A Word from the Editor: Bad Poetry by Brian Jackson
Alright, you caught me. I admit it. I am a closet, bad
poet. I had to go to college to learn how to write bad poetry. I suppose
I could have been a good poet, but this is more fun. Note that there is a
certain artistry to writing bad poetry as exemplified in the following three
pieces that I submit for your enjoyment.
Love You So Bad
Sometimes I love you so bad
It almost gives me diarrhea
As my insides do summersaults
And my colon contorts
With the depth of my emotion
Sometimes I love you so bad
That I forget my own name
To brush my teeth, wear pants,
Or step on the brake while driving
Like that time I killed your brother Joe
Sometimes I love you so bad
That I do foolish things to garner your attention
Like dressing up in women's clothes
Driving nails into my head
Or pretending to run people over with my car
Sometimes I love you so bad
That not even the restraining order,
Electrified fence, or new dog you got
Can keep me from my seemingly insane struggle
To be there by your loving side
For if loving you is so bad
Then why does it feel so good
When you feel bad about your
Brother Joe not doing so good
Because I was bad
While I hold you good?
Sometimes I love you so that
It's bad for me,
For you,
And for others
Organic Garden of Emotion
Sometimes I feel that
I live in an organic garden of emotion
Growing lush and fruity
Amid the rich and peaty loam
Of my frontal lobes and medulla oblongata
Although I strive
To be cheery and don a winning smile
Reminiscent of a cross section from a stalk of celery
I often am too sour and bitter
As is the turnip, radish, or odd rutabaga
Often, my insides feel all mushy
As if I am an overripe, organic tomato
In which case my visage is strained
As is the ruby red beet
And my eyes fill with water
Like the melon with water in its name
In these times of crisis
I turn to the carrot, cabbage, and kin
For comfort and clarity
Only to find that I too
Am little more than an emotional vegetable
Yes, I live in an organic garden of emotion
Without a hoe
Springtime In LA
Its springtime in LA again
As it is in NY, SF, and ZB
But there's nothing like
Springtime in our own hometown
For Spring's the time
That makes hometown's our own
As I bumble through my hood
Watching for Crips
I see that the winter heat no longer shimmers off
The cracked and canted slabs of sidewalk over which I stumble
And therefore remove my welder's helmet to don
A standard pair of Ray Bans
There is a crispness to the sound
Of the tires that I dodge
Speeding across the tarmac at my feet
And the thundering roar of bass and horn blast
That pours from cars stuck in gridlock
On the freeway off-ramp over head
The smog is fresh and heady
As if newly disgorged
From a power plant or V8
All trace of stale smog blown out to sea
Replaced by dessert sand, air you can chew,
Riding the mighty San Bernadinos over the valley floor
The sound of gun shots
Carries for miles
In all directions
What little wildlife
That can ever be seen in the city
Seems to rot a little slower by the side of the road
The riots are calmer
And even the drive by shootings and incidents of road-rage
Are played out with a modicum of decorum
I thank God for another springtime in LA
And humbly pray that I see another winter as well
© 2009 by Brian Jackson
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