Christmas of 2013

Here at the Monkey Prodigy blog, we don’t celebrate Christmas. We celebrate the winter solstice, apparently by listening to live Elton John CDs. I’ve thought about turning on the news to see what is relevant, but I can never keep up with the trends. I don’t buy into them. Twitter will send you straight to hell!  but this is what happens when you don’t have a job. You sound like a crazy person. Don’t be a jerk, guys. Show some Christmas spirit. You won’t be able to pay your bills with Christmas spirit, but you can pay your extended family to leave you alone for the rest of the year… and really isn’t that what Christmas is all about? If we could all just be nice and civil to other people for a short of time and then completely ignore each other the rest of the year, the world would be a better place. We wouldn’t have w

– A lazy work of satire. 

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Novelty Novel

So, you’ve written me a novelty novel.

A book I shall never read

or likely even open.

I shall never flip passionately through the pages.

I shall never gaze the pages, read the words that may seem to protrude from within.

My head will never be filled to the brim with each of its sentences.

My brain will never process its letters.

You’ve written me a novelty novel.

It sure looks elegant from the outside,

but the inside I shall never know.

The cover looks nice and gaudy,

but, I should not judge it by that alone.

Okay, so that’s today’s poem. I just want to make something clear. I may be posting less of these soon. The only reason is that I want to one day actually submit some of my work (poetry) for publication. I also really want to start working on some short stories at some point. Maybe a novel… Some of the short stories and poems I’m going to work on (and I really want to work on some…) will be posted here on the Monkey Prodigy blog. I was born an amazing writer (at least, that’s what I’d like to believe). I am definitely getting better every day. Recently, I am more confident than ever in my abilities. I will not, however (this I promise you) allow any of my work to suffer by allowing my brilliance to go to my head. The precocious primate, I mean Monkey Prodigy, doesn’t allow foolish things like that to happen to him. I am entirely grateful to everyone who reads this blog on a regular basis or has even read it once or twice. It is my hope that you will continue to follow me… and you will continue to bask in my sheer brilliance… because face it, compared to a lot of today’s poetry I am a shinning star of enlightenment. Maybe, I sound a little conceited. Maybe I am, but no one will ever be able to say I’m not proud of what I do. I refuse to write something that I or people I care about are ashamed of. I apologize for this excessively lengthy monologue.You’ve probably stopped reading by now  (wouldn’t blame you) you know what? I’ve clearly said enough (maybe more than I should have.) Goodnight and thanks a lot for reading.

Diary Entry 666 (those aren’t sixes, they are actually upsidedown nines)

Marginal Note: This work was originally written by Edgar Allan Poe. It was never published due to the fact that he knew it was terrible.

Stars will not fall

Stars will die out

I’ll never adjust my eyes to absolute darkness

So, baby, light a candle…

as I try to feel my way around…

Oh, shit I tripped

help me out here, Bethany.

Marginal Note: This is not a serious work.

A Poem and A Review

Okay, I’m killing two birds with one stone here. I’m going to post a review and an original poem by yours almost truly. What kind of birds are we killing? Think of your favorite kind. That’s the kind we’re killing tonight.

As many others have done, I plan to give a review of the poetry reading I attended at Penn State of the greatest gay poet in America, Richard Blanco (sorry Dad, but you’ve never read for the president). I’ll have to keep this review short because I have others things to work on. The inaugural poem was interesting and good, but far from the best I’d heard that night. I enjoyed the poem called Looking for The Gulf Motel. My father cried during that one. The most interesting things about that poem was a line in which he stated that he wanted to pretend nothing lost was lost. I don’t know if Richard realized it (he probably did), but I believe that he spent the entire poem doing precisely that. “Mother Picking Produce” was among my favorites of the night. Blanco’s style and approach is very similar to that of my father’s (simultaneously a good and bad thing). The difference is that David J Bauman does not speak Spanish (usually) and does not read at inauguration ceremonies. Visit Richard’s website for more. One could argue that Richard was chosen merely for reasons of diversity. I would tell that person to shut up. I haven’t gotten a chance to flip through an entire book of his yet, but I like what I’ve read so far. I recommend it.

Okay, without further ado, here’s a poem by ME, Micah Bauman. I hope you like it. You’re free to hate it. But, you’d be wrong for doing so. This one is about a fictional ancient race of people who worshiped crosswalks. I call them pedestrians. Does that make any sense? Have I lost my mind?

The Pedestrians

There was once an ancient race of people
who worshiped the crosswalk
they talked and they laughed

sermons were spoken on the sidewalk
not of moving mountains of course
or replanting trees in seas
where they certainly don’t belong
they dared not terraform the Earth
(with their faith)
they dared not assess its worth
before selling it back to the Gods
who had no use for it anyway

There was once an ancient race of people
who worshiped the crosswalk
they talked and they laughed
and they crossed the street.

Osmosis

NOTE: I’d like to provide commentary on this poem at some point, but am too busy and tired at this present moment (wait, can there be an un-present moment? I don’t know… I need sleep) .

did i run away?

I left the altar

because my life wasn’t rearranging

(at least not there)

I tore down all

my old photos

because they needed changing

I shouldn’t generalize

but, it’s funny the way things seem to travel

every place that i unravel

 

The Final Draft?

Okay, so now I need to go back and look at that poem and see if I want to make any last minute changes. I also adjust the wording a little bit because wording really does matter to some extent (at least that’s how I feel). Maybe I’ll add that punctuation that I am oft too lazy to add. This has been a look at my “fascinating” editing process and I suppose that’s all I have to say for the time being. I can’t say this particular poem would ever win any awards. It’s not spectacular. But (as “always“) it’s pretty great. So, do your self a favor and enjoy it.

As my alarm clock rings,

i am not the least bit alarmed

but am I ready to leap out of bed?

should i leave my comfy bed-

in which i lie or should i come clean?

i scrape the crust from my eyes

liberate my body from my

seemingly sometimes suffocating sheets

or shall i stumble around

with friends or foes

Should I leave this house to scorn among streetlights

to see sights unable to be unseen

stare into the face of public indecency

experience the ear shattering cries of infancy

unsightly pedestrians

or would i run all the way (half way) back

home: to live, laugh, love, or lust

shall I simply stay in bed

and stare at the ceiling

marvel at the stains and wonder

how did they get there?

something to do with a light switch…?

I could sit inert and ensconced

upon this mattress in all its fortitude

or the world outside could wait…

Okay. So, that’s the end of that unless it isn’t for some reason. Ummmm… Maybe I’ll do one more draft. Thinking of making it longer I am. No. That’s it. I’m done. It’s time to move on. Goodbye.

A quick and breezy draft

Okay so here’s a second draft of that poem. I think I may post a few more as you will obviously be enthralled by my spectacular editing process. If that is not the case, go away I don’t want you here. Just a note: I know there are spaces between each line that shouldn’t be there. I don’t feel like fixing it right now.

As my alarm clock rings

not surprising me in the least

am I ready to leap out of bed?

should i leave my warm bed

on which i lie or should i come clean

i scrape the crust from my eyes

liberate my body from my

seemingly sometimes suffocating sheets

but should I go somewhere

with friends or with enemies…

Should I leave this house to scorn

to see sights unseeable

stare into the face of public indecency

experience the ear shattering cries of infancy

unsightly pedestrians

or would i run all the way (half way) back

home: to live, laugh, love, or lust

shall I simply stay in bed

and stare at the ceiling

marvel at the stains and wonder

how did they get there?

something to do with a light switch…?

I’m not sure.

I could sit inert and ensconced

upon this mattress in all its fortitude

or the world outside could just wait.

Oh, and I would like to wish a happy birthday to the Dadpoet. In fact I don’t just wish. I demand. I don’t care what sort of calamities happens during the last few hours of his birthday. He’s going to go to bed with a smile… even if it’s forced (*wink).

Mad Thoughts 3

So…finally…the moment I’ve kept you  (specifically you) waiting for. Umm… Yeah, I’ve been tired. I barely did the internet at all yesterday. But here’s something. I recorded it today. So, yeah. This is all you get. Enjoy.

I couldn’t quite figure out a great way to deliver the last line in a way I’d like, but I think you’ll get the point.

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