I Know the Rules, I Just Break Them

When I write in correct English,

It bores me to tears.

 

“When” is a subordinative conjunction

Creating an adjectival clause,

Modifying “It”, the subject of the sentence.

If I said in the previous sentence

“Which is the subject” it would be a nominative or noun clause.

“I” is a noun, not the subject of the poem.

“in correct” is a prepositional phrase

More specifically, an adverbial phrase modifying “write”.

“Write in correct” is not the predicate.

“I” is an indirect object. “English” is a direct object,

Of a subordanitive or dependent clause.

“Correct” is an adjective.

I would have used an adverb, with an “ly”

But that is not correct English.

 

“It” is the subject of the sentence.

“Bores me to tears” is the predicate.

“It bores me to tears” is an independent clause.

“Me” is a direct object. “To tears” is a prepositional phrase,

An adverbial phrase modifying “Bores.”

 

Modern prescriptions are that you can’t use

Helper verbs.

A Helper verb is a conjugation of Be, Being or Been.

You can’t use weak verbs. Like “Sees” or “Looks” or “Seems” or “Ought.”

You ought to have two clauses and two phrases max in a sentence—

That’s my ridiculous rule for you.

You cannot use Passive Voice.

Passive voice is a voice that uses anything beside a Simple tense.

That means Present Continuous

Present Perfect

Present Perfect Continuous

Are not allowed! No no!

 

You can’t use gerunds to start a clause

Or phrase—

Though I do.

You can’t use participles to start a phrase or clause.

But I do.

 

I use dangling and hanging modifiers…

 

Really, everything I do breaks rules.

 

Truthfully, everything fun about writing

Needs to go away

If you’re using modern rules.

 

But, at least you know I know them.

 

But, can you say you had fun reading this?

I had a blast writing it.

 

And because people are Grammar Snobs

Half of stuff proscribed against is Grammatical.

Of Theodore Marmaduke, Canto IV – In a Rare Meter

Olden the Earth    Old and errlorn

Men built towns tall     Tours to triumphs.

A million times’     Gilgal’s mad flood-

-Fire fell upon      Forsaken earth.

 

Two pure prophets     Awoke to parch

The Godless rakes     Upon God’s earth.

At each flood-fire     Was epoch’s tide

To which Giants      Gnashed our good earth.

They lied lewd laws      Gross sciences

So came the called     Two prophets keen.

Their wives one flesh     Their woes one fight.

 

Bromdun was not     Born to be these.

But, Bromdun sung     For these two seers.

When Sheshack felled     Bromdun’s Hopeshore

Bromdun waivered     For a wife’s breast.

Bromdun was not     But pretendt he

So to give ease      To his friend Zeek.

For Sheshak was     Good, to wan Sheikhs.

 

Zeek and Jerome’s       Joyful tide zoomed.

Bromdun did wan       To be Cyrus

So pale and fraught     That he failed poor.

 

He feared, fraught, foes      Forbore him, weak

And feeble. Fie      He did, for feigns.

But to be used    By God he prayed

To be used great    In some good way.

 

Marmaduke was     The Mad Moabite

Who made Ashur    Fall upon all.

For Marmaduke,   Ephraim’s Might

Sent men by poor     Bromdun’s poor prayers

To pillage the      Place Bromdun loved.

To give creed to    His crass visions

And drive him mad      Though Sheshak did

Get wroth, for was     What Bromdun was

To do with life.      Weak, listless, lied

But Bromdun was      A sinner, bad

No less or more     Mad or lewd than

Andrew, Jude, or    Cyrus’ alms.

 

For all men sin,     Some greater. All

Men sin less in     Mind than in thought.

Of Theodore Marmaduke, Canto III

Blessed, bold, but berated,        Bromdun found himself by the bull’s pen

Where beauty beheld him wonted       He had loved the beauty, but bold

Was she, to shew away all great loves      For he was shown a Ziddonian

And she was an Israelite sure;       Thus, the two fell to showers of salt

Eating beneath the fig fruit       Which dropped forbearing upon the forts of love.

There forbidden fruit dropped     Forlorn, the two forgat that love was forbidden

As the green fruit upon the       Forbidden trees.

Delicious it was, to dote      In the nude upon the delicacies of love.

Yet, the families disapproved       Desperate to separate the young turtledoves.

They forbade the marriage       Of these two young mates.

The two, at the precipice of love’s clinch      Drew back, and did not beget, nor elope.

No priest would permit them to marry      “You are too young!” cried the priest

Cried the family, cried the friends.      The two were familiar as spousemates,

But for friend and family       The feat never took but for a farce.

 

She scorned him.     She scoured him.

Not because she hated him,     But because they hated him,

Who like a brother to her      But much deeper, with sibling rivalry

The two loved not with farce       But with zeal. Forswear to know

The forbidden love cost the two     Their couth, and sanity.

These could not even seal      Their bond with sex.

For on the threat of discovery,     The two were too daunted to be at ease.

At the appropriate age for love      Neither appeared, but rather abhorred the other.

Their hatred grew cold,      For love could not be clinched.

For the family’s futility,      Neither could fraternize, and therefore

Seal their loves.      Such might be the best that they left it alone.

For, unlike Hannai and Jeroboam      They could not seal under

The mandrakes, nor the fig tree blossoms.     They could not seal, berated

By friend and ally,      Both were made cold, forsworn,

They could not seal      Their sex, for they were not married.

Thus, the hatred never grew,      But instead healed him.

She hurt and pined     Yet could love him nonetheless.

For his Chivalry prevailed,     And they were not thrust into unsure desires

Which makes bitter hatred in hearts     More broken than prevented pollination.

 

For they did not      Imprison  the lieges

Nor torture them in their dungeons,      Nor disembowel them

Because of love prevented.     For dammed love is the most vitriol hatred

And lovers tasted of the wine     Of salts hate one another most cruel.

Veiled of love, the consorts,     Nor the curious slaves and vassals

Were hurt, nor the Christians,      Nor the commoners.

For if Hannai and Jeroboam are a lesson,      Forbidden love jeers the soul

Of its goodness,      And the only power to grow good again

Is to forgive     The fruitless feast of love.

 

For Theodore Marmaduke     Maligned the parents with spies

To tell the whole,    What the two young lovers behooved

And spread rumors false      About flower petals.

Thus, the parents hated him      But Theodore Marmaduke had made a horrible mistake.

By never tasting love’s alight      The two’s love could last

To platonic forms     Formidable, even to forgive the shame

Shown when Bromdun      Bereaved of all breast of heart

Could not be but a coward      And so converse with his comrade.

For she knew Bromdun’s shame     But hid it in her bosom, that he was not but show

But a good, unloved man.     For she taught him love unconditional;

For that her heart beat     For her breast, knowing that forbidden was that heartbeat.

Modern Protocol

Have no opinion.

Discuss nothing.

Talk about nothing.

Don’t be original.

Give one sentence feedback.

Be offended by conversation.

Feel good.

Don’t feel bad.

Don’t try to initiate conversation.

Be dull.

Be offended.

 

There was a cake in my fridge.

It was masterful.

It needed some cinnamon blueberry pie filling and cool whip.

If my writing is vanilla,

What I get you to think about is the pie filling and cool whip.

 

I wish it wasn’t a fault of mine

To interpret what other people say.

I also wish it wasn’t a fault of mine

To try and socialize.

But, it feels better to be social…

Happier even.

 

If I’m snubbed,

I’d rather be snubbed

Than to not even try.

In the words of Hemingway,

“Expletive” Modern Protocol.

To The Boomers Complete

I

 

Grew up in the sixties.

Getting a taste of your own medicine now.

I know it was hard to find your parent’s wisdom.

I know that you went astray

Licking the lamp poles like Ralphy.

 

Frankly, I would laud your generation

If I hadn’t spent so much time with the Silent Generation

And the Greatest Generation.

Your rampant belief about conspiracy theories

Vietnam, and the host of other things you believe…

You’re pretty concerned about Sasquatch

Pretty ingrained in your political party.

Do you understand why

Generation Z is disenfranchised with you?

I will call them the Callow Generation.

It’s because you ingrained yourself

In your time period.

Sufficient unto itself was Aerosmith and Led Zeppelin.

Pink Floyd was your wisdom.

The Wall and the Beetles.

Good poetry… I have to admit.

There’s nothing wrong with it…

But you all were just another brick in the wall.

 

Generation Z, the Callow Generation,

Sit on their computers,

Doting on themselves.

They call you “Boomer”.

They wouldn’t have called my Grand Mother

“Boomer.” She would have smacked them.

Her mother, who I knew and was acquainted with,

Would have tanned them.

 

There is no respect.

I say this with respect.

I knew the Silent Generation and the Greatest Generation.

I knew, and still do know, them.

The Callow generation cannot know them.

They cannot understand them

Because you did not carry on their legacy.

You… Boomers… did not allow these generations

To be remembered.

You made them cold.

You made them ruthless.

However, you all will eat well.

The Callow Generation

Will possibly never eat.

They will possibly be coddled.

Never have tasted what freedom is.

Already, they rebel against freedom.

They rebel against it.

Understand their rebellion.

 

Freedom is not drugs and rock and roll.

 

II
However, I don’t flatter you.

I know harsh truths aren’t popular.

It might be that you are half my audience.

I am glad you are.

But, because I love you,

I must tell you the truth.

 

The Callow Generation

The Millennial Generation,

Gen-X,

We’ve all inherited a problem from you.

You abandoned God—

The God of the Universe.

The rampant departure has spread

Through sixty years.

Hedonism replaced Christianity.

In that, it made it much harder to be a hedonist,

Wouldn’t you say?

 

I don’t see pleasures getting more abundant.

Your parents probably had lots of sex.

It’s why they would have five to ten kids on average.

If you’d ever seen an Antique, it is better quality

Than what we buy today.

What is thirty years old

Will probably still be around

Longer than what is two years old.

It’s not because they were,

In any way,

Special. It was a blessing.

Power is in the Cross.

 

The heaviness of an antique,

When modern things use the same woods,

Their elaborate designs.

Nothing is so ugly as the utilitarian design

Of modern furniture.

Utilitarian means “Pleasure oriented.”

I don’t see much pleasure in it.

Not much at all, in pumping out

Uniform products.

 

There must be blessing—

No, there must be skill and craft

And blessing.

Those old fuddiduddies had something

With them. They had love.

Their discipline was a part of that love.

Their arrangement of cutlery,

Their fuss about carpets,

Their disinterest in science, math, philosophy, grammar.

See… we have just as much philosophy, math, grammar and science today.

We are no better for it.

 

I tout the power of the poem.

But, there is nothing in a poem

If there is not a blessing to the crafting of it.

Talent means nothing.

It does not save you, either.

 

I can cook five star dishes.

I can write a poem in any diction.

I can play the piano, sing and keep a beat with no metronome.

I know what a Caesura is.

I have built a Universe of Discourse as rich as Tolkien’s.

I worked my 13,000 hours.

I saved a lot of lives.

I can even ride my bike with no handlebars.

The previous is my generation, excuse me

For using it.

 

It all means nothing.

Compared to those people,

Who the most simple lived off of nothing;

Rather, they thrived off of it.

They ate better than we do.

They slept better than we do.

They made love better than we do.

They worked better than we do.

 

All my talents cannot save me.

They cannot give me an ounce of their good.

 

Boomers, I place the blame solely on you.

You lost God, and God is the ultimate Hedonist.

He built laws so we could flourish.

But, even those laws mean nothing.

Islam has those same laws.

The Living God also brings rain.

And we need Him right now.

 

For those of you who nod your head in agreement

I call you prophets.

In My Dreams of Forgiveness

In my dreams

I see two very different people.

I see myself.

And I see someone else.

 

The someone else

Breathes fire and flies

But everyone loves him.

They call him, “Super Boy.”

He makes love with every virgin.

He fights in every battle.

He is a killer—

I’ve seen it.

It is someone else’s life that I see.

 

Facing up to my past,

Being selfish toward my mother,

Being cruel,

I was not very nice.

Those were my sins, though.

Having to look at all the people I’ve wronged,

All of the animals,

And to see that some of them will never forgive me,

It is a hard feeling.

 

It is a hard feeling,

But it’s even harder

To see them love

And forgive

The monster but not me.

To call me a “Traitor”

When I saw her unconditionally love that other man.

It’s the quintessential truth of Christianity:

A repentant man is despised

While

A flagrant man is lauded.

 

But, those who really matter do

In fact,

Forgive.