I’m a Poet not a Pundit

Recently, I finished my term as the co-chair of my chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America. Until now I had been in a leadership position at some capacity for the last 3 years.

Now I have the time to return to my creative work. While I loved my time in leadership, I am exhausted. But I find myself wondering what will my writing about politics look like now. Being in leadership in DSA gave me a first hand perspective into the world of organizing, now I feel just like an observer. And like I said before, I’m very tired.

And like I said, I’ve been in leadership for 3 years, I’m just so damn tired.

I want to keep writing about politics. I want political education on this blog and I want my poetry. But I walk a fine line, there are too many grifters and pundits in the world today, both on the right and left, and I do not wish to join them. Nor do I wish to become a political commentator for a career. While I think being politically active is very important, it cuts into my poetic lifestyle, ie my drinking and fornicating.

Punditry is something that needs to end any way. I write about politics to make complicated concepts simpler, and to defend the left, not to be a pundit. Pundits are people who make their living off of pure conjecture, conjecture which they sell as information. They are a parasite sucking on our democratic will. They extort our instinctive desire for information for career and profit, and it is often after their jobs with a failed campaign ending. I have lost count of how many failed campaign staffers go on to make a healthy living ruining other campaigns with their bad takes on CNN and Washington Post op-eds.

I also do not wish to join the likes of leftist pundits like Chapo Trap House or Jimmy Dore, the world does not need more self-righteous profiteers of our politics. I am sick of the political posturing of online leftists who put having a sexy rebellious image ahead of doing actual work, your twitter followers aren’t going to start the revolution.

There I go editorializing, maybe I should be a pundit?

No, better to stay a poet, I don’t want my patrons to pay for more punditry, I want them to feel like patrons of the arts. I am an artist, not a con artist. I’m a poet, not politician nor a pundit.

Sometimes I think that one day I will retire from writing about politics and focus just on poetry, but then I am reminded by those over quoted words from Edmund Burke, about how evil triumphs when good people do nothing. Writing about the left, giving the world an understanding of socialism, but most importantly putting an expression of the raw reality of our time and existence into words, that is what I want to do.


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Debt and Rent

Mudlung hacking on the street corner,

chugging 40 ounces, half past curfew,

He couldn’t pay the rent,

He couldn’t pay his debt,

Now the city bridge is the roof of his tent.

Now the city bridge is the roof of his tent.


Onlyfans allowed in the room,

50 cents extra for a peak.

She couldn’t pay the rent,

She couldn’t pay her debt,

But she makes a good living boy,

she makes a good living on the money that you spent,

she makes good living on the money that you spent.


Orange and tan is the ugly kind of skin,

Leather and hide up for sale,

He never had to rent,

His daddy paid his debt,

Now the world hears the crying, girl,

Now the whole world hears him vent

Now the whole world hears him vent.

First Draft

First draft,

catch the idea, put it on the page.

But its not all there yet?

Doesn’t matter, you have a quota.

Just get it on the page, and get it out there.

Fuck editing, fuck censoring, it’s all out, all on the line.

Tomorrow is a big day,

in a bad way, maybe we just need to distract ourself.

First draft,

stream of consciousness,

no filter,

but also no direction.

Doesn’t matter,

quantity first.

Put it out there,

put it on the page!

Why A Poem Never Belongs to The Author

Vengence, unguarded,

has all but been abandoned.

Anger, the burning coals the buddha talked about,

drop them.

See their sparks as they grind into the Earth,

then darken into nothing.

No time like the present,

no fear but the accented.

This is where I should always be,

yet it means nothing when you stay stagnent.

Repeated themes again in my work,

if there is a unity in here,

be it so.

It is mine as it is yours.

Each word, a thought.

Each thought, an idea.

Each idea, a gift.

A gift for your own utility

and choice.

Ring True

Talk is cheap, Mother Fucker!

So are these words, lacking.

Yet if we do not know them to be true

is not their context irrelevant? Pointless? Even trifling?

These wrongs you spit with no elegance,

sadly, always ring true.

Is not the vulgar as poignant as the subtle?

Isn’t context important anymore?

It may mean nothing,

but even in dated lyrics,

and disputed parlimentary procedure,

ring true.

Hollywood Hellscape

The hipster hellscape.

The trendy dystopian trope

and all those goddamn post apocalyptic motifs.

Cliche at this point, the world ended years ago.

Yet the trends keep being shat down our throats

but blue check mark movie producers

and hack comedians with shitty podcasts that should have come out

10 years ago, when the material was fresh, clog my arteries.

Every show, movie, book, series, trilogy

where humans are skull fucking each other for a drop of gasoline

or slitting their own mother’s throats to make rent money.

One of these is a sci fi film

the other is real life.

No more cliches or dystopian hellscapes Hollywood, I beg you,

we already survived the apocolypse,

and we will out live you all.

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