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Iz Jun 4
It’s been awhile
My nail beds grew brittle since the last time we spoke
My hair a shade or so darker
the cat has another uti and the dryer broke
Won’t run for more than 10 without shutting off
They say it’s the tube it runs up the wall and pops out the roof
How stupid
It’s a fire hazard and just a **** big inconvenience
Every night we’ve spent pulling in and out of that laundry mat
Me legs feel like they’re stuck in molasses
This life is but to fast for a sugary sweet like me
I dream of dimes in the dozens and I’m not talking about change
Big lights and big bucks all coming my way
But I wake up in the same room
Living this same life
And i try so desperately to close my eyes
but those dreams aren’t what’s meant for this life
And I know it
head to toe kissing

I   the mundane

moonlight madnesses, a possessive noun,
commissions gravitational pulls that disobey and obey
laws of interstellar loving. The antique modalities once and forever, forever laying still, stilled in places of antiquities and historical need, are thundershower and hail rudely reawakened, the undertow of
pull and push, the yanking hands  of need for others, for others,
it’s the explosive-knowledge, the opening of the old kitbag of perpetual principles, that crazy head to toe kissing is no less necessary, more so, than the computation of the total breaths mundane, unnoticed even now as I write of them, that we will count from that very first, in deed, they are one and the same, like the same
kisses given from head to toe

II   the profane

at the first, the body insists, I am but a long haul trailer, no taxi me,
cargo and passengers, are my quatrain accompaniments,
traveling companions boon, my own toons, too soon disembarked,
songs of parents and lovers, children and others, your visage passed
without your permission, but with your happy encouragement,
to generations that will see things that futurists dare not
even mention, but the profane urge to warn them all, kisses from head to toe, elevates, and when most of my names dusted with forgetfulness, lost in the waves, my scorching soft lips will be recalled just as an airy flight of light brushing upon a newborn’s eyelids just at the moment of birth.  A rustling more felt than heard, the ****** and bruised carrying body will sensate and instantly forget, but nonetheless transmit genetically, that the profane of birth and life renewing can be only washed away, when past and future, recalled and recreated, kisses from head to toes, dripping with softening saltwater tears, a chemical organic reagent of creation,
inside the histories of head to toe kissing

III  the insane

so when, somewhere, some place, a man’s body prepares  
tous ses adieux, his memory foolishly sane and strong,
his wasted paper bag container ship, rust bucketed,
crinkled and wrinkled, skin folding in on itself, hanging to bones
by stretched sinews and tendons that no longer tend to business,
loosened and gangly, they hang on barely to the bare nakedness of
evolutionary processes, mostly not, offset, by the tenderizing effects of kisses, from invisible attendees,  unconscious they,
willingly and unwillingly, offering farewells in actuality...
head to toes, noses to belly buttons, tatted, tattered, and still tasted by dying cells.  It’s insane to think it’s even possible  one retains each and all, but he does, those few given, those few  millions he gave away for cheap belly laughs and poems, decade upon decade accumulated are the totality of him, all of them free and sealed in kisses from head to toes
a perfect fare thee well love poem to add to the pastures lying fallow on mountain ranges of kisses from heads to toes...June 3, 2019
Mother God planted the seed of joy in me but I am still at war with what eternity entails,
sugar peaches kissed in sunless shades,
the fruits of heavens melt evermore,
cosmic outburst at the limit of human perception,
come, steal my fashion, besiege my immortality.
Baylee Kaye Apr 12
my days are longer without you near
the sun sets slower, and my nights stay darker
the clock is ticking but I feel no remnant
I drag my feet behind me with my chin to my chest
kicking up dust with my shoes
what I live is a pattern of monotony
a constant loop of never-ending tedium
the rising and setting of the sun is all the same
it’s a pointless cycle of idle moments
sitting still instead of doing
each hour is a broken record catching on its hinge
it doesn’t move forward, but neither backward
not until I spend my days next to you
because seconds last longer when I’m not with you
AvengingPoet Mar 3
I’m simply suggesting
Clamoring and asking
But I’m a man now, boy

The water is running
The drain is busted
But I’m a man now, boy

And so I ask you another question
In ***** of anxiety
But I’m a man now, boy

I want to run away
I’m certain I can
But I’m a man now, boy

I have one last thing to say
Is the numbness everlasting
Oh god it’s so mundane
Day in, day out
Same ****, different struggle
I guess I’m a man now, boy

My lungs filled with air
I guess this is living.
Juhlhaus Feb 24
Outside two squirrels foraging
Inside one hundred and one keys tapping
Three buttons clicking and one wheel spinning
Eight hours a day sitting badly
In an ergonomic desk chair
Soft fingers tap on plastic and glass
Weak muscle memory of calluses and splinters
And sunburn blisters from another life
Outside the old prairie wind howls like a phantom
Lost in urban canyons buffets the panes
Drives the torrents of freezing rain
Hard droplets tap on metal and glass
While inside high-rise terrariums we sit
Generating transient value that flits
Up into the clouds till whenever
You tap plastic to trade your invisible worth
For a hot meal in a disposable bowl
Ponder and sip in another life you could be
Spending eight hours a day in the freezing rain
Hunting squirrels for soup
A whimsical corollary to my previous poem, Soup for Squirrels.
Juhlhaus Feb 21
I sat outside today eating sushi and miso soup in the sun
Some squirrels came by and stared at me hopefully
I put a bit of miso soup in the lid and set it out for them
But they weren't interested
Then a gust of cold wind blew the lid over and the soup was spilled
One of the squirrels went for the crumbs in an old potato chip bag instead
A somewhat poetic anecdote from my lunch hour.
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