Category: Poem Of The Day

Arizona Poem of the Day from AZPoetry.com

Pieces of the night song gin blossoms doug hopkins poet | azpoetry. Com

Pieces of the Night by Doug Hopkins

“Pieces of the Night” by Doug Hopkins

Well is it any wonder that the stars don’t just rush by
When you’re only doin’ 60 through this oh-so-vacant night
But it’s lackin’ something big this time
What the hell did you expect to find?
Aphrodite on a barstool by your side

Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight
Then I saw gin mill rainfall
What do you remember if at all?
Only pieces of the night

And is it any wonder in the middle of the crowd
If you let your feet get trampled on
When the music is that loud
But you wanted to be where you are
But it looked much better from afar
A hillside in shadow between the people and the stars

Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight
Then I saw gin mill rainfall
What do you remember if at all?
Only pieces of the night

And it seems so distant
But still only half the night away
Where notions between your questions come too
Is it any wonder where
The pieces of the night have been?

Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight
Then I saw gin mill rainfall
What do you remember if at all?
Only pieces of the night
Only pieces of the night
Then I saw
Only pieces of the night

Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight
Then I saw gin mill rainfall
What do you remember if at all?
Only pieces of the night

Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight
Then I saw gin mill rainfall

Watch “Pieces of the Night” by Gin Blossoms

About the poet Doug Hopkins

“Pieces of the Night” by Doug Hopkins, and performed by the Gin Blossoms, is a haunting meditation on the fleeting nature of our memories and experiences. Through vivid imagery—driving slowly through a vacant night, encountering the surreal sight of “gin mill rainfall,” and evoking the legendary allure of a mythical figure on a barstool—Hopkins captures how moments of beauty and chaos slip away, leaving us with only fragments. The recurring reference to “Twelfth night” hints at the cyclical nature of these ephemeral experiences, suggesting that even as time passes, the impressions of the night linger like scattered pieces of a once-vibrant puzzle.

Hopkins’ lyrics challenge us to reflect on what we truly remember when the night fades into dawn—are our memories as complete as we wish, or are they, like the stars, just fragments of a greater, elusive tapestry?

To learn more about Doug Hopkins, his unique poetic vision, and his contributions to Arizona’s cultural landscape, visit his full bio HERE.

Listen to Gin Blossoms on Spotify

Burn wall street burn artwork poem azpoetry. Com the klute

Burn Wall Street Burn by The Klute

Read the poem “Burn Wall Street Burn”

I watch CNBC.
I read the Wall Street Journal.
I check stock tickers,
Study insider reports,
Consult my broker on a daily basis.
After careful deliberation,
I have decided to empty my bank account,
Convert it to unmarked twenty-dollar bills,
Go directly to Las Vegas,
Put it all on black.
When the ball drops in my favor,
I could use those liquid assests to diversify my portfolio,
Invest heavily in pencils and apples,
And for once, be on the ground floor –
That place where all the stock brokers will land
When they finally succumb to mantra of doom…
The endless repetition of “Buy! Sell! Buy! Sell!”
That turn becomes “JUMP!!! JUMP!!! JUMP!!!”,
Playing on an infinite loop in the back of their mind
When they look out their office windows
And imagine the sweet release of death
Waiting for them on pavement below.
Good.
Give in to it, Wall Street,
Embrace your destiny.

I want my 401K back.
I’m not getting it back.
I’ve been advised it resides at the First Bank of the Land of Imagination,
Currently being managed by a crack team of leprechauns and unicorns,
Being leveraged into moon beams and fairy dust.
I shouldn’t worry though.
I’ll get my disbursement check as soon as I begin collecting Social Security.
This just in…
I’m not getting Social Security either!
So the time has come
To beat our shares into pitchforks,
Set our stock portfolios alight to guide our way,
To storm the castle
And kill the monster.
Now, I’m not suggesting you head to the headquarters of Goldman Sachs
With a pistol-grip pump shotgun,
Kick down the door,
Shout “I am the Angel of Death – the time of purification is at hand!”
Then start paying out double-barrel killshot bonuses
With a gleam in your eye and a song in your heart.
Oh wait, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting!
Because there will be a reckoning,
A tallying of names and a cracking of skulls,
And it will be easier for a camel to thread the eye of a needle
Then it will be for a fat-cat to avoid my lead.
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!

Who is John Galt?
Who cares.
He’s dead.
I killed him and he’s buried in a shallow, unmarked grave outside of town
Next to the bodies of Adam Smith and Horatio Alger.
Stop asking questions.
Because it’s time for action.
Swift, brutal, unthinking mob action.
Let’s head to Wall Street
Block all the exits at the New York Stock Exchange.
Let’s give these American heroes the reward they so richly deserve.
Let loose rabid bulls and bears as an appetizer of destruction,
Rain down burning ticker tape like the wrath of God from the gallery,
Sing “Auld Lang Zyme ” with the vengeful ghost of George Bailey, Sr.
Then roast marshmallows on the smoking ruin,
Toasting our lost fortunes as we drink from the skulls of Morgan Stanley and Charles Schawb.
Because I watch CNBC and read the Wall Street Journal.
I now know the true meaning of class warfare.
The horror…
The horror…
Burn, Wall Street, Burn

Summary of “Burn Wall Street Burn”

“Burn Wall Street Burn” by slam poet The Klute is a blistering, darkly comic spoken-word poem that channels post-crash economic rage into a surreal monologue of disillusionment. The speaker begins by mimicking the rituals of financial responsibility—watching CNBC, reading The Wall Street Journal, consulting brokers—only to conclude that rational participation in the system is meaningless.

From there, the poem spirals into increasingly absurd and violent imagery. Retirement funds vanish into fantasy; institutions collapse into farce; economic language mutates into the language of revolt. Cultural and ideological icons—John Galt, Adam Smith, Horatio Alger—are symbolically declared dead. The poem culminates in an apocalyptic vision of Wall Street consumed by fire, spectacle, and bitter celebration.

The closing lines echo Heart of Darkness’s famous refrain—“The horror, the horror”—recasting financial capitalism itself as the unspeakable atrocity.

Analysis of “Burn Wall Street Burn” by The Klute

Satire as a Weapon of Class Anger

At its core, “Burn Wall Street Burn” is not a literal call to violence but a satirical pressure valve. Slam poetry often amplifies emotion to the point of excess, and The Klute leans fully into hyperbole to express what polite economic language cannot: rage, betrayal, and helplessness. The outrageous threats and cartoonish bloodlust function as metaphor, exposing how systemic violence (lost pensions, vanished futures) breeds fantasies of retribution.

The Collapse of Financial Language

One of the poem’s sharpest techniques is its corruption of financial jargon. “Diversify my portfolio” becomes an investment in “pencils and apples.” “Liquid assets” lead not to stability, but to a roulette table in Las Vegas. These moments underscore the speaker’s realization that the system is already a gamble, rigged in favor of those who never touch the ground floor—except when they fall.

The repeated fixation on “the ground floor” works double duty: it is both the entry point denied to ordinary people and the literal pavement awaiting brokers who internalize the manic chant of “Buy! Sell! Buy! Sell!”

Myth-Busting American Ideology

By symbolically killing figures like Adam Smith and Horatio Alger, the poem rejects foundational myths of American capitalism: rational markets and merit-based success. The dismissive “Who cares” aimed at John Galt is especially telling—it mocks libertarian exceptionalism as irrelevant in the face of mass economic suffering.

The appearance of George Bailey, Sr. (from It’s a Wonderful Life) as a “vengeful ghost” flips a classic tale of community banking into an indictment of modern finance, where the Bailey Building & Loan has long since lost to the megabanks.

Carnival, Apocalypse, and Catharsis

The poem’s final vision—burning ticker tape, hydrogen-filled bulls and bears, marshmallows roasted on the ruins of the NYSE—is grotesque but deliberately carnivalesque. It resembles a medieval inversion festival, where power is mocked, desecrated, and briefly overturned. Naming corporations like Morgan Stanley and Charles Schwab as skulls to drink from transforms faceless institutions into mortal bodies, finally subject to consequence.

Why the Poem Still Resonates

“Burn Wall Street Burn” captures a moment—and a mood—that extends far beyond its immediate context. It speaks for those who did everything “right” and still lost everything. Its excess is intentional, its anger performative, and its violence symbolic. The poem’s power lies not in its literal imagery, but in its refusal to be calm, reasonable, or grateful in the face of systemic failure.

In that sense, the poem is less a manifesto than a scream—raw, undiplomatic, and impossible to ignore. Burn, Wall Street, Burn is not about destruction for its own sake. It is about being heard when the numbers say you no longer matter.

Read more poetry inspired by the state of Arizona HERE.

Hooked claus by the klute | azpoetry. Com

‘Hooked Claus’ by The Klute

For the longest time,
no one remembered how we were partners,
the Good Cop and Bad Cop of Yuletide,
a symphony of jingle bells and rattling chains
‘ere we drove out of sight.
How disturbed must they have been by the thought of me
looking over your shoulder and salivating
as you added children to the naughty list
for transgressions great and small.
You were the carrot,
oranges in the stocking,
presents under the tree,
half-eaten cookies as a reminder that you were there.
I was the stick,
birch branches in hand,
bathtub on my back,
my stew-pot bubbling in anticipation of fresh meat.
You were the red and green of holly and mistletoe,
I was the poison.

From the first,
I have been with them.
Born of the sands of Egpyt,
I was Abo Ragl Ma Slokha,
Man with the Burnt Leg,
bane of wicked tots.
Parents around the world would conjure me in story,
the Namahage,
le Croque-mitten,
Baba Yaga,
El Coco,
to keep their brats in line.
In their stories,
they always gave me horns,
yellow eyes,
a cloven hoof at the end of one leg,
a misshapen foot on the other,
my teeth sharp,
tongue so long it could reach them from under the bed
to taste their nightmares.
When I crossed the Alps, followed the Danube,
I found a new home under the Solstice moon.
As the fires of Yule cheer burned in the village squares,
I shouted my name so loud that every child would remember it,
whisper it to each other between shudders:
I
AM
THE
KRAMPUS!!!
When the willful boy or indolent girl came to a bad end
parents would remind the kinder:
Behave or the Krampus will come for you too.

When we first met, Santa Claus,
I thought you were there to kill me.
You came to my cave in regal glory.
Father Christmas! Jolly Old Saint Nick!
Your light washed away the darkness so I had no place to hide.
Trapped, I thought you were there to finally bring a gift
to those excluded as an annual tradition.
You cannot imagine my surprise when you extended your hand,
asked “won’t you ride my sleigh tonight?”.
You put me in chains as a precaution,
you still felt my wicked heart beat beneath my goatish chest,
but left me my bundle of sticks
because as you said: spare the rod, spoil the child.
Why does no one ever see the shadow behind your rosy cheeks?
Over the years, we brought so many children to goodness,
I rarely ate.
I did not mind,
I was able to drink in their fear like an elixir.

Then one foggy Christmas eve,
I noticed your sleigh was now driven by a broken buck with a freakish nose, your retinue filled out with polar bears drinking caramel-colored sugar water, the sack was filled with things never seen in your workshop before.
My eyes full of terrible wonder,
you leaned in,
smiled,
said one word: “Plastics“.
I did not like the sound of it.
As we flew over the city and marched down the streets,
your image was everywhere.
On billboards, in newspaper ads, on TV, in shopping malls.
I would have no part of this,
with sadness in your voice, you agreed: I would have no part of this.
You banished me back to the cave,
exiled into fading memory.

But I feel them pulling me back,
through of the Black Forest,
past the gingerbread house,
out of the fairy tales,
and into a cage.
They are corking my teeth,
dumping out my stew-pot,
reeling my tongue back in,
making me safe,
making me fun,
making me marketable.
It will not be long before I star in the limelight of cartoons,
baked into the shape of cookies,
imprisoned within  wrapping paper.
When I am a triumph marched down 5th Avenue on Thanksgiving,
I will know they have checked me off their list,
now as gelded as Donner and Blitzen.
I see you up there on your sleigh,
and for the first time since we first met, Santa Claus,
the Krampus is afraid.

About the poem “Hooked Klaus” by The Klute

The Klute was arguably the most recognizable voice from Arizona during the poetry slam movement of the 1990’s – 2000’s. His early work is often humorous. Later in life, The Klute’s poetry took on a more serious tone, with the poet’s primary focus on increased awareness of ocean life. Today’s poem is a humorous poem, a parody of a serious poem by a slam poet from Utah, Jesse Parent.


Summary of “Hooked Klaus” by The Klute


“Hooked Klaus” is a dramatic monologue spoken from the perspective of Krampus, the dark folkloric companion to Santa Claus. The poem reimagines the traditional Good Cop/Bad Cop relationship between Santa and Krampus, portraying them as once-equal partners in shaping children’s behavior through reward and fear. Santa represents generosity, warmth, and moral incentive, while Krampus embodies punishment, terror, and consequence.


The speaker traces his ancient origins across cultures—Egyptian, European, and global—emphasizing that fear has always been a tool adults use to enforce obedience. When Santa enters his life, Krampus expects destruction but instead is recruited, chained but included, as part of a moral system that balances kindness with discipline.


The relationship fractures with the rise of modern consumer culture. Santa becomes a corporate icon, his sleigh filled with mass-produced goods and advertising slogans. Krampus refuses to participate and is exiled into obscurity. In the poem’s final movement, Krampus senses his return—not as a feared enforcer, but as a sanitized, commercial mascot. Stripped of menace and agency, he ends the poem afraid for the first time, watching Santa preside over a world where even fear itself has been domesticated and sold.


Analysis of “Hooked Klaus” by The Klute


At its core, “Hooked Klaus” is a critique of commercialization and cultural sanitization. The poem contrasts ancient, communal storytelling—where fear, consequence, and morality were intertwined—with modern consumer capitalism, which repackages even monsters into safe, profitable images. Krampus is not defeated by goodness but by branding.


The Good Cop/Bad Cop framing establishes a moral economy: children are shaped by both reward and punishment. The poem argues that Santa’s modern incarnation has abandoned balance in favor of endless indulgence, transforming morality into consumption. The chilling one-word revelation—“Plastics”—serves as a turning point, symbolizing artificiality, disposability, and the loss of craftsmanship, tradition, and meaning.
Krampus’s long catalog of global names and monstrous traits underscores his universality. He is not merely a villain but a necessary cultural function: the embodiment of consequence. His fear at the poem’s end is especially powerful because it reverses expectations. What terrifies Krampus is not eradication, but domestication—being rendered “safe,” “fun,” and “marketable.”


The poem’s final image, of Krampus gelded and paraded like Santa’s reindeer, delivers its sharpest indictment. Even rebellion, darkness, and myth are absorbed into spectacle. In this world, nothing remains sacred or dangerous; everything can be packaged.


Conclusion


“Hooked Klaus” blends folklore, satire, and cultural criticism into a darkly lyrical meditation on modern Christmas. By giving Krampus a voice, The Klute reframes him not as a monster, but as a casualty of consumerism. The poem suggests that when fear, discipline, and myth are stripped of their teeth, society may gain comfort—but lose depth, accountability, and meaning.

Discover more poetry inspired by Arizona HERE.

Birdwatcher poem by aaron hopkins-johnson

“Birdwatcher” by Aaron Hopkins-Johnson

I’m a bird.
One day, the thru-hiker came by
and tried guessing my name.

She got it wrong.

But birdbrains know how to spot beauty over faults.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t
want to shit on a person.
Trembled perch, my bird’s eye view
made my warm blood migrate south.

I coo’d smalltalk the way birdwatchers in bars do
‘Tattoo! Tattoo!’
I don’t know if she ever understood my birdsong

She spoke about feminism, marketing, and interior design.
I sang to her poems, collected
her hair to make my nest more comfortable,
apologized that there was no room
for her in this tree, watched
our incompatibility hatch, like itineraries
and love notes tucked into the spine of a field guide.

You never climbed up here, Birdwatcher.

I left for a year
and came back.
She returned too
with a two-person tent,
slept under my nest,
I watched her tent rattle
with my head tucked under wing
coughed ‘nevermore!’
until sunrise

Two pairs of boots chilled in the wind.
I stretched my tongue out
and whistled a Lynard Skynard ditty
to this Floridian in all keys.
Struggled to be
beautiful, Darwin. Evolved
in minutes as she looked at
me, unfamiliar. All love lost
in her eyes, through binoculars
all my imperfections in
her year’s worth of paper experience.
I am looking at her through shrinking
tunnels, her eyes too small to see
what I take with me when I fly away.

Dimples, glimmering eyes, wet lips, soprano.

About the poem “Birdwatcher” by Aaron Hopkins-Johnson

Summary

The poem begins in the first person: the speaker declares “I’m a bird.” We are drawn into a surreal scene in which a thru-hiker passes by and guesses the bird’s name — and guesses it wrong. The bird knows that birdbrains “know how to spot beauty over faults.” The speaker (bird) reflects that for the first time in its life it didn’t want to “shit on a person.” The perch is trembling; the bird‐eye view makes “warm blood migrate south.”

Next, the speaker imitates small‐talk with the human (“tattoo! tattoo!”) and wonders if she understood the bird‐song. She, the hiker, speaks of “feminism, marketing, and interior design,” while the bird “collected her hair to make my nest more comfortable,” apologized there was no room for her “in this tree,” and watched their incompatibility “hatch.”

The human returned later with a two-person tent and slept under the nest. The bird watched the tent rattle, tucked its head under a wing, coughed “nevermore!” until sunrise. Two pairs of boots in the wind; the speaker stretched out its tongue and whistled a Lynyrd Skynyrd ditty. The bird struggles to be “beautiful, Darwin. Evolved in minutes as she looked at me, unfamiliar.” All love lost in her eyes, through binoculars, all the bird’s imperfections seen. The poem ends with the bird looking at her through shrinking tunnels, her eyes too small to see what it takes with it when it flies away. Dimples, glimmering eyes, wet lips, soprano.

In short: the poem uses the metaphor of bird-watching (and the bird as speaker) to explore a human encounter, mis‐encounter, attraction, difference, and withdrawal.

Analysis

Voice & Perspective

By giving the bird itself a voice (“I’m a bird”), Hopkins-Johnson creates a playful yet disorienting vantage point. The bird is both subject and observer: it watches the human (“Birdwatcher”) while the human may be watching the bird. This role-reversal creates tension: who is observing whom? The use of the first-person bird-voice invites us to inhabit a non-human gaze and thereby reflect on human interaction from another angle.

Themes of Beauty, Fault & Otherness

The lyric opens with the bird observing that birdbrains know how to spot “beauty over faults.” This phrase establishes an aesthetic of imperfect being, of seeing value despite—or because of—imperfection. The speaker admits that for the first time it didn’t want to “shit on a person” (raw, humorous, subversive). The bird’s warm blood migrating south, the trembled perch: these are indications of emotion, vulnerability, risk of exposure.

When the human arrives with her social talk of feminism, marketing, interior design, we sense the bird’s alienation. The bird collects hair to make its nest comfortable, but apologizes there’s no room for her “in this tree.” That metaphor suggests a home, a world, a belonging which is not shared. Their incompatibility “hatch[es]” like “itineraries and love notes tucked into the spine of a field guide.” The field guide evokes bird‐watching, classification, containment; the bird is in the wild, the human with her tent and boots is a visitor.

Nature, Culture & Migration

The bird migrates south (warm blood migrating south) — the language of biology, instinct. Meanwhile the human brings culture (feminism, interior design) and constructs a tent beneath the bird’s nest. The tent beneath the tree speaks of human intrusion into nature’s domain, yet also human attempt to share or join. The bird whistling a Lynyrd Skynyrd ditty further complicates the boundary: the bird takes on human musical culture, stretching its tongue, trying to adapt (“Struggled to be / beautiful, Darwin. Evolved in minutes”).

This phrase “beautiful, Darwin” is interesting: Darwin evokes evolution, adaptation, survival of the fittest. The bird tries to evolve in minutes as the human looks at him “unfamiliar.” The bird’s imperfections are catalogued through binoculars (the human’s tool of observation). The bird looks back through shrinking tunnels; her eyes too small to see what the bird takes with it when it flies away. The message: the human gaze is limited; the bird carries away an experience, perhaps a knowing, that the human cannot perceive.

Love, Loss & Departure

Though there is attraction, there’s also misalignment. The human’s presence, the return, the tent, the boots — all of these mark an attempt at closeness. But the bird’s voice ends with departure: it flies away, the human doesn’t climb up to its vantage point (“You never climbed up here, Birdwatcher.”). The final loss: “All love lost / in her eyes,” “through binoculars / all my imperfections in / her year’s worth of paper experience.” The bird leaves with something unrecognized, the human stays in her lens, her cataloguing of faults. The bird’s freedom, its flight, its unseen glimmer remain beyond her view.

Form & Tone

The tone of the poem mixes whimsy, surrealism, self-deprecation, mockery, vulnerability. The bird voice allows a mixture of humor (“tattoo! tattoo!”, “shit on a person”) and tenderness. The structure is free verse, conversational, with enjambments that propel the sense of movement (flight, migration, watching, leaving). The lack of strict formal constraint mirrors the bird’s freedom and the unexpected twist of human-bird encounter.

Symbolism & Irony

  • The bird: a vantage of freedom, outsider perspective, instinct, nature.
  • The human (Birdwatcher): observer, outsider in the bird’s world, trying to interpret and perhaps possess or classify.
  • The nest / tree: home, belonging, a world not easily shared.
  • The tent / boots: human intrusion, attempt to inhabit the bird’s space but only partly.
  • Binoculars / field guide: tools of observation, classification, but limit what can be seen.
  • Migration / fly away: movement, separation, resolve.
  • “Beautiful, Darwin”: irony—evolution as adaptation, but here adaptation in minutes? The bird changing for human gaze and yet still unseen.

Significance for Arizona / Regional Context

Given Aaron Hopkins-Johnson’s connection to Phoenix, AZ and the Southwest poetry community, this poem may also reflect themes of wildness vs. human settlement, migration, observer vs. observed – all very relevant to desert landscapes, bird migration paths, hikers and thru-hikers in wild zones. The imagery of boots, tents, migration south evokes long trails, wilderness recreation, human encounter with nature.

Aaron Hopkins-Johnson is a writer in Phoenix, AZ. A long-time slam poetry competitor, a teaching artist, and the owner of Lawn Gnome Publishing, he is currently a single father and a copywriter. Discover more Arizona poets HERE.

Alas poor yorick poem by the klute featuring hyperrealistic jester at ren fair | azpoetry. Com

‘Alas Poor Yorick’ by The Klute

Alas, Poor Yorick

I regard the sad little man
As I stand in line at Ye Olde Churro Hut
With equal measures of pity and hatred
He wears a tri-cornered, tri-colored hat that is by design
Three sizes too large for his head
Upon each corner rests a single bell that jingles
With each act of prehistoric vaudeville that he performs
Mistaking the expression on my face as an invitation
He’s coming my way
Little does he know, I hate jesters
I hate them with the white-hot intensity of an Inquisitor’s branding iron
Jesters provoke within me a desire to transcend the Renaissance
And go back to the Stone Age
Where it would be perfectly acceptable to take a large rock
And smash his proto-mime skull in
But this is the modern era
While I’m certain that no jury in America
Would convict me for killing a jester
I stay my hand
Because this is not his fault
He doesn’t want to be a jester
No one does.
No one wants to don a pair of tights,
Paint their faces in the tradition of Emmett Kelly
And prance about like a magnificent poof
If God had granted him the stature he would have chosen to be a knight
Or at least a page
Had he been born with rakish good looks and a way with the ladies,
He could have been a rogue
And if he had been in possession of musical talent
He could have been a minstrel
(although I hate minstrels too)
But his thin, short, and sexless reality
Has collided with the Dungeons and Dragons fantasies of his youth
And the result continues his happy ambling gait
Towards my place in line at Ye Olde Churro Hut
I desperately scan the crowd for a broadsword
To cleave this clown in twain
But finding none,
I steel myself for the upcoming barrage of stale quips, bad puns, and friendly jibes
“Prithee my lord, wouldst thou like to hear the tale of Punch and Judy?”
I grab him by his massive lapels and pull him to my face

No.
No I wouldn’t.

There’s a reason why Punch and Judy didn’t make it out of the Middle Ages alive.
People are fonder of the Black Death than they are of Punch and Judy.
Now I know this isn’t your fault.
All I want is some fried dough
And I’ll leave.

The awkward silence is broken by the shout of “Huzzah! Another twenty pounds for the King!”
I release him and he scurries off to the friendly couple from Sun City
That seem quite willing to put up with his capering.
I collect my Churro and sit under a shade tree
Of all the things arcane that this Renaissance Fair had to conjure up

Alas poor Yorick.
I knew him Horatio.

About the poem “Alas Poor Yorick” by The Klute

Alas Poor Yorick was written by The Klute in 2002, originally intended for a chapbook entitled “Damn the Torpedoes”. The Klute was a popular Arizona slam poet for nearly 25 years, and this poem captures his satirical voice. Also known as Bernard Schober, The Klute often used humor to introduce new ideas into the Arizona culture. At the time, this poem was performed for mostly conservative audiences that dominated Arizona from the 1950s until the state began to flip politically in 2020.

Summary of “Alas, Poor Yorick” by The Klute

In “Alas, Poor Yorick,” The Klute offers a darkly comic and sharply observational monologue set in the most mundane of absurd modern arenas: a Renaissance Fair churro stand. The speaker, waiting in line at “Ye Olde Churro Hut,” encounters a jester — a small, pitiful man dressed in an oversized tri-cornered hat with jingling bells. The sight ignites within the narrator an almost comically violent hatred, one rooted less in the man himself and more in what he represents: forced mirth, historical reenactment gone wrong, and the discomfort of artificial joy.

As the speaker imagines crushing the “proto-mime skull” of this self-styled fool, he acknowledges the absurdity of his own reaction — “this is not his fault,” he admits — and begins to psychoanalyze the jester’s predicament. No one, he claims, wants to be a jester. Instead, life and circumstance have whittled the man into this tragicomic role, doomed to caper for others’ amusement while suppressing his dignity.

The narrative crescendos when the jester approaches, performing with “stale quips, bad puns, and friendly jibes.” The speaker’s fantasy and frustration boil over in a moment of confrontation. He grabs the man’s lapels and delivers a scathing retort: a demand for silence and a rejection of the hollow spectacle around him. The poem closes with the speaker’s self-aware echo of Hamlet’s most famous line — “Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio.” — transforming Shakespeare’s meditation on mortality into a contemporary satire on performance, identity, and modern disillusionment.

Analysis: The Jester, the Poet, and the Human Condition

Beneath its humor, “Alas, Poor Yorick” is a deeply layered piece about frustration with artifice and longing for authenticity. The Klute’s speaker projects his existential exhaustion onto the jester — a figure both ridiculous and tragic — who serves as a mirror of humanity’s own clownish struggle to find purpose. The setting at a Renaissance Fair, a space of contrived nostalgia, underscores the tension between the past we romanticize and the hollow performance of that nostalgia in the present.

The poem’s voice blends satire and confession, a hallmark of The Klute’s performance style. His hyperbolic hatred (“the white-hot intensity of an Inquisitor’s branding iron”) collapses into reluctant empathy. The jester becomes an avatar of lost dreams and failed self-transformation — the “thin, short, and sexless reality” colliding with the “Dungeons & Dragons fantasies of his youth.” Through humor and mock aggression, the speaker grapples with his own place in a society addicted to spectacle and performance, where even rebellion feels choreographed.

Language, Rhythm, and Tone

The poem reads like a rant-turned-revelation, fusing the theatricality of Shakespearean soliloquy with the comic rhythm of spoken word poetry. The Klute’s diction moves effortlessly between the archaic (“Prithee my lord”) and the contemporary (“I desperately scan the crowd for a broadsword”), creating a tension that mirrors the absurd coexistence of medieval pageantry and modern consumer culture.

The mock-heroic tone — elevating a churro-stand encounter into an epic battle — allows The Klute to explore the futility of righteous anger in an age of trivial distractions. Even the speaker’s imagined violence serves no purpose beyond catharsis; his rebellion ends, fittingly, in snack-time apathy beneath a “shade tree.” The final line’s allusion to Hamlet reframes this moment of quiet surrender as both humorous and mournful: in trying to reject artifice, the speaker realizes he is part of it.

Themes: Performance, Identity, and Disillusionment

  1. Performance as Survival: The jester, forced to entertain, becomes a metaphor for anyone trapped in performative social roles — whether artist, worker, or consumer.
  2. Hatred as Projection: The speaker’s loathing reveals more about his own disillusionment than the jester’s flaws. His anger masks the fear that he too might be a performer without meaning.
  3. The Death of Authenticity: By referencing Hamlet’s Yorick — a literal skull of a dead fool — The Klute implies that sincerity itself is dead, buried beneath layers of irony and spectacle.

This duality of humor and despair runs throughout The Klute’s work, reflecting his gothic-punk aesthetic and his philosophical fascination with mortality, absurdity, and social commentary.

The Klute’s Arizona Legacy and Performance Style

As a leading voice in Arizona’s spoken word and performance poetry scene, The Klute (Bernard Schober) has become known for fusing theatrical flair with biting satire. His performances at venues like Lawn Gnome Publishing, Caffeine Corridor, and events like The Poe Show channel the dark wit of Edgar Allan Poe through a distinctly modern, sardonic lens.

In “Alas, Poor Yorick,” his humor masks a critique of both cultural escapism and personal alienation — themes that resonate deeply with audiences across Arizona’s desert stages, where performance poetry thrives as both art and social commentary.

Learn More About The Klute

To explore more of The Klute’s work, performances, and influence on Arizona’s modern poetry scene, visit his full poet bio on AZPoetry.com.

Discover how his gothic wit, philosophical edge, and dark humor continue to shape the voice of Arizona poetry.

Haiku from seventeen syllables by hisaye yamamoto artwork azpoetry. Com

Haiku from Seventeen Syllables by Hisaye Yamamoto

“Haiku from Seventeen Syllables” by Hisaye Yamamoto

it was so much easier to say yes, yes, even when one meant no.

About the author Hisaye Yamamoto

Haiku, Silence, and Struggle in Seventeen Syllables

In Hisaye Yamamoto’s short story Seventeen Syllables, a deceptively simple English-language haiku emerges as a subtle but powerful symbol of emotional restraint, generational divide, and the burden of cultural expectations. The phrase, “It is so much easier to say yes, yes, even if one meant no,” carries deep thematic weight as it encapsulates the central conflict between a Nisei daughter, Rosie, and her Issei mother, Tome, who finds expression and fleeting joy through composing Japanese haiku. The line may appear offhand at first, but under close examination, it becomes a poignant reflection of silent resistance, suppressed identity, and a quiet plea for understanding.

Yamamoto’s Arizona Connection: Writing Through Internment

Before we explore this line further, it’s important to understand the author behind it. Hisaye Yamamoto, a pioneering Japanese-American writer, was imprisoned at the Poston War Relocation Center in Arizona during World War II. Like many others of Japanese descent, Yamamoto and her family were forcibly removed from their home and detained for years behind barbed wire in the Arizona desert. While interned, she wrote for the Poston Chronicle, the camp newspaper, and began cultivating the voice that would later distinguish her fiction.

Yamamoto’s stories, particularly Seventeen Syllables, are deeply informed by this trauma of incarceration, but they also explore the quieter, more intimate struggles within Japanese-American families—especially between mothers and daughters navigating language, identity, and survival in a divided America.

Summary: A Mother’s Voice, A Daughter’s Silence

The story Seventeen Syllables centers on the relationship between Tome, an Issei mother who writes haiku, and Rosie, her teenage Nisei daughter who is more concerned with her budding romantic interest in a boy named Jesus Carrasco. As the mother becomes increasingly consumed with her poetry, winning recognition in a local Japanese-language paper, her American-born daughter remains emotionally and linguistically distant, unable to comprehend her mother’s devotion or sorrow.

Throughout the story, Tome reads her poems aloud to Rosie, seeking connection and affirmation. Rosie, however, can only offer polite nods and automatic approval. She finds it easier to say “yes, yes” rather than confront her confusion or disinterest—hiding her emotional detachment with passive affirmation. The story culminates in a powerful, emotional outburst in which Tome reveals her traumatic history and pleads with Rosie to promise she will never marry. Rosie, once again, quietly complies.

Analysis: Haiku as a Symbol of Disconnection and Survival

The casual haiku—“It is so much easier to say yes, yes, even if one meant no”—functions on multiple levels. On the surface, it reflects Rosie’s immediate emotional coping mechanism: to avoid tension, she offers approval she doesn’t feel. But more deeply, the line encapsulates the silent endurance of women—especially immigrant women like Tome—who suffer emotional pain without protest, navigating cultural and familial expectations with quiet acquiescence.

Haiku, a Japanese poetic form built on brevity (the length is confined to seventeen syllables) and layered imagery, becomes a central symbol in the story. Tome’s haiku practice represents her attempt to reclaim identity, artistry, and emotional agency in a life dominated by domestic labor and an emotionally abusive husband. Yet, her daughter’s inability to fully engage with the meaning of haiku, or the Japanese language itself, mirrors the growing gap between generations—between cultural roots and American assimilation.

Rosie’s “yes, yes” is not just about politeness. It is about powerlessness, about the learned behavior of suppressing dissent for the sake of harmony. It’s a mantra of compliance passed down to daughters, a gesture of love wrapped in silence. The haiku’s meaning reaches beyond the mother-daughter dynamic to touch on a broader experience of marginalized women, who often find themselves silenced not just by language, but by society.

The Lingering Legacy of Internment and Inheritance

Yamamoto’s life and work embody the complicated layers of trauma, identity, and survival for Japanese Americans during and after World War II. Her time at the Poston internment camp in Arizona was not only a formative personal experience but also a defining influence on her literary career. The quiet, restrained beauty of her stories—much like haiku itself—hides deep reservoirs of pain, longing, and resistance.

Discover More About Hisaye Yamamoto

To learn more about Hisaye Yamamoto’s life, her literary achievements, and her connection to Arizona through her internment at the Poston camp, visit her AZPoetry.com poet bio page.

Explore how this remarkable writer gave voice to generations of women, immigrants, and the quietly resilient.

A boy eating a watermelon

Green & Red by Ashley Naftule

“Green & Red” by Ashley Naftule

When I was six,
my favorite part about eating watermelon
was harvesting the black seeds.

My parents would cut off the green skin
so I could slip my tongue into ruby flesh
and pluck out the seeds.

I’d store them in my cheeks,
piling up one black teardrop after another
until I had enough ammunition stocked up
to machinegun my sister’s friends.

My parents would always tell me
to stop shooting them.
I said I wasn’t:
I was trying to kiss them with
my seeds.

I tripped over a curb
the day before my seventh birthday.
On the ground, my head near the concrete,
I cried as my knee oozed watermelon red.

I stuck my fingers through the cracked shell,
feeling for the seeds in my legs.
Imagine my horror when I found nothing there.

About the poetry Ashley Naftule

“Green & Red” was originally published on FormerCactus on September 2018.

“Green & Red” by Ashley Naftule: Poem Summary & Analysis

Ashley Naftule’s poem “Green & Red” is a tender, surreal reflection on childhood innocence, memory, and the body’s transformation over time. What begins as a nostalgic recollection of summer watermelon rituals gradually evolves into an introspective meditation on loss, physical pain, and the imagination of a child confronting a world that doesn’t always align with fantasy.

Summary of “Green & Red”

The poem opens in a summer memory: a six-year-old’s delight in eating watermelon not for the fruit itself, but for the small, black seeds embedded in its flesh. The child meticulously gathers the seeds in their cheeks, transforming them into playful “ammunition” for spitting at their sister’s friends—an act described with both mischief and innocence. When their parents scold them, the child insists they’re not being aggressive, but affectionate: they are “trying to kiss them with my seeds.”

The mood shifts abruptly as the speaker recalls falling the day before their seventh birthday. With their head against the concrete and knee bloodied, the child’s imagination seeks comfort in metaphor: the red of the injury mirrors watermelon flesh. In a quietly devastating moment, they reach into the wound expecting to find seeds—symbols of playfulness and continuity—but instead, they find “nothing there.”

Analysis: The Imagination of Injury and the Loss of Innocence

A Child’s Imaginative World

The poem brilliantly captures the tactile and sensory experience of being a child. Naftule uses vivid imagery: “slip my tongue into ruby flesh,” “black teardrop,” “knee oozed watermelon red”—each phrase evokes not just the memory of a fruit, but the immersive physicality of childhood. Watermelon becomes more than a summer treat—it becomes a medium of love, war, and language.

Seeds as Symbols of Growth and Emotion

The seeds function symbolically throughout the poem. In the early stanzas, they are tangible tokens of affection and fun. Their black color and teardrop shape hint at deeper emotional resonances—grief, memory, desire—that come into focus later. The seeds, once stored in the cheeks and used playfully, become a metaphor for expression and emotional release.

The Shocking Absence

When the speaker falls and bleeds, their instinct is to look inside for those same seeds—as if their very being was made of fruit and joy. But the stark realization that “there [was] nothing there” marks a turning point: a moment of disillusionment and embodied reality. The absence of seeds is not just a physical lack, but a loss of innocence. It’s a subtle and moving depiction of the first time a child realizes their internal world may not match the real one.

Ashley Naftule’s Voice and Style

Naftule’s writing often navigates the boundary between the surreal and the personal, the whimsical and the tragic. In “Green & Red,” their poetic voice captures a moment both ordinary and profound: a scraped knee that becomes an existential crisis in a child’s mind. Their ability to ground surreal emotion in physical imagery is what makes this poem resonate long after the final line.

Discover More Work by Ashley Naftule

Ashley Naftule is a playwright, poet, and journalist based in Phoenix, Arizona. Their poetry often blends speculative themes, queer identity, and emotionally vivid storytelling. To explore more about their work, visit Ashley Naftule’s poet bio page on AZpoetry.com.

Ain't i an american by jeremiah blue poem azpoetry. Com

And Ain’t I An American by Jeremiah Blue

“And Ain’t I An American” by Jeremiah Blue

I do appreciate the eagle
but not enough to call it American
and tattoo it on my arm with banners
of “God Bless the USA”

Because I am hoping that the US will be
just one amongst others blessed by God

And ain’t I an American?

I am trying to free Tibet with the bumper of my car
rather than replacing it with an American flag

I think that free-trade zones aren’t often all that free

I wrote a poem about my national pride
and it didn’t say anything about keeping the Mexicans out

Being a small minority of the world’s population
while consuming nearly half its resources
sounds like a comfortable enough position
to not be all that well threatened by immigrants
sending paychecks home to impoverished families

And ain’t I an American?

I took classes in non-violent resistance
rather than studying my enemy for weaknesses
because ‘fighting for peace’ is like
‘fucking for virginity’
Sounds like a pretty reasonable argument to me?

And ain’t I an American?

Fox: not my primary source of news.

Reality TV doesn’t look anything like my reality.

I left my Top Gun jacket and mullet
in the era they came our and perished in

I am drinking Guinness over Bud Light every time

I prefer salsa and flamenco to Garth Brooks

I think hot dogs are immoral

and I haven’t been to a baseball game
since Baby Ruth named its candy bar after that one guy

And ain’t I an American?

I don’t think you need to be a lesbian
or a woman that is mad to be a feminist

I feel it is a more productive move away from institutionalized racism
to not fill our prisons with a majority of our black and brown men

I am starting to think that it has been just a little too long
since we have had a non-male or non-religious president

There are times when the thought crosses my mind
that the American Dream is just something
that those who have been handed it
dreamed up to keep
everyone else dreamin’

And America does not, at all times,
make me proud to be an American

And ain’t I an American?

About the poet Jeremiah Blue

Exploring National Identity in Jeremiah Blue’s “And Ain’t I An American”

Jeremiah Blue’s poem “And Ain’t I An American”, originally published in 2012, offers a thought-provoking examination of American identity, challenging conventional symbols and notions of patriotism. Through a series of introspective reflections, Blue invites readers to reconsider what it truly means to be an American in today’s diverse society.

Summary of “And Ain’t I An American”

The poem begins with the speaker acknowledging traditional emblems of American patriotism, such as the eagle and the phrase “God Bless the USA.” However, the speaker expresses a desire for inclusivity, hoping that divine blessings extend beyond the United States to encompass all nations. This sentiment sets the tone for the poem’s exploration of broader, more inclusive definitions of national pride.

Throughout the poem, the speaker reflects on various personal choices and beliefs that diverge from mainstream American norms:

  • Opting for a “Free Tibet” bumper sticker over an American flag decal.
  • Questioning the fairness of free-trade zones.
  • Writing about national pride without advocating for restrictive immigration policies.
  • Highlighting the disproportionate consumption of global resources by a small segment of the world’s population.
  • Choosing non-violent resistance over aggressive tactics.
  • Expressing skepticism toward mainstream media and reality television.
  • Preferring cultural elements from other countries, such as Guinness over Bud Light and salsa over country music.

The poem culminates with the speaker contemplating systemic issues within American society, including institutionalized racism, gender inequality in political leadership, and the elusive nature of the American Dream. Despite these critiques, the recurring refrain, “And ain’t I an American?” underscores the speaker’s assertion of their American identity, suggesting that questioning and critical reflection are integral components of true patriotism.

Analysis of Themes and Techniques

Jeremiah Blue employs several literary devices to convey the poem’s central themes:

  • Refrain: The repeated question, “And ain’t I an American?” serves as a powerful refrain, emphasizing the speaker’s challenge to narrow definitions of American identity and highlighting the diversity of experiences and beliefs that constitute the nation.
  • Irony and Satire: By juxtaposing traditional symbols of patriotism with personal choices that deviate from the norm, the poem utilizes irony to question the authenticity of conventional expressions of national pride.
  • Cultural Critique: The poem addresses various societal issues, including consumerism, media influence, systemic racism, and gender inequality, prompting readers to reflect on the complexities and contradictions inherent in American society.
  • Personal Reflection: Through the speaker’s candid sharing of personal preferences and beliefs, the poem underscores the importance of individual agency in defining one’s own sense of patriotism and belonging.

Overall, “And Ain’t I An American” invites readers to engage in a nuanced exploration of national identity, encouraging a more inclusive and critical understanding of what it means to be American.

Discover More About Jeremiah Blue

To learn more about Jeremiah Blue’s work and contributions to contemporary poetry, visit his poet bio page on AZpoetry.com.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH BEING HUMAN poem by Josh Rathkamp

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH BEING HUMAN” by Josh Rathkamp

I lived two houses down a dead end street.
When the river ran rough
we checked our basements.
We called to each other to help.
We hauled boxes up
from the dark like large fish.

When Mary or Mark or Helen died,
little by little,
we all did. We sent flowers.
The street took to looking
like a Cadillac. It grew bolder.
It grew rosy cheeks.

When Jack repainted, John
repainted, and the painters
ate lunch on the roof.

We said “it looks nice,”
nodding at our mailboxes.
We waved while shoveling snow
off the walkway no one walked
but the dogs and our manic-depressive mailman.

When we wanted an egg or a glass
of milk we drove to the store.
We stared out our windows.
Our children grew without parents.
We grew into speaking without words.

We thought our reflections
in the lamplight were only there
out of loyalty, and, if given
a chance, would run
like Mrs. Eddie’s dead son
naked, through trees.

About the poet Josh Rathkamp

The vegetarians nightmare poem by baxter black artwork

The Vegetarian’s Nightmare poem by Baxter Black

“The Vegetarian’s Nightmare” a cowboy poem by Baxter Black

parsley power ladies and diner and make
you a shameful degrading confession a
deed of disgrace in the name of good
taste though I did it I meant no
aggression I had planted a garden last
April and lovingly sang it to Ballad but
later in June beneath the full moon
forgive me I wanted to salad so I I
slipped out and fondled a carrot
caressing its feather at all but the
first of a brute died power out the root
and the competent came with a pup and
laying my hand on a radish a jerk and it
left a small crater then with the blade
of my true value spade I exhumed a
slumbering Taylor
seller had pucked I twisted the squash
tomatoes were wincing in fear I choked
the romaine screamed out in pain their
anguish was filling my ears I finally
came to the latest as it cringed at the
top of the road with one wicked slice
there beheaded to twice as it rise I
dealt a death blow i butchered the
onions and parsley so my whole was all
covered with gore I chopped and I walked
without looking back then I stealthily
slipped in the door my bounty lay naked
dying so I drowned them to snuff out
their life I sliced and I peeled as they
thrashed and they reeled on the cutting
board under my knife I violated Tomatoes
so their innards could never survive I
grated and grounded they made not a
sound then I thought of the Tator alive
and then I took the small broken pieces
and tortured and killed with my hands
and touched them together heedless of
whether they suffered or made their
demands I ate them forgive me I’m sorry
but hear me no I’m a beginner of those
plants feel pain so it’s hard to explain
to someone who eats them for dinner and
tend to begin a crusade for plants
rights including chickpeas and the ACLU
will be helping me too in the meantime
please pass the blue cheese

Transcribed from “A Vegetarian’s Nightmare” by OddballVQ on YouTube.

Watch “The Vegetarian’s Nightmare” performed by the cowboy poet Baxter Black on YouTube.

About the poet Baxter Black

A Cowboy’s Darkly Hilarious Ode to Salad Suffering

In A Vegetarian’s Nightmare, legendary cowboy poet Baxter Black delivers a gut-busting, rhyme-heavy monologue that flips the ethical script on vegetarianism. This satirical performance poem opens as a self-confession, revealing the narrator’s horrifying crimes—against vegetables. What follows is a mock-epic of culinary violence, complete with carrots “fondled,” radishes “jerked,” lettuce that “screamed out in pain,” and romaine “beheaded” under moonlight.

With classic cowboy flair, Black uses elevated poetic diction mixed with gritty humor to describe the emotional and physical trauma inflicted upon his unsuspecting garden. His knife is no kitchen utensil—it’s a weapon of mass destruction. Through personification, vivid imagery, and his signature Western cadence, he paints the harvest as a battlefield. Tomatoes are violated, onions butchered, and potatoes tortured until they meet their end—only to be drowned in blue cheese.

Satire with a Sharp Edge

Black’s poem works brilliantly as a parody, skewering the moral high ground often claimed by vegetarians. Rather than arguing logically, he humorously leans into absurdity: if plants can feel pain, then aren’t vegetarians just as guilty of violence as meat eaters?

The poem plays with the reader’s expectations, starting off sounding like a sincere ethical admission, but quickly descending into over-the-top (yet skillfully rhymed) carnage. Black’s message isn’t to launch an actual crusade for “plant rights,” but rather to poke fun at the hypocrisy or blind spots in moral dietary choices. It’s an exaggerated cowboy logic: if you’re going to kill to eat, might as well own it.

Performance Roots and Cowboy Poetics

Like many of Baxter Black’s works, A Vegetarian’s Nightmare is best experienced aloud. The poem thrives on rhythm, timing, and dramatic delivery—a natural fit for Black’s background in performance poetry and radio. His voice—equal parts campfire storyteller and satirical commentator—makes the gruesome humor land with levity, not malice.

It also exemplifies a classic hallmark of cowboy poetry: transforming everyday ranching life (or in this case, eating salad) into a mythic, moral, and often hilarious tale. Black’s poem, while playful, also asks us to reconsider our assumptions with a wink and a laugh.

Discover More About Cowboy Poet Baxter Black

“A Vegetarian’s Nightmare” is just one example of Baxter Black’s unforgettable ability to mix wit, Western wisdom, and poetic technique. To learn more about the life, legacy, and literary contributions of this iconic Arizona cowboy poet, visit his full biography on AZpoetry.com.