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Matthew A Cain Jul 2017
They say we’re crazy
Chasing stupid millennial dreams
Too far fetched they seem and sometimes we agree
But secretly we hope and pray they become reality

Excuse the interruption but does this sound familiar for anybody else?

“Big house on its second mortgage, and a camper for when we feel like downsizing prison.
Cars each on a different loan, manicured lawn because we must show status in everything we own.
Monday, he cheated with the bottle and she cheated in her heart
Tuesday, sister came home late, crying her eyes out because the arms of her last lover were just like her fathers.
Wednesday was surprisingly peaceful, but unnerving, as sunny days were far and few between and I was thinking this was just the calm before the storm.
Thursday I saw father sitting on the floor his last straw a piece of paper "final notice" printed in red
Friday mother sat in the car for an extra twenty minutes starring blankly at the door contemplating her life
Saturday was fight night
Sunday we went to church and pretended it was all alright”

I’m sorry if my pursuit in life is simply this: Happiness.
If it looks like a retrofitted van and I live like a *** because I never want to fight about little green men
Or, if it was a tiny home that her and I could reasonably afford on land far away from the city lights and temptations that come at night
You could say It’s something about the fights we could hear through thick walls that drove us mad inside
And now we chase peace and calm, love and happiness, through any means
Because that’s something that cannot be bought despite our parents thoughts.
I started out with a completely different poem but somehow it morphed into this as I delved into my thoughts. The more I think about my generation and our obsession with tiny homes and little joys in life I believe this is what drives us to this way of life.
Sam Temple Oct 2015
trunks filled with junk and the crunk juice flows
flunked out pill popping junkies with no cash go
drunkenly to the shrunken head show
knowing they stunk.
The monks dunked funky mumps victims
on bunk beds and licked them
instead of fixing lunk-headed situations
with linkin-log technologic advances
drinking dogs retrofitted with dance moves
groove on the wooden floor while ****** bore
the Moors with tales of divorce and random *******
on all fours in doorways
during bad plays on the interstate…
demonstrators, unregulated, on roller skates
wait at the gates of the ingrates filled with hate
and throw pie plates with fated accuracy
and the belated bureaucratic picnic
nitwits in knickers knuckle bump
and plump debutants snicker
the wicker croquet mallets
perform ballet in the chalet
and I have to valet the cars –
She bleeds through veins that have been retrofitted for our future,

A running methamphetamine that never tires and always keeps steady pulse,

Excitedly,

Beating,

Torn blue jeans, pant legs rolled up into shorts,

Slaving,

It isn’t about me,

It isn’t about me,

Selfless smile,

It isn’t about me.

A **** hunch, quizzing over an unstained oak desk of etchings,

First place to my second centered in the middle.

A posture for quizzing- a leaning first grader.

None greater.

If she is overcast, there exists none grayer.

But I dig deep and find a kaleidoscope,

At that moment, I look at the light,

It’s true,

It isn’t about me.
Alexander Coy Apr 2016
I wake up as She
and she's auditioning soon;
vying for a part no one can play
but everyone auditions for anyway.

And so we all sit in those
steel foldable chairs that never
get folded back into their original
form, because the bodies always
keep them warm.

The original selves
long for something else to be;
troubled souls in search for
broken homes; like the hidden
shadows of the known unknown.

I am her lips as they
part, close together
like the jaws of a shark,
reciting lines back to the director
crooked and parallel, aligned
waves of soft sounds; they reach
the peaks of receptacle body language
only to suddenly fall back down
barely scathing the director's emotions.

The director sees that there is talent
that lies within the woman;
I am her, and I was
a father of three darling daughters
not too long ago...

But I stand before the director
as her, and there are others
patiently waiting,
like the anchored piranhas
of the binary forest,
the Stygian vultures
of the neon desert;

and they vouch for
each other's safety
until they have landed
the Oscar award winning
scene; the all white cast
beams like the headlights
of an oncoming car.

Their hands free of guilt
washing the darkness away
from my rising star, my ship
no longer corroded brown
but assimilated, organized,
gentrified;

a man redesigned,
retrofitted and recombined
standing before the petrified
live audience as Her
in an ocean blue
dress;

a blood capsule
ready to burst with
finite increments
of happiness.
freddi Jun 2020
i find it incredible
that you can look me dead in the eye
ignoring my dead comrade
and talk about the justice in this country
when the judge, jury, and executioner of the blacks
sits in the executive branch, alone
brandishing their badge
retrofitted to read "officer"
rather than "slave catcher"
and truth is framed as false
against their flimsy fabrications of innocence
that amazes me

i find it incredible
that you can be surprised by those boys in blue
beating our black skin blacker 'n' blue
'till red runs down our cheeks like tears from our eyes
so used to witnessing this onslaught of slaughter
that we can't cry tears half the time
that amazes me

i find it incredible
that you can honestly ask me
"how could this happen?"
as i fail to find footing
on this razor thin line
between being blinded by tears
trembling with grief, anger, and fear
and being so numb i can't speak
feeling like a monster for a lack of reaction
to the atrocities i have to witness
i've found a happy-less medium
and must be content to remain numb with rage
that amazes me

i find it incredible
that you can graciously remind me not to forget white and blue
while i scream into the void that i matter, too
unless, of course, i happen to be brandishing a hairbrush
or somehow disrupt your white life
then you quickly affix an asterisk to the word "all"
that amazes me

i find it incredible
that you can proudly proclaim your allyship
and in the same breath explain how
that black was a criminal
but i'm one of the "good ones"
because i'm not ghetto
and conditioned code switches into my DNA
so i'm not a threat unless i ask you to reel it in
and just possibly stop saying "******"
it triggers panic and makes me sick
when it falls from your pale lips
yet i stomach it and swallow my anxiety
sitting with a twisting gut in your presence
that amazes me

i find it incredible
that you seem to have this superpower
pulling you from awareness into blissful oblivion
that i can only imagine
because your life's not on the line
that amazes me
these are the types of fake allies and subtle racists that i've encountered. here's a quick poem to them
Julia Oct 2014
when one removes oneself from stillness
undoes the smooth, glossed over wake
and in a sense cannon-***** backwards; out
returning to an unknown, though more known than not
with a queer sort of deja vu; uncertainty
uncertainty in every sense
of intelligence, of humanity, of self
to be stripped of ones right to engage
or better said,
to strip oneself; for what?
why endure such purgatory
only to relearn something otherwise perfected
to expand? to give? to learn a slight suffering?
or perhaps not so slight
as losing ones voice is arguably worse than ones limb
you have a spare arm, as well, two legs
but one soul to share
or is it to grow, to remould oneself
retrofitted to suit the now
a more capable, attentive being
who, upon the next disturbance of the surface,
will choke on fewer salty drops,
will tense her muscles somewhat less,
will not be afraid to open her eyes
to the new,
to the scary,
to the unknown,
to herself
written in class in my first month in switzerland. decided to keep the original title
Tom Waiting Jun 2020
decided why waiting, my name, my curse, my retrocognition,
last week, was sore-spent, from abusing discontinuation, retribution,
lovers who took more, too much, left contentedly, not looking back
over their shoulder, at the wasted wake left behind, nothing to them

just was their “been here, now, just a hereafter” remainder reminder

can’t believe I’m writing, in these blues lyrics electrified,
my ribs, plucked like guitar strings for “pic”ing demand wailing,
my own hereafter starts now, past days eradicated, freshened up,
these aren’t the days of reminiscing, these are the days of  no más!

of my hereafter, now I understand, did not know how, clarity arrived

but now will love only in equality, no worshiping, no portraits
to be admired  hanging on hallway walls, got rollers and pan,
repainting walls crazy whites, starting again, coming out today,
the hiding separated, put in trash bags on the street, for takeaway

in crazy notions, commencing my hereafter, is inviting you,
join me, improve my cadence, my rhymes, finish my sentences,
with periods of laughter, commas of words of perfect additions,
waiting no more, from here after and ever more so, my name

hereafter, is now my retrofitted futures, no longer waiting...
Nidhi Panandikar Jan 2018
Our biggest problem till date has been trust. This trust i speak of need not pertain to interpersonal relationships, but in time.
We need time. I need time. And space. And energy and resources to function like a well oiled machine.
Sure i crack and crumble. Sure i crush like wafer thin ice on a frozen river. Sure it doesnt take much to push me down, for my buoyancy is only as strong as my will power and that is saying A LOT.
But like wax in a new mould, i build myself up again. Like a retrofitted structure, i extrude steel stanchions and girders within me. The frail brick facade does not fail me, only makes it lighter.
But none without patience. And no patience without the trust in myself, that i can get through this.
We fail to trust the system. The system that puts a government in our hands, which in turn chooses to sit on our backs with the engine on full throttle. We fail to notice our power, a democracy is nothing if not as easily disbanded as bound together.
We fail to trust our instincts. They help reboot the system when error 404 shows you the exit door. Trust them, for they come from within. The aura and the energy never lies.
Spread this energy for it emancipates negative from within.
Finally, we fail to trust our body. Which direction but down, would the body go, if the mind is all you listen to all day long? Trust your body to repair the damges you do at the minds behest. Trust your body to signal you when you go wrong. And listen when the signal blinks. Because frankly, you miss the signal and there is no looking back.
We need one another, sure. But what we do need the most is ourselves. Its easy to run away and forget things ever existed. What’s difficult is to stay put.
So trust me when i say this, the only way out, is through.
Do not run away when you feel uncomfortable. Its a trait of the weak.
We are uncoiling
Uncoupling
Yet our serpentine fingers linger
Like tender afterthoughts
Kissing hysterical women
We are them they are us
You finish it now
You soften the punch
Those muscles drift like tenderness
We are leathery skin and fingers that bend slowly
Our ancient articulations arthritic
Retrofitted in the darkness of daylight
In the heat of the night
We fight our urge to self destruct
Compulsive luck is not the worst of our faults
Such as being short-circuited in the dark
sparklysnowflake Sep 2023
my bones that have now carried worlds
are frankensteined bits of shells and shrapnel glued
together with calcium paste
and slathered in blue dye
to make everything look new---

I was so whole.

I have now already fractured
in every predictable place,
re-engineered and retrofitted my consciousness with
seismic dampers
and levees

and I am so strong, now.

how does it feel to know that it was you who broke me?
there is no one---
not even you could do what you did to me
again

and it feels good to be a god but mostly infuriating
to think of the fragile thing I used to be
for you, when you knew me.

I haven't seen a waterfall in 4 years,
my re-grafted skin has lost all its electric-sensitivity
and my heart still pumps blood but I reforged my arteries into metal,
which keeps me alive better than before but I
don't remember the last time I
felt anything.
Whit Howland Sep 2019
still hot humid
at fifty
we've done
all we can do
our bodies strengthened
retrofitted
for the red yellow
leaves
frosted by autumn
our minds still warm
limber
hints of winter

only weeks away

© Whit Howland 2019

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