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Aug 4 · 54
Sonnet XVI
RJ Days Aug 4
“Death is nothing to us, for when it is,
we are not, and when we are, it is not”
is a simple argument which boxes
in sad fears, staving off the luscious draw

of material acquisition and
its frenemy clinical depression;
it’s Seneca who promised to open
his veins in a warm bath, and did just that

because the emperor ordered him thus
and we know what ******* Socrates did
curing himself of life like a disease
equating obedience with justice

but my will is strong even as madness
swirls, I’ll oblige no hemlock nor razor
I don’t like this sonnet. I’ve been out of practice and haven’t written anything in a long time. I was trying to express a sense of mental fortitude in the face of adversity that I get from having studied philosophy, but the tone is kind of depressing. Posting it anyway.
Mar 2020 · 86
Sick Leave
RJ Days Mar 2020
Money is imaginary.
Just ink on cotton.
Governments print
as much
as they want.
We fight
over who gets the most and
who deserves the most.
Do we heal the sick,
grow food,
build houses,
make clothes?
Time unfailingly passes.
We hock it for a pittance.
Jan 2019 · 133
Tweet 4831
RJ Days Jan 2019
‪ashes are for scattering‬
‪as people are for holding‬

‪too late to do different by them‬
‪once wind has had its say‬

‪constant soil remaining mute‬
‪is nourished in spades‬
Dec 2018 · 456
Soneto Quince
RJ Days Dec 2018
Desde un rascacielo miro
fijamente las luces brillantes
pero soy ciego, un infante
aparte del mundo de abajo
Desde las montañas, y sus picos
vientos suenan al horizonte
tocando el sol invariante
estar sólo, tan magnificado
Pero todo lo que ve no es nada
¿Qué es esta luz del cielo?
¡Un resol! El sol es tu sonrisa,
¿O la música de la tierra?
Las aves solo cantan ruido
Solo quiero oír tu risa
Para Guillermo
Oct 2018 · 4.3k
Every happiness is a sadness
RJ Days Oct 2018
Each sorrow is the child of a happiness
you thought would never end;
Every happiness is a sadness
I may not survive—
a brilliant October day
lying back in dock hammock suspended
quoting bits of Rilke and starlight anthems
the shadows cast by buildings and frogs
ink drawings made on August nights
by our beautiful chain-smoking artistette
admiring a giant spider friend who’d
spun her majestic web and vanished
while we were swimming
backdrop of bay and boys and cherries
creaky boardwalks under bare feet
and stickiest pine and sand darkness
photos over wing clouds below
creepy call to prayer from ancient Mosque
at twilight punctuating strange dreams
perfect reconciliation on hotel balcony
McDonald’s after soaring from Black Sea
to Bosporus Straight, edge of Asia
visible on the horizon and all of life
a nightmare from which I can’t get woke
terrorized by ***** donor bonesaws
homophobic maternal afternoon rejection
peace that passeth no understanding
when you’re a ******* genius or just
a few points lower sorry never enough
compassion leaking through pores
drawn out by steam more darkness
Eucalyptus perfumed
another flaccid experience on a stranger’s
bed recalling Hippocrates on the drive
away after more bad ***
shots of sauces and grilled roasted
poached lentils bespoke chickens finery
malodorous wafts limestone smoothed
by centuries of acidity oily tourist touches
but they’re in Mexico Australia India
we’re back at home twins calling
each day an error of time rounded off
the incorrigible quark refusing
to cooperate with Einstein choosing its
own entangled path and lighting fools
what beautiful skyline
what amazing celebrity capture
what nostalgic group assemblage
what **** cute puppy who’s no more pup
what swanky tailored look
what smiles what smiles what seriousness
the soft and supple features curves lines
practiced looks and wayward hairs
a simple flourishing according to the lens
so much that skin conceals and eyes
beer garden sidewalk orations
wedding after party for April fools
we were who dance grabbing rings
swinging wildly discussing the vulgarities
of gastronomy and digestion
tumbling into diners midnight offices
brick lined streets magical talks
demonstrations and ideas unbounded
carving pumpkins into likable politicians
we think are statesmen and wailing
when she loses winning a trophy case
buckling under weight of moral victory
the thought of skyscrapers lit
shining under heaven unsubtle insinuation
we’re better than all this nonsense
and stronger having raised this glass
and steel by our own hands, our parents
rather now maybe that’s confusion
erecting higher stairwells to escape
encroaching seas and bums below
all memory all happy every laugh
each rumination on the hours
kisses cocktails cuddles laughter
that perfect vest completed outfit
those thrift store jeans that shirt
that secondhand one speed bike
those lunches with the priest
those brunches with the students
those happy hours with the coworkers
those dinners with the beard
all interchangeable parts in show
theater of recollection one subway car
one taxi ride one bus to NY or DC
one flight to Seattle or Vegas
or some Floridian seascape, mansion
each cog or bit like paper currency
imbued with no value but buying
the totality of lived experience
from which to draw upon in sad elsewhere
—but they cut deep, well meaning though
whenever was now isn’t and can is blind
to what day will ever be when I can say
in truth now sadness isn’t.
How memories, even of happy times, can feel smothering when recalled from within the Bell Jar.
Oct 2018 · 5.2k
Girls will be girls
RJ Days Oct 2018
Girls will be girls
they’ll sing and dance
so boys can’t help but grab
girls right in their underpants

Girls will be girls
they’ll flirt and sass
but they never ****
‘cause they aren’t crass

Girls will be girls
they’ll study hard
to ****** the boys
who’ll mow the yard

Girls will be girls
they’ll say no and stop
but we won’t believe them:
the boys are cops!

Girls will be girls
they’ll cook and clean
and raise the kids
but must stay lean

Girls will be girls
they’ll work all day
and take home just part
of what boys are paid

Girls will be girls
they’ll talk and chat
but then get hysterical
when boys call them fat

Girls will be girls
they’ll wear nice dresses
and never soil them
wiping up boys’ messes

Girls will be girls
they’ll run and vote
while boys drink beer
and win and gloat

Girls will be girls
and we know what that means:
they must always smile
and never scream

Girls will be girls
so let’s hope and pray
that girls are girls enough to save
this ****** up world
we boys have made.
Aug 2018 · 153
Fighting
RJ Days Aug 2018
Jack wants me to fight his dad
And pappy but isn’t sure why
Swords are still plastic or foam
And guns are unknown and dead
is just a word so fighting is the stuff
of cartoons and storybooks
Fighting is exciting and what men do
So when Keri asks if he knows
That we could get hurt he’s confused
And when I leave the car he’ll still
Hug me and grab onto my leg
to stop me from going; I pause
and wonder who has it right,
him or us: who knows how to fight?
Jul 2018 · 2.8k
How to fall in love
RJ Days Jul 2018
First, you have get to an email address
and then fashion a sculpture
out of daisies and moonbeams
as a wedding present for your love;
practice your poetry because
it will come in handy when tongue tied;
pentameter is a pocket ace
and the game is cutthroat so you’re
gonna wanna have some ready;
calisthenics are required
as is having the right politics
but dissimilar guacamole preferences
are usually alright for awhile;
be sure to develop a tolerance
for sand between your toes;
learn to frolic, but never skip;
don’t buy a boat because nobody
has time for a sweater cape enthusiast
and drowning is very unromantic;
Grow roses and cook eggs every way
you can but ever respect the bacon;
Practice looking longingly;
Toss your hair and brush your teeth;
**** your socks but carefully
maintain just enough flaws
to seem endearing and then
forget all this because the only
time you chose to fall is suicide
and it’s kind of like a bridge jump,
so it’s time to just lie back and enjoy
the dopamine rush while it lasts;
you’ve roped a unicorn,
the fleeting chemistry of
your synapses will thank
or blame you later.
Mar 2018 · 2.2k
Pretending
RJ Days Mar 2018
How cool I was with undercut
pretending then Mohawk
playing rugby pretending
brunching with fab hipsters
pretending enjoying arcane debates
about particle physics pretending
and social justice pretending
loving tall beautiful black boy
pretending and playing Tetris til dawn
or napping on the couch pretending
in fashionable Old City coworking
space pretending cuddled alone
as rain struck clear panes windowed walls
facade pretending that was my life once,
author in a zine pretending, cheese day denizen
pretending amid all that a sprawling
vacuum of identity pretending
and isolation pretending despite
lunching with a priest I met
pretending online or long, meandering
walks to the park pretending
with Mr. Wiggles and biking up
Passyunk pretending through the market
that smelled of live chickens and grease
bemoaning my loneliness pretending at
row-house holiday parties hosted
by midlife fairies & queers pretending
with dreams with drugs
pretending alcohol *** and roof deck
skyline views pretending pop up gardens
live music filling midsummer streets
pretending same streets
filled with seasonal dirt
artisanal water pretending
bottle cap eyes cigarette **** nose
garbage mouth snowman melting
away pretending going
the way of brotherly
love. How cool I was inhabiting
my urban life pretending
I was there.
Sep 2017 · 287
Sadness accrues
RJ Days Sep 2017
Tied to the tracks
you can hear the inevitable:
Whistle blows in the distance
and it must be getting closer;
but you've been lying here
for years.
Jun 2017 · 407
Cinquain #21
RJ Days Jun 2017
Purpose
gathers matter,
moving stellar dust
in the direction of
heaven
May 2017 · 333
Cinquain #20
RJ Days May 2017
Listen:
You'll hear
that broken bell
ring across the world
silently
Apr 2017 · 603
Cinquain #20
RJ Days Apr 2017
Closed
timelike curves
I need you
now more than ever
unfortunately
Apr 2017 · 236
Cinquain #19
RJ Days Apr 2017
“We
will all
have lived,” she
says. She speaks the
truth.
Apr 2017 · 219
Cinquain #18
RJ Days Apr 2017
Today
flaming hydrogen
illuminates motionless horizon
traversing eight light minutes
again
Feb 2017 · 696
Playground Construction
RJ Days Feb 2017
No milquetoast kids dare summit jungle gyms
nor dream from monkey bars suspended
o’er perilous mulches, heads filled by the sanguine
rush of juvenile enthusiasm for garden hoses
bruised knees and peanut butter sandwiches;

Only august lad or lass may escape those sandboxes
to tumble into the cavernous ball pit of emancipation,
last dino bones dug up and whirling whispers
lost soon as spoken across merry-go-round envisioning
fantastic autumn nights that promised monsters

Forsaken mud pies dry and crack, no more edible
with juice box than without, hopscotching into
sportsball cartoon boom box jumprope Sunday songs
of Jesus midwest bedtime prayers, sincerest supplication
application for wellness heaven and bully protection

We seesaw through scraps of nostalgia, frolic
into slip-sliding wet hot summer drops to mask
messy tears, swimming defiantly away from repentance
but begging a little help from God to keep the rusty
swing set chains from breaking now as we push higher

Sure, it takes some work to build a playground right,
and what sign do we have it's safely been constructed?
for Sean
Feb 2017 · 582
Are you happy, Daisy?
RJ Days Feb 2017
Are you happy, Daisy
with your voice all full of money
and your golden locks blowing?
Do you hide your face
embarrassed by Tom's racist harangues
while seeking comfort in the embrace
of your careless, noble friends?
Have you ever seen shirts
as nice as these or suits so pink
and glimmering of tea cakes
and novelty on sweltering Manhattan
gilded ash-worn evenings?
Are you happy now sauntering
through inconsequence adrift in moonlight
and forgetful of your maiden promises
as the air sweeps over that fragile
crown and you swerve drunkenly
about lane to lane letting me
face the consequences worrying
only about you?
The inebriation is mine alone to bear.
That's all I want for you,
the dignified Mrs. Buchanan—
as a moth I fly toward green flame,
enamored—remembering your smile
& eyes as they were!
My heart's last beats are for you,
and I just want to know you're happy
as the transparent water that drowns me
warms and grows turbid like America
and my selfish love.
Feb 2017 · 199
Cinquain #17
RJ Days Feb 2017
First
skyline sight
erases gloomy weeks
bidding broken voice sing
Hallelujah
Jan 2017 · 1.7k
Superhero Elegy
RJ Days Jan 2017
Oh heroes of our youths, drawn in
splendid colors and panels or flying across
screens for sake of justice, you stars
of infinity and all realities sparing us
from the scourge of boredom while you
saved the day with ease, right vs wrong
clear as the cerulean sky, for you we pine!

Your winsome smiles soothed housewives
and maidens and doe-eyed youngsters
even as your capes became faded
and tattered and no longer were draped
over bedposts of intrepid lady reporters
willing to overlook, like we all did,
the familiarity of your unspectacled faces!

Your somber tongues gravely implored
us to redeem our grimy criminal cities,
lighting our fervor by spotlight against
darkest sky and even in the absence
of grappling hooks or alone with only
the latest fashionable belt, with no
hot young bird in the passenger seat
of your improbable nocturnal sports cars!

Your responsibilities and power came
all woven together, kept you from looking
out of any of your eyes the wrong way
either up or upside down, holding
the universe together with chivalry
and astute entomological acrobatics!

Your master kicks rivaled any other
rat or amphibian, and it was pure art
how you would karate chop through
our mutated melancholy, radical dudes
freeing us in every dimension
from maniacal brains and threats
of shredding our dignity like pizza cheese!

Your ecology was right as rain,
bio-available when we'd ring you up
and always giving back the power after
cleaning up some toxic mess, blowing
our adolescent minds as you flew about
kicking *** and spouting corny puns
long before oddly-dyed hair was trendy
and when Earth was a few degrees cooler!

We mourn you now more than ever,
remembering you with longing
as true villains appear, their green rocks
growing heavier and more radioactive,
their twisted jokes severing us
from one another, spewing venom,
bidding us conquer this land
and scorching the world for spite.

We mourn you now, our heroes, gone
but not forgotten and barely evoking
this nostalgic sense that you never left,
summoning within us the courage
to claim our inheritance, to finally discover
those ancient powers you've bequeathed;
to finally step up and save the world.
Jan 2017 · 402
Cinquain #16
RJ Days Jan 2017
Rome
burned bright,
brilliant light ceded,
smoldering ruins bid Earth
breathe.
Jan 2017 · 559
Nineteen Clarihews
RJ Days Jan 2017
1.
Donald John Trump
Just sits on his ****
As his deplorables feast
On whatever he tweets

2.
Donald John Trump
Is wicked and plump
But not nice and fat
Just more an ******

3.
Donald John Trump
Has a **** that's a stump
Women won't take him to bed
So he grabs their ******* instead

4.
Donald John Trump
Owns a golden sewage pump
Except it can't keep pace
With all the **** from his face

5.
Donald John Trump
Is a cancerous lump
On America's nose
That really must go

6.
Donald John Trump
Never gets a fist bump
His hands are so small
We can't find them at all

7.
Donald John Trump
Is a foul putrid clump
Who makes us quite sick
Bragging about the size of his ****

8.
Donald John Trump
Really likes to ****
Women without their consent
And he'll never repent

9.
Donald John Trump
Is a mean old grump
Who tells people they're stupid
But we know who the fool is

10.
Donald John Trump
It'd be best if he jumped
From the top of his tower
Since he's always so glower

11.
Donald John Trump
Is a dim witted chump
Whose head is quite large
Though Russia put him charge

12.
Donald John Trump
Likes to take a dump
On hookers while snorting blow
Many people are saying so

13.
Donald John Trump
Is in a terrible slump
He can't even enjoy his throne
Because the press won't leave him alone

14.
Donald John Trump
Only wants to flump
In a chair with women kneeling
After a long hard day of stealing

15.
Donald John Trump
His voice makes a crump
Like the sound of an engine
Or last breath of a dying pigeon

16.
Donald John Trump
Would never date a frump
Just nines and tens
Preferably ones who're quite dim

17.
Donald John Trump
Has just a cold swampy sump
But unlike humans no heart in his chest
He still says it's the best

18.
Donald John Trump
Is a clownish orange schlump
Who said he'd make America great
But just stoked up a lot of hate

19.
Donald John Trump
Always gives a nasty thump
To anyone who disagrees
Or gives facts to counter lies he believes
A clerihew (pronunciation: /ˈklɛrᵻhjuː/) is a whimsical, four-line biographical poem invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley. The first line is the name of the poem's subject, usually a famous person put in an absurd light, or revealing something unknown and/or spurious about them. The rhyme scheme is AABB, and the rhymes are often forced. The line length and metre are irregular. (Wikipedia)
Jan 2017 · 547
Cinquain #15
RJ Days Jan 2017
White
House gates
though strong cannot
hold back three million
people.
Jan 2017 · 279
Color Full
RJ Days Jan 2017
I red them all, from dawn til dusk
They blue me still with little fuss
Then greying soon we stole away
Until night fell; we oranged all day!
But purpling fervor came too soon
And midnight blackened afternoon
Now all that’s left is what we’ve greened
We’re ever yellowing, or so it seems.
just a bit of rhymeplay
Jan 2017 · 389
RBG
RJ Days Jan 2017
RBG
so much depends
upon

an elderly Jewish
woman

possessing an acid
wit

and having survived
cancer
for Ruth Bader Ginsburg (a nod to William Carlos Williams)
Jan 2017 · 317
Inaugural Poem
RJ Days Jan 2017
An idiot clown
Now has the nuclear codes
We should we worry?
Jan 2017 · 338
Sonnet #14
RJ Days Jan 2017
In summer gath’ring they invoked the sky
Just throw of stones from where I sit, so bold
On pain of death, they risked both names and gold,
By pen for chance of freedom staked their lives;
Once bought with blood they’d plant some autumns nigh
A tree whose branches ever since could hold
Against the force of storms, growing so old
Though none can say now if its roots have died;
As children huddled ‘neath its shade cry out
Some grasp an ax, ready to strike, upend
Afraid these leaves once-green no longer breathe
While up on eager feet they march and shout
Unsure what perils may on them descend
Many yet hope to climb and still believe
Jan 2017 · 274
Sonnet #13
RJ Days Jan 2017
For now we find ourselves in fear beset
As if these trials arrive from new angles
To form, congeal and harden shelled regrets
One shard of hope which just cuts and mangles
Though torn we pray the blind may discover
How truly gruesome lies were dangled
Which spun their hate into this awful blunder
Bidding sisters’, brothers’ hands to strangle
Not reaching down to lift, but rip asunder
A people’s love for neighbors, laying blame
On all who won’t ennoble he who plunders
Mocking facts, weighing truth and lies the same;
We know not where to look to make us whole
Bodies resisting, barely cling to souls.
Jan 2017 · 393
Cinquain #14
RJ Days Jan 2017
Dear
rain washes
steel, cobblestone remnants;
teardrops evaporated now tumble
home.
Jan 2017 · 1.5k
Cinquain #13
RJ Days Jan 2017
Leave
the past;
your green lights
on far docks fade
blue.
For Gatsby
Dec 2016 · 332
Sonnet #12
RJ Days Dec 2016
Awoke to masked and yellow light of morning
Six days of joy preceded shades of holly
You crept away as my heart was warming
And left with me this wayward taste of folly
Which tongue and teeth did press on those wet lips
Who had ne'er known nor spoke but songs in prose
Now sang of curves that in soft light eclipsed
When feeding mouth, mine eyes and soul arose
I still can see the memory of your face
Those shining giant eyes and softest skin
Transport me to the realm of your embrace
Where then we lived as if life just begins
But if somehow love took me whilst I slept
These days I wait and wonder if I dreamt
Dec 2016 · 467
Gods or Bosons
RJ Days Dec 2016
Too bad we can't have both; but no,
it's one or the other. That's the trouble
with gods and Bosons: Admit one spirit
and you're no more than a Planck length
from the soul; measure position
and your divine momentum is gone,
deader than deadest poisoned cat.

If God (The God) were God He'd surely
be laughing as Jess & I tried to explain
quantum entanglement to each other,
several superpositions removed
from grasping how causality is preserved
and He'd muse at our suffering
surely in the face of First World fascism
and conspiratorial delight of ignorance;

Jesus would forgive us the hubris
of our collective sartorial malaise:
He'd writhe there painfully but patiently
on the cross w/ bile & gall while we
scrawled out partial differential equations
on the backs of cocktail napkins
and pretended that Lye groups—
sublime Algebra—hooked up
with the Standard Model in their own
perverted and slutty way—yes! Christ
would redeem the heretical pronouncements
on this dark matter,
spare us Pauline judgments—in abhorrent
reality of Time & Space (that's how
He rolls, I guess);

Zeus would just hurl thunderbolts, jealous
as ever of the atom smashers and
their Olympian acolytes' true lightning;

And what about Buddha? He's so full
of himself and compassion, bloated
by enlightenment he may not notice how
much rice we'd had on the way to these
Poison Arrow questions. So what's another
******* rebirth if it's needed? Too late
now for transcendence or transforming
Yoda-like into the Force;

Vishnu in Absolute Now says
Nothing's left but a bunch of fractured
protons, lovely alpha particles and
their asymmetric cousins, ever inward
but ever outward as cosmos go. One day
maybe we'll stop colliding and listen
to the whispers of Revelation—
that is, if we have the science, the ears
and the time.

We never asked of Einstein, sadly,
his divinity not being well established,
and his opinion souring
with the passing of the nonlinear,
the non-local and the grandiose—
Albert may still chime in though,
may be watching from that spooky
neighborhood universe
we seek but eternally dismiss.

We exist with the reality we have, not
the one we want. Until then it's an either/or
we must accept, because we are serious folk
who know gods and Bosons coexist only
among the superstitious and ill-informed.
You can't mince words when there are
so many atoms to split.
Dec 2016 · 243
All the Best Words
RJ Days Dec 2016
***** fortresses and palaces
write tightest code
reach the pinnacle of artistry
painting raindrops
composing sublime orchestrations
from furrows where germinate
the double-helical zenith
of human engineering outside
nanotubes, transistors or
our private clouds—
all the emergent complexity
we've harvested in semantic grace
—to seem like life is comfortable
and tastes good and may actually
be worth something in the end;
yet, bloodied or coddled, chessmen
march on, moving into position
guided by the arbitrariness of their
quest, immune to the nuance
of getting caught in a summer rain,
hugs from your grandmother,
some memory of reciting Bible verses
in Sunday school, singing a hymn into
the depth of a passionate smooch
or the fancy of imagination's depression,
but the arrow of time points on!
And eclectic rumination notwithstanding,
etropy always wins.
Dec 2016 · 390
Looking
RJ Days Dec 2016
Keri nudged me crying as they danced to Peter Gabriel,
"The way he looks at her," she whispered to me,
choking through tears as she had me look
And indeed his eyes said everything
and we could both see the serene ridiciouslness
of it, how it makes no sense
and how you can still ache so much to look
at anyone the way he looked at her, to have
anyone look at you the way he looked at her
as if nothing else mattered in the world.

And of course, cynically it would seem it should
have been exactly that on their wedding day
but the thing is that years later now
on tired nights with a sink full of dishes
and kids barely in bed and work gnawing
the thing is that Keri and I still see him look
at her. We still see it with our own eyes.

And my imagination wraps me in a world where
nearly anything is justified
by a silly notion that something matters
in the world.
Nov 2016 · 781
Look, We the People
RJ Days Nov 2016
must recognize our Form
in the mirror,
see our Face, and make our reflection
as we kiss it, though it regularly sickens
Us.

I

We are still Us, though
that probably means little if it ever did;

We have been amended beyond recognition
from centuries of lobbing
off limbs, appendages, stitching clauses
like bandages then forgetting about them
if we ever shower,
disfiguring the pale torso of our Body
politic, naked and middling before posterity
grotesque genitalia dangling
hopelessly, and useless
between marble columns
unable to unite in congress assembled
erasing pluribus unum;

We're our Legs, buckling under obscene weight
now cloture’s invoked, the question ordered
on history with yays and nays,
discourse long reduced to the nuances
of blusterfuck;

We're our Buttocks, passing gas
bills, denying a snowball’s chance of
melting in frozen hell or on house floor,
and our Brain, lobotomized
better half yearning “Yes, we Can…
…ada” beckoning the coasts, blue dots
on blue dot ever browning;

We're our Fists, clenching gavels
while advising Mother Earth to **** up
because even without her consent,
reality’s adjourned;

II

We're our Skin—yes, our Skin—, thin-
ly veiling contempt insufficiently concealed
by layers of spray tan and unmarred
by blood sweat tears of our foremothers
and our Brow, not sweating more perfect
when it's so easy to turn and follow storybook greatness,
when our Fingers, callused from tweeting
Little Bits of *****,
which though once again retitled
and re-released, remains a classic,
completely unrevised;

We're our Ears, nostalgic for the crack of doom
and we're our Tiny Hands, unable to help themselves
from popping a Tic-Tac and grabbing
onto those titillating, dusty buttons
on the hydrogen jukebox;

We're our Eyes, heavy
as a defeated queen
with makeup running, blessing us
all for this operant foray into madness,
ever observing how our Arms, which
(torches now extinguished)
flail in confusion amid incalculable darkness
still hoist our pitchforks low and
our Tongue still grievously petitions
for more deplorable words amid
hallucinations of victimhood;

We're our *****, *******
on progress, except
which—failing to rise to the occasion—
nonetheless manages
to flop over and strike once more: a dis-
chord in common defense of
fragile white male privilege
always showing, never growing,
general welfare and tranquility flushed down
the toiletbowl of history
hoping those old turds never
resurface, still ignoring the stench of injustice
and the chipping of gilded porcelain;

We’re our Lips–which neither Broadway hits nor
newspaper clips nor high minded pleas alarmed,
and with Dr. Franklin’s warning notwithstanding–
We are our Lips on treacherous steps which will be
all executive power herein vesting;

III

We're our Palms, grasping rope amid air
saturated in deathly vespers, which tugs
down-up toward unearned heavens;

We’re our *****, pretending to be
our Mouths which chide & otherize, while
our Shins expose their cuts to ****,
bullet-holes welcoming the swift infections
in what dank sewage now pours from open
Overton windows, broken along with
any pretense of civility; ultimately,
the only thing we could shatter;

We’re our Holes, shamefully enjoying
the prodding and poking caresses
of anarchy, be-
moaning un-
Equal Protection law & order bestows,
depriving life, liberty, property
when our Hearts, weary of
the long hard due process, supremely
malign centuries’ holdings;

We’re our Immunity, sovereign it be
fighting all insults foreign and domestic
and our Voices rising in lamentation
for what we’ve lost and what we’ve barely kept;

We’re even our Hair, unkempt, distracting us
from enduring corruption of our Blood;

We’re our *****, too. No, never mind.
We never had any. But She did,
and class despite the strength
of glass;

IV

We’re all that still, and our Souls'
politic too, fractured much asking
what Un-
ited States we’re in;
September 17, 1787 – November 8, 2016. Not a bad run, I guess.
Aug 2016 · 2.8k
2 Geometric
RJ Days Aug 2016
All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—

Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation

Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons

Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate

No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing

A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation

Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.
I wrote the first draft of this after Orlando. Insomnia brought me back to finally edit and publish it two months later.
Jul 2016 · 249
prayer
RJ Days Jul 2016
there is still water, clean and clear
and fresh that falls and collects
nourishing plants and quenching thirsts

there is still sunshine, bright and warm
sustaining life and encouraging growth

and there is still human kindness
amid tears and fears there are hugs
and there are hands reaching out to lift
trying as they can to do no harm

strangers smile and greet each other
in places where no bombs explode
or bullets pierce or blood is spilled

songs of praise still reach rafters
in churches, stadiums and hymns extol
the virtues of peace that passes understanding

look for these and to these and see them
see them always and hear them speak and sing
and stare defiantly into the face of death
refusing to acknowledge his pull or hold

for we are Humans, all of us and we have
nothing to fear but ourselves and we have
nothing to lose but everything to gain
in the calm stillness of now knowing
none is alone
Jun 2016 · 1.7k
Sonnet #11
RJ Days Jun 2016
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Today our thoughts and prayers are not enough.
Jun 2016 · 293
Cinquain #12
RJ Days Jun 2016
Pizza
I'll eat
every single day
when I am old
(supposing)
Apr 2016 · 465
Insomnia Sonnet #10
RJ Days Apr 2016
Now hiding hearth and packing wools away
A careful tide arrives to mark changed towns
Chartreuse of verdant blooms commence decay
While we can’t stop what grows by leaps and bounds
Which soil holds firm or shifts beneath the clowns
It’s blind to glimpse so far as nations go
Unfaithful seed of those whose blood still grounds
Our stars and stripes which fly through ebb and flow
Mothers may darkly wail by morning glow
Seeking to raise their daughters to bright dawn
And burn hewn totems to some men they know
Dancing through smoke which wafts hither and yon
Yet fools by terror ******* and billions mocked
Win while we wait with angst by tics and tocs
My first Spenserian sonnet, expressing anxiety for the Republic.
Mar 2016 · 747
Hello Ladies
RJ Days Mar 2016
Women i love you for your boisterousness 
and softness too, harshest lighting
notwithstanding 

You are poems of poems of poems
in moonlight beneath crimson moons
encouraging mystery

Women your sanguinary allure holds
me never but your pernicious sorrows
are as captivating as ever

You are goddesses and ****** and archetypes
all the same from salon to Wal-Mart
to the Barnes up the Parkway to the Zoo

Wymyn you are ***** on bykes leather
lesbian jackets and caresses of chains
silent cervixes smattered and schmeared 

Ladies your parts are none of my business
and my love's too Western for that nonsense
but I wish them all good health and plumbing 

Listen sisters, allow me some gravy
for respecting the curvature without
ever needing to ride like Sally into orbit

Your ******* are thousands of temptations
to many men but I'm only enamoured
by your foreign policy experience

Women you know how to know what's what
and make yourselves muses and heroines 
perfecting heterosexual enchantment forever

Hey ladies let's be friends and not so secretly
plot for you to really start conquering the world,
ok?
Mar 2016 · 283
Cinquain #11
RJ Days Mar 2016
Waiting 
to connect 
like pre-digital existence;
Always outside but wanting
in.
Mar 2016 · 477
Monday Haiku
RJ Days Mar 2016
quiet dogged spring
emerging right as rain dims
translucent sorrow
Mar 2016 · 451
From Philadelphia, 2016
RJ Days Mar 2016
Cheesesteaks and grimy streets
with a broken bell walled 'round by glass
over cobblestones trod weary feet
and love is born and hope is born

Strong fountains sweep in summer heat
sparks blaze in artful air at night
recalling every future song
when love is free and hope is free

Autumn ripeness sewed the flag
lofting parchment highly penned
before Billy ever stared us down
til love became and hope became

Cold souls all hunched in grand salons
broadly fluttered civil strifes
two hundred years were faded long
but love remained and hope remained

Reborn of blossoms freeing most
Who stretch on Spring Garden to South
And tumble past down to Navy Yard
until love grows until hope grows

Once wise as Ben struck under tree
If ever Delaware George had crossed
—If this Republic we can keep—
it’ll've been by love and a little hope.
Feb 2016 · 364
Haiku
RJ Days Feb 2016
beautiful humans
reality's interlocutors
ever presencing
Jan 2016 · 637
Snow Sonnet #9
RJ Days Jan 2016
Soft flakes are held aloft while drifting down
to keep those splendid structures quite intact;
Then up from pavement–piling on firm ground–
they halt all urban bustle in its tracks;
Strong plows have tried their best to push snow back,
but once this weather starts I’ve lost control;
It’s time to settle in, hear branches crack
and with my quilts and ***** I'll fight the cold.
How odd that every day has such a hold,
hurling the musts and shoulds with all its might,
until those tiny flakes conspire to scold
nice days for their mad toil and grant respite:
Sometimes it takes the ice and slush outside
to truly feel the warmth from which I hide.
This is my first Spenserian sonnet. I'm getting behind on my sonnet game. I know Shakespeare won't be writing anymore, but that's no excuse for dawdling. 155 or Burst!
Jan 2016 · 713
limerick
RJ Days Jan 2016
There’s an uneven contempt for hipsters
–those ephemeral horn-rimmed misters–
who gallup through life
quite undaunted by strife
peddling style to both monsters & tricksters
Jan 2016 · 472
Six With You
RJ Days Jan 2016
I want to have six with you, the first–
a mellow lot, a bit playful
like a debate about Aristotle
after getting drunk in the moonlight
while your underwear floats
then sinks somewhere
in the Greenbriar River;

then the second–
well that’ll be stellar
like the clarity of flaming hydrogen
from the hilltop grass
surrounded by bovine tranquility
and parsecs away
from light pollution
or the strangeness
of our separate lonelinesses;

next the third–
nothing so special ever
like a moment
in a park,
crepuscular attitudes,
lips tasting of star fruit
and optimism;

after which comes the fourth–
somewhat more surreal, methinks
like the loft-attic in an ancient local house
sitting legs-crossed on the floor
gossiping perhaps
sewing a costume for a skit
while planning world *******;

next to last is the fifth–
side-by-side staring outward
holding hands, a breeze cools
and familiarity lubricates
all friction of years;

and the sixth–
that’s my secret agony
made from wax and wick,
where a tiny spark divides memories
from imagination.
Jan 2016 · 354
Let's
RJ Days Jan 2016
Let's get lost in the grace of forgetting
past mistakes and errors of our foolish youths
and let us live amid the worldly hope
gained from exchanging sentences of solitude
for paragraphs of insight into better days

Let's abandon our halcyon memories along with
our sordid ones eschewing their credits and excesses
and let us eat chocolate cake now while we still
have teeth in our mouths exchanging bites of confection
for those trim waistlines we never really had

Let's play in the fountains like kids without
cares about having kids of our own or owning gardens
and let us plant gardens on fire escapes and in alleys
growing herbs from the soot and exchanging harvests
for wisdom and a proclivity for jigsaw puzzle completion

Let's debate the merits of interstellar politics
without the fuss or nuance of believing we were ever right
and let us pray for our righteous *******
earned by sweat and salt after exchanging fear of rejection
for a fuzzy blanket and a burger on a snowy day

Let's give up on fixing blighted communities drowning
in the pity of their own sacrosanct infirmities
and let us beat our own swords into ploughshares to sell
online if anyone will buy them exchanging broken guns
for cold hard cash that binds better than pectin

Let's sleep all day if we feel like it until
we've slept away all our regrets and fears
and let us awake whenever we **** well please to eat
baconfat and sip bourbon exchanging all the calories
for the lives we've always wanted but never had
Jan 2016 · 360
Cinquain X
RJ Days Jan 2016
Lines—
verse/code
running invoking providing
stomachs full ; souls sustained
& intersecting
Dec 2015 · 299
Cinquain #9
RJ Days Dec 2015
Alight,
cares pause.
Warm December air
metastasizes under hopeful breath.
Exhale.
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