Make A Story

GETTING INTO       THE   HABIT   OF WRITING   EVERY   DAY  

F-the system I say. Dam the man. Screw the Fuzz. I don’t care if we are the land of the free. Look around man, we are being watched by a silent society. The statues quo. The Norms. We’re not people were numbers, that we’re given at birth to follow us to our death. SS man. Social Security. Big Bro is watching us through our T.V. spying on us and our act-tivi-ties. Those satalietes up there aren’t for the weather, cable or spying on “the enemy”.  ‘Cause we’re the enemy. The Problem. The’re aimed at us maaaan.

The man has changed to Turner, L. Ron Hubbard and Walt Dis-ney. They own our eyes our minds make us Laugh & Cry with colorized memories and cute warm fuzzy movies. Tugging at our heartstrings. But when you’re not looking they corrupt your mind with GARBAGE to buy, buy, buy. Spend your hard earned money. You think you are beyond their control. They don’t effect me! But that is the beauty of the Man, the Plan to hit upside the head when your are not looking. You better watch out. Dam the Man and his many fingers and his secret spies of corporate America. Open your Eyes stand on watch. F the Man for he is watching, F the Man for is going to F YOU!

– By Jay Kicker Kauss

We were driving to a club, the 50 buck club. I don’t know why they named it that, it’s free.It was summer and the sun was shining brightly even though it was 8pm. Got off the 101 at Alameda past the L.A. County Jail, the streets seemed still.

There was usually a small commotion of other cars or people milling around, but todayit was dead. My friends JG and YK instantly rolled up the windows and the car became still and stale. The conversation stopped and there was only a desire to find the 50 Buck Club. I felt their uneasiness as if there were all gripping onto my shoulders, tensing with each bump or odd corner we passed. I decided to ignore them and take in the sites of the streets I rarely venture to go to. The warehouse district is odd because a lot of the old brick buildings are vacant or they glow with odd lights.

To me, their beautiful. Speaking of the history of LA’s growth and decline. Signs, layering each other, not caring what’s behind them. While the other signs shouts, “ I once was a brewery” or “I supplied flowers to all of LA.” The molding and trim of the old places are intricate and well-crafted stone. Not like the shiny smooth surfaces of mass reproduced new burrows that tower over them only three blocks away. These old grandparents stay strong; fight the inspectors, not to be condemned. My passengers blew a sigh of relief once we reached our destination.

We were first greeted by a rockabilly Latino with the biggest lamb chops and pompadour I have ever seen. 6’2”, lanky big hands and strong forearms like Popeye. He turned out to be the stand-up bass player for the last band. There was a long bar on the left sparsely seated, with a variety of locals of all ages and backgrounds. To me that is a good sign.

Little Blue meanies
eat the pink apricots
out of my purple hoof
and sit back
onto their yellow puke chair
whistle dixie
as the clown clouds go buy,
I'll dance in a circle with a finger on my head
spinning to entertain
spinning to be insane.
I'll be a fool for you
so you won't be bored
but I wonder
when will you entertain?
Wour purple fingers
pick your noses
and lud toothy yawns
announce your boredom.
I fall down in exhaustion
and think to myself
this is not worth my time.
So I walk away and decide to play
and wait
for others to entertain.

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April is National Poetry Month, so let’s a write a poem! Let yourself go, relax and write it can be a haiku or rhyme-y. Unlock the inner beatnik and go- daddy-o! Read my poem. And try the How-to-make a Dadaist poem it is quick and fun. For the analog challenged we found you a dada poem generator.

Share your poems with me on my facebook page or email me.