"arrangements" poems
Sleepmonger,
deathmonger,
with capsules in my palms each night,
eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I'm the queen of this condition.
I'm an expert on making the trip
and now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask why.
WHY!
Don't they know that I promised to die!
I'm keeping in practice.
I'm merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,
every color and as good as sour *****
I'm on a diet from death.
Yes, I admit
it has gotten to be a bit of a habit-
blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
hauled away by the pink, the orange,
the green and the white goodnights.
I'm becoming something of a chemical
mixture.
that's it!
My supply
of tablets
has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It's a kind of marriage.
It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
of myself.
Yes
I try
to **** myself in small amounts,
an innocuous occupatin.
Actually I'm hung up on it.
But remember I don't make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
and I don't stand there in my winding sheet.
I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
eating my eight loaves in a row
and in a certain order as in
the laying on of hands
or the black sacrament.
It's a ceremony
but like any other sport
it's full of rules.
It's like a musical tennis match where
my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on; my altar
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.
What a lay me down this is
with two pink, two orange,
two green, two white goodnights.
Fee-fi-fo-fum-
Now I'm borrowed.
Now I'm numb.
12.3k
Arrange communication, over.
Roger, Out.
Inform the Chain of Command
Contact the Chaplain
Execute a satellite uplink
Notify the next of kin
Start the phone tree
Make the arrangements
Honor the deceased
Comfort the family
Pray for the soul
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 2:00 AM UTC
Hey there, baby!
I got what you need.
You came into my store -
I got what you need.
You bought a stick of gum -
Do you want a soda with that?
You searched for a pair of shoes -
Don't you think these shoes are nice?
You liked a post about Darwin -
Darwin books: Half-off!
You listened to the Rolling Stones -
Try some Jeff Beck - I'm a Genius, I should know
you better than yourself.
You thought about ****** -
I can sell you seventeen ways to get away with it.
You thought about suicide -
Better buy one last pleasure before you go - you won't be needing
that money anyway,
Have you made your final arrangements?
You thought about *** -
I know you did
You typed "re"(demption)
Did you mean "Redbox"?
Here are the new releases.
I got what you need.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:51 AM UTC
"The thought of the future we will never have was pollinating foul fuzzy particles in the air, slowly following the wake of all those tasseled dreams I had held onto for all those years but had to let go."
The most intimate revelations can often expose plagiaristic suppressions that we've most likely tried to already forget. Suggesting to anyone on the outside looking in, that there is a rancid cowardice secreting from the pores of all those who would deny the most basic of fundamental decencies to their fellow man.
All the while, boasting a loud tolerance that would be found on the very last Autumn-the very last colorful arrangements of watering oranges and smothered reds our world was ever going to be privileged to witness again.
The thundering drumming of my own beating heart gave my freshly dead and bland reaction a neon personality, with a few extra ********* lingering, successful gestures that reflected a sparkly prism of tracers.
Tracers that were birthed from the most brilliant of lasers, as I was radiating something that was blindingly gorgeous, something that was heightened with more sensitivity as it shadowed over the complexity of every kiss that I had ever been given in my life..
Spinning a silk and gold web around me that was almost as intricate as an alarm sounding earth quake.
This flaccidly tight response came at a price, leaving nothing but whispers and the wrong kind of impressions at the sight of it's unwanted face..
The time of dignity and grace felt decades away as your tiny little temperaments began to attempt to soothe me into a very still silence.
"Wooing" me and "seducing" me with such a strong touch of romantic readiness, I knew it would never be matched or found again causing me to feel a stroke of sadness at the single sentiment.
This dramatic departure killed any interest that might have supported the abortive sorrows and short winded elation’s of men, but instead the idea of a possibly new tasseled dream, sparked me into a shimmering prism bouncing glittering, glimmering, glowing rays off my skin, as I put the shine in the sun.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
Don't make decisions
when you've got a broken heart
for an unattached individual
with forgotten promises
abandoned memories
rejected phone calls
wrecked expectations
deserted arrangements
dreadful lies
forsaken mixed signals
slowly it will **** you
ripping the heart to pieces
soon you'll be
crept up to loneliness
regretting all your dumbfounded decisions
left with an empty feeling
with happiness never coming your way
for this will ruin you
and tear you apart
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
With a wide demographic of *******
There's average, massive or missing
There are ******* to nibble and tweak at
And cleavages perfect for kissing
But I'm of a practical nature
And with just a little persistence
I'll give you a host of good reasons
To justify ******* existence
They're perfect for warming your hands up
When the gas meter's run out of gas
And there's little that's better to look at
When there's no chance of seeing an ***
Elasticity makes them ideal
For displays and arrangements of flowers
And if you find yourself short of your bus fare
Then they radiate magical powers
You can use then for counting in binary
Or a pillow with mild central heating
And they're perfect for holding a bottle
To keep safe while you're busily eating
As a pair of provocative earmuffs
You'll be envied by all of your friends
Just be sure to take optional tassels
In case one of the ******* offends
You can hollow one out for an ashtray
Or a skullcap for cutting edge Jews
You can throw them about like a Frisbee
There are just so many options to choose
But they're useful right where they're located
And not just to tickle and tease
Just give them a couple of decades
And you'll find them protecting your knees
MWAH! x
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
Plans made and calendars marked
Two days away from expectation
Quickened heartbeats at the thought
Eyes close and dreams dance
Arrangements completed early
Nothing left but to wait
A nonchalant mention of something to do
A promise to another
Red circle reminders overlooked
Our day forgotten as is our night
Sincere apologies, no other thought
Eyes close and heart cries
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 6:20 AM UTC
There is no such thing as love anymore,
the kind that is so strong
that you can feel it in your bones.
You know we used to feel that emotion,
when we looked into the faces of our mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, family and friends.
There is no such thing as love anymore.
At least no the deep satisfying kind
that sits on your heart and influences every
decision and action we take throughout each day.
There is no reason to celebrate anymore.
Just empty actions and empty reactions, calculated gestures and financial arrangements. There is no such thing as love anymore...
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
A strange kind of intrusive ambiance; voices in several languages, forced laughter, technological functioning; human activity intermarried with machines. The volume rising perfectly in sync with my cortisol levels, I interrogate my past for signs of the path that led me here; it remains blurred. I did not dream of working in customer service; but here I am regardless, moments of my life that I will never ponder again; a cascade of the present moment repeating as long as my employment contract exists. An event-less horizon, memories are stillborn here and true ingenuity stifled. There is much and nothing that has led me here. It is hard not to feel like a horse bred for performance in this place; everything is monitored, quantified, reviewed and collaborated. Performance reports produced with the fervor of medieval scholars translating the bible. I look to the sky, what else is there to do; only to see smoke alarms and aesthetically neutral lighting arrangements. There is art work on the walls, but is generic, created to defy analysis. The colouring of the walls is chosen to exude a neutral sort of trendiness; on brand for the overarching corporate image.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
My Grandpa might not be a super hero, but he's my hero.
He's a soldier who's had to conquer many battles
He's a fighter and someone who loves with all
of his heart.
He's the "claw", and a best bud
Someone who may not function like everybody else but is able to bluntly tell it like it is.
I wanted him to be the one who walked me down the aisle on my big day.
God has made other arrangements for him.
It's hard loosing someone who's your fatherly figure, who stepped up when no one else would
I sit alone crying, thinking, hoping, praying.
My heart is so heavy and I don't know what to do or who to turn to.
I was 10 at my last funeral.
I'm now 21, I'm scared to face death, have it look me in the eyes like everything will be okay.
To sit in a crowd of black; I'm not ready for those things.
He's my best bud, my claw, the one who tells
me he wants to see me graduate.
My motivation for success.
I'm crying now, and I just need saved.
Please save me, hold me tight, tell me it's okay.
I really wish God would let him stay.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
Verily this day April fourth, two-thousand and seventeen; there's a boy and girl using razors as allayments, making veins as paintings.
Verily, this day April fourth, two-thousand and seventeen; there's a mother holding her young one in ashes, guts with limb's sketch the war-torn scenes.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a father toils on concrete and soil, breaking sweats for a dollar-
Fifty.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a fiend shoots fire in their blood with syringes, whilst kin makest family arrangements for other's to
Come visit daughter's and sons
In boxes whilst they sleep.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a poet and poetess write, O' how their word's do excite, whilst they
Dieth daily from secret pains unseen.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a young woman's locked in
a semi trailer, smuggled by men from foreign labors, O' how her life shalt be
In a room with many strangers; she
Seeks to die yet wants to live.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; there's a broken child in
Many ghettos, whilst elite buy wives stilettos, dope dealing is the only survival, just to put some food in malnutritioned
Mouths.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; theirs a soldier in many lands, making wealthy men richer, whilst their bullets fly, they come home with the images they've seen, devastating guilt-messed up heads.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; there's God Almighty who's been with each of these people, in their souls he dost seest through, passed their skin, and flesh and bones. He knoweth
Their pains, hurts, he seest their loves,
Loves lost, though none of these people
Once hath stepped into a church. Though
God is not about religion, just for all to
Know his son; who took all of their pains
Two-thousand years ago up on the cross he gave his love. As each of these many spirits from all walks and ways of life, were all just the same, perfectly made and beautiful in God Yahweh's eyes. So his arms wilt always be open to those who hath that feeling of not wanting to live, for he sent his son yeshua hamashiach, (Jesus the Messiah) for God's own son for mankind's salvation didst he give. For poet as thou doth read mine words please do know this one thing, thou art not alone, for dear God Dost love thee, his arms art open for thee to come home to him.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
Pride os a strong word
So many people use it
They have pride in their clithes
Their appearance
Their hair
Their homes.
However for me
Pride comes in some unusual forms.
Pride comes from text on a page,
And ugly ink splotch on a stark white dress
Pride comes from poetry
The elegant ways it dances from the poets mind as it plays its way across their lips or to their finger tips
Pride comes from new words
Never seen before combinations
New ideas and new arrangements
And endless sea with no boundaries but your own.
Pride comes from within me.
Pride in my poetry.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
i felt your flourescent heartbeat
on a ***** southern sidewalk
i was staring at my own barefeet
and i saw your eyes from a hole in the ground
you spoke like wind through the air
your words whirled above the garbage
i found a corpse under the floor last year
i keep my pages padlocked in the basement
my stomach is a pit of decaying pipes and retching waterbongs
you are a monster squid walking silent and sunk in thought
i have your eyeballs in my sheets
i have your memory in my bathroom mirror
i have your legs wrapped around my blue veins
i keep my secrets in a lump of tin
and we will scatter these ashes at dawn
we will fly forward on the western wind together
i am the mouth of the void
i can spurt unimaginable wit directly out of my skull
i contain jars full of indecipherable arrangements
you asked me where the rain came from
and i told you we'd be frozen this way
you left a message beside my pillow
i heard the music of your mind
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
*'Oh Ainhara, you always seem to know what to
do...'* Esshi chuckles. "Thank you very much.
Have you done the Queen Mother's flower
arrangements?"
"Yes, all of them have been watered and
now they are being placed around the palace."
Esshi nods. "Good. Thank you very much.
Carry on then."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The florist smiles and leaves as Esshi places
the vase down on a clean counter as well as
the inkpot and quill while staring at the
paper.
'What should I say...?' she wonders as
she hears the meat sizzle. Bale is washing
the carrots and potatoes and chopping
them into medium-sized chunks.
Esshi blinks and smiles. 'Got it!'
Folding a paper in half she writes on
the paper, using her best calligraphy.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When she's done, she places the quill
in the inkpot and gently blows the paper.
'Perfect!' Esshi beams. "Bael? Where do
you keep the serving trolleys?"
"In the back!" he says as he pours in
the ingredients into the paella pan
and mixes gently.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi goes to the back room and sees
a rose-silver serving tray with wheels
which she rolls out, placing the
bouquet and note on it while waiting
for Bael and his team to finish cooking.
Bael smiles that proud smile before pouring
some soup into a bowl and placing it on the
serving tray.
"Thank you, Bael."
"Not a problem. Do give our Queen my
regards." he faces his working staff.
"If they're done, bring them over!"
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Almost instantly, the chefs bring small plates
of their Queen's favourite treats and top it
off, a fresh brew of Jasmine Pearls.
"Thank you all so much." Esshi says gratefully.
"It's our pleasure." A chefs says as Bael
claps.
"Well done, everyone. Now we best get on the
Queen Mother's meals. Go started! I will see
Lady Esshi out."
Esshi covers the food as Bael opens the door
for her to leave. She is stunned to see Ainhara
there.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Oh my, Bael!" Ainhara smiles at him. "You
certainly worked hard."
"The life of a Chef." he beams. "When you're
done, do come by again. I'll have some meals
waiting for you!" he winks at them and
returns to the kitchen.
"The shipments?" Esshi asks.
"All are being presented, documented and
stored away by the Queen Mother." Ainhara
says. When she sees the flowers, she smiles
and the words on Esshi's note makes her
smile even more.
"Let's make way." Ainhara says as Esshi pushes
the tray behind her, making their way
for the young Queen's chamber.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
I am gazing at a shining portrait as my desire is announced by distant bell chimes. I merge with the paint and feel absorbed into a different timeline.
In the painting, the wind carries a scent of a familiar tree assorted with the melody of its leaves. It all brings back the memory of a song that I love, that reminds me of a woman I met in a vision from a dream yet I don't know the language it is made of, nor I can sing it for I am dyslexic in the ear.
This is an illusion, I see it. Still, I deem it to be real, similar to a scene that I keep reliving as I wander the mystical golden desert, I wonder is fulfillment an insult or a compliment if attained outside the ordinary strains of sensual accomplishments?
Disconcerted by previous arrangements i think it through to realize this is an illusion is just a tattoo .
Words Of Harfouchism
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 5:28 AM UTC
The cat lies on the table. She is keeping her own council, a philosophical feline. It is mid afternoon, an hour before the possibility of tea and cake. Already the room is retreating from the lamp's light into a dusky gloom. Outside the winter garden lies still, damp and cold and still.
Rain comes. A winter rain, almost snow, spreads itself across the window. Ice-full it is a drum with tiny particles rolling across a taut skin of glass. The cat stirs, turns on his side exposing a tummy of white fur. An old cat this, a silent presence now, hardly a purr on a waiting lap.
Books. Piles of books. A book open to reveal pencilled annotations. Several arrangements of papers paper-clipped together, colourfully highlighted. There's a scholarly journal 'borrowed' with a concert programme marking a ‘required’ read. Telemann and Bach infiltrate an investigation of Jewishness in George Eliot's Daniel Deronda.
A framed photograph stands companionably amongst today's letters and the coloured cards of Christmas to come. There's a red-haired girl, a portrait against old roses., a child in a school-blue dress, freckled with green eyes she is smiling carefully, as though not convinced taking this photo is a good thing.
As darkness encroaches, the stories in this space circle the lamp like moths. They rise from the table, detach themselves from the walls (like bats) and float in their own form. Catching leaves, wish-making in a September wood; the fierce tide pouring across the Lindisfarne causeway; small children picnicking by a cricket field. The recent thrill of Jerusalem. Taverner's Mass –
*Oh Western Wind,
when will thou blow,
the small rain down can rain?
Christ! If my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!*
Here in this small suburban room there comes together a past; a life reverberates in a temporary peace, a truce in the long campaign of family, ageing, ****** discomfort, obligation, regret (always regret), passion unspent, books unread, poems still to write. And this waiting for a clear answer yet to come, a promise yet to be fulfilled? All is contained here as the alarm clock's digits move towards 16.30 and it is time for tea and cake. Time to rise from the table and feed the cat.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 1:45 AM UTC
“The grief therapist will see you now.”
the perky redhead told us.
Her rolling hips then led the way
majestically before us..
Final arrangements must be made.
as our loved one is gone;
Melvin joined the choir invisible
singing his swan song.
He had been fading badly,
and we knew the end was near.
Now he’s a mortuary client,
pausing for his final bier..
Thank God for prearrangement
or we truly would be gored.
It gets to be quite expensive
when you’re sleeping with the Lord.
He’s shuffled off this mortal coil
and brought the curtain down.
Soon he’ll be checking out the grass
from six feet underground..
Melvin has given up the ghost.
He was snuffed out in his prime.
He cashed his chips in early,
passing on before his time.
“Your loved one’s in a better place.”
The Undertaker gravely said..
“His ancestors have embraced him
in a place of light, not dread.”
Some will say he kicked the bucket,
checked out early, bought the farm.
The religious say he’s with the Lord,
The perpetual light is on.
Melvin, were he here with us,
more likely would have said
a better place for him would be
that redhead’s poster bed.
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
I don't know if I ever want to have my poems
immortalized in a book, to sit on some shelf untouched
a reminder printed on blank pages; my love, and my pain
organized into pretty poetic arrangements for other's viewing pleasure
for strangers to know me that intimately on a level I barely understand
I can't comprehend--
my love, and my pain, indeed
the love I have is beautiful, and worth sharing with the world
but I dont know if I could immortalize the pain it has caused me to love so throughly
so completely have I given myself over to everything
followed the winding paths through heartache and back;
I would much rather forget them here, forget the past
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 12:22 AM UTC
It is a pleasant place to lie,
amidst a copse of Olive trees.
The tears of muses, never dried,
have effaced the writing from your stone.
These hills about once knew your step,
your strong and confident poet’s stride.
Robert, the Royal Fusilier,
Once thought dead, but you’d survived.
Your home is a museum now,
Your Black Cordoban hangs on the wall.
I step into the little den
where you finally said farewell to all.
Looking out your window I
Espy a naked maiden flee.
Skin starkly white with Golden hair-
The White goddess? Could it be?
At any rate, a comely lass,
Beauty to whet a poet’s pen
I’ve heard you were inspired thus
by lovely muses, now and then.
Your domestic arrangements
Were quite strange;
celibate infidelity.
I’ll admit that’s one I haven’t tried.
Nor would I like to, honestly.
But your genius can’t be ignored.
by honest literary men.
I’ve spend hours in Ancient Rome
transported by your fertile pen.
Farewell Robert, Beryl too
You knew he’d be yours at the end.
Muses fuel a poet’s pen
But cannot love as wives may do.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC
I remember sitting
On the tiny porch
Of my dad’s home
Offended by the sun
That continued to sink and set
Without pausing to acknowledge
My dad’s passing.
Offended by the cars
That continued on the highway;
Callous indifference, it seemed to me.
Even the birds at their feeder
Greedily fed and failed to look up
To mark the loss of their benefactor.
I found myself
Silently demanding condolences
In every encounter.
Not for the sympathy,
Or worse, pity,
But for the acknowledgement
That he was here
And now he’s gone,
And something,
However infinitesimally small
In the scopeless universe,
Has changed.
I have two cousins.
The first called my dad
Every month.
His regular call came
During the last days.
The decline surprised him.
He took a deep breath
And asked for speakerphone
Near my dad.
He told my dad
How much my dad had
Influenced his life;
How as a child,
he anticipated a visit from my dad
Like kids stay up to see Santa;
How my dad made my cousin feel
Like he was the most important kid
In the wide world;
How my dad gave my cousin
The otherwise unavailable
Sustenance of heart
Young boys need;
How my cousin had strived to be
Like my dad
And how he hoped
His own children see in him
What he saw in my dad.
That was acknowledgement,
Profound acknowledgement.
My second cousin called
Shortly after the first.
He had heard
That my dad was dying.
He did not ask
To speak with my dad.
He wanted to tell me
To call him
As soon as memorial
Arrangements were made
So that he could purchase
Discounted airline tickets,
To include a subsequent visit
To his son who lives
In the southern part of the state.
My dad was still living.
That, too, acknowledged something,
And served to impel my pending decision.
So I opted for
A less conventional
Memorial ritual
That required neither
Plane tickets nor attendance
Nor a frozen smile reception.
I would not suffer
Insincere acknowledgement.
I am sure I scandalized
Many acquaintances of my dad
Who enjoyed the social conventions of
The anticipated gathering
If only to point out the deficiencies
Of the event and the host.
I am sure I offended
And frustrated
And embittered
One of my cousins.
The other cousin thought
My dad would have preferred
Sincerity
Over a pantomime.
I would suffer
The disfavor and distaste
Of the discontented
With no difficulty.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
You keep a garden
Some of your arrangements are to
Boast and show off
Delight in and keep for yourself
Alter with curiousity and growth
So you keep this beautiful garden
With every right intention
For leaves to sprout with confidence
For stems to hold firm and sturdy
For flowers to flaunt beauty and rich color
But do you see your precious garden
Is so riddled with weeds?
Weeds that expose iniquity
Weeds that slowly eat away
Weeds that make your Father frown!
Try as you may, in your garden
To hide or otherwise ignore your ugly weeds
But your leaves, they will crinkle
Your stems will fall short and break
And your petals will surely wilt.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 8:26 PM UTC
*Wild native branches - A jungle-green canopy sheltering this ever-flowing stream that runs rapidly,
most steadily, to and fro my heart.
Ancient autumn leaves weaved into an intricate, detailed, complex, rustic carpet, concealing paths and footprints leading in and out of my mind.
Forty two springs worth of magnificent arrays of wildflowers decorate each serene scene bordering this stream - each cluster a chapter of my life.
These scattered wild arrangements, with their heavenly scent, delight my senses - they are most pleasing to my mind's eye.
There's gold dust, nuggets, and precious gemstones, hidden in the gravel, they're also buried in the bedrock of this stream, and in the river that it feeds.
This stream is a constant source, feeding my hungry heart and mind.
The river that is fed by this stream
is my soul - this ever-flowing stream is a corridor which runs to and fro my heart; it carries the oxygen in my blood, through my veins.
Whilst manoeuvering around the stepping-stones that are laid-out sporadically, most beautifully, but imperfectly, across this stream,
THEY, double cross me;
A highway, used to get to where THEY are going, time and time again.
~By Lady R.F ©2016*
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
fat monkey's with beady little eyes
wander back and forth along the kitchens edges
licking their lips and hungrily kneading their hands
while i tend the pots and kettle
wearing my best low rent apparel
and listening to only the finest of garage grunge
its miami gardens in springtime
and all the pretty people are strutting the boardwalk
looking for backwater bargains at cheap motels
she is here with me in her barley there bikini
fashionably perfect in all the politically correct ways
its perpetual summer in miami gardens
all the sour hearts on the phone making travel arrangements
the snowbunnys are out in force this year
can't step one foot to a western wind with treading on some ugly mug
but they are oh so friendly
don't you want to cuddle up with some furry little monster
its wintertime in miami gardens
she strips down to her birthday suit
and the monkeys start getting itchy in
their mohair leisure suits
its hard to get comfortable in your own skin
in the land of picture perfect bodies on the sand
so lets all sit down to eat
share a meal and a mile of road
maybe we can find enough in common to keep out the cold
thinking about miami gardens in spring
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
I believe in predestination like a hard cover
book lying open underneath a ceiling fan. I believe
in imagination unfettered like the wheels
of a bike kicking up rain. I believe in tasting
everything like the teething puppy chewing
all the furniture. I believe in arrangements
like the photographer with no camera. I believe
in impetus like the dry clump of dirt that erupts
into fine powder because of a little tension
in between your fingers. I believe in relevance
like the poetry addict who wants to ask Emily
Dickinson where she got her cardigan. I believe
in economy like Curiosity who found her way
home by following the trail of cat crumbs she left earlier.
I believe in complacency like the larkspur
in love with a promiscuous hummingbird.
I believe in delusion like the saxophone player
who can’t distinguish Carnegie Hall
from the subway station.
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 9:53 PM UTC
Cosmic serpent
Flies in circles
Orbits earths
Visits vessels
Stings and wrestles
Prowls the plain
The desert arrangements
Faces fire no fear
Takes one look at the spider
Sees through the fire
Undresses the only envy
The necessity plenty
Of spiraling ascent
To meaning manifest
A plunge into the nest of the fortune cookie prophecies
Fate pulled from a hat
In the terraforming visions of the seven breasted harpy speech devours itself
The visioneer’s ouroboros precludes ovals of assimilation clinging tight to the exoteric
The vessel rejects the half digested
An ammonia laden upheaval
Dispelling folderol with blinding reverence
Inviting tragedy with nostalgic foresight
Wet nightmares
Logic abandons the visioneer ****** into the opposite of static
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC