God is a puppeteer
The world is ever changing
so why try to play
catch up?
you will never win
nor
you
never can win
the game of life
it has already found
every way
in which
to beat you
and it is prepared
for every trick
you have up your sleeve
being tranquil might help,
living with humility might help,
praying to God a little more might help
but there are no guarantees on this Earth
we are simply flesh and bone,
with a little energy
and a little
hope
to spare.
so we lift off
into our own little orbits
and try to play along
and act like we know what is going on
while the Gods just
sit back
leaning against that bar railing from above
and
laugh.
laugh.
laugh.
thats no fun, is it?
its important for an writer to hush his mouth
the more he yaps from his snarling organ
the cheaper he becomes
thats no fun, is it?
you wake up, you eat your pie,
and you don't shut up from nine to five
and they hop into your mind
and drive
to the page, so blank
so empty like a mountain in a fog
and you sit
and stare
and think
and your skull is so empty
that you almost hear ticking
a headache comes from behind your eye
you stare like a boy stares at a chimp
in a glass box
and that’s no fun, is it?
a writer pictures himself as a caboose
on a railroad of rainbows
with a whole life to say in word,
but the more friends you have
the more you stay alive and
the more that you try to survive
the less
you have
to say
and that’s no fun, is it?
the brain that you hold like a newborn
and protect like a mother owl
sits and rots
and its tough to handle something like that
its tough to watch such torture unfold
before your green eyes
and thats no fun, is it?
its like watching the giving tree give, give, give
so much so, that Silverstein
comes out of the grave
to stop the madness from continuing
and destroying his immortality
and thats no fun, is it?
the key is to fill the throat with
the bullshit life provides
hold it in
like an endless microwave
blasting with a circle of radiation
let that space fatten
let it get atomic in there
let it explode and make the best
mess imaginable
and that’s no fun, is it?
Mitchell Hall is an American poet and short story writer.
His writing is influenced by the insipid and unappreciated happenings of human existence.
He is a graduate from the University of Kansas, where he studied sport science and business administration.
His first book of poetry, “Talks with the Moon King,”
Hall lives in Saint Louis, Missouri.
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