Richard Randolph

Perhaps the world is a living thing,
and we are merely parasites living on it.
At first, so small and insignificant
no one could imagine our causing any real harm,
...

Thank you for calling.
One of our friendly representatives
will be with you shortly.
Please stay on the line.
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People say I'm cranky and mean, a cynic,
and I suppose that I am,
but I don't believe equal opportunity is enough.
I believe in true social justice.
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In Praise of Soft Light

I like soft light best,
candles and moonlight.
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I prefer letters to numbers.
Numbers are too much like Inspector Javert-
one way, right or wrong, black or white.
Letters, on the other hand,
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'Who are you? ' she asks.
'I'm Rick, ' I say.
'That's funny, ' she says. 'I have a son named Rick.'
She stares at me.
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Let's throw out the sacred cows.
Let's start with countries.
No more arbitrary lines in the sand.
And let's throw out religions too.
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If I were to stumble,
if I were to fall,
would you lend a helping hand,
would you even call?
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Love can transform even the timid
into brave and noble knights.
But first, we'll be tested,
feel pain and loss,
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I love how sparkling water moves through a stream,
so random, chaotic, even playful in the sunlight,
but always blindly pushing toward the sea.
And I love how it meets every obstacle without complaint
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When Titania, the queen of the fairies,
falls in love with an ass in A Midsummer Night's Dream,
she's really reached Bottom,
and we cannot help but pity her.
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I get tired of all the smart guys
who focus on sounding reasonable
so that one day they can move up.
And I get tired of all the charts, graphs, and numbers
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Wise men advise us to not look back, and that makes sense,
because whether our memories are happy or sad,
they cannot be changed or undone.
But the past is always there
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The Show Must Go On

Once there was a poor actor
who grew tired of the part he played,
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When all the words are said and done,
and all the battles lost and won,
and all the stories have been sung,
no matter what you think,
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Birds, I've noticed, don't cry,
but accept their fate,
whatever it is,
without complaint.
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A love letter no one reads,
a strange man no one needs,
a seed dropped upon the sand,
a starving child in a barren land--
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I would love to write the perfect sonnet,
each line having exactly five stressed beats,
so when pretentious old critics read it,
they'd admire me for performing such feats.
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A smug poet in a sweater,
holding carefully marked books,
reads his poems quite slowly
and adds animated looks.
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There are no immovable objects,
nor are there unstoppable forces,
but there are objects we can't move,
and forces we can't stop,
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