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An ant crawls all over
A dried plop of white bird ****
On the sidewalk.
{those donuts are three days older, that's all}


I did not buy them, there was always a Winchells
a walk from any where, free no more than 27 hours,
that's right, new donuts daily clean and reheat to fry,
takes about three hours, to fry the first batch, minutes

but during the warm up, Winchell's in LA metro, threw
all the donuts in the store at grease refresh, goes,
in the bag, for whoever gets there first, we do,
we always do, this is our Winchell's, Dennis Easy Rider,
he lived at 1312, we had 1412 N. Crescent Heights
Hopper, that's him,
what's a generational remembering, the sounds
Harley's Made then, Indians had a tone, different,
Honda's were scooter legal kid of 14, 55MPH
one passenger, no helmets, and skateboards
and whisky

Pseudovectorial spinning applied
to a two pivot pendulum pattern painting,

no sweat, in 2006, a Flashscript could doit done it

This has Mel Zalewsky
"La Papelera de Secretos" on stage, window, screen
gut to heart to brain, brain tastes the conversation,

sense minds of this demo model, has this retina
reverted to wemind and become a model reader
thunk through
to live another new day
in digital paradice as far as any mind,
any form information acting free agents, so true.

We all know we each see what we each see, so
true held… just so, for as long as we have period sets

NPC. Once deeper, fly on the wall,
not buzzing,
not bothering any body's piece
of mind, weform, many lenses on one flake
glint true choice worth value heavy mindwise

of what weform from, as lakes freeze at your touch

Mel Zalewsky
"La Papelera de Secretos"
Guardaste mis secretos:  
los poemas que arranqué del pecho  
y lancé hacia tu oscuridad.  

Esos versos torpes,  
hojas arrugadas por el llanto,  
pedazos de alma  
que terminaron en tu vientre de metal.  

Nadie supo que fuiste  
el horno donde quemé  
cartas de "siempre"
y sobres de "nunca más".  
Tus esquinas aún huelen  
a tinta derretida.  

Sepultaste las cenizas  
sin preguntar nombres.  
Ahora esos papeles  
—los que sobrevivieron al fuego—  
alumbran otras noches ajenas.  

¿Quién notaría que eres  
solo una papelera?  
Que en tu silencio  
hay más verdades  
que en todos los poemas
que aún no he publicado.  

Mel Zalewsky.

From <https://hellopoetry.com/>

"The Trash Can of Secrets"

You kept my secrets:
the poems I tore from my chest
and threw into your darkness.

Those clumsy verses,
sheets crumpled by tears,
pieces of soul
that ended up in your metal belly.

No one knew you were
the oven where I burned
letters of "always"
and envelopes of "never again."
Your corners still smell
of melted ink.

You buried the ashes
without asking names.
Now those papers
— those that survived the fire —
light up other, distant nights.

Who would notice that you are
just a trash can?
That in your silence
there are more truths
than in all the poems
I have yet to publish.
What if this is okey, we can expect translation or try, I now hope for it
MetaVerse Aug 2024

Short daddy-longlegs
Crawling up the empty wall,
How's the wife and kids?

MetaVerse Aug 2024
Mom says
I'm an inchworm,
but when I grow up
I'm gonna be a F
                            O
                            O
   ­                         T
                            L
        ­                    O                                           !
                            N                                  ­  !    
                            G                            ­   !    !    !
                            W                        ­R     !     !
                            O                a   W     R    !     !
                            R           w  A    w  a   R  !   !
                            M     R a  W  a A   R  R     !    
                            !!!  RaWAwaAaWaRR!!!   !   !
                                    R a   W   a  w  R      !      
                                           w     W   A     !      !  
                                                a     a    R !     !     !
                                                      w    R   ­  !  
                                                             ­     !       !
                                                               ­                !
el Nov 2020
I AM SICK
OF LOSING POEMS
TO
502 BAD GATEWAY

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
can this bug please be fixed? every so often i go to publish a great poem and then half of it is lost because of this
nevaeh Nov 2020
bug
it is so hard to know what you want,
what you're trying to say.
you're like a little bug with wings
that won't quit bumping into my eyes
and buzzing in my ear.
but a cute bug
one that reminds me of the ocean and summer camp and being in love.
i would put you a a mason jar
with holes in the top,
so you can breathe. (duh)
and i would take you to my favorite fields
and alleys and stores.
show you all the things that make me happy
and try to make you happy too.

but i dont think
you would like being in a jar.
even one with holes in the top.
repost ~ because i **** now but i was cool then ~ cute lil' bug
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