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Steven Fried Jun 2013
You’re not addicted to Facebook
You only spend
Hours a day online
Checking on
How many friends you have
Making sure
You’ve poked everyone you can
Keeping up
With the newest profile pictures of
People you don’t even know
No problem,
You’re not addicted to Facebook

You still do
Follow your ex – she doesn’t know
It’s important
That you put all your parties online
Because you’re - Important
And just like everyone else
You’re not addicted to Facebook

Life’s too short
Not to share
Life’s too long
To remember it all
So you have the Internet
To catalogue
But you can’t ever leave
Because if you do
How could you remember those hazy times?
Let’s all say thanks
To Facebook
And it’s a good thing
You’re not addicted to Facebook

Because if you were addicted to Facebook
It’d just be another
Drug to worry about.
Steven Fried Jun 2013
I fell out of orbit- this was the end
Rocketing back to the ground
My life flashed before my eyes: this chance a god-send

A curious calm was to be found
A fine continuous existence
An old-faithful tape: I was rewound

Life was not a game of subsistence
Nor a rat race for wealth
I lived with ordinary consistence

I can not complain; I was fed and in full health
But neither can I rejoice in a titanic victory
I flew under the radar- living a life of stealth

Not that I needed a majestic mystery
My life was customary
I felt no compulsion to add to my family history

I am the testament to the half-sweet cherry
I am not complaining, I have lived happily and well
I closed my eyes at the end of the dive and was glad i lived so middle-of-the-road non-contrary

Reflection and total repose
My life I happily do expose.
Terza Rima
Steven Fried May 2015
go to college — study what you love,
get a job — don’t worry about money,
start a family — focus on your career
eat healthier — try our new stuffed cheesy crust,
make time for loved ones — provide,
spend more time with her — give her everything,

the gristle is all that’s left
when you’re eaten alive
Steven Fried Jul 2013
**** em.

Claustrophobic nightmares
Chiropractic disasters

Supplementary salvation-
From Salvation-
pillows and blankets

Strangers are wed

Elbow-room is
as precious as gold
a needle in a haystack

A waiting room
for greater adventures in store.
Steven Fried Sep 2013
We make the time
Allowing it to rule
We bend to its inanimate
Steven Fried Aug 2013
All one glory.
ominous contextual, meanings
humongous without thought to consequence…
sulfurous smell, sour, double entendre
homogenous council
genius plan, or so we thought
genuine execution, or so it seemed
feminine taste in styling, perfect
female operatives
male operatives
stale-mate… disaster retruning
pale faced bodies lie strewn
plate on plate on plate of shields return, with bodies
flat faces
flake, crack, and cry
fan the widows, fan the orphans, wipe their tears
plan for the future, if you dare again
dan-ce for the youth and show them hope
man-to-man we deserve it… or do we?
mention history
prevention is operative at this point
invention, 1984,
convention, Meadows
convent, Corrine
Death ends for us all with a path… or without.
Steven Fried May 2015
Travel the world
see the rainforests with full and pointed leaves
swim in the streams and feel the smooth mud
eat delicacies that make men weep
smell the refuse of a billion
lie in the arms of strange lovers
listen to the sound a rose makes when it bends in the wind
now return

See her there sitting between the stacks
the phosphorescent light is harsh on her skin
the world is laid out before her
can you tell her about the rain forests
about the leaves that fell with forceless precision,
about the streams that chilled your bones
and made you feel alive
about the food that drove you mad
and the blinding smells
tell her of supple foreign skin
about the rose so delicate that when it finally snapped
so did you.

Could she understand?
Would she care?
"What do you know?" she asks.

So you try to explain,
you paint the most vivid picture
of nature, man, beast, land, space,

"What do you know." she says.
Steven Fried Nov 2014
We have sacrificed freedom upon immovable alters
White runny paint is our animalistic blood
We decorate where we pray
frescos, mosaics,
Crete’s naturalistic landscapes
imitation only because we are unsatisfied with the un-safety inherent in Earth’s identity.

look at the wall
imagine your lover on the other side
hold your hand to it
imagine your finger tips touching through the plaster
now see her dead
mutilated on the ground
in a ****** pool
because you couldn’t reach
over the wall

the City is a masquerade ball
things hide behind brick masks
who knows
you could **** a tenement building with a Mac truck
like an aristocrat penetrating his princess
late into Moon’s rise
and find a thousand thousand beetles and cockroaches streaming out of the hole
and prisoners who haven’t seen the sun in years

we are humans
no longer natural, caged.
no longer aware, lost
no longer real, facades.
What are our walls?
Steven Fried Jun 2013
Volcanic destruction. 2 words
A volcano destroys the citadel. 5 words
A tiny volcano destroy the movie-set citadel look-alike 10 words
A paper machet volcano spurts water and melts the miniature ice-city for a home movie 15 words
Did i amplify or detract?
Conceptually what grew and what shrank?
Steven Fried Jun 2013
The strongest man is just immature.
More versatile than the
much real work, we operate machines, so whatever really. But the chillest part is,
too few women in their crop-tops, their bandeau's, their strips of cloth- are
death-defyingly wild. And
far more cutting than a bullet can ever be.
We never press the surface;
you have a beautiful aroma as wood in a forest.
Help. I know I'm stronger than that.
We are all entertainers and audience members
I am an anarchist
One, please, do it with me…
Steven Fried Oct 2013
Chicken whole
The paltry poultry
Not a meal

Loving eyes
Rub close

Horses limbering
Stride gracefully long torsos
Grass feed grain joy


nal Sin
Varied Haiku structures
Steven Fried Sep 2013
Symmetry faceless or otherwise
colorful or
drab. Equality is sin
struggle is peace with people
Cynically and worldly impossible
No prejudice, no illness
Well prejudice is illness, and humans are death
The propaganda vaccinations donated by our governments daily, monthly, yearly
Not antiestablishment
not anti-symmetric
Steven Fried Aug 2013
Magnesium strip
brighter than a diamond

Sierra Leon blood Stings like an eye-pin,

JFK's sister,
but this is not democracy,

Vatican city,
oppression and atrocity

What a theocracy,

Brainwash religion,
for the jihad, and crusades,

Rawanda Armenian, genocides,

killing a minority,
might gives authority,

but the greatest tragedy,
is the world wide apathy.
Steven Fried Sep 2013
It's cold.
The trick to staying awake while driving is to open the window,
because you stay cold.
In the womb we are rocked to sleep in the warmth.

I just threw a sweatshirt on.
The cotton is soft on my skin,
so inviting,
I had to.

If that doesn't work,
put music on.
Sing… and loudly.

But instead my eyelids drooped.
The rumble strips rumbled,
and the car-horns blared.

Luckily, I was blissfully asleep behind the wheel.
Steven Fried Sep 2013
I'm aware
that I'm writing the word "aware"
with the letters A-W-A-R-E
Steven Fried Jun 2013
Prosperity requires the fortitude to be cruelly decisive and cuttingly deceitful in every conceivable endeavor;
Cruel and unrestrained ambition will lead to life in the lap of luxury;
Duplicity and dishonesty lie with success and supremacy;
The mixture of forceful action with lurid lies results in a beautifully tainted cocktail.
Would you drink...?
Do you believe...?
Steven Fried Sep 2013
Last stop delight
Rock solid hold knowledge
Hold reality and sanguine
Start Souls
Steven Fried Sep 2013
Bowling *****.
Stepping in and smelling fresh diarrhea and cigarettes
Slide your fingers into the heels of over worn shoes
Then your feet- someone has been here before, hundreds of people have
sit in the solid plastic swivel
step up to the dead rack and pick up a germ infested, god-forsaken ball
bowl terribly and pull your glute
Ten frames.
Steven Fried Aug 2013
Brevity is suited for the ******.
Elocution can be twisted into a knot,
and used for courtly euthanasia.

Brevity is best used for condemnation.
Concordantly, circumlocution is perfect for the panegyrics,
of that same party.

So if your the ****** or damning keep it brief;
no one wants to hear a fool trip over his words,
or a liar sing praise of his foe.
Steven Fried Sep 2013
****** hounds
but stop and nod

Scrappers or survivors
a quarter here a quarter there

ears bit neck scratched
a Styrofoam cup

fights won, lost, lamed
an upturned top hat

Defenseless, lonely, sad eyes
a blanket and a stack of newspapers

A fighting dog
or a fighting man, don't walk by.
Steven Fried Sep 2013
Four black matchstick legs
with white strike tips
large belly and a strong black haired back

Gunk in his eyes and
behind the top of his long ears
he leans into delight

strong torse against leg
behind swaying in the breeze
belly rubs and dominance

the possessively agressive- toilet paper connoisseur
arthritis in his back right leg
I the nightly electronic chair lift
squatter on grass green blanket

I was away when it got worse
no acclimation
full on hell storm

ten years ago...
second grade he pooped in the hallways

he's grown out of the escapist gene
looking back now with our loving eyes
my best friend and brother
Spyro: My Brother Dog.
Steven Fried Jul 2013
I'm going to handle this **** myself
Be it by
Holding in
Shutting out
Getting angry
Lashing at those around me
I don't care.
Because no one can know
That I'm mad as ****

I shouldn't be
There were no feelings
It didn't matter
But for some ****** reason
I never had closure
Never thought I needed it

And now she hooked up with this tiny ****
And I'm just here
Not wanting her,
But not wanting her with anyone else

It's selfish
And confusing
But *******
It's me.
Steven Fried Jun 2013
You are blue
Your companionship has long since gone away
Your words come slowly if ever
Your interjections have no meaning
Your passion is a doused flame
Your decisions are unfair
You are bronze
Your shine is lackluster
Your potential is untapped
Your enthusiasm is misdirected
You are rust
Your intellect is a-waste
Your trust is broken
Your mind is now clouded
You are brown
Your ear is unsharpened
You coughs are unnatural
Your friendship is valued even yet
You are orange
Your ethic is admirable
Your company is comical
Your life is my soaps
You are yellow
Your face is but fair
Your skin has blemishes
Your actions not so demure – but yet
You are red
Your actions are fuel for my fire
Your intentions are good but the crafted hands left wanting
You are Violet
Your pain was great
Your color is of love
Your solid perseverance is for me
You are White
Your brilliance outshines mine
Your patience burns as fast as light
Your opinion flares as bright as magnesium
Black is not found
Deep down I have looked
But came back wanting
Is that naïve?
Steven Fried Jun 2013
I use short words
to show how
smart small

It is not
more that is

But less
that can say
than most.

Large words
are nice
at times.

But we all
need some
chop and stop
to spice up
Our lives.

Change is all there is.
Move, Shake, Run, Jump.

All short.
All fast.
All key.

Stay strong,
bare it all.

Do not be
scared to leap
for fear of

Be scared to leap
for fear of how
high you will
Steven Fried Sep 2013
Before the birds and the bees the sun and the moon
without stars in the sky nor the land nor the dune

Not a sea not a plant not a tree not an ant
there was not a wildebeest nor an elephant

Just one small room
was the Craftsman's dark tomb

He toiled unstoppably without night nor day
in the blackened room he was bound to stay

for eternity the Craftsman seemed doomed
to continuum to be stuck in the loom

Blindly toiling in the binding shadow
with black tools viciously hallow

hammers and nails mud clay ashen bricks
marble chisel mortar pestle tricks

Monotony sparked the craftsman's lost temper
the wall became canvas for angry distemper

His artistic equipment brushed the prison walls
hour upon hour O' mighty hammer falls

He hammered until it whittled away
his fists were red raw like the break of day

The Craftsman was caked in saddened rough sweat
dejection on brow heavy did get

The Craftsman let his head fall low
out of the wall did a light show

A peephole smaller than a rat's tail
was broken wide in the prison cell

Wondrously untamed the light spilled
rolling and soaking all was filled

With light's glory the Craftsman could not see
another blindness that harsh bright brought be

His tools and materials all were a beautiful gleam
the Craftsman pleasantly content with the scene

Slowly but surely the room was filled
and then his neck almost needed t'be gilled

Lacking a need and bound to drown
he singularly thought his problem profound

The Craftsman deftly picked up his tools
and set to building collective pools

To contain flowing light
he took all his might

and built wholly right
a fountain delight

Artistic wonders into his structure
of beast and nature all perfect sculpture

Of timber and clay of marble and grass
he worked until the fountain's completion at last

In the Craftsman's abode was the most beautiful fountain
which all of the light was collectively bound in

Little black Leeches began squeezing through
at first it was only one Leech or two

The Craftsman was able to squish them all out
but even he grew tired bout after bout

They began to stick to his precious creation
Leeches worthy of the vilest waste-bin

The evil pulled petals off of wooden flowers
and the nose off of many clay tigers sin powers

Duly distraught for days he sat
tormented watching his statue crumble flat

Under the weight he watched stone clueless
wondering who endeavored to do this

Disregarding he set to his one task
deep within his mind he firmly did ask

He built a statuette and endowed it with life
by breathily bestowing will to battle strong strife

Using only dirt that had flowed into home
he crafted brains limbs and torso and left them alone

The Craftsman thought and pulled out a rib
and crafted the partner the woman most glib

The Craftsman sat back and watched ambition grow
the seeds thrived and they the **

They fought and they loved they created and destroyed
they lived and they died but survived all the void

The combat with Leeches
embattled stony beaches

Watching the battle
he saw no major rattle

When the Craftsman realized he was needed no longer
he built a chair for himself and sat down to ponder

Years and years more was the Craftsman
stoically sitting watching his creations gain traction

They leaped and progressed
with clothes or undressed

Intervening no more
they handled their score

His beard grew longer and longer and his eyes drooped lower and lower
until finally the Craftsman's heart beat slower and slower

comatose he waited ever in slumber
for his creations to need him to save any blunder

Ever hoping it never was necessary
life flowed around purposefully predatory

He watched their lineage improve naturally and viciously
and off they went history to history
the future was as it will be just a mystery
Steven Fried Oct 2013
Faster pedal gas
Rev your engine loud spirit
Break loose the chain hold

Sixty flat
Five seconds faster
Left dead locked


Nails glass knife
Slash a tire pop
Passenger seat

Three deaths on Oak Road
Valedictorian dead
Terrible the loss
Steven Fried Jun 2013
From a distance you are beautiful
close proximity highlights your supposed refinement
then you open your mouth...

A whirlwind of immaturity and thoughtlessness
barrages me.

Why don't you have friends?
Well talking a million miles out of your *** doesn't help.

I'm exhausted by the end- worn out- done.

You close your mouth and I forget,
I'm ****** in like a male fly to a shiny-female light.
Only your words are a much more effective fly zapper than electric lamps
and I’ll soon learn.
Steven Fried Sep 2015
My pen moves lethargically, when you are gone
My stomach is weak,
poisoned with thoughts of you and he,
not sad, no, your caress, his,
dare I moan a wish?
To be yours, and you mine…
To lay with you, rest…
To siphon your stresses into a jar,
seal them tight.
And then, we’ll scream together,
as we act, react, and sway,
they’ll scatter, shatter, deep… in the night.
Trying to find my muse
Steven Fried Jun 2013
It's that time of the summer
when in increments,
ever so slowly,
friends depart.

I'm growing up,
but I yearn for a time when I didn’t want to sleep in,
for a time when decisions were out of my hand.

Everything is different
we have licenses
we have jobs
we have new friends
we have lost old ones
we go to see colleges.

No one is staying here.

We are all leaving one after another;
I just wish it were on my terms.
Steven Fried Jun 2013
There are billions of words- yet there is only one correct word.

Whether in the fields of Oklahoma,
or in the deserts of Saudi Arabia,
writers know that one right thing to say.

Happy, elated, joyous, cheerful, blissful.

They all mean the same thing, but connotatively,
are worlds apart.

I was happy for his success.
I was elated over my success.
I was joyous at the party.
I was cheerful during the Christmas season.
I was feeling blissful during the wedding ceremony.

Without conscious word choice, the world would a very sad and monotonously gray place indeed-
rather than a beautiful spectrum of color.
Steven Fried Oct 2013
Divided by lock and key
bolt and lock
hold solid in stolid monotony
strong oak lacquer knights are guardians
standing vigil in front of dark rooms with darker secrets
Glare in glass panes and through the shattered splatter- splintering shards dance over musty old ground-mold dusty without sound because whom is here to hear the whispers flowing out from within
But resist the steel boot brutes kicking and screaming to steal in
killing hostages on your floor
treasure chests and gold chalice -might be within
no crusaders disturb what you strive to preserve peace and prosperity deemed unimportant
with outstanding austerity
don't give up your mystery
because then what are you but history adrift
sorry it's been a little while...
Steven Fried Aug 2013
On a chocolate tour through Paris,
after asking me which type of ice cream I would like,
My tour guide asked me if I believed in god...
I told her it was a loaded question,
and said "Plum and yes."

An odd question from my self-proclaimed,
and godless tour guide.

She said she didn't believe in Adam and Eve because
she was studying Archeology,
hence she could not believe in god.

I felt bad for her.
Steven Fried Jun 2013
I’ve been cured of my passion, my drive, my power.
Where has my sickness gone?
The push behind my brain, the pressure upon my artistic uvula has been relieved.
I threw up words, stanzas, poems.
I barfed- poetic-*****.
Pure-unadulterated *****
I was content, fulfilled- or rather- emptied.
The bug has flown from its host; my well has run dry

I don't wish to be cured
I want to *****, puke, ****- more lyrics than ever before.
The world is in need of sick poets, deathly ill individuals.
What sick vaccine is eradicating our precious uncommon cold?

A cleansed world is one without expression, without freedom, and without the most beautiful and necessary illness we fondly christen as: Poetry.
Steven Fried Aug 2013
Eden, liar
You have wormed into my heart

sweets of tender wonder

hallucinogens of a future "we"

Breaking with
a straw, and fake number

Eden, where is my innocence?
I am but a husk

A thin black dress,
A swooping neckline,
You are my affection.
Steven Fried Jun 2013
But not for long
Socks Rapidly shot in
Just like a basketball at the buzzer
Boxers next
Shoved and forgotten
Undershirts crisp and white
Blanket the bottom like snow
Colorful shirts
Folded and at attention
Mimick a soldier at ready
Are deployed in
The warzone

Long pants
Almost forgotten
But, not quite
Athletic shorts
Scrunched up
Ready to jump at a moments notice
Swim shorts are strewn over
As a makeshift barricade between
Regular and
Collared shirts

Another pocket
IN go phone chargers!
IN goes computer charger!
IN goes deck of cards!
As fast as the eye can see

Clip on
The black bag of magic
Dental floss
Retainer case
Last but not least
The most holy of holies
Deodorant is
Gingerly, gently slid into place
All Effluvia of
The Travelers Trade
Zip closed
Steven Fried Jun 2013
I arose
             I was rich
I was robbed
                        I won the lottery
I went to bed.

I arose
             I was married
I had a passionate affair
                                           I had a divorce
I lost the house
                            I kept the kids
I went to bed.

I arose
              I got into college
I went to a party
                              I drank
I lost my virginity
                                 I was photographed
I had my acceptance reneged
                                                     I won't have any student loans
I went to bed.
Steven Fried Jun 2013
Let a poem seep into your mind
Let a poem absorb into your conscience, subconscious, and soul
Let the craftsmanship of words take you to another world
Do not be afraid to read
Do not be afraid to write
We are all poets.
We are all entertainers and audience members
Entertain the thought that poetry is more than a word
it's a feeling
it's an emotion
it's a way of life
Entertain a Poem : let a Poem Entertain you.
Steven Fried Jun 2013
Feminine poetry is the most alluring.
The curvature of a woman's wrist around a pen is beautiful.
Their faces are knit in concentration so intense, yet
velvety smooth. Women are graceful- they glide along the page like an
ice skater. Feminine poetry has an elegant air incomparable with their counterpart.
There is
darkness, but with darkness comes strength.
Demons abound on their pages, bred from the hardships stretching through the millennia.
Dark inspiration breeds radiating beauty.
Steven Fried Jun 2013
A party in the jungle heat,
he is sober,
Like always.
Just one drink...
Come on try it...

One, please, do it with me
Don't be left out
Just one...?
Capitulation First Sip.
Fruit juices of the jungle- strawberry sweet with that telling aftertaste
no regret.
First cup finished
He is Tipsy.
Secnd cup finshed
He is Buzzed.
Pride, He has lost his inicense, He is growin' up.
The only limit is dere are none...
Three cups in and the sweet nektar is gane,
One half a Loko next – grawss.
The world tips.
One half a wutr botle goes very fastly - no flavor at all
The world blurs,
Cut to couch 3 am
He tiiirrrred, He fulll, He is full-on drunk.
For the first time in sixteen years, he is a wining-confused-inarticulate baby.
Pillow on his face to hide from the lights- not the shame- just the party that needs to be over
He wants sleep, but the spins keep him awake.
The rumors abound: "He assed out on the couch."- not true.
Alcohol fueled lie.
Alcohol distorts perception far worse than a few rumors can hope to encompass.
Alcohol turns your average teen into a
True or false...? You weigh in.
Steven Fried Sep 2013
and tIm-stop
dots-wIt pup
Steven Fried Sep 2013
I do not know who I am addressing
but to whom it may concern
I am concerned
I am concerned with your character
past your name, past your sign, past your shore
I am concerned
you fear death, and loneliness, and loss
Your ignorance is your downfall
Your life, companionship, and love
are open, and still

I don't know where you are from
but I reach
I do wonder
past your street, past your zip, past your block
I do wonder how far you've come,
how hard your journey,
how arduous your task
but though chaos and entropy may dismay
further on through the further, and deeper, and colder, and darker

I don't know what you've done
but infinitely so
I do care.

Money rips
fibers pulling
and snapping
valueless greenery
as it ever was

Gold melts
like the slime
of materialism

Oil burns
for those who have
for it

Be eternal
because to me
you ever will be.
Steven Fried Jun 2013
Definition: Poetry that does not rhyme or have a regular meter
Free verse is not just poetry
Free verse is an expression
Free verse is an escape
The beauty in free verse poetry is it's lawlessness
Poets become Jesse and Billy; they break rules, they break hearts, they break tradition.
The difference is their words are far more cutting than a bullet can ever be.
The beauty in free verse poetry is it's adventure
Poets become Columbus and  Sacagewea; they break barriers, they explore new lands, they become wild.
They explore the boundless blank page rather than the limited natural world.
But the real beauty in free verse poetry, is it's structure.
The structure of a free verse poem is new and varying every single time.
The reader not only yearns to find the meaning of the poem, but the dual meaning of the structure.
Definition: self-expression and puzzlement of the mind and for the soul
Steven Fried Sep 2013
And if you ever reconsider
you will get no chicken dinner

And if there is a place in time
you will not find not foot nor rhyme

And do come now I won't be long
for I am late to ring my gong

And don't you waste your good knish
or I will cut you like a snitch

So write your books and read your poem
oh that is Bob I hardly know 'em
Steven Fried Sep 2013
Rolling of a broiling and boiled red sea
swift sticky sick twisted greenery
netting licking at our heels
at pillars of strength O' mighty Achilles
pulling for bronzed treasure
but the marble temple stands
and our idols fall crafting a crown of sin
but who is the idol of the sea?

The compass
the stars
the moon

The sailor prays to his Women
the captain for his Men

Heaving and **'ing
of storms brewing since long before the Men knew the Women and the captain knew his god
How heaven unloads a thunderous sigh
belching a quelling force

Sheets shape figures in the dark
tip louder, louder, darker, darker
colder than wet
clutch yourselves close because you're all that's left
open your eyes and see
the real god

You are not a Man
there is no Woman
You are flotsam
I am eternal.
Steven Fried Nov 2014
Her bones were brittle, her hips
fresh cracked plastic.
Her hair was gray
lackluster straw.

Her sweatshirt was too large, her stomach too small.
Her pain overwhelming, her resolve a mask.

He lay near.

She sat in a wood chair
at the kitchen table;
where she'd been
for days.

She lowered her arm gently, and beckoned,
"Come back."
Her plate was empty- her glass too.

His plate was empty- his glass too.
He lay away, as tired as she.
His eyes found hers
in hungry confusion.

"Please," begged her nature.
Hollowed, that was all that remained.
"I'm sorry."

He did not know.

He looked to her, his first, his last,
his only- perked ears and a dry moan.
He sighed and closed his eyes.

She chose to close hers too,
"Goodbye," she hurt.
Steven Fried Jun 2013
The Holocaust didn’t happen
Knows that
Six million people died
A war was fought
Evidence was found
Testaments were made
The world was changed
But come on
The Holocaust didn’t happen

Those concentration camps were
Those emaciated people were
Those war crimes were
But come on
The Holocaust didn’t happen

Questions concerning
All moot points
The Holocaust didn’t happen.
Steven Fried Aug 2013
A woman,
head bowed.

Her one possession?
a paper cup.

On Champs-Élysées street,
what a shame…

What else is there…?
But a shame.
Steven Fried Oct 2013
insurmountable and incomparably lethargic legs and cinder blocks
weigh on our spirited necks
ball-and-chains of addiction, attachment, and spiritualism hold us prisoners of the looping track
over one Everest
onto the next
with baggage of all sorts
don't trip or your trip
will be the last with you in last-
left behind
Steven Fried Aug 2013
Aged wooden tentacles stretch towards the sky, gnarled and dignified with age.
They push upward breaking ground
miles high.
Foliage sprouts, blooms, reflects, and falls.
Dead among us… the living,
survived by the lush greenery.
Billions of the green soft razor-edged blades which
help create the scenic setting
pad the tread of man and beast during
Summer, Fall, Winter, and Spring,
Rain, Shine, Snow, or Hail.
In the distance colossal concrete monsters rise.
Just another part of the picture,
another piece to the puzzle.
Another evolution of Mother Earth’s tentacles.
Steven Fried Aug 2013
Bikes pass the green park bench.
Arabs in Armani Express outerwear circle the natural beauty; I watch.
Demur English women plod past in ones, twos, and groups of elegance and young simple folly.
They breathe the freshness in, and again, I watch.
Aged men play with their grandchildren in the field.
I recline.
They see me watching, they all do, even the sun…
English boys with coifed hair cycle by in expensive jeans and extravagantly matched shirts run, bike, walk, stroll, and I watch.
Hyde Park is the richest public good that has become… or maybe always was…
The milieu for different races, ages, and sexes to converge, collapse, and coexist.
And for men to sit on green benches,
watching… and writing.
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