Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ken Pepiton Mar 2021
Add your spit to my ocean, it's a game,
inherited from the ancestors
who added value, shipped worth as far as
worth was
this is worth that, and so on
until I decide to add a little shine
on mine,
I shine you on and say I'll keep both.

-watchew mean you think I said
I'll keep your attention, but I'll not pay ye mine.

-run the BG attention economy
we are the world we wanna buy a Coke®
for for for the whole world, like
flash falfash iony meme you remember, taste each
memory verse, did you
words un-accounted for go idle?
Dear reader, done is done, the reading activates the will
to know all things, or die trying…
- facing lies as the evil, not as dragons, nor bogus science,
- since hubris lets me say I know
Yes, each lessoning of the pre-surity
piled on children intended to be
us until we are old and grey,
the unnecessary extras, in the casts of thousands,
now digitally cloned in a virtual reality we can
live in, really,
we can live and breathe and have our being
in any bubble informed after
the sufficiency of evil declaration- simplification,

**** happens, and that's not evil.
What you do with what passes through you,
gut level wrestlings with ifery wasery failures
fallen angels, lame ideas, used
to manifest
the Manichaean evil that ate Tim McVeigh…

thank God, I did not pull the trigger,
and I am glad the other guy
did not die…

by killing the I instilled in the mind of a warrior,
2021 PS5, no jive,
meet me after school.

It's cool, this cyberspace superthoughttrain,
global brain, working on
bewhole be all you may imagine
on behalf of the priesthood of programmers
the guild of data gathering slave owners,
bit-coin level carbon footprints,

lo, look at those foot prints in the sand,
there went a bare foot boy,
see the softest sand where the ants expand the way home
year after year in the desert, from here
to Tucumcari .

Ease your mind Jung-man, remember who the hero was,
he who survived
the making of the peace,
the institution of wisdom in the nick of time,
first mark
before ever the earth was or even the initial Higgs field
an after thought, wisdom,
a primal
need for anything to matter, it turns out.
Consistency, I think some good could come from an art-if AI recommends I give the artists intuition free rein reigning over wrong --- turn dead ends. Sorry.
Colm Dec 2020
Even when I'm nothing
This something
Drives me
Jonathan Moya Mar 2020
How can I call myself a Boricua when I
barely know the Spanish for earth and sky,    
have no roots in the soil of Moroves,
no sense of San Juan’s flavors,
the warm Atlantic blowing Arecibo  beach,    
Ponce dancing in the Caribbean’s laughter—  
all memories stolen from postcards hastily
bought at the airport along with a  
tin of Florecitas by my mother returning home.

Those little flowers exploded suns on my tongue
and created colors, formed postcard dreams  
of forts, conquistadors, Taino villages burning
in flames rather than submitting to Spain’s sway.
I craved to be an archeologist reverently
dusting off the bones of my ancestors.
I wanted to be an artist, like my uncle Bob,
splashing faceless heads among yellow flares
devoid of black, red, no tint of sad back story.
I settled for being a poet, a painter of words,
a discoverer of the history of hopes.

There is a memory of the Rambler hitting a cow
on the dirt mountain road leading to Moroves.
The bovine sliding down the embankment,
nonchalantly getting up and going his way.
The Rambler’s front end forever stuck with the
impression of an angry bull welded in the grill.
Another of a drive to a carnival, sitting
in the cab of another station wagon,
stargazing the white half moons rising
from under the red halter of my cousin Anna.
A final one of my grandmother praying
the rosary while I stumbled to the outhouse,
spending the night on the swing under the porch
because I didn’t want to break her silence.

Cows, moons, prayers are my Boricua heritage.
I can’t translate the decimas of a jibaro song,
nor dance a merengue, a bomba,  plena.
I have no desire to eat sugarcane from the  stalk,
nor split the soursop for it sweetness.
I am lost in the winds every Boricua knows.
My memories are blown away in the hurricane.
I seek the solace of the first flight out
after the storm, sad knowing  that
I was not born, like every Boricua,  
from the roots up, to study the light of stars.
Next page