Siht  si hgih dne  fo wol
my
life
intro
is
backwards
                                               Riffes
made          




of






Grief


let's keep it brief

No body gonna read into  your
                                                










tear apart eyes










No body gonna seal love










deal with thirsty lips


She said : isn't  love the only true ?
I said : For that  Love must be true

Underneath the painted rock
you'll find a key
I ain't much for hiding
but that's just me
There's a book of pomes (yeah, pomes)
beneath my pillow
You might find one or two
to your liking
But that's a'right if you don't
I wrote 'em
for you, any ol' way
Come September
if I don't remember
where I hid my key
That book of pomes'll be
still beneath my pillow
If you care
to take a read.

r ~ 7/12/14

Hello Poets.
I received a copy yesterday of my good friend Timothy's new book "Reflections in Short Poetry". An excellent book with some of Timothy's finest poems.  Many of you are already familiar with his work. The book is very affordable and now available at lulu.com (by Timothy Salter). I highly recommend it. Congrats to Timothy for getting off of his **** and doing what many of us would like to do. Check his work out here at HP, too, if you aren't already familiar with his writing.

r

I hate dull poems with no point
That makes no cents at all
I intend to laff it off and
Blame the alcohol.

Yes, Jaegar Bombz and Jello Sots
As far as i can tell,
Are fool fuel to propel my work
George Strait to Poem Hell.

I was gettin’ almost sober, SO
Had another Jaegar, and a beer (or two)
Lean closed to George and whispered in his ear
I’m here for a good time – juss like u

Yeah Iss country singin’ at is best
If u king n rite the kind that sell
But I get;n kinda sleepy
Stink my peom bombses swell.

SO moreally the story, if you right pomes wen yur drnuk
Beddter wate till til the mmornnimg lite
To post it post it post it tooo
That Hallowed Pomes site
LwP$@Qx)911 ^^(

To excel is like climbing a mighty mound
So dreary it seems trudging the desolated road,
But I've grown too weary doing inconsequential things.
Lazy to walk, craving for a comfy abode.

Though it's only disinterest that crosses my way
Like a torrent of the mountain creek,
Drowning me in trifling thoughts,
making my journey all the more bleak.

Hope I could find a tree along,
Bloomed with evergreen pomes
Of passion and perseverance.
I'd love to nibble at them for sure,
And regain my lost endurance.

I know I could transcend my limits
And ascend this arduous rock,
If only I took the first step
And started to walk.

‘They’re my babies
everyone of ‘em’ she grins
Barb is happy she’s released another character
into the world
Tommy Tickeroo the Angry Alarm Clock
and a publisher is interested
and I’m happy for her and
a bit drunk
more than a bit actually been in the Beehive
since it opened at 11 in the morning
and I’m flicking through the artwork
and Barb is drunk too and trying not to flick
*** ash on her brother’s sketches
of a red ******* alarm clock with googly eyes
and a little moustache
and I wonder about myself
and the book that’s proving a ****** to write
and the cliché of putting those authorly trials
into a poem
I am going to stumble home and write
a poem about a dragonfly instead
darting around on gossamer wings
or a pome as Barb calls it
let’s all write pomes together then have a sing and a dance
‘I’m genuinely pleased for you’ l lie and she grins
and puts her head on my shoulder
and I drunkenly go for the *****
down and out and ****** like a **** for The Art
in the middle of the afternoon
in Nowhere Town.

you have to be careful
what you put in your pomes
and how you word your critiques

some poets are unique
and their retorts
are silenced

like their critics.

A blue guitar, twelve pieces of silver-
ware, some feldspar, an essay on The Art
of War, two pine bookshelves, fifty-four books
about the past, a stone axe that must have
belonged to the last of the Mohicans, fifty more
books about bones, stones and famous pomes,
a sliver of glass from a mirror that shattered
the last six years like they didn't matter
plus one to go, a shitload of old liquor bottles,
a fossil of an inner earbone from a killer whale,
a spear-point older than 12,000 years+plus,
a tooth from a shark as big as a ****** bus,
dust marks from missing pictures of us.

The best thing about teaching poetry,
And being a poet,
Is that you can show the children,
That sometimes what you write is AMAZING,
And sometimes it is *******,
But it all involves scribbles,
And considering every word,
And what is ******* to you,
Speaks to somebody else,
And what is AMAZING to you,
Is AMAZING to you. (and that's enough)
Oh and it doesn't have to rhyme.

***** alleys weeping garbage (fish                         heads)
            40s (alhambra) for 1 euro & a new leather
jacket;

football games in parks
carpeted broken glass/kids laughing.
sun like a strange shimmer 'yond th'mountains rearing
like
         jagger's wild horses   ,

liquid spanish smiles in little bars all w/th'same signs.. words
words
words like birds ...

                                   (birds that take off
                                   in th'park in raucous flights
                                   if yer talkin' too loud.)

eat minute fried fish outside over 6 glasses strong beer.
almost fall off stool twice's'many times scrutinizing passing girls.

go home & write pomes 'bout cig'rettes & running,
call it "oxymoron" 'cause doing both in same day
is bad ******* news for the guts.

                                  go to the university campus
                                  for cheap coffee
                                  &        conversation
                                  w/a girl from the bar (the bartender)
            write a poem while she talks & call it
                                 "terra nova"

                                                         ­                      that one's about nothing.

If poems could keep secrets
They would be  bare
There would be no red rose
No tears of devisation
No vast fields of color
No love or hate
No emotion
No anything just a bare feild abanded
The words would fade
The sentence would run away back into the pencil you hold
Pomes can not keep secrets all pomes reaval something

Some pomes stick to the wall like spaghetti,
And filch meaning from better poets.  
So take not the dower of my time,
And I'll make no obloquy against ye petty scriveners.

I will not mime
for the sake of belonging.

Moon albino, gives
a piercing cry. Why did you
look like solar eclipse?

When you intend to borrow
love, in parenthesis, I will
go mad.

Light filters from
the chips of your armor.
Essence was nearly invisible.

An insane encounter,
took place once. A red tailed parrot
landed on the pretty pomes.

A face lost in crowd,
floats again in my poems.

Don't you open the blank
pages, where your name
was watermarked.

My Father used to say “poetry is in everything; darling, even in the way you listen.”
That was before he burned all his books
And moved across the street and miles away
But I hold no grudges
For he has thought my ears more intimacy than my brain ever could
Maybe that’s because they’re prone to ‘unrequited love’
And when Yuna said “you don’t wanna belong to me because freedom feels better”
I understood why my mind never confessed to my heart
What it witnessed heartbreak do to my soul,
Perhaps Marvin Gaye explained it better
When he sang “I want you”
But you see, this piece of literature isn’t supposed to be about love
I wouldn’t dare call it poetry
But it is a work of art
Like the mix tape I made myself when I was counting my last days
First on that list was “hold on” by Alabama Shakes 
I wasn’t oblivious to the irony in my choice
But I suppose I forget all about it when I’m lip singing to Gnarls music
“Does that make me crazy?”
“Probably!”
However, sad brad smith won’t let me give up
And in their words I hear “I want you to help yourself”
As if I was the guardrail to my own happiness
What they don’t see, though, is that
Nothing could ever replace the things I’ve lost
Maybe that’s why I have a certain weakness for sad songs
It could also be why I can find sadness in all happy things
And I know I’m not alone in this every time I hear
“The yawning grave” by lord Huron
He tells me “I’ve sent you omens and signs”
He tells me “I’ve thought you melodies, pomes and rhymes”
But I’ve lost faith in those omens
Because Hozier left his words printed on my chest
“There is something so tragic about you,” he said
I have to believe he knows me best
Well before I even began to know myself.
Sometimes I wonder if all I am is a patchwork
Of all the music I’ve ever loved
And the discarded pieces of all the once I didn’t have the heart to
Because every time I try to
It makes me want to scream “I can’t feel my face when I’m with you”
It makes me want to experiment and live
And blast “Novacane” in to my eardrums
Until all I can hear is the sound of forgetting
But when the play list ends I’m pulled back
By “remind me to forget”
With memories that thrive to live on the surface.
Perhaps I’m waiting to be saved
It could be the reason why my pulse quicknes
When Berhanas song plays in the back ground
“Go the whole wide world just to find you”
Until I’m slapped back to reality by my father’s words
One of many
That I couldn’t be forgiving enough to let go
I have my own escape though
On the rooftop across town
And when I look below
All I can see engraved on the earth
Are the words “wings wouldn’t help you down
down towards the ground, gravity’s proud”
So I take back my words
Truly, Bon Iver knows me best
For I’ve lived up the turret my whole life
Hoping someday my bones would grow feathers
That would protect me from the waves of solitude.

What could you do
when the donor fatigue
is on display? And stops the succor?
You are no more hungry.

A Buddha sleeps nonchalantly.

Small, blue grapes leave
their mark on the plate.
It will take decades to unknow
the ****** orientation.

Breathing in the incense,
the cannabis rules.
You were inhaling the history.

A unisex quality
in the seedless pomes.

12 am
My brother called me
He told me he was bleeding out
Those where his last words
Still my tears don't fall
So let the liquor keep Pouring down
Keep that barrette playing
Its feels like home to me
Lost so many Homies to the game
I dont know when I lost my soul
Im trying to change my ways
Its getting hard every day
Never felt in so much pain
Half my pomes
My tears don't falls
Just writing this
my tears just pour
Im trying my best
But half I not
Where am I posted to go  
If im lost
in the back of skull
I got a pack full of thoughts
That I can't control

Can I?

One question, a question that can ruin you
A question that can defeat you,can I?

Can I? go out and face the world with this upside down smile can I?face geting out of bed and eating out my head because I'm so bored so lonely that I can do no more

Can I sleep tonight without beeing In fight
Can I? speek to him/her with out a panic can I?live  life and be a fighter not Just a suviver

Can I bring life into this world when I cant even pull myself thought it can I be there for you when I can't even be there for me

Can I find the answer can I believe in the answer can I? You know what yes I can I can do this and I will do this I am a fighter that's why I'm a surviver I can get out of bed I won't be bord I have pomes to Wright I have a life I have a dream I can..

To love you in your absence 
There are some pomes to write 
To hate you for your presence 
There are some memories to fight

Dried knuckles will
not ****** the small moons,
accelerating the downfall.

Pomes go red. A
savage invite staring,
to bite the hidden pride.

We never agreed
dividing the river of grief.
Pounding non-stop
like the gorilla.

An endless hole *****
our sun. Planets have no
choice in the moment
of holocaust.

The birds and bees
fly for the land of brides.
There was no marriage of sins.

Goriness has no excuse
to find another moon.
That was a stranger.

I hope to find the one
who would tell me stories
in every serene hills and mountain
And also would recite me pomes
like a mad man under
the lamppost of every city