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Jon Thenes Feb 6
at a bend in the night
(early in your sleep program)
our vermin stained rancor
batters its ****** limbs
upon your double glazed windows

we kick a thistling up your vents
putting 'the ghoul' up your lightly clothed backs
and disrupting your 'conditioned' environment

scattering the lawn toys
our demented energy
aggressively makes collage
the muted spirit
of your suburbs

all of your 'homeware'
ignites nothing true
just taking options out
on your own life packaging

our baying notes
our rapid chatter
reminds the family homes
that they are only snug for now
for they remain subject to nature
and due reprimand

our message :  
conclude evacuate
and leave ruin
monique ezeh Jan 3
The sun sinks differently under an undisturbed skyline.

I wonder if it has something to do with my eye-line,
With the way I want things to happen on my time;
The sun should set when I want and rise only when I co-sign.
Here in suburbia time moves slow.

The sun moves at a half-time pace and so do the days.

I wonder if I’m missing out skipping out looking out for what’s racing past.
In New York all time seems to do is pass
But here it moves
Slow.

I wonder if I wonder too much.

No time to wonder or wander in a city too full of too many too much too fast too busy I have to do do do before the day leaves me behind—
Here, I leave the sun behind. Or it leaves me.
Sometimes, time moves so slow I can’t tell if I’m rushing or dragging
But I know that I’m moving and I think that may be enough.

I look up again and the sun has set. Today, it must be enough.
boundless
I gaze over the city and its suburbs
Proctor Ehrling Aug 2019
I've lived in the outskirts all my life
I've met in the outskirts my friends and my wife
I've built in the outskirts a comfortable hive
I'll make in the outskirts my kids, four or five
I've been here in outskirts both night and day
I went to school, college, work in the same place
I've never been made aware of any other way
Than the one I've been using in outsirkts again and again
The outskirts are comfortable, the outskirts are safe
Nothing's ever going down there, neither good nor bad
There is no grand ambition behind its bland face
No life goals or life to love behind its made bed
In outskirts I've lived, loved, ate, ******, slept, dreamt, hated, berated, been bored and amused, adored and abused, depleted, exhausted, destroyed and rebuilt, encouraged and spewed, all encompassing comfort of life's dullest views
The outskirts are comfortable, they are always secure
In outskirts I've lived my whole life and more
All outskirts look the same, but mine is the best
For my outskirts is where my humble home stands
I'm an outskirts lad, born and raised. It's a comfortable life, but oh so boring.
85 and off the ladder

picking leaves from the gutter

Wife soon after

They found her dentures

on the kitchen tile


A few weeks later the neighbor

still in her sunhat and green gloves

hose running in her hand

Felled by a bee hiding in her marigolds.

Then her dog,

Went to live with someone else

But wouldn’t eat.

Wasn’t long before the flowers went too.

Eaten up in the dried, cracked soil.


The houses went up for sale

Little signs sitting innocently

In the front lawns:

“So & So Realty”


Pretty soon

some lovely young couples moved in

Had children

Bought a dog

Cleaned gutters

Planted more marigolds

Watched the rain run down

The window

And the reaper grinned

A little More than usual.
Juhlhaus May 2019
Gravel mounds in the mist
Are the mountain ranges of fantasy,
Spring green, eerie seen
Through commuter train windows.

Pitched roofs recede
Into infinite distance,
And junkyard parking lots are legion
In the gray suburban obscurity.

Factories and landfills loom,
Monuments and masoleums,
The labor and the leavings
Of Earth's little colossi.
Musing on the view from a morning commuter train.
Kieran Messer Apr 2019
This motorway circles
Back to where I begin:
The nowhere concrete jungle
Of copy-paste homes;
Copy-paste shopping centres
With copy-paste shops;
Where opportunity won't arrive
Until I somehow leave.
Juhlhaus Jan 2019
I hurried out at six fifteen to wait
For a train with a waning moon,
Bright Venus and Jupiter hovering
Above the skyline. The amber horizon
Turned to orange and pink
As scattered stars went dim.

Misread the schedule and arrived
Downtown three quarters of an hour
Before my Electric District connection.
An accidental gift to self. I ascended
And ate two breakfast sandwiches
I got for one dollar with a coupon,
Warm in my hands on a blue picnic table.

The sky grew light
Above the Lake and I wandered
Through Millennium Park. It was empty
Or nearly, which felt the same.
The sun broke the bent horizon
In chrome and ice. I took some pictures,
Then descended to find Track Five.

The day's light revealed
Hollow houses with cartoon stone applied
Like paint, unable to compete
For preeminence with two-car garages.
The newest were bigger and offered
In different colors, but all the same.
Driving conditions were excellent.

At sunset I stood on another platform
Above a busy highway. The last rays came
Through tree branches and melted
Into the pale sky as they left my face.
I had witnessed that sun's birth,
It had warmed me while I waited for my carpool,
Rested with me on a concrete planter after lunch.

I entered the city in darkness
A second time. Changed muddy boots
For clean shoes and hurried to the museum.
It was a free night, overcrowded
With families and children, so difficult
To find a quiet corner for contemplation,
Any sanctuary for my own small soul.

I descended, discovered the typewriters, then
Realized you and I were already there, just
In different colors, using different words,
Spending school vacation to view old paintings
And the Holiday Miniature Rooms.
It dawned and the future was brighter even
As I left the city in darkness.
For a wonderful fellow poet who reminds me that there is no such thing as an ordinary day.
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