Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
JoJo Nguyen May 2015
It's quiet except for the humming
of the machines.

Do we call them machines or instruments?
Do they do or do they measure?

They're little helpers who organize
thoughts and time, blocking
hours with workers, friends and
family.

A list manager of sorts.
It's easy -- something like:
>Monday, 5:00 pm - family.Christine
or
>Tuesday, 12:00 pm - friend.Giorgia

And when we miss an appointment
our helpers are fire-walled
from disappointment, sorrow
and lost.

They stay functional.

It's easy for their electronic hands
to <strikeout>
meetings held in an hour
past.

-- something like:
>Sunday, 1:00 pm - family.Dad
to
<strikeout>Sunday, 1:00 pm - family.Dad </strikeout>

-- something like:
>Saturday, 7:00 pm - family.Aunt
to
<strikeout>Saturday, 7:00 pm - family.Aunt </strikeout>

It's done-- changed from a living one to a final zero,
binary absolution.

Our stream continues,
released from obligations
that I hold tight
still.

We're not Protocol Droids.
We feel Ghosts in the Machine.
We see Apparitions in the Rituals,
and Sprites in the Protocols
running through our network
still.

There's no clemency for us.
JoJo Nguyen May 2015
In my child and heart we raise
hard work and rejoice in praise

on dying back labor we fall
right into arm of Justice call

Forever screaming of little cheats,
new wicked name at our constant feats

of centered tatamat spirals,
of Sensei's sunflower petals

In my heart and child we seek
refuge in trying times reek

trusting in not u but us, women, woman,
to gender mine for blood estrus sand

hot to the crying mercy touch
hot to modesty tested too much

hating to death's stuffing mouth
hating a networks gone South

their tangled weaves hidden under
foot, forgot Hell's nation worker

a poor man's hope never cut down,
executed behind comment's frown

Put mercy's fear upon the nations
known to themselves as Lordy rations
JoJo Nguyen May 2015
One Sunday Morning,
Josh & Nicole woke up
to find they had metamorphosized
into Jellyfishes.

As rosy fingered Dawn met
their night breaths and stirred the Sea,
an intense Grace sighed,
dreaming effortlessly on misty
shores still wrapped in silky
emerald sheets of caught
infatuation, hooked
on tasty morsel
twisted in loves net.

Their waking sinfulness
forgets the vast Ocean
even as their jellied skin glides
and melts together
under gentle undulating waves
and watchful Sun eye.

For the rest of their days
together, Josh forgets
to stare at lonely lands
and Nicole imagines
the next day together.
I'm following Nicole (freeyourminddd) & Joshua Ohmer (joshua-ohmer).

As an exercise, I've mashed their poems, Sunday Morning & Jellyfish, together! It's how our brain works. Events that are juxtaposed close together in space and time merge together and cause us to look for meaning in their random closeness! It then makes us remember that specific day better!
JoJo Nguyen May 2015
Breanna Winn is fictional--
a composite character. She
follows the decaying poems of
unnoticed flies and rough
cut diamonds ****
in the rubber grooves of
adolescent sneakers.

Ignoring
and ignored all at once
scraping and grinding
each step of pressurized,
carbon against concrete
we walk down neighborhood
sidewalk with fossilized
fly pebbles
stuck in heel.  

Anthropomorphous dogs
walking people in woods,
forest, and dense city
jungles filled with Lord
of forgotten
flies swarming the air
and paving the ground.

Breanna silently,
carefully, narrates the life
of a drifting, morphing
black clad super-org
tribe.
JoJo Nguyen Apr 2015
Force is mechanically
easy to solve
like a heart squeezed
in a surgeon's gloved
hand deep in cracked chest

Rib cages dried bones
in High Plains of Reno
or was it White Sands of Nevada?

Nuclear blast equations
of forgotten love ancient hate
and modern little cheats among
the billion of us Forced
over seconds to leave
deep craters

How strange the integration
happens to give same the area
but different under curved ***!

Do we like long hot shafts
or voluminous D-cups?
H-bomb holes or a Grand Canyon?
A quick poke or grinding strokes
watered down over centuries?

The math's the same
sung in Smithery
in Bessie lilt
about a little sugar
in our bowl
about a hot dog
between our rolls

"Stop your foolin'
and drop somethin'
in my bowl"
Next page