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Jim 8h
I can write no poems
I can write not a rhyme
I haven't the effort
And can't afford the Time

I lack any patience
Of which is necessary
For a poet is all too diligent
And I am the contrary

I haven't got passion
I haven't got soul
I lack what it takes
I seem to lack it all

No, I am no poet
No master of verse
I don't feel like a poet
But I can string together words
"The rests of the music of my life
Ring louder than the notes"

So what if the rests resonate loudly than the notes?!
I say let them ring!

Let them halt the loudness of the chorus,
or the orchestra,
or the band.
Show everyone silence is a sound too!

Music isn't all about triumphant horns or beating drums,
And neither is life!

The beauty of silence in music goes largely unrecognized.

And the same thing goes for the music of life.

And you might be waiting for your next note,
Sitting, waiting; as you read the music.
And when the rest ends,
You will know it was needed to magnify the note.
So let the rests ring.
Cities stand on the rubble of the past,
Creating more rubble with evolution fast.
They stand on the rubble of past achievements,
Forgetting them with each passing day, no resent.
They stand on rubble of our ancestors' homes,
Breaking traditions, making new ones, just to assure we're not alone.
They stand on the rubble of what used to be fields,
Creating high rises to protect us from nature's wrath, as shields.
They stand on the rubble of the land of jungles,
Advertising nature still, creating more jingles.
They stand on the corpses of martyrs of the land,
Creating monuments in their name, making their deaths grand.
Cities stand on the rubble of what was once humanity,
Creating opportunities for health and wealth, promoting vanity.
The reality of cities, and the irony they bring forth, along with the fears of humankind.
The place smells the same. Garlic, undergraduate angst, oven flame.  The menu hasn’t changed. The Antony and Cleopatra.  Italian sausage and snake meat. The Macbeth. Cooked in a cauldron.  Blood sauce won’t wash off. The Julius Caesar.  Served bottom side up.  You have to knife it from the back. The Timon of Athens. Only bitter, separate ingredients, overcooked to black. The Frankenstein.  Assembled from ingredients at hand.  Served smoking from a jolt of high voltage. The Tragic Irony. It’s a surprise.  Everyone at your table knows what you’re getting while you cover your eyes.

You said tragedy means playing out a ****** hand. The game has to end badly. Bigger Thomas. Joe Christmas.  Hamlet.  Everybody died.  No choices. The end. I said, no, it means you have a fatal flaw.  Macbeth and Ted Kennedy—ruthless ambition.  Gatsby—pride. Lear—vanity. Richard Nixon—douchebaggery, deep-fried. Bad choices.  

“Can’t be both,” you said.  “One is character, the other one’s fate.” “What if character is fate?” I asked smugly. “Then we’re *******, Heraclitus. It’s late.”

I smoked a pipe.  You wore a beret and severely bobbed hair. I wrote sarcastic love letters to the universe. You wrote hate lyrics to Ted Hughes, love notes to Jane Eyre. We kept relations on an intellectual plane. You had a set of big firm ideas, dark-eyed principles, and a dimpled scorn of life’s surly ****. My eloquence was tall, square-jawed, curly, tan.  Together we solved the world’s big problems as only undergraduates can.

“Can pizza be tragic; or is it merely postponed farce?” I wondered. “Here it is clearly both, though not at the same time,” you said. “Does tragedy plus time equal comedy?” “Sounds right.” “No, tragedy plus time is any order in this place on a Saturday night.” After what seems like decades our orders finally arrive.  

“What did you get?” I asked.  “Looks like the Double Tragic,” you replied. “Flawed choices and fate. I leave you. You were unfaithful to every love sonnet you ever wrote.  Yet you are the first man who makes me feel loved, the only one who ever will.  I strain for that feeling again and again but it becomes a boulder that keeps rolling back down the hill. And fate—my beautiful ******* that got so much attention from men will **** me.  The only thing they will ever nurse is a cancerous seed. You?”

“The Too-Many-Choices, done to perfection. Choosing everything means choosing nothing. Loving too many women, I love none.  I follow a simple path home but try to stay lost. Living in the space between lost and found has a cost.  My life becomes a solitary pilgrimage to no place.”

“Let’s not reduce our lives to a Harry Chapin song,” we agreed. So we toasted the beauty of what never was. I went back to my hotel to write, found my way to a few easy truths, and called it a night.
Tyler Harper Feb 14
Where's the line?
The line between joke and reality.

For are these jokes,
these mindless taunts

benign or malignant?
A tumor of insecurity

Ever growing

But where ever this line may be
I see frailty


And there I could stand
With joke in hand:
Wherever would it land?
Xallan Feb 13
Do you smile at my contradictions
Do you laugh at the depth of my mind
so lacking in simplicity
Or because it is unfathomable
Give me the time
And I'll scream it into your every thought
A heartbeat in mindlessness
I'm sorry I lied when I told you
We have the rest of our lives
Ironically we live in a time of
Great Openness and
Inclusion when
Society would say

It's really not OK
to mock someone
for their race
or  their religion
They're a White Christian

that's ok  we're “priveleged” on Earth and Going to Heaven
it's no wonder you folks don't want to be nice to us
that's ok    We Love You Just the Same
Dont get mad [please]
andreia Feb 8
you were
the smoke
i always
wanted to savor
you were
the high
my calm have
always looked for

but i was the lungs
who managed
to survive
without being yours
Juhlhaus Feb 5
Even though I walked for an hour
In the snow melt mist
Threading my boots
Through the brown salt muck and flotsam
Winter's junk food wrappers
The city just stared vacantly
At its own face in the lake ice
Seemingly as uninspired as me
Not every day can be poetic, right?
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