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Another abandoned
filthy cliche, 
left astray
laying displayed on the highway,
as if to say
Our American Way
is decadent and hollow.

It floats up above our head

Made of colorful thread

The first one was made by hand 

And even that one looked so grand

It's always inspired me

When it's up there for all to see

It gets soldiers through the night

So they wake up to see the light

Because when they see it flying

It reminds them why they kepp on trying

It represents the land of the free

And it means everything to me

It's lasted through all the ages

And people write about it, pages and pages

Without it, our country is naught

Even though so many have fought

All those soldiers on the front lines

Reminds me that this country of mine 

Is always free, through and through

All because of that Red White and Blue.

Hello son,

You've lived for those days.

Comforted-

You've lift the sun rays-

Trickled down the face-

Of the wealthy man.

What love entails-

Forgotten in time.

Forbidden, through-

The faded lust in your eyes.

Red, white and blue-

Seem so dull these days.

Grated by the lies that they tell-

Molded by political hell.

Send shivers and twist these spines-

Pride and courage bleed out those minds.

Amazing,

How they're made to feel grand-

Stars burst into dust and fade in the sands.

Held your weight to the floor.

Creating light out of noise-

Hoping everyone praises you-

Popular stand.

Close your eyes and begin.

As this life will soon spin-

Don't let anyone tame you.

National treasure

..............

O my great one! 

How you shine! Shine! Shine!

The arms of the ages open,

Receiving those worn, scarred and weary souls

To embrace a new freedom of dreams!

O my soul of loving concern,

For those beaten by war, 

And the ravages of man's frailties 

That most often lurk unseen within his being,

Lift up your best alms,

And transform those regrets 

Beyond the iniquities of the past.

Streets paved with the shadows 

Of lonely and searching immigrants 

Lost in time and groping for security,

Never allowing malice to obsure your divinity.

Shine! Shine! Shine On!

6:23 PM 7/8/2013 ©

......................

The Hungry Secularist is a poem from my e-book of 79 pages, Don't Swallow The Toothpaste. You can purchase the book at whatever price you would like to pay by clicking the link provided at the bottom of the page!

I put on my boots
before realizing another holiday
snuck up on me.
Walked into the bedroom
and called two major grocery stores.
No answer.
I looked at what fruit was
on the shelf.
There were a couple apples,
an orange,
and one tomato.
Not enough to get me through this
Easter Sunday and work tomorrow.

I went online to a map search,
typed "grocery", and found a little market 3 blocks away.
As I approached
there was an old neon soda
sign broken in half,
but I was optimistic
and hungry.

I entered the market
and grabbed a basket
circling the store a couple of times
before asking the young man
if they had bananas and tangerines.
He asked what I was going to use
them for.
I said, "I'm sorry?"
"What are you going
to use them for?"
"The tangerines?"
Yes - he said
I replied, "To eat."
He led me over to the cooler,
"You know what's good? Take a lime and cut it into wedges
and roll it in sugar."
I didn't have sugar at home due to just moving in,
and if I did,
the thought of eating a lime in
any manner makes my asshole pucker.
It's probably something he saw
on an MTV Spring Break episode.
He told me when the bananas
ripened they were gone.

I usually reserve one day a week
to eat anything. I grabbed a can of
Vienna Sausages,
mustard sardines, clam chowder soup,
then a couple of things that weren't as fattening.
I forgot to look for canned fruit.

I'm on my 3rd cup of coffee and
making a lot of runs to the bathroom.
The wooden floor squeaks in the
hallway as I try to find the tight spots to step,
so I don't wake a roommate.

For whatever reason
my sinuses are flared
and my throat sore.
We've had 5" of snow the last
two days,
and the wind chill on this
23rd of March is 26*.

March Madness
is winding its way
to the Sweet 16.
I remember the fever
in Carolina this time of year.
Between and after games
we would sometimes meet up
to shoot hoops.
In Minnesota on days like this
when outside,
I just work to dodge the yellow
spots from where the neighbors
walked their dogs.

Jim Creston
March 23, 2008
All Rights Reserved

Paypal also accepts credit cards, and you do not need to be a Paypal member! I will email you the e-book in .Pdf form once payment is completed.

https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=2EV74TH9S2AQU

Blue Ribbon in Louisiana

Window panes pecked

Paint chipped, shingles sagged

Green and yellow spindle and wood

Reptilian stealth and greedy claws

Guards porcelain innocence young

Crystal cold drinks and thumping sun.

There's a local boy in the heat,

Dried grass and Grandpa's shirts, he works.

Curly top sits in her Manor,

With twists and a blue ribbon frame

white cotton trip and rosy-pink punctuation

Playground raking the grass

Small-town Romeo, her darling

and his tricks of the trade

his eye for a bite,

head full of jaw terrors and scars

Papa comes home at dusk,

when the guards turn docile and tired.

Have a drink and a swing and a paddle,

and a little' lady's lips to whisk your dreams wild. 

I cannot begin to fathom how I work so goddamn hard for years, scraping together every coin I can get my hands on in order to save and end up in a bottomless pit where I cannot see a light. There was once a light when I was young, but that light has gotten dimmer over the years. How can this country pride itself in being a land of dreams when I've been here for 20 years with nothing to show for it? I am having my independence slowly stripped away from me all because I follow every law, every rule, every guideline this country has put in front of my face since birth. When other countries criticize Americans, they should be criticizing the government who runs it, not the people who live in it. The people who run it no longer know what it means to live. They simply do; they do not think.

At the end of the conference,

In my jealousy, I sat there.

And saw BO from a distance,

Between the stage at its end.

He came walking my direction,

And I thought he passed me by.

In fact, enclosure, standing in front of my sight,

And gave me pegs, 'cause I had to be a child.

You call me in, shake my hand, and congratulate me.
I humbly thank you for giving me the opportunity, yet you shove it back in my face and tell me I’ve earned it.
That’s when you go in for the kill. That’s when the inner car salesman comes out to play and you have one shiny bright piece of shit on the playground you’re just dying to sell.
Wife, kids, house, car, dog... I just politely play along and nod my head.
And of course the humoring of what you’re saying only causes you to go even further: boat, clothes, land...
But when you say wife, I hear whores...
When you say kids, I hear an endless supply of PBR...
A dog to you is an ounce of dank to me.
You tell me I’ve just walked in on the American dream.
What many souls backstab and kill to get, I just waltzed right in on and joined the club without even so much as an initiation or password.
A car? Give me a fuckin old guitar that looks of pain and rejoicing engrained deep into the wood.
And what good is a working class man without his house and land??
But I’ll still be renting a shitty room in this shitty town with my pride intact.
Because your dream is to have all this shit, and all that stature. While you all spend money on your spoiled brats and your cheating wives, I’ll be waiting patiently like the finest of hunters.
Because our American dreams differ in the sense that you make money to piss it away on what the most entertaining Super Bowl ad sold you and I make money to smoke Camels, get fucked up and bide my time.
So hopefully one day I can get away from all this shit and live amongst those who are actually free, and home to those brave enough not to go with this crowd.