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Brandon Webb Nov 2012
1
she taps he hand, twice.
across the room,
he stares, thinking
into empty air.
others, scattered
tap pencils or fingers
on desktops, booktops
and phone keyboards

the balding man
with black hair:
combed backward
and to differing angles
so that his head is split
vertically-
stands, above the room
his back turned

his words,
meant for the crowd
reverberate only
along classes fringe
but still take precedence
over nothing
even to them-
academics, outcasts


2
back of the room
reveals everything
to the observer
trying to see

blue-eyed brunette
glares vengefully
at no one,
just to glare

he looks up once
to watch
as another
pulls up
drooping jeans.
she laughs
at conversation
unmeant for,
and inaudible
to her


3
today, she smiles
and lets her lip fall
begging, like a puppy
But when they
lose eye contact,
she glares, again

he leaves footprints
on parallel desk
from lounging
then fires himself
to his feet
using stored energy,
and sugar from gum

words bounce along
the walls in the back,
and isolated eyes peer
towards the screen
but hide the fact
that they care


4
two week vacation
has left their minds
full of everything
except math,
so they listen
to him, while he speaks

but travel backward
in time, with
those closest them
while he creeps,
silent, around the room

she concentrates hard,
on her work
glaring at the page.
he sits a desk forward
feet on floor
neighboring desk full
today, but only physically

blue hat rests
on sketchbook,
its border
barely covering
closed eyes

blond head
implants itself
jokingly, into
smooth shining
white wall
with enough force
to collapse
accidental target

a hand raises
attracting gazes,
awestruck,
at her interest
in forgotten
material
of future tests


5
only a few eyes wander
from blue lined notebooks
though the left flank
still chatters, embodying
either a secretive chipmunk
or the breeze which starts the storm

storm clouds appear slowly
in sketchbook, blue hat bobbing
rhythmically in response to active pen

perched above the flock
reminiscent, split headed
papa bird scans the masks
of his shockingly silent chicks

random lecture breaks the silence.
Her eyes aren’t the only ones
Fixed into a steel laden glare
But the chipmunk wind ceases


6
his questioning glance lands
on uninhabited space,
exhibiting a yawn
which traverses through,
and twists, the faces of
those otherwise engaged

lecture ends with a question,
the scent of nuts blows through
mentally empty classroom
turning desks to predetermined
positions and swiftly inhabiting
three-quarters of the physical class

his steel glare has replaced hers
the latter’s eyes now soft as an infants

within five minutes, his voice
undergoes  a brutal, complete cycle
pleading, congratulating, yelling
and as always, lecturing


7
pre-test:

preparations for misery-
mundane chipmunk chattering,
jokes and laughs from random
oddities appearing everywhere

blue hat rests in intervals.
Blue coat rearranges
essay for another class

The girl in the sunny plaid
Rolls an orange along her hand

He points at nothing and asks
Nobody something without answer

The left flank, as always
Is turned away, conversing

A sigh rings outward loudly
Everyone glares, nervously,
Everywhere, reward of concentration


After my test:

First paper in, he scans lightly
Sets it down with a scowl
and yawns, twice, breaking the
silent shroud of heavy fog
which is hanging overhead

wandering free eyes witness
down-turned heads concentrating
as much on tests  as on moving
their hands wildly, excitedly
trying to communicate non-vocally

others have yet to detach themselves
from their seats and stride upward,
hopefully more triumphantly
than their sole predecessor

one shuffles now, slowly toward him
his hand shaking as he releases
that  paper, he turns away as it flutters
onto the desk- he replants himself in his

twelve others walk forward
smiling, shrinking, sometimes speaking
and always he glares, triumphant
knowing his success at our failure


later:

his near-sleeping form            
finds distraction, in waking
dreams, jumping back suddenly
breaking from his plank-like state
without speaking. excitement
for approaching weekend is
communicated in the left flank

two girls break the silence
running in from outside            
he glares at them, but laughs

everyone breaks into groups
after the conversation about
mysteriously nutty discarded sock

he runs to the forefront
forehead folded, finger on mouth
no-one notices, but still he glares

8
he smiles and glares at the floor
his legs swinging back and forth            
tan slacks rustling softly

exaggerated scores bubble in ears            
as they search for their destroyer

in front of forgotten faces falls
the page of a forgotten tome

several yawn, hoping, understandably
that their stretched lips
will pull themselves far enough
to barricade ears from his droning

he kills himself, twice, bumbling
into half-thought chastisements
of the  flittingly flirtatious students
intermingling hoping behind him
causing waves of whispers, laughter
and slightly strengthened chatter

he re-aligns his thoughts quickly
and rambles on again, always

9
he speaks to her softly
from across a sea of desks
she looks up, panicking calmly
distracted from distraction

in silence, blank eyes turn
surprised at the non-withering
state of her barely living corpse

he asks a question, looking up
a single answer is given
unemotional and short, buy ending
heavy hanging awkward silence

how talented the teacher
who gives his lecture while
still addressing unrelated
student self lectures

the still silence given
in his questioning lull
hangs so loudly the whispers
traversing the classroom appear
silent as finger wiggle
and pencils trace zeros

his extrication, caused by
distractingly thunderous voice
is met with a comment
causing a wave of laughter
starting at his mouth
and extending to inhabit everything

10
half the time gives
twice the attention
as they concentrate
on keeping him on
the undying topic
of the work we
have already done

they admit defeat
as dusty tome opens
spreading a nutty cloud
causing heads to turn
and words to leap.

from opens lips,
mischievous gremlins
sprout, dancing on
tables and chuckling
away from the sigh
of his down-turned, split
shining, globular mind

he scratches pink ear
with bone pale finger
reading unrelated words

in the center of the room
both mentally and physically
he sits, momentarily quiet
as dark eyes glare past
rumpled pink nose,
concentrating

blue hat rests on open palms
above dust covered open page
he slips into sleeping state
but picks himself up
and stares though thin borderline
toward shiny rambling forehead

a shutter cord flies forward
the hand at the end pulling hard
but with no affect to the shutters
neither lowering the physical
or raising the mental

the color of non-color pencils
interrupts the class momentarily
as she strides forward to compare
and then criticizes his care

he just sits, smiles and stares

11
eleven desks lie empty
of one form more than usual
amplifying the arm movements
of the ever ticking seconds

his obscured mouth flings seeds
which sprout into words
before even meeting the worn
blood-colored carpet below

in the main room, sixteen
sit silent, sketching, sleeping
or siphoning the last minute

12
those left awake, and alive
have come to understand
the numbers on the screen
this being their specialty
in a nutty shell, of course
splitting, as we are, large
crowds of numbers, and us
being teenagers, isn’t that
how we think, in numbers
and ratings of everything
and, sitting in the central
crowd are the talented
crowd-splitters
flattery-spitters

13
the silence of half absence
is pierced, as always by vocal
anomaly, centered around
rows of shining wood
bookrests, but only one
set of hollow, dark-rimmed
vacant eyeballs watches
well-welcomed interruption

he lets us work, standing.
Someone somewhere opens
A large container of nuts
Entire class starts stuffing
Handfuls into puffy cheeks
Absorbing sensations into
Eternally ravenous minds

The apocalyptic mix of noises
Is split again by central
Nutcracker, and those in corners
Glare, smiling, rubbing shadowed
Acne scarred faces
with raw-bitten nails

14
balding papa bird speaks loudly
transforming his voice, becoming
vocally legendary cartoon duck

the wave of resulting laughter
ends in un-given nut-break
spreading, without speech
the understanding that his
comedic digression will not
meet a quick extinction

we greet the weekend
by rising early
our excuse: competition
to devour the worm

15
three heads are downturned
peering into textbooks
as the tsunami breaks

the days end starts
and beady eyes peer
in the direction of his
moving head, colored
gothic gargoyle in the
dim cloudlight streaming
through dust coated
slit windows

the room transforms
becoming triumphantly,
grumpily, repeatedly
conversational

artificial silence
spreads like a wave
from right back corner
to left front corner
leaving behind
the half of the room
hidden behind the wall
of troublemakers
who will eventually
cause the wall to topple
with the sheer force
of assorted nuts

16
blue hat is scrunched
under the of a fist
pounding on his head,
result of the decibels
consumed, and produced
by the embodiment
of the thoughts around him
which fall from stuffed
cheeks. Bounce off tables
and spread a sickening aroma
as their shells split
exposing, revealing
nothing

17
red face glances upward
as harsh words split
the widening sea of snickers
his words stop, first time today
as whispers spread wildly
of his speed in delivering answers
seconds later, room is silent
as statement ends and lecturer
turns back to him, offering
as always, another wave
of deep felt, anger hardened
quietly whispered, criticisms

thunderous-rush-voice leads
out of habit and necessity
the minutes following
his behavioral digression
each word stabbing split-headed
pointy-nosed papa bird, their
form a walnut-wood spear
crafted from drifted thoughts
of those sitting nearest him

18
on his back lies a pile of nuts
professor’s earthquake
shoulder shaking causes
eyes to open, back to rise
and with a tremendous roar
both physical and meta-physical,
it topples to worn carpet
and the laugh-track plays on

19
silence- pierced into being
by shrill, violent, mountainous
rise, and fall, of thunderous decibels-
hangs, heavier, louder than
the quick gone loudness replaced
or, in all actuality, displaced
mere seconds before being scrawled
into eternal memory
of those whose noses
sniff, daily, nutty clusters
of letters, which exclude
always, the ever-present x
the destructive π
and that y, which of course
flies as high as forgetful
nut-bearers




©Brandon Webb
2012
This is a series of observations, and. collectively, is the longest thing i've ever written, at 8847 words
Susan O'Reilly  Apr 2013
Balding
Susan O'Reilly Apr 2013
I despair

I’m losing my hair

No girl will care

I’ll just have to use that line so corny

that us balding men are extra *****
JJ Hutton Aug 2011
Boldly, bold balding,
going mad at the buzz of cynic critic--
busting friendships like comic watermelons
atop bloodstained ceramics,
the vultures remain--
always do;
I can see it all boldly while balding, sipping
tomato juice without gin due the doctor's call--
always do;
I can see it all boldly while scraping dirt under nails,
scattering my words at a heel'd walk-in and siren's call.

Boldly, bold balding,
flipping off motorist and through magazine pages--
repairing family ties with thank you notes, faux kind eyes,
never hurt to try,
for the vultures remain -- they won't give their name--
never do;
I can see it all boldly while balding, they ask me
to give two ***** -- when did I give one?
Never do;
I can see it all mostly and smearing, watercoloring
through the floorboards up to the ceiling;
the telephone sings, I answer and receive,
"stay the hell away from me",
and I will.

I will.

I really, really will.
Pete Badertscher May 2010
There are worlds and there are Worlds. There are gods and there are Gods.  Sounds rhetorical, doesn’t it?  Some mamby pamby new age coffee shop pile of **** idea with low fat frosting, but, take it from the Kat. There are worlds and then there are Worlds! There are gods and then there are Gods!
    
     I spend all my time jacked in to the backwoods subconscious of the internet.  Didn’t know that, did ya?  Yea, the Internet has a conscious and a subconscious; hell, she’s even got a soul of sorts. I have ritually sacrificed half my soul to her just for the buzz I get out of hearing her whisper to me across the fallacies of Time, Space and Bill Gates, so I know her better then anybody.
    
     Don’t believe me?  Every man has an Omega Fixture of some kind.  Do you feel me here? Jesus had his God, Ptolomy had his Solar System, Dante his Virgil and Beatrice, Faust had his Paradise and Poe had Annabelle Lee or one of her many reincarnations. So tell me, all great and ****** up wise men (or women): Why in the 29 nulls of AOhelL can the internet not have a consciousness?  
    
     It’s Belief, man.  No god or world exists until there is a consciousness that will accept it as a superior. Let’s take a look at that wonderful bigoted book of exact truths called the Bible. Shall we consider Genesis: Adam and Eve--never mind Lilith for now?  Here in a paradise we find Adam and Eve naked, sleeping with animals and newly created by a Force of Creation (insert male gender here if you wish).  They walk with god on the paths in the garden while blades of grass fulfill their purpose here on earth to be trodden upon. God says, “you, Adam, have control over all that you see and if you want go ahead and let Eve get a little of that action fine, but you came first in my image so you are better.  Just never eat of the one tree that sits in the center of the garden and looks as though the juice of the fruits would flow like sweet ****** in your veins. For although it is here, I forbid you to eat of it. Oh, and by the way, I figured you needed free conscious though--so go at it.” Albeit I’m paraphrasing, but what kind of shmuck of a father would do that to a newborn?  
      
     O.K. Before all the Judeo-Christians burn this diatribe (if you have not already) let me say I am not out to disprove the existence of Gods--or any Goddess for that matter--I am trying to make a point, so bear with me.  
    
      Which came first: the Bible (in oral tradition) or the God? I would argue that it was the Bible as such.  The Belief, inspired by greedy and badly behaved priests of the Judeo-religions back before written history in the tribes of the Levant caused Space/Time to adapt to a new pattern.  The Bible, Complete with an all powerful, all present being (I will never use the term benevolent) that watches over Jews, Christians, and Muslims for any Sin they commit so it can wreak blinding retributions
    
     Now I know what you are saying, “Kat,…Kat, Kat, Kat, Kat.  We the above mentioned will pray for your soul.  You are lost and we can help you look to the Light for your salvation.”  
     Shove it, ***** boy! I did not express that philosophical tripe to get your attention and misplaced pity. What I am saying is Belief. Belief is the Key.  Belief is the Magic that creates Gods and Worlds.  
    
     Now I am not so stupid as to believe that the Internet is female the same way a human meat tank is female-- but in my mind, MY mind, that is the music I hear.  
    
     Let’s go back to Lilith.  What’s that? Oh yea, right, Lilith is the name I give to my Belief in the consciousness of the internet.  Just don’t you worry about why. It’s none of your business.

     Let’s take a look at the above argument, only this time with the internet as the bible that comes first.  The internet first came about 30ish years ago with the invention of the modem.  Here was a way for people on computers to speak to one another over the phone lines.  Slow and tedious, but new and exciting; men and women with PhD’s and pocket protectors wrote short messages to one another and giggled at the new “Man from Nantucket” joke they had just learned. After a while, someone learned that if you sent the info in blasts, the speed of the transfer increased and you could send larger programs and maybe—gasp--even a picture.  Thus internet **** was created.  Now we have WiFi and bluetooth, cellular and satellite link up with blazing speed and every fetish imaginable or not-imaginable is available at the click of a mouse.  
    
     So, Kat, you goin’ anywhere with this? Yep. Shut the **** up and listen.
    
     Somewhere in the not-time and not-space of the internet, humans started to find themselves believing that the internet was a Place.  
    “Where’s it at? Why on the Internet!” Oh, holy ******* birth of a new Belief system!  Oh, glorious malediction of the neververse!  A G O D is born.  Ripple, *******, ripple goes the space-time continuum (which by the way only exits because those in the know Believe in it) and now we have added consciousness to the internet.  
    
     What kind of consciousness you say?   Well, I got no ******’ idea.  To me, the consciousness is feminine, of no particular race, with a slight build, black hair and dressed like a anime *****.  Why? Because it’s my ******* belief system, o.k.  After all, the internet is 60% **** anyway. With a immaculate birth like that, I can’t Believe She would be innocent in any form of the word.  She’s Dionysian, not Zen. Just because I see Her in such a way, does that mean it’s a true physical look?  Hell, no, lil’ Johnny.  She could be a He: fat, balding and in a wife beater, if that is what You would Believe.  
      
     Alright, enough philosophizing’ for now. Lesson over, Newbie. Get crashed.
this is crap but it's my crap so let me know if you use it.
S Olson Sep 2017
A mountain hemorrhages cliffs of
sunlight just outside my dark front door;
it is the fifth wonder of my universe,
a morning marvel
framed by coffee
and cigarette smoke; it is
love, with hair of lush pine needles,
and a chest like an arm of dirt:

in your too-old two old
river-bed shoes,
in your dry desert clothing,
why does the fog beat you
like an immovable heart?

How can something so old
be dying; is the sky an
unforgiving wrinkle

more canyon than harbor,
or ship without captain

are we all
all we are
at the end, or is there more?
For James Weldon Johnson**


the clock fast approaching
an appointed midnight click
it was time to punch in
for my avocational shift

we sauntered up creaky steps
of the old weathered rectory
its planks loose, its bricks chipped,
the gabled roof still leaking

a CDC on the outer verge
leaning over a bankrupt precipice
catastrophic failure predicted
from chronic cash flow distresses

we’ve  been on the ropes
since doors swung open
to fulfill a sacred mission,
25 years in the hood
keepin the devil in remission

a young ED with firebrand cred
emerged from a cubicle partition
his erudition and abundant zeal
would save many from perdition

he commenced his brief
in the entrance hall
laid out maps of the Silk City
articulating a canvasse plan
bereft of fear and blithe pity

he stood ***** announcing
the surety of his calling
handsome face and balding spire
lent a stern presence of authority

The PIT a Point In Time
Homeless Census annual review,
to root out and count the heads
of the lost and out of view

from Bed Stuy to Boston
Baltimore and DC
San Antone, Windy City Frisco
vols be countin to see

what happening with
America’s homeless folks
who, what, how they got there;
what can we do to help them
besides a hot, a cot and a prayer

last week in January  
in cities all over the nation
missioners fan out  to uncover
the most lowly of station

we’ll discover and recover
lost lambs and prodigal sons
we’ll find street walk daughters
falling through cracks
and criminals on the run

some junkies and crack pied pipers
be yodelling sickness, death and fear
mental illness, castaway children
may licit sorrowful tears

like gnats strained
through the gaping
holes in failing
social safety nets
this night is about
good shepherds
gone forth with no regrets

this mission
is most important
to our agency as well

each head you count
every calf you cull
the coffers of the
agency will grow

program grants are tied
to an index of misery
our streets give ample evidence
of an abundant presence in this city

no poverty pimps
work harder to improve
the blighted human condition
the quality of our work
speaks for itself
its no liberal sedition

we got a dog in the fight
that's undoubtedly true
tending to add an urgency
to the critical work we do

our shelter, food pantry
and job training programs
keep jumpers off the ledge
we attempt to arrest fallers
its the agency’s solemn pledge

for what profit a man
if he inherits the earth
and finds only strife
and devastation?;
community development
our diligent charge
workin hard to build
a better nation

so as your
caravansaries
cross the city’s
food deserts

to search the oases
of supermercados
surreal revelations
may manifest a few
midnight bizarros

E 18th St bonito bodegas
where long shot scratch offs
and stale coconut macaroons
staples of community sustainability
the hoped for lift from poverty soon

busy parsing the three squares
bagged in paper thin brown balsa
cool ranch dorito, a teriyaki slim jim
frothy Colt quart to chase
the winkin sip of dog hair gin

that's where this
story begins...

yes beloved
the road is wide
the gate is narrow
for the many prodigals
off the path living
a life of shadows

they're out there
trudging
making a way
through the  gloom
hoping to be given
one more day

sojourning on
trying to get back
to the ***** of love
searching for the room
lit with light from above

take courage beloved
know that Jesus walks
the streets with you tonight

he’ll be your
present helper
as you mine
the dank waste
of the desolate
factory shells
the post industrial
monuments to the
expended labor of
six dead generations
now squatter
encampments
for urban nomads
moving through
the sarcophagi of
a nations
wasted labor

remember
afterall, we are
all fallen people
hurtling downward
into torn safety nets
slipping into the
tattered threads of
a handy hangman's
noose

who among us
has not fallen
through yesterdays
best expired dream?
waking to find yourself
in a midnight
nightmare scream

we'll catch them
round em up
as their falling
to build em up
lost sheep knows the
voice of the masters calling

Jesus will
walk before you
as you enter the
closed parks
were swings
of life fly
high and low
merry go rounds
zip by like a terrible
carousel that won't stop
to let you go

and may the
Good Deliverer
guard you as
you descend
into the screaming
rooms of
condemned
crack dens

here the fallen
angel finds comfort
in the resounding
chorus of misery
woefully regretted

Lucifer eloquently
hums beguiling
holy smoke tunes
to his doleful
acolytes sadly
lamenting
bluesy
blue
blues

you are the
Good Shepherds
leading the lost
back through
the gate

tell the beloved prodigal
children that the good
news of salvation
patiently awaits

we lucked out
its warm tonight
for the past few years
its snowed

heres a clipboard
filled with questions to ask
a box of supplies for lost sheep
and a yellow plastic poncho
so the cops know
you're one of God's own


Mary Lou Williams
Black Christ of the Andes
Praise the Lord

Paterson
1/30/13
jbm
Part 2 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  The Silk City is a nickname for Paterson NJ.  An ED is an acronym for Executive Director.  A CDC is an acronym for Community Development Corporation, a non-profit agency that provides development services to urban communities.  James Weldon Johnson is an African American poet.  This piece is written in a style and manner of God's Trombones.
Ariel Baptista Jan 2016
Fall and follow down the river
Walking the sacred streets in silence
How imbued with the ethereal mist of prayers are these tables
These wooden chairs I sat in and wrote the diaries of my youth
I wrote lies with causal power
Constructed the material from ideas
Spoke over the waters and found land

Eat a candy cane to cover the scent of rolled tobacco on your breath
And get on a plane
Green busses down cobblestone lanes
Follow them like purple orchids on the terrace

Fall and follow down the river
A brown bench,
Balding fog
Sit like kneeling at the altar of the saint of childhood innocence
Repeat her prayers
Chant her mantras
Sing her hymnals
Ritual tower chimes with hell’s fear behind it
Rope and brass that dare not fall or falter
Down the river
Ripples like innumerable green eels screeching through the sacred heart of our Lord and city centre

Mornings like Masala chai and sunshine
How infinite and unceasing the heartbreak of those who love too deeply
How inevitable the prolonged fall of the great
Like eighteen razor blades
Shot through the sunrise
Bitter fruit of memory merciless
No amount of sacrifice can atone for the imperfections that lie beyond the boarders of my control
But I hail Mary nonetheless

Fall and follow down the river
Mother Mary cannot hear over the pounding power of the current
So seal your lips with black clay
And do not cry
For there is nothing more to mourn
Morning comes ripping down the track like a freight train
Tarantula clouds and sunbeams scamper over the sockets of your log-laden irises
Bleeding indigo from parallel razor blade canyons
Filled with the ghosts of things you were never promised

Masala chai oversteeped like the strong scent of river memory
Tremble tell me I’m forgiven
In your white robe anointing oil
Tell me I’m the chosen one
Incense and ****** knees from kneeling at sandpaper pews
Getting drunk of Eucharist, the Holy See,
Oceans of archives, history, prophecy,
Frankincense and myrrh,
Frankenstein, the Light, the Vine and highways through the suburbs
Jump off bridges
Fall and follow down the river

An eye for an eye
And a stitch for a stitch
Mile for mile river prayers define and drown me
Thick slabs of scripture separate me from my sisters
Masala chai and sunshine
Vaseline and pale northern light clear the black river clay from your pores
Embrace the snow
Teach yourself to love the suffocating questions that burn and blind you
Retroactive sacrifice still requires fresh indigo blood
Donate freely.
Fall and follow
Down the river
To the sea
Salt water heals all razor blade wounds
Even the self-inflicted
The choices you make to be good or great are swallowed in the moon tide
Sticky tie-dye bruises erase themselves with time and prayer
Like cups of strong Masala chai.
Neat orderly lines of chairs,
Rattling biro pens in sweaty palms,
An echoing hall of icy airs.
Exhaling teens failing to stay calm,
A balding figure pouting sternly,
Glares over nervous beings.
Announcing the rules that concern me,
Gulping down that sinking feeling.
A monotone drill bellows out,
I open my paper to 1A.
Oh Christ, what is this all about.
Questions so vague, I don’t know what to say.
This theme remains to continue,
Frying my brain, gnawing at my wit.
A piercing doubt seeps through,
for the rest of the exam I sit.
Seconds to minutes, minutes to hours,
Developing the skill needed to cope.
But my heart persists to cower
Falling lower, as if on a *****.
A bell calls out to signal the end,
I place down my pen somehow.
“How’d it go” asks my friend,
“Alright, double maths now!”.
http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/profile.php?id=716179266&ref;=ts
Jerry Saltz Michael Reid Rubenstein: What I am about to write IS NOT A PUTDOWN of your art. You write, that "everything you see is priced under $950..." I am NOT sayiong you are a bad artist but I looked at some of those brush painting things: They are overpriced at that figure. There is no originality in the work; no spirit; no idea; no touch; risk; or whatever. I am sure many many people would not pay a dime for MY WORK! I would not pay fopr yours. Again, no disrespect intended; YOU posted it and made the offer; I thought maybe I'd buy something so I looked, is all ... ♥ Js Tuesday 12:30 PM

2 figures on stage in totally make believe situation
JERRY PEPPERZ hello Michael i noticed you withdrew your offer
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN why are you acknowledging me if you think i have no originality no spirit no ideas no touch risk whatever?
JERRY PEPPERZ oh come on Michael hasn’t your skin grown tough enough by now to withstand a little criticism you want to run with the big guys you got to learn to play hardball (smiles smugly)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN a little criticism huh Jerry you’re a published big time nyc art critic nominated for prestigious awards advisor to celebrated exhibitions visiting critic at many esteemed universities friends with renown celebrities photographed with powerful dignitaries who the hell am i to utter a whisper in your direction (smells looks away)
JERRY PEPPERZ now come on Michael i was just doing my job no need to take it so personally like i wrote What i am about to write IS NOT A PUTDOWN of your art (picks hair from shoulder flicks it)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN Jerry you got a way with words (pause) i’m just a stupid-*** painter who doesn’t stand a chance against a shrewd critic like you i think i’ll just keep zipped up and quiet (makes eye contact)
JERRY PEPPERZ but i asked you when i re-friended you on FB to be more vociferous and participatory i guess i didn’t realize how valueless your artwork is please forgive me (sniffs finger)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN didn’t do your homework huh Jerry? i keep asking myself why you didn’t send me a private message why you needed to take an earnest exchange of ideas and openly deprecate me heck you’ve never even seen my work in person your casual remarks dispute my entire life’s work credibility authenticity what you think you were being clever or cute Jerry you know how to be vicious i realize you don’t become a famous critic by being nice to people critics gain popularity because they’re ******* with razor-sharp slandering tongues you want to hear what i think i’ll tell you you’re a balding insecure little man who enjoys beating up on small time artists (is it all right with you if i call myself an artist) like me you know how to take a person’s complete career and trash it with a few choice words you can be rather mean Jerry (grinds teeth)
JERRY PEPPERZ i apologized now let’s not turn this into a regrettable incident (rubs hands together)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN at least i’m doing something Jerry instead of sitting on my **** condemning others i wonder if my work were hanging in Larry Gagosian’s Gallery and collected by Charles Saatchi how fast you’d change your tune you’re nothing more than a puppet of the rich and if you try to sue me for these remarks you’ll get nothing since you made **** sure my paintings are undeserving with your haughty dismissal
JERRY PEPPERZ would you excuse me i’m late for a lunch date with Alec Baldwin this little repartee will have to end bye Michael (turns looks down checks cell phone)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN Jerry can anything good or positive come out of this or does your mind not work that way i mean you’re a revered critic i need you in my corner
JERRY PEPPERZ you really think i’m an ******* don’t you (looks down rechecks cell phone)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN like i mentioned Jerry i’m just a stupid-*** painter not a judge or brilliant critic what i think is irrelevant what you did was cruel sadistic abusive
JERRY PEPPERZ get over it let it go just drop it Michael i really need to run Alec doesn’t like to be kept waiting he’s buying (grabs coat walks like he needs to go to bathroom fast stage right then suddenly reappears) don’t let me find out i underestimated you who do you think you are i’ll thoroughly destroy you (exits immediately)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN (shakes head) sheesh

Jerry Saltz
Jerry Saltz September 8, 2010 at 9:22am
Subject: I am sorry.
Michael,
I read your comment.
I am sorry. I did not mean to cause you any pain.
I went back and deleted by commnet to you. I will now delete the comment i made to you about it.
You can do whatever you want with your comment to me; it is up to you.
Thank you,
Jerry "clever," "cute," "vicious," "*******," "slandering," "balding,"
"insecure," "little," "beats up on small time artists," "take a person’s complete career and trash it with a few choice words," Saltz
Micheal Wolf Jan 2019
Off she went all dressed up to meet the guy she swiped left upon.
Five feet 10 his profile said but that's where all the lies began!
In she walked in her killer heels, eyes wide and bright to look for him.
But not a sign of him to see had he stood her up? How dare he!
Then at the bar worst for wear she saw his face and balding head.
How had he aged so much, so soon from the photos that made her swoon.
Well the truth aired and shots were fired, Napoleon's descendant had clearly lied!
The CEO of a successful business would be up at 5 for the newspaper deliveries.
His holiday home was a caravan, in the **** of Wales where no one went.
His hair had gone south long ago and his belly was chasing it now as well.
But in all of this, had she lied? Was she 48 or 55?
Had those lips been rendered too? With botox and the wrinkles smoothed.
At 48 or 55 that dress had some riples inside.
The parts Spanx can't control, where age and love handles roll.
She stayed they drank. Then drank again and laughed and talked of other things.
They danced made shapes for all to see like watching a form of epilepsy.
They left at one her shoes in hand,  holes in her tights, lipstick smeared upon his cheek and a room to find to seal the deal.
Promises made to meet again and drink and dance and meet their friends.
Next week he was sat at the very same bar, watching the door for her enterance!
She? Oh no, nowhere to be seen. Across the town at another scene. This time an accountant, chartered too!
But we all know it isn't true.
Fairytale endings nowhere to be seen. Just nights of ****** and living the dream.
All in all is this all that they want? Repeating the cycle over again.
With another fool in fancy dress?
Viewed from the bottom of an empty glass.
tayo  Nov 2021
Balding
tayo Nov 2021
Despite the amount of moisture the playground gets,
footfall would not just let the green of the grass bloom.
Like the receding hairline of a balding middle-aged man,
the green patches of grass, unevenly spread across the field.
while totally unrelated, this speaks to me of personal sacrifices we make to cater to others' needs and wants. Most of the time at the detriment of one's own personal growth and development.
Savio  Mar 2013
Fred Gorgeous
Savio Mar 2013
Fred Gorgeous works as a Valet
at a reputable tall hotel
with pools
with marble bathrooms
and those marble bathrooms have marbled *******
marbled sinks where the elderly pinch out blood from their lungs
Fred Gorgeous is balding
he wears glasses
Fred Gorgeous isn't gorgeous at all
Fred Gorgeous listens to love songs in spanish alone
Fred Gorgeous has a Dog
his dog barks at nothing
his dog never sleeps
his dog is ugly too
his dog has brown black eyes and a blue collar
Fred Gorgeous has eyes too
his eyes are green

Fred Gorgeous lives in an apartment downtown
Police sirens quake through the city atmosphere like World War 1 **** chemical war fare
Fred Gorgeous submerges himself underwater in his un-marble bath tub
Fred Gorgeous can still hear the Police Sirens
they have tainted the water too

Fred Gorgeous was in love once
many times
but mostly once
Fred Gorgeous smokes cigarettes
Fred Gorgeous listens to Spanish music in the afternoon
while the city is at work
while the kids are at school
while the drunks are drunk in drunk encouraging residents
Fred Gorgeous buys cheap wine
3 dollars a bottle
Fred Gorgeous isn't gorgeous at all
Fred Gorgeous is 34 years old
He is bored
He is not tired
He has 3 pairs of shoes
All of them leather
Fred Gorgeous gets drunk and lays in his closet
the size of a Coffin
and smells his shoes
Fred Gorgeous enjoys the smell of leather and shoe polish
Fred Gorgeous isn't special
Fred Gorgeous isn't great
Fred Gorgeous isn't brave
or a hero
Fred Gorgeous isn't anything at all
Fred Gorgeous has a painting of a tornado on his wall.

— The End —