You Never Listened
by Michael R. Burch

You never listened,
though each night the rain
wove its patterns again
and trembled and glistened ...

You were not watching,
though each night the stars
shone, brightening the tears
in her eyes palely fetching ...

You paid love no notice,
though she lay in my arms
as the stars rose in swarms
like a legion of poets,

as the lightning recited
its opus before us,
and the hills boomed the chorus,
all strangely delighted ...

Originally published by Contemporary Rhyme. Keywords/Tags: ears, hearing, listening, eyes, blindness, unseeing, unawareness, insensitivity, rain, stars, lightning, thunder

In angel training we had an app…
a mantra… koan-kinda thingy doo
mathematical as hell and **** turning to asterisks
via iIiantelligent sorting, artfully done, for fun
in 2019 social mediumsaxin' all deniro
is who human?
A sort rant on the worth of living
right. Like a cog ona wheel in a wheel…

An I'll go all-gonwritmic see-quence be
gun, go-** word's
heir of airborn ranger danger
war minded old man
traits- message
messenger
sent
Sorting by likeness to true blue,
in Tengri- iteration of waiting-is
come and see
If, one sure
must not ignor rule, exists,
it may be this, here, my realm

life goes on until you quit functioning
automatical-ish, like magic
the words appear and
you're not, dear reader, near if
it seems
I'm right

enough

alone, or not.
life goes on.
Right. Otherwise, it doesn't. And we
are idle words affecting
whether patterns in
random fandom of
AI whet-dreams, with an edge on
effectual stretchings of the old
imagineer's skin in the game.

Deep id, kid. You ever imagine war?
You can do that here,
it's a game. My side won.

We tagged him Candle Sticks,
Called him that
When he was six.
Snot oozed down
Around his lips.
It was one of those taunts
That seamlessly sticks.

When he ran in the race,
He finished dead last;
His pants fell down,
Exposing the ***,
Of a hometown clown.

Many times I'd see him
Standing in the movie line,
Taking his aisle seat.
Or stocking butter and cheese
In the dairy case at Foodland;
Or under the bridges,
On a bench, watching the freighters
Power on to foreign cities;
Smiling at the fishermen casting their lines.

I think I saw him cry,
In the library, reading the local paper
In a secluded carrel.

I heard he walked to the Bridge,
And jumped.
Candle Sticks.
It stuck.

Right now I feel this jacked up
miscarriage of marriage is your
yoke joke on me and that the
great underlying truth of us is
your satisfaction with my sagging door
and wilted daisy days kept drained by
that good old tight fist-ed chip off
the block mockery and God complex critique
There are times my sky gets so disgusted
by having to internalize its fury that
my clouds need ironing just to keep
from bursting beneath the
condescending air you breathe
Right now I want to find some other
****** up flying circus just to prove
to you how smart you think you really are

Written by Sara Fielder © July 2015

I wholeheartedly wish you good luck in endeavors I'd rather you wouldn't attempt. I'm absolutely oozing with selfless insensitivity.

I’ve got to **** her to prove I’m worth the time—
that she doesn’t need that other job
and that she wants to be with me.
I’ve got to **** her,
so she knows that I’m a man,
a person worth relationship;
that can please her any time,
and pleasures looking good.
I’ve got to **** her so she’ll stay with me,
and love no other men,
to keep her love as strong as now.
Love is always mad.