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I stand out here alone in the night,

The sky is almost bright,

Birds tweeting, dogs barking in the distance, leaves dancing in the wind,

And Im smoking a cigarette, that is becoming shorter and shorter.

In front of me, is an old house,

And in that house is a flashy room in which a TV’s playing,

While everyone is long asleep, there is only me and the person in that room awake,

There is a strange  connection between us two now and he will never know.

Suddenly the dogs stopped barking, birds kept on tweeting, the room kept on flashing,

Smoke is rising to the almost bright night sky,

Vaporizing in the dancing leaves,

I’m waiting for something.

Sensing the inevitable loneliness around me in the deep night,

I thank for the moment of silence to heal my spirit from the wounds of yesterday,

The cigarette  is dying,
And so am I.
Pray the foghorn comes no closer;
bringing thunder over rolling waves.
A stampede across an open prarie
bellowing with ancient lungs.

Are there secrets with the crickets?
Whispering in harmony
to the rustling leaves?

There is no hospitality
in silence.
Conversation lives between everything that breathes.
Mikey Kania May 15
if ya down wit dis listen
to this gayrap swallow it
like a fat jaypack it is anti-macho
against crews like humpty-packo

pitch-black baby ain't no rooster
will **** wit our ****-booster
we are too star for your underground
flows are miles-high and they glitter

it is lipstick-**** we're spitting poison
and your kid sound vanishes
look your raps are always "almost"
you'll be killed by our host

like the impaler this guy vlad
your midlife-crisis is cute
eminem is now called ruth
the new rapcolor is purple
Today is a good day.
nitelite May 11
I love the sound of the highway
Filling in the void between voices,
Like a sense of insurance, a reminder
that there are always people
Out on their way somewhere.

Without so much as a care left in place,
Perhaps for reasons more spiteful than just,
The only times I feel like I’m not being forgotten
Is when I’m leaving something else in the dust

The sound of the road means there’s a place to go.
A next, a forward, but not always for me.
Of all the times in the world to not feel lost,
It’s when I’m headed nowhere in particular,
Just listening to the march forth others make.

When headlights meet street lights,
And requiescence deluges the world,
Just before silence cracks through my mind,
Comes rumbling clear the ambience of the road.
annh May 17
I succumbed
To the habitual sound of obstructed truths;
Deceiving and deceived therein,
Abolished of conscience;
My penitence seeded with disavowal,
Your disbelief my credo.

'The liar's punishment is, not in the least that he is not believed, but that he cannot believe anyone else.'
- George Bernard Shaw, The Quintessence of Ibsenism
I don’t know how to
act in solitude and silence anymore.
I have been conditioned for
the crowd and
electric mania.
Literally, I can hear
the scratch like sound of
the pen tip on
the paper—the strange
sounds my stomach is
making—distant digital
noises from my abdomen.
I don’t know what to
do with so much tranquility.
There is a gentle clicking
noise coming from inside
my head, like crickets
on a soft July night,
or the unlocking of the
door when at last she
makes it home.
I want to eat this
feeling on hot buttered
toast with raspberry jam.
LRF May 1
Others like the smells
the sounds
of rain
and maybe they've never noticed

the way the bark crinkles and swells
with each downpour
peels from its trunk
the shiny newness of the next skin
revealed,

or the iridescent blue-edged storm clouds
a spectrum of greys and midnights
their colour
no less fierce
than their grumble of an unloaded swell,

or the harried pace
of ants fast-forwarding to their nests
surveying paths cut and routes washed
away by giants’ drops.

We could try
opening our eyes
to the rain.
April/May, 2020.
James R May 1
a poem never writes itself,
but will guide us.
its sinister intent half-mechanical, as if by formula,
yet imbued with fresh shock
and sound. a word
settles on the bones
and then another--- another.
their emergence rings hollow
before unison and rings
loudly as a whole.
cascading rhythms,
parsed onto pen-pricked page,
gasping for more
and wanting less.
a poem about poetry

this was rushed-- will revisit
Lethal Interjections

To all the sound bite intellectuals
With your meme sophistication
Stop painting me blue
With your careless brush
Stealing the oxygen from my veins
As I lie from lack of critical care
A victim of your threadbare blanket acceptance
Wrapping me in your chilled passion
I know you
You’re the guy who said
It was the Jew
Yes the reason for all this dread
Was the color of their heads?
It must be true…
From I pamphlet, I had read
Oh but kilroy isn’t dead
He’s here lying on my bed
To skew the view
I used to suffer your thick heads
And now-I- DO!
So it seems
According to the president
The only cure
Just might be
Is to inject some disinfectant
To paint me blue
The Foody One Apr 10
Sometimes
I feel so much,
that it’s almost
too much;

Enough
to lose control.

And when I do,
I numb it all -
Don’t wanna hear
the shattering
sound of my Soul;

“Dear, don’t give up
Just
give in
to the embracing Waves
that shake you within;

Let ‘em rock you
gently to sleep -
May the Ocean fill
the Void
you carry within”

Such sweet melody
whispers the Sea -

Its wise guidance,
a soothing Lullaby
I now cherish
inside of me.
© 10/04/20
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