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Mouthing memories of
dumpster feasts.
Wandering or sleeping
in backs of cars or
tucked up into
cold carboard beds.
No warmth and lullabies
just harm, harm, harm.

Abruptly at the doorstep
with garbage bag suitcases.
Talons, overgrown and sharp,
dig up wonderbread skin;
clawing at what has burrowed there.
Smearing up their faces-
war paint so red, red, red.

Narcaned neonates
with powerranger prayers.
Echoing mockingbird profanity
in hollow, hungry mouths-
battle cries and spit.
Playing war in the backyard,
consequences for keeps.

Thin arms and legs sprawl, alien,
decorating the floors with despair.
Spilling out of doorways like lamplight.  
Moving in the night as
feral things do.
Cooing out “mother?”
As I pass in the dark.
John Mar 30
Nothing will ever compare to my little Nightingale
Neither the prettiest lady nor the sexiest female.
For she bailed me out of my miserable tale
In a sea of pure pain and agony where I usually sail.

My little Nightingale is always busy
Caring for other people’s sickness, curing for other’s misery.
Helping weak people stand, making the babies a nursery,
Reaching for the poor people’s hand, and taking out my insanity.

But my little Nightingale knows nothing about this
For she loves to work in anonymity, and a place in peace.
But my beloved Nightingale knows nothing about this
For she captured my heart, this perfectly deity-like miss.

My little Nightingale knows not one single thing.
‘Tis the feeling I feel inside, ‘tis the desire I always hide.
That I want to see her dressed in full white, marching at the center of an aisle,
With the priest commanding me, “ You may now kiss your bride!”
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
'Put my hand in the hand of the man from Galilee,

that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled

Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way

a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,

I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Here a seeing being done, words appearing...

fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?

You should think, you know atoms work, this way.

Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,

but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.

Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.

But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.

I found this trail up from the beach.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?

No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.

Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.

If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.

A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.

'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.

Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...

You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.

There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.

If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.

A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.

What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.

What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?

Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,

Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows
This is a reworking of Good news from a far country, I am attempting to rein in my scattered mind. Let me know if you see improvement or parts in need thereof.
if i get the job
as a dishwasher
at the cafe or
the nursing home

i might get my
weirdly
tragically beautiful
cinderella story
after all
mark Aug 2018
there was no fire
there was no smoke
only firemen
and a burst sprinkler system
but Mom could lie
in bed
looking up and point to
where the smoke
had seeped in

even weeks later
in the dining hall
the repairs finished
she would still ask me
if I could see
where the fire had been

I looked at her
and saw where the fire had been
I saw her
in the bright morning Summer sun
walking through heavy dewed grass
thick with crickets
wiping down the lines
hanging our laundry
up to dry
whistling along
as Nat King Cole sang
Mona Lisa
in her head
mark Aug 2018
I often had dinner
with my ninety four year old father
at the nursing home,
who,  towards the end
had little to say.
what he said
was mostly incoherent
and softly spoken.
after one dinner,
where little was said,
we sat together,
he in his wheelchair,
I in a lounger,
in the lobby,
in front of the television,
digesting,
he turned to me,
and said,

"I didn't think this would go on so long."
Anne Curtin May 2018
Sharon fears she is invisible.
"Can you see my face?"
she asks twenty times each day
or "Am I wearing lipstick?"
She clutches my forearm with
surprising strength as I answer "Yes"
and "Yes Sharon, I can see you."
"Thank you" she sighs, stands carefully
and wanders away.
Terry Collett Mar 2018
The leg fitted you well
although you hated it,
hated putting it on,
but you did moodily
speaking a stream of abuse;
not at me, but the quack
who took it off.

The nun who stopped
in the doorway
of the girls's dormitory said:
you shouldn't be
in here Benedict.

I asked him in,
you said,
wanted him to help me
with the leg.

Makes no difference,
the nun said,
rules are rules.

She eyed me sternly,
so I left.

Wait for me,
you said,
ignoring the nun
who began to lecture you
on your bad language
and rule breaking.

You stood up
and taking your crutch
you walked past the nun.

It is rude to go
when someone
is talking to you,
she said.

You stopped
outside the door:
I'm listening,
you said,
but I've heard it
all before.

She sighed in a prayer
and rubbed the rosary
hanging from the belt
about her habit:
then listen, Anne,
and do as you are told.

You looked past her
then at her:
can I go now?

I looked at her,
then you.

You may,
she said.

So we walked down
the passageway,
and into the dining room,
and sat down at a table
waiting for breakfast;
you in a foul mood
and I just wanting food.
Terry Collett Feb 2018
What a cacotopia
this place is, she said,
gazing around the lawn
and swings, slide
and kids there, and
the plump nun standing
nearby in her black
and white habit.

I sat beside her
on one of the white
metal chairs around
a white metal table.

I gazed where she gazed:
Cacotopia? I said.

Look it up, Kid, she replied,
don't question my words.

She was in a mood;
I guessed her leg stump
was hurting.

She'd left the artificial leg
off saying it was rubbing;
although she added
a few swear words
in her description.


You know that Darwin guy
said we decended
from monkeys?
Well I think that nun
is the missing link
they are looking for,
she said.

I studied the nun:
she looked more like
a penguin that a monkey.

Don't you like nuns?
I asked.

Some are o.k,
she said, but the ones
here I don't.

Shall I get you
your wheelchair?
I said.

No, Kid, she said,
we'll go walk the beach.

She grabbed her crutches
and we went through
the avenue of trees
and out the back gate.

It was early morning
so we would be back in time
for lunch and not be late.
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