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A seventy year old woman is waiting at her physician's office in a hospital gown. Her name is called by a secretary, and she calmly gets up to walk to the desk. She is told that her doctor is waiting to speak with her in his office, where he has the clothes she arrived in.

After some time, she exits the office in her dress, shawl, and shoes. She is clutching a manilla envelope. She is wide-eyed, calm, and content. Her face glistens with the fresh residue of tears.

The woman's granddaughter is waiting in her sedan, parked in an adjacent parking structure. She is listening to music on the radio. The woman shuffles to the passenger seat door and enters the car. The granddaughter instinctively starts the car and begins backing out of the parking space. As they're leaving the parking structure, the granddaughter notices the manilla envelope held by the woman. She stares at it, missing her signal to turn onto the road. She ***** her head back forward, and her lip quivers before gradually morphing to a smile. She turns off the radio before continuing their trip home.

The woman enjoys many nights with her relatives and friends, hosting dinner parties and being treated to recreational outings.

When the woman meets friendly acquaintances or loved ones in public, they always deliberately congratulate her before swiftly and gracefully continuing their conversation as normal.

One month after the previous doctor's visit, the woman is awakened by breakfast in bed, prepared by her daughter and granddaughter who are both doing their best to contain their beaming excitement.

"These deviled eggs are wonderful. I knew you would share the skills I taught your mother."

The woman's daughter asks her if she'd like some privacy.

"Oh, no. The more the merrier! I almost couldn't sleep with how much I wondered who would be standing in my kitchen right now. Feel free to let them in, just one at a time at first if you wouldn't mind."

The woman's daughter exhaled in delightful affirmation, and obliged. The daughter and granddaughter left the woman's bedroom.

A tall man named Harvey with white hair, a scully cap,  and glasses put down a mimosa that he was nursing onto the kitchen counter. He smirks when he notices the woman's daughter nodding loudly as she walks towards the crowd. Harvey turns to the rest of the small, tight-knit crowd who are enjoying each other's company in the kitchen. He pardons his interruption, asking if they mind that he go first. Empathetically, everyone in the room encourages him to proceed.

Harvey enters the woman's room.

"Oh my lord! I wish I'd finished that script!"

Harvey chuckles at the woman's remark, bending over to hug her in her bed. The woman gleefully reciprocates, with a grape still bouncing around her mouth.

"You know, I give you full permission here on out to use or adapt anything in my vault. Consider it my retirement gift. If you need to talk to any of the new people to get the rights, just call Diane about it first. She'll straighten it all out."

Harvey praises the woman's work, saying he couldn't do any of it justice. He thanks her for the gesture, but says it won't be necessary. They spend almost fifteen minutes reminiscing with one another.

He asks her how she's feeling.

"Great, actually. Now that I've had more time to process all my feelings recently, especially with everyone else, I feel more dignified. I feel ready for what's to come. I'm surprised we're one of the few cultures of this world that do this. I always knew that this is how we meant it to be, but I was still scared of the future and didn't quite trust the process. Now I'm confident since I've felt that the process is itself trusting me. Does that make any sense?"

Harvey thinks it does. He asks if the woman would like to speak to some of the others, and she agrees.

Over the course of ninety minutes, a hearty handful of relatives and close friends visit the woman in her room in small groups, thanking her for everything they've given them and receiving her own loving compliments in response.

After everyone's spoken to her individually, they all excitedly rendezvous in the kitchen with a pastor. The last of a charcuterie board is picked at by the younger attendees while the daughter speaks to the pastor, who arrived within the past half hour. The daughter is nervously trying to clarify procedural details with the pastor, but the pastor replies speedily and in a reassuring tone.

All the visitors file back into the woman's bedroom, lining the perimeter and encircling her bed. The pastor proudly strides to the center of the room, facing the woman who is practically glowing with honor.

The pastor introduces himself out of formality to the room, but with an infectious sense of levity in acknowledgement that everyone's already acquainted with him. He thanks the woman for electing him to be the officiant of this traditional meeting. He joyously espouses a soliloquy of his personal admirations for the woman, recounting their bonding memories. He acknowledges the mutual love in the room, recognizing those in attendance.

He reaches a cadence, announcing that everyone is gathered in this room today to deliver a greeting of congratulations-in regards to some landmark information-to the woman.

The pastor looks directly at the woman and calmly says "congratulations, Eve. You're dying."

"I AM?!?!"

Grape juice leaks onto her blouse from the side of her mouth.
I romanticize humanity until what's left isn't even human.

I cook up fallacies about legal aliens and add a dash of cumin.

Your chef tosses salads in the pasta section of the grocery store.

Devil's just as confused, with a ***** and an apology at heaven's door.

You don't know, and no one cares where eggs go when they die.

Godzilla thinks of a car full of clowns like you would a sardine pie.

What happens when an elephant gets alzheimer's and loses keys?

Does the paradox consume an entire circus of trapeze-act-fleas?

I ruin birthday cakes by blowing off the frosting instead of the flames.

How I do that? Count backwards from backwards and say my names.

Bittersweet love anthems pollute the brains of conscientious dames.

Heavy metal doesn't pollute, it pacifies rage quitting from soul-******* games.

Out of the woodwork comes a limp ***** that would work,

Long hours only to find he'd pay millions for a Miley Cyrus twerk,

Which is worth about as much as an all-female circle ****,

Unless you add strap-ons, so strap in and lap up the knee-****-smirk.

It is unwise to handle scissors when one is being cutting-edge,

Because your accountants will dangle themselves off of a three-storey ledge,

When you cut up the ledgers and make light of, that is, burn, the evidence of pledge,

To the monkeys in your think-tank mailing feces to the upstart farmer's hedge.

Now I know you're sick of rhyming and of poems and of liver culling whisky,

But I must inform you of a pirate's missing eye, I've bought sight of something risky,

I implore that when this song and dance is done, you'll assuredly miss me,

Because I've told you everything about depravity, hence forth you must kiss me.

Beacons of hope shine much like cantankerous silver in the moonlight.

If you're a werewolf that will fill you with hope and with immeasurable fright.

One day the world will admit that I'm awesome and impoverished to boot,

Because when the song and dance is done, what's left is just an ounce of loot.
Another poem from my vault that I forgot about.
I wrote this poem today, July 20th, of 2015.
Reading this, I was astounded by the wordplay I employed.
There are certain things I've forgotten how to do poetically.

My poems now are more thoughtful, story-oriented, and laced with meaning.
This poem up here is pure play - wordplay, poeticism, rhyme, contrast, shock, mayhem, chaos. When I wrote poems like this, unknowingly, I did my best to dance around meaning. I played with it. Gave my readers just a taste of meaning as I, with comedy, made a spectacle of words.

I loved playing with words to full effect at the time. I was going through a lot of psychic pain. My illness was rampant. Writing helped ease the pain immensely and gave me joy.

I hope this little poem made you laugh as it did me :)


Andy Chunn Jun 22
The doctors would always take turns
And Hawkeye would have his concerns
The nurse with hot lips
Was swinging her hips
Enticing the lonely Frank Burns
Steve Page Jun 19
She could have sworn Charlie Chaplin was French.

She had thought so since childhood -
there was something about his movies being sub-titled,
his ****** hair and (she lowered her voice with some shame)
his trouser.

She had loved his films since watching them with her dad
and he never had mentioned the silent star's heritage.
I mean, why would he?

She looked again.  And again there was something
'continental' in his eye liner, in his gait
and in the way he gracefully pivoted
that still fitted her misconception.

But now that she thought more about it,
it made perfect sense,
of course he was not French.
He must have been German.
I was watching a UK quiz show and one of the contestants had been under the misconception that Chaplin was French.
Anais Vionet Jun 3
Love is a bit of comedy, so be rough with love.

He arranges her one way and then another,
in itchy dissatisfaction. She surrenders to the role
like a silent bystander, a plaything in the hands
of impatience - what does he want?

“Like this,” he says in a schoolteacher’s voice.

The imbalance of power, the almost impersonal
manipulations, the momentum toward surrender,
and then the shocking, primal desire - to meld -
like a gunshot in a canyon long thought empty.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Meld: "to combine, blend or mix together."
Zombies growl, creepers creep,
Down in the dungeon's keep.
"There are monsters nearby"
You may not sleep.
I thought of this while I was playing Minecraft and wrote it down with the book and quill. This is the original version. Yep, I have another verion.
Jordan Gee Dec 2021
I used to hang out in abandoned buildings.
Old machine shops with puddles of rainwater pooled up on the floor;
sun or star light visible between broken and failing rafter beams
and the holes in the ceiling and my eyes.
Sometimes there would be particle board hammered into the brick
where heavy glass windows once stood;
tacked all about with bright yellow and pink postings warning
people like me to stay out and to not trespass under penalty of law.
The warning signs made me nervous because I don’t like to get in trouble.
Sometimes I would notice abandoned spaces while
driving up route 11 - Scranton, Pennsylvania.
I would park and discern through google maps on how
to gain access to yet another relic of American industry before
Wall Street reinvented slavery and shipped the spirit
of the Rust Belt to Mexico and Bangladesh and China and
various sweatshops overseas.

I had a lot of spare time to walk up and down the Wyoming Valley, northeast PA,
looking for the abandoned skeletons of buildings
into which I could furtively enter and abide.
Friday night, long week, punch the clock, no plans - no problem.
It was me and my two feet,
a long walkabout winding through the annals of my memories,
maybe some take out for dinner and all is well.
Don’t get me wrong, I had friends.
I’ve been to many places and I’ve seen many things.
I’ve faced many hardships but I always found a
posse or a partner with whom I could abide in peace and cheerful community.
That is before I would up and leave them abandoned in the wreckage of
my slow motion odyssey of self destruction;
dusting the bones of my many friendships with the many
chem trails from the many jet planes from the many tickets booked
by my father to save me from the many demons gnawing on my neck and heart.
Goodbye florida. Good bye guam. Goodbye california.

Abandoned buildings are safe.
There is a comforting predictability in their steady dilapidation.
There are no standards of social etiquette by which to adhere.
There is no small talk through which manufactured smiles show their teeth.
There are no ****** expressions and body postures to monitor
and reflect back what adjustments in countenance and demeanor I must make.

My face was a Greco-Roman mask.
Stretched and dried out, suspended somewhere between a comedy and a tragedy.
My face is the furthest frontier of my soul song,
the outermost edge of my heart.
That through which sound passes.
my face is a tan hide
Kagey Sage Nov 2021
You smell like a carnival
in some forlorn town or county
I open the door
and smell the fried dough,
the petting zoo, the bumpkin hoods
with too much cologne
looking at you like you was eyeing their girl
wearing his lanky white arm

You smell like cotton candy,
maybe they could only afford a reptile guy,
the lions club and their burgers and hots
you can only purchase with coupons
The backseat of the worst corvette
owned by the greasiest ugly old man
who has a couple more benjamins than his
old lady's last daddy
lex hughes Aug 2021
Longing for the old days
Simple days
Times when you could ask "what's this song?" a hundred times
And every time, in reply:
"Darude sandstorm"
Something funny for once
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