Link Below for Free Mp3

I download music because I like stealing.
I bet you are thinking right now that you are in for some sarcasm. Believe me, I download music illegally because I like stealing.
However, if we all stole music then musicians would not bother making music anymore, right? Wrong.
Charles Darwin was a terrible harpsichord player and even though nobody ever stole his music using KazAa or Napster or Bearshare or KazAa Lite ++ he didn’t make a living off his harpsichord. He really sucked. He was not good. He was
bad.
I download non-Charles-Darwin-playing-harpsichord-poorly music because I like stealing. Every time I steal Natalie Imbruglia’s sensational hit “Torn,”
an angel gets his wings.
That is like a metaphor. And “like” means that is a simile. That angel can see me even if I have the lights down low when I’m in front of my Macintosh G4, 12-inch power book with Super Drive upgrade serial number J4505WS372. If he notices—his name is Geoffrey by the way—if he—he always wanted to be one,
an angel. He was one of those kids in elementary school who would draw lots of pictures of themselves wearing adult, professional, workplace-environment clothing. He drew himself as a Cherubim in God’s glorious choir until he finally was one, an angel—If the angel, Geoffrey of God’s glorious choir notices that I’m stealing Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” then he gets wings. It’s like a metaphor but he really does get a pair of wings. God knows
every time I steal Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” it gets harder for musicians to make money and if it’s hard to do, then only the inspired and talented will survive by selling other products you can’t download like T-shirts or concert tickets or locks of their brunette hair on eBay with a starting bid of $1.99 but you know it will go up to 20 dollars or even thirty dollars in the last hour of bidding, and even though it’s being sold on eBay for an increasing amount of money each time you check you can only download
a picture of the severed chunk of Norah Jones’s hair and you can print that off on your HP All-in-one Inkjet Printer/Scanner/Fax Machine and laser printing is even better but still it’s not the same as having all of those shiny strands of Norah Jones’s hair flowing across your palm, that’s something you can’t download. And since only the talented and inspired will sell their own hair on eBay then it will weed out bad musicians, right? Maybe.
I never listened when people talked about Galapagos so I don’t know,
maybe,
maybe every time I steal Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” the mating patterns of Cherubim angels becomes more like the sharp-beaked finch and less like the warbler finch’s mating rituals.
And as a matter of either strange coincidence or foreshadowing fact, Natalie Imbruglia looks more like a land iguana than Patti Smith. And Charlie Darwin would have written Nelly Fertado’s name in a different phylum, probably one of the amphibious ones though Natalie Imbruglia would still maintain her status as a upright mammal. Evolution is one of those things that you either believe in,
or
you don’t and if you don’t then
you’re wrong.
I still download music because like stealing even if I have to believe in evolution or I’m wrong, and the consequence of survival of the fittest is turning musicians into reptiles.
I like stealing.
When I steal then that means I got it for free, right?
Right.

Click here for free mp3 reading of this poem

These are not expensive things

Carnations bloom on the second’s tick.
While roses’ reds bleed deeper hues,
their bush’s blush’s thin not thick;
carnations flush fully a countenance of rouge.

Bright, treble vibrato of telephone bells
spew two-dollar dozens of transitory splendor.
Auditory faces wire down, dark in low wells
to half fill three vases, embracing their four.

Poets are not pretty

Poets are not pretty.
Mariah Carey is very pretty but
she certainly is not a poet.
This is a good example but all of us who read Scientific American know that an example doesn’t count as proof. I have never read the cover of Scientific American but Mariah Carey
is pretty and certainly not a poet.
Maybe this is not enough to convince you that poets aren’t pretty. Bob Dylan
is in the D section of the Pop/Rock shelves at Virgin Megastore on Union Square featuring The Ten Dollar Sale: Hundreds of CDs and DVDs All for Only Ten Dollars open until One A.M. and Midnight on Sundays, closed early on holidays. If Jon—J-O-N without an H—is the manager on the floor then Bob Dylan will be in the D section of Pop/Rock at Virgin Megastore at Union Square, which is alphabetically required to be next to Mariah Carey. A, B, Carey, Dylan. They are so close that it is easy to compare the prettiness of Mariah and Bob. If John is off, then Jess might be working and the Bob Dylan stuff will be in Country/Western TV Shows on the lower level and Jess will not understand that Mariah Carey is not related to John Kerry bless his liberal heart for trying to beat George Ugly Bush. But just because he is ugly does not make him a poet either. Though
it helps.
It helped Bob Dylan. He is ugly so it is better to listen to him then to fantasize about frolicking naked with him in the forest behind the abandon barn where no one will pass judgment. But, Mariah Carey is pretty so it’s better to listen to Bob Dylan while frolicking naked with Mariah Carey in the forest behind the abandon barn.
I think about Mariah Carey and frolicking when I look at her poster in my friend’s computer room. Walt Whitman’s grayscale portrait is in every English teacher’s room or their office. But we should not hang pictures up of Walt Whitman. He reminds me of a homeless polar bear when I see his washed-out image like 43-dollar Gap jeans next to the Historical Timeline of Shakespeare’s Comedies and Tragedies beginning with The Comedy of Errors and wrapping up with The Tempest. They say that Shakespeare didn’t even write these plays that it was a prince who had Shakespeare pretend to be the author and that is probably true because Shakespeare is not that bad to look at. I would not frolic naked behind the abandon barn with William Shakespeare but placed next to a photograph of an old, straw broom with a black stiff hat that the English teacher who bought the frames for each of these tells everyone on the first day of class is the most important American poet in, in America, I always rather look at Shakespeare. The English teacher should wallpaper the room with the 416 pages of Leaves Of Grass. It is more important to have “Song of Myself” especially visible on the wall than a picture of Walt Whitman and his hat. Poets are not pretty.
If you are pretty and you want to be a poet
too bad. You can't
because poets are not pretty.
At the Green Market grocery and deli on Fourth Avenue and 10th street, the clerk—he is pretty, too, but not a poet
of course—will stare at you a lot but not because you are a poet. You are not a poet; you are pretty. But, if you put the bag that he gives you on your head you will be a poet
finally.
But cut holes so you can see if anyone is noticing you as a poet
now. Cut the holes pretty small. If they can see your big, shiny eyeballs you will not be a poet again because
poets are not pretty.

Feminists hate my mother

Feminists hate my mother.
Feminism has fewer roots in love for women and more roots in spite for men. That’s how Feminist women, who fight for every woman everywhere, have come to hate my mother.
My mother is not a mutineer of Feminism. She is not twisted. She holds no grief with Feminist women, but yet they hate her.
I am a young man and know not enough about my ominous oppression of half this earth’s population, but I know that Feminists hate my mother.

“What do your parents do?”
“My father is a doctor,” I always say because he always still is.
“Yes…and your mom?”
Homemaker, housewife, domestic engineer--she doesn’t pick up a paycheck does that mean she’s unemployed?
To these formless words the Feminists always sigh, “Oh.”

“Oh.” Oh is a short expression that with their intonation has a long definition: Oh means your mom’s too dumb or too oppressed to have a “real” job. She’s not quick enough on the Feminism train or not allowed the opportunity by evil men to be anything but a stay-at-home mom.
Not my mother. Don’t call my mother a stay-at-home mom. My mother is a wake-up-make-their-breakfast-drive-them-to-school-do-their-laundry-buy-their-groceries-drive-them-to-hockey-pick-up-their-father-bake-their-dinner-never-at-home mom.

“Yes…and your mom? What does she do?” they always ask like I forgot what her job title was. My mother is the earth on which I stand, the air I breathe, the food I eat. She is my mother, a worthy enough job to take after working full-time shifts to put my father through medical school so that he can bring the income to afford this family. This family she produced, without pay, without vacation, without raises, without a gold watch, without maternity leave.
How dare the Feminists belittle my mother for being a full-time mother. As if being just a mother wasn’t enough for Feminism with a capital F. Being a mother to this family is being God to our home. And being just God is always enough.
Call my mom a homemaker, no. God is our universe’s Creator and mothers are our families’ Creators with a capital C.
Whether or not inflicted by a feminist persuasion, no man or woman has ever been, without first being born from a mother. And, I shall pray to God that no person will ever exist. What are we but our mothers’ children?

The giants and the dreams

I dream of giants.
I dream of really tall men and women
walking over everything.
The trees reach barely to their knees.

I dream of starships.
I dream of super fast speeds and gadgets
streaking through the universe.
That'd sure beat earth's local commerce.

I dream of colors.
I dream of different hues and contrasts
appearing to me completely new
not made of red light, green or blue.

I dream of sneakers.
I dream of well-crafted shoes and laces
hugging me like an old friend.
If asked to rate them they’d get 10.

I dream of dreams.
I dream of these things coming true. And, they often do
waiting for the last seconds
right before the end credits.
Then, I wake up and forget it all.

Hoy, no ayer, no manana, hoy

I caught you looking at me.
I resisted madly
But I can’t control
That my eyes gaze back often at yours.
How do you feel today?
When the world’s got you down.
Why are you just okay?
Here, let me spin you around.
I think it’s kind of funny
When I asked my buddies
They did all agree
That my chief demographic was you
How do you feel today?
Oh, I think you’re better than that.
Want to come o’er and play?
I will pay for your cab.
How do you feel today?
Today you’re with me instead of him.
Today you’re finally happy again.
Today won’t go away with the setting sun because we’re not quite done with
Today is future’s way of telling us to hang on and here’s one more chance.
How do you feel today?
Now that you are with me
And like I always say
Without your eyes you can’t see
Without today you can’t be.

On a roof top in the village, New York City unfolds,
undulating outward
Manhattan,
Brooklyn,
New Jersey.
There are more aeroplanes in the sky than stars, but
it's not to say that it's any less beautiful
because the sky is alive now, animated
by a hundred slow moving galaxies
blinking
green,
red,
port,
starboard.

Featured Presentation

Hello, my name is Ted Turner. I present to you the present-day Trojan Horse birthday present. With cameras as the planks of wood siding my stead the army inside is telecasted infidelity. I spent a fair-share of my dollars so even if you holler you won’t see an end to my CNN. But you never holler, and are never bothered, and as far as your concerned the burnt truth I’m spewing has never been better. My name is Ted Turner and you pay me to run your life for you. Why do you ask such a task of me and certainly not free, no, I get no fee, Ha! You pay me. I guess you might be lazy but my spin-doctors and truth-twisters will give you the benefit of a doubt that maybe you’re too busy in fact. To busy to pack any thinking—y’all be rather drinking in back—than making a self-owned judgment on the war in Iraq. I understand and stand before you in your living rooms and in your bars on TV stools and in well-equipped cars to deliver my thoughts and you’ll take them for yours as though thoughts were a chore. My name is Ted Turner and you pay me to run your life for you.

Hello, my name is George Walker Bush. My salutations and congratulations and, here, get some hand shakes as my sign of glad thanks for reelecting my presidency, well, selectively electing my first presidency but clandestinely, effectively presenting my candidacy a chance for me to whirl the world my way Four More Years! My name is George Walker Bush and you pay me to run your life for you. You’ve seen my C’s in college math but take a bath in the fact that only I could salvage the stats that the populists’ popular percentage votes of my 47.8 could dominate 48.3 of Gore’s. If Gore was yours and Gore had more than my election needs correction. But a victory of Al leaves pals of mine 47.8 strong. A victory in any history of less than one percent and the best believe the rest will surely not ferment. I did not win, but the asses’ victory was thin. That was then and now again though still not so professionally but just as much is my destiny to win the presidency. You did your part against me? One vote in a predetermined state of ineptitude to elected a dude with an attitude of platform that warms the one unelectable obvious plan that John Kerry was not George Walker Bush. My name is George Walker Bush and in 2004 you decided to pay me to run your life for you.

Hello, my name is Fiddy Cent. My sixth-grade vernacular sounds so spectacular above the moaning and groaning of mindless bass drum. My loud crew matches my clown shoes, I hear scrutiny of my rhyming routine but if pays the bills, and it certainly most flirtingly plays my thrills, then who’s laughing at whom. And the scaffolding your loyal viewing and spoiled mewing of MTV’s TRL makes an empty me sleep real well. My name is Fiddy Cent and you pay me to run your life for you. If you buy my CD then you’ll be just like me, my gats on TV and the cats on my street will appear in your yard and without trying hard you’ll have bling on you chest with a ring that says West, Side! I’ve got my words in your mouf; my hit on your Ipod, my tattoos on your wall, my thoughts in your head. But me, I got your cash in my bank. Your generosity and your leniency and your lack of curiosity mean more G’s for me. My name is Fiddy Cent and you pay me to run your life for you.

Hello, my name is Rupert Murdach, Snoop Dog, Rush Limbah, unionization
And you pay me to run your life for you.
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And you pay me to run your life for you.
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