DeadPoetsSociety
Introduction/Definition/etc
In response to a group member being summarily ejected from Writer's group after I'd invited her in,
not knowing she had been 'terminated'...
Piece/Body
Dead Poets Society
by Jerry W.
From the perspective of the person of dead feelings,
asked to leave the writer's group early last week,
what would she be feeling?
trying to be part of the family,
the community and those we are here to serve
food for thought, indeed.
with no takeout offered,
still shocked at the lack of interpersonal skills by 'leadership'
who has not personally experienced homelessness, afaict
just repoorting on it,
dealing with difficulties of budget, time, energy
and safety
StreetSense. an artistic fiction,
What do you get, if you are not allowed to share?
What do you take away, if you are not allowed to stay?
What do you do, if you can not say?
The word choice of the 'bitch set me up'
like the cameras in my face daily
trying to get me to say what i need to say
That oppression,
is what we experience daily, nightly,
and seems like forever
when out and a storm approaching
gale force winds forecast,
and not enough in your stomach, again
the cheese offered, and moved,
not good for the heart
A season approaching, and we collect our nuts for winter,
squirrelly, not sure where we left that homeless person,
a great writer and inspiration to me personally,
and probably many readers,
White on black
or Black on white,
the recycled paper may not know,
or care,
it started out as a tree, maybe with colorful leaves
got cut, like a budget in a Republican party
a favor for those in control,
to be hauled off, leaves in hand,
cut up, chipped, like the dried beef to make and put on bread or toast
no toaster to do that, no fire, because that would be against the rules,
but cold is coming, already too much to wear shorts and t shirt
late in the day, or early in the morning,
like walking outside to talk to neighbors,
my toes turning blue, from the wet, or cold, I do not know,
maybe the colors of the gang guy walking by?
going into my door, and coming back out in a bit,
was he delivering drugs?
but I was still wearing a Ben's Chili Bowl t shirt
left on from the day before, too tired and drained
like the bleach from the paper, making brown white,
not unlike Michael Jackson's skin tone, getting lighter,
not liver spots, nor freckles,
nor interest in children, not that way,
though some of the mothers are cute,
but already fucked
and breasts empty of milk,
too small to feed the entire group,
or sustain us through winter,
white ink, in a black world.
or the twenty somethings, half my age are enough to deal with,
give them back to the colleges, as they come and take my first page
not able to leave it alone,
changing my words, removing plastique, that explosive word,
but slang for credit card when you get the bill,
tying together the two stories, like a thread,
invisible to most, not offending the security,
for they have already thought about it,
disaster plans, we make, and fulfill the mission,
but what of the paper's mission?
was it meant to die?
like the dream of integration, not black and white,
but brown, like the shit we put on paper,
for 25 cents, not 50 cent,
the silver dollars one puts on peoples' eyes
in the coffin of a loved one,
dealing with the remorse and grieving the loss of a comrade,
once welcome, and invited in,
but the master says we can not have family,
must divide and embarrass to control,
pity those that defy the white master,
for the bell tolls for the,
the dead poets' society...
Copyleft (Share and Share Alike with Attribution)
Jerry W. September 26, 2008
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20081025 Jerry
- Jerry created this page to share some writings
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