Red state, Blue state. Who’s W.H.O.? So few faces in this new state. Blues hate Reds cos blue say reds ate Orange kool-aid. but the smoothies & shakes blue snowflakes make are from the same tube of Orange juice. War on news. Orange you glad he didn’t say war on Juice? What would Warren choose? Buy gold and invest in purple.
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 12:39 AM UTC
I tried to write a poem for the moon.
I searched the earth for
words worth wooing you.
I made some pretty phrases for your face and your phases,
and thought I’d said it all.
But I’ve said nothing, because
Earth words won’t work.
I’ve just made a pile of noise from stupid earthling dirt.
I sent the pile into space, fueled by foolish grins, and waited (with pride!) for tides to bring you in.
My words were just quiet, colored dust against your atmosphere.
My grins and smiles can’t carry those dusty piles of
Noise into the wind
hard or far enough to make you near.
So I must DO.
To make a journey to the moon, I’ve got to makes some moves
instead of barking at your light.
I’ll start with exercise,
building thighs and biceps to
climb the skies
between
you and I.
Keeping shoulders wide so if
You light my planet up
I’ll keep you up at night.
Then I’ll scan by hand your every surface, where rough meets smooth, where your smooth keeps on going,
and where your toughs meet your trues.
I won’t leave it to my luck to have
my love
reach the moon.
I’ll learn how soft and where to land.
I’ll learn how strong you are and when
I need to have plan.
When to take my helmet off
when you need me
to be a man.
So, as moons do, if you get blue
I’ll have found and know and own
the fastest way
to get myself to you.
Next I’ll find out every
stone that broke
your heart,
every rock that smashed your sides
(starting with my pride) and make them pay for not watching their orbits.
I’ll clear the way and make the oceans do three quarters worth of work.
they keep the rhythm while you dance around the Earth.
If the sun
falls behind your time,
I’ll fire that ball of fire,
float around and put up flyers,
and find another star to make you shine.
Now, If I ever prove to be a
man who got the moon
I’ll still fill my pockets with dusty piles
Of favorite words
From Earth
every time I visit you.
And when I know I’m close
-it’s when my smile beams in your beams-
I’ll ignite those words I’ve gathered and shower you with comets upon comets of compliments.
Over time, in walking your valleys,
Napping in and mapping your grooves,
throwing comets at your craters, and
Staring at you
Through the roof;
One day those marks start shifting into the words I made sure to do.
At midnights and sometimes noons
They’ll see me from the Earth
Sifting out your smile, glowing in your dunes.
Written on your face in shiny piles,
“This Man Is Over The Moon.”
Jul 16, 2021
Jul 16, 2021 at 5:46 AM UTC
When monsters fall in love, do they leave their ways behind them?
or terrorize towns hand in hand?
Do they still open tops of buildings like giant jars of jam
with giddy smiles striking fear for miles around them?
Will they still pick planes from the sky? Or just the crust from their lover's cloudy eyes?
Do their mangled hearts become manicured?
With razor claws brushing wretched jaws,
will children hear them making out in closets?
Will they huff and puff at armies, or yell sweet nothings to pass the time?
Their passion would be fascinating, making love while making masses fear their wrath.
And maybe if we're lucky, we'll see two monsters in the park--
with lipless mouths and fighting tongues--
showing us a love so stark, it would be a first to be given hope
by such vile a folk.
For there's a chance for all of us, if even monsters fall in love.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC
He lumbers, he doesn't sashay.
Aware enough to catch a 'think-fast' pass.
He's an analog man, and not a soothe-sayer.
He was a zen buddhist, and a nudist whose wardrobe was air.
He always wanted kids but could never think of names.
His truth is so spreadable it's incredible
His credit's so meddled with it's debtable.
He moves peanuts under walnut shells,
less talented than critical.
With passion like the hypnotized
limits were his starting lines
He was never very impressed with things,
would say 'ignorance doesn't exonerate’—He broke alot of hearts and earned alot of parking fines—‘Income doesn't make the man' unless its not coming in.
His only wish was for a time machine;
He could be ambassador to the past.
he could relive his endings
without missing anything
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 3:53 AM UTC
Somewhere, a turtleneck is missing its girl.
A flute polishes its pearls.
A star is resisting imploding, pulling
her paths into his roads.
Just to cross and not too close.
Inches from freckles forever
in view, Sad eyes are made
lighter than blue.
If Fantasy looms, it’s because he’s
standing on a pedestal.
He’s selling notions to buy an ocean—
somehow he believes:
If this man is an island,
She might be the sea.
He could feel the dips and sit
within the swells.
He buys a notion from and for himself
And, as he unfolds his pleats,
he yells,
‘We All Have
clean sheets and dusty shelves.’
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:42 AM UTC