This is yours

This is the place for you to share information, share ideas, pictures, gossip, and get to know each other. Add links, pictures, articles, movies, poetry anything you want. It can pertain to advertising, creativity but maybe sometimes it won't. Maybe sometimes it will just be a little inspiration. I'm going to start it off with a poet I like by the name of David Kirby.

Public Idiot

There's a kind of reason that transcends logic,
if you catch my drift: "I'm going to hang myself
from that branch right there," Maureen said,
"and shine a spotlight on the body,"
and when Daphne came home that evening,
there was Maureen, twisting slowly in the beam.

When my Will was 12, I took him to Sears to buy a Lego,
and when I hurried him, he said,
"Don't rush me Dad, this is probably the last toy,
I'll ever buy." How did he know that –
how do we know anything? How did people know
they were living in the Dark Ages, or did they?

When I was his age, my mom and dad took me
and my brother out west one summer and we crossed
these fields of amber waving grain with pollen so thick
you could part it like curtains,
and I began to wheeze, so my mother wet a hanky
and said "Here, tie this across your face,"

and I said, "What, and look like a public idiot,"
and she said "No, a cowboy," though later
people were laughing at me at a gas station,
which is when I saw my brother had printed the words
PUBLIC IDIOT on a piece of paper
and stuck it in the car's rear window

Point: who cares? I'd been a hero
in my mind the whole time,
and you never know what someone else
is thinking unless you are that person,
which you can't be, and who would want to anyway?
It's enough of a job to be ourselves.

Friend of mine finds out he has exactly the same
blood chemistry as his father, who died younger
than he is now, so he explains to his kids
that Dad'll die if they can't start eating more fish
and less pizza, and the kids are sweet, they love Dad,
but they say, "Nope, sorry, pizza it is."

I mean, they won't even let him have anchovies!
And they're not bad kids,
it's not that they want him to die:
they just know that if they say okay to fish,
It'll be halibut, mackerel, pike, tuna,
snapper, grouper, mullet, scrod, catfish,
codfish, bluefish, and swordfish every night
until they go away to college,
because Dad doesn't care
how nasty his dinner is, he just wants to live!
The kids are being themselves, which is their job:
they know if they say "No fish,"

clever Dad will come up with
some third plan the way he always does
when he and Mom can't agree on where to go
for vacation or even what movie
to take everybody to on Sunday,
like maybe pizza for them and fish for him and Mom,

even though they also know he wants
the whole family to eat the same thing,
to be like a real family that way,
an old-fashioned family passing platters
around the table and talking and laughing together
instead of a modern family

with morose kids shoving these cheesy wedges
into their cakeholes while Mom and Dad
pull the skin off their salmon or extract
the needle thin bones, figuring what profiteth it
a man to save his heart
if he end up with a punctuated esophagus?

Another friend told me the star quarterback
of the Cairo Syrupmakers quit football
in his junior year so he could smoke cigarettes,
and now everybody in Cairo is talking
about how stupid he is, how unsportmanlike,
though he knows the right thing

for him at this moment is to smoke those ciggies,
and who's to say he shouldn't?
Every fall, someone breaks his neck
on the football field.
And Maureen, she'd thought about her death so long –
surely she'd told herself, "Look, it's a free country."