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There's no such thing
As no strings attached
Although your emotions are absent

There's no such thing
As no strings attached
Even though I say I'm fine with these decisions

A baseball glove is your future
But for now I will suture
My body back together

Tying it together with the strings
That should never be attached
To sneaking around

You probably call it *******
While your buddies
Pat you on the back

I thought *** was supposed to be
More than just you and me
Keeping our voices down

How
Do you let me through your window
Just to tell me to get dressed and go?

We were fooling around
But it's different now
That you're playing with my heart
For DC
Written October 2014
(One time is enough. Never again.)
(Save your first time and never let it be with someone who considers it "*******".)
Your words are dull knives
With a tendency to leave a bruise
Who taught you to speak bullets
Without considering the exit wound?
Are we simply soldiers
Marching in fields of decaying youth
Or are we stars, burning out,
Supernovas of mistaken truths?

We will drown in the rain, the waves, trembling under the thunderous voices of those who oppose us. We are more than flesh and blood, we are stardust.
I’ve been staring at this puzzle piece
Its missing a piece
Or two or three,
Its a hand-me-down.
Why did my mother think it could satisfy me?
Passed from child to child,
Charity to Charity
It’s broken and bent
Its missing
Dad you’re missing
 May 2015 Oaklee Ohmie
Mosaic
I'm thinking about that boy
                       Lost at Sea
His eyes glazed over like a dead fish
                      Death is a form of knowledge

She was a storm
        He never knew he was in her eye(s)
But Tempest is, as Tempest does

He was lured by Siren song

Coral reefs,
                  Hands, with nails too long
I swear bees lived in them
              Jellyfish like flowers
              Pollen from their electrical Zaps!
And they burrowed deep

Messages in a bottle were collected
        by the Hermit crab, not some mermaid
His library ancient like the ones in the desert
                                                          ­  Or the CIA

ii.
I'm thinking about that boy
                       Lost at Sea

He was swallowed by a Plastic Whale
(He did try to escape Media & Capitalism &...)
A(t)las he was in the wrong Hemisphere
    More like Pinocchio
Just really good at telling lies

Nets from old volleyball games
                   from the Future
dance like river sprites
            far from home

Volcanoes are failing
                             At making new land
Wolves become whales
Pyramids sink and are like cheap motels of Atlantis
We're all just gambling on one Apocalypse or another

iii.
I'm thinking...bubble..bubble
            He's drowning
Or maybe he forgot how to breathe

Suddenly hooks catch his ankles
        Harpoons & Atomic bombs melt
     the plastic right of the bones                            of the whale
Like a WWII fighter jet and target practice

Blood limps in currents
Jaws plays in his peripheral of his hippocampus
The Great White passes him by
Because he's not seen as important, we're not talking about ego here

He takes off the anchors from his shoe laces,
He was just trying to stay grounded
But now he was just a Bad Pun
with his Lungs the punchline

His airhead carries him to the surface
He's just a boy

He can breathe
This lost boy at Sea
He makes a raft from his memories
      And ties them together with ropes of trauma
The kind of things you don't forget

Like your name,
         your parents
that time you were a piece of wood split in two and later when the splinters finally settle       you're thrown into the fire
The kinds of things you don't forget

He floats towards mirages
Typical, it's not paradise
Ships and planes
           A Sunkyard
As if we built a factory in the sea
            And it got sick  
Coughing up decades of gears and
pieces of a time machine
             Oil and blood being same thing
             Of course
And Seagulls melting into toxins
         Like the new, like mini dinosaurs
A cycle of Fossil Food

iv.
Amelia,
          The reason this boy was lost
                                      at sea
Looking for a woman real mythology
But it should've been Lockhart
Because unrequited is easy to come by

The compass was made from his blind love
It was obvious, this misdirection
A Bermuda Triangle kind of affection

So...he explores the ruins
   Of Japan
Tsunami and temples
Cute girls and dimples
Fish food only made the news for so long

Sometimes when you put a seashell to your ear
you can hear Shōnagon
             or the screams of little girls in Sailor uniforms
Their own uniforms like an arranged marriage

               Tectonic plates roll the Earth
                                into Sushi  
Last week California
                   took a swim
She was feeling a little Hot

v.
I'm thinking about that boy
                       Lost at Sea
And he's trying to walk on the waves
                       Like a Savior
He can't even save himself from his own ego
      It's like the Mariana trench
If she didn't have all that depth

She was just Another girl. His lust was vast, that compass might as well                                        
                    ­                                                                 ­ have been in his pants

Soon he can't tell

The sky from Sea
Or himself and Humanity
He looks down and can't see his toes
                then his knees

He's been lost at sea too long...
Fog like *******
Sea ****
He's been lost at sea too long..

So he becomes a Seahorse
Tries to be a Father
              without any Sand dollars or a Safe Harbor

My mother was beautiful,
              She was an Iceberg
You hurt her with all your global warming

She moves on Slowly
     Settles for a Lighthouse
Who only looks at her so often

The Moon reincarnates me
Because I am the tide.
           Rising, falling
   Constant
Just the Historian.
 May 2015 Oaklee Ohmie
Erica Jong
The poet fears failure
& so she says
"Hold on pen--
what if the critics
hate me?"
& with that question
she blots out more lines
than any critic could.

The critic is only doing his job:
keeping the poet lonely.
He barks
like a dog at the door
when the master comes home.

It's in his doggy nature.
If he didn't know the poet
for the boss,
he wouldn't bark so loud.

& the poet?
It's in her nature
to fear failure
but not to let that fear
blot out

her lines.
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