Don’t Call Me Crazy

Yes, immediately after I talk about how motivation’s a weak reason to write, I present a poem created out of instant impetus. I read this article and, well, had some complex thoughts that soon boiled down to plain anger and derision. I took my previous writing plans for the night and shoved them aside onto the mental tracks of the runaway train the germ for this poem became. So yeah, discipline rules and motivation drools, but I don’t discourage drive when it comes to you- you might get fun stuff like this! It led to a healthy discussion with my roommate at any rate.

Unknown

Don’t Call Me Crazy

by Nick Edinger

Help the Mentally Ill and don’t use the word “Crazy.”

Be a helpful ally.

Your ex isn’t “crazy”- she’s just a bit peeved.

It leaves schizophrenics and their like quite bereaved

when what they’ve been called all their lives gets perceived

with stupidity, no dignity, and some bad guys.

Help the Mentally Ill and don’t use the word “Crazy.”

I know you can do it; go ahead and amaze me!

**

Help the Mentally Ill and avoid saying “Insane.”

The shitlords are clever.

We told them “crazy” will now be off limits

and they called their leaders “insane” within minutes.

It’s for the same reasons this word we prohibit:

that word’s mean when it’s seen with afflicted whomevers.

Help the Mentally Ill and avoid saying “Insane.”

Keep the downtrodden from every single type of pain.

**

Help the Mentally Ill and don’t use the word “Stupid.”

It’s not cool anymore.

So you heard “insane” and “crazy’s” not in vogue

and you called Kim Il Sung “stupid” like a little rogue.

Well you’ll find I’m not stopping, I’m still at the prologue

on this quest where we best the privileged folk we abhor.

Help the Mentally Ill and don’t use the word “Stupid.”

And no, you motherfuckers still can’t say “retarded.”

**

Let me make this real simple for egregious cumsluts

who keep hurting our friends.

You may not say “mad,” not even in anger,

nor “weird,” “fool,” “silly,” “nuts,” “wacky,” “daft,” “bent,” “strange,” nor

“deranged,” “demented,” “delirious,” nor a “danger,”

nor anything that’s your hating and insulting trend.

Let me make this real simple for egregious cumsluts:

When you think of them, keep your mouth quiet. Mute. Mum. Shut.

**

Help everyone out and don’t call them “Mentally Ill.”

What’s so ill about them?

They don’t need medicine, laws, or therapy,

all they need is no mention from friend to buddy

that’s spoken with smiles- but we know that just can’t be.

What’s that? Tone? It’s for phones, right? I don’t care, still condemned.

Help everyone out and don’t call them “Mentally Ill.”

What’s ‘Hy-per-bolly?” It doesn’t sound like it’s goodwill.

**

What do you mean you’re not satisfied with what we do?

We simplified the goal.

‘Stead of teaching depression’s more than “boo hoo,”

or saying schizophrenics won’t blow up your school

or ask for humanity for the ones that must drool,

we popped the zit, now can quit and ignore growing moles.

What do you mean you’re not satisfied with what we do?

We won- we got people to stop talking about you.

**

I hid you under the bed, and things improved greatly.

Why’d it take everyone years

To do what I did to impress my Facebook

friends and both the anxious people that I know? Look,

I know suicide rates haven’t changed, and our crooks

still need help.. so I’ll yelp about alphabetic fears.

I hid you under the bed, and things improved greatly.

Before you speak, just know… you shouldn’t call me crazy.

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Song of Astronaut

I guess I’m just in a poetry-posting mood. Here’s another one, less esoteric, more serious. Also, here‘s the poem it’s based on.

Song of Astronaut

By Nick Edinger

Unknown

For seven hours, I float in burnt-steak smell

Because the tear in our solar array

Cuts power to our station. While I dwell

In space, my hands the supreme tools, I stay

Between Man’s built outpost and given world.

With foot attached to metal arm, I whirl.

******

The Pacific engulfs the planet whole.

Australia, California are like

The fingers on a great blue ball that bowls

Through the cosmos. The little men, their Reichs,

They cannot leave that spin with all their spite.

“We should focus on earth,” they all recite.

******

I turn myself, a world in a suit,

To fix again what gives this station life.

These panels, tapestries in a mosque, loot

From the sun’s core, cut her up with a knife

So her blood can course through electric gold.

This tool of man is equal to behold.

******

And still, I find my eyes drifting to earth,

Where nature, like advanced machines, rolls on

To fight the infection of man. Our worth

We proved when we turned all the world our pawn

In pitiful battles of countries flawed.

Was this ev’n in imaginings of Gods?

******

But why be king of all chaos down there

When I can focus on this honeycomb

Of a snagged circuitry and fix with care?

With last stabilizer, I turn from home

And place the hardware down in now-filled gap.

From my earpiece, I hear my partners clap.

******

Like boastful Sisyphus, I bask in the

Relaxed muscles: a job well done. Ocean

Beneath is packed like bedsheet over fleas,

Which I can’t reach without forward motion.

I live between my dreams and planet’s skin.

The arm, attached to me by foot, draws in.

Rime of The Foolish Edinger

So I’m on vacation right now, and had a bit of an adventure. I made a silly poem about it. I encourage you all to do this occasionally- write not for yourself, but for another person as a gift. Takes you out of your head for a while, even if the meter ends up messed up or not all the rhymes work. Such exercises remind you who you’re really writing for anyways. My family really seemed to like the poem (partially because they were involved in it), and the project gave me a break from some other stories and screenplays that eat away at my head. In fact, if anyone here has any requests for a story or a skit or a poem, I’d be happy to oblige. But that’s enough stalling. Enjoy my Coleridge parody!

Rime of the Foolish Edinger

Far back when New York Chills did blow

over Lake Skaneateles,

there was a drunk cruising the waves:

a dullard, a ninny, tactless.

He painted his waves over water

like a wild modern artist.

The Edinger boat looked like port to him-

we learned he wasn’t the smartest.

So with the engine’s snarl behind,

and a beer in his beer-soaked hand,

he accelerated and- how do I say this?

You ever take a rock to a coke can?

The Edinger boat was torn apart,

despite its previous endurance.

The drunkard looked at the sinking wreck

and realized he had no insurance.

A crew arrived later to survey the wreck-

the pontoons, the engine, the prop-

and ferried it out of Skaneateles…

forgetting the bimini top.

(You all know about bimini tops,

correct? Covers half the hull, bit

that’s like a canopy for the boat,

gives real nice shade- eh, just google it).

For eons the bimini top languished

like a mute man’s speaking wish-

surrounded by piercing zebra muscles,

bits eaten by confused fish.

There it remained until the arrival

of the city-born sons of John.

These Edingers journeyed to the small speedboat

that replaced the boat that was gone.

They jumped off the dock, swam past Dan’s boat,

acting careful not to touch;

then Sue’s boat, then raft, then the small speedboat-

beyond that there’s just not much.

There was Rob, son of John, devourer of Worlds;

there was Matt, the man of Iron.

There was Nick, who skied on one ski once,

but afterwards found himself tired.

As his brothers climbed the ladder of the boat,

Nick peered to the green abyss

to find the relic of the old pontoon boat.

And then he called “Oi! What’s this?”

Nick picked up the metal scrap and pulled,

and surfaced just once for a breath.

He dropped the wreckage and gasped for air-

no way to complete a theft.

His family applauded his deep lake find

upon return. His uncle was curious.

“If you found that, Nick, perhaps you’ll find

our lost cover, if the trip’s not injurious.”

Nick dived to the treacherous depths below,

but found no cover, just wreckage.

The family council upon the hill

then chose to test Nick’s essence.

“Nicholas, the council decrees that you

bring up the top to a dry spot.”

That’s what Nick heard. He suggested it first,

and the drinking adults replied “Why not?”

A rowboat with a rope hung to the docks,

with the walls of waves it wrestled.

Nick witnessed the dinghy and shouted out,

“This will be my questing vessel!”

Nick sprinted down the hill’s stone steps,

at the rowboat’s docking did they meet.

Nick took his grand odyssey’s first step,

and stepped right onto the seat.

For those not nautically informed, the rowboat’s

seat is quite unsteady.

You can slip and fall off like a child on a raft,

and our hero Nick was not ready.

After the laughter from the hill died down

and after Nick spat out the water,

our hero climbed back onto his steed

and sped through the lake like an otter.

An otter high of meth, to be frank-

long ago, Nick’s rowing skills died.

If the police were on patrol then,

they’d’ve given another DUI.

But Nick arrived at the wreckage site

and dived with a rope in hand

to attach the bimini top to the boat!

This was as far as Nick planned.

Nicholas climbed back on the boat-

it was harder than it seemed,

due to that insidious Faustian deal

known only as Krispy Kremes!

Nick began his journey back to the cottage,

but forgot an important factor-

due to the front rope dragging the load,

he’d have to make the back trip backwards.

With pulls that pulverized his biceps,

with no drink to make the trip sweeter,

Nick strained and pushed ‘till his shoulders gave out

and found he travelled, like, a meter.

But Nick could not give in front of his folks,

so he lifted and churned and shoved,

and looked to the hill, until he saw

two dragonflies- making love?

It looked like that, they were together joined,

and one of them kept bucking

against the other… Nick pondered this:

what’s it like when dragonflies are… hugging?

So he kept his mind on insect love,

and the exercise made the work lighter.

But when he looked up and scanned the lakeside,

it didn’t make his day brighter.

He only had arrived at the boat of Sue,

his muscles were sore and stunted.

the waves were knocking his small progress back,

and now the rowboat was flooded!

Every shift of his body brought liquid in.

And when Coleridge made that one quote;

“Water, water, everywhere,”

Nick knew he didn’t mean the boat!

It was then a savior in a kayak came,

a resident of neighborly fame.

“Is there anything I can help you out with?”

said the wonderful Lady What’s-Her-Name.

Nick only asked for a sole bucket

and explained why, in the past hour,

he rowed in place, creating only splashes

in a pitiful display of power.

So the lady brought over a bucket from Nick’s mom,

and Nick heaved the water out!

Now, instead of moving like a rock,

he could move like a brain-dead trout!

But even right here, Nick didn’t give up-

he merely reconsidered

as he looked to the slightly shallowed bottom

of a lake that was zebra-muscle-littered.

It was here an idea struck our hero

like a get-rich scheme to a hobo-

“I can’t carry the load for the boat- I’ll just carry

the boat! Like Samwise did for Frodo!”

Nick jumped back in, flooding the boat again,

and dove to where the rope held taut.

He pulled and he swam and he dragged the top

across the rocks in his great plot.

He dove and strained and surfaced for breath,

and repeated this all down the path

back to the cottage, just missing Dan’s boat

and avoiding that apocalyptic wrath.

Nick swam past the dock, safe from the muscles.

The feet until land were few.

So he heaved the bimini top out of the water,

and carried it with a “hhhhrrrrrrgggggggAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGNNNAAAAA
HHHHMAH! Whew!”

The bimini top had reached the shore!

Nick ran up the hill, still coughing,

to exclaim his victory to the unwinding folks

who responded “We really weren’t watching.”

“Well, Grandma saw when you rowed in place,

and the lady’s bucket came from your mother,

but we were chatting and having our drinks.”

Then Bob said, “Did you find our cover?”

So thus I conclude this epic tale

of trial for trial’s sake

to document the folly of all of those

living Skaneateles Lake.

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The Life of the Poet Eternal

I was a starting poet back when they invented fire,

And after some choice readings they suggested I retire.

They wanted me to sing about my tribe’s genealogy.

But who cares about whose

Father’s dad invented booze,

I liked singing of geology.

*

I was a learning poet back when Homer was the man.

I actually wrote down my words, which other poets panned.

They said my poems wouldn’t fit inside a three-act drama.

What do they know?

They love the show

Of a king marrying his mama.

**

I was a wan’dring poet back when it was the Dark Ages.

The Holy Roman Empire closed down all our stands and stages.

Whenever I stopped by court, the ears of mighty kings I hurt,

For ‘love and passion’

Was that year’s fashion,

And I sung about the dirt.

***

I was a learned poet back when crowds filled the Globe Theater,

Where I still failed amidst what was a great poetry fever.

Sonnets Petrarchan, Spenserian, Shakespearean were the norm.

If you got them made,

You then got laid,

But I never figured out the form.

****

I was a starving poet when Romanticism reigned,

Finally, an age where poets could a proper wage maintain!

The poets wrote about the heart, and I wrote using mine.

But I lacked meter time,

And my poems did not rhyme.

Well, rhyming’s a bunch of bullshit anyways.

*****

I was a lonely poet back when they spoke it in jazz clubs.

I tried to hang out with the Beats, but they didn’t like my “jazz hugs.”

They all said that my poetry doesn’t follow any rhythm.

Ummmm yes they do.

They totally do.

Like, more than you know, man.

******

I am an unpublished poet, and after a life eternal,

You can find all of my poetry right here on my LiveJournal.

And now they say my work is much too stiff to be accepted.

It has too many clauses

And lacks- pauses-

Is that more what you expected?

*******

No one ever wanted my poems, after millenniums of trying.

But ‘til I figure how they work, you’ll bet I’ll be applying.

Them, that is. The poems.

To publication. Maybe I should edit this stuff.

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