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With the most beautiful cadence you will ever hear:
Down. Set. Hut!
Bursting like a  jet going zero to 100
Cutting and shifting,
The boy had one mission:
Get the first down!
As the Boy clutched the pigskin ball,
The world was in his hands.
However, as he bullied his way to five more yards,
Suddenly a new cadence intervened:
POP TWIST SNAP.
He was down.
The boy’s future was no longer set
And his once mansion-sized dreams
Were now reduced to a hut’s rubble.
Crushed Leg!
Broken Bones!
Shattered Dreams!




With the most beautiful cadence you will ever hear: Down. Set. Hut. Bursting like a jet going zero to 100, cutting and shifting, the boy had one mission: To get the first down. As the boy clutched the pigskin ball. The world was in his hands. However, as he bullied his way to five more yards, suddenly a new cadence intervened: POP. TWIST. SNAP. He was down. The young boy’s future was no longer set, and his once mansion-sized dreams were now reduced to a hut’s rubble.
Bob who quite his job
Had no job since early morning
He sighed with a frown
It always got bob down and
He's just bummin in town and
No job Bob now finds his way
Towards a brighter and brand new day.
Dont let the irony of firing someone for saying theres no jobs distract you from the fact we still want to release the epstein files
Trump is on them

Trump has appointed Lawrence Taylor a convicted *** offender to work with children in America.
You're hardly there...
sketched, into the backdrop
of my convalescence,
in hematite brush strokes.
Not a flicker, of breath
warms the cold curve, of my cheek,
but I feel you cup it, anyway.

My own hand,
bloodless, bleached
collapses, in pain.
Fatigued, it creeps,
across the coverlet
in a wraithlike half dose,
to seek you, sleepily
and pull you, across the void.
To capture you, by the mouth,
and bring you, like a magnet,
into another dimension.
Lips, press down, as if stitched;

the Cupid's bow,
folds itself, into the lower lip,
and sutures shut.
It forms a thin veil, of suppression,
and secrets.

Stay with me...
stay with me, a while...
stay with me, until I fall

...a...

...sleep, overtakes me.
I'm too weak, to wrestle with it,
and sink, below its dusky tides.
Darkly, they swallow me.
I float, in an indigestible stupor;

caustic waves, ripping away
at whatever remains,
of me:
half-consumed,
in the raging belly,
of the beast.

Still... the melted glaciers, of my eyes
seek you, above the insouciant turn,
of melancholy tides.

I wish to tangle myself,
all around you
to knot about you, composed,
comprised, in looping ties
like ropes... that only bite,
into the fruit, of your skin
if you draw me around you, tightly.  

And though, there's naught,
but an echo, of you,
above the seismic waves,
of pain

That same thought, rises
A shallow cry,
but it rips, through my soul
with the sudden release
of an arrow, leaving
the taut, aching pull,
of its bowstring.

Stay with me...

stay with me, til night, falls...
hold me, til the dawn, breaks...
love me,til our worlds,
collapse...

and, stay......
stay with me.
B L Costello Aug 4
Another evening,
Nothing odd,
I lit  my smoke and spoke,
with God,
Heaven bless me,
Then I had it,
You had me…and we ****** like rabbits,
Comfort then,
Now…you hurt me,
But God put you there…on my journey,
This Jesus told me,
At my  loneliest time...
“I will always love you...because you are mine”,
Oh bless the men,
The father’s,
The brother's,
I was cared for by no lover!
No...
All I earned was a purple heart,
But Christ died for me,
How great thou art!

BLCostello©2025
I never unpacked my suitcase.
People without a home do that—
we treat places like passing thoughts,
and hearts like temporary shelters.
Always ready to leave,
always prepared for absence.

In the labyrinth of my wanderings,
where even shadows hesitate to follow,
I thought I found you—
a pause in my endless sentence,
a flicker of warmth in my wintered veins.
I made you my home,
as if love could be more than a beautiful delusion,
as if hearts weren’t just rented rooms
in a collapsing building.

But what foolishness—
to think you could be more than a moment,
to believe in permanence
when even my own reflection leaves me.
Some of us are born to drift,
to write poems in the language of loss,
to collect addresses we’ll never return to.

I realized too late,
I was destined to be homeless.
Not just in the world,
but inside myself.
Dragging this suitcase of unspoken words,
through cities that forgot my name
before I even arrived.

Now, I carry you
like a bitter aftertaste of hope,
pressed between the empty pages
of a diary I stopped writing in,
because what’s the point?
The words always leave too.
This poem reflects a personal experience of not having a definite home and always being prepared to leave.
A little sweet tea
I gotta go to the bank
Hardest thing about atheism
Nobody to thank

My son's about to go to college
Please, life, guide him through
A little sweet tea
And my love for you

                      'tis true
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