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Henry Dec 2021
by which I of course am referring to this keyboard
that i’m writing on now
funny how that works ain’t it
62 minutes until my shift ends
John Prine & the Korean war don’t quite match where I am
clicking pool cues penetrate my headphones
I wonder how many bad games of pool it takes to shake a man’s confidence
by my estimate the answer is never enough
guys that can’t shoot love teaching girls how not to shoot
but the girls don’t usually seem to mind
how very 60’s highschool of it all
maybe Mr. Prine does have something here to say
47 minutes until my shift ends
people trust engineers warns my engineering professor
people trust you to know things he furthers
people trust us to explain
I wish they wouldn’t
tech support & translators for parents & grandparents
people want answers but only when they thought they already knew
40 minutes until my shift ends
pretty good, not bad, I can’t complain
seeing my old highschool teachers at the burrito place where I worked
sinking in the mire of chicken, brown rice, & black beans for minimum wage
ain’t it funny
I can smell the 45 pieces of steak & chicken I grilled when I get home
ain’t it funny
the outrage over the price of guacamole
33 minutes until my shift ends
I was at work when I wrote this
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
This one day I was awalkin' down the road,
to Chicago, winter o'seventy, worst in thirty years,
'saw this young fella in a army jacket, shiverin',
his feet was cold.

I walked up and said hello, you don't know me,
but I saw your feet was cold.

I got some dry socks and bread bags that'll
keep'm dry, you can have 'em if you will.

He said thank you, sir, real polite, but
cold feet is what I'm gettin' past,
gettin' over it wit m'mind. A guru taught me.

Ain't working is it?
I saw your feet was cold.

Nah, it ain't, now yah mention it, and I'm hungry.

So he bought me a burrito, and I told him about angels,
and how some say cold feet are symbolic,
one told me once,
many's the wish gone awanting
for lack of a reason to try.

I had cold feet, back then.
walkin' to Chicago, tryin' to. Again,
wit my mind. And bread bags, this time.

Angels, I believe in, they all are helpful as can be,
within parameters, y'understand, but evil angels,
ain't no such a thing.

Not no more any how. Jesus fixed it, came and saw,
damright, conquered war by loving and forgiving,

All while the Iron-legged montrosity from Italy,
was squishin' Jews and Christians in mud

that stuck like clay to the Iron-legged beast.
Ironic, ain't it?

You don't know? Whoa. These are the last days,
all the sealed up stuff that lion's den guy
got from the angels, messages from YodHeyVodHey,
Jesus's our father, from the prayer,

on earth as in heaven? There ain't no evil angels
in any heaven you ever imagined somebody imagined.

Loki, don't count. There's jokers in heaven.

Mark Twain imagined a hellish heaven,
but saw no evil angels there.

They're mythic materially, literal wills o'the wisp.
The idea of evil hybrids,
that was then.
This now, now angels are all they ever were,
messages in the medium.

Mediums are something past medium now, hot or cold,
media-evil memes can manifest from a mob in the medium,
but they are bubbles,
right? Professional testers of the patience of the saints,
protesting the end of time,
so what?
I keep hearing words that are fun to write, so I write them. And I like the idea Sam Harris has about what Jesus bomb might be imagined to do, if all things are possible under these circumstances
Ben Sep 2016
Under harsh street lights
And a rusted skeletal overpass
We walked in the syrupy
Silence of a Sunnyside Saturday

A man asked me in accented
"Want that burrito spicy?"
His eyebrows go up
"Yes, ******* spicy!"

He smiles to himself
Reaches back into the food truck
And pours sauces and
Liquids of varying color
And viscosity into the

Wraps it up for me
Gives me my change
And waves me off with a smile

When we get back to the apartment
She is mad
Because I choose to make love to the
Burrito instead of her
I can't help it
Drunk eating is one of the
Forbidden joys of life

She slams the door and
Shuffles around yelling
By the time I'm done the burrito
She is telling me to sleep on the couch
Which is fine because I can't
Feel my mouth anyway
The burrito is so **** spicy

I tell her this and that her
Kisses would be wasted
If she wants to waste her time
With me, I want to feel it

We sleep together for
The night
Lady Narnia Aug 2016
It's time for lunch
And I want food
Something with a punch
Something really good...

I ordered a burrito
With delicious pulled pork
Its a little big though
I might need a fork...

I'm ready to eat
This incredible dish
I go and take a seat
And fulfill my wish

Bite after bite, heaven reaches my lips
As every taste bud meets an angel
This wonder perched upon my fingertips
Takes me beyond to an untold fable

Delicate mixtures of cheese and cream
Succulent pieces of tender meat
Miraculous flavor beyond that of a dream
On a tortilla of silken soft wheat

There is only one word left to say
As the tasty story comes to a close
Returning from this indulgent fey
Feeling like a remarkable rose

AnnaMarie May 2016
Once in my life I wanna be me
I want to stop listening to people's judgements
I want to stop comparing myself to others
I want to stop being like other people
But I can't...

It's like this universe wants me to be like everyone else
People look at me in odd ways when I wear my favorite shirt
They judge my overgrown hair
They laugh at my make-up free face

But the thing is
I like that old shirt that has a burrito on it
My hair is what makes me, me
I don't like make-up

But why do I have to be like everyone else
Why must I constrict my freedom to someone's liking
Just because they say I wouldn't "fit in" if I don't

Maybe it has something to with me
Maybe I just need the confidence to
Jump up and scream
"Hey, I can be different!"

It is going to be difficult to do that
To leave my little bubble
But what if I do leave the bubble,
Does that mean I can be who I wanna be?
I've watched a video on hamsters™
that reminded me of you
between your riddles and answers,
the tired mother on the rearview mirror.

Many times do I wonder
as you opened the door
with your yellow hair
falling on shoulders
nothing to say
nothing to do
as you stroked and stroked
and stroked.

"Do you love me
- like I do?"

But then again I'm also doomed
to slit my wrists under the moon:
that same old moon, already missed.

Black rickety bridges
upon bayous and flowers
Stephen King's novel, then devoured:
let's go to Albuquerque,
and count the rings
around my eyes.
Izzah Batrisyia Apr 2015
Change is inevitable.
Oh how she could have evaded
the kisses you have planted
on the soil of her skin.

"Water me,"
she asked and waited,
as flowers wilted around her frame,
a garden of grim.

Four falls passed,
an eco-system to adapt,
for she rained and she rayed,
for a garden, fond of the placid.

Oh she was a forest,
but just a garden she saw,
you admired her flowers
and tied it to a string.

The bouquet you made,
of her peonies and petunias,
the bits of her you plucked,
only for your own regard.

The parts of me you have messed with,
grew gloomy but shall never wilt,
for another fall shall pass,
and a garden of placid I shall fulfill.
© 2015 Izzah Batrisyia
Izzah Batrisyia Mar 2015
You could say hello
and my lungs would heave more than
the euphoric sigh.


Please don't say goodbye,
for I avoid beginnings
and you're worth the try.
2 different haikus to make 1 poem.
© 2015 Izzah Batrisyia

— The End —