Democratic Process

October 6, 2015

The night was getting old
The bar door pulled open
Weighing less than expected
Almost creating a welcoming environment
As I stumbled into the dank dark bowels
Of yet another complete dive
Pulled up on a stool that was older than I
Sat the bar stool prophet in all his greyed glory
Stale beer and stale breath accompanied his tired smile
Tonight as I grabbed the empty stool next to him
He turned and stated
“These elections are all the same
From Afghanistan to America, from Zimbabwe to Zaire
It’s all just money in and wasted breath out
When are people going to realise
Democracy is like the everyone’s a winner model
Only instead of winning, you get to give your opinion
On whose bad policy should screw you
And which problem you want for the country next”

Advertisements

The Deep South

June 23, 2015

The dim lights
Illuminated the dank
Run down watering hole
Located in the heart
Of the deep south
Sitting with his worn heels
Propped right up
On the old brass rail
Long tarnished
By years of neglect
Sat the bar stool prophet
Sipping a plain brown bottle
Of some three percent poison
Pondering possible purpose
Never forgetting the issues he’d seen.
“This South Carolina business
Is no different than it’s ever been
The south still thinks the red flag
Is a symbol of pride and power
Not of problems and persecutions.
Until the people down here stop
Thinking they won the revolution
And start realising we need to accept people
As just that,
They will never really change.
The community of good, noble, southerners
Who really believe in helping their neighbour
Regardless of race, religion, or really anything
Will remain a staunch minority
Until we start educating our children
And our children’s children
How to be tolerant and accepting.
Until that happens,
The south will stay the south
And the hate will still boil over.
But what do I know,
I’m just another wanderer
Sipping my brown bottle
And blowing my steam”

Unintelligent

April 14, 2015

The neon sign drew me in
like the fly I had become
To some familiar dung pile of a bar
Where I perched myself high on a stool
Next to a fellow fly
He turned his head to me
And through cracked lips
And stained teeth exclaimed:
“It doesn’t matter who
Is in control.
As long as it’s someone
Something will be corrupt.
I can’t wait for artificial intelligence
To take over.
At least it’d be intelligent!”

Master Fly

November 24, 2014

As the door opens
And the cold draft passes
As the man
With the thick beard
And rough face
Grabs a stool next to mine
And kicks up his feet
On the old and tarnished brass rail.
As I sit there and hear him
Order the usual jack and a pint
His type always does
I realize my friend
The bar stool prophet
Is no where to be found
And as I look over
At the mirror behind the bar
Sponsored by wild turkey
Or some other terrible brand
I see him smiling back at me
He raises his glass
As I do too
In a silent toast
To the pupil
Becoming
The master.

The Meeting

April 8, 2014

Back in that dark and dreary bar
Gazing over at me
As I enter the door
Is the bar stool prophet
In all his cigarette filled
And alcohol covered wisdom
He pushes out the stool beside him
And I oblige, and take seat
He smiles and says:
“No wisdom for tonight
I think I’ve used it all up.
I just want to give you
A friendly reminder
That no matter who
You meet, you never
Know their true value
Until you pull up a stool,
Shut your mouth
And listen.”
I took a sip of my beer
And politely obliged.

NY Steak

May 4, 2013

The bar stool prophet
Turned to me
Looking bitter
And without apathy
And said
“With all the
Starving kids
The world over
Would it really kill
You to go without
That NY steak
Just this once
So their village
Can eat
For a week?”

I guess I’ll have
The salad.

Value of Life

April 23, 2013

As I slung my feet
Up on the brass rail
And waited for yet another
Faceless bar maid
To pour my troubles away
I looked to my left
And saw my old friend
The bar stool prophet
In all his sad
Defeated demeanor
Sharing his wisdom.

Today he let me know
In that rough old voice
That it aint the confessions
Of no dead mans sins
That make God accept him
Nor is it the amount of silver
He dropped in that old
Gold tray on Sunday.
It is simply the way
That man holds himself
And stands up to his convictions
And most of all
Values the lives of others.