Dear Mr. Logan,

Below I have pasted poems for consideration for Record Magazine. I have recently had poems accepted for Down in the Dirt Magazine, Northern Stars Magazine, and Hidden Oak Poetry Journal.

I have taught in the Department of English at Appalachian State University, in Boone, North Carolina, since 1989, and work in the area of World Literature, with particular interest in Asian culture, literature and philosophy, as well as Latin American literature. I have taught in Asia, Africa, Europe, and Latin America, and live with my wife Vicki in Millers Creek, North Carolina.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Best wishes,

Howard Giskin


RUMINATIONS

Like dream fragments filtered

Savannah grass wispy and cooking fires

At dawn’s first light sweet scent of

Mosquito coils burning

Town’s low buildings and dusty lanes

Street venders and water carriers

Still enchant.



CABIN

Now mythic

like a stone

thrown into a lake

quietly resting

at the bottom

yet has the flavor

of wet leaves

chimney smoke

pancakes and love.


GRANDFATHER BROWN

Walked onto your porch

In mid winter and just stood there

Calm and determined in your sleeveless shirt

After ten minutes in the cold you came in

Lay down on the parlor couch and began to die

Lucid to the end you sang songs

You’d learned when

You were ten

How you’d played

In the fields

Clear as a bell you told it

In the morning

You were gone.


WIND AT NIGHT

Cooked dinner

watched the sun

quiet beautiful as if

the world were at peace

truckers stopped for the night

away from the road gravely

hard to drive stakes unrolled

my bag lay down dead tired

thinking of the day where

I’d been what I’d seen

Then sleep wild flowers

mowed grass and asphalt.


FATHER AND SON

I’m seven or eight

we’re at the curb about to cross a busy street

I can’t recall where

we were going or why

in my mind

we are

unsullied by regret.

Dear Editor;

I have enclosed poems for your consideration; "Our Eyes Are Dim," and "Inbreeding Ignorants."
My most recent credit include, "Transcendent Visions," a literary magazine. And the "The Prison Coffee Table Book" available in April from Amazon.com.
I was also featured in "Hard Time," a mini-series about the Georgia Prison System airing on the National Geographic Channel. The interview is still on the website. In the spring my graphic novel, "Inside: Green Season" will be featured on Top Shelf Comics' website (www.topshelfcomix.com).
I love to write. I am an aspiring novelist as well. I view writing as a career as well as a way to deal with prison. Thank you for your time.

Adrian English

Our Eyes Are Dim

In days of old, men read the stars-
Like books to know the whims of hearts,
For signs they sought of future tense
And a glimpse at their toil's recompense.
Their days prolonged and treasuries full,
The length of Rome's illustrious rule.
But as suns go down and stars explode
So does the age of man switch different modes.
Thus kingdoms fall and legends die.
As babies are born and women cry.
And armies of steel conquer foreign lands,
Uniting oppression and debauchery under an iron hand
Now a different man seeks a different sign.
A look at the end, he would divine.
A market crash or a bomb dropped here
Or stars and stripes prone to apocalyptic fear.
Destiny once manifest seems no as clear
As the war we fought on God's first frontier.
Yet all that's happened, someone wanted to see.
For all this is, is as a prophet said it would be.

Inbreeding Ignorants

Among themselves he spread disease.
A bug of hate that devours their core.
Preventing any emotional growth.
Destroying all tools of reason.
They hate each other.
But love themselves.
They love each other.
But hate themselves.
A secret for one is known by all.
As the constantly shift masks like Harlequins.
The world they know exist only in two colors.
Their sight is confined to one.
They will not listen.
They'll never feel.
And when they die,
We'll all be better off.

Adrian English

A Few Thoughts on Beauty Queens and Models...and Donald Trump


As I watched Donald Trump exculpate and recoronate Miss California, a few thoughts popped into my head. Was that question on gay marriage deliberately planted to bring attention to the Miss Universe pageant, The Apprentice or even the Donald himself? Carrie Prejean looks strikingly similar to his second wife, Marla Maples, another young beauty queen who for a brief moment in time caught his fancy...before he moved on (or back) to foreign born posers! Could that be the reason he went so easy on her and allowed her to continue her reign? And lastly, not a word about the fake boobs, but plenty about being a role model for teen girls and young women. Am I the only one who sees a dichotomy and contradiction there?

Karen Ann DeLuca ©

This goes along with the season, holiday, family theme I am trying to develop.


SEASONS FROM A MARRIAGE

FALL INTO SPRING

She had always loved the Fall. Her birthday. The cooler weather and the colorful, falling leaves. Sunday drives through vivid, scenic mountains and chestnut hunting when she was younger. Crisp, brisk mornings filled with blinding sunlight and the sound of chirping crickets. Early, breathtaking sunsets. But this year was different. For the first time in a long time, she was alone.
He had walked out in the Spring. May to be exact. In the middle of Spring cleaning, he decided that he wanted to be sprung. After twelve years of marriage. Was going to turn forty soon and had to find himself. Just left. Left behind his messes in every corner of the house for her to clean up. Messes that she had never understood but tolerated because of her love for him. And she was paralyzed. All Summer. Kept hoping that he would come back - to her, to his piles of meaningless stuff, to finally help her clean it all up. But he never did. And now it was Fall. And she had to do something.
The cooler weather and turning leaves beckoned her. But so did the messy house. So she opened the windows and doors to let the Fall in as she cleaned. And pretty soon all the piles of stuff were outside and the garbage collectors picked them up and they were gone. And then he wanted to come home. And she said no.
She had finally done her Spring cleaning in the Fall. And had been sprung into a new life. In her favorite time of year, the Fall. And she didn't have to leave to find out who she was. She had always known. And was looking forward to the Spring. It was a true birthday. He life was no longer a mess.
***

INDEPENDENCE DAY

He had come back in December. Just before Christmas, after being gone for six months. She had reconsidered and decided to let him return to their marital home since he had promised that there would be no more of the verbal abuse that had so characterized their life prior to his departure. And she had believed him. It was, after all, the Holiday Season and her judgment was clouded by the Yuletide Spirit.
It was a rocky readjustment period, but that was to be expected. After all, they had both gotten used to being alone. But things appeared to be settling into a pleasant pattern, with little daily upheaval. That is until his birthday, which was at the end of June, approached.
He had always gotten depressed around his birthday. Something about another year passing without achieving anything of note. She had never fully understood his logic, since he was successful in the external ways of the world which were of such importance to him. Age was just a number, to be celebrated and not mourned, noted and not hidden or obsessed over. Or so she thought. As the years went by, the depression that at the beginning of their marriage surrounded his birthday grew to extend to a year long event. She had not missed "celebrating" it last year. But as the date drew near, she knew what was in store. So when he announced he was going to spend it with his sisters in a distant town, she was somewhat upset - after all, shouldn't he want to spend his special day with his wife - but also relieved that she would not have to bear the brunt of his moodiness this time around. Instead of begging him to stay and trying to make him happy, she let him go and had a 4th of July weekend full of blissful peace. And when he came back - still agitated over being another year older - she just walked the other way. She had learned a lot in his absence the previous year. It was not her job to make him happy. He would have to do that himself. She had freed herself of a burden that was not hers. In the true meaning of Independence Day.
***

THE CHRISTMAS GIFT

She had always gotten more caught up in the spirit of giving than receiving during the holidays. The picking out of gifts that would be special to their recipients. She had never been quite comfortable asking for anything, and this year she had spent a lot of time simplifying. But when Christmastime rolled around, and her husband asked the perfunctory question "What do you want?," she decided to make a short list of things of value to her. It was part of her new way of thinking, to ask for what she needed instead of accepting what was given her. After searching the house for something tangible that they both could use (she was still a practical girl and could not entirely give up thinking of others) - and coming up with an old mattress that needed to be replaced, she expressly requested things more personal and important to her - peace and harmony in the household, with some kindness, nurturing and understanding - in essence, a change in her husband's demeanor which had been overwhelmingly hostile, with little respite, since the onset of her illness six years ago. Angry at the fact that she had gotten sick, he took it out on her, the victim. And although he had promised to transform when he returned, the old patterns had gradually reemerged and she just wanted it to end. As a Christmas gift to her. She also wanted him to spend more time with her, not just be physically present in the house doing whatever activity he was engaged in alone. And she wanted him to stop taking her for granted and appreciate what she did do for him, which was a lot, although her illness rendered her unable to work outside the home. She did not think that was asking for too much, just to be treated as a human being and a wife again. He appeared to agree.
So as the holidays approached, she busied herself with the activities of the season - cards, presents, cookies and the like. She expected her gifts to come after Christmas - they judiciously shopped sales and she did not anticipate an overnight metamorphosis in her husband's behavior, just the beginning of an effort. So when a local relative of her husband's who he had not seen in almost twenty years called from out of the blue and claimed the shopping day after Christmas that they had previously reserved for themselves, she was upset that her husband unilaterally agreed. Not for the mattress that they did not purchase on that particular day, but for the realization that this was not the start of something new, but more of the same. His promises were half hearted and worthless; he was never going to change.
Holidays are for families. After almost fifteen years of marriage, it seemed her husband included everyone but her in that definition, leaving her feeling alone in the marriage. With his decision, she saw her wishes and hopes for the New Year dashed. She had become vocal and verbalized what was really important to her. She had made a list and it was ignored. Fortunately, she derived much pleasure, fulfillment and happiness from giving to and doing for others, because for Christmas she got tears.
Karen Ann DeLuca

Lost Lesson of Life

Grabby, grabby, grabby,
"This is what I expect,"
More than I could ever need,
Just want to see what I can get.

Materialism is my God,
I use people like things, like pawns,
I'll do anything to get my way,
Nag, bully, sulk or fawn.

It is better to receive than to give,
I've got to have it all - and now,
I haven't a clue as to why,
And I really don't care how.

So when this person dies,
The epitaph will be,
A testament to selfishness,
Gimme, gimme, gimme.

*****

All About You

When we got married I thought,
It would be all about us,
Little did I know,
It would end up about your lusts.

First there was power,
No job I had was good enough,
Although we had plenty of money,
And lots of extra stuff.

Then there was sex,
You had to have it every day,
I took birth control pills that caused,
Endometriosis that got in the way.

Surgery and Synarel,
What I've been through you haven't a clue,
And every moment you complain,
About how it's affected you.

I lost my health, I cannot work,
My body's racked with pain,
But worst of all is your verbal abuse,
As if I alone were to blame.

*****

Abandoned

The weekend around my birthday,
I wanted to be mine,
Your nephew came last minute,
And took away my time.

For the holidays you took a week,
We planned a day for us,
Your cousin called, you went and I,
Was again left in the dust.

Next came our fifteenth anniversary,
Things were still the same,
You got a massage, spoke with your sister,
And then went alone to a basketball game.

Valentine's Day you got sick,
Contemplating a change on the job,
We argued, you took two trips alone,
And I was left to sob.

Over not being a priority,
Belittled and ignored,
I finally decided I'd had enough,
And showed you out the door.


*****

Happy Anniversary

After fifteen years of marriage,
It was just another day,
He never said the words,
"Happy Anniversary!"

He did what he wanted to do,
"The guys" called and he was gone,
No card, no flowers, no dinner,
She spent the day alone.

But lest you feel sorry,
And lament her awful plight,
She got exactly what she wanted,
A peaceful day without a fight!

*****

Mister Messy Desk

My desk is a mess,
I cannot find a thing,
Elbows deep in piles,
Can't reach the phone when it rings.

File cabinets bulging,
With what I do not know,
No system of organization,
Just piles, high and low.

Searching for something takes,
Forever and a day,
I really need to change,
But I can't throw anything away.

Everything has a place,
I just do not know where,
I bump into clutter,
Just getting up from my chair.

I'm a messaholic,
But I really need to be neat,
Can anybody help me,
Accomplish such a feat?

*****
Some Sure Signs of Spring

You start to think it's Spring,
When the birds chirp and tulips bloom,
You're bitten by the cleaning bug,
To make your home sparkle room by room.

You scrub the walls and clean the rugs,
And pile up trash galore,
The garbage collector thinks you're moving,
But there's no "For Sale" sign on your door.

Your shovel is replaced by a lawn mower,
Gone, too, scarfs, gloves and boots,
You reorganize your closets,
And start dreaming of T-shirts and shorts.

You've seen the Easter Bunny,
The TV season comes to an end,
March Madness bounced right by you,
April 15th's just around the bend.

You turned your clock forward,
And lost a little "zzz"s
But you really know it's Spring,
When your car turns green and you start to sneeze!

Karen Ann DeLuca

In Every Shade, A Valentine

When I received the invitation, I thought, what a novel idea! A college reunion not being held, like most of them are, at the end of the school year. And then I thought back to those four years. So much time had passed; so much had changed. Why had I not gone to one of these events before? Busy. Disinterested. Would probably be boring. Life had certainly moved on from the making the Dean's List and getting laid focus of those days. These people would remember who I was way back then. Is that what I was trying to forget?
But my curiosity was piqued. Had she ever gone to one of these? Would she be there? How had her life turned out? Even before the invitation arrived, I had found myself thinking about her more and more. What if? I could do a Internet search of her name and find out. But that's not the same as having a face to face conversation. And there's the break up. Not a very graceful exit, done for reasons that seem almost quaint now. A quick long distance phone call at the end of our post graduation summer of love, to abruptly cut the cord. What a cad! Law school was first and foremost, and she wasn't Jewish. Back then, "marry your own" was still important, mostly, especially, to my parents. What would have happened if I had listened to my heart and stuck up for us as a couple, instead of extending my adolescence and staying tied to my Mother's apron strings? Too late for that now. She's probably happily married, with a great career and family and never thinks about me.
Oh, well, why not RSVP. Party of one, my having been unsuccessful in any romantic relationship since. Lucky for me, I could handle my own divorces! I hear it's a trend, people looking up their first loves at midlife and actually marrying them. I can hope...who am I kidding?! Wouldn't It Be Nice.
Valentine's Day 2009. Our 33rd class reunion, not 30th, not 35th, obviously not a featured year. She probably won't be there. That masquerade theme is curious. Wouldn't it be more appropriate for Halloween? Guess it'll make things interesting...and I can hide. As I walk in, there's not a heart or anything red in sight, just a sea of turquoise (gasp!) and black masks dangling everywhere to grab and don. No name tags. How odd. Certainly not the shades of school pride. Love Is Blue? The Color of a Lonely Heart? The Carpenter's This Masquerade playing in the background. Not a good sign. And there she was. I instantly recognized those chocolate brown eyes awkwardly "concealed" behind the oversized mask she held in her hand. "What took you so long?" she asked, before I even had a chance to remove my festivity camouflage. "I've been coming to these events for quite a few years, hoping to bump into you." "I'm here now" is all I could muster, saying the rest with my fully revealed countenance, a beaming and blushing crimson Valentine.

Karen Ann DeLuca,

White Trash in a Nordstrom's Suit

He fled the hills to the city,
Armed with a college degree,
Got a good job that paid him well,
And then he ran into me.

Uptown girl who liked culture,
To read and collect postage stamps,
He quickly tried to change me,
Into one of his hometown tramps.

It wasn't enough I was a lawyer,
He wanted a slut who would,
Cook, clean and do laundry,
Without ever asking if she should.

Well, I got very sick trying,
To be "super" this and that,
He couldn't cope with the situation,
So he hit me and got thrown out.

The morale of this story,
Is no matter how much power or loot,
Unless someone really changes inside,
They're just white trash in a Nordstrom's suit.

Whore, whore,
I am no more,
Not in body or soul,
I know who I am,
And don't need a man,
I'm whole and in control.

*****

Unendowed

I grew up in the '60's,
A time when Twiggy was "in,"
I never thought it'd be a problem,
My being so thin.

But then I entered puberty,
And nothing much developed,
"So why, a bra," I asked my Mom,
With nothing to envelope.

"You've outgrown Carter's T's," she said,
"You need to be publicly modest,"
We settled on a full length slip,
I always wore a dress.

Years later, I went bra shopping,
And the salesperson struck her blow,
"Don't worry," she said sweetly,
"You still have time to grow!"

*****

The Darkness of the Day

The alarm goes off,
And you bound out of bed,
Into the shower,
To wake up your sleepy head.

You dress in haste,
And eat on the run,
All to get to the office,
Before the rising sun.

Messages, meetings,
You try to do it all,
Soon it's dark out,
Oh, just one more phone call!

Back home, the house is dark,
You walk into an unlit hall,
No time or inclination to,
Contemplate the meaning of it all.

Life to work,
Work to live,
That's the darkness of the day.

*****

If Only She'd Let Me Be Me

My mother grew up during the Depression,
Third girl, the fourth child of six,
Her father abandoned the family, then died young,
Having an opportunity only to pick...

The career path for the first two children,
Lawyer and doctor, respectively.
His lack of instructions for the life of my Mother,
Created a huge problem for me.

First born and looking the most like her,
She ignored my proclivities,
Having been given no guidance for her life,
She took it upon herself to steer me...

To things she had dreamed of doing,
And because of brains and an eagerness to please,
I spent my young life going in directions,
The main goal of which was to appease.

The pattern carried over into adulthood,
My marriage was more of the same,
Stuck in a profession I did not aspire to,
I had only myself to blame.

Mid 30's, I could no longer do it,
Physically ill and ridden with strife,
Forced to give up the game, I took time to ponder,
What I really wanted to do with my life.

As a youngster, I had dreamed of designing clothes,
Or being a writer, alternatively,
Though given a second chance, I still often wonder,
What would have been if my Mom had let me be me.

*****

It's Only a Number

One sunny August day,
When my age was a single digit,
At an outdoor birthday party,
My Mom really began to fidget.

"29" is what she told me,
I put the numbers on her cake,
Her sisters began to laugh,
They knew the age was a fake.

I ran into the kitchen, in the house,
And counted from her age when I was born,
She followed behind me, it didn't add up,
She found me sitting there very forlorn.

Upset that she had lied to me,
And her explanation didn't ring true,
The number of your real age wasn't too big for me, Mom,
But apparently it was too large for you.

It took a long time to trust my Mom after that,
I've really never understood why she fibbed,
To me age is only a number,
Be proud of how long you've lived.

******

A Sports Widow's Lament

It starts on Saturday afternoon,
In the Winter or the Fall,
For a man, sports are equivalent to,
Going to the mall.

He channel surfs incessantly,
Football, basketball, college or pro,
Eyes transfixed on the TV screen,
A true couch potato.

Arising only for bathroom breaks,
Or to go to get something to eat,
He talks only to the TV set,
Cheering his team's opponent's defeat.

He dreams away Saturday night,
Analyzing a day's worth of plays,
He wakes up Sunday morning,
Eagerly awaiting the Sports page.

Sunday's the same, click, click, click,
More games, no time to brood,
But whether his team won or lost,
Will determine his back to work Monday mood.

My man,
The fan,
King of spectator sport.

Coaching from the couch,
He's no slouch,
Just give him the remote.

Pasted below are three poems I'm submitting for your consideration.

I am an emerging poet from Delaware and looking to get my work published. My contact information is as follows:
T.J. Streett

This Wall

I will not allow you
to penetrate this wall
I have erected
around my open wounds

And from high atop
this shleter of self deception
I stare at the world
through the cracks
in my shell

I desperately
want to fly
but I'm more so
unwilling to fall

Chalice

I was given a moment
I couldn't turn into a life
now
I am he who isn't
and my doing
no longer does

God
you are a creation
of those below above

A flockless shepard
who has turned a back
where is my chalice of peace?
the countless virtues I lack?

You gave me a life
and a shadow
that's more like alone
what did I inherit?
but a whisper of that
which I cannot disown

The City

If I ever loved
it was out of fear

If I ever gave
it was because I took
more than I could carry

I assure you
I've harmed
because I could not heal
but I have faith
my pride will deliver me
from the city
of my transgressions

Mr. Logan

Would you consider these poems I have enclosed for publication in (A Brilliant) Record Magazine? The Poems I have included are titled, “Street Lamp,” “Dandelion,” and “A Patriotic Sort of Leaf.”
Sincerely,

Jake Heller

Street Lamp

The deer
like a street lamp
lying on the side of the road
at dawn.

legs stiff as poles
light dim, but still in eyes,
as I step from my truck.

flicker and.
Out
-dead-

continue on


Dandelion

Do you remember that day atop the little hill in my backyard?
the only day we ever spent there
Among the ferns and trees and rocks bathed with moss,
and the sun guiding us with her custard skirt.
There was a fence and a shed
and an old bicycle wheel half buried in the dirt.

My cat prowling in the grass,
underneath a tree.
(The same one Bobby fell out of once
while we were trying to climb high enough
to peer into you backyard, two houses over)

What were you holding in your hand that day?
I can’t quite remember.
Perhaps, it was a dandelion. It was something yellow.
How yellow we were then,
So shy on the hilltop.
And we’re even shyer now.

We barely talk anymore.
And then you lifted up the dandelion (or whatever it was)
and put it in my hand and what happened next was this:

you kissed me
on the lips
it was quick
my eyes were open
but they weren’t looking at you,
no, but my cat
who was playing with the dandelion
that had dropped to the ground.


A Patriotic Sort Of Leaf

The leaf sings and falls off the tree
It is singing, “The Star Spangled Banner”
And the rocket’s red glare it croons

It is a patriotic sort of leaf
Light is refracted off its underside
As it comes to a rest, tickling leaves of grass with its long white beard,
The grass tastes the leaf and wonders where it came from
Grasses don’t have eyes; it couldn’t see the leaf fall from the tree
(the grass is curious about this, but not judgmental)

A wispy passerby drops a butt in the grass…smell of smoke
It spirals slowly upward in the way a hamburger tastes, juicy
Paul loves hamburgers; he orders them extra juicy – no mayo
But he orders them well done – extra mayo
“Number two and make it snappy”

They don’t make it quickly because they work at a fast food stop
“It was like, you know he like, first he brushed the hair of my cheek”
The prudent meanderings of a speaker box
He gave them a tip the snake he was
And then he slithered out through his window, in through their window, and up
and into the ice cream machine
He will eat it all
And the eccentric leaf is floating upwards now with a rock onboard
The upward sift of the air is what is causing it to rise

“Look at me!” the rock wees over the mumble of the leaf’s singing
Oh say does that star-spangled…
And the smoke billowed forth from the butt in an array of brilliant colors

Dear editor,

Hello, my name is A.J. Chilson. I read your blog. I think the poems you put out are really good. I would like to submit several poems and haiku for your consideration. Thanks for reading my material.

Best of luck,

A.J. Chilson

IF I COULD SING A SONG

If I could sing a song,
a song so beautiful
that it would mean something,
something for the whole world
to relate to, and for the world
to be filled with passion,
and with joy, and with deep comfort,
I would sing a lovely ballad,
one that would last a lifetime
a million times over.

And I would sing that song
just for you.

TO DOROTHY

Was it the eyes
blushing in its delight?

Was it the lips
hungry for a big kiss?

Was it the smile
igniting passion from within?

Or was it the photograph
that made me love you?


FALLING OUT

As the two of us held hands for the last time,
the fingers slipping away, one by one,
the tears rolling down our sullen faces
as we continued to stare at each other
it was then we began to realize the love
that had materialized over the course of
so many years, only to see all that go away
over something so silly, so stupid, and so wrong.

HAIKU

adorable you,
that impeccable smile
makes me feel special

your presence cheered me
but it was the warmth you gave
that touched me the most

seven years have passed
and the moments we both shared
continue to last

Dear Mr. Logan, Pasted below are four poems that I am submitting for yourconsideration: "Remember the Wild Days?," "That Sweet Tune of Us,""Self Indulgence," and "Beta Male." I am a fairly new poet, based inLos Angeles, and have had my work shown in several online journals. Iam inspired by the absurd behaviors of mankind: our goals, ambitions,desires, and how we try to pursue them while making a life. Living ina town as ridiculous as L.A. has given me no shortage of material. I look forward to hearing from you and thanks for reading my work! Sincerely,
Matt Dennie
matthew.dennie@gmail.com

REMEMBER THE WILD DAYS?

Let’s get drunk and HOWL
at the moon.
Not tonight but tomorrow.
And everyone will say in shock:
“Look so carefree and impulsive!!”
And afterwards we’llindulge in delicious diner fare,
licking our chops
like the wolves we once were.
Yes.Tomorrow let’s HOWL at the moon.
Not tonight…. plan for tomorrow.

THAT SWEET TUNE OF US

The Bone Daddy
is always playing something
heard by the herd
that keeps them
racing ‘round
as they scramble
to stamp their seal
in the History Book
and not be left
off the page.

SELF INDULGENCE

Confusion is confusing,
and illusions are boozing
one’s self to saturation
without worry.
Oh, how often we waltz
to major minor injuries
that have no story or sense
and will always hold the
twisted truth of a scar
from us.

BETA MALE

The Beta Male-
bitching like a beagle-
but always keen to lie belly upand be rubbed by his mastress.
A paradox of pathetic,
he lacks neither brass nor balls,
not that he should be boss
but that he shouldn’t be so completely
lost. Anytime power is tipped too much
the meek suffer
(and he is surely stamped out as meek)

The poor Beta-
shrugging his shoulders and
living life by his unmotivated mantra:
“Meh?”