I call this book,
"Poetry and short stories that a panel of judges thought were better than mine
That’s not its real name.
It could be called,
"Political poetry not meant for white males"
or
"Stilted shit you've all heard before"
or
"Poetry worthy of an bad sitcom."
The name aint important,
and neither is the poetry.

I am not political,
I have no care for the issues of the world,
I have my own you see,
The constant ache in my upper right molar,
Is my Bosnia Herzegovina,
The rumble in my stomach,
World hunger.
I know that these philosophies,
will not make me popular,
with the ethnic poetry scene,
that seems to have a stronghold,
in this Suburban Metropolis.
They are angry like me.
(I'll give them that)
But about shit,
that will manifest itself,
regardless of their verses.
Regardless of their verses.
And they don’t drink.
What the fuck kind of poet doesn’t drink?

So what does that make me?
A poet without a genre?
Carving my own niche?
A Trendsetter?
Nah.
I'm a guy with a fuckin' toothache.
I am struggling with my mistakes,
I am shell shocked from flashing lights.
But I am not political.
That’s for damn sure.
I'm too self absorbed.
To care about the world struggle,
Sweatshops?
A shame.
Racism?
Shouldn't happen.
Rapists?
Kill em all.
These are serious issues.
But will I write poetry about them?
Not unless they happen to me.
See,
I have these other thoughts,
As I drink beer on my couch,
While Pakistan and India,
wish Ghandi were still around.
I think about my lost girlfriends.
All eight of them,
and the life span of my liver,
and what would happen if Aaron here,
and I write about these things.
Abortion?
Rainforests?
These are not my burdens.
It more than sounds selfish.
It is selfish.
Boo!!!
Hiss!!!
The cross I have to bear,
concerns mood swings,
and not corporate influence,
let the differences be made without me.
I have two beers left.
The store is closed.
I am quite concerned.