My mom
Is music
watching Gilmore girls with takeout thai food
and comfort

My Dad
Is loudness
Uncontrollable anger
And reluctant love

My cat
Is laying in bed with me when I cry
Stealing my food
And making me laugh even when I don't want to

My friend
Is bubbles
Singing let it go as loud as we can at 2am
And walking around downtown super fast as we talk

My extended family
Is 13 hour plane rides
Friday night dinners
And having ice cream on the balcony

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                 Algebra is not in the Bible

Jesus never said unto us, “Solve for X”
If algebra were real, the apostolic succession
Of bishops would have told us about it
(After 2,000 years of committee meetings)

I miss Bob Newhart

The fence posts stand, bleached and brittle,
a tidy graveyard for dreams not their own.
Each board a promise of security,
painted white by hands that never bled,
guarding a silence that screams privilege.

A lawn mowed to uniformity,
as if clipping blades could trim truth.
Beneath, the roots tangle in soil tilled
by those unseen in the storybooks,
their spines curved by centuries of labor
to raise a house that barely held them.

Inside, the air is stale with whispers
of manifest destinies and invisible hands.
Windows frame a world distorted,
a lens of 'normal' that filters out color,
washing the streets in sepia nostalgia.
The picket fence becomes a cage
for those who see the bars.

But who built this town?
Not the architects of ignorance
who claimed the blueprint as birthright.
No, it was those in shadow,
their brilliance stolen to light the chandeliers
of men who never thanked them.
It was the voices erased
to make way for the monotonous hum
of a narrative too pale to reflect reality.

Progress wears brown hands,
scarred from the heat of engines
that drove the country forward.
It sings in languages
that don’t fit neatly into syllabaries,
its rhythm syncopated, refusing the march
of conformity.
Progress carves its name
into the very foundations of a nation
too proud to look down.

And now, the town crumbles,
its picket fences splintered
by the weight of unacknowledged history.
The 'white normality' that painted
its walls in monochrome
is revealed as smoke—
a ghost-town haunted by the very people
who gave it life,
only to be exorcised.

Yet those ghosts do not wail.
They speak, steady and firm,
their presence undeniable.
They are the architects now,
designing futures that will not crumble,
drawing plans that see the beauty
in every hue.

And the white-picket fences
are repurposed for something new,
their shards forged into tools
to till a soil fertile with truth,
where a garden of multitudes can finally bloom.

expectations 2X10 words
-
expect nothing to go as planned
except for the changes

expect changes in your plans
and you'll never be disappointed

[10W X 2]
SoulSurvivor
(C) 3/25/2016

Encorporations, Liebling --
Weforms, y bubbles in being buvvles.
Ancient knowing, long sacred, hidden,
as with the legend of confused names,

Epimythiums accosting promethean bets,

day and night, eat  your heart out, free
from regrets, satisfied mind, okeh, free

to act as agent
for lady liberty, here post feudal self,

as discovered in a canyon, much the same
as Sha'gri La from story, Havasu Canyon,
as home of a boy I knew, whose grandfather

had made peace, with good intention,
to remain in Supai until the end of time,

then, there come the missionaries, guessing
Victory in Jesus would rouse the innocents
to repent for never having imagined Hell,

as sure as can be made believe,
by **** sapien innocents,

never led by setters free,
into known uses
of old Eber clan ever words,
otherwise, still, small, breather thinking ideas,

whims like what if this is that, and we ready,
readers like think as fast as we can write,
as if we have been taught to dance
as when we drum along and dance

in mindful memorizational motivational wills,
to live the story we form as our weform agrees,

these are the realms of spirits, these are words
enough for the wise in any situation, sent, willing

to breathe, and feel, the whole wind working bit,
the smoke you may use, indeed, see believing
work out a salve for that itching ear, feeling

we form on-demand, at hand, at touche', indeed,
doing done, done did get done, this away from that,

back to the future,
through common senses used,
globally translatable
with Google Translate, using

copy and paste
of encoded letting out of dogmen,
from another mindform mingled

with mine, shall we

imagine Ancestory.com as a technology needing a lie,
to make believers
in what DNA can prove today,

if we go back far enough,
we were masters or slaves, and masters knew,

what slaves were not at liberty
to know,

without former knowers telling, so

dystopia ontological negative hope,

the princess and the pea, and me,
the wildass idea,
in the vineyard,

as the a sunbeam purpled
in a cluster

carried me
in a reverie
of poetic grandeur

indeed, into the afterward, ward after last.

Funny View

I was watching
From a ways away.
It wasn’t much.
Just today.

A little girl.
Her mom, in front.
Were arguing,
About catch up.

But the mom behaved.
In a normal way.
By turning around
And walking away

I suppose I deserve better than this
A man who doesn’t care I exist
All gurus and such will advise me give up
Knowing this don’t change a thing
You the one who makes my soul sing
Whether or not you’re listening
Rather praise my deaf king
Than anyone or anything