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Sep 2014 · 817
night out
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
A reflection
of melted mascara,
glazed eyes,
and motorcycle hair
in the bathroom mirror
realized,
Cupid doesn't work here.
He doesn't shoot arrows
to women on barstools.
Guys might shoot darts,
but only to nail a red dot.

So she ubered home.
Sep 2014 · 1.3k
longing
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
Hairs raised in
San Francisco
wind open windows;
purple clouds
promise a damp
cityscape before
daybreak.
Sep 2014 · 455
I know
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
I know why girls travel in packs —
it's to prevent unwanted attacks
from losers in bomber jackets.
Sep 2014 · 1.5k
New York means work.
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
They throw down cash,
throw back shots, and
throw me business cards
at lunch break —
Sardines wearing
headphones who ride the
same express train
everyday,
in between sardines
wearing headphones
who ride the same express train
everyday,
in between sardines
wearing headphones
who ride the same express train
that stops at Lincoln
and Broadway,
everyday.
Wasting Brooklyn nights
for noisey lights till trash time.
Stinky sticky street
walk home past
empty bars
to Hugo meowing
down the door
for new litter.
*But I am so tired.
New York means work.
Sep 2014 · 4.4k
survival of the fittest
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
The definition of evolution
is survival of the fittest,
or those that fit best
in their environment,
even if its air
is hydrogen
they breathe it and
strain polluted water
for particulates.
The atmosphere's
clogged with smog
and greenhouse gases
I have not evolved
to breathe yet.
Flames melt my
soul for consciousness.

The world is a
popularity contest,
and I just don't fit in.
Sep 2014 · 1.9k
a hot commodity
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
salt stings soldiered eyes streaming
i am not crying —
just releasing a weekend of wine and Netflix,
a relapse i can't admit
when people ask what I did last weekend.
Muscles burning in the agony,
their capability
long squandered,
by lazy nights and wine.
Monkey mind zombied to flashes of LED light.
Docile strides to somewhere I have to be.
oh TV, you are so tempting to a binger like me.
I think about the last episode
when I should think about the road,
leading to my forgotten sanctuary,
where limbs stretch, teachers chant krishna
and rub students with essential oils.
But as I listen to the
sitar in shavasana,
interrupted
by iPhone rings,
teacher grasps the money
from the donation box greedily.
I feel slightly annoyed,
but mostly pity —
three students
thirty five dollars
for an hour.
But I think
this is what happens when
yoga becomes a
commodity.
Like TV — a fix,
not a spiritual experience.
So we'll pay the minimum,
or stream it illegally.
different needs.
Sep 2014 · 925
I'm addicted
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
Netflix brain ticks
Shoulda woulda
day fix.
Netflix frys my brain.
Sep 2014 · 2.0k
cultural corridor
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
concrete shades the yellow-lighted symphony.
The peso-heavy take taxis;
security valets motors steaming castle gates.
I ask, which way is the 158?
Indifferent, they say, walk straight neath the freeway
there is a bus stop two blocks away.

****.
****.
****.

Clocktower hands transpose Cindarella-brick
to embers of electricity,
a factory aside scrawled graffiti;
fingers timidly ricket pitchfork fences.
Palermo is 11 km north.
Where is the north star?

I look straight ahead, repeating what
the travel blogs said like,
Be lost, don’t look lost;
flappy plastic maps scream vulnerability.
Be lost, not rich;
iPhones in gotham alleys are batman signals.
Walk fast.
Don’t pay attention to the eyes that pass.
Careless ponytails and brass hair attract
glances back.

Two blocks deep into the homeless shelter
beneath freeways, blankets
in shopping carts toppled over,
cars screaming away the symphony
into shadowed silence between heels striking.
Tunnel breath emerging on the other side,
gasping past stacked Jenga towers,
wired with antennas and empty clotheslines;
families and crack ****** sleep inside.
Safety’s herd thins as  couples dart left down
cobblestone tributaries
that either lead to bus stops or parked cars.
I walk straight ahead with
sleeve-covered hands that swing like sticks
in the wind.
The symphony turns to
heartbeats and footsteps
plucking quickly;
fearing the 180 behind,
to zombies with sunken eyes,
thirsty for a thirty-cent high.
True story walking  at night in La Boca, one of Buenos Aires' most crime-ridden neighborhoods. Bless the soul who gave me bus fare back to Palermo.
Sep 2014 · 2.1k
data's equation
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
humans
calculating data about humans
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=

calculating humans.
Data-based personalization promises to solve many of humanity's problems, but also threatens to simplify and homogenize the code by how we live.

What do ya'll think about this?
Sep 2014 · 2.5k
Is this all there is?
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
My mom offers me a bowl of oatmeal she cooked at seven.
It is eight.
Sitting on the stove, it looks clumpy and cold —
a mash drowning raisins.
I pretend like I don’t see it.
But it calls my name as I start my day,
even though it looks repulsive
and I have avoided oatmeal since college.
I toast some bread.

She glances over the counter to see if I am paying attention  —
a reflex from my childhood.

Because as a child, 
my parents said I had selective attention. —
sometimes I listened and other times I didn’t.
When they got divorced, it got worse.
I was distracted by the bristle of my dad's 5 o’clock shadow
and the sigh in my mom's voice when they asked me
separately,

What time I needed to leave?
and
If all my stuff was packed?

But all  I kept thinking was:

Is that all there is?

You get married, get divorced, and cart around your kids.

The thought of swallowing this is repulsive.
like leftover oatmeal,  it stares me in the face.
I don't want it.
Most girls I know are raisins —
They already have their whole
wedding planned on Pinterest,
and their kids names picked out.
Everytime, I  see engagements on FB,
I can't help but forsee divorce
and I wonder why people run for a
partner, kids, and a mortgage,
when in college their
ambitions were more.
I wonder when their
mid-life crisis will be,
or when they'll wake up
and want more than
9 to 5 to fulfill a lie
patriarchy put forth.

So I spread peanut butter on  toast and
murmur, “I put the oatmeal in the fridge — someone will eat it.”
My mom puts her head down and finishes her coffee.
I eat my peanut butter sandwich.
I am stuck trying to answer an impossible question,
as she begins sentences like
"Once you get settled,
you'll want to look for someone..."
I tune out.
I don't have selective attention,
just the perception that
everyone is ignoring
this important question:

*Is that all there is?
Confessions of a jaded millennial
Sep 2014 · 3.4k
no gymnastics for six weeks.
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
The badge of pride as a ******* in high school
was dunking your inflamed limbs
into an ice bucket for 20 minutes,
in Mr. Dewey’s office —
the school trainer AND
every girl's crush.

I always wanted  someone to pour
ice water over my sores,
and ****** always being healthy enough
as Jess told the teacher loudly enough
that she hurt her ankle at track AGAIN
needed to see Dewman.
Guess they were best friends now.
****

When I fractured my back, I didn’t even get a doctor's note.
Because I wasn’t on a school team.
I was a gymnast for an outside club, not high school varsity.
My high school had disbanded the gymnastics team in the 70’s.
Said it was too much of a liability.
The last team picture hung in the award cases on the first floor.
I wished I could be one among those vintage leotards,
framed in gold — the warriors of high school.
Most of my classmates didn’t know I even did a sport.
They just thought I was a bookworm who was flat-chested.
Only the girls poked my abs in the locker room,
asking how I got them.

So I iced my wounds at home.
I didn’t even know my back was broken
and for a month I drank ibuprofen.
Sharp pains biting more frequently,
I finally went to the doctor.
The nurse asked me if I wanted to look
while she injected me with an isotope that
poisoned my dreams of finishing the season.
Green neon lit my bones, shedding the diagnosis —
no gymnastics for six weeks.

At school, I dressed to fit my backbrace:
baggy t-shirts and sweatpants.
My straightener rusted.
Messy buns took precedence.
I tried to go to practice, but my coaches told me to leave.
But I had no where to be!
And I had no friends at school.
My only friends I watched get awards,
not registered, but wearing my warmups.
I swore how I could beat the competition from the stands.
Stupid back.
Stupid Christine.
Stupid me.
I should have never done that 1 1/2 twist front flip series.
Poor bones landing on hard carpet repeatedly,
I ignored the jolts as static electricity.

Now everyone was working on new skills
and I could barely do a cartwheel.
That summer we had lots of pool parties —
but I couldn’t dive in.
So I sat on the ledge,
feet dipped in, while everyone played chicken.

— — —

After six weeks of recovery,
I start jogging.
I did a roundalf,
then a backhandspring.
That night I was so sore —
my memory of skills strong, but
my muscle memory poor.
Each stride into a tumbling pass felt like running in a pool.
Some days I felt like sprinting down the tumble-track
Other days I wanted to bounce on my back,
stare at the ceiling, and feel each node of impact.

Recovery day was my coach laying down a mat.
Today was the day I’d repeat the skill that broke my back.
I took a deep breathe and three long steps
into the first part of the tumbling pass:
roundoff,
backhandspring,
back layout one-and
a-half twist, front flip
stuck into a step.
My coaches cheered and
my friends clapped.

I was back.

Yes.

I was back.
Sep 2014 · 1.4k
The wrong way.
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
After* he bought drinks

in spite of your protests

before you could say no

because you were too drunk

until you felt numb.
Prepositions aren't reasons. They just locate us in space and time.
Sep 2014 · 11.8k
These are all direct quotes
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
I like your eyes.
Your eyes are so blue.
God, I just love your eyes.
Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?
Nope. Never.
You’re a great kisser.
Where did you learn to kiss like that?
From other guys?
You know, you're smart.
You might be smarter than me.
Is that my cue to leave?
You want to hang out?
What do you want to do?
You eat meat, right?
Ok — good.
Would you dump me if I didn’t?
I like your shirt — it’s open in the back.
Really? I wasn’t aware.
I looove your ***. It’s just like mmmm (cups imaginary ***)
Yea. I know.
(After ***) Wow. I feel great.
Cool. Thanks.
(After ***) You finished right?
Nope.
You are so young.
*Hmm, what happens when I get old?
Guys — step up and be men please.
Sep 2014 · 3.8k
Next
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
women: swipe left guys
who compliment your blue eyes.
they are cataracts.
Creativity takes effort. Compliments don't. Write me a f***in poem.
Aug 2014 · 2.5k
Off-season
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Dominoes
tumble sunk
chests respiring

Olas.
Olas.
Olas.


Short boards
spiral; foam
chaoes closing

Olas.
Olas.
Olas.


howls
swell purple;
storm out slowly

Olas.
Olas.
Olas.


Wet suits
pepper
whitewash winter.

*Olas.
Olas.
Olas.
A surf-town in off-season.
Aug 2014 · 1.0k
Celia
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
If Rihanna and Bob Marley had a baby,
it would be her. She was as fierce as peace can be.
Born in the suburbs, I had never seen
coffee-colored rastas with caramel tips,
pulled back from a shaven head
into a ponytail.
She skated in an oversized hoodie
across San Marcos square — a watering hole for
porteños playing hippie.
Mad man strummed ukuleles wildly;
couples dancing interpretively; jugglers rode on unicycles,
as if they were all training for a jester convention.
Still, I couldn’t tear my eyes from her
broken strands tied in knots swinging freely.

Her sea-foam stare met my blue gaze.
I looked like a dork; my hair plastered
and sweaty. I wore a black tank top,
waiting for another bus to another city.

She dismissed her band of perros
and grasped my hand, asking me
if I wanted to sleep by the river with her.
It was late so I said yes.
We walked from the yellow lights
of the town square.
She grimaced.

No more bones for starving dogs.

I wasn’t starving, just lost,
a traveler,
dried from a bucketful of adventures,
I dreaded repeating as empty stories
over
and
over
and
over.


O Celia,
you were a coyote wearing a hoodie;
no one could tame you, refracted by the white
light of the moon that embraced each
of your steps by the shrubbery-ridden riverside.
I stumbled as we approached
an embankment sheltered by magic trees,
the glistening water chilled waves to perked ears;
reflections of villagers, we pitched tents together,
tipi-ed by the ritual
of finding niche in transition.
You built the fire; I prepared the mate;
your weary locks whispered callejero wisdom.
Your stories were everything I wanted to say,
but too timid to be.

You were dancing in my basement,
bathing in moonlight *******,
unashamed to say how good the water felt.
You probably lost your virginity in your tent;
shadows of leaves shaking a disturbed night,
unlike I, crying, semi-drunk, wishing I hadn’t.

You actually played the guitar;
you bought it yourself;
it was tied to the skateboard
you drug behind on open roads.
I got a guitar for my birthday after
watching Lindsay Lohan be a rockstar in a movie once.
I was inspired to play for a while.
Then it just sat in my room.

So you taught me your favorite song, Legalizenla
We didn’t even have a porro — you wished we did.
But all I wanted was to memorize those chords
So you listened to me play them out of tune for hours,
pressing my fingers on the fretboard like butter.
Strums shuddered my soul.
You wrote the lyrics in my journal
with the note, con mucho amor.

Now, each time I dust off my guitar,
I warm up with that song  
to remember your vibrations.
Honest opinions here? What do ya'll think?
Aug 2014 · 24.3k
Digital masterbation.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Had you a viral video,
you’d watch it
more than once.

2. Instagram hearts
make you smile,
even from strangers.

3. Which would
you rather:
***
or
Zuckerberg
friending you
on Facebook.

No, this isn’t a Cosmo quiz —
it’s a social experiment.

Because no one ACTUALLY
answers these questions honestly
without looking like
that ****** at the pool
trying to get as MANY
high fives as possible.

Yet, we all do it.
Alone or in public.
Day or night.
LED screen spice up our lives.

It was probably
best embodied
by that girl taking
selfie
after  
selfie
after
selfie
after
selfie,
filmed for minutes
on the way to school,
the video soon posted,
by her dad
trying to teach  her a lesson?
Or trying to get attention?
Either way, he might as
well have hashtagged it
#socialsuicide.

Like most humor
we laughed at her
because we are her.
We see a dripping
characterture
******* to
itself in public.

Wait, it,
sounds wrong
when you name it.

But there is
a name for it:

Digital *******,
aka
Self-adoration
aka
Narcississism.

You won’t agree
that you do it too.

But I’ll bet
most of you
get excited
thinking about
notifications too.

Why is that?

You’d never admit it.

You can say
I smelt it, so I dealt it.
Call me a preacher,
a hater, or a hypocrit.

But I'd rather you call me a
digital masterbater too.

And then remember the last
time you opened Instagram
or Facebook
or Twitter
and took a selfie
or hashtagged something
or posted a status
that your still breathing.

How long has it been —
a minute, an hour, a day?

Now try making fun of her.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Most of us are poor
when it comes
to the currency
of retweets.

We are unworthy,
at the bottom
of the Twitter feed,
Swimming in a stream
littered with what is trending.
Rafting whitewater
every time BuzzFeed tweets:

Follow
the bouncing lamb
Vine account
immediately.


Bots multiply:
I want a #lamb
and we're
drowning.

CHOO CHOO!
It’s moving.
QUICK. JUMP ON,
the steamboat
of salacious content
is
LEAVING.

I say:
Let's fight the current;
Stop being
slaves to click-bait;
Start a revolution with
140 characters.

@KarlMarx
Topple the Verified Twitter users.
I'm actually serious.
Aug 2014 · 878
Bred in captivity
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
They call me Subject B.

Belly full with the pills
they fed me, still hungry,

legs pumping
to pendulum this swing,

inside a playground
that ignores my miming,

shrieking and throwing feces,
at hairless beings who nox me.

Dreaming of melting
the swing's chain, I fly
feet dangling over
cages of sick chimpanzees,
to a distant galaxy
that grows banana trees.

Awaken I see
empty syringes strewn
outside the crisscrosses
of my cage, trenchcoats
storm like flurries.
I still cannot read my nameplate.

I hope on my swing,
pumping my legs
back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth —
glassy eyes watering.
Aug 2014 · 1.0k
If apples could speak
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
If apples could speak,
they'd learn as buds
that all fruit are doomed.

A crisp history
would tell of countless
apples fallen,
their seeds sowed
in doubt and ****.

The sob story
of falling down
would rain existence
fruitless
for branch hangers
waiting to be picked.

If apples could speak,
one might finally
look up and ask,

"Why doesn't the moon fall?"

sowing the need for
fruit to orbit trees,
like fleshy moons,
tiny but immune.
they would bend gravity.
Aug 2014 · 2.3k
wormhole
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
particles
bend in tune
time tubes.
words play.
Aug 2014 · 1.4k
Lavender Haze (rewrite)
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Every night,
L.A. lights
watercolor
the starry night
a lavender haze,
that peeps through
drawn blinds of
mingy minds,
cushioned in cream.

Like
sirens soothe
deaf ears
liquor tickles
numb tongues,
and
pizza sates
greased guts,
pollution’s hue
clears consciousness,

letting a city sleep.
What do you all think of this rewrite as compared to the first version?
Aug 2014 · 534
formula for disaster?
Irate Watcher Aug 2014

                                       s
                                      e
                 ­                    m
                                      e
   ­                                   r
                            ­          t
                                      x
             ­                         e      
                                ­    to    
                                men    
                              m a d     
                          c h a s e     
              a m b i t i o n s     
e  x  p  o n  e  n  t i  a  l
Aug 2014 · 13.8k
silent dystopia
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
When the
mess bred
by ancient
logicians
is put to rest
and we dicover:
The chicken
and the egg
hatched
in two
different
places at
the same time;
Love was
an inverse
relationship
between lust
and time;
Infinity was
a universe
we couldn't see.

Will conversation
cease?

Will silence
replace
speech?

Will the larynx
become a vestige?

How will
we debate
the notes
that compose
silence?
Aug 2014 · 996
networking.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
I’m sorry
my job
does not
seem
important.

But we are
different
species
of insect
that bite:
a honey
bee and
a gadfly.

one defends
the hive —
its
reason
to survive.
the other feeds
directly
from the
blood of life.

Nice to
meet you.
Sorry for
*******
away
your time.
minor differences
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
s u n
and
e a r t h

e
d                                c
e                        ­                    l
s                                 i
p

tired of fighting
over the

m o o n.
Resolution
Aug 2014 · 1.8k
Happy Birthday to me.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Today, people remind me
that I'm only 23,
which means,
young,

but getting old.

Still living in my
parents' home.
Doing what I want,
not what I'm told.

Wishing a salary
and cocktails at five
didn't sublime
the rest of my kind:

WORKERS
OF THE WORLD
who UNITE drunk
and dissatisfied.

Happy Birthday to me

Tell my boss
that his work
is no longer
for me.

Because I am not
a salesman to artists' dreams.
I am not
a collector of rappers,
displaying them
as one of many.
I am not
a puppeteer
tangling human beings
into commercial machines.

I am a poet.
I untangle strings,
and out of the mess,
create beautiful things.

Happy Birthday to me

Spoon honey
into coffee,
sweeten the daze
of a disturbed sleep.
I write the day
shamelessly,
after my cousin
texts me to ask
what I'm doing,
ASSUMING...

I'm planning a party maybe
starving myself into
a tight dress to
peacock my
mom's
delivery.
How can I explain
that writing poems and
eating cake are better presents for me?

Happy Birthday to me

Thank my parents
for supporting me.
Tell them I am happy
to veer from what
I was expected to be.
Ask them to defend
my insane belief that
people would ever pay
to read poetry.
Promise them,
I will make my passion
a career opportunity.

Or I will try,
until I don't breathe.


Because
half-*** attempts
at 23,
sow regrets
at 40.
And 23 years ago,
they bore me —
an infant
meant to be free.

Today,
I am still breathing.

Today,
I have friends
who support me. 

 Today,
I have a day
and a night
to live my dream.

And that's all I need.

Happy Birthday to me

I am 23.

And after nearly,
a quarter of a century,
I have finally found
my therapy;
My reason:
To be.
To breathe
the world,
I see not,
Death
Fear
or
Responsibilities

but

Life,
Love,
a­nd
  **Poetry.
Today I turned 23. This is my birthday present to myself. :)
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
O Debussy,
I run home from the bar
to hear the sssssound
of those sssssyllables
inciting
the ripplesssss of
fingersssss that will
ssssshudder my
sssssheltered sssssoul.
Your soul
too beautiful to write
but a *******,
I must try...

BRUCE LIKES TO **** SO YOU SHOULD BUY HIS BOOK.
AUDIBLE, AN AMAZON COMPANY.
indecipherable terms and conditions

SHUT THE **** UP SPOTIFY.
I'M TRYING TO WRITE.

Ahh.
That's better.

O Debussy,
your accents strike
me like the moon,
Clair De Lune.
Shine your genius
upon me and
light my way
forward through
the next bus ride.
I will imagine the
silver grass pastures
that inspired you,
through the ***** window
that inspires me,
with buildings.
more buildings.
still more buildings.

Wow. These cheap headphones
really corrupt Reverie...
you must have sounded
awesome live,
at the piano,
by your side....

AT SQUARE SPACE WE BELIEVE IN THE CREATIVE ABILITY OF THE INDIVIDUAL...

Then SHUT THE **** UP
and let me write.

O Debussy,
your chords set
free souls  —
caged birds that **** less.
Well souls don't **** at all,
but that isn't the point.
But seriously you...

HELLO SPOTIFY USER. WE HOPE WE ARE ANNOYING THE **** OUT OF YOU AND THAT YOUR  DAY IS AWESOME. GO PREMIUM. :)

I give up. Debussy, you're great.
I ****.
Inspirational music with commercials plagues the writer who claims she is too poor to buy a subscription or the actual tracks.
Aug 2014 · 518
Close the tab Pt. II
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
What kind of server
scribbles haiku's on receipts?
A deprived poet.
See Close the tab.
Aug 2014 · 2.6k
Sick simile.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Writing is like Ebola.
I consume it.
It consumes me.
Ok, I'll stop now.
Aug 2014 · 3.0k
You are art.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Humor is funny,
because it is SO true.
Pop is a tune
because it rings true.
But art inspires
because it catches you


offguard —
you caught me
when you called me
beautiful.

You are art.
Really inspired today. Can you tell?
Aug 2014 · 715
Craigslist.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
I went on Craigslist today
and searched jobs:
food / bev/ hosp
Then I hit
refresh.
refresh.
refresh.
refresh.
refresh.
refresh.
Until I was dead.
Oh the life of a writer. Am I insane?
Aug 2014 · 23.9k
minecraft kidz.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
His dad,
hearing a beat,
turned the key,
not knowing
she was in there.
But shirt off, his
fourteen year
old, the CEO
just laughed and said:
"Dad, go back to bed."

He had won the game
AGAIN!
And nights spent
building a barrel
of monkeys
that
watched him
chop down wood
on YouTube
finally had
paid off —

It only took
20,000 followers
for her shirt to
come off.
The warped world of minecraft playing post-Millenials
I try each day to understand.
Aug 2014 · 626
A lonely love affair
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Upon typing
the last verse
she jumped
from the chair
forgetting to close
the windows
and ran through
the wooden halls
of the country house
outside into the
joyous wildflowers
swaying like pendulums;
The afternoon breeze cool
and **** like green apples.

Joy was skipping
until the summer air
froze her heated throat.

Clouds brimmed purple
dewing her nose,
head buried when
droplets fell,
summer's ecstasy
melting into lukewarm pools
on a trail leading to
fallen firs.
Worried the curtains
at home were soaked,
pummeled
by clear pellets,
she was lost.

No friend to tease,
pine needles
from tangled hair.
Aug 2014 · 838
Close the tab.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Close the tab —
I want to be a writer.
Not because I'm mightier
than you,
but because it's all
I know how to do.
Sigh...
Aug 2014 · 3.4k
Lavender Haze
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
The most beautiful hour in L.A.
is 3 A.M., when,
petals
of lavender
peep through
wooden blinds,
lulling restless minds
laid on Egyptian
Cotton candy
clouds amuse me.
Because as I close my eyes,
I realize,
that here,
there is no starry night
because this beautiful haze
is light pollution.

But pollutions' hue calms
a city mind.
Like sirens quell
eager ears,
And liquor tickles
tantalized tongues,
And words flow
from numb knuckles,
And insomnia wets
drying eyes,
I,
am struck,
that this lavender haze
helps me see
that too much
is always what I need.
Aug 2014 · 1.3k
1991. @Justin Wampler
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
1991

I realized
We were both born
in rotting soil,
plastic toys fed
by Arabia's oil.
Eyes closed,
ears behest
to broadcasts, we,
could NOT protest.

That was the beginning
of our mass destruction,
but cribs offsides,
we slept soundly,
thanking our stars,
proud to be Americans.

10 years dormant,
the lyrics laid,
enough to stick,
but their irony to fade.
Until grade school,
recess goaded,
as burning buildings
on our side exploded.
The imminent threat preloaded,
in airports we shed shoes,
forever coded.

The broadcast — our center
was the theorem
that planes, oil, and Arabs
risked everyone's freedom.
But when we raised hands,
to ask why, teachers said
hail red, blue,
and especially white.
We forgot our roots,
because the Ellis Island trip
was obviously cancelled.

So we read headlines,
instead of Orwell,
the day 911
called for a police state.
Trusted the government
and ****** Muslims,
the day turbans
meant hijacking planes.
Pledged allegiance
disguised as freedom,
the day war
was declared
on Saddam Insane.

Our flag revealed
a sham feeding flames,
angst-ridden
teenagers
we became.
With raised middle fingers,
instead of hands,
to Green Day lyrics,
**** Amuricans.

Because only idiots
press a red button twice,
when mass destruction is the price.
And only villains
make children orphans,
while victims drown
in New Orleans.
And only gluttons
eat caviar with silver spoons,
tainting forever
a nation's youth.

Entrenched in dunes,
we boarded blind,
to debt,
death, and
jaded minds.
Blamed by perpetrators
in dollars and change,
for a guerrilla war
fought in vain!
Voted Obama,
with Osama slain,
and soldiers withdrawn,
we hoped for change.
PLEASE, we cried,
JUST STOP!
We are CHAINED —
to a bulldozer
that has NO BRAKES!



So the broadcast said recently:
We are losing control
of the Middle East. And
Al-Qaeda is far from weak —
ISIS: THE PHOENIX OF HUMAN GREED,
We just turned off our TV's
and looked up,
the kids who gave up,
thanked Musk — our atlas,
not yet shrugged,
whose vessels of stars
will rocket toward Mars,
from this godforsaken
civilization
built on hate.

And when you tell me, ***,
"We were both born in 1991,"
I can only sigh,
and breath sympathy,
for our dark history.
Thank you Justin for inspiring this poem. I am performing it next Tuesday at Da Poetry Lounge in LA so any feedback is appreciated :)
Aug 2014 · 2.4k
Conversation?
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
She meets a man at In-N-Out.
He sits down, and she quickly tunes out.

Moves phone from the once vacant seat.

Don't worry, he said
I won't take your things.
Oh  — I was just moving it...
from your seat.

Averts eyes. Looks at feet

It's my first time here — I drove from Ohio.

Closes open apps.

Wait — you drove to LA to try In-N-Out?
Well, no, I'm headed to Vegas, but I
was curious what all the fuss was about.
It's 4 hours from here, and I have time to ****."

Opens Instagram.

You mean to Las Vegas, not Ohio, right?
Oh no — yea, Ohio is a 24-hour drive.

Tapping feet. Two people in line.

God, it's crazy here! (said w/incredulous chime)

Busy? Hah — try dinnertime.

Tags @innoutburger on marquee.

They told me I'm number 26 in line.

Misses his smile at the receipt.

I'm number 18.

Looks at feet.

But I just heard them say 23.
They'll call me.

Checks the time.

NUMBER 18!
I gotta run — that's me.

Well it was nice...

Leaves

meeting you.
Not a *****, just busy.
Aug 2014 · 8.8k
Round the clock.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Coffee or tea
perks me.
Too much!
Wine time.
Wind down.
Morning time
is round the clock.

Coffee or tea
perks me.
Too much!
Wine time.
Morning time
is round the clock.

Round the clock
R
  o
    u
   n
d
t
h
   e
     c
     l
    o
  c
k
Time.
Round clock.

Too much!
Wine down clock.
Aug 2014 · 1.4k
#Writerproblems
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
The girl said she wanted to be a writer.

...

"Yes, but what do you want to do?"
the accountant asked,
eyes glazed over.
My life.
Aug 2014 · 3.0k
Graphite gratified.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Too lazy to decipher scrawl,
she took to typing.
But graphite gratified,
thunderbolts struck her empty.
Nostalgic for
the soothing scratch of pencil
as a child cloistered,
shuffled between states,
who translated her life
to pass the days.
Writing then vs. writing now.
Aug 2014 · 2.0k
A Snowed-in Hero
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
You found friction,
when so many told you
to slip down with them.

You were the safety
to a gun-wielding chorus screaming:
"Fire!"

Shoved from the Fourth
you fought to protect,
to being snowed-in,
half a hemisphere away
from the coconuts
and palm trees you fled.

Hotel room to hotel room,
the flesh from your skin dissolves,
piece by piece —
like a nation's artifacts.

Resigned to watching
a comedian's suicide
trend on Twitter —
an individual who made it easier
to laugh and forget the words:
"Liberty and Justice for All."

You should grimace.
Silenced. Snowed-in.
Unable to even say,
"America — please shovel me out."
I made this poem into a video! http://youtu.be/KEFwC8C_WRc

If you like, share with #shoveloutSnowden
Aug 2014 · 18.6k
Morning coffee.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Your heart is like weak coffee--

Baseless and unsatisfying.

Goodbye and

 Back
    to
     the
       grind.
Aug 2014 · 8.4k
Writing and wine
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
The writer poured herself
a glass of wine,
to cloud her mind.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
"Expressing your feelings
couldn't be called art."

So birthed
Shakespearean Walts —
whose puns crammed nature
into mens' hands
and shadowed doubts
that we are all human.

The need to rhyme
and snort out some lines
demoned great minds
who refused to color
outside the lines.  

Metaphor ran over happiness,
watercoloring lines
in INK.

"A petal is
a woman who fails
when she wilts."


So girls learn to answer,
coyly in high school english,
that everything but petals
are ******* symbols.
No reflection needed,
when nature is a *****.
Aug 2014 · 1.2k
Progressense
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Until the rain melts
and clouds bump
into the sun,
you can try
and elude me.

Until rabbit ******
is outlawed and
Alice grows up,
you can try and
outwit me.

Until horses
stop galloping
and cheetahs are fat,
you can try and
outrun me.

Until beggers
choose and choosers
beg,
you can try and
turn on me.

Until down is up
and up is down,
you can try and
outreach me.

But I will continue chasing you,
around landmines,
hopping rabbit holes,
and fighting currents,
until you are mine.
Aug 2014 · 431
close.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
life run amuk

resets with human *touch.
Jul 2014 · 837
what I am selling
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
Hi,

You've already forgot my name,
but I'm selling something!!!
I don't know how it works, but
It's really great!
It'll rock your world,
change the game,
and make you rich.
You'd be crazy not to try it!!

Plus what I'm selling
is better than what he's selling.
Why? Cause I care about you.
He doesn't care about you —
he just cares about money.
Buy what I'm selling
and you'll see the difference.

Trust me. I'm your guy
and you NEED
what I'm selling.
It would be a great fit.
And once you have it
you'll never
have to imagine
yourself without it
again.
how NOT to sell something.
Jul 2014 · 16.3k
Not homeless.
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
Pants hang from my tree;
so please knock —
before bothering me.

I'm not homeless.

The park is my shelter
The grass, my bed.
The wind, my comforter
and sunny California,
my adopted mother.
Jul 2014 · 14.1k
Artificiality.
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
Put your head down
and werk.
Put your feet up
and twerk.
Run quickly
and watch the  
pavement blur.

Don't ask questions.
Love you answers,
and explanations,
your valuations,
and justifications.

In the mood for pizza?
Cause the shop's on your left.
In 0.5 miles, it will be on your left.
ON YOUR LEFT.
YOUR DESTINATION IS ON THE LEFT.
Rerouting...

the protocol is exactly THIS,
not THAT.
So just do it.
checkmark.
Nike said so.

Just buy it.
we suggest it.
Just try the Quesarilla
#tacobell #mexicanfood #foodporn
#pleasegetmemoreviews

How bout a selfie
where you look miserable
and unhealthy.
But you're a celebrity.
Rub your likeness
on me and
I'll get you publicity.

#fire
#ice
#rain
What happened to real pain?
And did dissonance disappear?
Why must I hide my tears?
And be bright and happy
And ogle guys with fohawks
trimmed so carefully.
And live a lie,
of numbers and rye
bread is the worst,
sandwiched in bursts.
We all live
and we all hurt
and we all deserve
a life like hers.
who you say?
Kim Kardashian,
of course.
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