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Logan Robertson Aug 2018
Twas the night before
Hawaii islands on the radar
A monster opened the door
It shoulders a storied scar

Of the last time, it hit its mark
Rearing its ugly head, ahead of pace
As the eye looms '82 in the dark
Wrinkles on this  eve sit sadly in boldface

Kauai sat once in unnatured infamy
It sunny shores hit once by the beast
Clouds of villains played in that symphony
With the next generation looking to feast

As the residence brace for the worst
Of the monster stepping on its paradise
With category four winds and cloudburst
The hope is that the monster plays nice

With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis
In place of bold headlines of strung wrath
Hawaii can pray rays of light in the coming days
Willing the monster to take a different path

Logan Robertson

8/23/2018
This honor catches me by surprise, so much that I can't wait for the next dawn, sunrise, and all the days that follow. Thank you. Thank you for all the well wishes and support. It means looking at the sunrise, a new dawn, with newfound exuberance and eagerness.

To my friends and relatives on Oahu, I pray. Update-monster played nice. Outstanding was its piano play. Storm went from a 5,4,3,2,1 ... miss. With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis
In place of bold headlines of strung wrath. Thank you.

   PSA: Poetic Service Announcement - written 05/01/2017
                                              
   Please feel free to share with established and future
   authors on FB.
********************­***
.
One of the toughest decisions, an author has to make, is the selection of a reliable publisher. With more than six months of personal experience, I have painfully learned that PBP (Published By Parables, headed by John Jeffries) is NOT one of them. For decades, I’ve listened to ministers tell me that “Mediocrity is not a hallmark of Christianity; it’s halfway between success and failure.”; and yet, the shoddy workmanship of transforming my manuscript into a usable PDF (that would produce the book) failed to even reach the level of mediocrity. I extend an apology to those, to whom a premature recommendation of PBP was given by me. Don’t repeat my mistake! Please. You’ll be grateful and thankful for heeding my warning.
.
This company engages in deceptive practices and doesn’t operate with complete transparency. For example, it advertises that it will publish your book for free. While this is technically true, you will have to make an initial payment of $185; $35.00 for the copyright and the $150.00 for the ISBN-Barcode. In addition, John will subtlety lecture you, regarding why he won’t cover this expense and why you should.
.
Before I began writing poetry seriously, I acquired 30 years of IT experience and 20 years of desktop publishing experience; so I understand conceptual ideas, the need for high standards and the importance of having a solid, but flexible framework. In addition, I was taught the criticality of working with a mindset of excellence- a topic taught by most ministers. One example is Titus 2:7-9, which states: In all things shewing thyself a pattern of good works: in doctrine shewing uncorruptness, gravity, sincerity, sound speech, that cannot be condemned; that he that is of the contrary part may be ashamed, having no evil thing to say of you.
.
Computer templates, used in today’s bookmaking operations, are not meant to be static; rather they set an initial foundation from which work can begin. Given the style of my writing, PBP had agreed to modify the template being used, as to minimize the impact of my having to change my writing to accommodate the shortcomings of said template. I understood that this would possibly extend the timeframe to get my book constructed. I was okay with this and never rushed PBP in its efforts.
.
With each iteration of manuscript changes, new random and unexpected problems began to appear; so I was blamed my project’s lack of progress, since the errors arose from PBP’s ongoing modification of my manuscript’s template. It’s unimportant to realize that ALL modifications to the template were made solely by PBP. PBP never reviewed an updated PDF before sending it to me; therefore, it became my responsibility to identify issues that resulted from the technical incompetence of PBP. So what if titles lost their boldface attribute, while the text of poems were inadvertently made boldface. So what if poems were displayed to the left of the left-hand margin, pages numbers were lost, or randomly displayed in boldface, or that page headers would be missing or cut in half- it was my fault for desiring a template customized to meet my personal need. So what if the page numbers were corrupted within my index of poems, from PBP inserting new pages into the beginning of my manuscript. So what if I was concerned that the index’s format was changed from the way I desired. Stuff happens and I need not concern myself over such details. Apparently I was delusional in thinking that I was responsible for the vision of my new book.
.
And if that wasn’t enough fun, PBP would ignore some of my changes, such as inserting the occasional blank line, as well as making unauthorized modifications that included adding, replacing and deleting PBP graphics. One graphic I was fond of, PBP removed because its intended purpose is meant for “internal company use only”. Guess I’m just an unruly rebel for wanting to use it. Since he originally inserted it into my PDF, using it must have been initially okay. This incident is one of many that shows John’s lack of attention to detail.
.
In addition, I was unreasonable for wanting my legal name displayed properly (so I can differentiate myself from the other “Joe Breunigs”; no offense guys!) That correction alone took John SIX MONTHS to address; my book’s title also created angst for PBP, since it contained an ellipsis. Twice I e-mailed instructions on how to insert one because he misplaced/lost the first correspondence. And so I was unreasonable once more, since his option of using three consecutive periods was deemed unacceptable by me. An ellipsis is my favorite punctuation mark; if he couldn’t handle my previous instructions, he could have COPIED IT DIRECTLY FROM MY MANUSCRIPT.
.
John constantly complained about updating the template and the slow iterative process of making my book. At one point, John made the remark of how he had published two other titles during the timeframe my book was being worked on. As Christians, we get in trouble when we compare ourselves to others, since everyone’s journey is unique. So it’s clear that PBP’s intent was to manipulate me into feeling bad, regarding PBP’s lack of progress. Supposedly I was out of line for suggesting that he remember James 1:2-3, which teaches us: My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. In discussions with PBP, I indicated that I have 15 complete and unpublished manuscripts of poetry. In addition, I stated that we would have the most hiccups during the creation of my first PBP, since we had no experience working together. Nor did PBP understand that this process of creating a personalized template for my work would save time during the construction of future titles- both for me and other poets. Should I apologize for forward thinking?
.
Given the problems I was forced to face, doubt became evident in my selection of PBP; so I decided to ask more questions, to step up due diligence on my end; NONE of my follow-up questions were ANSWERED. I had the audacity to ask for a contract, how much I could expect to earn per copy sold, why PBP didn’t request my SSN and other questions of concern. I wanted to understand how to stop PBP from making unwanted changes or ignoring the ones I desired. One would like to think that a publisher would be appreciative of a proactive author, seeing that I have one title already. At one point, I had the false hope that my book could be completed by December 2016, but not in time for Christmas. Now we’re into May 2017.
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Nor was I ever allowed to see the prepared book cover- FOR MY BOOK! I was informed that I couldn’t be allowed to see it because the image MAY need to be re-sized. IMO, this is a ridiculous excuse. Since I never saw the cover, I was unable to either review it (for mistakes) or critique it. Supposedly the cover was made three months earlier; since I’ve not seen it, I must assume that PBP is not lying to me. And it was crazy of me to imagine using the graphic (OF MY BOOK) as a marketing tool to create excitement and interest in my latest title or possibly generate pre-order sales. When a publisher intentional decides to play games like this, does anyone else see this issue as a “Red Flag”?
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Caught between his impatience, unrepentant attitude and ability to be easily offended, John refused to apologize for his technical ineptitude and unwillingness to press forward; instead he chose to hide behind his spiritual authority (which I do not fall under); he essentially demanded that only I had the onus of forgiving him. After a weak and failed attempt to bully me into accepting substandard work, he later announced that he was quitting my project. In a phony letter of apology, John even implied that I needed to accept responsibility for the failure to get this book made, since I HAD CONTACTED PBP. In addition, he reiterated that PBP is a ministry; if that’s true, then why didn’t he demonstrate patience, perseverance and humility towards me or ensure quality of effort… as unto The Lord? Should PBP want to dispute my account, John should be reminded that I’ve retained a copy of various PDF iterations of my unmade book with the aforementioned issues.
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I took no pleasure in composing this PSA, but felt that it was my duty, to share my poor experience in dealing with a difficult publisher, to my writing communities. This notification could have been prevented, if John had repented, swallowed his pride and pushed forward to get my books made. Instead he chose to become an irrelevant part of my journey as an author, which is sad, since he acknowledged that I have a gift for writing poetry. IMHO, we the writing community, must be willing to stand up to publishers, since the responsibility (of the vision for our books) lies with us. We should be able to freely ask questions and have templates modified to suit the individuality of our books. Let your voice and concerns be heard. Please share this message with the writers you personally know. We should not be forced to accept shoddy work! John can be reached on FB at https://www.facebook.com/john.jeffries.33; the PBP website can be found by searching its full name. Please feel free to share this PSA on John’s page, so he understand the ramifications of his actions.
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Bruised Orange Apr 2015
What oozes out
                             (between the lines)
the scent of shaving,
your lean leg,
those dancing eyes,
waffles.

What can't escape
                                (the boldface type)
the door that slams,
your heavy feet,
dark eyes demanding
waffles.

What remains
                          (the words that blur)
a broken dish
your cracking wit,
my steady hand, now
waffles.
NaPo 4/9
I guess
poetry can be used
to inspire resolve

but I'm looking for
the kind of direct, boldface salve
that spawns trust, eats doubt
and sifts the tar from under my ribs

"The medium is the message."
- **** McLuhan said
Mark Butkus Mar 2013
In box ghosts
In god we trust
Picture from forgotten toasts
Friendships cyclical, boom or bust

One, two, three, four
Boldface type between the junk
Plaintive missives to ignore
Memories stored within a trunk

Friends arrayed 'neath a tree
Once upon a summer's eve
Kept in touch with none of thee
With a pen we took our leave

Scattered comments, wish you were
Scattered ashes, dust to dust
Given a choice of you or her
Follow always wanderlust

Blinking cursor, monochrome screen
One truck passes on the street
Slowly passing fields of green
A moment's thought, then press delete.
Now what of you
from a place in my memory
from a memory in the past
from the past I barely remember
anymore

Is there
any more you will be to me
than a phone number I cannot call
than a photograph in my computer screen
than a newspaper article I've read and reread again and
again

Are you more of a loss or
a gain- like the profit from falling for love
and the debt from falling apart
in love
and all its constituents from
butterflies to monsters
to daydreams to tear drops to
fireworks

Because this want works like
fire works
to burn then burn out
but never like the fire in your eyes
of passion and compassion
that builds fire then stays
burning up
unless in exchange of more
match sticks you have for
today

Will you forever be a thought from night
to day
from all the merriment I encounter
to all the melancholy after
a thought I'll remember
more striking than a bad news typed in
boldface

This might be like all the others where I put on a
bold face
to pick up one by one
the torn pieces of hope I set up way too high
but not to fix any part of my heart
fully secured
from similar events from before
tick tock tick tock
there, like time, like them, off you go

Off you go
This is for the boy on my mind today. 4:08 am. May 02, 2015. If you didn't quite get it, it's about...

(May 04) I realized I put the wrong tags!
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2020
~
infinitude (noun): the state, the quality of being without limit, infinite

    
        ~
drew first breath, woken to the heart’s rpm thankless task,

conscious aware, that solved proofs deny infinitude,

yet, triumvirate of five senses, brain waving,
a steadying thumping heart,

all asking why not?

can I will it?

the body’s parts convene, debating furious, some claiming
a sell-by-date cellular programmed, nothing to be done,
dimming of the day, a human necessity, the self-salvaging process

but a single cell, a mouse-sized squeaker, boldface stuns,
”feed me, moisturize, give me sleep + blue blood nourishment,
I’m good to go in a forever Iditarod!”


the others ashamed of their festival of fear, knowing well
what has gone before, dreaming thoughts of infinitude, go silent,

while “why not?”
lingers in the lungs, the breathable shared, atmosphere,

the senses spread the quest to every remote province,
with each continuing a chant grows ever louder,
a millennium of poems concealed, yet awaiting conception,
all entitled,
why not”reverberating.

<+>
7:36am 2022020
nyc everywhere
Drifton A Way Feb 2017
We all have a choice to free Will
He starts off locked in a cage
You might choose to just chill
Or you may embrace your rage

Paralyzed you can remain still
But Remember this is your stage
It's truly only your time to ****
Choose your fate, turn the page

You fell asleep and woke to see
Under the bottom rock lay a key

I wonder, Was it even locked?
Perchance,Is this all a dream?
A blunder, yet they knocked
Romance, A Jehovah scheme

A paradise of the utmost ultimate utopia
A paradox, of thee immaculate dystopia

We chase and climb as we proclaim the divine
As Robert weaves tightropes and walks the line

A friend indeed to help Will Succeed to not
blindly bleed and pay the taxman's greed

It's only your life to lead, or perhaps throw away
Why not nurture the seed, and extend your stay

Please open your eyes and decide your path
Boldface the lies and regret's dreadful wrath

The future is here, prepare for a great surprise
I'm going to end this poem's life, with italicize
Anyone want to talk about Religion maybe? I have a few acres of time.
Alias Adobe Jenson Albertus Aldus here
wed Alexandria (Algerian, an all around
American Typewriter gal) scattershot
with Antiqua ancestry, she told me
after I Aster while Aurora Borealis

shimmered overhead, while temporarily
embarking on long day's
journey into night
("yule Jean," I uttered
for no particular reason,
while taking a knee).

Upon spontaneous spur of moment
(not prematurely *******)
whim we pledged our troth
courtesy local Justice of the peace

at a pitstop named Baskerville
renown for landmark Bell
designed by Georg Belwe
in collaboration with inscription
by poet and cleric Pietro Bembo.

Whatsapp parent tis obvious influence
upon Berkeley Old Style,
plus subtle nuances difficult to discern,
nonetheless affecting one
Bernhard Modern as well

incorporating bankrupt trumpeting
apprentice Giambattista Bodoni
envisioning aspiring career as Bookman
titling initial publication;
The art of the deal.

Linkedin to aforementioned
aliens perhaps...maybe...
lost tribes of Israel long since
swept into dustbin of history,

a puzzling hyperlinked conjunction,
but with nebulous, mysterious,
gaseous, ambiguous
personage, and/or place
merely identified as Bulmer.

As iterated, we decamped
in proximity to Caledonia known to me,
a transplanted Californian FB,
who spent countless blocks of time
shuttling to and fro Calisto MT,
where pennies pitched into
fountainhead with Atlas shrugged.

Thee above ayn nee auld
rand (dom) blurb
invites intimations, yes...
viz pre Cambria yen
humanity awoke, where

sophisticated indigenous peoples
sparsely outnumbered,
they nonetheless compensated
minuscule population size
vis a vis did intriguingly fashion
(bug a boo)

underground elaborate Capitals
two identified as Cartier,
and Caslon Wyld
housing many a "FAKE" Antique,
circa Fifteenth Century
purported predecessors of Catull farmers

easily mistaken for garden variety
prehistoric Asian Tsen
Centaur re: yen creature,
what with Century Old Style,
Century Schoolbook,

New Century Schoolbook,*

Century Schoolbook Infant
teenage ninja mutant turtle vestige
aligning their (ain't fib)
be yen cool visionaries,
donning tortoise shell bifocals,
otherwise affixed i.e. born that way

with poker faced purblind outlook,
and whose shockproof
shell acted carapace
tricked out to unseen observer
as an eye opening spectacle.
In Times New Roman, I font
to hitch wagon to a star.

Alias Adobe Jenson Albertus Aldus here
wed Alexandria (Algerian, an all around
American Typewriter gal) scattershot
with Antiqua ancestry, she told me
after I Aster while Aurora Borealis

shimmered overhead, while temporarily
embarking on long day's
journey into night
("yule Jean," I uttered
for no particular reason,
while taking a knee).

Upon spontaneous spur of moment
(not prematurely *******)
whim we pledged our troth
courtesy local Justice of the peace

at a pitstop named Baskerville
renown for landmark Bell
designed by Georg Belwe
in collaboration with inscription
by poet and cleric Pietro Bembo.

Whatsapp parent tis obvious influence
upon Berkeley Old Style,
plus subtle nuances difficult to discern,
nonetheless affecting one
Bernhard Modern as well

incorporating bankrupt trumpeting
apprentice Giambattista Bodoni
envisioning aspiring career as Bookman
titling initial publication;
The art of the deal.

Linkedin to aforementioned
aliens perhaps...maybe...
lost tribes of Israel long since
swept into dustbin of history,

a puzzling hyperlinked conjunction,
but with nebulous, mysterious,
gaseous, ambiguous
personage, and/or place
merely identified as Bulmer.

As iterated, we decamped
in proximity to Caledonia known to me,
a transplanted Californian FB,
who spent countless blocks of time
shuttling to and fro Calisto MT,
where pennies pitched into
fountainhead with Atlas shrugged.

Thee above ayn nee auld
rand (dom) blurb
invites intimations, yes...
viz pre Cambria yen
humanity awoke, where

sophisticated indigenous peoples
sparsely outnumbered,
they nonetheless compensated
minuscule population size
vis a vis did intriguingly fashion
(bug a boo)

underground elaborate Capitals
two identified as Cartier,
and Caslon Wyld
housing many a "FAKE" Antique,
circa Fifteenth Century
purported predecessors of Catull farmers

easily mistaken for garden variety
prehistoric Asian Tsen
Centaur re: yen creature,
what with Century Old Style,
Century Schoolbook,
New Century Schoolbook,

Century Schoolbook Infant
teenage ninja mutant turtle vestige
aligning their (ain't fib)
be yen cool visionaries,
donning tortoise shell bifocals,
otherwise affixed i.e. born that way

with poker faced purblind outlook,
and whose shockproof
shell acted carapace
tricked out to unseen observer
as an eye opening spectacle.
If you
Want to shoot
From the hip
Make sure
You're not firing blanks.

Anyone worth their salt
Will tell you to be yourself
Then step aside to let you find that self.

Run from those
Who claim to see  
The truth too clearly
And with those that want to
Meet me I say...

"Meet me half way,
Then there is no extra mile".

Leaders
Have in mind,
To lead.
Preachers..
They want to preach.

Story Tellers tell stories,
Some, fact filled,
Others are sprinkled
With truths, still others
Are boldface fabricated fiction.

Looking within to find
The answers I've come to know
To be genuine..
And with Wisdom comes
The pain of responsibility.

A responsibility
That resides in the acts one does
Or the lack of action
One chooses not to do.

Others don't hear you
From where you're at,
They hear from where
They are at.
  
Either it's
'Pearls before swine'
or a gentle reminder
to heed or discard.

Knowing a whole lot of
Not much at all
I remain eager to learn
More of The Mystery.

My aim is to walk
Shoulder to shoulder,
Not ahead of nor behind
For in the moment I can see
where once I was blind.

"Don't Worry, Be happy"
So easy to say, at times
So hard to do,
"The Proof is in the Pudding
and the Puddings in the fridge".

And with that,
The last quote
Will have to do.
"If you don't think you're ****, no one else will"
  - Zachary Mac Pherson
As par and parcel of being
    alive wire impossible aye
to maintain totally tubularly
     literarily celibate by and bye
with parochial restraint antiseptic dry
as dust poetic refrains
     asper this healthy older guy
devoid of physical whim zee

     unlike a inscrutable ******...so hi
there dear reader experienced
     by this self contrived Zen
minded nonestablishmentarian outlier,
     whose nonconformist yen
tries to steer clear of controversy,
     heresy, prurient wen
unless one happened

     to be eunuchized,
     i.e. sexless as a cold oven,
but similar to generic men
     this writerly hen  
pecked husband dully
     drumming, droning, and
     dribbling as a lix spittle
     aged chap housed within

     Schwenksville, Pennsylvania bailiwick
though far less inclined
     to whet ma lil atrophied dipstick
than some young buck
     at the peak of his ****** prowess
every now and again viz,

     aye feel a much slighter sensation
drubbing, crackling, and
     buckling mine body electric
and attempt to record
     re: font ten blue type
     boldface and/or Italic
such infrequently occurring
     fleeting Johnson magic

speculating why the
     hoo ha regarding mystic
spell binding codas,
     dogmas, and enigmas,

     an integral component naturalistic
within the calculus of life,
     when human species
     (parenthetically), naturally, inherently,
     and biologically opportunistic
akin to other organisms whose quixotic
antics allow NON GMO,

     MSG, and gluten free,
     and uncensored discussion
asper reproductive habits rhapsodic
with floral and/or faunal symphonic

emanations donning each their own
     "NON FAKE" trumpeting
spectacular humbly modest
     rubric, yet...universalistic
as being linkedin
     within the cosmic whirled wide web.
No know sense of infinitude (asking why not?)


       ~
noun: the state, the quality of being without limit, infinite


drew first breath, woken to the heart’s thankless task,

conscious aware, that the solved proofs deny infinitude,

yet, triumvirate of five senses, brain waving, a steadying thumping heart,

all asking why not?

can I will it?

the body’s parts convene, debating furious, some claiming
a sell-by-date cellular programmed, nothing to be done,
dimming of the day, a human necessity, the self-salvaging process

but a single cell, a mouse-sized squeaker, boldface stuns,
”feed me, moisturize, give me sleep + blue blood nourishment,”

the others ashamed of their festival of fear, knowing well
what has gone before, thought dreaming of infinitude, go silent,

while “why not?”
lingers in the lungs, the breathable atmosphere,

the senses spread the quest to every remote province,
with each continuing a chant grows ever louder,
a millennium of poems concealed, yet  awaiting conception,
all entitled
why not”reverberating.

<+>
7:36am 2022020
nyc everywhere
Expounded late today April 27th, 2023
since being written
countless years ago
maybe a baker's dozen
as thee doodling **** doth crow
scouting about for carrion
scavenging for dead animals
and rooting about garbage to sell
at annual corvus entrepôt,
where at birds eye view

buzzfeeding crowdsource
talon (telling) the famed truth
regarding chicken scratch
scrawled illegibly by eccentric hand
now sought after collector's item
signature birdbrained, bird dogged,
bird dinned long haired,
pencil necked geek recluse
can be found in his grotto
along with original manuscripts

characterizing Mark Twain
in general and ***** Joe
in particular linkedin
with Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn,
who suffered fools gladly,
but nevertheless being a security detail
he dealt with hoodlums -
frequently tossing them out
on their golden earring
and experienced severe lumbago.

When dire circumstances extant do I ask
for anonymous benefactor
to write me a blank check
so edenic, idyllic, and pacific sunny
spring day yours truly can bask
tapping a keg of spring water
stored in an airtight cask
when thirsty, I pour into
an ice cold
(not a tad above absolute zero)
temperature controlled flask
while donned (underclothes

resembling Ally's gaiters),
and outer garments
emblematic of space suits
my favorite martian outfit
and astronaut helmet and mask
to minimize contamination
paraphernalia acquired courtesy gofundme
for assistance sans when cash strapped
since temptation to rob a bank dismissed  
guru wannabe of gumption
buckles when he tackles
formidable onerous task.

Otherwise an inner compulsion
advocates dishing out non repeating
infinite decimal calculating pi
on nearing infinite jesting kron limit
can unlock esprit de corp
spirit to tackle and barrel headlong
novel circumstance silently cheering
myself to get unstuck
if in quandary like eeyore
and experience shuttered
gloating euphoria galore
for

reasons spelled out
because das saucy papa
**** sitters himself an insecure
noodle head as told me courtesy Kishore
and Kouila Raval –
unsure if surname correct,
(who approximately
forty five years ago lived at
Colony Arms Apartments
within Audubon Pennsylvania,
where yours truly felt infatuation
toward their daughter named Menal)

woven into this reasonable rhyme
as thoughts analogous
getting squeezed thru many a kernel pour
out corny and flaky as Tony the tiger
in tandem with Katy Perry
emanating a figurative roar
to even out the score,
when as a boy alias scapegoat
of bullies subsequently
pleaded for peace versus declaring war,
prepubescent and young adult of yore.

He admits being affected with Peter Pan's
jiffy (labyrinthe) syndrome
the prospect of becoming older,
I decried physical maturation
(wanted to remain being a little boy)
upon skinny legs objected to stand
when juiced a striping slip of a lad,
whether at home
or in class room
playing solitary candy land
submissive toward parental

intervention against teachers’ pet(s)
mandated got foisted upon my person
equated to more than helping hand
my lonely hearts club one young man band,
whereby me late mother
(preceded date of this poem)
before lovely bones
of then octogenarian father
punctuated mortality
with exclamation mark
when tightly coiled resembles ampersand!

Said enabling parents offtimes
completed my entire major assignments,
homework, and major class project,
say researching history of York
reinforced dependence on others
with angst riddled psychic torque
underscoring in boldface defects
mine genetically typed quirk
this then young man lacked confidence
as requisite  perk
with inxs o faith no more seeds
of worthlessness did lurk
inferiority hardly groomed me
a foo fighting beastie boy
resembling creature from Black Lagoon
covered head to toe with mire and murk
antagonistic role and potential enemy
characterized by Captain Kirk;

Hence without a spock of confidence,
neither sensibility nor cents
cause gifted with noggin quite dense
consigned to bruit off fence
against meself, an outlier
never found among bad company of gents
which at presence doth incense
that middle aged male,
whence any aid pains like a lance
essentially donning out role of offence
particularly with lack of finances
where mine family rents.
Jordan Hudson Aug 2019
My return is great you gon see
Imma rap back to the ******* screen
Spots on the lights and the time for Night
Imma fold it back to these keys
Take that pen down type these right
Fake these words and see this sight
Back that ***** and grip her hand tight
Throw it off
*** get your own ****
Your own cash get off your ***
That's funny. not my money
Better start runnin'
I be stunnin'
All your boldface lies
I take those and say goodbye
Take that ****
Burn that ****
Then eat that ****
Eat the ash
Forget the past
Your words and my time
My time you took
I was booked yet I changed
Went with you
Abandoned my thangs
Took the way to see you
The **** did I do
But we talked, we ended all this
So why the ******* be doing this ****
sandra wyllie Mar 2023
like a gold button, leaving me
with the hole, the spot that filled me,
held me in tight, now a slit overnight.
And soiled did he blight. High on
his horse, no longer enmeshed!
Another Macbeth.

He undid me
pressed Ctrl+Z on his keyboard
till not a trace of me
left. Then he typed in boldface
over the place I held breath.

He undid me
like a bun, secured with
a barrette. Shook me loose. Now
a hairy mess. Like Niagara Falls I fell
to my death.
Fingers of left hand cried freedom,
detached themselves and declared
mutiny gesticulating thumb thing
awful, than furiously haughtily
prancing, skittering, zipping,...
as self important independent digits

indiscriminately deleting one after
another email, mine eyes gleaned
subject pertaining to boldface all
CAPITALIZED notification urging,
indicating, beckoning... immediate
reply regarding... yours truly... huh

me (Matthew Scott Harris) arbitrarily
designated lucky random winner of
... some large dollar figure sporting
countless zeros left of decimal point,
I wept inconsolably intuitively aware
foregone irretrievable message haint

spam, but authentic bonafide one in
bajillion monetary sweepstakes drawing
impossible mission to recall subliminal
communique, and resorted to hypnosis
to jog mine memory and access lost data
which hoop fully convincingly explains

temporary absence, yea... understandable
skepticism induces furrowed brow, but
honest to dog Ott's well known selling
exotic plants also provide Asian mystical,
herbal, and celestial therapy, yet if unable
to successfully tweezer out valuable key

information locked within subconscious,
courtesy specially trained experts tending
rooted prized nuggets likening jewel heist
forager determined to plunder loot, the
mind will feel comfortably numb, which
allows, enables, and provides cathartic,

holistic, opportunistic... modus operandi
to accept permanently zapped chance of
lifetime to experience wealth (****! gone
within a flash) instant karma at the least
managed to evoke fickle, nimble, and
worthwhile poet to build splendiferous
castles in the air.
Onoma Mar 2020
the metaphysics of a morning

wound can not be dressed,

the pain is sharp because it is dull.

as if nose to nose with a flamboyant endpoint.

boldface, as with confidences surrounding

its gaping matter.

the not quite of it, the slanting deck of a ship--

with the horizon waving stupidly as

you slide backward.

sea legs, land legs--and the obsessive stickler

that sorts detail to come of a haphazard nature.

by one intrepid discoverer panoramically queasy--

disconsolate and setting.

— The End —