Daily Archives: May 7, 2018

The Native-American Dream, by Heath Brougher

I am not a silent poet

There very well could have been a Native-American Dream.
Unfortunately, the European’s Dream, the seed
of the American Dream, quickly came charging in
and began its destruction before it even thought to ask!
 ..
Maybe there was a Native-American Dream,
though, good luck finding one who can tell
you what it is. Or was. Though I’m guessing
if there was a Native-American Dream,
it has severely changed over the past few centuries.

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What I’m Not, by Heath Brougher

I am not a silent poet

The whole world may be laughing at them,
but they’re not laughing at me.
I am no american.
I run with no herd.
Have allegiance to no one but my Self.
Yet they try to call me an american
just because I happened to have been born
at a particular place in the world?
 ..
Once again Proximity reigns,
along with the axiomatic insanity of society.

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Trump was Right, by Heath Brougher

I am not a silent poet

Trump did not win the Presidential Election—
for it was hatred that won the Presidential Election.
All those bigots running deep into the valleys of America
where the hills have eyes finally received their spokesperson.
They could finally unleash all that latent racism and homophobia and xenophobia
that lay quiet as a landmine just waiting for detonation.
These vicious voices were finally given a platform
and they ate it right up like swine from a trough.
 ..
Trump was right. He could have stood in the street
and shot someone without losing a single vote
because the election was never about that—
for it was hatred, and nothing else, that won the election.

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Trump is Not a Person, by Heath Brougher

I am not a silent poet

Trump is not a person. He is the conduit of hatred
that was lying latent in the heads and hearts
of the American herd which sprung into action
when the poles closed so cold and relevant
on that terrible Tuesday. Now, a lunatic bounces
off the walls of the oval office after admittedly,
and in such a braggardly way, to grabbing many an oval orifice
which would have spelled immediate political death
for any sane politician. This is why Trump is not a person.
Trump is an ideology reflected back at the bigoted, dumb as a rock
populace, which, consciously or subconsciously,
ate up his bigotry right from the filthy, golden dog dish
upon which this blight was served. Equality is now
severely jeopardized and is slowly atrophying
every minute this man, this idea, is alive and breathing
with his tiny hands so wrathfully wrapped around
the biggest piece of…

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Lottery, by Neil Fulwood

I am not a silent poet

“… and for the lack of anything better to do, I went back to work.”  – James Crumley

And there is always one
in the office syndicate
who insists without irony
they’d still keep their job.

And I wonder what it is
about a life without meetings
that doesn’t appeal. What
peer reviews provide

that can’t be found
on the deck of an ocean liner.
For which the driver’s seat
of a Mercedes 560SL

is a poor substitute.
Why a private jet
and the mile high club
don’t buzz the mojo

like an hour on the phone
with an irate customer
or a reprimand from HR
on your permanent record.

Like the pay rise frozen
or the pension fund
transferred to a provider
you’ve never heard of.

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