Monday, January 21, 2019

How to be a genius without drugs

Upon a Dr. King kind of day, I wrote the below. O veg!
A poem in honor of Coretta Scott King, who didn't get to deserve it. Except for not getting two some more. She so much as shook hands with Corona Aquino, she's branded. As a total hopeless drunk, on beer for life, due to parentage. She's a success, I'm not somehow. Or, I'm what I should have been without deserving it, an even bigger success. If it comes that way, is it worthwhile?

Years later? It's all due to parentage, every time. Not your Mom, nor your Dad, and drugs are what you grow up on in the womb. No drugs, no Life itself...WORMS. Large, icky helmsmen, hopefully pig feed doesn't contain absolutely everything. Or if it does, do they take revenge in your worm, I mean womb, which one is it, the chicken or the fag? Obvious. Not Captain. I'm not on anything but something "called" methamphetamine and I can't recommend it to you.

Make up your own self. Do without, and love them for what they did for you. Mine are Gone. It's why I think I'm Batman anymore, I knew I'd lose them while I was still young. Forever.

Be a genius without drugs

Advice a Black Man forever gave me:

Caffeine is a sibilant hiss
From a female snake...I got as far as this.
Alcohol is a miserable pit
That when you climb, your stubby fingers
Finally wear down to the backs of your hands.
A "male" trip that's God and shits Red.

The Black man advised me about heroin. It isn't one, and it does far worse. To you. Make you think you're a genius, and when you tape the recording sessions, you find out otherwise.

Dr. King smoked, drank and saw prostitutes. Gee, who doesn't? Name 'em all. Right now. Now, everybody has to get off all drugs, because maybe I have a problem with them. Invisible man, you must quit drinking coffee, eating sugar, and imbibing white bread. Well, two can play at that game, wow, some game. A game called names that it never will be.

I am still trying to get off caffeine, after cigarettes, pot, acid, sex, phenobarbital, yellow jackets, hash brownies, psych mess, and the only two that help me, aspirin and balladry...small groups of white boys/men pitching it to me that the thing to be is on drugs, individual women telling me to live on an Indian reservation and to never have children...the list is endless.

Hitler tried to get me to be a good person. I'm still wondering what the sick joke is. Torture, perhaps, such as drowning while trying to break up to the surface of the water. You spend forever down there, looking up, trying to make it to where there is air. Air is for Breathing, Bill Cosby.

Meanwhile, I have asthma. Life is all I've got, and then I die. Who is the bitch? Maybe it's me, but that's called paranoia...a word I never invented, and not all by myself. Ho is not a good idea if it's only 51% of the human race, with 1% being male mostly or so. Feel sorry for that one percent, they have very little company. Very short company. My poem got lost on the way here, it started with "Caffeine is a sibilant hiss from a female snake..." and then I had to remember what sibilant is based upon. It's uh, "His Story." He may be sorry someday, but I doubt it much.

Sibilant sister caffeine
Still a hiss from a female snake
That bites without fangs, and only with teeth
Reaching in deep to never let you go.

If I don't stop, I will come down with full-blown asthma anyway.
Makes me not care about you, I guess.

Alcohol is a blazing pit
That takes a climb up the very sides
And strips all the skin off both your palms,
Leaving you bleeding while stoned.
Gone completely before you die.
Rape, perversion, incest...her father was a drunk. Thus, that.

By the time you've been on drugs for years,
The echo of Michael Jackson says: only tears.
Hidden, invisible tears called boredom
And burnt-out years of exhaustion
Even among the Nazis (the real ones)
From trying to fight a female snake,
Called my Mother, who reproduced a caffeine-headed cobra me.
She too, she died of cancer from drinking coffee.
We are blameless and genetically programmed.
So there will be more medical experiments.
People will die from trying to be good.
So did my first husband.
In a hidden way, so hidden it is impregnably invisible and thus nonexistent.
Of multiple sclerosis from psychiatric medication. Plural. Single is caffeine, the one that drags you into every other drug invented by Man...ah, betel juice.
Who care? Ganja and weed and good ol' Chinese black tea. Goners are goners, so...what.

It's because you're going to die anyway. Along the way, remember children. Or find that idea everyone has been looking for.


Saturday, August 8, 2015

My Award-Winning (cough, cough) Poetry by Karen S. Cole

Karen Cole - My and Your Poems and Poetry, for your Elucidation and Enjoyment


This blog is going to host all of my poetry, both in draft and final form. I'm planning on connecting it to my other work-related blogs, too. Also, I'm going to connect it to the International Library of Poetry, where my work has won several awards: six Editor's Choice awards, four Best Poet awards, a Who's Who in poetry award, a 2007 Commemorative Poetry Ambassador award, and two Poetry Fellowship awards. I have also won awards through Random House, Noble House and Reese Tyler publishing, being published multiple times in their major anthologies of poetry.

An Ice Cream Summer

The Last of my Seasonal Poems, Celebrating all Year Round

By Karen S. Cole

I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!

Every summer's the same. I used to weigh normally
Now I feel every time guilt, for being a giant cream ho.
Thirty pounds overweight, I look like a small blimp.

So wasted, trickling down my neck like sticky sweat
The lines of goo from vanilla ice cream seem permanent
Masking my addiction to a sweet that will kill me.

I know as I eat it, my teeth no longer fulfilling their function
Slurping daintily at the specks falling onto my shirtfront
I have to have ice cream, it's all I have left of a perfect
Summer's feeling that I have something to celebrate.

What if I spurned the siren song of McDonald's vanilla cone
Dipped in childhood's chocolate, as in Ohio's heated blasts
My Daddy buying me a cone, twisted like me now, unable
To purchase without some explanation, that I deserved
A nice cream, a dream cream, an ice cream summer.

I'm fat! I'm overweight! I'm obese now, from chocolate
And worse yet, a fatty manifestation of cow's milk and the
Artful topping by nature of cream, a delicacy for those who
Don't mind a few extra pounds, or exercising athletes.

What can I do? I'm so in love with ice cream. And it's all
That's left of my summers of picnics, parks, green tree-lined
Streets and hopeful rain-free weather, pleasurable not hot.

If I can give up ice cream, what else will I do now?
Lose weight, and finally find myself under my own chin.
Oh, gee, I can run, race down to the corner store again...

...grab a reward for a whimsical run? Ice cream-sickle FUN!

Monday, April 27, 2015

Follow Scott on Twitter @ScottHastiePoet - in advance of new posts on

New Poem – as we toil and spin…

Guest poet Scott Hastie - tasteful, abstract, intellectual and graciously smooth.


As we toil and spin,
Pause and gather in the stillness,
Whenever you are able.

Trusting that,
Time after time,
This might bind ever deeper
In your soul
And, one day,
Come gloriously to bear.

Otherwise how vain
A deceit
Is such constant distraction,
That leaks into everything
To spoil our chances.

And, in so doing,
Look how we fashion instead

A raw and unnecessarily restless
Sadness in our hearts.

For it is what it is,
This life,
No more and no less…
And everyday
It shines upon us
With a patience
That is inestimable.

So take heart from this
And simply surrender in moments,
As best you can,
Even if only in modest ripples
That gently caress
The shore of your dreams.


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Sunday, March 22, 2015

Seasonal Poetry by a fellow Business Professional on LinkedIn

Luther Seahand - American Poet

Today, we have a new featured poet. I met Luther on LinkedIn, and he agreed to lend us three of his best seasonal poems for the blog. Please enjoy, and feel free to comment too!


Gray is the season that withers

blossoms dulled by satin frost

how they sadly fall

cruel chill, it breaks them all

rest, rest immortal doves

while winter feigns treasures lost.

Crystal brooks still as dusk

mirror figures warm at heart

oaks over icy knolls

sprawling old souls

flutter, flutter leafless arches

for that single spark of life to start.

Blushing through frozen woods

morning hints at splendor, frail

a starling in the snow

sleeping on her bough

wake, wake feathered angel

sing sweet trills of the nightingale.



The finest day of spring

petals dance on sudden gales

counting everyone

before the sinking sun

fly, fly little wings

like love that never fails.

Shadows begin to wake

to a chorus that is the night

crickets fiddle, slow

warblers whistle, low

shine, shine velvet moon

till last you fade from sight.

Hear the sea in song

where the swallows play and die

starlight in the haze

flicker fireflies, ablaze

stay, stay gentle dream

beneath the candles in the sky.



This glorious time of year

grace is in bloom, divine

supple spindles gleam

by golden beam

waltz, waltz June fairies

from dandelion to lofty pine.

Off on a stroll above meadows

scented wisps, a tryst, oh my

sandalwood, sweet

fair mulberry treat

swoon, swoon ethereal swans

into the mild, evening light, of July.

Stirring for summer's farewell

frail wonders, tulips, up high

butterflies pair

with delicate flair

steady, steady August delights

primroses await your slumbering sigh.