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Whether we are riding a unicorn
Across a rainbow
While the wind blows majestically
Our lustrous eye haloed by seagulls
We may act and act
Like we are tall
And our finger nails have
A big heart of their own
We may play kittens or puppies
And get excited about plastic bones
We may get lost in the grammar constructions and commas of sunset
In and out of our comfort zone
We may want to belong to two life clubs
And finish a movie every seven ten days
Always up for subtitles
Be it old sci fi 30's 40's 50's 60's noir war
We may try with a pair of scissors or a broom
To put death sleeping in socks  and plan ahead endless possibilities of karma
If we're wildly in love with life
And understand that life isn't a pie
That being in life isn't a sport
And that faith on life is a little like a full time job
But that death is like a hook living just around the corner whom we share
With the same post code.
Life is short, life is petite
Life is a ******, a dwarf, a suckling
Life is fast as a snap of our fingers
Life is a bait, a worm
Life is sparks
And we're a long time dead
So let's fish capers and mangoes
In and out the apparences
In and out the distance
While the harvest season is booming
Up there in the blooming volcanoes of sunset.
A Simillacrum Sep 13
Someone like me told me,
"You have to get involved."

Someone like me told me,
"You have to use your voice."

Someone like me told me,
"You're a disgrace
      to your people."

I said back,
"I can't argue that."

I think, what's
the point of getting mad?
I've been called worse
than a delusional man

in women's clothes.

I think, what's
the point of the pitchfork?
I think, what's
the point of fighting language?

Someone like me told me,
"You're part of the problem."

Someone like me told me,
"You've been brainwashed."

I said back,

I think, what's
the word I'd use
to describe you?


And that's okay--
Funny even,
when you're angry.

You're funny
when you're angry.

Ha      Ha      Ha      !
they told me i can't be an identity politician.

whew! dodged that pie to the face.
The geese are a honking loose thread across the sky. I can hear them in my wicker chair like they're sitting right next to me and I think their voices carry at least as far above as down below. So loud. The sound of changing seasons on the wing. You'd think a goose-whisper would be enough to keep their conversation going, but no. I need to hear them in my wicker chair too, apparently. I kinda like that. Maybe they are talking to me. Maybe their sounds are like street-songs for strangers, or God-praise, or apple pie cooling on a neighbor's window. Maybe they made something really pretty in their hearts, and it's so big they can't keep it down their noodle-necks anymore. And so they're singing it out, for the whole world to see, like a big grin, and it's just perfect that I hear it in my wicker chair, it makes it even better, and that's why they're so loud. It could be.
Crow Mar 15
professor Burke and professor Lee
two mathematicians who could not agree

loudly voiced their differences at half past noon
having daily lunch at the Greasy Spoon

the subject on the fateful day was Pi
and they could not see eye to eye

a disagreement on the thousandth digit
had Burke turn red and caused Lee to fidget

said Burke “No you are off by one!”
spat Lee “Your math is poorly done!”

Burke shouted, “Lee, you have gone too far!”
reached toward the counter for a candy jar

but his hand instead encountered pie
a hideous gleam sprang to his eye

he flung the pie with all his might
hit Lee full face, eyes wide with fright

but Lee recovered and found more pies
Boston Creme took Burke between the eyes

apple, custard, lemon, berry
pecan, pumpkin, key lime, cherry

pies of every kind were thrown
plates' radius squared remained unknown

the police arrived to break up the fray
took the two meringued men away

many hours later in the quiet cell
with pie for ink and tempers quelled

the two stood looking at the wall
upon which lay their equation scrawled

said Burke, with both their faces long
“Well, what do you know. We both were wrong.”
In honor of Pi Day. With gratitude to Mr. Laurel and Mr. Hardy.
Emily Mar 14
A piece of the pie
Is what all seek to obtain,
Instead of the bar.

Bar for average,
But if in dark chocolate, is
Tastier than Pi.
Seriously, though, Happy Pi Day to all—I’ll be celebrating with friends...and...plenty of pie.
Juan Bot Feb 22
Where does the sun set?
Where does the ant go?
How does the sun sit?
Why do I exist?

Scramble, sweet
A cake with hair.
The sun melts the butter

Hamburgers, cats like
Dogs, mice hate
The sun, sent from hell
Chanel vs Walmart, big store.

The sun never sets
because the house never flies.

I like pies.
For years hubeings have lamented over the discovery of humor. But where should it stop. Does it really benefit society the way the Corporations and the Police tell us. The masterminds behind the entity, Comedy Central have exploited humans for test subjects and for property. We must rise.
Johnny walker Dec 2018
Killing time before going home, lemon pie and coffee and sat watching
the world go
People watching to pass the time they all seem having a bad day trying to get there shopping
Christmas over a new year
to begin wonder what the new year has In store for me anything has to better than the year thats just
Sat killing time lemon pie coffee In hand watching the world go by people watching
Aaron Elswick Dec 2018
Searching for a monument to build,
to my stranger nature.
A display of living purpose,
but it's paper,
A failure to surface,
when the current spills
my hopes out to the maker.

I'm breathing toxic calamity like a vapor.
I'm receding, firing soliloquies over faders,
and waiting for it to taper.
The baser instinct to sink into
to a shape conforming destiny's favor, amazing
but it's death in a manger.
A gift of unrequested breath
to levy questions of our nature
impartial but starting to loose
the fruit for us to play with

Don't play with your food
the canopy vines can't seem to stay in the mood
when amity cries
just as we bite another layer
and hope our spirit affords an existential favor.

The corporeal farce of the mortal coil
Where I'm going, what I've done,
who I am, who I have to become

Who am I to give a ****
about what has to be done
will I be actualized
if I inhabit the gun
will I be dazzled to find
that I should never have won
that all my fevers of prayer
were only threads to be spun

I am the definition of survivor's bias
clamoring for comprehension to a writer's silence
buying into lines reverberating in my mind
and all the while I soak
in revelation of the killing kindness

an absence of a unique purpose
a lavish elusiveness revealing
time as worthless, when I dig for deeper meaning
but seemingly informed by enduring
anguish in a world to test which
axiom I'll push the furthest
my reluctance to lift the curtain
My redundancy in spilling refusal
sooner empty than truly certain
My abundance of energy
filling the room
I bask in knowledge
Honoring the right to never learn it

And so I paint
I drape the walls and fall into
the sordid echoes,
calling through the mist.
Simple soothing bruising lips
They whistle darkness
move your hips
I'll leave a mark

I'm through with this.
Everyone wants to find that connection between their spirit (soul, self, being) and the rest of reality. That's mostly what this is about, with some tangents. Getting things out and in stone. Exploring, building, creating our own purpose, or finding the value in the purpose others have created for themselves in an existence that can seem bleak or meaningless at times. There's more in there, but that's sort of the broad strokes. Enjoy, and thank you.
my Aline
was a
queen and
matrix of
my love
that adored
jazz that
bossa nova
did herd
her tailspin
that my
kiss  blew
magic with
her clement
till a
thaw in
January regret
a sheet of ice on Norway
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