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FinkZ Jul 2018
He fly above the same airport
Waiting for a chance to land on the runway
The runway of her heart
Nobody knows how long he waited but the Lord
That airport have only one parking spot and  one runway
And occupied by one aircraft

It's hopeless
To wait for that parked aircraft to take off and gone forever
He began to feel desperate
All his patience, all of his waiting, gave him a mental break

He opens his sectional
Pull out his plotter
Change his heading bug in his heading indicator
He finally said, with a smile
“It’s time to divert”

Waste of fuel and time
Waste of credits and dimes
Too long he was holding
Now it’s time for leaving

He will never know
How does the runway and the taxi light glows
After sunset and before sunrise
He will never feel
The satisfaction for using the service
24 hours everyday and night
He will never see
The runway decorated by green grass, flowers and trees
The beauty of the airport’s sight

But it’s for the best
This will be my last poem for Aurelia. 3 years I spend loving her and it’s time for me to leave her alone with her lover. With the minimum scale of knowledge about aviation mixed with my affection and metaphors, this poem is created
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
It's now or never what awaits
Gin is forever like her collagen of skin
the wanting how her prayers got answered
The (Him) the (I-phone) not my (Apple)
My blessings I got my miracle how fate
sipped me in with my best friend
                        (Gin)
The sip loving him  gin is her oxygen
All cravings from the countries
Native American, Latin American
Afro American, and The North American
The Hotel going to all the meetings
At the Sheraton
my lip to his sunset
Makes a world of her savings

Meets to my original
Tastebuds petals
and sprinkles like bling
Watering my rosebuds
So many brands but
Modern twist
Portugal Spanish
olives trees could sing

Cat nine lives versus her
Gin of love doves pleas

Scratch me lucky seven
But  conventional
Love-seat sectional
Him- I- Gin lets be

((Gin Rational))

Like the pixel living
more with a sweet taste
Stirring and purring Cat
I-Gin him the mighty morsel
Playing black-Jack
She had the best cards
Gin* I * pack
The game is pouring
the poker lip scouring

The origin of Dracula Bram Stoker
Her wavy hair red-hot tasseled
Like waves of (Gin) rippled
She mingled like" I- Gin"
But she was more mortal
Are we on air 2 win
The News over dripping
Hot Gin story him side-slip
National sip velvet whole lip
The warmth going down
The gin was magical potent
All exotic types she dressed
in stripes
Not the American Flag

The European sip of the Gin
Meeting her man
Weaving through the warmth
Juniper Glamped Gin camper
He's so defined in his character
Gin all him her floret trim glass

The process takes time
Gin- Boss Italian glass
Florence blown
Newfangled  or seductively
Flagged in bangled worn

Entirely subjective
The Europeans Industry
Origin of the whole dynasty
Juniper berries
Like a Junior virginity-Gin
Or him___?
Far from New York City
His flight first class (Gin)
and only him
Butterflies look divine on
her breast
Like the Gin and Science test
Her cherries in her Gin Drink
His theories in his Manly winks

The gin so medicinal
How it ward off malaria
She drinks to her delicately
tone body All God-lit
Her swiftly steps fit
Shes all heart like the ballerina
She is the Grace of the gin drink
The new look on her face
The purest wings fly the best
Our time of the Origin

Women and Men start now to begin
Dressed up new technology generation
The Gin of romance mission
The next pour dripping
intense torrential rain
For the single- set such potential
The married couple drenching
drink wet was more primal

The Gin couple was immaculate
never late
They won the bet that's
Gin-like no other fate
This is about the Origin of Gin my style and how a drink can change lives or if your single talk more and starts to mingle if your married there might very well be Gin God have a party gin fire up your hot rod
Forbidden fruit of Barbados
Oh how she glows.

Sectional sweetness
Bitter in aftertaste

My favorite things in life
Always seem to be similar

Maybe because
I prefer the familiar

The curve and the shape
Contour and ripe

As I slice thee in half
I notice your walls

Serrated spoon in hand
Showing gratitude toward the land

For it bears blessed fruits
The fruit blesses me

Upon receiving sour
Bite after bite

The bitterness sets in
Night after night

Grapefruit makes me happy
Grapefruit makes me smile

I hope that I don’t get sick
At least not for a while
I love grapefruit, I just hope it doesn't make me sick!!
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
and you know what was, or rather,
what is the most "fun" aspect
of being being mis-diagnosed
as a schizophrenic...
   oh... 12 years ago?
  no one could have told me
i'd be riding a ******* carousel
of the remnants of my ego
into this sort of... "reality check"
prognosis...
   i always sat there in the psychiatric
office,
replying to what books
i was reading...
    making as much of
my ****** courtesy,
thinking... not much...
       inter-sectional feminism?
intra-sectional feminism?
ooh... someone has a fetish
       for Latin prefixes, don' 'eye?
when chemistry became a hard
science but also a quasi-science
of: well... we've done our bit
for the worth of shampoo...
*** yer *** on the benzene ring
unravelling...
   meta! y' sir!
  para! y' sir!
           ortho! y' sir!
  find us... trans!
   y'... you what?!
                                    find us trans!
imagine my astute astoundment,
say... 6 years ago...
being asked: what is reality?
the ontology of ever is,
that is, and every is, that isn't,
and every is that is in-itself?
do i ******* look like god?
well... here are your answers...
   trans-gender "women"
moved in all-female prisons?
arm the female prisoners
with strap-on ******...
         what?!
               it almost seemed like
a waste of time, back then...
   but, now, i guess...
everyone is as... "confused" as i was
back "then"...
to no apparent then
with what is worth a... now...
yeah... i always need a reality check...
like... reality is anything
worth checking, rather than checking-out
off...
         and i understand the gimmick
pundits...
      problem with me:
i have an unnatural will to live,
and a knack at playing
the patient, & happy,
& non-talkative happy camper
of... a... chief bromden...
whatever the hell i said so many
years ago...
  well... **** on me...
what does it matter, now?
- but clearly i never assembled
the grand puzzle of, "reality"
to what has been perfected
to a dysfunction...
seemingly: to begin with...
  most of them?
gen-X single mother households...
me? classical learning:
my mother is my worst enemy...
classical Oedipus-complex...
which means:
   i do not possess the audacity
to... trans...
             sure, i tickled
my fancies with cross-dressing...
had the ***** to walk into
a Butlins ****-fest of a night
out...
   lost my wallet...
but now?!
      chemistry, thank god,
is still a rigid toy of words...
  like... what's north, south,
east or west in Copernican terms?
answer... flat earth...
oh yeah... because that round earth
GPS really helped those
*** tourists in Australia...
drive their ******* car into a lake...
but chemistry is a cul de sac...
unless...
  you translate all that theory
******* back into a fetish for words...
esp. Latin prefix jargon...
physics? covered...
by science fiction...
and the atom bomb... no problem...
spoc' 'as 'is 'ne covered...
no worries...
   ah... but biology?
      there's a realism behind it?
sure... psychiatric realism...
       at times you start to wonder:
why does a psychiatrist
even get a chance to speak...
before a philosopher might employ
the cuddle and a pillow of sedatives?
yeah... so much of cultural darwinism...
has made... reality...
                 in-and-of-itself...
either...
             stealth synthetic beef stakes
and...
    ****** trannies...
   in prisons...
where female prisoners
are not armed with strap-on
******...
           no... no reality here...
n'ah 'um...
                   nada...
         zilch, squid... nuffin'...
no... ****** taqiyya...
                   we all wish to be homophobes...
only...
       going to a gay bar the previous
night... ended up snogging
a south american...
next day?
            went to a birthday party...
the south american
made an inquiry with my gay
cousin...
so i was at the party,
he was at the party...
       i came to the party...
was investigated by the feminist
police about being homophobic...
spotted the south american...
had an intolerable pain in my gut...
apologized to my cousin
hosting the party...
and...                            left...
the gay i could take...
  i was just getting my hots for him
had i enough drinks in me...
but a ******* homophobia
investigation, by a woman...
no...
i rather eat rar herring on beach
in... ******* Southend...
sitting on the pebbles...
wanting to count the number
of grooves of hemorrhoid about
to blush: blue....
yeah... reality...
everyone has a sedative
for that...
it's only that some of us...
do not think... being over-excited
by its speculative nature
of a theoretical physicist
            is all that important!
- so, what do i see?
directionless, and a-chemical...
just by looking at the attachment
groups to a benzene ring...
        but you know...
chemistry is a stable science...
      it couldn't be attacked,
it could only be exploited,
verbally, borrowing from Latin...
  physics is still instact,
although: science fiction,
unless you drop the Oppenheimer
quote...
                 or... talk via
a mobile phone...
                 but?
      not even the fault of Marxism...
although: i should wish that to be,
no?
          cultural darwinism...
     looking too long up
the **** of a monkey...
             and so...
                  in the meantime:
i did enjoy some of ted berrigan
poems...
                 unless of course
i have succumbed to a filter,
where i'm strapped to a pit
of rats that are about to gnaw at me,
and i will never hear
the sort of conversations
backstage at the BAFTAS
         or prior to the Ascot races...
at whatever tier i'm at...
having just picked up...
  a lászló krasznahorkai
   (like the name of the psychiatrist,
dr. szasz... yes: that implies no
SaS or ZaZ... but SHaSH...
  well... unless he wasn't
Magyar to begin with...
     but a geerman! ßaß)....
satantango...
          edition?
        the first english edition,
tuskar rock book
2012...
  oh hell, the book is older than as me...
first appeared in 1985...
but yeah... started reading it...
       to peer into what...
an anti-paragraph novel looks like...
and i thought that people only read
poetry for a light-heartedness...
turns out...
there is a hyper-statement of
prose-claustrophobia...
namely? the anti-paragraph...
then i read something from
the blog of alex preston...
writing in 2014 to his younger self
in 2009 having just secured
a faber & faber publishing deal...

              and all i could think of was...
the merovingian...
who? lambert wilson...
in the film... 5 to 7...
  about an aspiring writer...
                  hey baby hey...
hey second from now here on in:
boo!

                     alex preston
doing the analysis, back in 2014...
http://alexhmpreston.com/a-letter-to-a-young-writer/...
average: x25,000
          accurate figure x11,000...
one baby in hand,
another baby in tow...

the very sensible man...
            and why would anyone
crouch over a screen,
   find enough propensity
to earn a living from... being-bait
of one's on clicking rhythm?

sure... all poetry is but the horror
of an extension of one's
"inability" to shed off adolescence...
either the *******
claustrophobia of prose,
or the anti-paragraph
myopia of some Magyar...

           let's just call this
the medium of the infantile minds...
and call... the serious writer's
medium,
the medium of the book critic,
who finally exclaims:
and of the 20 books on my reading
list for the newspaper...
for the weekend magazine
review section... ?
i probably finished... 1.

pendulum... pendulum!
Waking up from another sleepless night, just great!  But this time it was different.  It might not make sense but, this didn’t feel like just any sleepless night.  Something was definitely wrong.  I couldn’t only stay asleep, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.  As if I couldn’t get enough oxygen or any at all.  I found myself constantly gasping for air every few seconds as I tossed and turned in bed.  My chest felt tight and heavy, a combination or getting the wind knocked out of me and my heart falling through my ***.  Anyways, that night it felt like breathing right was just not even remotely close to being on my To Do list.  Sunday all day I felt very… emotional.  Like every other 15 year old female, I felt like crying for everything, for no exact reason.
Today wasn’t one of my best, I wanted to curl up into a ball, shove my not so small self into the smallest corner of the world’s darkest room… a room so dark, what I think would be one of my darkest of thoughts would simply be the only light in such a place.  And a place as far away and so far out of this world, the only life there would be is…well there wouldn’t be any.  Well after I somehow managed to pull myself together, after being mobbed by what seemed to be an unnecessary, endless train of emotions, I walk through the disgusting olive, greenish colored door of our apartment.  Making my way to my room, leaving everything in my possession in the door way and not giving two ***** who trips on it, I sat on my bed.  I then realize my mom was home.  At that time of day it’s usually just my siblings and I, and sometimes my dad.  But for my mom to be home before 3 p.m. is unheard of unless someone is dying.  Well come to find out she came back home shortly after arriving at work this morning.  At this point she had us all gathered in the living room, with my dad sitting at her side, on the furthest part of the sectional and us children on the other, curiously watching her struggle to find the words to come next.  Me, being the oldest, I automatically think of all things possible I could have done that may have upset them… but thought twice when I remembered I had an audience sitting next to me. So I couldn’t possibly be elbows deep, this time.  I sat patiently next to my brother as my mom broke news that my grandfather had passed in his sleep early this morning… those next few moments of silent sobbing seemed to be an eternity.  As if I had lived 1,000 long years and it was my time to roll over. I, being the stubborn type, my instincts kick in… I ran out the front door leaving my family behind in their sorrows. I sat outside in the plush green grass, thinking, for that’s all time would give me... thought.  I couldn’t believe it, I didn’t want to believe it, and I wanted it to be some sick twisted prank. I think at that moment I felt as if I would feel relived if someone had only came around the corner saying “Gotchya!”  He wasn’t supposed to go… not yet, he was a fighter… it was supposed to be a fight ‘till the death, just not his… I believed in him I thou- no, I prayed he would make it, once again I was wrong.  
You know how people say they don’t have any regrets what so ever? Well I call *******. There is always that one, just like there is always that one sibling; they know how to just irk the **** out of you, or that one friend that is just a buzz **** to everything like… well, life. Yeah well I have that one, that one regret that I, in reality can’t do jack squat about.  The last time my family and I went down to visit my grandfather in Cali, we were leaving that day, and he had an appointment to see if he was eligible to do chemo, and as I think about it… you’d think they wanted to save a life right?  Anyways, my mom had yelled at me to wake up to go say goodbye to him before he left… I was being a bit selfish and only thought of me being tired and didn’t want to get out of bed, simply because I chose to stay up all hours of the night before to play Call of Duty with my uncle.  When I got up, everyone was crying in the bathroom.  My mom was ****** so was my Tia… that was the last time they got to see him, and I didn’t. All because I didn’t get my lazy *** up… I didn’t get to say goodbye and now, now it’s too late… and every day I hate myself for it.  But then I think to myself, at least I know, deep down, he is at rest, happy, care free…just chillin in paradise.
You know, life is a ***** and it *****, but we all got to live it, right? Many times I don’t want to anymore. I never was a regretful person especially when it came down to paying the consequences. I thank myself every day for putting myself through everything I’ve been through throughout my short 17 years of life, for if I hadn’t had the experience I’d probably be just another sheep talking out of my *** about do’s and don’ts.  But there is not a single day that goes by without remembering his soul. Remembering there is a place I once sat and enjoyed the cold wet grass, felt the warm golden rays of the sun.  The fresh mist in the air from a nearby waterfall, silent yet graceful drops of water.  My senses tampered with the sweet aroma of fresh cut grass and fully bloomed flowers as they lay next to wet engraved concrete.  As I sat there in silence letting time go by, memories became so clear. Remembering what was said, or the voice in which I heard it, brought me peace and clarity.  The passion of a fighter’s heart that only yearned to keep on fighting, taught me strength.  The hopes and dreams for a brighter future seemed to be my focus.  As I sat and embraced my day’s journeys of memoirs brought me to say farewell to my fighter.  As I leaned forward to give a tender kiss, the taste on my lips from the dirt on the stone is a bitter sweet goodbye.  I sit now and think, I must and will not ever forget that place, where I’d rather be, where I’d go and memories of my grandfather became my reality.  This is my one person I’d most want to see now… and forever.
Robert Zanfad Jun 2010
The Lawncrest Acres State Hospital for the Incurably Poetic -
I think dear Granddad, the good doctor,
once practiced there as a clinician
(and as patient once, too)
his writing otherwise confined in public eyes
to those horribly dry tomes whose titles began
"On the practice of..."
whereupon he may have gone
on to expound the virtues of religion in psychiatry
as measured in cross sectional study
or harsh parenting as inherent to induction of pathology
But at home he would write
the sweetest poems to us
on birthdays or just because...
he never wrote one for me, oversight I'm sure,
as I roamed the floor
in his house, same as all the others.
So maybe that's why I secretly try
to be a poet like he was.
Anais Vionet May 2023
Slang..
Chick-fil-a = the best place ever
jade = *****
brooke = gorgeous
mishin = the boss, as in “You aren’t the boss of me.”

We’re on vaycay. School is OVER, COVID is over. We’re in New York City and we’re doin’ the town this time. Lisa told me, “You showed me Paris last summer, now I’m going to show you New York City.” Her mom, Karen, smiled and gave a little sideways, “Yes, yes we ARE’ nod.

Leong and Sunny, two of my Yale roommates, and my BF Peter are staying in Lisa’s (parent’s) 50th floor Manhattan apartment for the week. The apartment is singularly stunning, with its all-glass views of Central Park and the city, but it only has five bedrooms - so we’re doubled up a bit.

One of the things that makes Manhattan chick-fil-a, is that the Broadway theaters are 15 minutes from Lisa’s door. You step out, whirl around Columbus Circle and you’re on Broadway! Minutes later, you’re in your seat, Oh, and don’t forget to get the cinnamon crusted almonds.

We saw ‘Bad Cinderella’ the night before last - that was only a ‘West End’ show (I’m learning to be a Broadway snob). Tonight, we’re going to see Hamilton. Last night, we saw ‘Hadestown.’ I didn’t know anything about ‘Hadestown,’ but Leeza (Lisa’s 13 year old sister) has seen it three times now.

We’d just finished lunch and Lisa started off a debate. “Is Orpheus (one of Hadestown’s leading characters, played by Reeve Carney) superhot - the hottest man alive - or is he the littlest jade ever?
“He’s brooke,” Leeza swooned dreamily, fanning her face as if it’s hot, “I’d definitely hit that.”
Lisa gasped, “shutUP, you aren’t “hitting” anyone.
Leeza’s been driving Lisa up-the-wall all morning. We had Pancakes and bacon for breakfast and Leeza’s been all rude and maple sugar buzzed ever since.
“You aren’t mushin,” Leeza snorted, and as Lisa gave her a threat-laden look, Leeza finished with, “that man can get it.”
I’ve seen this before - and these sisters are heading for it.

Leong adds “Orpheus sees a submissive woman in distress. What he thinks he sees, is a typically beautiful woman, by societal standards, who he knows nothing about - and he’s like, ‘I want to marry you.”
Sunny leaned into the conversation fiercely, saying, “He doesn’t KNOW her! Wouldn’t you just punch that guy in the face?”
“Probably,” I answered, laughing, “if he weren’t in a frigging MUSICAL!”

“Excuse me,” Lisa interrupts, “you’re telling me that this scene doesn’t perpetuate the idea that only looks matter?” As one of the most beautiful women in the WORLD, Lisa is sensitive to objectification.

Sunny adds, “One reason to cancel him - I assume we’re trying to cancel him now - is that he sees a woman in distress and says ‘that’s the one, the love of my life,’ - a beautiful woman who can’t survive on her own.”

“She didn’t need him,” I suggested, “he was a burden on her.”    
Peter, who’s been working away on his laptop, looked up and said, “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

Leeza, snarked, “Then go back to your little coding.”
I think I gasped and Peter looked a little shocked.

When Lisa, who’d gotten up to get some ice, heard that comment from Leeza, she said, “THAT’S IT,” in a steely voice.

Leeza, who was sitting with her back to the kitchen on the huge white sectional, had a millisecond to look over before Lisa pounced on her. She came in from her backside rolling over onto Leeza, trying to cover her mouth.

Leong, and Sunny, who’d never seen these to wildcats at it before, squealed and flinched out of the way. Peter, an only child, found this delightful and hilarious. He burst out laughing with glee, as he too, cleared some space.

“You’re trying to silence me!” Leeza yelled, giggling and grabbing Lisa’s arms as they got into a full, sister wrestling, flailing ball of hair and arms. Rolling off the couch and onto the floor. “SHUT UP,” Lisa demanded at the top of her voice.
“She’s trying to silence me!” Leeza howled again, “I will not be silenced!” This match continued for a hot minute until Lisa got Leeza’s arms pinned with her knees.
“Apologize!” Lisa said, out of breath, as she began to ponytail her hair.

“Excuse me,” Leeza yelled, herself gasping for breath but trying to blow strands of her red hair out of her face and wiggle free. “I’d like my lawyer - get OFF me - you ******* Karen!”

When that doesn’t work Leeza starts yelling, “HELP, MOM, ****!!” at the top of her lungs.

Karen, on a laptop in a glass walled alcove just off the living room, had seen the whole everything. Folding down her laptop lid, she stuck her head out and said, “Girls.”

Then Michel, their dad, is in the doorway, “What are you two doing?” He asked softly.

The fight immediately broke up, Lisa and Leeza sheepishly disengaging. “Nothing,” they said, together in near perfect union. Lisa gave Leeza a wide-eyed, tilted head look and Leeza said, “I’m sorry Peter, I was only foolin’ around.”
“I know,” Peter replied, chuckling, “but it was worth it.”

Sunday - drum roll please - this Sunday (Mother’s day), we’re going to see Taylor Swift in concert.
On Monday, Peter and I jet off to Paris (and Saint-Tropez) for 10 days. He’ll get to meet my Grandmère and Uncle Remy - I’m SO hyped.

I’m squeezing a lot into the first three weeks of summer. My fellowship starts June 1st, and that’ll take all of June and July. I can’t wrap my head around being a junior next year. Where’s the time GONE?
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Laden: something heavily loaded with something, literally or figuratively.
Anais Vionet May 2022
It’s Sunday morning, 7am. My phone jiggles and a Doja-cat ringtone jars me awake. It’s Kim asking if we want to set out for some frisbee golf - you have to tee-off early on the weekend to avoid the rush. “No, I moan, not today” I say, licking my emery-paper dry lips and trying to focus my eyes on the giant LED numbers of my alarm clock, “Leong and I got shot,” I add for maximum dramatic effect.

Later, about 11am. I’m lead-ball tired and so is Leong. My arm hurts so bad I can hardly lift it. Leong says hers does too. We’re kind of binging “Riverdale” but, in reality, we’re curled up, blanketed, and surrounded by pillows on the living-room sectional couch, napping off and on.

It’s slightly odd, being at home again with my mom, who used to manage everything about me. She knew when I should go to bed and get up, what vegetables and fruit I ate. She knew my teachers, who my friends were, when I had homework due, or needed a dental cleaning, when I had a doctor's appointment (although she really was my doctor), how I was feeling, if I had my period, when I took a bath, when my sheets needed changing - everything.

Now my mom has her brakes on - I can see her sometimes, flexing to comment on something, like our plan to go to the pool party the other night at 11pm, but stopping herself.

I guess I’m a different (university sophomore) me and she’s a different (more hands off) her.

Leong’s very Chinese-respectful around my parents. She calls my mom “mamma” and Step (my stepfather) “baba“ and practically comes to attention whenever they address her.
They’re just parents,” I say, denigratingly, “relax.” She nods, she’s trying.

Early yesterday (Saturday) morning, Leong and I were in the kitchen, at a round table, deep in our kitchen bay-window area, where we’re surrounded by plants and hanging ferns. My mom was making us a pancake and bacon breakfast (yum!), which was lovely, in theory, but Leong and I were badly maimed (hung over) - which I’m willing to bet she guessed. The night before we went to a high school graduation throwdown.

“Do you girls have plans for tomorrow?” My mom asked, as she transferred several pancakes from a frying pan onto a baking sheet in the oven.
“Nothing in particular, why?” I replied, as I looked up to eye-drop my seemingly sandy eyes.
“You’re going overseas in less than two weeks and I’d like to have you two covid boosted before then. You might feel tired or sore the next day,” she said, as she flipped her latest set of four pancakes in the frying pan, “so getting them today would be ideal.”
I look to Leong, to check her reaction and she shrugs with her coffee cup to her lips.
“Ok,” I say, “sure.”
“Leong,” my mom begins, “do you need to check with your parents?”
“Mom!” I almost shout, reacting harshly. I’m hung-over, mercurial, and embarrassed that she’s treating Leong like a child.
“No, Mamma” Leong says, looking at me, frowning - stepping over my outrage, solicitously - both answering the question and calming me down at once.

My mom transfers the latest batch of pancakes to the oven, where there’s now a flat baking pan piled with them. She closes the oven, flicks off the gas burner, picks up a silver tray that was lying on a side table, covered with a kitchen towel, and comes over to us.

She lifts the towel and we see two covid booster syringes and alcohol wipes.
“Now?” I say, slightly alarmed (I’m not a big fan of shots).
She raises one syringe to the light for a brief inspection and taps it twice. She cleanses my right arm with an alcohol wipe, gently pinches an area and injects me with one quick, smooth motion - I hardly feel it. She steps around to Leong, who’s also sleeveless, and repeats the process with the other syringe.

And just like that, we’re all boosted, in less than a minute. She hands us both our updated covid cards and says, "Alexa, announce breakfast is ready.”
Doctor moms can be handy.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Mercurial: "rapid, unpredictable changes in mood”
Wisdom permeated all over Spinalonga, needs were supremely supplied, Wonthelimar was together with Vernarth in the endeavor to honorably defer the Manes Apsidas converts who evacuated the cells of the leprosarium, after the Ottomans and Orthodox priests had left them, the custodians arrived at its end. Now everything has the life and the will to touch the lightning bolts of the blue sun, with the personal image of the Saint's devotion from the origin, and the new lives that rose up through the complex of the sectional rampart. The Palmario Apófisi de la Santa was made of a great awakening semblance, with the Panagia Theoskepasti, in Kimolos. From this labyrinth of the skepazo or "velar" that the Saint smudged from afar the counterweight pallets so that they are not returned through the axon tube that will take them far to this region of purgation, in the Cyclades and Dodecanese. In the bay of Dekas the archpriest of Kimolos would wait for them, receiving them near the small islet Agios Andreas, similar to Spinalonga, where they will live until Vernarth goes, after speaking in Kimol and Milil. To arrive at Psathi with his entourage to exhume them definitively in Court V of Elleniká, seeing the extreme longevity of the fallen of Spinalonga and their leprosy cloistered in a fleeting substance.

Iteration of Marie Des Allées: “The Vas Auric will rotate in all ellipses from here to Elleniká sprinkling crumbs of the purest bread of Arcadia, on a gray Monday with hummus and bobota, to attract the vinegary souls that were in a catatonic state, thus doing more esthetic or in Aisthesis in the reactionary when reincorporating them in the three courtyards in magnificent concordance with Rhodes. At the beginning of the Archpriest the talk derives the prayers from him to the semi-inert matters that were made in communion with the oratorical dyes; with worms and with the distractions of larger snakes that were planted waving, being, in reality, Vermes that were amazed at the exhortation of the Archpriest and the protocol, who circled the universal destination of his elegies to be celebrated from an ambo or pulpit, in classical Latin to propheir the archpriest the form of Era Dies Lunae, mutating it ****** to dies lunis by analogy with dies. On a dark Monday, but full of grace for those in attendance, they would give sermons, to interpret the alabaster courtyards that would lead to Tsambika. The first worms were chased by Kanti, believing that they were games that emerge from the eternal ground. Of whose ecosystem the earth was beginning to ignore them due to their annelid metamorphoses, appearing to increase in their texture, more ultra hadic than the same remains of doubt without sarcophagus, turned into sharp intestinal curves that were depressed breathing autonomously over massive folds of the acquiescent dermis of the oldest caste of the subsoil of Helleniká, further away from all sub-divisible organic matter of finite mortality towards the eternal other, contributing to a neural complex of tremors, and in veiled sensations that are lost between itself and that of its own bodies being able to take them with their own disorders "

Vernarth indicates: “long are the hours, and doubt overwhelms me, only my instinct follows me, and then I follow him. Khaire everyone and may the light of Mashiach be with us "

Etréstles reiterates: “my spirit has met Marie des Vallées, my spiritual hers, and my mischievous spirits play with them. Divine thanks, O venerable St Marie, here we are to honor the labiernago that have brought her Marian lattices, their dark green that blends with the layer of her attire, in margins that are found out in their change of shades "

Wothelimar answers: “what fire will extinguish the similarity of the Labiérnagos with the Astragali of Vernarth, when they meet those of the Santa Marie?

Theus replies: "We have been redeemed by his spiritual fire, whose conscience has placed in us in the Apophisi that reproves him, under the joint weight of beatitude"

Vikentios answers: “the Matakis of redemption will filter the doubts of his third person for an inextinguishable, to the degree of the second character that could divert his prerogative. Thanks to the spiritual fire that burns in the brambles that result in martyrdom by already being free from the torment of *** Bei Hinnom and Spinalonga fully expiated "

The protocol is broken and Theus, once freed from the last link of the Apophisi, goes to hug his brother, together they hug and kneel down the rough *****, after the ghostly chairs run wild for a prebend of Mother Marie that from The sky presented them weightless, with the effective of the marvelous Logos of God, and the Rhema of Vernarth, who would make the plate in the aromatic herds of Myrrh, Myrtle and Marjoram, to aromatize the appearance of the Saint and to bat the world of the Howls Kósmos with this triad of balsams for the foreground of the bigamist horizon in bloom, which sprinkles the talc of the resinous species when falling from the serene on this great day. They all looked at each other for more than three days in a row without moving, nobody did it from where they were. Leaving sticky resins, deserting the greased bodies of eternal days, some looking at each other in the infinite time that anointed them with different minutes, and monuments that released their souls moistened with Myrrh and carmine for the muffins of a Hellenic piece, with properties healing for mythology that was reborn in the sub-mythology of Vernarth and the essence creators Myrepsós. Or creating essences for the Saint, condensing from the perfume on all the alabaster containers, smelling of the insurmountable effects of Alexander the Great who appeared before everyone, to support and even in the ferrous breath of the stratosphere, and the island that was reconverted by the trampled waves, which were made to fall on all the megatons of Hellenic incense, which does not lead fights or disputes, only entertained everyone here united in the order and temperance of the frenzy, which follows the fields of fragrances directed towards everyone, also for the Manes Apsidas to Theoskepasti. Supremely Marie des Allées poured Rose concoction, ordering them to have their mouths open to receive their fragrances, and then to be able to expel them to the nauseating winds of the east, where the Beit Hamikdash was free of Gehenna, transferring the Apsidas to Dekas and then to Helleniká.
Apóphisi Palmario from Marie des Vallées
Lin Cava Jun 2016
Theodore Roosevelt –

Teddy ceased to walk this earth, benefactor to his beloved Nation, valiant in his service to his country, his family and the family of Americans, on January 6, 1919.

During his remarkable life he never wavered in his support of America – these United States, and Americans.  Were it not for Teddy, there would be no National Preserves or parks.

He had much to say.  So sage was his insight that it retains universal relevance to this day.

Sadly, we have no modern day Teddy to set things right; there is so much to address, and so little time to meet the challenges.  I fear we have adopted a timidness of heart that would be a foul countenance for this President to see.

What follows are some of his words.  See if you do not agree that they remain relevant words of wisdom, to this day.  Teddy is gone for 96 years.  How I would love to see another like him at the helm.



“Any man who tries to excite class hatred, sectional hate, hate of creeds, any kind of hatred in our community, though he may affect to do it in the interest of the class he is addressing, is in the long run with absolute certainly that class's own worst enemy.”



“Behind the ostensible government sits enthroned an invisible government owing no allegiance and acknowledging no responsibility to the people. To destroy this invisible government, to befoul the unholy alliance between corrupt business and corrupt politics is the first task of the statesmanship of today.”

“Our government, National and State, must be freed from the sinister influence or control of special interests. Exactly as the special interests of cotton and slavery threatened our political integrity before the Civil War, so now the great special business interests too often control and corrupt the men and methods of government for their own profit. We must drive the special interests out of politics.”

We should insist that if the immigrant who comes here does in good faith become an American and assimilates himself to us he shall be treated on an exact equality with every one else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed or birth-place or origin.  But this is predicated upon the man's becoming in very fact an American and nothing but an American. If he tries to keep segregated with men of his own origin and separated from the rest of America, then he isn't doing his part as an American. There can be no divided allegiance here. . . We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language, for we intend to see that the crucible turns our people out as Americans, of American nationality, and not as dwellers in a polyglot boarding-house; and we have room for but one soul loyalty, and that is loyalty to the American people.

-Theodore Roosevelt - January 3, 1919 - Publicly read on January 5, 1919

Roosevelt passed the next day, January 6, 1919



“Every immigrant who comes here should be required within five years to learn English or leave the country.”



And, wouldn’t this apply to the keystone pipeline? –

“Here is your country. Cherish these natural wonders, cherish the natural resources, cherish the history and romance as a sacred heritage, for your children and your children's children. Do not let selfish men or greedy interests skin your country of its beauty, its riches or its romance.”

“Leave it as it is. The ages have been at work on it and man can only mar it.”

*

“In foreign affairs we must make up our minds that, whether we wish it or not, we are a great people and must play a great part in the world. It is not open to us to choose whether we will play that great part or not. We have to play it. All we can decide is whether we shall play it well or ill.”

“In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American... There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn't an American. We have room for but one flag, and that is the American flag… We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language... and we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the American people.”

“In this country we have no place for hyphenated Americans.”

Presidential thoughts and on leadership…

"Patriotism means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by the president or any other public official, save exactly to the degree in which he himself stands by the country. It is patriotic to support him insofar as he efficiently serves the country. It is unpatriotic not to oppose him to the exact extent that by inefficiency or otherwise he fails in his duty to stand by the country. In either event, it is unpatriotic not to tell the truth, whether about the president or anyone else.”

“People ask the difference between a leader and a boss ... The leader works in the open, and the boss in covert. The leader leads, and the boss drives.”

“The best executive is the one who has sense enough to pick good men to do what he wants done, and self-restraint to keep from meddling with them while they do it.”

“The things that will destroy America are prosperity at any price, peace at any price, safety first instead of duty first and love of soft living and the get-rich-quick theory of life.”

Yes, he had a lot to say.  Not everyone can agree on everything.  But, I am sure that Teddy would have rather a person support their position, firm in the knowledge of the situation, when not in agreement, than go along meekly, unwilling to effect change.
Our Politicians, by and large, have become what our founders intended that they NEVER become - De-facto Royalty.  They are our nations royals, holding themselves above those they are purported to represent.
The are so much so above us that they exempt themselves from laws of the land that we must abide.  They refuse to represent the people in seeking solutions for the good of the country and obscure that with making ovations to "be inclusive" of special interests.  What is good for one, is good for all - no longer matters, as our representatives have taken the power we gave them and twisted it.
Far to few to make the difference, those who would not conduct themselves as if a class above the People are unable to overcome.
I grew up on Long Island, not far from Teddy's house.  My son and grandsons call it just that - Teddy's house.  They have visited, played and learned there.  Though I was born long after he left this world, Theodore Roosevelt touched my life - in fact, all of our lives.  Strange that I should so miss someone I never knew.
Start with a fifty inch screen
Make it smart
Hook up the blue ray baby
Now plug in the BOSE SOLO lady!
7 seat sectional
Comforts seat for all I meet
or just to nap, stick up my feet
Have a loaded bar with drinks on call
It is legal here, so load the ****
And enjoy the new single life
All summer long~
I love the new washer and drier too ; )
Lucanna Dec 2014
I sit on my sectional, a witness
to those vulnerable beings
pulling at scarves,
yanking at gloves
clutching at down jackets
I find great entertainment by this.

They have waited until November
When I have resided in frost
since last October
All       year       long
I held onto turtlenecks of impulsive irony
I bore
thirteen layers exactly
of self pride
I wore gloves religiously
that were knitted out of masochism
and egocentrism
And I drank from cups of hot cocoa
brimmed with whipped irony
during the month of June
I was far to eager

Now these glorious beings
surround me
clinging to warmth and long john material,
sitting closest to the hearth

All I can do is laugh

I searched for a shell
in June
I decorated a tree of longing
in May
I reached for a fringing
frolicking
frock
in July
that would
:gasp:
keep me warm

Fahrenheit resided in
pelvic bone
fingerprints
desperado
and seduction

None of it warmed my bones.
Joe Wilson Sep 2014
There's something re-assuring about the tick of a clock
It counts off the moments and marks out the days
We know where we are and where we should be
It keeps the world moving without hesitancy.

But do we confine ourselves by wrapping in time
Are we constricted in this sectional way
What if we threw off the comfort of the norm
And took back the freedom of an old timeless form.

The world that we know would be drastically changed
Financial institutes would behave so deranged
Criminals would take over as 'opportunities' presented
Charlatans and fraudsters... - "The World Goes Demented".

So the thing that we find is 'there's no other way.'
We depend on the start and the end of each day
But if time stopped existing not one of us would care
We'd soon cease to function and then we wouldn't be there.

There's something re-assuring about the tick of a clock...



©Joe Wilson - The re-assuring clock...2014
Mote Nov 2014
I used to think everything meant something. Now I know the aorta can burst and mean nothing. Genius on silver-blue sand stars in **** ****, the feather bustier and nylon dreamlike; unafraid, my sister put chilis in her sweet tea. Finally back to the dingy sectional and I should be flipping out. I have a box of cigars from my old boss. Like me, he can't figure out what to write in the card. Like me he lies. I was dropped on my head a few times, I laugh. We are haunted. We're both boys playing baseball, but I kept trying to touch the basemen. Genius, abducted by bluegrey shellfish. I used geletin for the cytoplasm; cell splitting is easy, says my pregnant sister. Almost done, I can hear the radiator leaking if I try. I had my head in the lap of a new outlaw, reciting what I could remember of cummings buffalo bill tragedy. There was a gun under the seat and it was blue. The box of cigars was blue too.
Anais Vionet Nov 2022
Last night, Lisa, Peter, Leeza and I were in her father’s 50th floor study watching New York City. It’s a corner room with glass walls from floor to ceiling. He likes to watch the city himself and has a small, 5 seat sectional couch facing the view.

The left wall window looks across Hell’s Kitchen to exactly where Sully Sullenberger crash landed flight 1549 in the Hudson river (it was 3:31 pm and no one was home). The right window overlooks Central Park and Upper Manhattan. Lincoln Center, almost dead center of the corner, looks like part of a toy train-set.

The view is a wheeling, ever changing and mesmerizing panorama. Well lit ships, barges and boats move glacially against the ink black Hudson. Jets in expressway-like holding patterns (Newark Liberty, and Teterboro airports left window - LaGuardia, right window) blink, like waving angels, helicopters buzz below like insects and the traffic, far, far below, forms a living chain of red and white lights which can erupt with nugatory hues of police blue at any moment.

While we watch, we’re playing a game of “Would you rather.” It’s a game of situational trade-offs, like “Would you rather listen to the same 10 songs forever or have to watch the same 5 movies forever? Of course, most people say the movies - because they last longer and there would be fewer repeats.

We take turns asking these critical questions - pausing, occasionally, to point out things below.  
“Would you rather be in a crowded elevator with a bunch of noisy high school students or pinned in with a bunch of judgemental, middle aged men? The girls chose the students, even though high schoolers can be mean. Peter chose to be with the men.
“Would you rather find your true love or a suitcase with 5 million dollars?” We all chose love.
“Would you rather hike or camp?” Both were unpopular if they involved going to the bathroom outside - which creeps the girls out.
“Would you rather give up your computers or your pets (forever)?” THAT was a stressful one.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Nugatory: “of little or no consequence”

My movies: Clueless, Rushmore, Moonstruck, Shakespeare in love, Dr. Zhivago
Anonymous Aug 2015
I still do not know why you left the way you did. So quick, it was like I turned around for a second and you took it as your opportunity. But you couldn't see that when you left, you kicked up dirt from running away so fast. It got caught in my eye, and now I can't see the same.

I remember one night, we were up until 4:00 in the morning finishing my mothers jigsaw puzzle. It was set up on the dining room table where I sat, and you were standing on the very same chair I was sitting on. Hovering over me, you said it gave you a better view, I just thought it was going to **** your back being bent over the way you were tomorrow morning.  
We were silent, the only sound heard was the sound of your breathing and mine, occasionally matching in sync. You would stretch your arm above me to reach for a piece, and the other would rest itself on my head, gently scratching at my scalp, how soothing.
To any onlooking eyes, it would seem rather strange. The position we were in was in no way normal, but that's how most of our situations ended up being, far from it.
When we finally finished, after hours of contemplation on whether or not we should complete the task, and small remarks with giggles as responses, you stepped down from the chair and grabbed a glass of water as a token of victory, I still remember the way you smiled when you looked at the finished product.
We slept that night apart, but together. You were on one end of the sectional and I was on the other, because we were both too afraid of what the other might say. But right as I started to descend into sleep, you made your way to my end, laid behind me and whispered into my ear that I was great. It was bound to happen, we were like two magnets, always finding our way to each other.

But now it seems like we are the opposite ends, the magnets now fighting against each other, refusing to meet.
So I'm sitting here, a whole year later, finishing another puzzle that I didn't start, but this time I'm all alone. I can't seem to figure out how a picture distorted into 500 different pieces could make me so sad, but somehow it managed. This time you aren't here too encourage me to keep going even though it's 2 in the morning and I'm half asleep. Tonight I am not sleeping on my couch with you by my side and I do not have a stupid smile across my face. In fact, I can't remember the last time I did.

You ripped away from me, there were no more spontaneous texts letting me know you were stopping by, no more staying over late, and saying goodbye when the sun came up.
We were everything. We were Sunday brunches, we were midnight ice cream splurges, we were the song you blasted in your car driving down an empty road.

And now?
We are nothing .
It's all your fault, and only sometimes do I hate you for it.
Anais Vionet Nov 2021
I’m in the kitchen at Lisa’s. Her little sister Leeza enters, her pale, freckled face redder than usual. “Liza is the bossiest sister..,” Leeza says, slamming the cupboard door after grabbing a box of Fruity-Pebbles-cereal like she’s choking the life out of it.

Lisa enters from the hall, her jaw set with tension, she waves her “La Mer” makeup bag, wildly, letting its very existence, there in the kitchen, function as angry exposition. “YOU,” she practically screams and then shaking with outrage, she begins more calmly. “You can’t use someone else's makeup and ESPECIALLY not their brushes!!” She had begun under control but with each word her message grew emotionally.

“I didn’t hurt anything!” Leeza answered venomously back, giving as good as she got.

I lean with my **** against the waist high kitchen island, slowly letting myself slide down to where I’m not visible, into a sitting position on the floor, as the fight quickly escalates.

Have you ever been a guest somewhere, when there’s a sibling fight or other parents start yelling at a friend? All you can do is try and become invisible - or pretend to text on your phone like you can’t hear the turmoil.

I catch a motion out of the corner of my eye, it’s their mom, Karen, motioning me, with a side-bob of her head, into the living room. I quietly, crouchingly exit the kitchen - the fight reaching full, nuclear bloom.

I join her on a white sectional, breathing a sigh of relief. We’re far enough away from the action to feel uninvolved. I like Karen a lot. She's warm, open and always seems to be suppressing a smile when watching her girls. She’s a lawyer. “You’re officially part of the family,” she says, as she takes a sip of coffee, “they don’t fight in front of company.” I grin.

Somewhere just below the tumult, I hear a dad’s deep, male voice, “Excuse me?” he says, and the fight is instantly over. There is a moment of deafening quiet. “It’s NOTHING,” both girls say, a second later, in perfect, synchronized, bored-sounding unison.
sisters, what can you do?
Anais Vionet Feb 1
This was last Christmas - 39 days ago - doesn’t that seem like ancient history?
We were in Lisa’s (parent’s) 50th floor flat, in Manhattan. It was mid-morning, we’d done the present thing, and it was coffee time. At 42°, the city was surprisingly warm, drizzly, and the weather service had issued a dense fog alert.

I had wanted a white Christmas and there it was, about 20 stories below us, a vast, dense, whipped cream sea of white stretching off into the holiday. The fog's surface wrinkled gently in places, revealing glimpses of the Hudson River, like an artist's fleeting brushstrokes. The pea soup brume undulated, like lava or a living thing and reflected the murderous morning sun like a mirror, making it klieg-light bright. Glare gives me headaches, so I had to avoid looking at it.

Lisa (one of my college roommates), her little (14-year-old) sister Leeza and I were spread out, under beige, vicuña throws, on one angle of their huge, white sectional couch and Lisa’s grandparents were nestled on the other.

A ‘Style Council’ playlist was playing on the room's sound system. Leeza had picked it and it was a great groove.
When “The Story of Someone’s Shoe’ ended, Lisa said. “That song’s so beautiful, honestly, it’s really lovely.”
“On God,” I agreed, (I’d introduced Leeza to ‘the Style Council’ last fall).
When Leeza said, “I forced you guys to like it, and now you do,” I just rolled my eyes.
“Well, your taste is usually so awful,” Lisa pointed out.
“My taste doesn’t need targeting here,” Leeza said defensively.

We all had our tech out - we young-ins were on our laptops; the grandparents were deep into their phones.
“I need to pick an elective,” I said, scrolling through the class catalog, “any ideas?”
“I took psyc 275 last term,” Lisa offered.
“Learn anything interesting?” I asked.
“Well, apparently Freud’s mom was hot,” Lisa said, distractedly focused on her laptop.

A moment later Lisa reported, “Texas Republicans are banning books about *******, because who does THAT anymore?”
“Women are getting ******-on by Republicans,” Leeza pronounced, and her grandma flinched as if slapped.
“Revelations,” I agreed. “We’re definitely getting ******-on by republicans,” Lisa undogged, while stretching.
“I think Republicans are the American Taliban,” Leeza pronounced, as if she spoke for all of Gen-Z.
“It’s a continuous topic on campus,” Lisa acknowledged.
“I’m not ON campus,” Leeza reminded us.

For a hot minute, no one said anything.. then.

“This is just my year, of, like, realizing stuff,” Leeza said.
“Oh, she’s realizing stuff,” Lisa moaned in fake sympathy.
“Her tenets are forming,” I commented dryly, like a news reporter.
“A year of realizing.”  Leeza reiterated urgently, like that was forEVER.
Then, refocusing on her laptop, she said, “I’m picking a song!” and ‘Water’ by ‘Tyla’ began playing.

Our solitude is always set to music.
(*BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Tenets: principles, doctrines and beliefs*)
Sometimes Starr Feb 2023
Perambulation's a grotesque crack on gravity--
Bending knees sending us sideways into turns and eddies..

Aloof, you say it's comical
With your gilded expression and clever slights of motion.

But here, I see you narrowing
Stuck in my awkward corner of Society
Pinned between dimensions in the grand scheme of things
I am the backside of the deal
The marriage of bone marrow
And death's razor
Bubbling around you,
All the lysing parasites and wasting nutrients
All the questioned purpose and reeling emotion
I will serve you greatly
Or else, slough the rind of flesh

There, I see you walking
Hooked on destination
Pretty Christmas bauble, seething
Jewel of my surprise.
FinkZ Aug 2018
Don’t know where should I go
And I don’t think I cared anymore
Wide opened sectional
With a standby plotter
A flight computer
And a pencil

But no line was drawn
My plotter became useless
I let my Cessna flew by his own
And he followed where the wind blew

I noticed
The wind pushed me to that same airport
The same runway I tried to avoid
It's like faith
The further I go
The stronger the wind blows
Or it's just my crazy theory
Or maybe my mind plays tricks on me

I’m lost in the nowhere’s skies
And I still found her
No matter how far I fly
The wind leads me to her
The next part from the poem titled "Divert" by me.
Yes, to be really honest I'm still having a problem moving on from her.
Anais Vionet Aug 2020
(a flash fiction piece)

My brother (Brice) left university, 6 months ago, like millions of other students, to shelter from COVID. After years away Mr. Annoying was back in MY world, bickeringly close and way too frequently in my business - like some half-assed adult (he just turned 22).

As school planning recently started though, I awoke one night, unnerved at the thought that he might be leaving. It was a shocking awakening to how much I need him, draw strength from him and shelter in his lee. The heart-wrenching realization of how much I would miss him was breathtaking, like that Disney ride where they suddenly drop you seven stories. I bit off half my fingernails before I finally fell asleep. =/

In the clear light of morning, it's obvious that he’ll leave again at some point and I'm dreading it now that it's flagged my awareness - and I face him with a whole new, creepy appreciation.

Yesterday afternoon...
Brice is on the sectional, with a bowl of pretzels, watching some BORING documentary.
I sneak up behind him and take his drink off the side table.
I plop down next to him - very close, I squeeze next to him, hard, like there’s no other room on the huge sectional. He gives me the side eye.
Me: “What??”
After a few minutes he reaches for his drink to find it missing - he looks around, then at me.
Me: With a mouth full of pretzels, “What??”
He gets up to find his drink (which I put in the kitchen) and that takes about 20 seconds.
While he’s gone, I change the channel to “Miraculous Ladybug”, my favorite cartoon.
When he comes back we wrestle for the remote - it takes him a couple of minutes but he’s too strong and as he begins winning, I yell, “MOM!!, Brice is hurting me!” (which was cruelly ignored).
He finally gets the remote and back to his show - I straighten my hair, out of breath, and wonder how long it will take him to realize the pretzels are missing.
brothers - annoying but loveable
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
orthography implies: a word, yet diacritics implies letters, and ιota is the perfect example of an unnecessary diacritical misapplication, notably observed in a language that observes orthography: which is non-existent in english: which is still to untangle from the latin graphemes ae & oe; english hasn't untangled itself from the grapheme modus operandi: which is why LL TT NN OO GG PP: pull fattening manner pool bigger popping - invite the stutter!

- a word is worth is its orthography -
    yet there is absolutely no need to indicate
the letters I & J with a lower-case diacritical branding:
because suddenly one of the letters disappears!

                        i.e. with i = ι, j = ī

  a letter disappears!
             and people thought that quantum
physics was bewildering...
         because there is no ****** reason
to apply diacritical marking on a phonetic
mark that's already a "solipsistic" unit...
         a saying revealed by:

                     ιota = ιgrek in the north...
               | = . because what is 1 squared?
1... what's 1 cubed? 1. what's 1 to the power
            of 10? 1.

glitches glitches glitches glitches
glitches glitches glitches glitches
twitching twitching twitching twitching
glitches glitches glitches glitches

- only yesterday i was in a supermarket
      and met a fellow traveller:
a distant kin, whom i might have
    shared a native conversation with...
point being: i could spot a language
behind the "faςade" of accent...
   call that quasi s?
   a word sprang to mind -
                  
ziomek,
a slang among immigrants denoting:
a fellow of shared roots.
yet that morphed into an:
orthographic anomaly -
      why does the i and j need diacritical
marks when there are
exceptions to be made: otherwise?
   you know how easily
  you can write *ziomek

   differently while still retaining
the word and it's meaning?
                        źomek:
because the diacritical mark ****
of ιota is just that...
              the unholy umlaut of
i & j...
               | and .
                          are already synonymous:
they're not inter-sectional akin
to the illiterate signature of X...
why was it so hard to make a mark by
a mere I... instead marking
a count to 10? ah... in Kantian terms:
0 = negation...
                well: the 1 is to be denied.
Renard Jackson Mar 2016
Night lingers with constant ravaging through the kitchen and impatiently flickering channels because of commercials
In spite of the fatigue feelings mixed with the funny noises coming from hunger pains
I am not In a bad mood cause I am broke, in distraught or because I can only afford rent due to my minimum wage job washing dishes stationed in a one room shack apartment
Stuck in the house need to get out more wanting issues without discussions fascinated by what I can't have enclosing my day with a infested bus ride back to my urban sectional neighborhood  what am accustomed to living a lifestyle fighting more than rats and roaches
Survival is the most important part of the breakfast next to acknowledgement that nothing can become something cherishing food and shelter because walking on the streets and pockets on empty force decision to do hand-to-hand work predicaments leaves you in a state of unravelling thinking of your next move or not thinking
Questioning the obvious Wishing though there is nothing wrong with wanting
A Christian, but broke, and a 5th of gin will make a Man sin
Becoming a product of my environment leaving it to be a statistic in this society as a black man in poverty
#realistic #thoughts #initiatives #citric
Amanda Pringle Apr 2020
Brookyln Nine-Nine flashes across the screen of my laptop
I wonder if this show makes you  think about me

Because even the obnoxious theme song reminds me of

That oversized, purple couch I will never sit on again ,
The Christmas tree you hosted in your living room until March,
Or the pictures that your daughter drew, strung up on the wall next to the sign you bought reading
“You Are My Sunshine”

I wonder if you ever bought that gray sectional,
Or put the tree up extra early this year
Or moved that sign to your daughter’s bedroom door

Every cheesy one-liner Andy Samberg says
Leaves the words you left lonely
In the back of my head.

You were right, that night
When I drove south to a familiar nowhere
To see an open door with your lopsided grin.
You were right,
I think I did love you.

I promised myself I would not let the memory of you ruin this television show.

But I find it hard to watch,
I find it hard to think,
I find it hard to know that I must coincide with the inability to know
how you are
or who you are
Anymore.

Rumors tell me about the weight you’ve lost,
And how the speckled gray now covers nearly all of your freshly shaven head.

I know that your skin would not have slowed to wrinkle with mine,
but I cannot help but roam around the unknown of you and I.




Our episodes did not end
With a bittersweet goodbye or a tragic farewell,
The cliffhanger too skewed to draw conclusions from
A forgettable ending to a promising pilot.

We were not a series.
I did not make the finale.
Life is not a network sitcom
I cannot watch the scenes of your life that proceed without me

As much as I want,
Your existence didn’t cease when your credits rolled to me.
And with every memorable scene we did share,
I am thankful that it did not broadcast on NBC.
Universe Poems Apr 2022
Love = Q
Living = A
One  = v
Vision = Q
For = A
Eternity = v

Q = v A
Q    =    volumetric flow rate
v    =    flow velocity v
A    =    cross-sectional vector area

So, we get a new formula for the volume flow rate Q = A v Q=Av Q=AvQ, equals, A, v that is often more useful than the original definition of volume flow rate because the area A is easy to determine.

© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney
bisexual 1. having the ****** of both sexes. Cf. "ambisexual."   2. hermorphrodite. [Fr. p. 204 of “Dorland's Illustrated Medical Dictionary, Twenty-Fifth Edition,” © 1974 by W.B. Saunders Company]

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