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the nest did lack space, accommodations were crammed
the nest did lack space, accommodations were crammed
sardines in a tin, the plot needed thinning
sardines in a tin, the plot needed thinning
the plot needed thinning, accommodations were crammed
sardines in a tin, the nest did lack space

they sighted a surplus one, tossing overboard
they sighted a surplus one, tossing overboard
what clutter it did cause, heave ** out you go
what clutter it did cause, heave ** out you go
they sighted a surplus one, what clutter it did cause
tossing overboard, heave ** out you go

the place twas less congested, not a tight squeeze
the place twas less congested, not a tight squeeze
elbows were able to span, more roomy
elbows were able to span, more roomy
elbows were able to span, not a tight squeeze
the place twas less congested, more roomy

the plot needed thinning, they sighted a surplus one
accommodations were crammed, what clutter it did cause
sardines in a tin, the nest did lack space
heave ** out you go, tossed overboard
elbows were able to span, the place twas less congested
more roomy, not a tight squeeze
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Senor Negativo Jul 2012
Candlestick lit,
predatory form divorced
Daybreak take your feet
Assault me with rough dissonant hands
Take from me your bright request
Down in the valley curtains part
The thin plane light overflows
Without light-seeking caresses in the clear sky
Bold accommodations of the sunbursts
To Save

Appalachia
The displeased living hear of me
With Vivomantic symbols
After blackened nights begin
Fornicating on your birthday
Off his downswing that has passed...

"How the call it is unfulfilled
your mind, thoroughly healed
Terrestrial white feathers
And tame plains lament
Yet less tame after
His darkness heals you".

That summer day when the rain shaded shallow
And as dull walls divorce the Bejeweled earth.
You don the nakedness of supernatural awakendness
Painted by these symbols Aiseralam spoke...

Appalachia
The displeased living hear of me
With Vivomantic symbols
After blackened nights begin
Fornicating on your birthday
Off his downswing that has passed...

Candlestick lit,
predatory form divorced
Daybreak take your feet
Assault me with rough dissonant hands
Take from me your bright request
Down in the valley curtains part
The thin plane light overflows
Without light-seeking caresses in the clear sky
Bold accommodations of the sunbursts
To Save
In response to the challenge of The Darkness.
EJ Lee Apr 2019
Dear Lori Loughlin and the unnamed individuals that participated in College Admissions Scam:

This is an open letter to you from someone who actually needs the accommodations that you ignorantly believed you could exploit. Before I talk about your ignorance let me first establish whom I am.
In the year of 2000, at the age of seven, a private psychologist diagnosed me with dyslexia because my elementary school refused to test me. Later on I find out that I have a severe case where the entire English language will be a continuous struggle for the rest of my life. Then we knew very little about this learning disability but from what I understood at that age, I was unable to learn at the same pace as my fellow classmates and my teachers didn’t know how to teach me. I bounced between three schools before the age of twelve looking for a school that could teach me and was unsuccessful. During that time was bullied profusely because of my dyslexia. I was called dumb, stupid, slow, and names that were so much worse. I knew they were not true. Luckily, I had parents that cared about my well being and never let me use my disability as an excuse as to why I couldn’t be success in life.
I was very fortunate that I was able to attend a school that specializes in teaching students like myself. Through no fault of mine, I was twelve years of age and reading at a third grade level. Does that make me stupid? Within three years at this very special school I gained six grade levels because I worked hard and I was determined to not be a failure. I entered into a high school that also knew how to teach me and I soared because I had the proper support that I need. I earned my Straight A’s in high school.
Also in high school I learned more about my accommodations that are protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act. I took the SAT’s twice and it was the worst sixteen hours of my life.  Normally, it would take someone no more than one hundred and eighty minutes to complete. Not for me, and many others that actually rely on these accommodations. To be honest, no one wants to take an eight-hour test; we do it because it levels the playing field so we are able to compete with societal standards.
I wonder what led you to believe the accommodations that I require to be a successful student, that are protected by federal law, have some kind of advantage that I magically have in direct competition with your perfectly normal child. What kind of confidence do you have in your own child’s abilities if you felt the need to cheat and buy them their college admissions? It’s really sad if you think about it.
Whatever happened the notion of merit? I got into college on my own merit, My SAT scores were waived as my grades, class standing, and campus involvement was sufficient. (BTW, I not only had straight A’s but I graduated with high honors.) Am I smart now?
I am a currently pursuing my Master Degree in Fine Arts. I also got into that school with having to take the GRE, once again on my own merit. I know Lori you refuse to believe that you did anything wrong, but you did. You alienated an entire group of individuals so you could live vicariously through your child’s success as an extension of your own. That is not only the most selfish thing that anyone can do but it is also ignorant and narcissistic to believe having accommodations because of my disability is seen an “advantage” for you to manipulate for your own personal gain.
Suzanne Penn Jun 2014
I strive to be…
a transcendent being…
armed with fearless questioning
powered by
Love and light.

A transcendent being
...is not lead by ploys
to keep the world separated.

..does not judge others
In order to feel better
about themselves.

A transcendent being
is comfortable in their own skin...
therefore …
ego and envy
are taken out of the mix...
A transcendent being
sees through fearless eyes
the beauty of the rest of the world,

A transcendent being
carries with them
their own personal joy…
excited  by possibilities and purpose
their world becomes full of adventure.

Problems do not disappear…
They simply become a challenge
Fueled by what could be
inspired by justice
distributed with integrity.


Without fears…
transcendent beings see
what is truly needed…
… a system designed with
the realities of the present
and accommodations
that are handed out justly…
distributed with intregrity.

Ushering out "should's"
And “should not’s”
Replaced with more…
fearless compassion...
and why not's.

Imagine then...
what you would change...
and  join me in striving
To be a Transcedent Being.
Julie Butler Jul 2014
Tiny blocks of sky-bits
Got locked behind my eyelids
I'm blinded
I'm trippin
I watch you live
I give in
But hell - I don't listen
I'm ****** cause of this
I'm not dumb
I've been dumber
Cause you got other loves
Our loves lost like -
Time for slumber
Making moving forward
Feel more like going under
This is the story of my
Life
during this god awful summer
I'm struck
& you
You're like thunder to me
So loud
It's astounding
& you remain unseen

The reality of this is clear -
If I've got nothing to lose
Nothing to choose from
I got nothing to fear
I just want to believe again
& you knock like it's easy
To turn this ****
& let you back in
But you run
Deeper than blood
In this skin
I'm pushing you out through a vein
& we can't even be friends
We can't even be NOTHING
a race that ended weeks ago
& I'm still out here running
It isn't fun anymore
I ought to be done with with it
I wanna slow burn you off of my tongue
With some *** and sit
Quiet
No drums
No lines to spit
It's time to do me
Like where I come from
The sun is lit
And I'll just follow the sky
Like a crow
With tunnel vision
Priya Kharbanda Jul 2013
The drops drip through the roof.
They’re just another reminder.
Of what might not be tomorrow.
Of what we might have to surrender.

Mother tells me not to go out in the rain.
I can’t play like the others.
I have to help her out,
Take care of my little brothers.

The twins’ fever is high,
And is refusing to fall.
Very unlike our cottage,
Our house, with no real walls.

My mother and I.
We dread the minute this abode will collapse.
I try to make the twins sleep,
But all they do is-point out in the door, huge gaps.

I wonder how long this will go on,
Rain, thunderstorms, lightning.
And most of all, worrying.
Honest to God, this is frightening.

The temperature outside falls,
And theirs’ rises.
And half the house crumbles.
Well, there’s a surprise.

Panicking, I turn to mother.
Who’s as dumbstruck as I.
What will happen to us four?
Will we…die?

I tug on her sleeve,
She looks at me helplessly.
I take one boy from her arms,
I can’t see her handling them so carelessly.

With no clue, Of what to do,
Of where to go.
I just have one thing to say.
Everything about the rain is not a rainbow.

* *

We knock on the doors,
The neighbours barely come out.
None of them takes us in,
Some apologize, some are indifferent, some even shout.

Our despair increases,
She’s bordering on hysterical.
We don’t know what to do,
Except…wait for a miracle?

The twins are burning,
I try to protect one under my arm.
I know it’s next to nothing,
But well, trying doesn’t harm.

The rain falls in sheets,
On my family it’s taking its toll.
Mother’s impractical, naive, and the twins oblivious.
I know then, I have to take control.

I make a steel resolve,
And start to move on.
I know we can’t afford,
For us both to be teary and torn.

Wordlessly, she follows my lead,
Maybe she thinks I know what to do.
But well, guess what?
I have not one clue.

I just march on,
To find a safe haven.
Just a roof for the night,
A shed, a garage, a warehouse, a tavern?

And preferably some medication, too.
For I can’t see the twins go down the same road,
As father did. No, not again.
Mother won’t be able to handle the load.

Tears pool in my eyes,
But I brush them away.
I cannot let emotions take control of me,
I have to after all, guide the way.

I silently pray to God.
To let me keep them safe and sound.
I wish the night would go by soon,
And by tomorrow, a shelter, we would’ve found.

And as I stride forward,
With no destination to go,
I again have just one thing to say.
Everything about the rain is not a rainbow.

*

I don’t know what time it is,
Two? Three? I know it's past midnight.
We’ve been trudging on and on,
And haven’t seen one welcoming light.

Yes. There were houses on the way.
Shelters.  Accommodations. Even hotels.
But we have no money, no food. No one let us in.
Even the tiniest little flicker of hope has gone to hell.

Mother asks me to wait up again,
She can’t keep pace with me.
Impulsively, I reach over and take the other twin, too.
And shout, “There you go! You’re free!”

She looks startled, like she didn’t see this coming.
Well, neither did I.
But, why can’t she understand?
We have to hurry. We might..die.

Life’s never been easy on us,
But this is one of its worst tricks.
And it’s only getting worse,
As the clock ticks.

On their sixteenth birthdays,
Most kids get dresses, watches, cars.
I got a broken home. Literally.
All I wanted was a bunch of wild flowers.

But well, it wasn’t meant to be.
This is my destiny, my fate.
I guess for my share of happiness,
I’ll have to wait.





In the distance, I see a flickering light.
Will this be..The One?
After what feels like centuries of darkness,
Will this be our Sun?

There’s something about it. Intuition?
My feet move faster, and so does my heart.
In my mind, there is conviction,
This will be a new start.

Vestigial fear grips me,
As I’m about to knock.
What if our last hope, last aspiration says no?
Not that it would be a colossal shock.

But I’d break down.
Emotionally, mentally, physically.
I’d pass the bridge of oblivion,
But it would hurt my family brutally.

I summon up strength,
And knock on the door.
Before she can access our condition,
We’re unconscious, and have dropped to the floor.


*


She healed us, took care of us,
Brought back the twins’ health, and smiles.
Gave us a new identity,
Away from the slums and garbage piles.

She says she’s a doctor,
But I think she’s more.
I reckon she’s an angel,
Who brought back life to us four.

She gave us health, freedom, life, hope.
She even gave me and Mother jobs.
For a change, Mother is happy too,
And no more in the night, do I hear her deep sobs.

We’re as happy as could be,
We got our version of a happy ending.
Every rain may not have a rainbow,
But every story has a miracle pending. :)
judy smith Aug 2015
As President Vladimir Putin's longtime spokesman Dmitry Peskov wed Olympic figure skating champion Tatyana Navka this weekend in a glitzy seaside ceremony, a multimillion-ruble watch spotted on the groom's wrist sparked a media frenzy.

The ceremony was held in the Olympic host city of Sochi at the ultra-luxurious Rodina (Motherland) Hotel, the entirety of which was reserved for Peskov and Navka's hundreds of celebrity guests.

In July, the bride-to-be said in an interview with Tatler magazine that Putin had been among the invited guests. By Sunday it remained unclear whether he had attended.

On the eve of the wedding, local news sites reported that guests from the three nearby hotels had been relocated in order to ensure security.

"All the beaches [nearby] will be guarded. Today they began to evict guests from three neighboring hotels. They will be given different accommodations for three days and will be able to return after the wedding," an unnamed employee of the Rodina hotel was cited as saying Friday by local news site Bloknot.

The morning after the nuptials, two photos quickly dominated Russian headlines: a photo of Peskov and Navka kissing after being pronounced man and wife, and a photo of the official wearing a watch that — according to opposition leader Alexei Navalny — was worth some $620,000.

Navalny claimed in an irate blog post Sunday that it would have been impossible for Peskov to have paid for the watch on his official salary, which the activist pegged at about 9 million rubles ($146,000) annually.

Peskov was quick to defend himself, telling the RBC news agency that the watch had been a wedding gift from his bride, who has become a popular television personality since winning Olympic gold in 2006. But bloggers found photos of him wearing it several months ago in the Instagram account of his daughter Yelizaveta Peskova, news site Meduza reported.

Meanwhile, former federal environmental inspector Oleg Mitvol, who was among the glitterati in attendance, told tabloid Moskovsky Komsomolets that the whole affair had been an elaborate ruse.

According to Mitvol, Peskov borrowed the watch from one of his well-heeled guests in a conscious effort to toy with the media and perpetuate a baseless sensation.

Rumors about Peskov's relationship with Navka have provided ample Russian tabloid fodder since 2012, when he divorced his second wife Yekaterina, The Moscow Times reported last month.

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Marshal Gebbie Aug 2023
Everything is BIG here.

Meals are big, bums are big, cars are huge and the skies are a million miles wide.

Janet and I are travelling in the Northwest of the United States of America, spending time with Boaz and Lisa in Idaho, Steve Yocum in Oregon and Greg and Linda in Washington State.

The trip is a "quickie" in that we are fitting one helluva lot into just three weeks duration.
Never in all my days have I seen such huge quantities of food served up in restaurant meals, plastic bags discarded, American flags fluttering and all the young, blonde girls in tattered, impossibly short cut offs and sleeveless tops talking loudly, incomprehensibly at a million miles an hour ......Just blows you away!!
Monstrous pickup trucks, Rams, Broncos, big V8s travelling the freeways continuously. Sheriffs, troopers and Road cops all wearing firearms on the hip, in their souped up pursuit vehicles parked on the roadside shoulder, eyeballing everyone as they pass, with a mean, accusatory glare.
Out on the range there is a million square miles of nothing but sage brush and basalt rock....and searing, baking heat.
114 degrees in the painted desert of Moab. Beautiful though with vaulting red sandstone cliffs and rearing stone arches against the blue-est of blue skies.
Standing pillars of ancient sedimentary rock born in depositions laid down in vast oceans of bygone eras, millions of years ago.

History is painted vast in this immensity. The gigantic and abrupt catastrophic inundation of a vast and deep inland sea, swelled suddenly by floodwaters of rivers diverted by lava flows from subterranean fissures....Unimaginable torrents abruptly released, gouging out ancient lava beds to create gigantic waterfalls and deep, sheer sided chasms.

Cascades that constituted the biggest river flow ever known in the history of the planet, washing away everything from the epicentre of the continent in Utah through Idaho to the Pacific ocean in the rugged coast of Oregon. Such was the Bonneville flood of 12,000 years ago illustrated today by the gigantic chasms created in the beds of basalt and rhyolitic larva throughout Idaho and the fields of massive, round, house sized boulders strewn from the floods origin near what is now, Salt Lake City in Utah to the coast in Oregon, a thousand kilometers away.

The two weeks stay with Boaz and Lisa just disappeared in a flash. They took us down to Moab painted desert, Zion National park, the Craters of the Moon, Monument National Park and up to Stanley and the Sawtooth mountains by the mighty Salmon river. Janet and I took advantage of a couple of push bikes hanging in the garage and spent most days cycling the local trails and visiting Starbucks for a celebratory cappuccino or two....Those bikes saved our bacon, walking trails in that heat was ******. Great hospitality enjoyed here. watched reruns of Sopranos on Boaz's 70 " SmartScreen TV and enjoyed Arnie's escape from postwar Austria to Mr Universe and fame and fortune @ Hollywood with Boaz whilst enjoying chilled margaritas in the hot tub.

The camaraderie of meeting an old mate of 45 years past, Steve Yocum of Oregon  a fellow writer and author. Both of us intent on shooting the breeze, putting the world to right. In some ways a sad exercise in that no longer can either of us make things right for with age upon us, neither has influence. We can huff n puff n blow the house down....but it seems, nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. The penalty of age is invisibility. The relief in it all is that, really, nobody actually gives a hoot!

Just two Old Dogs letting off steam..... it's rather cathartic actually! Thanks to Stevo, Ian and lovely Heidi for the accommodation, great hospitality and warmth.

The cool atmospheric relief of the serene and calm, Puget Sound in Seattle, Washington state gave welcome respite from the intense heat of the interior and the serenity of our cottage accommodations and startlingly beautiful garden surrounds. A forest of conifers and deciduous trees harboured gardens of blooming roses, hollyhocks and multihued cone flowers, emerald lawns carve swarths of sunlight in avenues of deep, green shade....a delight for the sunburnt brows of yesterday's heat.
Woken by the bassoon blast of the passing early morning ferry out in the waterway, to stroll out to sit at the very edge of the sandy, pebble beach and gentle surge of the deep, clear saline waters of the magnificent Puget Sound.
The peace of early morning crisp cool air, a seascape of moored fishing boats on mirrored waters, the distant Olympic range rearing to its' full 7,000 ft against a powder blue sky left us quite breathless with the utter beauty of it all....add to that a lovely breakfast offering of fresh berries, kiwifruit slices and yogurt and a chilled glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...and we absolutely, couldn't want for anything more. To Greg and Linda our love and thanks for giving up your beautiful bed, travelling us around beautiful Seattle and being our airline coach to and from Portland. We shall return the warm hospitality next time you hit NZ and Taranaki.

Vulcanism has dominated the terrain in Idaho, Montana, and Utah. Continental drift westward of the land mass has brought about a steady transference eastward of the massive geothermal hot spot which currently lies in Yellowstone park and which is the source of all volcanic activity within the park..
Idaho, in ancient times, wore the volcanic mantle of the region in having truly gigantic rhyolitic ash and magmatic eruptions. These cataclysmic eruptions emptied deep cavernous, subterranean magma chambers which collapsed under their own weight leaving vast circular calderas in the landscape. Subsequent plate tectonic activity caused deep faulting allowing huge flows of sticky magma to surge to the surface like searing hot black toothpaste, spreading across the plains obliterating all evidence of the rhyolite caulderas, surfacing the state, to this day, with millions of acres of hard black basaltic rock.
Here and there, rhyolite has wormed its way to the surface building gigantic domes, over the centuries these have weathered leaving statuesque, dramatic flat-topped mesa scattered across the landscape.
Altogether a truly unique and enthralling terrain for visitors to behold and one which reveals a dramatic insight to the volcanic and tectonic violence of the recent past and gives a definite air of mystique to the beholder.

In a land of 360 million people, supermarkets are downright huge...and they contain the spoils of the nation's plenty.
Acres of dazzling variety... and cheap by international standards. The very best of prime beefsteak, sides of pork, Alaskan cod freshly caught and displayed in rows of chilled enticing exhibit. Every possible vegetable and fresh picked fruit known to man in piled pyramids of brilliant, colourful display. Beautiful ornate furniture, beds, mattresses, tiers of car tyres of every conceivable brand and size, wheelbarrows, fertilizer, fresh flowers in mountainous display, ***** in barnlike chillers. Supermarket trolleys for giants..... and gird yourself for a marathon hike in collecting your basket of groceries...and give yourself half a day....you'll need it!

America has momentum, huge momentum. Across vast tracts of country lie networks of highway. Multilane concrete that tracks mile after mile carrying huge trucks with 40 tonne loads. Incessant trucks, one after another,  thundering along carrying the lifeblood of America, merchandise,  machinery, infrastructure, steel, timber and technology. Gigantic mobile freezers hauling food from the grower to the markets. Hauling excavators, harvesters,  bulldozers and giant Agricultural tractors. Night and day this massive source of production careers across the nation transporting the promise of America, the momentum which drives the Stars and Stripes onward, ever onward.

On the margins of the cities of Portland and Salem the unhoused gathered in squalid tent communities. In the beautiful city of Seattle I saw many down and out unshaven, untidy individuals with hopelessness in their eyes, pushing supermarket trolleys containing their sparse possessions. I drove through rural communities, some of which, reflected hardship and an air of despair. Run down dwellings in need of maintenance and repair, derelict rusty vehicles adorning the **** strewn frontages.
Not 20 kilometers away in Ketchum and Sun Valley Idaho the homes were palatial in grounds tended by gardeners and viticulturalists. Porsches and Range Rovers graced the ornate, rusticated porticoes. Wealth and privilege in evidence in every nuanced nook and cranny.
America is, indeed, a land of contrasts, a land of wealth, privilege, and plenty..... and yet a land that, somehow, tolerates and abides a fragile paucity which emblazons itself, embarrassingly, within the national profile.

On a hot day in Twin Falls, Idaho, I walked into a huge air-conditioned sporting goods store specifically to look at guns....and in the long glass cases there were hundreds of them. From snub nosed revolvers to Glocks, 38s, 45 caliber even western style Colt 45s and the ***** Harry Magnum with the long, blue gun barrel and classic, prominent foresight.
In the racks behind the counter are hung fully and semi-automatic rifles of myriad types...all available for sale providing the buyer has appropriate licensing.
In a land where mass shootings proliferate weekly, I ask myself....does this availability of lethal weaponry make sense?

The aching beauty of the mountain country in Northern Idaho, Oregon and Washington state cannot be overstated. The Sawtooth mountains, the Cascades, Mt Ranier, Mt Hood and the Olympic range. Ridgelines of towering conifers as far as the eye can see, waves of green deciduous running down to soft grassy clearings with boulder strewn, rushing streams and the cascade of plunging waterfalls. The magnificence of the natural beauty of this rugged, heavily timbered mountain country just defies description being far, far isolated from the attentions of man.

To happen upon this country from the far distant reaches of the South Pacific is a culture shock, to be suddenly exposed to the extreme largess. It is difficult to calibrate, hard to encompass, impossible to assimilate....but the people encountered warmed us with their generosity of spirit, their willingness to welcome travelling strangers into their homes....and, of course the invaluable time we spent with our family….and for these factors alone together with the huge magnificence that is this........
GRAND AMERICA.
We are truly, truly grateful.

Janet & Marshal
Foxglove@Taranaki.NZ
Butch Decatoria Oct 2018
Late night heat waves, and drive thru

Accommodations for the desperations of loss

Syncopated synergy of deviant infamy.


Vigors of lust in dark corners

Eager ****** students walking the boulevard

Gambling all the dreams and innocence

A costly devision of selfish wish

Sin City and runaways all sell their souls to be rich.
Draft
Eldon Mar 2014
Too many Black bodies,
Know the unwelcoming
Pavement as their home.
I can smell the sadness
That seeps through their pores.


Sorrow that furiously
Enters my nostrils
Like tornados yielding eviction notices. 



Pupils that beg
For eye contact.

They are empty change cups
That fill to the brim
Through the locking of retinas. 


Begging,
More for the reminder
That they too are human,
Than for the change
That will provide little of what it boasts.

Open caskets
With the bodies of suicidal souls.
Lifeless faces rearranged
To show a glimpse of joy.


The scene is rich with irony.
These dead are smiling.
While the barely living
Don't have the same luxury of tranquility. 


Words claw their way outside of mouths,
Fighting
To reach a listening ear.
Suffering
Such alienation,
From being unaware
Of their origin or direction.
When the body and mind lose
Their living accommodations,
Words still yearn
For a home.

Black bodies litter the streets.
And sanitation crews wonder
Whether to place the lifeless bodies
Into the truck’s trunk,
An open casket.

I wonder,
When was the last time
One of their names was
Spoken into existence?

How difficult is it,
To forget who you are?
RW Khalid Curley Jan 2015
Dear Sirs,
            
He loved your magazine.

At night

it took him to places
where he could never go,
to warm and smiling lands,
to adventures in the paradise of his dreams.
He met happy friendly people,
who enjoyed life,
who had lives,

people who went
where they wanted
to do
what they pleased,
people who had no care
but for the next experience,
the ultimate daiquiri
the best bite of lobster,

who dealt with weighty questions
about
the marbling of steak,
the proper age of spring lamb,
the quality of truffles in Perigord.

He lay awake
at night
and wondered
about the snow depth in Aspen,
about climbing the Matterhorn,
about accommodations in Katmandu.

He imagined
Malay shadow play
on the ceiling of his house,
smiling Sherpas serving steaming tea
on the blue ice glaciers of Mt. Everest.
He dreamed
of
finger dancing in Chang Mai,
outrigger races in Tahiti,

a mysterious rendezvous
on the Orient Express,
lazy boat rides
on the Danube,

a visit
to Kafka’s house.

He loved your magazine.

He loved its’ breadth,
it’s many pages,
it’s thick cover.
He liked to tape it
to his chest

in the morning

when his house slammed open,
when he lock-stepped to the yard.
He felt its comforting girth
a glossy pulp breastplate
armor for a paladin
in a savage island’s
waking nightmare
of
numbing terror,
grinding fear,
sudden death.

He strolled about the yard
in sunlight without warmth
nodding to devils he knew
ignoring the ones he didn’t
deflecting their knowing looks.

Defense was automatic:

prison is a universe of deceit,
lies are the coin of its realms,
in the market place of its interactions
charlatans abound and falsity reigns
undisturbed by facts or connection
to an outside world.

A man can be
whoever he chooses.
Behind the walls
it only requires
imagination.

The best liars
present a blank façade.
a conscious mirror reflects nothing.                                          
it lies without effort.

But,
behind the reflection,
the liar dreads
front street’s abhorrent truths;
weaknesses revealed
raw nerves exposed
by
dueling tongues’escalation.

Under constant observation
in a search lit world
touche
means more than point.
Face is
the sole possession of the ******.
Loss of face is an injury to the soul.

Shame
triggers combat
mean street’s rock ‘n roll
the back alley ballet
injured egos’
minuet d’mort.

And so the duet began;
two bored men
picking at the scabs
of each others weaknesses
each wound answered with another.

Their hot blood’s impassioned words
attracted schooling convicts cruising the yard.
The observers circled ominously
the hint of ******
a carnal lure.

No one chose sides
it was a private affair.
Crocodilian eyes peered
out of the non-committal murk
awaiting a feast of suffering
reflexively prepared
to slide into the mix,
to make turbulent
the stagnant pool
of prison life.
Fury’s moment
relieves the boredom.

A crowd of cruel eyes
illumined the arena.
Fangs flashed
in their savage attentions’ glare.
Contending wills
weighed
by a deadly balance
clashed
with the gnash of steels.
Shanks fenced
point counterpoint.
A gladiator fell
his heart punctured
by a screwdriver blade.

The writhing form
grew still.
Life soaked the concrete.

Blood brought bedlam,
a contagious frothing madness,
goons, gunfire, and choking gas,
a grim entertainment’s finale.

Laughter and derisive shouts,
the demons’ choral refrain,
were funeral music
for a loser’s journey
on a gurney to the morgue,
and the pages
of a magazine
lay scarlet on the ground,
fantasies
trampled
under sullen jealous feet.
They tell us of places and theories
speak of the radicalness of our flesh
say that we must take responsibility of ourselves
as they sit behind their hard earned desks

they speak of their authority
and empowerment through words to the point that I wish to acquire such audacity

isn't that what our liberation is all about?
Recreating patterns of oppression
reach elitist capacities
sound … well structured and become one of the prodigies they can throw in their collection of so called advancement

I no longer seek validation of my processes through your bureaucratic systems
my knowledge does not emanate from intellectually justified sources but from las historias passed down to me by my fore-mothers

keep your favors, sympathy and unreasonable accommodations

yes, I will move on
but con un nuevo entendimiento:
de que ustedes no dictan las bases del feminismo
ni la capacidad de mi criterio

resisto sus juicios
y no acepto sus terminos
no firmo
por que mi educacion
no tiene fecha de expiracion
ni es un producto o contrato
al mejor postor.
Connor Nov 2016
(A wall with grainy, white tile misses being appreciated by the passive glance!)

This open Hotel window reveals the encasement of a city wearing its own
Labels stirring distinctly

Monochrome sculptures
Increasing eye the gradiant of
A voice
The dialogue of a coffin sleeping
And the
Waterfront smokes tired cruiselines and
Already wishes for Sundown & good spirits.

Some burdened Animal lept from
Its grindings of clean survival &
Has written an essay on

Fire in relation to psychological warmth
& the associative memory response to comfort

(The fireplace is your Childhood & lost Faerie Mother)

The lapse of this Tidal Concerto
As wet pebbles ripple over each other like Tokyo haircuts,

I am the collector of
Distant and missed opportunities

I keep them close as potentialities and not regrets

I have a fishtank full of drowned Bees
& phonecall revelations

As Humidity only sensed and not sweated
Boils from a desk drawer in the Summertime

LAUGHING STAIRCASES/
LOBOTOMY IN NIGHTMARES OF VICIOUS ORCHIDS/
THE CRIB HAS LOST ITS FUNCTION/

           A CRABSHELL HAS REPLACED
           THE PILLOW/
          
           MY TEETH ARE NUMB
           WITH YOUR KISS
          
           YOUR KISS ERASED BY
           THE SUDDEN SALTWATER OF A
           HIGHTENED MOMENT
          
           DO NOT RETREAT BACK TO
           BRASS SPEECH
           OR COMMON BELIEF


Stresses paused on
Gysins colorful meditations
& Nat King Cole sings of no
Orange Colored Sky instead
A silent rotating lightbulb
And the sensation of lifting off my chair

(few nights in a row of this ambience behind a glass door)

"-the illusion of existing on the edge of a comforting unalterable space and in being so close to it, I blend into it!
A man with a telescope residing on a mountain top can observe the town below in a detailed entirety. It's the larger and more obvious/physically active space. The mountain distant from the town is a space of reflection, where things are less chaotic. Where peace is more inwardly recognized in its external shelter. In the corner I have this illusory telescope and I am perched on the mountain, who's properties have flattened to the dimensions of a coffee shop, or a general interior. The wholeness of the mountain reserved to the confines of a dark corner. Behind the brickwork exists a vast valley where this mountain once stood in its humble yet ferocious silence. The space which now exists in an imaginary context. The expansion of darkness in front of us!"

           Come forth from that Mexican
           Practice
           Or the vengeance of a sobbing
           Hand,
           Friend

I, willing to play weary in
ur aztec smile/
Am to slip from a shivering
Elevator
To ***** my finger with a name

A name that I have never interacted with until now!

"UNE FEMME EST UNE FEMME"
Followed by gossiping
& accommodations
Downstairs,

I hope you wake easy to find my
Skinny hand warming you from December's hesitant grave.
Exosphere Jul 2023
he asked one time
when are we going to learn to live together?
well, we haven’t tried yet
but in a few important ways
I think we have
Doug Potter Oct 2016
I am at my best at early a.m. when I click
the radio on and listen to NPR
interviews of people from

countries like Scotland, Nigeria, and Italy;
not long ago I heard a Swede tell how
he pickles Harbor

seal meat,  and a day ago  a Mexican
who was shot through the tailbone
by a child with a .22 rifle

argued  her country has pitiful
accommodations for
the handicapped.

Learning of the Swede, Mexican,
and slain seals liven me;
and then the sun rises.
Devin Lawrence Dec 2015
"You are one in a million."
                                            - Then you realize
                                               that means there must be
                                               THOUSANDS
Just.
                               Like.
                                                           ­          You.

So you worry,
You fret,
You wonder
What it takes to
stand                                                         ­                                                 apart.
Youtrythi­ngsyouwouldnototherwise.
U do thingz you can never 4get;

                                                          ­                           All just to be
                                                              ­                                              original.

You write and profess
about matters you hardly understand.

You torture yourself
to
s            t              r             e              t                c                      h
your limits.

You educate yourself
So to think
Like no one el$e ha$.

You adopt strange habits
In fluctuating,
                                                    ­                                        foreign
                 ­                         accommodations.
Then you
                                  r                  m       ­                                  e
                                               u                             l
                          c                                    ­       b
when it all
                   slips...
                                            
           ­                                                                 ­        You almost feel
                                                            ­                                 Original.


                                                     ­                       ...away...        


You change your name,
Take on a new identity-
One like they've never seen.
Bleach your personality
And sulk behind lifeless, purple hair-
Garishly placed among a black and white world-
While inhaling toxic fantasies
That suffocate-
No, wait, perhaps they liberate-
Those things that make you feel
alive
and unique.

                                                        ­                                 You are the Original.

You are unlike any force ever know. You are the thunder's roar and the wolf's howl.
But you can't shake this ominous feeling:

                                         *You've become unoriginal
This is why I hand-write my works first....
as the late afternoon twilight years
of this primate become sans my exist
hence, more visible on the horizon
an increasing awareness prevails asper
how this middle aged baby boomer

(whose incessant, inconsolable, and
incurable wailing still reverberates til
this day - LIX exiting the birth canal
since January thirteenth ninety fifty
and nine) promulgates nascent longing

jumpstarting helping formulate doing
beneficial actions. only of late didst
an upswell to demonstrate appreciation
(towards acquaintances, countrymen/
women, family of origin, friends,

neigh boars, relatives, Romans, et cetera)
becomes a manifest destiny. awareness
crystallized within the recent past of
my life and hard (days night) times
this yearningto "pay forward" ***** deeds
done dirt cheap along the highway to hell

(mainly within a voluntary capacity)
to avail energy of waning body, mind,
spirit triage. until such a plan (as
per say traveling abroad - either a
lone or with an adventurous minded Ma
demoiselle) coalesces into fruition,

a daily strategy to impact my imme
diate environment in a positive manner
took figurative shape. his doable, feasible,
justifiable, et cetera longing (to contribute
sweat equity such as organic gardening/

farming, teaching English as a first, second
third...language, or writing opinion
editorials blurbs for a news letter,
which loving labors of body, mind
and spirit would be accepted would serve

in lieu as payment for buzzfeed ding,
livingsocial, lodging, et cetera accommodations.
the best buy google research to locate a
handy dandy blues clues milieu, true
value venue iterated above reference

to intentional communities, yet no idea
this bumbling, fumbling, rambling,
et cetera twisted missive would find me
making mention of a logically obvious
proscribed resource. upon setting

my figurative sights regarding the end
ever explicitly, fixedly, and pointedly
to communicate how to adopt modalities
helping other people (in ways within
my capacity), the undercurrent, sans

writing this epistle, an off the beaten
track prospect found unplanned impregnated
insinuation cradling embryonic vision
visited by the secondary modus operandi.

the bespoken ambition (asper reciprocating
the consideration to pursue voluntary
employment. ideally this agreeable deal
(includes a small stipend plus room
and board). the inclusion of the latter

(tacked on as a strong consideration -
figured as welcome visualized reprieve.
hence this prosaic/ poetic add on -
at no extra charge - slightly expanded
the original intended tone of this blurb.

rather than dismiss tangential thread
mainly to air considerations divergent
incorporating alternative arrangements
to call home already moderately
lengthy soundcloud, i freely shared
a tangential welcoming pseudo string
of consciousness thread.
Cody Gaston Mar 2010
I’m sorry
If you thought I was smelling you
I have a cold you see
it's winter,
and it would seem the life
that once graced the limbs of trees and the buds of flowers
has taken up residence
in my nasal cavity.

the sniffles you may have heard
were not an attempt to steal a piece of your essence
but merely the feeble accommodations of a person with
a virus.

of course, none of this is to say that i wouldn't want to smell you.
whereas the life of the trees and birds and flowers
has become my enemy
it seems to have been kept in you.

you remind me of daffodils.
i think of you and my eyes feel as if they are welling up
i am allergic to daffodils, you see.
i do think they are quite nice to look at though.
every time i am around them however,
i become nature's fool

i'll never see you again.
my words are falling on the deaf ears of nature
in the winter when sounds seem to be hushed
but please know
i really wasn't trying to smell you.
i couldn't smell anyways.
Mark Lecuona Dec 2014
Do not be afraid of my honesty
Every concern you harbor is tied to my mast
I’ve decided to listen to a French woman sing
Though I do not understand, she shares my past

It’s not so hard to know
Listen to her voice, the softness
While music suggests how we should feel
Only a singer can live within our sadness

What exists in the unconscious is fully developed
I don’t need any more time behind the mask
I’m only obsessed with the knowing
Of who I am or who I should ask

I live outside my own mind
Leaping fences erected to keep me out
I need to know everything about you
For mystery is not intrigue but instead doubt

There is no time for tradition
Or the fears we both know
Though I possess seeds of passion
I cannot wait for something to grow

You must not think of what is to be built
Or why it is that I noticed you
You cannot be offended that your beauty
Preceded what may come to be true

It’s all very simple now my love
It’s an either or situation
Either our hearts are right for each other
Or they must find other accommodations

I live within my own reason
From you I expect nothing less
And until we able to reason together
I will own only one wine glass
DC raw love Apr 2015
Into the darkness I have ran
To hide my sins from the things I have done

They say God keeps track of my sins
How does Satin tally them

I personally have lost track
But in this week alone, I have many sins

I think about confession, but I know no prayers
Am I condemned to hell because of this

I have played with fire all my life
I now must burn in the fiery pits of hell

I often wonder if I will be
provided with special accommodations
Exosphere Apr 2021
please don’t **** on me
I’m not into that
and I’m sorry but
we have no public restroom
(Thy lovely lasses unwittingly
unstintingly unexpectedly
taught me selflessness)

Every Holiday time each year,
a rocketing increase asper
doling out Uriah Heap ping
largesse imposed upon each
citizen banker (coerced, forced,
induced to buy baubles,
bibelot, curios, et cetera striving
to outspend a competing
shopper, which faux grand
handedness, and crass exhibition

generating mega sales (as Tale
of Two Cities, or more)
earns management stripes viz
embracing the Christmas spirit
(via blithely deftly, frenziedly,
et cetera) per avidly boasting,
coarsely displaying, eagerly
flaunting, et cetera prices paid

for the latest curiosity, doodad,
gewgaws (whereby un
avoidable advertisements), flood
mass communication airways,
causeways, driveways, et cetera
to plug reduced priceline sans
gaud dee, knickknacks, gimcracks,
encompass companies blitzkrieg
for those, who disparage being
labeled Scrooge plunk down
every red cent, and empty
their pockets, purses, wallets

to snag the title of topnotch spender
no matter no need exists to ******
every last kickshaw, novelty ornamental
tchotchkes, (which modus operandi,
(visited upon the populace, a tidal wave
vis a vis figurative manifestation,
laceration, inundation, whereby tenet,
maxim, credo, et cetera broadcast
to general public amply expending
page number two:

fistfuls of dollars fulfilling
Great Expectations
(for family, friends, relatives)
buy giving liberally,

via unspoken mandate, and
thence subsequently, when receiving
presents galore, tis incumbent to craft
sincere polite thank you note
(written in calligraphy if possibly)
to evince real or feigned gratitude
despite The Battle of Life travails
and, whenever possibly necessarily
over spending monetary reserves
setting stage for Bleak House
after festivities subside,

whence welcoming return to employ
ment to garner green legal tender
to stave off Hard Times glad to
cease hearing annoying renditions
qua A Christmas Carol, and visiting
countless theaters enduring
legions of young actors and or
actresses portray the saga of Oliver Twist
a disadvantaged indigent boy
(given up by his mum),

and grudgingly accepted in an
Almshouse, where his early existence
mirrored unfair cruelty, whereat
Master of the deprived ladelled
thin gruel only one ration, a worse
perdition than death, this measly diet
lacked minimal nutrition, The Battle of Life.

This American Notes a disproportionate
concentration to reach out to those less fortunate
particularly Thanksgiving and Xmas
which effort laudable, yet a diminution
for succor such as: triumph over adversity
sustenance, accommodations seems
to muffle The Chimes remaining
three hundred and some odd or even days.
Aditi Dec 2018
I may be the monster chasing you in your sleep, now, or all the sea shells that you collected as a kid and eventually lost. I may be just another blurred face in your dreams, or, the first touch of sunlight knocking at your windowpane. Or maybe, I'm just a dusty album thrown carelessly up in your attic- not useless enough to be dismissed, but useless enough for you to no longer know what to do with me. (Or I'm just a jammed door whose key you still keep with you in your pocket, your footsteps halt in front of me once in a while, but the moment passes and so do you)



Or, maybe 10 years from now, in your mind and heart, I no longer register at all.


You and I, we are the children of the same paradox. A fragile thread hung above a horizon-less sea. Could we get what we wanted while being who we are? Do I not belong as much to the thing i left behind as I do to the future that I'm seeking? How to acknowledge your hurt without having to apologize for who I am? Can I ever find home if my heart is always curious about what's beyond? How could it have been love if I had to keep breaking pieces of myself to make some accommodations for you? Why, after all this time, it still feels like it was? Could you really find love in the arms where you lost yourself?

And this is what you're to me. 5 years from then, you're still the headache I get at 2 am and the bloodshot eyes. The thought processes running in circle. You're the human embodiment of my life-i could create something with you, something out of you but I let the idea of it consume me. And sitting underneath the ocean, before oblivion hits me, I imagine asking to your fractured reflection- have you ever wanted to be the universe - something so grand- that you settled down in this abyss- and became nothing.

— The End —