Anonymous asked: What are your thoughts on Robin Thicke?
I like him, but to be fair, I’ve only ever heard Blurred Lines so I am basing my entire opinion off of a combination of that song and Jason Seaver. I like both of those things and therefore I like him. If you’re asking in the hopes that I will denounce him as a misogynistic asshole, I can’t do that. I won’t write off an artist because of one song that, frankly, the Internet worked extra hard to turn into an inciting commentary. We’re all people and we’re all trying to make good things that we think other people will enjoy, and as long as we respect that, as long as we keep on giving, we can take anything that comes our way. Baby, rain or shine, all the time, we got each other, sharing the laughter, etc.
(When I don’t write comedy I write very serious Western revenge poems. It’s a weird thing. Maybe you’ll like it.)
On the taproom floor bled shafts of light
Through the den of dust and fear,
And before the boy, old grinning men
Pushed a congratulatory beer.
That throng of rusted folk stared on
‘Til he took his first few sips
While behind them, scented sin experts
Passed his name ‘tween crimson lips.
And beyond those girls and slatted walls
Did children’s shadows creep
To catch a glimpse of the boy who turned
A life to lifeless heap.
They called him Quick-Draw called him Killer
And sang of men made by the gun,
But the boy sat still as the prostrate corpse
He left baking in the sun.
He’d played at killing as a child
Docking ears from outlaw heads,
Each carved with care from rotting gourds
To replicate the dead.
He fired his father’s gun at six
Toward villainous glass jars
While pinned like pride over his heart
A shining metal star.
But like most kids who run from home
His dreams caved to demand
And the line of honor lost its cut
With each redrawing in the sand.
He’d cheat and lie to stay alive
‘Til now his sixteenth year,
Suffice to say some stars of youth
They fall or disappear.
Yet even as he fleeced and thieved
And left that wake of strife,
The kid had stolen everything
Except a human life.
The locals pounded on the tables
And cried out drunken toasts
To the boy they barely knew at all
With no reverence for ghost.
None there knew the provocation
Or what persuaded gun to hand,
Only that the living celebrate the living
‘Cause the dead don’t understand.
But to the boy, that was no stranger
Out there slaking thirsty ground,
And he didn’t have to guess the reason
Why the man had tracked him down.
Years ago he chanced upon
An outfit headed west
Just eight among their company,
Apaches downed the rest.
And in that sorry caravan,
A soul the land made mean
Hauling whiskey, aged five years
And daughter aged fourteen.
Each night the drunkard slept like death
‘Neath wild, endless sky
While kids were kids as full moon stared
With milky, ruined eye.
Until the dawn the boy awoke
To weather wet and bleak,
And the barrel of a loaded gun
Pressed hard against his cheek.
The drunkard watched him, crazed and crying
Through eyes now burning red.
His daughter had begun to show.
He wanted someone dead.
The hammer fell, the girl screamed
But the soaking flint did fail
And the boy escaped with just his life
Under a cloud of lead and hail.
Two years on, the boy thought gone
The particulars of the past,
But no distance put ‘tween fool and fate
Keeps it from catching him last.
The drunkard had a tracker’s blood
He stormed each town the boy had been,
And dragged his hate through foreign streets
Like a sliver dragged through skin.
And on the day he finally found
That reprobate alive,
He aimed his sights to set things right
While the boy aimed to survive.
And now outside the sun hung low,
The shadows bled and pooled
While locals drifted off and home
As craze and corpse both cooled.
But the boy just stared in disbelief
At the mirror o’er the bar,
The man inside had killed and found
The killing wasn’t hard.
And it’s in these moments when a soul
Goes tested and untorn
From whence the beasts of history
And murderers are born.