The Guthrie Namesake (poem, ancestral pride)

May my shield defend me, this coat of arms. My namesake defends thee: from liars, their harms. I might be abrasive, and even uncouth. Sto Pro Veritate, I stand for the truth.

Founders (poem)

A portrait of a curly blonde man stood framed by a glass door. He stared me down, my condition was poor. I was too late on that ebbing Fall day… so perhaps it was pity that made him turn ‘round to say, “Elias, you got one more in you today?” A moment of eye contact can tell you much, the dark haired barber saw desperation as such. I needed to look good for the woman I sought. He turned the chair toward me, “Sure, why not?” I shook my hand with his, then introduced myself to Garrett. Our eyes and hands held firm, stern, locked with merit.
My first cut was pleasant, as every one would be. To him I explained my work as opposed to what my job should be. And openly dreamt of what my endeavors could be…
Our conversation changed in our second visit, my outlook became comparatively exquisite. Online dating started to spark… yet every opportunity seemed but a shot in the dark. He furthered my fashion with considered precision: every cut, clip, and buzz were a careful decision. Our chitter chatter relaxed toward weary dating woes: like paying the first check. Who fucking knows?
Third, and fourth, the fifth: my first shave. Hot towels, oils, and cream on a blade. Afterward: cool water and witch hazel. Smooth: premium grade.
We talked of ambition, dreams and possibility. Shortly, my confidence would pursue my ability. Women were still troubling, as heard by still grumpy conversations… every scenario made for somehow bumpy relations. This strife and pain, which all men may face, was comfortably conversed in the sanctity of this place. The banter escalated, the joking increased, and lest my face get cut, laughter had to be forcibly ceased.

At the first bourbon tasting I got to join in, I met artists: Jeremy, Mark, and Zach Snacks Popadin, alcohol distributors, and of course the beard of Handsome Mike: ”the carried contributor.” Cigars, conversation, and whiskey were enjoyed by men who care: they who don’t peacock, but clad classy wear.
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The work done here is a stylish therapy, I no longer do things self-despairingly. I gained a sense of prestige, felt like a new man, and wholesome. Eventually ready to impress at the #HartfordHandsome. Suddenly (after several months) impossibilities were easy: The time I got to model at Magzy's drink and draw, 20 clocked minutes with Arielle's eyes you saw, and Handsome's blink heckle that flinched me: haha!

At long last, I quit my job to work harder than ever: pursuing dreams of a worthy endeavor!

This place is potent, with poetry on the walls, see? Wherever I go, it continues to call me. Once founded in a nineteen-year-old’s intuition, Founders can boost your ambition to fruition. Their pomade is their crowning achievement, try it sometime, and consent your agreement.
My story continues on with one ‘win-woman’, and three ‘win-men.’ Because, listen closely gentlemen, I’m now. Totally comfortable. Around women.

Isn’t that right Danielle? #NoProblem

A Boast (poem)

I am Andrew Hopkins Guthrie. To my namesake: Sto Pro Veritate.

All that follows is true. Believe me? Up to you.


hurt with glee, tackled by two,

subdued by 3, skin melting glue,

scar on my knee, knife at my throat,

mind ground open, cut by a boat,

stabbed with a pen, punched in the face

a punctured lip, a permanent stain,

teeth snapped ripped, inescapable pain,

beast barked bit: domination

choker’s eye’s elated: invigoration

Seniors, sadists, and slicers, all sicken me.

I enlightened myself a moral epiphany.

I’ve traveled the maze of insanity,

hung 'till the brink of death,

head rush relinquished humanity,

willed vomit abate my breath,

rode with waves of salty oceans,

curled shores to frothy land,

seaweed stunk beside emotions,

apathy dried caked in sand,

cleaned by steaming frigid rain,

in a thrashing flashing wonder:

pulled up with groaning pain,

in white illuminating lightning,

descended claps of thunder.

I. Am. Frightening.

From the hole of depression: I climbed the pits of despair. In tortured ascension knew: Life. Is. Not. Fair.

I've sung to strangers, and danced for hundreds watching in the crowd, no embarrassment dangers, for I am proud.

Tweak’s adaptive. Your attack affective as your conviction. If chinked, my armor’s reactive, do you purpose an affliction...?

Listen for captured wind, and see the phoenix there. Feel the heat of dragon’s breath, and smell the burning air.

Then you’ll know my power: taste your fear.