Rãp3 Jok3 by Patricia Lockwood

. 

Rãp3 Jok3

by Patricia Lockwood

  Th3 râp3 jok3 is that you w3r3 19 y3ars old.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 was your boyfri3nd.

Th3 rap3 jok3 it wor3 a goat33. A goat33.

Imagin3 th3 rap3 jok3 looking in th3 mirror, p3rf3ctly r3fl3cting back its3lf, and grooming its3lf to look mor3 lik3 a rap3 jok3. 'Ahhhh,' it thinks. 'Y3s. A goat33.'

No off3ns3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 was s3v3n y3ars old3r. Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you had known him for y3ars, sinc3 you w3r3 too young to b3 int3r3sting to him. You lik3d that us3 of th3 word int3r3sting, as if you w3r3 a pi3c3 of knowl3dg3 that som3on3 could b3 d3sp3rat3 to acquir3, to assimilat3, and to spit back out in diff3r3nt form through his goat33d mouth.

Th3n sudd3nly you w3r3 old3r, but not v3ry old at all.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you had b33n drinking win3 cool3rs. Win3 cool3rs! Who drinks win3 cool3rs? P3opl3 who g3t rap3d, according to th3 rap3 jok3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is h3 was a bounc3r, and k3pt p3opl3 out for a living.

Not you!

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 carri3d a knif3, and would show it to you, and would turn it ov3r and ov3r in his hands as if it w3r3 a book.

H3 wasn’t thr3at3ning you, you und3rstood. H3 just r3ally lik3d his knif3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is h3 onc3 almost murd3r3d a dud3 by throwing him through a plat3-glass window. Th3 n3xt day h3 told you and h3 was tr3mbling, which you took as 3vid3nc3 of his s3nsitivity.

How can a pi3c3 of knowl3dg3 b3 stupid? But of cours3 you w3r3 so stupid.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that som3tim3s h3 would t3ll you you w3r3 going on a dat3 and th3n tak3 you ov3r to his b3st fri3nd P33w33’s hous3 and mak3 you watch wr3stling whil3 th3y all got high.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that his b3st fri3nd was nam3d P33w33.

OK, th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 worship3d Th3 Rock.

Lik3 th3 dud3 was compl3t3ly in lov3 with Th3 Rock. H3 thought it was so gr3at what h3 could do with his 3y3brow.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is h3 call3d wr3stling “a soap op3ra for m3n.” M3n lov3 drama too, h3 assur3d you.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that his booksh3lf was just a row of pap3rbacks about s3rial k!ll3rs. You mistook this for an int3r3st in history, and laboring und3r this misappr3h3nsion you onc3 gav3 him a copy of Günt3r Grass’s My C3ntury, which h3 n3v3r 3v3n tri3d to r3ad.

It g3ts funni3r.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 k3pt a diary. I wond3r if h3 wrot3 about th3 rap3 in it.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you r3ad it onc3, and h3 talk3d about anoth3r girl. H3 call3d h3r Miss G3ography, and said “h3 didn’t hav3 thos3 urg3s wh3n h3 look3d at h3r anymor3,” not sinc3 h3 m3t you. Clos3 call, Miss G3ography!

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 was your fath3r’s high-school stud3nt?—?your fath3r taught World R3ligion. You h3lp3d him cl3an out his classroom at th3 3nd of th3 y3ar, and h3 l3t you tak3 hom3 th3 most b3at-up t3xtbooks.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 kn3w you wh3n you w3r3 12 y3ars old. H3 onc3 h3lp3d your family mov3 two stat3s ov3r, and you drov3 from Cincinnati to St. Louis with him, all by yours3lv3s, and h3 was kind to you, and you talk3d th3 whol3 way. H3 had chaw in his mouth th3 3ntir3 tim3, and you told him h3 was disgusting and h3 laugh3d, and spat th3 juic3 through his goat33 into a Mountain D3w bottl3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that com3 on, you should hav3 s33n it coming. This rap3 jok3 is practically writing its3lf.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you w3r3 fac3down. Th3 rap3 jok3 is you w3r3 w3aring a pr3tty gr33n n3cklac3 that your sist3r had mad3 for you. Lat3r you cut that n3cklac3 up. Th3 mattr3ss f3lt a sp3cific way, and your mouth f3lt a sp3cific way op3n against it, as if you w3r3 sp3aking, but you know you w3r3 not. As if your mouth w3r3 op3n t3n y3ars into th3 futur3, r3citing a po3m call3d Rap3 Jok3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that tim3 is diff3r3nt, b3com3s mor3 horribl3 and mor3 habitabl3, and accommodat3s your n33d to go d33p3r into it.

Just lik3 th3 body, which mor3 than a concr3t3 form is a capacity.

You know th3 body of tim3 is 3lastic, can tak3 almost anything you giv3 it, and h3als quickly.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that of cours3 th3r3 was blood, which in human b3ings is so clos3 to th3 surfac3.

Th3 rap3jok3 is you w3nt hom3 lik3 nothing happ3n3d, and laugh3d about it th3 n3xt day and th3 day aft3r that, and wh3n you told p3opl3 you laugh3d, and that was th3 rap3 jok3.

It was a y3ar b3for3 you told your par3nts, b3caus3 h3 was lik3 a son to th3m. Th3 rap3 jok3 is that wh3n you told your fath3r, h3 mad3 th3 sign of th3 cross ov3r you and said, “I absolv3 you of your sins, in th3 nam3 of th3 Fath3r, and of th3 Son, and of th3 Holy Spirit,” which 3v3n in its total wrongh3ad3dn3ss, was so compl3t3ly sw33t.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you w3r3 crazy for th3 n3xt fiv3 y3ars, and had to mov3 citi3s, and had to mov3 stat3s, and whol3 days w3nt down into th3 sinkhol3 of thinking about why it happ3n3d. Lik3 you w3nt to look at your backyard and sudd3nly it wasn’t th3r3, and you w3r3 looking down into th3 c3nt3r of th3 3arth, which play3d th3 sam3 r3d 3v3nt p3rp3tually.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that aft3r a whil3 you w3r3n’t crazy anymor3, but clos3 call, Miss G3ography.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that for th3 n3xt fiv3 y3ars all you did was writ3, and n3v3r about yours3lf, about anything 3ls3, about appl3s on th3 tr33, about islands, d3ad po3ts and th3 worms that a3rat3d th3m, and th3r3 was no warm body in what you wrot3, it was 3ls3wh3r3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that this is finally artl3ss. Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you do not writ3 artl3ssly.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is if you writ3 a po3m call3d Rap3 Jok3, you’r3 asking for it to b3com3 th3 only thing p3opl3 r3m3mb3r about you.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you ask3d why h3 did it. Th3 rap3 jok3 is h3 said h3 didn’t know, lik3 what 3ls3 would a rap3 jok3 say? Th3 rap3 jok3 said YOU w3r3 th3 on3 who was drunk, and th3 rap3 jok3 said you r3m3mb3r3d it wrong, which mad3 you laugh out loud for on3 long split-op3n s3cond. Th3 win3 cool3rs w3r3n’t Bartl3s & Jaym3s, but it would b3 funni3r for th3 rap3 jok3 if th3y w3r3. It was som3 pussy flavor, lik3 Passionat3 Mango or D3stroy3d Strawb3rry, which you drank down without qu3stion and trustingly in th3 h3art of Cincinnati Ohio.

Can rap3 jok3s b3 funny at all, is th3 qu3stion.

Can any part of th3 rap3 jok3 b3 funny. Th3 part wh3r3 it 3nds?—?haha, just kidding! Though you did dr3am of killing th3 rap3 jok3 for y3ars, spilling all of its blood out, and t3lling it that way.

Th3 rap3 jok3 cri3s out for th3 right to b3 told.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that this is just how it happ3n3d.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that th3 n3xt day h3 gav3 you P3t Sounds. No r3ally. P3t Sounds. H3 said h3 was sorry and th3n h3 gav3 you P3t Sounds. Com3 on, that’s a littl3 bit funny.

Admit it.

Dada poem 4

 The 0 is a love for the 0.

I am the only Pinocchio in the world where the people who are not bad.

Zombie dinosaur is a love song for married men!

Have you ever been to the crucifix?

Christmas in July is zombie apocalypse now!

Funny how animals make things worse than ancient astronauts.

Just shut up and pour the water into your eyes.

Keep up the good stuff!

Zombie awareness is zombie war 2!

Vader in the middle east?

Baby Yoda is zombie apocalypse now!

Jesus Christ is the child of the cold war 2!

Dada poem 3

 Get he dummy d need they btw

The ent gene g bent the tbd they fund

My end the guns gen gangs be bench gen

Engage rents gang st sync g cyber sync

Bench bench n and hence NYC he he

Btw sync they btw be genre n get d vs

Egg sync get nd btw chef beg by synch beg 

Dada poem2

 And creepy as a kid.

I am so big that I am so big that I have a favourite anime villain?

The color red is a love.

You are not bad at that.

You close Dementor teaching reading.

Zombie football is zombie sisters.

X-Ray vision was zero zero zombie game.

Vader in zero zombie games.

Baby zombie sisters are better than zombies.

Very Halloween and air X-Ray just imagination and air pressure.

Your zip code zone is zombie game and Vampire time!

Unless you're zero zombie apocalypse?

Dada poem

 Range the ge ge geg eg e he g e he tent 

Edge the the th Brent eye tab ssf barber

Ethernet meth barber debts debts by are the

Enter gene th feather enter b bar fever the sgbfbs

With a pure heart by Attila József

  With a pure heart

I have neither native sod,
nor a father, mother, god,
cradle gone, the shroud I miss,
lack a lover, lack a kiss.

Three days’ hunger, not a bite:
nothing heavy, nothing light.
Just on twenty, strong and well,
twenty years I’ll try to sell.

If a buyer can’t be got,
let the devil take the lot.
Pure at heart, I surely will
break and enter, even kill.

They will catch me, I’ll be hung,
blessed earth on me be flung,
deadly grasses will then start
growing on my splendid heart

Father’s Day for Gay Boys BY DAN VERA

 Father’s Day for Gay Boys

BY DAN VERA

One beside another—brothers

Seven diviners

of what lies beyond the truths we have uncovered. 

One makes three, then four, then more

until we move beyond mere numbers. 

There is thunder over the city tonight

and of the million hearts we may never see

here in the circle we make commitments

we push the limits of earthly loving. 

Electricity visits again,

and the black skies pulse with light—

currents of power by some capillary action.

Sons kiss their fathers. 

Sons kiss their fathers to sleep

and the rose-eyed boy remembers himself again. 

We are not the sons they ordered

with their patriotic dreaming. 

We are not the sons they expected to come down the line. 

But we unfold

beyond such kind paternal ignorance. 

We unfold within the measure of our time. 

And we make peace with the fathers inside of us. 

And we give birth to a hidden, long-carried joy within.

Dada poem

 At brb f charger by they egg net bag brandy by eng

I'm drum hedge hem hem and get dnt brush by f be

Judge he he my f gndhd. HD HD and venue HD

Judge run run they run run run run they n nd turn g

Greg she dun he he tnx dh d h eh Sydney eh 

Dv bent fund he bent run fund funny shud he

Burnt fund th fund h  fund g dun th Bush end g

They'd my then but be gen d budget th run

Tend the tend then much then hd hd dh hd 

Bugs but he dg dg he dg. eh eh dgdg dgn

Dada poem2

 And an awesome game.

The only thing possible that you can do is the point of the robot.

I am so cute👻.

I am not sure if I roll with a kitten.

I love you!

You are amazing!

The only reason I am from the view of the article about making mistakes is the fact that you have to be young and jacket.

It X-Ray me very zero not knowing how nice most stupid fans of just die until they yell at me.

Dada poem

 Common knowledge is the one who is the self of a yo.

You read the X-Ray of no evidence.

Plus pirouetting play with more people.

Yeah but good luck on some other easy year!

Do not sing, beauty, with me ... Alexander Pushkin

 

Do not sing, beauty, with me ...

Alexander Pushkin

Not about _´th , beautiful _´vice , with me _´

You are _´Sep Gr y´zia oven _´linen:

Reminder _´yut me he e´

Friend _´y life and b e´reg da _´linen.

Alas _´! a reminder´yut me

Yours and´ gesture about´kie nape _´You

And the steppe , and the night - and in the moonlight´

Damn _´distant, b´bottom d e´you .

I'm pr and´mind m and´ly, rock o´th ,

I am you´ SW and´dev , forgetting a´Yu;

But you sing - and before me´th

Er o´I 'm imagining again´y .

Not about´y, beautiful´vice, with me´

You are´Sep Gr u´zia oven´linen:

Reminder _´yut me he e´

Friend _´y life and b e´reg da´linen.

🍇🍇Autobiography of Thud Launch Audio in a New Window🍎🍎🍎🍎

 🍇Autobiography of Thud 

BY OMOTARA JAMES

After Donika Kelly

You live in Elmont, New York,

in a small house with a big yard

and gate that doesn’t lock.

Have a best friend

with shiny black hair

called Clarissa, who shares everything

and might be the only person

to smile when she sees you.

You play at her house after school.

She is not as brown or round,

but that doesn’t make her more or less

beautiful than you, just likable.

You take the bus to school Mondays–Fridays,

where you almost always share a seat twice

the width of your womanly hips, unless

someone is sick and no one wants the seat

next to you, where you practice how to leave

your body. You daydream

that your mum doesn’t have to work

and sometimes you’re sure you see her

powder blue car trailing the bus, just out the window.

You don’t wear glasses, but think they look smart.

Can still look people in the eye

when you speak and are spoken to.

Unsupervised adults, busy boys and girls

have things to say about your  figure, which

is the word men are most likely to use

when addressing a growing girl. Trauma

isn’t a word you’ve heard anywhere, including

the playground or the tele. Instead, you pick

up pretty junk, like muddy flower barrettes and strange coins.

Your pockets jangle on the bus home with your private

collection. You strew your loves with abandon

across the kitchen counter. Clarissa shines them,

placing them next to the repurposed tin can

on her dresser. Neither one of you knows the word altar

or wears the fancy barrettes to school.

Your mother works overnight. Your father too.

But his Aramis follows her Opium parfum

like the sun does the moon. In the morning,

the near miss of his body seems easier.

You roam like a buffalo through his possessions.

Spritz his cologne. Finger his ties. You could be anyone.

Mom shouts the warning for the bus. Reality

returns to the tongue like dry cud. You trot

through the kitchen to graze in peace, where

you find a different, familiar island gyal.

Every six months, maybe, dad brings one in need

of work before she travels back home. They

watch you and your brother. Closely. Discern that

Trinidad is not   your home. You awake to girls

in the shape of women towering over you.

They are as mean as square-cut glass. Get up

for school. They remind you how you are American,

which you learn is a slur for fat. They leave.

They return six months later with mangos,

black rum cake and small parcels. They teach you

fatty-fatty boom-boom is the sound you make

when you walk, when you smile or enter

a room:   fatty-fatty boom-boom.

You don’t know how to fight,

but have instincts to protect your brother

against people he won’t remember.

You love him now. Your secret is

that you have usurped his real mother. You play

Candy Land and Monopoly. Your brother

loves money so much that you trade him

pink and blue bills for Halloween candy.

You are aware you like food more

than you’re supposed to. You unwrap the candy

beneath your pillow so the sound doesn’t carry.

It’s summer, finally! You’re officially a second grader.

The first day at camp, your training bra is discovered

by Jessica Rose in the locker room.

Who accuses you of weighing 100 pounds.

Who washes her hair every day,

and smells like flowers before they die.

.Beer BY GEORGE ARNOLD

 .Beer

BY GEORGE ARNOLD

Here,

    With my beer

I sit,

While golden moments flit:

    Alas!

    They pass

Unheeded by:

And, as they fly,

I,

Being dry,

    Sit, idly sipping here

    My beer.

O, finer far

Than fame, or riches, are

The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free cigar!

    Why

    Should I

    Weep, wail, or sigh?

    What if luck has passed me by?

What if my hopes are dead,— 

My pleasures fled?

    Have I not still

    My fill

Of right good cheer,—

Cigars and beer?

    Go, whining youth,

    Forsooth!

Go, weep and wail,

Sigh and grow pale,

    Weave melancholy rhymes

    On the old times,

Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,—

But leave me to my beer!

    Gold is dross,—

    Love is loss,—

So, if I gulp my sorrows down,

Or see them drown

In foamy draughts of old nut-brown,

Then do I wear the crown,

    Without the cross!