rear view mirror and a
dead end up ahead.  It’s not what you heard or what I said. You’ll
soon forget the lunch bags and red roses. The mundane day-to-day
measured in minutes He kissed her lips on a sunny day drove the baby
to where she had to go.  Just trying to get it right.  He wakes when
they’re sleeping, says nothing.  I’m not leaving; it’s just a walk and
a quiet talk to the relatives gone before him letting them know others
are coming.  Fading, fading into a deeper fog of a mind stuck on
reset.  Life’s cruelty is to forget and lose comprehension of where,
what and why.   Life’s a struggle; life is tough but better than the
man with the cup by the freeway.  He’s lived a bunch of years, does he
get more? He thinks the deepest thing might be love.   Memories of
homes and hearts searching for the light switch in the dark.  It’s
there.  You will find it.

April 5, 2018

The Truth…

Reading all the news that’s fit to print like Pravda- It’s true, I believe distortion, verbal contortions and I resist reality. Where I live I pay the taxes and raise my fist against the axis of President Aprentice and the GOP because you all have a right to live with me- give me the bill- It’s your right! That’s what I get for being white…
I’m thinking of moving to soviet California and hold a sign at the lower border. “Welcome… sorry for the English… I never learned another language.”
The weather today… stormy with a chance of Daniels. A sexual collusion and the conclusion by Anderson Cooper? Consentual with no protection- Maybe we need another special prosecutor… I recuse myself myself from the fluff.
Oh you’re worried about a nuclear war? That is what the generals are for… A Marshall Plan for Little Kim… The president and Dennis Rodman are going to meet him. Picture Bjork singing with a lot of delay, blue jeans and Bourbon and cigarettes on a sunny day. Chinese winning a nobel prize. America strong! And Chinese wise! TMZ at the DMZ- sound bite news for the ADHD… Fuck it… Put on the Khardasians.
Angst a blue and red state of mind. All we want is the truth… Like a weird German once quoted- “Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies.”

October 7, 2017

The stay at Home Dad’s Poetry Meet-Up

Jack met Martin before they finally said a few words to Buck.  All
three of them had small children that they would take to the park at
about the same time.  There were Spanish and Polish speaking au pairs
and a few young moms but the three men found one another and became
friends.
Jack, a stand-up bass player in Jazz bands at night, watched his two
boys during the day.  His wife is an attorney and she essentially pays
for everything.  Jack needs to pay his car insurance and for his own
food when he eats out.  Jack lives in a big house and loves watching
documentaries on Netflix.  He’s a good dad but has trouble being
patient with his son, Jack Jr. who has ADD.
Martin writes short stories and poetry and makes almost no money
except that he takes care of pre-school age children on Mondays from
9-3.  His daughter gets to be part of the school for free and they
give Martin $200.00 a day for his work.  That money needs to stretch
all week.  His wife is a schoolteacher truly believes her husband will
get one of his manuscripts published one day.  She asks Martin to see
the queries he sends out daily to ensure that he is not playing video
games all day while their toddler twins play close by.
Buck is a high school hockey coach by night and a stay at home dad by
day.  Buck also plays hockey and is a referee to earn a few extra
dollars.  Buck makes $10,000.00 between September and March and then
he gets a few hundred for running clinics and camps in the summer
months.
When times were tough at home for the boys and their spouses, the
fact that their wives were carrying them more or less, did not go
without mention.  Martin’s wife was probably the harshest with him in
that he would go long periods of time without writing anything.  His
response would be that when there is acrimony between them, he
couldn’t get in the mindset to write anything.  Her response would be,
“Then go get a fucking job like every other man on the planet and quit
fucking moping…”
Jack’s wife hated Jazz but was turned on by him playing the stand-up
bass.  She wanted her husband to give music lessons on the side to
children to help make more money but he said that he really hated
children other than his own.  Truth be told, Jack wasn’t entirely sure
that he liked his boys all that much.  They were loud and messy and
truly whining little bitches in his opinion.  He felt that their mom
coddled them way too much.
Buck’s wife liked that her husband was rough and straightforward.  If
you were ugly, Buck might tell you so.  He was hard on his hockey
players and trained them to be as rough as possible.  Buck often wore
a shirt that he had made up himself that read, “MAKE HOCKEY VIOLENT
AGAIN”.  Buck still played ice hockey and still fought as a man in his
later forties.  His large dick could get hard on command and for that
reason, his wife found redeeming value in her caveman.
Martin spoke to an owner of a small restaurant about having a poetry
reading night once a week on a Tuesday night.  Most of the poetry
sucked but the authors believed it to be good.  Some would read short
stories or essays but most were poems.  Martin began a Meet-Up poetry
night at the same small club where Jack played Jazz at a drop-in Jazz
night on Wednesdays.  The owner, desperate for extra business, allowed
the bad poetry night and circle jerking Jazz musicians to play the
same tired old shit like hymns at a protestant church.  Jack played
the bass softly while people read.  There was a local finalist who
read his award-winning poem first.  His poem earned him a place in an
anthology of poems and a $500.00 award.  His name was Bruce and he
smelled of onions and had greasy wispy hair.  His collared shirt was
stained around the armpits and his ass crack hung out of the back of
his pants when he sat down.  He looked nearly homeless but was
actually a rich trust funder who never had to work a day in his life.
Nobody understood his poem but they all agreed it was good.  A young
black man came up and read his next.  He dug the bass behind him.  He
had a large Afro and was slightly angry just because it was en vogue.
He came from adopted white lesbians in a well to do area of town.  The
young, thin man grabbed the microphone and paced back and forth like a
distressed lion in a cage.
“What you need to know is a knee makes me free.  A knee tells the
world about my plight and all the things in society that just ain’t
right.  What you need to know is that my life matters and as a matter
of fact, you can’t know what it’s like to be in my skin or understand
where I’ve been.  A knee makes it right and I have the right to right
a wrong…  Play that bass, motha fuckah!”
A man named Jose came up and asked Jack to play the bass line for the
girl from Ipanema while he strummed a guitar and sang in Portuguese.
Nobody knew what he was saying but it really sounded nice.  The
English translation was not as nice.
“I loved to love you and loved you with all my muscle.  When you
fucked me in the ass, I  fucked you in the ass for real.  How dare you
take my shit and give me diseases.  Even though you did many wrong
things, I would take you back but lock my things up.  I love you…  I
love you…”
Next was the sushi woman.  The sushi woman catered parties dressed
like Betty Page from the 1950’s with no shirt on and a multitude of
tattoos.  Guys hired her for bachelor parties and football games.  Her
name is Gretchen; she’s 27, teaches Pilates and has a side gig as a
topless sushi maker.  Her poetic rant against Trump was with her shirt
off.  Over her nipples were two X’s of black tape.  She wore tight
black exercise pants and high heels her hair was poofed up high and
her black lipstick was thick.  Thick enough to need a scrubber to get
the paraffin off of her wine glass at the end of the night.  The men
didn’t give a damn about the message.  They marveled at her tight body
and round breasts.  People off the street stopped as they walked by to
look at the young woman on a stage, under lights.
“You’re not my president.  I’m no longer a resident of this country…
You shattered my hopes; you’ve shattered my dreams.  You taken the
best part of me and pulled it from my breast…” Gretchen cupped her
left breast from underneath.  Her natural breasts were round and firm.
Everyone clapped for her as if it was the best thing they ever heard.
She then passed out cards for her sushi catering with a picture of
herself without a shirt on, arms crossed, holding two knives.
Last to come up was Buck.  He had never done something like writing
poetry and reciting it.  He was strong looking and stood with his left
hand in his pocket.  He wore a CCM hat and an Expos T shirt.  Buck
looked out of his element.
“I was a lad near Montreal.  J’ai parle Francais chez moi…  My dad
listened to Hockey Night in Canada sur la radio…  Patriotic?  you
better believe, I wear it on my sleeve.  Red, White and Blue, les
trois colouer of the Canadiens of Montreal.  I might buy you a beer
and talk about the power play, I might beat your ass on the ice the
following day.  Don’t take offense, its just hockey.  Hockey might be
better than sex.  The sound of the crowd and the puck inside the net.
The wind blowing around my ears and the snot flying around your helmet
and the tears as I cartwheel your ass with a solid hip check.  A slap
shot, wrist shot, a child in the stands cheering a lot.  Wearing the
sweater to your favorite team, playing outside on a winter day, sweat
steaming from under your hat.  This is life; this is where it’s at.  I
hope to play this game til I die.  Don’t understand?…  Enough of this
bullshit and listen to the man play the bass.  Coffee tomorrow at the
park, boys?  Solid Jackson play it out…  In case you didn’t know,
Kerouac was Quebecois too… I rest my case.”

June 10, 2017

Covfefe

It’s a noun.  It’s an adjective.  This is my objective and subjective
covert midnight objective.  For those who think they know me- Covfefe.

In Pennsylvania I’m the steel, coal in West Virginia, in Michigan I’m
the wheel, in Wisconsin the cheese and the real deal. Rushing to try
to stop me or Russian to try and block me.  I’d like to say fuck you.
Instead I’ll say Covfefe.

Yes I’m the commander, the chief and El Jefe I can tweet-
lasejfldkfjalsd and tell you it’s Icelandic.  Anyone who tweets this
late is manic but I have plans for you so…  Covfefe.

Homey- You don’t know me or own me.  Trying to stop me by building a
wall with James Comey.  It won’t slow me on my way to infamy. What’s
the conclusion?  No collusion.  Democratic arsonists smell smoke and I
think it’s a joke.  They want to break me, bend me, ABC, CBS and CNN
me…  Bitch, get out the way- Covfefe

Paris ain’t Pittsburg, London or Hamburg.  I got news for the French,
Dutch and Merkle…  You’ll find I’m a little tougher than former
President Urkel.  I sleep well and what you think of me matters very little
to me…  So now you know… Covfefe.

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