Santa Klaus Is Running Your Town
You better not shout!
You better not protest!
Just get in line
For your daily Covid test
Santa Klaus is running your town.
He’s making a list
Of the compliant and hated
To send to quarantine
Santa Klaus is running your town.
They monitor you when you’re sleeping
Your IPhone is always awake
He knows if you obey or act crappy
You’ll get no presents and you’ll be happy!
So you better stay home
You better not mingle
Or your Christmas bells
Will be the handcuffs’ jingle
Santa Klaus is running your town
To keep you safe from deadly Omicron!!!
The Poet rises up each day
Writes to take the fear away
That tomorrow he might not write
Or have the strength to fight.
His words come from his holy soul
They seek to make people whole
Or at least to have them stop and think
How we’re all chained in this link
Of human feelings and raw needs
His heart of love often bleeds.
But if one person hears his thoughts
He knows his efforts weren’t for naught
So today I thank you all who read
These simple thoughts my spirit breeds..
After “Absolute” by PoetKen
The Fall of 7Th Grade when I turned 12
A Negro Boy named Fat Larry Haynes
Sat next to me on the bench in gym class.
“Does everybody who’s black have a big dick?”
I mused aloud, as we sit here after First Period
Too embarrassed to shower after our morning basketball
To show my still underdeveloped body
Naked to these giant Black Kangz
Who’d been bused to our side of town
To strip us of our White Privilege.
“Hell, No” Fat Larry laughed.
“I can’t even seen mine under all this fat.
Just sit here with me and change your clothes
The coach don’t care and no one will notice”
We became friends then
Talking every morning after gym class
Now connected to a long line
Of retracted penile crowns.
You must know
This feeling too
Of believing yourself
To be so much less
So much less than your
Still undescended gonads
Your faint wisps of pubic hair
And your “grower not a shower”
Shriveled 12 year old junk.
And there we were
And there we were
And there we were
The mystery of adolescent development
Embodied in the Cullen Junior High boys locker room.
My parents used their white privilege
To send me to private school the next two years
So I never sat next to a Negro again.
As to Fat Larry Haynes
His Big Beautiful Black Body
Is probably lying dying or dead
Diabetes ridden, overworked and underpaid
Somewhere by the Cuts
Oh! How could we not have seen this before
We are so much more
Whites have so much more...
So this morning I took a knee
And chopped off my offensive white member
With my kitchen butcher knife.
Oh! Holy Kangz of AmeriKKKa
I am so much less
I am so much less....
Literary Corner with Ken Jones
Patriot Literary Corner
Guest: Ken Jones
Host: Dustin Pickering
Director: Mutiu Olawuyi
Executive Producer: Parrot TV / New York Parrot
ARS POETICA IS OUR 2020 By PoetKen Jones
What is the purpose of these word seeds
In a country of hatred and disease?
A chance for lonely souls to feed
Rather then rage and riot their need.
As we share across this holy land
May we all understand
The King’s dream that together we stand
Is so close at hand.
I’m a peasant, royal fool, and jester
Seeking Justice as my gesture
May anyone who listens
Learn to live a bit better
For at the end of a day or life
We won’t be healed by the strife
But by the love we show each other
As equal sisters and brothers
KHJ 220pm CDT 10-20-20
Poet Ken Jones
PoetKen Jones is a native Texan who has published ten full length poetry collections, numerous chapbooks and hundreds of individual poems in literary journals, anthologies, websites and other forums, as well as performing his original work for over 30 years as a Featured Poet at bookstores, conferences, festivals, and countless venues in Texas and across the United States. He earned a BA and MA in English/ Creative Writing from The University of Texas at Austin, taught college level English, Creative Writing, and other subjects for almost 20 years in Houston and has served on the Board of Public Poetry, (Houston),The Austin International Poetry Festival, and hosted a popular poetry reading series for almost ten years at Borders-River Oaks.
A few of his honors include:
He is also a licensed attorney In Texas, practicing as a country lawyer in the Come and Take it Town of Gonzales, where he currently resides.
In the Life Care Center
Death came to stay
I wanted to share my Love
But they kept me away
What a way to go
Sent away to hide
Peering though a window
To The Other Side
They’re not trying to be mean
They’re just part of the machine
Where money fills the holes
In our empty souls
Now the government told me
Practice social isolation
I don’t care what they sold me
My heart isn’t their nation
So I stand outside my final home
Alone to the bone
Inside the virus is spreading
All that we’ve been dreading
In this world of unknowns
That we’re finally shedding
Or offering a welcome....
Chapbook On Viral Infectious Disease 19
By PoetKen Jones 3-3-20 through 3-22-20
“I weep for the damned eventualities this future brings”
-F Scott FitzGerald
Letter from Quarantine South France 1920
A Review of Dormant Volcano by Ken Jones (Weasel Press Nov. 2015) by Daved E. Cowen
I think white people are so afraid of the world they created that they don’t want to see, feel, smell or hear it.
Jones gives us a remarkable volume in Dormant Volcano. There are no punches pulled in this work. Jones cuts into the meat and muscle of modern American life commenting, cajoling, chastising and even pleading; asking in the end “can we change?” The negative answer is apparent throughout the book.
The first section, Philosophy, dwells on what might be best described as the white man’s angst at a world where emotion and passion have been cauterized and dried like the husk of an empty caldera. Jones laments this tepid state of existence in the title poem “Dormant Volcano” declaring that “Not even ash endures Inside this empty hole.” In this Jones presents the life less lived. The uncomfortable intercourse with the waters of existence where the swimmers find that their pool is as shallow as they know themselves to be. Walking through various philosophical fallacies and end points Jones concludes this section the ultimate answer in “What a Can Can Be”
I see it and say
“It is there
It is all there
It is all there is.”
In his Poetry section Jones dwells on his personal relationship with the art of writing poetry and the anguish of the poet who publishes in the “little journals.” In “On Finishing Jersey Rain” ´Jones compares the poet who has made it to the “big” journals with the lesser known
When he writes, the Global Village listens.
When you spew, a drunk in a corner hisses.
In “Life Cycle of an Unknown Poet” Jones begins with his bold intentions at rebellion
Though middle aged and hardly a sage
I always offer comment.
Scrawling black thoughts on a yellow page
I often erupt in dissent.
But in the end reality corrects his aspirations
Bawling dark regret at brawling opponents
I forever live my defeat.
With the section devoted to Politics Jones attacks what he sees as the hypocrisy of American values. In “Hands Across America” Jones strikes hard at this hypocrisy and the fallacious logic of those “wishin’” injustice did not have a true face
All just singin’ and wishin’
That economic inequities
Were simply simple stories
And the homeless should dissolve
In the face of their phony resolve
Jones goes on to blast Trent Lott, the insurance companies denying coverage after Katrina, politicians and hypocritical blindness to reality. In “Border Crossing” Jones humanizes the journey of the undocumented trying to cross into the United States
Like Moses we’ll float
Across the big river
As Jesus was baptized
Then became our savior
Jones ends that piece with drowning immigrants struggling for freedom with U.S. immigration officers on one side and human traffickers on the other side of the Rio Grande laughing at their plight. In “The Windy City” racism is the focus describing the anger of a white mob chastising a doomed African American child caught in the mud and waves because he “contaminated” their beach. Jones’ attacks on racism include the treatment of Native Americans, manifest destiny, the desolation of American inner city neighborhoods. All of these are sharp tongued, biting incriminations that leave little room for reply.
The final section of the book entitled People contains little tales of individuals representing the human condition. The actress who fails every day and drowns her sorrows in food. The stubbornness of Vince Lombardi refusing to believe his chronic constipation had any meaning to his life until it became the harbinger of the end of his life. Jones comments that Lombardi, admired as the great American winner, represents
Uptight buzz cut righteousness!
In “Peace of my Childhood” Jones presents the narration of an adult who suffered through horrible abuse only to find freedom in the art of his poetry
So today I make my own peace
These hungry memories I release
Catharsis flows so easily
On this page I’m finally free
The poetry of Ken Jones is biting, hard, sardonic. Humor is presented in the blackest of terms following the direst of events. Yet, it is perhaps the catharsis Jones speaks of in “Peace” that summarizes his point of view. Only by accepting the harshness of the past can we cleanse ourselves from it. Yet in the end Jones still wonders in the final poem of this excellent collection, entitled “Hasta La Vista, Baby" whether anything can ever change:
One wonders: can Homo Americanus change?
Learn to hate only the hatred of the intolerant?
Defy through Life celebration, not Death deification?
Poet Ken's collections of poetry can be ordered at Amazon.com
The biological definition of a "living organism "is one that responds to its environment Ken Jones responds instantly with lightning epiphanies. His creations far exceed the stimulus. Enjoy his responses!
-- thom woodruff, thom the worldpoet
"Philosophy, poetry, politics, and people, Ken Jones’ Dormant Volcano covers a wide range of topics and expertly at that. Jones combines traditional devices with an experimental twist in order to tackle an intriguing array of subjects. Jones does not stick with what one would expect a poet to stick with in a collection, something I appreciate. The collection, though long, does not get stale, rather it gets more intriguing the
further you go-- some of my favorite poems of the work are in the last section—definitely a collection I could not put down."
—Emily Ramser, Author of I Forgot How To Write