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Ken Pepiton May 10
what would force a wise septuagenarian to imagine himself
President of the USA?

Could it be
A ghost of war's glory days in the
grand old industrious gay nineties
days of smokestack landmarks of civic pride,
as seen by stevedores loading dry buffalo hides,... nay,

I trow not... war as imagined in a wise septuagenarian,
has no glory, but value, in depleting the other
side, and

rubbing away the bank on that distant shore, make it

seem so much further away...

what would force a wise septuagenarian to imagine himself
herself President of the USA?
see who salutes, nobody salutes
but military minds, tie-wearers.

nope, nothing comes to mind as reasonable,
save
pride

a broken-spirited, old-mind-bound hero-sell-out,
in my opinion,

with a plan to scuttle spaceship earth.

Okeh. We stop that. What next? It gets better.
Political fantasy, because just...
Mandi Wolfe Apr 14
“Emotionally Impregnated”
was the phrase that came to mind
when I tried to make sense
of what had happened to me
half way through listening to
the song he had sent

“You know you gave me all the time
Oh, did I give enough of mine?”

It was the unchangeable joining
of thought and feeling that produced
within me a growing emotional experience
that no more asked permission to be
than did any other seed and egg.

“Say you don’t know me anymore
But that’s a bullet on your floor”

I have never been a reliable narrator though
how many negative tests have I produced
even amid ******* that imagined they were swollen
nausea that persisted for days
and blood that stained sheets much later than expected?

Had I just spent the last two years
in an elaborate emotional pregnancy scare?
Had the joining of lyrics
of hungry bodies
of insatiable hearts
produced within me an embryo of empty hope?

Have I sabotaged my own lifeblood
in a desire to force from my womb
some monstrous and malformed product
of what had been lifegiving friendship?
I don't think this is done yet but I needed to put it somewhere before the feeling was gone... ya'll get that right?
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2019
Not to add insult to injury
But take it with a grain of salt
You can't make an omelette
Without breaking some eggs
Grace Haak Sep 2019
hot butter strolls down my face
and rolls down my nose
dribbles down my chin
and spatters the floor
the lustrous linoleum

i cry tears of sugar
it tastes much too sweet
as they mix with my thoughts
and pour into the cracked bowl
the jaded green memory

my hands are matted with white
and caked with delight
but it's a less-than-pleasant mess
i've used too much
it called for just a teaspoon
Jon Thenes Sep 2019
in our very own room
all have fever.. privately
we feed it soft egg

we closet and build
create fabric, like insect
mouthwork, repurpose

outside of the home
dictated by company
we have shared madness

we tread the weather
we institutionalize
miss out on the world

societies pal
traitors to our piracy
mistrust our own mind

blinds drawn, in fierce study
apply to the retooling
head clay made better

the automaton
must bare some animation
unallied approach

wetter still and fit
your neutrons fend now and thrive
carry the tune outdoors ?
Carl D'Souza Jul 2019
I am eating delicious
sweet corn and chicken soup:
sweet crunchy corn,
soft flavorsome garlic,
stringy delectable egg,
tasty chewy chicken,
and hot savory broth
which warms my torso;
I am enjoying
the experience
of being alive
while eating.
Sunny Jul 2019
There have been countless times
Where we've voice chatted
And I laughed and you called it cute.
And I found myself enjoying it.

I liked it whenever I sounded like that
Whenever I sounded different, feminine.
And I began to dislike hearing my normal laugh.
It felt odd to me.

A thought popped into my head.
A desire to experiment.
And once I did it, I felt even weirder about myself.
Then the questions started.

You pointed things out, and called me an egg.
Not that I minded.
Still, the questions remained, and I felt strange.
There was a sadness that I couldn't place.

Excuses were made.
Like how I didn't feel a 'certain way'
Whenever I tried on those clothes again.
It had to be something ******. It just had to.

But I started to not react in that way anymore.
And I kind of liked wearing them.
So then the questions returned.
And I didn't know what to think.

In the end, while I still have these questions.
I think it's okay to have them.
And even though I'm uncertain about myself
I'll continue on until I find who I am.
A recount of my current experiences with my questions about my gender identity.
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