Like a Vonnegut tale,
Mo Frederickson

There's something about you,
Like a Vonnegut tale,
A beautiful thing
With odd little quirks
Around every corner
And in every page.
A glowing light
That sometimes flickers
To black.
There's something about you,
My dear,
That's just out of reach.
So it goes.

For Trevor
Kristine
Kristine
May 9, 2011

I was young
and you gave me words
and thoughts
and entertaining plots.
I spent so much time
looking at the way you write
and looking at the way you phrase
and wishing I could do the same.

Now I have my own phrases
and plots
and thoughts.
All because you planted want.

andrea bush
Sep 26, 2010

so it goes, he said, over and again.
and she knew he only said it to remind her
of her own duty dance with death
but she still wished she had never given him that book.
yeah, well, she said, i want to stay
as close to the edge as i can without going over.
yes, he said. big, undreamed-of things –
the people on the edge see them first.

the several excerpts from the works of vonnegut are, obviously, property of kurt vonnegut.
Vince Chul'Theg
Vince Chul'Theg
Jun 18, 2013

Life can be painless
Provided there is sufficient
Peacefulness

For a dozen or so rituals
To be repeated simply
Endlessly

Your genius does not fail you
It allows you to understand the
Truth of the situation;
Which makes you--at times--
more tragic than ever

And your genius,
like all geniuses
Suffers periodic fits
of monumental
naïveté
Hi-ho

Listen:
Where is Grace
When milk and blood
Are about to be added
To the composition of the
Stinking ping-pong
Balls being manufactured
In Grand Rapids?

Schizophrenia
The sound and appearance
Of the word fascinates

It sounds and looks to me
Like a human being
Sneezing in a blizzard of
Soapflakes

This much we know:
You made yourself hideously
Uncomfortable by not narrowing
Your attention to details
Of life that were immediately
Important

And by refusing to believe what
Your neighbors believed
Hi-ho

Let your imagination continue
To be the flywheel on the
Ramshackle machinery of the truth.

But not the ‘awful’ truth

The ‘beauty’ in truth

Because we are a part
Of a system that is very
Restless,
With people tearing around
All the time

Every so often,
somebody stops to put up
A monument

Ours is a country where
Everybody is expected to
Pay his own bills for
Everything,
And one of the most
Expensive things a person
Can do is get sick

Grace:
Because if we stay here
We’ll do one of two things
(or both!)

Build a Commune

Or do like Collin Heise did:
Make the main thing that we
do be this:
Move seventy-eight
Thousand pounds of olives
To Tulsa, Oklahoma

Even if we can’t
Improve the quality of our surroundings
We’ll do our best to make our
Insides beautiful instead

Piebald Roadtrip-writing, baby
Hi-ho

You are the turtle
able to live anywhere
even under water for short periods

With your home on your back

A particular comfort in
Realizing that it so often feels
There is no order in the
World around us

That we must adapt ourselves to
The requirements of
Chaos instead

Remember:
We are healthy
Only to the extent that
Our ideas are
Humane

To you
To me
To ourselves
To We

Hi-Ho



*Inspired by the words of Kurt Vonnegut in "Slapstick" and "Breakfast of Champions"*
Vonnegut -
TownsendFM
TownsendFM
Aug 4, 2012

Vonnegut -
      the bastard -
implanted within my
          mind
        a concept -
           the concept -
       of time being illusory
          in such blunt words
                     that i could
          not make sense
       of them until now.

                                    Vonnegut -
                                             the bastard -
                                       stories of
                                       writing stories of
                                            Dresden -
                           is Billy alive these days?

                                                          ­         Vonnegut -
                                                               ­             you bastard -
                                                             your words are
                                                             ­     psychomimetic.
                                             ­     how do you sleep at night
                                                           ­        knowing your words
                                                          g­et people high?

More interesting than Vonnegut.
Christine
Sep 16, 2010

You are more poetic than Donne
Smoother than Shakespeare

You are more romantic than Austen
More mysterious than Doyle

You are stronger than Neruda
More interesting than Vonnegut.

You are
Wasted.

Vonnegut was on to something, a kindred spirit:
Kiagen McGinnis
Kiagen McGinnis
Apr 2, 2011

using the word
idealist
to describe me
is inaccurate
because you see,
it would be an understatement.

i am constructed of wobbly knees and built-in blinders.a gift and an affliction.
Vonnegut was on to something, a kindred spirit:

everything is beautiful
and nothing hurt.

Kurt Vonnegut. Her mother’s journal from pregnancy.
Grace Anastasia Cassar
Apr 10      Apr 10

Sparkling petals slice through feet of wanderers
Dashing hopes and slitting tendons

Each day she visits
Sprinkling books and soda-filled sponges among the wire vines.
The sizzles excited her
And she smiles in spite of her sizzling feet
Pleased in her harmless sabotage.

The suffocated earth shutters beneath
Layers of circuit boards, damp and rotting
Steam rises from the core
And crinkles the pages of
Jane Austen
Dr. Seuss
Kurt Vonnegut. Her mother’s journal from pregnancy.

Bukowski, Vonnegut, Allan Poe sitting by as I write poems
spacedrunk
spacedrunk
Sep 29, 2013

perfect, another weekend spent listening to indie rock and metal-core

staring at the blank canvas this website provides

not even bothering to put on the face of someone who cares about life

having someone from school always call me up and invite me to her house, but what's the use?

I'm not a people person anyways

an abundance of books I've begun reading

wishing I could write as well them

Bukowski, Vonnegut, Allan Poe sitting by as I write poems just for the profanity of it

weekend homework I have yet to finish

and, of course, a sadistic 13 year old awaiting for something to happen

another weekend spent wanting to do something
and how I am only allowed a single Vonnegut novel on my birthday
glass can
glass can
Feb 18

cat-eye flick
and that tongue's quick

but not as quick as
the quick death that comes

from burning at both ends (ha)

I lie awake on two trazodones, a cup of neighborly sugar, and NyQuil,
remembering moaning your name with my fingers in your sweaty curls

and how I am only allowed a single Vonnegut novel on my birthday
and how I can't ever see your furrowed brow without consequence.

I wonder if you have realized
it's close to a year since I've knelt down for you

and that I am nothing you'd admire now.

 
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