Seniors these days, sheesh,
they got no respect
for authority.
I’ve heard retirees bash
presidents, senators and
teachers—rebels
refusing to submit.
Blue-hairs applauded, funded men who
used their thrones to
ensured most found
no place to sit down.

My peers rose up,
blocked bridges, ports,
subs and streets to
expose chair thieves.
Meanwhile those who used the
money they saved from their
Denny’s discount
on cigarettes
rather than tipping their server—those
people call us
hoodlums,
we who oppose this
us
verses
them
mindset. To them:
set down arms my brothers.
pick up peace,
for you cannot claim that other thing.

Why?

We receive it,
cannot take it or
keep it, cannot export it,
extort it, produce or invent it. We
receive it. But old men cannot see that
through the fog of
ten-dollar
spectacles
made in China.

}{

Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three.  Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23.

These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24^th birthday on April 30^th – and I had to write in genres spanning from epic ballads to limericks to get 46 in on time. I guess that means, for better or worse, that’s the best poetry I’ll ever write. Sad day.

Who was I kidding?

Milton was blind and old—oooooold—when he publishedParadise Regained. Emily Dickenson was dead when her stuff came out. My favorite stuff from T.S. Elliot came out after his conversion. So yeah, old age is good for poetry too. Look at Burns and Berry.

(Side note: the name “Berry Burns” sounds like a shady car salesman).

Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen every few years? Who knows, but this year, here’s to 50 poems at 25 to be written exponentially faster until I turn 26 on April Thirtyish. I do it this the second time around as a way to say: “Here’s to living life well before it’s too late.”

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