#pithy
I like my coffee really hot.
Direct from the coffee machine,
Freshly brewed and steaming skyward,
Nonetheless to the nearby microwave, I digress,
For 90 seconds of steam room added bathing of my mourning
Coffee, bathing in a Vincent Van Gogh almond blossomed mugging
During said 90 seconds, I flutter and putter among the kitchen
countertops, hithering and dithering all about, wiping, swiping
crumbs of prior day's excessive remaining excesses, carcasses of
grains and grams, fruits and vegetables, restocking coffee beans,
watering said machine's infernal thirst for double pure ground water,
ect. etc. etcetera
all of the above takes a little over a minute, whence I return to my still
pre-re-intializing heating microwave clock is advising twenty four seconds till my additional brewing will be finite finished…
gawd, what the heck am I supposed to do for the next 24 seconds besides rock back-and-forth watching my coffee cup turn Vinny's
almond blossoms slightly more yellow?
Nah.
the internal ding resounds, with a write a poem dummy!
and so I did, even if it ain't exactly short and sweet or more
pissy than pithy
Ha!
while dashing off this scripty nitty gritty writy,
guess what?
my cafe au lay
grew cold again,
and so the
poem repeats
itself...grrr...
now, me extra very hot & pissy
Aug 11, 2025
Aug 11, 2025 at 9:15 AM UTC
*every time a poem completed,
its state of affairs, certified & feted,
the boys gather 'round, for serious
series of slaps on the back, and
drunken wisdom words,
"you'll never do another one, better, boyo!"
and the dread of correct
feels me up,
filling me up
with cream filling
whipped up
anxiety
of the now seizured defeated*
as I grab a clean sheet from top of the stack,
and the retired muses overhear,
delightedly, whispering to each other
just loud enough to hear
me shaking tremble,
"*and right they are,
and write they are!*"
and yet, ex-poet, still a fool…
9:42pm
Wed Aug 6
2025
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 9:43 PM UTC
~ for Paula Poundstone~
brain has its own calendar,
alarms, forget~me~nots, nat-ur-ally,
seeds and scraps of half-breed poems,
even its own junk drawer, with extra
keys, pocket tissues, swiss army knives
call 'em appoint-moments,
random and scheduled,
though not always attentive paid
no longer needy for post-it notes,
reasons why I may I have come to a
particular room in search of a) b) or see
now, I just need to remember to take
my brain with me,
*which is much harder than you
'think'*…
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 9:30 AM UTC
lush.
one of those words,
whose sounds conjures
but does not onomatopoeia
like chirp or oink.
the irony is rich for me,
in the sunroom, with others,
no one speaking
and it is a harmonious sound,
the quietude,
indoors, outdoors,
is a good thick, rich and plush,
invisible & unbearable, but
like soft, spreadable butter,
…the quietude is the
hush and hug of lush…
Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 10:43 AM UTC
The incredible hysteria of fear
Of their own hands choking themselves
Should they ever lose their privilege!
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 12:00 PM UTC
for bullet – cookie, who enjoy a good bullet
~~~|
MLK (1) thought that the American dream required
“a tough mind and a tender heart.”
<>
Can't improve on that
Much.
Willing to give it a try, tho,
<>
One without the other
Will corrupt (has?) us,
fatally,
as in fatality,
Killing the
American Dream
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
I have been accused by y'all of being four of the five above,
But never ever has anyone accused me of being
Pithy
<>
well, maybe the second definition below,
As in
"natty oh natty.
you're full of…
pith"
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 2:59 PM UTC
not only is beauty supposedly
in the eye of the beholder, it
also reportedly emerges from
an intangible depth within
okay, then, so that means ugliness
comes similarly from within,
or doesn't it, baby?
so then, ugliness must begin and end
in the pit of your stomach, and in
the words that pass the tongue
on the exit from your ugly mouth
so then, ugliness must begin and end
in the nerves buried in sleeves, and in
the actions that slip the heart
sneaking past the brain, and vice versa.
on the grab from your dead hands.
on the grab from your dead hands.
not only does it tend to work
unlike the excitable pretend it works,
the implication is, that half of your
worthiness is linked to the mercy
of the mass effect.
as for a thought, a dream,
an intent, an outcome,
a vision, a nightmare,
a hermit knows the good folk
permit attractiveness to good lines.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
No, seriously
it's ether this or Oatmeal you guys.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
I will never remove you from my brain's synapses altogether,
Particles, dust-speckles, piceous ashes of you, broken half of
Where the crowning splinter lies.
Heffalump-bray, Big-bird whistle, and feverish laughter
Sink from your tiny lips.
It's worse than preschool television programming.
Maybe you consider yourself a god.
Mouth-rush, crooked sickle-spine, of the cranes' dead oath,
Or like some hindered devil at the reeds on your tongue.
Seven years I have worked with the crutch, and worried
Like arc-lightning, thickly-paned, frail as a frostbow,
Palely lit uvula at the glowing alter.
I am none closer now. To amend the acres where my feet wallow blindly.
The shivering, baroque, tumuli where my splinters clear my steel-hide.
An orchestral bow of crimson blight,
I had dredged supinely through the pithy Latin vowels.
Like the month of a flower, hitched to the acanthine wings of a moth.
The moon clung to your shivers and sickness.
No longer can I keep my hair to frosty old anarchies.
Nights, heaped on the bowels of a smoky weir.
The blank stones that struck my hands of warning.
Beside the clogged, rancorous doom I had reflected
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
Life tends to kick you quickest when you're down
Like the little pithy scratch of jealousy
On your neck as you see the signs
When your girlfriend's stale eyes
Begin to wander
Begin to wander too specifically
For your personal
Comfort
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC