(This blog is so gay...)

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(For Roy)

My friend's heart slowed down:
Until his beats went unheard:
Pump up the volume!

Copyright © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

Last Call (Haiku)
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What good is a phone?
In cold England or the States?
Just ask Sylvia...

Copyright © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

The Bewildering Second Coming of Christ
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If He came back today
what would He see? People
talking on cell phones
instead of to each other?
As they mindlessly
sidestep the homeless
on the downtown
sidewalks: Cannot
afford to be late for
that next big job interview.

Security guards would
kick Him out of stores
for looking too down and
out. And after He started

talking about helping
instead of judging the poor,
(as God would have us do),

He'd be carted off to the
nearest psych ward, and
given massive amounts

of shock treatments and
drugs for the psychotic

He'd be considered no different
from those that insanely
think they are Beethoven

or Hitler or Marilyn Monroe.
Christ might return
only to be tossed

in jail or the state asylum:
That's how jaded we've
become.  Enlightenment?

Can you afford the $500 for a front row seat?

Copyright © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

userpic, warhol
The brave man in the
sky was supposed to
stand for America:

Any small town boy
could grow up
and become a hero

just like Superman.
Just lose the glasses,
turn a bright red

table cloth into a
cape. Nab a couple
of bad guys as they

almost get away with
some poor old lady's
purse, and you'd be

up in the big blue sky
before you can say:
God Bless America!

It made so much sense
in the movies. The bad
guys always got caught,

and Superman was
always up there just
watching and waiting

to swoop down and save
America before it's too
late: No dead Kennedys.

No Vietnam. No Nixon
giving us the peace sign.
No Ronald Reagan

pretending to have a
ticking heart. No World
Trade Center. No

George W. Bush hiding
the truth, and blaming the
poor for his own deliberate

mistakes. Just an honest to
God hero always up there
to save America again

and again. Until the beautiful
dream somehow became
crippled and corrupt. And

the best man always loses now.
Our heroes are hunted,
and they fall from the sky

like slaughtered eagles.
America, America:
Who killed Superman?

He was the last one. He was
our only chance. And now
he has a bullet in his head.

From sea to shining sea.

Copyright © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

Beware the ones that call you, "Dear,"
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Beware the ones that call you, "Dear,"
and whisper Shakespeare in your ear.

They'll talk about you when your head is turned:
"A witch from Salem-to be burned."

They'll give you gifts, because you're poor:
then steal your time, and beg for more.

They'll praise with words not from the heart:
Because telling lies is such an art.

And when you dare to tell them, "No."
A living Hell's the debt you'll owe.

Remember Iago-spreading lies:
like a tumor, until someone dies.

Men in masks of painted gold:
Making sure the truth's untold.

And they whispered Shakespeare in your ear:
Beware the ones that call you, "Dear."

Copyright 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

Haiku Obit: For Michael and Farrah
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Farrah Fawcett's gone.
Michael Jackson's danced his last:
Two stars in one day.

Copyright 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

My Five Cent Life
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I do it at the end of
every month. And I no
longer feel dirty
when I finally make
it home again:

Cashing in a month's
worth of empty pop
bottles. I drag two
huge sacks to the
store--in the funny
little granny cart
a friend bought me
for my birthday

last year. It's only
a four block walk,
but I get odd looks
from at least a dozen
people before I get

there. They think I
must be homeless or
insane. And look at
me like I'm little
better than dirt.

I used to stare right
back. To let them know
I could see the filth
they tried to hide
within. But it all
got to be a bit much,
and I taught myself
to become immune to it.

They might have fancy
new cars, and own big
houses with more rooms
than they will ever be
able to use. And their
clothes are so clean
and expensive: People
respect them for what
they own, not for
what they truly are.

But I am something
better: a much
published poet.
Editors call me
for more poems
about my five
cent life.

So I return my empty
bottles at the end
of every month, and
suffer the glares
gladly. Money does
not make you rich
or good. It is so
easily wasted or
lost. But a good

poem remains in the
world, long after
the poet is gone:
while the wealthy
ones that imagine
I am nothing but
dirt--will be
buried and forgotten
soon enough--with
only an enormous
tombstone to prove
to the world
they were ever
filthy rich,
and half alive.

Copyright © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

"Cruising" and Sex in the 1980s
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100 Men I Have Slept With (and other poems)
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