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Francie Lynch Jan 2018
A blank verse worked,
A page with empty lines,
Not a word was written,
Precocious or sublime.

     I think I can go deeper,
     No title, lines or words,
     Just a blank white paper
     To ponder and observe.
     Smaller than a quark,
     Just think and it will work.
     Even greater than the singularity
     That banged our universe.
     Something was there,
     But nothing's here.
     This is a nothing verse.

It teaches nothing's worse
Than worthless words
That have no meaning,
No emotion, zero girth.

But you can make an ode of it,
A sonnet, or Rondeau,
Choose to please your fancy,
But please don't choose Haiku.
A few readers asked if I could do a sequel to "The Invisible Poem."
Josh Jul 2017
Hook up culture
Cheap cider
He has a car
That's the decider
A year or less
Down the line
You're nine months along
He's doing time
But you tell yourself
We're doing fine
Now you're wishing
You'd finished school
Instead of smoking
And acting 'cool'
Read this, think on it well
You have, one life, one story
Make it one, you want to tell
Josh Jul 2017
A cigarette with a stranger
A just missed bus
The wrong number texted
A Facebook comment thread
This is modern romance
Who said romance is dead?
Kara Rose Trojan May 2012
There's a private, invisible flock of comedians chanting soapbox knock-knocks in my parking lot
            Noisy, clang, boom thingy aloft and clipping the air around the slimy snow
And why does ajax keep butting its nose into everything I’ve got?
They’re all just boom-lost facades in a canonical, sly-faced rant.
So slanted, frankly, and poised toward a milder pace that the clang clipped the frosty branches beneath a drunken frat-house party.

Ah, the dandy-clang : native to the sandy graves and morose olive branches.
            But only on the night of the dandy-clang, candy dances
for the branches are not partial to missed solid caches
            of want and woe
            of tongue and toe
and seldom shaken beneath the overbearing heat of a white-faced predator
for times it was that here and now, because
the wind had bitten harder
What am I saying?
That if the dandy-clang came. And if it produced the branches of the dancing eve fame...
with but not together. The clouds up in the ether
that lake and earth should wither
Kara Rose Trojan Jan 2013
In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn  
                               across the forest's floor?

After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.

Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.

And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?

Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside                            
        the skiff.

Cross here with two pennies.

Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used ******'s mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air

Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
        does this not look familiar?

Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.

First we were here
Then we were not.
Kara Rose Trojan May 2015
Au(Or)al Tune
When (O)ppo(u)rtun(e)ity knocks –
            Ah, pour that tune into me
just write or speak
                        --teral mut--
            --ter yarns

Half-grown seedling ([her]bal:e(X)ssen(10)ces)
                                    into sm(O)ke
adolescent (O)re worn from being p(o)(o)r—
                      it was nE(X)CESSary for:

sm(O)ke-rings w(ear)y with surr(end)er      
thr(OU)gh the yawn: (O)nly

              … foll(O)ws

You’re w(or)th-knowing-ONLY-(O)nce
            type of l(i)ke.
            type of l(i)ke
                        for (u)s

it’s the worst type of verse
                        when it’s

likewise -- (O)r worse --
it should really be about//
      a bad in (u)s: Y(O)U:ME

(O)h after a
(O)h after a
for worse – it’s an
                        type of verse.

            ringing e(X)cesses
                     ear-worms to
                     hear words to
                     heat hearts.

Ah::rest that mouth-verse onto me.
Ah::rest that mouth
soulless gall(O)w r(u)ng
lipless v(O)wel sl(u)ng

           Y(O)u//like hanging
                        your dipTH(O)NGS
on (O)pportun(e)ity’s d(O)(O)r
                        (O)h. n(O).

            n(O)(O)se big for (u)s


— The End —