Friday, March 30, 2007
Kingmaker
some out there wanna be king
rule over all that they see
subdue the natives and naives
control the world directly
me I’m more subtle than that
and I know where true power lies
it’s in the deceit of my brothers
and the implantation of spies
to say that knowledge is power
is so oft-said it’s cliché
but as years compound my hours
I take more care what I say
In this moment of weakness
I’ll toss a coin to you takers
The king is my pawn
Just call me kingmaker
rule over all that they see
subdue the natives and naives
control the world directly
me I’m more subtle than that
and I know where true power lies
it’s in the deceit of my brothers
and the implantation of spies
to say that knowledge is power
is so oft-said it’s cliché
but as years compound my hours
I take more care what I say
In this moment of weakness
I’ll toss a coin to you takers
The king is my pawn
Just call me kingmaker
Labels: Poetry
Friday, March 23, 2007
The Sting
The megalomaniacal managing editor gave more than the obligitory second chances to the blind proofreader, but the latter simply couldn't kick his habit.
Perhaps the final straw should have been when the editor sent his proofreader on a drug buy/sting, a high-level high-risk expose to show how high on the hierarchy the dealer resides. It made so much sense to the editor to send a drug addict on this errand that he sent two: the proofreader and a reporter, both of whom had recently kicked.
"It gave the operation more authenticity," the editor would later bemoan. "We figured that they would know how to make a buy."
Perhaps they knew all too well; they came home in a profusely sweating mess two weeks later with no money, no drugs, and no story.
But that wasn't the final straw; the blind proofreader still rambles through the hallowed halls of nationalist journalism spewing one-liners at a mile-a-minute, sweating like banshees had ransacked his pituitary glands all night, cracking up the graffic designers.
"Do you still work for me?" the editor sometimes asks. "I haven't seen you and I never know where you are. Are you sure you work for me?"
The proofreader smiles and reassures him,"Yes yes Sir, I've been recovering from illness but I am still at your service, one hundred percent ready to follow all orders and reflect your own opinions back to you."
Perhaps the final straw should have been when the editor sent his proofreader on a drug buy/sting, a high-level high-risk expose to show how high on the hierarchy the dealer resides. It made so much sense to the editor to send a drug addict on this errand that he sent two: the proofreader and a reporter, both of whom had recently kicked.
"It gave the operation more authenticity," the editor would later bemoan. "We figured that they would know how to make a buy."
Perhaps they knew all too well; they came home in a profusely sweating mess two weeks later with no money, no drugs, and no story.
But that wasn't the final straw; the blind proofreader still rambles through the hallowed halls of nationalist journalism spewing one-liners at a mile-a-minute, sweating like banshees had ransacked his pituitary glands all night, cracking up the graffic designers.
"Do you still work for me?" the editor sometimes asks. "I haven't seen you and I never know where you are. Are you sure you work for me?"
The proofreader smiles and reassures him,"Yes yes Sir, I've been recovering from illness but I am still at your service, one hundred percent ready to follow all orders and reflect your own opinions back to you."
Labels: 2007, Africa, non-fiction, Workplace Boredom
Monday, March 05, 2007
Never Planned
I never planned on you
Couldn’t shake you if I tried
I didn’t ask for you
In my heart loins eyes
You weren’t in my plans
You remain on me
Like planted contraband
Best thing happened to me
This wasn’t in the draft
March through dusty borderlands
And though I didn’t ask
It occupies my hands
Can’t see past the spring
Plans don’t come through anyway
Can’t count on anything
Past this god-given day
Make the most of it
Savour sweet sounding tastes
Please don’t rush through it
That would be such a waste
You weren’t in my plans
You remain on me
Like planted contraband
Best thing ever happened to me
Couldn’t shake you if I tried
I didn’t ask for you
In my heart loins eyes
You weren’t in my plans
You remain on me
Like planted contraband
Best thing happened to me
This wasn’t in the draft
March through dusty borderlands
And though I didn’t ask
It occupies my hands
Can’t see past the spring
Plans don’t come through anyway
Can’t count on anything
Past this god-given day
Make the most of it
Savour sweet sounding tastes
Please don’t rush through it
That would be such a waste
You weren’t in my plans
You remain on me
Like planted contraband
Best thing ever happened to me
Labels: Poetry
