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Leone Lamp Apr 15
Boredom bored some,
but for the rest of us it became a lifestyle.

The rest of us,
who spend so much money and time,
on objects and gizmos...
Just to while away our lives.

And, on comfort!
If we're going to do nothing,
we've at least got to be comfortable
while we do it.

We've gotta work though,
gotta hustle.
The trick is finding that tipping point...
The Grand American Treasure:
To find the least amount of labor,
for the greatest amount of leisure!

So let's climb that ladder
Make money! Get paid!
So we can quickly and painlessly,
whittle away our days.
Tapping into my inner gonzo and trying to stab a pin into the heart of the "American dream".
~4/15/2021
Daniel Cuzzo Dec 2020
When I was young
I couldn’t decide
If I liked you more than mom.
But before I did
there were business trips
two weeks long.

Random dads took me
to soccer practice
a rotation of friends
that I didn’t have
were convinced
to take there or back
until you got a Mercedes
and “friends” rode the Benz.

You’d take us on vacations
I was supposed to be happy
I did and I tried,
I needed you when I cried though
or before that.
Perhaps an explanation,
why humans treat others ******.

And it REALLY bugged me:
as the first one to get a cell phone
might not have been Bill Gates
but you.  You and your blocky phone
at the fourth of July Barbeque
trying to hold a call in the field
insistent on facilitating the deal.

I guess it doesn’t matter
but unfortunately, it does
because if you don’t make it
I’m NOT closing my heart
so the parts of me
that remember
waiting for you at the door
like the dog we got later,
lying in your lap,
watching Charmed, Texas Ranger
and making ice-cream sundays,
will obey, as sincerity
allows me to love again.

The “mom poem,” was easier.
She has her faults: they stayed the same.
We eventually learned to laugh at them.
You act as though you have it together.
You’re not super happy but optimistic
and driven:  that’s pushed you to now
were I don’t know how to rectify
HOW much you’ve supported me,
loved me
and how much you never knew me.

Mom never pretended to know so much.
If so, we’d soon laugh or heads off
as she pronounced all words wrong
put the right shoe on her left
and walked back in the house
at least five times
after walking out the door.

It’s funny, after all deliberations
I might love mom more.
I admire the entrepreneurial side
the desire to be your own boss.
You believe 90% of taught lessons:
I guess you’re a good son.
I tried out your view of success
I guess I’m a bad one.

I’m still ****** you insisted
The job that paid $1.50 more/hr
was the right one for me
and I’m sorry I listened.
I was miserable, depressed
BUT blessed by books
fantasy hooks gripped me
like no other person before.
And that was the door
or perhaps a partition
thinking what I wanted
was only imagination.

At 16 I could volunteer
and it would not matter
if I had built a resume
recording what it paid.

Let’s NOT get into
the value of the dollar.
Our ANCESTORS,
brave the Atlantic
to slave in sweatshops
eventually, get rights,
then education.

Grandpa worked forever
at the supermarket
missing baseball games
leaving you to verbal abuse
of grandma and her fear of men.

This is why I did not
want to write a “Dad poem.”
It goes through generations
“he taught this,”
“I felt that,”
when some go bald
they wear it,
others put on a hat.

My dad collected hats
but didn’t wear them.
New skills, diversification,
he didn’t like the gardener’s work
so he did the landscaping.

All of this in service
of the “American Dream.”
Grandpa said “we got it good,”
so dad must have it better,
while the world tilts
battlements are built
next to peaceful cities
bombs dropped
taxes lost, funding
wars in the solar system.

But we’d never think farther
than our own backyard,
extending to vacations spots
and those map-dots skipped across
in succession hardly breathing
before leaving for the next one.
You always said it was because
you wanted to get home.

You “couldn’t sleep in hotels,”
whether the mattress or smells.
Mom says “dad got home at 2AM
and he’s asleep.”
I’d go about my day.
Nothing I could do until he’s awake.
And awake, he’d have 1,000 tasks
bills, more phone calls, fixing house.

I’m partially a **** to criticize
he’s a dutiful servant in 3D eyes,
Upper-middle-class home maintained
food obtained, college paid –
-unless you don’t want college:
then you’re forced.
The word “freedom” did not compute
with doing things that would refute
all his hard work and effort.

And therein lies the division.
I can count things I’ve proven
to him on one hand.
And it’s only after I’ve BROKEN
that I could demand relief
because I was his son
and he was the chief.

He is both a good chief
and a father
so why can’t I love him?
I’ve forgiven my mom,
there was a time I hated her.
It’s because we don’t
see each other.

I embody uncharted territory
and here’s my dad stuck in our last
VOYAGE across the Atlantic,
and his son is into spiritualism –
– even made some predictions:
that happened, yet you ignore
the myriads of ways I can be more
by blaming my specialty
for my misfortune.

And HE’S right, until now.
I allowed HIS successful prediction.
I’d never “been productive,”
until I saw hope, started sorting
every shredded seam out.

“Is he not impressive?”
my mind is shouting
“I don’t appreciate him,”
and unless I do hurting,
ripping my heart,
I can’t heal or start
to breathe easy.

You played in the pool
all the time.  You’d throw
us up and play games.
You’d help us build
skateboard ramps
you rewarded me for grades,
you paid for most of my books.

Ping-pong a 1,000 times
basket-ball 500
karate until I kicked the neighbors.
Math 1,000 times too,
you taught me all night
my teacher even thought
I was so smart.

Can I feel bad
for losing you now?
More:  intuitions says, more.
When I was mad
that I had finally graduated
and you were going to golf.
You canceled golf to see me.
And yes, it made me happy.

Just ME and mom and dad.
When I was volunteering
we’d got to Church together,
we’d sit on blankets in sun,
I’d watch TV at night with them
go to movies because
I had no friends.

And THAT STUPID cell phone
could have been used in reverse.
I COULD HAVE CALLED
monopolized his business time
DEMANDED he pay attention.

But I never did.
If he didn’t realize
I was not to remind him.
THAT was my stubbornness.

I lost track of the times
he hugged me
before going away.
I used to keep track
but after a while
even mom forgot
where he went
and they spoke every day.

In my journey, I was angry,
so much of what he taught
had to be UNDONE.
It was HELL, getting off
psychiatric medication.
They had me diagnosed
with Aspergers adding to depression
(A “hip diagnoses” at the time)
$4,000 for ANOTHER label
where I was deficient.

IS IT SUCH HELL
TO BE:  NOT YOUR DAD?
Are we destined to feel ******
if we don’t fulfill their vision?

But can I blame them for dreaming
about all their children’s futures?
Yet carrying them out
like all these spiritualist manifestations
that he ignores so often
but resembles SO MUCH –
anyone who thinks counter to them –
becomes the problem.

I guess I’ll bit the bullet and say,
thank you for LOVING:  the problem.
Thank you for wanting me to live
when I wanted to die so often.
Thank you for driving me home
when I broke and you held back
your “I told you so” ‘till I healed.
Thank you for holding back
when I changed business for writing.
Thank you for toeing the line
as I tried to sort my messed-up head
for the 1000th time
and giving me the space to do that.
Even if I felt alone,
you were there.
Thank you for that.

Being broken is just
more pieces to stylize
a new creation.

This might not be the last
I may be broken.
I’ll be broken every time
I try not to tell my son
what to do.
I’ll be broken
every time you’re not there to
talk about how much you ATE
when you were a teenager
even if it’s LONG passed
the 1,000th time.

I’ll be broken when
I remember the awkward walk
when I walked fast and you slow:
the EXACT opposite of before.
You always had to be somewhere
and I was ALWAYS lost in my head.
But I was exercising,
and you were sorting out the cancer
that threatened both your sisters.

“Another preventable tragedy,”
is what I thought.
His family, by design, filled
with doctors and nurses
and two of them might be dying
to cancer in the same year.

I could do NOTHING, and I knew.
Telling him cancer was curable
would make HIM truly be ME:
the well-intentioned rebel in the family.

BECAUSE he TRIED
to tell his sister about “Plandemic”
THE SAME sister that just died of cancer,
and she told him a string of ****** words
that made him FOREVER shut off
the inquisitive part of him
for FEAR, NOT OF THE VIRUS
BUT BEING ALONE LIKE ME.
His wife, his sisters, BOTH families.

Am I to make him
FINALLY believe his son?
I sent him two emails,
links for the “Plandemic II video,”
encouraging him to reengage
his “follow the money” skepticism.
But after sister’s death
he’ll likely honor her memory
by believing what she believed,
inherited by American Dreamers
who need to hold on until the end.

Dad, all I can say is, I love you
and to sleep well.
Let us watch time unwind,
we can agree that mom told me,
“dad got home at 2AM and he’s asleep.”
As much as my heart breaks,
I won’t wake you.
I TRULY understand and bow
to your endurance and strength.
I’m happy you return to sleep here
somewhere familiar, to those you love.
I’m happy that I’m your son,
that this is the bed where you’ve led
and dreamed of us for so long.
I’ll NEED to go about my day
as I have to live well, for all our sakes.
And awake, I have 1,000 tasks
helping build a world that is MY dream.

Dad, there are ways I’m like you
I’ll LOVE only one woman
for a lifetime.
We may massage truth,
but it’s too hard to lie.
I want to be “fun” for kids too.
Yes to space, land, trees, sun, a breeze,
I DON’T need to be in Hawaii though.

But you milk the time zones
so you can tell that as an excuse
to all your capitalist colleagues:
no one complains, if living the high life.

I look down from your 8th-floor balcony
and YES, I record videos of the sunset.
My eyes, my heart, can never forget.
But I see the homelessness, inequality
and feel guilty for inefficiency,
huge electricity bills, sewage treatment
that’s awful for the waters:
dying corals and snorkelers asking
“why are they white?”
I listen to the indigenous
wanting to become self-sufficient
to grow on THEIR LAND again
and not keep EVERY scrap
for tourism.

I prefer a wooded land
NO WHERE in high demand
where I CAN MAKE it so:
my eco-garden will glow.

It hurts when you say innocently,
“They sell this pesticide at Home Depo,”
and you get so into spraying
you use Roundup on the grass,
finally, pay a sod company
to cover for your stupid ***.

But we’d shower naked
when I was young
I knew how you were hung
and then I heard jokes about
Chuck Norris.

It seems odd to end it like this,
but I’m finally at peace
and when I joked about
your stupid ***
I might as well compliment
your other half
and level out
the criticism
that’s slowly
fading away.

Thank you God,
for a life this way.
I’ve learned what you said,
yet you're saying to end it
with something about Dad.

I said it to mom,
I’ll say it to you,
I’d want you in my life,
if I had a choice,
I’d always choose
to be your friend
even without
all that
understanding.

My friend said it,
and I say it:
“I see you.”
What I see is noble,
what I see is love,
what I see is home,
what I see is good.

Thank you, Dad.
This is the hardest poem I've ever had to write to date.  You might think "had to write" is an embellishment.  The poets I love, more often than not NEED to write.  I've read some E.E. Cummings, and I have been compared disparagingly to his creativity...LOL, everyone is different, I'd take Sylvia Plath any day.  Comparatively, I felt she needed to write.  Cummings...I don't have the insight to understand what was behind his decisions.
she remains anon Nov 2019
Sometimes dreams come waking
by the American shore.
Over and over,
escorting wandering souls, more and more.
Over deep ocean, golden rays;
blinding eyes, singing praise.
America the beautiful and America the free.
How free is possibility,
In a nation of changing, pride, urgency?
How much can you bear internally
watching your brothers and sisters wither in desperation.
Oh, beautiful and free and desperate nation.
Nation of red, white, and blue
red blood,
white knuckle,
blue bruised back.
We struggle together, yet unity was never true.
Everyone seems to be rushing up and pushing down
when we are all surely hell-bound.

We fear failure, we fear love
we fear whoever is watching above.
Because, regardless of who created and thought,
“my artistry will change the world”
was surely not
trying to leave it in ruins.
Simply; we, America, move too fast
we justify the present, suppress the past.
Ignore all the wrongs we've rendered within our own borders,
to our own neighbors.
What can you do wrong, when you have dominion?
And when you are below, what importance is there in your opinion?
There is no morality in a man who has his eyes on the rise,
a man who has never taken labor
in his stride.
America was built on sweat and vigor
though, now, whose finger is on the trigger?
The new America, polished and improved
has the gun cocked in every angle
advertising the glorified dream, the success that you can strangle.
The time that can be abused; yearning for wealth, working to the grave.
Servant to the passing days, when,
wasn't it liberation we once craved?

We're building an empire, disguised as democracy,
where we ****** the spirit of those we promised were equal.
It reeks of hypocrisy.
We're building an empire,
but even once-great Rome fell down in shambles,
and we aim far, far higher.
Higher buildings, higher expectations, higher need to achieve
to beat and beat down on those that only breathe.
We're building up walls to elude the sun, dead,
when you live in darkness, what, honestly, becomes right in your head?
What light shines upon a nation, still unashamed
of prerogative and seldom rights to be obtained
by virtue and strive for those who believed in the American scheme?

Sometimes dreams come crashing
at the American shore
littered its sands
all the years from America forever and America before.
the only poem i've ever read aloud for a school project
Wanderer Feb 2019
Politics jut aren't my thing
I don't care who you vote for
I won't judge you based on your political party

but I do want to say

That is hurts me to see
so many Americans be so callous and rude
to others based on their religion or race
to watch others suffer
in countries where their leaders
are committing genocide
and when their last hope is
to run away from their home, family
everything that they've ever known
in hopes of finding safety
in hopes that they may be able to survive without fear
but then they are met with cruelty at our borders
hate in our country

What does America stand for
if not freedom and hope?
Is the American dream dead?
Bernice Helena Dec 2018
They come in gold and silver,
Twinkling lights, gem-filled eyes
Of diamonds and critines,
Dotting this night scene with life.

I don't know where they'll go,
But with each pair passing,
Time went so, so slow.

Stones against my bloodied feet,
Cutting at these pulsating streams.
Tarmac, tar black
Laced with that sacred red.

I don't know how much further I can go,
The shards only dig deeper,
The lights are losing their glow.

They left with stains of crimson,
Apathetic silhouettes slinking in the night,
In a trail of shattered garnets,
Past the corpse of death's bride.
Some are left behind.
Lynnia Oct 2018
It was our fathers’ independence
Not quite passed down to their descendants
These “We The People” days were through
Long before our world came to
And now we breathe and bleed our rights
Always ready for a fight
People screaming through the streets
Bullets from a single tweet
The American Dream so lovingly kept
Drowned in Liberty’s tears as she softly wept
Left and Right at constant war
Raging, always craving more
We tear at all the different ones;
Turn our faces from the Son
If this is what it means to be free,
say goodbye to Liberty.
SoVi Mar 2018
I want to go to the "Land of All"
But oceans keep us apart
On a Petrol-stained sailboat
I'll make my journey to reach you

"Believe in Flashing Stars;
A new horizon in the limelight"
Makes me want to go explore!
Trapped: I can't go home.

Rivers: overflowing dreams.
Cast my line to catch my fame
Hook, Line, Sinker
I became the bait.

If I am going to drown
Might as well go up in flames.
Rivers cast me off,
Now I am a cast-away.

Close my eyes tight
Hide from flickering lights.
The tide recedes
No longer blind.

Stuck on my wooden shore,
Arms outstretched, grasping dreams
Ocean rise, lights floating.
Deadbeats slowly sinking.

Bubbles floating to the top
Before freedom, they pop.
Tried to find the "Land of All".
But they denied me entry.



© Sofia Villagrana 2018
Inspired by the screenplays Fences and Death of a Salesman.
Aaron LaLux Feb 2018
The underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut and gun pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of these American dreams,

see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green,

she says her father doesn’t bother to call her,
says he lives in Vegas where he lost his job,
just another unemployed American off the assembly line,
now he takes care of his mom who’s lost her mind,

gone senile from years of denial that her son is an alcoholic *******,

meanwhile resistance is still futile,

and this son of this mom is the father of the girl I’m with now,
as we lay in bed talking about trivial things instead,
of what really matters which is what we’re doing with this life,
just passing time until we’re all dead I guess,

feeling like an abstract painting of American Commentary,
a dissenting dissertation of this perverse dystopia,
don’t mention most things that are worth mentioning,
which is part of the problem that keeps repeating in amounts that’re copious,

and I’d continue with these verses and get more in depth,
but I’m being rude to the nervous girl in my bed,
so I better get off this laptop and back to that jackpot,
or rather Jill *** whatever that means I’d rather be misunderstood instead,

and that’s why I don’t mind if they don’t understand what I said,

or rather don’t understand the words that I wrote when they’re read,

because,

the underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of this American dream,

see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green…

∆ LaLux ∆

Free link for new book: www.scribd.com/document/367036005/The-Sydney-Sessions-12-Steps
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