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CeilingStar Dec 2017
At the coffee shop

You sit gingerly opposite me, watching
I can almost touch the beauty you see in me
It's written like the title of a book all over your face, leaning in close to mine

Gazing into your warm hazel eyes is like attempting to escape a beautiful well of tears
Your eyes flicker, tenderly ******* my soul

In that moment I see what you see
I am yours, my heart yours and our souls intwined together in a display of shared tears and deep kisses
You eclipse any sadness I have ever felt

Your dark eyes yearn after my naked frame,
However it's impossible to get any closer than our thoughts overlapping from across the table

Reflected in your eyes I see your honesty and your love and the creases around your eyes when you smile

But what really strikes me,
As poignant as the glint from the diamond on my finger as I reach for my coffee,

Is that I can see myself, perfect, as I am in only your eyes
Beauty known only to your eyes
To my only beholder

KG
longer than i could remember, this king (who still rules) invited excited spenders.

once drawbridge got let down, the floodgates of humanity poured into the city to snap up bargains.
  
no sooner than vendors set out merchandise, a swarm of fingers grabbed goodies.

wallets bulged with wads of cash itching to be spent by buyers swept up via mania.

like an organic being, a pandemonium prevailed infecting shoppers with feverish frenzy to stock bags with paraphernalia.

atop high perch, matthew felt ecstatic at what appeared as one swollen black shifting grounded cloud that swallowed shelves of wares.

Where can my family receive a little boost er shot of cash? just a small *** (about $1000.00) would be a welcome respite from my bankrupt account. 
-------------------------------------------------------­--

u fill in the expletive colorful bleep
per that i yam not a lurch ching Munster creep
juiced a harmless troll bait rent asunder tabula rasa
boot angst of penury doth penny tr8 real deep

dark cyber sea inundated with other earth-linked yahoos
lying amongst in a ur i ah heap
since bin ages since oye goot a peep
***** riotously footing ogling wealth to reap

wool lee ya be generous
fur shear lee Yukon give me legal tender
   ta help me sleep
oft times unable to suppress
   the unstoppable force to weep.
---------------------------------------------------------
P­OST SCRIPT NUMBER 891212:

hashed out about 123456789 hours ago
when i felt the bottom fell out - per no dough
helplessness ringing clangorously - no where 2 go
except...where many a G. I.

(which initials
  by the way mean galvanized iron) joe
so i rage against penurious
   dime men shuns of no mo'
- nope not even a red cent -

   filthy lucre, thus find ma self a po'
papa pressed withiN perdition of poverty,
where psyche under a ******>slash burn - argh - only i can rid this monetary
   impotence akin to TiVo
clearing application
   to blitz krieg commercials - thus woe....

angst begot from money woes.
ah...the glorious thought,
   whence never again
to cull demise and forever hibernate

feeling crushed by the egregious atrocious,
heinous, and nemesis, poor ring in of late
and thus this obituary epitaph of sorts
(no matter,
   he will opt for cremation) finds frenzied
strychnine, poison

   or hemlock appear savory to this pate
a chance pair of perusing eyes
may find this blurb unable 2 eke quate
this plea sprung

   from plethora of purse son hull wreck - i rate
anxiety sweeps across me
   mental nada so healthy state
which panic wrought from poverty
per prone nouns mints

   uber viz zit with undertaker tete a tete
of decades long bout with a psyche riddled
angst sh...us lee
   waiting for Godot - Becket ting

this papa, who **** courting escape from posse aye
misty eyed in midst of his own financial catastrophe
he loathes resorting to pan handling to help him get free
of pauperism, which haint no joke,

   and would find a scabrous reply
ample reason to still his life,
   though ma lovely daughters  
suffered psychic injury
and forever be psychologically marred

   if aye did merrily
row me figurative boat over the abyss prithee
and hope for instant death of mine aura,
charisma, and karma see?

tis probably pointless n frivolous
to expect presume salvation 4 this mw male
yet nothing ventured....
could do no worse as my psyche doth quail
for being nearly penniless

   (in this cornucopia of plenti), and rail
ling against fate may bring derision
   per an unpredictable scale
argh - doth hardly shed light
   on my penurious travail

cuz thy current checking account gasps
with a death rattle does wail...
boot juiced....maybe lady luck shall draw
the gaze of one philanthropic facebook peeper
(at least enough largesse

   to stave off self destruction of spouse)
welcome mat would willingly
   be laid out for grim reaper
to whisk me away -
  so i kin become an eternal sleeper
though each surviving loved one,
   would be inconsolable weeper.
They said to buy local so I tried to buy Dave Cull’s lung.
But he wouldn’t sell it.
They said to buy local,
So I tried to buy Michael Woodhouse’ heart,
But it was out of stock.
The shop girl told me she would check out the back.
They said to buy local so I tried to buy Lee Vandervis’ hands,
He said he’d sell them to me but I tried them out and they had no grip.
The said to buy local so I tried to buy Harlene Haynes nose,
But it was already in something else.
(she told me it was malicious of me to ask and threatened me with defamation)
They said to buy local so I tried to buy the Highlanders cauliflower ears,
so I’d have enough florets for a salad,
But it turned out they weren’t organic, so I left it.
They said to buy local so I tried
They said to buy local so I tried
They said to buy local so I tried
And I tried
And I tried
And I tried

They said to buy local
-but between the dilapidated hospital and the drafty-damp flats there were no good organs to purchase.
Luna Lima Aug 2017
Old woman at store
Working hard to make end's meet
She is abandoned
A haiku inspired after I saw an old woman working in a store, looking lonely and forlorn, and probably disinfranchized by our poor social security.
JR Rhine Jun 2017
It’s strange to be
nostalgic about a
grocery store. But
there it is.

In the lobby were
quarter machines. In
exchange for coins I’d
dig from couch cushions
and mom from the bowels
of her purse,

I’d watch colorful gumballs
spiral down a slide and
tumble through the open hatch
into my awaiting palm,
and another with wax figures
which I collected.

Inside to the left
past the magic sliding
glass doors was a DVD
rental section. Rows and rows
of movies I’d peruse
looking for something to watch
on a school night.

Across from that were
the magazine and
candy aisles with
various furniture—tables and
couches and chairs and sofas—
spread out
in the middle. I would

read skateboard magazines
beating my short legs against
the static incline of a sofa
chair and
one time a lady watched me
placidly reading on a comfy chair
from the security cam
and thought I was reading
something pornographic
and told my mom at the
register.

At the register,
mom would let me get
Archie comics and
bubble gum—

One time when I was five
I stole a pack of Fruit Stripe
gum. In the mini-van I
revealed my sin to mom
and she had me (alone)
walk back into the store
and hand it back to the cashier,
apologizing for my grand
theft.

When my dad would
take me to the grocery store
he would like to play
games.

He once took an egg
out of the carton
and tossed it to me
down the aisle. Too
scared to catch, I let
it fall to my feet with
a wet crack spilling
egg all over the gleaming
porcelain.

He grabbed soda bottles
and junk food from the shelves
and consumed them
then and there, handing
the cashier the empty
containers.

There was a coffee shop
inside the grocery store
he would stop by every
morning. Some Saturdays
he would wrench me from my
cartoons and take me with him
and I would play the 25 cent
slot machines while he got his
venti mocha latte.

Once I had a
nightmare I walked
into the parking lot
and couldn’t find my
dad. I called and called
for him but couldn’t find
him anywhere. Suddenly
his voice boomed at me
from the clouds.

In a thunderous yet
soothing voice of one who
has passed on to nirvana,
he said I would be okay, and
to take care of my mother
and my little brother and
sister. I cried and cried
out to him, searching for
his earthly body in the
grocery store parking lot.

I woke up in my parents’ waterbed
choking on my tears;
dad ran out of the bathroom mid-
shave to his side of the bed where
I slept and I threw my arms around his
neck.

Years,
and a decade later,
I drove my fiancé through
the old town I was raised in
and told her stories of the
pawn shop,
gas station,
video rental,
Mexican restaurant,
and grocery store.

With the video rental
now a tire station,
and the mom and pops
in chains,
we drove by the old grocery store
standing tall and proud
still as colossal as I remembered.

As the memories flowed
from my heart to my lungs
babbling from the driver’s seat,
that old grocery store
I gave my time and quarters to
carried a greater weight
than I ever thought
grocery shopping on Saturday mornings
and Sunday afternoons
could ever have.
JR Rhine May 2017
Can you smell the decaf
in coffee breath

or palpate the aesthetic in
clothes bought
secondhand

the former amidst
those groaning to work
praying to caffeine gods
to jolt nerves into existence

the latter walking through shopping malls
spying the guise on mannequins
without frays and tears
mocking the Dickensian reflection.

Is the placebo
the one without the caffeine rush
and the credit card debt

or is it the one
who believes it will all
make them happier in
the end.
A stream of strawberry argot
and swift her auburn hair
let her shoal uptick in sluice
only a cheeseburger made grace
as her mamilla bare her cheek in crest there
if the goat made milk for perfect cheese
where she must have peas too
that keep her neat and trim
and with her dessert of ice cream
when she'll delight in luxury bob again.
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