"aficionados" poems
I am an altar boy inside the Church of
Continuous Wasted Opportunities.
Smell that pungent incense?
It is most definitely all that it seems to be.
This God’s gift to mankind is what the three
wise men were really trafficking—bringing
forth a dank Exodus unto the Savior’s parents.
They didn’t inhale the serpent’s lure, of course.
Rejoice, one and all, across the land!
Hallelujah, all ye indigo children of the desert!
Now, a reading from the Book of Wardo,
verse four, passage twenty:
“And it was told that the ancient Aryana region would
offer up such magical wonderment, derived from the
sacred Kush bush, assisting the holiest disciples who
prefer a mystically passive respite—for these blessed
aficionados represent the completely frazzled and yet
cautiously chosen few.”
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
In the last quarter of the twentieth century, much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat waiting for something momentous to occur. Christian aficionados of the Second Coming scenario were convinced that, after two thousand years, the other shoe was about to drop. And five of the era's best-known psychics predicted that Atlantis would soon reemerge from the depths. To this last, Princess Leigh-Cheri responded, "There are three lost continents…we are one: the lovers." In whatever esteem one might hold Princess Leigh-Cheri's thoughts, one must agree that the last quarter of the twentieth century was a severe period for lovers. It was a time a time when romantic relationships took on the character of ice in spring, stranding many little children on jagged and inhospitable floes. Nobody quite knew what to make of the moon anymore
Consider a certain night in August. The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over. For more than an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" She inquired. The same query put to the Remington SL3 typewriter elicited this response: Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question in life is whether to **** yourself or not. Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end. Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm. There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay? Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to **** yourself. Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and end of time. Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.
-La Dispute, One
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
112422
Brutal eyes,
Lament in the melody of hope.
Diverse imagery rolls on each soul
Defining the core of their music –
A genre that is one of a kind
With dustings of masculinity
Making a legacy for this generation.
Each voice has no nerves –
And they’re like a formless water
Searching for an everlasting container.
To showcase the exquisiteness of the Pearl,
The backbone of their glory.
At first, they find no one to understand them
Even branded with hostile names
But they never surrender their flags
And raised the Nations’ banner so high
Even if all their villains did belittle them.
Their chords were like no other –
Their skills, they never hype about
And yet both the moon and the stars
Collided for them
And now is their time!
Some say: maybe it was their destiny…
Maybe it’s just for a while.
But their passion and thirst for their craft are unrivaled –
Always exceeding their best
As if their competitor is their living mirror.
Today, even if the Sun has exposed their grandeur,
Their modesty becomes a plus factor.
The world is their stage,
While A’TIN is their steady sustenance.
They had sleepless nights before
But tenacity led them to so many doors.
Many clowns had backed down
And some even turned from villains
Into aficionados who call them their ‘masters.’
They were born to be a standard –
And they deserve mad respect from every Juan.
Coz they’re not just stars but kings of their kind,
World-class vanquishers that we all look up to!
And this is just the beginning
Of the unfolding to the world of their God-given stories!
Nov 24, 2022
Nov 24, 2022 at 9:38 AM UTC
Is there
a deeper Darkness
Or
Is there
a deeper Lightness
waiting?
Abscesses of our minds
not withstanding
What hole
thing
R u?
Wavering in the light
pixelated weak
R u carried
or do you stand?
Is there
an edge
to be had
Or is it
just an occupation
from which
to distract us
and see
tear filled acts
of confusion
celebrated
clearly we are
winning
our game
to be righteous
Which is
to lose
and somehow
win over time
Unerasable blues
and salt
seeds of continuous
self-doubt
Potato chips
to dark fasting
Crayons to an
iron radiator
Socks to a nebulae
clenched in birth
is a song
radiating
We are the deeper
folds
respected by fabric
aficionados
Creases in everything
shape themselves
on our tongues
in our emanations
We are the shore
climbing for awhile
to the land
then back to the sea
We are the circle
almost back
skip that illusion
lean into the swing
Break into another
beaker of stinking next
pour it on yourself
suffer early and often
this continuity
a lie in a lie
in a genre
you choose
for breakfast
crunchy
is how
you prefer
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
the duration of the gig will last
for three exceptional years
by the end of it aficionados would
have shed some tears
let us all recall
the two tunes listed below
which were heard in
many a marvellous show
Daniel is traveling tonight on a plane
I can see the red tail lights heading for Spain
Don't go breaking my heart
I couldn't if I tried
Oh honey if I get restless
baby you're not that kind
our glittering Sir Elton John
bopping on the piano
the catalogue of his hits
a lyrical nano
collaborating with Sir Bernie Taupin
together a dynamic partnership
who knew how a song would
stay in the mind's companionship
departing from entertaining
on the world's musical stage
leaving a remarkable footnote
of rock and roll homage
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC
Is it too much to ask
Break the mould, escape the cask
Our false imprisonment
Our social dilemma, our unholy sacrament
Shaped and ***** by despots and desperados
Served and sequin lined by an abundance of anarchic aficionados
Cruel and abusive
Our systems are corrosive
The economies dictate dilemmas and chaos
An onslaught of modern emotions
There is no guilt to be found inside possession
With no real Gods by your side you grow obese with your obsession
Unimpressed
I'm glad my life has digressed
Far from the enshrined rituals, the daily dazed dances of distraction
The quest to experience and excite shall be my main attraction
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
Wallets, users, adopters, memes
Savings, shelters, income streams
Everywhere you look, it seems
Bitcoin keeps on growing
Holders, spenders, miners too
Aficionados, old and new
Look around, it’s in plain view
Bitcoin keeps on growing
Over time, it grows in price
It’s grown 1000x, twice!
So focus now & grab your slice
Bitcoin keeps on growing
Some buyers public, some anon
Price will soar when most is gone
A pristine asset to lean upon
Your Bitcoin keeps on growing
Apr 16, 2022
Apr 16, 2022 at 12:13 PM UTC
Remember the scruffy but lovable traveler with his worn bindle so characterized?
The hobo was a gig guy way back when, hopping on trains to make ends meet.
The romance, the adventure, all on your own, responsible to no one in particular. Now an ingrained myth among our other self myths. The loner, the go-getter. The self-made man, the bootstrap hiker-upper.
We love our John Wayne stories of glory, now etched in granite and hanging over us like a scolding aunt’s repeated finger-wagging.
It’s hell trying to live up to the slogans, bumper sticker thoughts, and flag-waving aficionados.
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 4:45 PM UTC
Banderillero desganado.
Las guedejas del sueño cubren tu ojo derecho.
Te quedaste dormido con los brazos alzados,
y un derrote de Dios te ha atravesado el pecho.
Un piadoso pincel lavó con leves
algodones de luz tu carne herida,
y otra vez la apariencia de la vida
a florecer sobre tu piel se atreve.
No burlaste a la muerte. No pudiste.
El cuerno y el pincel, confabulados,
dejaron tu derrota confirmada.
Fue una aventura absurda, bella y triste,
que aún estremece a los aficionados:
¡qué cornada, Dios mío, qué cornada!
431
They built the thing in the wrong **** direction, you know.
The “sun field” being home plate, and come late afternoons
Every pitch a potential life-and-death experience
For hitter and catcher alike
(One young Mets farmhand, in a fit of sheer exasperation,
Actually came to the plate in full catcher’s garb.)
Still, it was—well, at least once a upon a time—just a short hop
From Pittsfield to The Show, and any old timer
Will gladly talk your ear off about how Kenny Brett,
Barely a year out of high school, don’t you know,
Went straight from here to The Impossible Dream
(Though Kenny, so improbably young in all their memories
Is long since dead now, gone like the boom-times
Before GE shut down,
Leaving nothing behind but poisons in the Housantonic.)
That is all memory, though, the park’s fortunes
Fading hand-in-hand with the city’s,
Inhabited by low-level minor league clubs
Where one player a summer
Might get his Crash Davis moment in the sun,
And later indie-league teams with kids and hangers-on,
All barely good enough to dream.
Now there is only a summer league for low-ceiling college kids,
The old wooden grandstand,
Still standing out of some implausible stubbornness
(Last living World War One veteran,
Some local lifer will invariably say, cackling and spitting
Though their ranks thinned each year
By the siren song of trailer parks in Orlando and hip fractures)
Now dotted with a group of locals,
Quirky minor-league aficionados and a cluster of area scouts,
Who, on the odd occasion of something noteworthy on the field,
Will make a show of pulling out a stopwatch or radar gun
(Though they are aware they are here
With the lowest-common-denominator expectations,
Looking for organizational types,
Middle relievers and fifth outfielders to fill out rosters)
But most of the time, they simply huddle together
Talk quietly,speaking in inaudible tones
The words of some dead and inscrutable language.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 7:47 PM UTC