"broadcast" poems
I rolled out of bed
to start my day,
but the power was off
my all electric home,
as still as a grave.
No coffee, or toast.
The refrigerator not cold,
the freezer started dripping
the contents soon to spoil.
No computer, no cell phone service!
I began sweating profusely,
no air conditioning to cool me.
Not even a TV Emergency Broadcast Alert,
to release this uneasy feeling of topsy-turvy .
I drove into town seeking a pay phone,
with not a single one to be found,
gone the way of the dinosaurs,
extinct now too I assumed.
My old truck had no computer chips,
most cars did and were dead in their tracks.
I needed gas but the gas station pumps
electric computer driven, all DOA to boot.
The Nations electric grid had crashed,
blacked out, stone cold dead everywhere.
All heavenly satellites blacked out, expired.
Everything computer related (and
that is about everything), had ceased
to function as had the electronic reliant
world we had created.
The street throngs of dazed people walked
around like zombies, clutching blacked out
dead computer devices, knowing not what to do.
Not even talking, forgotten I guess how to do that too.
As dependently defectively programmed as the useless
devices in their hands.
In a panic I did awake finding that
this scary dream world was indeed all fake,
a nightmare of fearful unconscious thinking.
My electric clock was still churning,
It's music alarm blaring,
birds outside still singing,
my cell phone started ringing,
it was merely another Robot call,
Welcoming me back to the 21 century.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 10:51 PM UTC
Of all the super heroes who exist
like legends, or monuments in entertainment,
or essential cultural commodities,
and
my favorite is Moon Knight.
Never met a good reception.
Never had a particularly well done story.
I like Moon Knight in theory;
a superhero with mental issues,
with friends who face the moral challenge
of playing into his insanity,
versus helping him stop serious crimes.
It seemed like a social commentary to me;
why do we hate dictators, but love superheroes?
How is it we understand absolute power corrupts
absolutely,
yet also think having an alien demigod semi-rule the planet
is really in the best interest of our species?
The design for Moon Knight has always been immaculate
to me; directly representing the fallibility of the hero,
diving into the night with a decadent radiance,
he wears all white, and declares he enjoys it-
for his enemies to know he's coming.
Does it make sense? No.
Much like the Punisher, Moon Knight doesn't struggle with
being morally black and white, but does struggle with
keeping that identity intact. His eyes glowing,
no face shown... just darkness.
All the emotion in the world broadcast through
two glowing orbs. sometimes red, sometimes green,
often white.
A visual hint to clouded mind of Moon Knight;
Marvel's true Batman gone awry. Gone insane.
A failed son who won't die.
Here's to it.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
ah, enslave without compassion
bound ancestors you must impale
go seek and show no mercy
let those who escape carry the tale
all the sufferers bearing witness
to their ministers spilling their blood
staggered screeches from bleak recesses
regicide plotters bend to the dust
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
slimy enshrinement brings into question
what's divinely lamented for
scatter populations with ruthlessness
let them choose sycophancy or sword
reappoint difficult commanders
for instigation unbroken awaits
kept in frenzy, they whisper confusion
never quite sure of their fate
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
let the cowardly unlock the gates for you
to heroically claim what's inside
crowds you abhor kneeling in wonder
all the world is your ****** bride
punctuate the roads with tollgates
***** monuments to broadcast your name
all your banquet's guests are your enemies
entertain them with one another's shame
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
under your tyranny
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
High above dear Maple Street
There looms a cold iron curtain of fear
That dares to drop and let all the monsters
Unleash their dreaded promise of chaos
As in Europe despots gift a new World War
Trembling parlors hug the radio
Hallows Eve: the radio
Begins to sing throughout dear Maple Street
The Seventh Trumpet declares all out war
And that heavy iron curtain of fear
Eclipses the sun and invites chaos
In vacant hearts of men into monsters
Halloween Night: the monsters
Now dance to the tune of the radio
Raiding the stores, jumping bridges, chaos
Entombing the stretch of this blood strewn street
Parlors gorging on endless waves of fear
Riding hysteria, imminent war
O great catalyst of war
Twisting the minds of men into monsters
Diving your hands in that great pit of fear
Now throbbing with screams from the radio
No fences nor faces can save Maple Street
Now plunged in the throes of sweet sultry Chaos
And we call it Chaos
This boiling of minds all stewing with war
Once masked with humanity on this street
Now reveals good neighbors make great monsters
Skies of martians (n)or men, the radio
Hissing, twists the knobs and tunes in to fear
And when that curtain of fear
Draws, and shadeless light casts on the chaos
And the broadcast fades on the radio
And mere fiction rescinds the throne of war
What will we make of all of these monsters
Scattered about in a daze through the street
Where there are minds of fear and war,
Chaos reigns and calls to the sleeping monsters;
Tune in to Welles’s radio on Sterling’s street.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
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Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution
Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen,
That tall old man with white hair all over his head
Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind
Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart
But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece
Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade
His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself,
Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss
Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift;
A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary
Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine
But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent
Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution
For you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution
That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect
The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour
He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety
He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda
He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi
All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness,
It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade
His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt
To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts,
His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece
And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution
Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk ****
Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness
They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty,
Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism,
Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs,
Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy,
They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets
Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
Average-joe protagonist wipes beer glasses
at the helm of his sports bar, blissfully ignorant
of the imminent laughable tragedy. Clouds circle,
and there's that obligatory radio broadcast,
the one that warns of inclement weather-
rainy, with a chance of Selachimorpha.
You hum the Jaws theme, tracing pickup lines
on the skin of my back, while sharks pour from the sky,
the improbable tornado dropping great whites
on the California shoreline. One arm curled
around my waist, you tickle erratically
until I squirm away, only to creep back again,
and put my head in the mouth of the sand tiger,
wandering too close to the edge of the water, foolish,
but this is a b-movie, we swam out too far
knowing how it would end. The extras
scream and scatter, arms flailing,
going through the motions of surprise,
stumbling in their scripted attempts
to flee the inevitable. Predictably,
they fall. We all fall, and the girl trapped
in the hammerhead's belly
has this peaceful expression,
as if she can't quite remember why
she ran away in the first place.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Sung to the tune of The Lumberjack Song by Monty Python. Back-up Mounties optional.
I never wanted to be Sandra Dee!
I... I wanted to be...
A LESBIAN!
(piano vamp)
Leaping from bush to bush! As they float down the mighty rivers of
Finger and Thumbia!
With my best girl by my side!
The Blond!
The Brunette!
The Giant Snookie!
The Natural Red!
The Little Spinning Skinnamarink!
We'd sing! Sing! Sing!
Oh, I'm a lesbian, and I'm okay,
I like to broadcast that I'm gay.
Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay,
She likes to broadcast that she's gay.
I see straight girls, they're not like me,
But I think that can change.
If they'd just let me kiss them.
Their lives I'd re-arrange.
Mounties: She sees straight girls, they're not like her,
But she thinks that can change.
If they'd just let her kiss them.
Their lives she'd re-arrange.
Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay,
She likes to broadcast that she's gay.
I cut down guys, I wish and hope,
That others would join in.
I wish straight women would think,
that *** with men was sin.
Mounties: She cuts down guys, she wishes and hopes,
That others would join in.
She wishes straight women would think,
that *** with men was sin.
Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay,
She likes to broadcast that she's gay.
Oh I'm a lesbian and I'm OKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK K!
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Talk-show queen
Oprah Winfrey with her entourage
is going to Australia
and it’s timely now for a quick Colbert Report
on the state of the colony of Australia
Colony?
Yes, that’s right
Australia is still a British colony -
How else do you explain it?
as the Head of Government in Australia
is still the British Monarchy
and her Majesty, the Queen of Great Britain,
has her representative
a Governor-General in Australia;
and the Aussie national media faithfully reports
that Prince Philip is a God in some remote island
and the TV stations broadcast visions of
which British Prince kissed which of their latest fancy
And so, Oprah, welcome to the Colony
Ah, yes, and the Chinese migrants coming in
are surprised to learn of Australia’s status
at citizenship ceremonies
and the young man explains to his grandma:
“Oh, Foreign Devil still control Australia;
sad, Chairman Mao did not Liberate Australia.”
And Indian migrants, much to their disappointment
are heard to remark:
“Oh no – does this mean we still have
to go through another fight for freedom as in 1947?”
But then they are consoled by the fact
that a Gandhi only comes once in 200 years
so we can all still get on with our lives
and the nation will continue
to eat burgers and enjoy barbecues and hop like kangaroos
until such things may happen…
Ah well, dear talk-show Queen Oprah Winfrey
and her entourage
this ends our report on the sovereign nation down under:
Happy Stay in Her British Majesty’s Colony
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 12:16 PM UTC
I was doing
something
when a flash
smashed out
to every corner
of the room.
It came like
ominous bolts
of lightning
had leapt from
the light bulb
bursting inside,
as though
storms had been
brewing slowly
under a muzzle
of glass frame.
I regarded how
strange it was
to be fed up
to a thrum of
75 watts
in its lifetime,
to finally break
its broadcast.
I look to a
tungsten tongue,
see the ember
flick into the dark
and say,
I lost my religion.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep . . .
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—
A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay no
heed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.
The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.
The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—
4k
We're sorry for that brief interruption
Someone hacked our station for a minute
We're now using some simple deduction
To try to find out the perfect culprit.
You hear static?
Hello news viewers, audio is clear?
Good, it is, time to let the show start
We've seen their boring little white lies here
Right in between commercials for Walmart
Stay tuned for more!
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
I want to write poem tonight...
I want to run out of my sight...
To hug myself & go to hell...
To tell it bye & then it tell...
To punish myself because of my past...
God will show me my life's broadcast...
I am 19 but where is my youth...
I know where it is,I know the truth...
Don't shout myself ! Be quiet please...
Don't be angry ! breath & release...
Why should U confess,my dear heart...!
You should be silent in this part...!
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
too much disney, too many
flashing images of a worthwhile
epilepsy... what about photo-sensitive epilepsy
what of dyslexia-sensitive epilepsy?
i get the elvis shakes fearing the worst
when seeing people spell out certain words.
then you see the word d'uh...
and you stop believing it happened,
because no media broadcast the story
with a d'uh being relevant to the countless rapes
and ontologies exaggerated as a norm basis (i.e. normal)
of being human.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
What's happening to hello poetry?
I don't need to know when the next soccer game is
And if I can watch for free.
Only football I know is American like the pride that's in me.
My blood doesn't boil the native sounds of my country.
Since my motherland is the Dominican
But America my step motherland won custody and raised me, since the age of three.
Don't forget is not who made you but who you fed you, who clothed you, who saw your first shot to a basket, who saw your first catch, who kept your body warm when you got another cold, and so on.
This is "Breakfast for Champions"
Just ask Kurt Vonnegut
What's happening to hello Poetry?
Show your art
Get your due diligence
Don't sell us your dreams don't broadcast your business unless is a story, book signing or deal.
I don't need a spell to make a girl fall in love. I got these words
For and to whom I might propose
Love or an indecent occasion of lust.
Let my words be the for front on this site but they're second to my actions.
Since I don't speak much b'cause my Latin accent.
What is happening to hello poetry?
Private messages by strangers who don't write or speak words.
Claim is urgent and as a poet
You know kind hearted, love lost, And so on...
You just might want to message their Hotmail.
Sad story under prosecution
Sad story the relation is abusive
Mocking the painful truths of some of us artist.
Just wanting a piece of the pie
But when I order I even eat the crust and never leave crumbs.
Take offense or not I just don't give a ****
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
My Sunglasses
I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses
I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands
I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes
I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades
I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow
I use black plastic as onyx shields
So Tucson, I see you.
There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon
I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands
They tell us we’re wasting our time
Telling the roadrunner to run back home
When its nest was here since the beginning of time
Tucson.
I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days
I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms
Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere.
I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper
In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences.
Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see.
Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast
They tend to only record your overdoses and murders
Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds
The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching
It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business
Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs
Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far.
Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving
Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets
We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist,
Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in.
I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways
And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds.
I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown.
To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you
On walks home I photograph your murals.
Listen to the poets in the hallways.
Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph
I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’.
I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses.
Framed your mountain ranges in my frames.
Took cover in your shades.
Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow
Tucson
I see you.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
Stay well, table, inviting me
to sit by your side, sipping tea,
stay warm, books, wrapped warm
in your covers, steeped in Spirit,
stay well, koel, sing the same way
every stuttering morning that
comes lisping in the winds
and the tongues of the swallows
stay well, gulmohar, ever
alive in a glow of blooms
warming bare the summer heart
stay well, pens, ever meditating
this way, conjuring up
all the stories I tell in verse
stay well, my droid phone,
go on, recharge yourself in your
morning asana tied to the mains
stay well, web, where I plug in
and broadcast my thoughts
and receive blessings and grace
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
You broadcast your faith
Singing praises in your posts
But is that how it really goes?
Is faith really your focus; your motivation
For getting drunk and partying
With evangelical consistence
Is God lighting up your life
As you light up a blunt
Faith is just your innocent front
Don't let yourself believe we fall for your facade
We know what you really do
and so does God
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 5:53 PM UTC
"Begin to work with the Net of Light," they say, **"by thinking of a vast lighted fishing net spread over the earth and stretching into the distance, as far as your eyes can see. This is the great Net of Light that will support the earth and all life on this planet during the times of change that have come. The Net of Life covers the earth from above, it covers it from below, and it bisects the earth like a great grid-penetrating, holding, and touching everything. This is the Net of Light that will hold the earth while the energies of yin and yang shift. And they will shift,"** the Grandmothers say; **"the change has already begun.
"Walk forward and take your place on the Net of Light. Somewhere where two of the strands come together forming an 'x' or a 't' is a place that will feel just right for you. Walk forward and take your place there. Here you can rest and allow the Net of Light to hold and support you while at the same time you support it.
"We have many times told you that the Net of Light is lit by the jewel of the heart. This is true,"** the Grandmothers say. **"Experience now as the radiant jewel of your own heart begins to open and broadcast its light along the strands of the Net. Every person who works with the Net of Light is linked in light with others who also work with it. Experience your union with people all over the glove who are now connected by the Net of Light. Some of them call it a Web of Light, some call it a lighted grid, some call it Indra's net, but whatever they call it, it is the same construct. This is the Net of Light that will hold the earth steady during these times of change that are upon you.
"As you call on the Net and find your place on it,"** they say, **"think of receiving and sending light throughout this vast network. And as you think this thought, instantly your energy will follow it, and you will feel the Net of Light working in you and through you.
"Experience your union with us and with all those who work with us. There are thousands of you all over the earth. Also experience your union with the sacred and holy places on this planet and the sacred and holy beings that have come at this time to avert the catastrophe that looms over the earth-the great saints, sages and avatars that have come now and gladly give their lives in service. Experience your union also with those of good heart who seek the highest good for life on earth. Know and feel the power of this union and let your body experience this force of and for good.
"Once you have strongly felt this power, begin to cast the Net of Light to those who do not know about it. Cast wherever there is suffering on earth,"** the say, **"to human beings, to animals, to conditions of every kind, to all forms of life, and to Mother Earth herself. Cast also to people who are longing to serve, but have not yet found a way to access the Divine and as you cast the Net of Light, many who have until this moment been asleep to the fundamental connection we all share, will begin to awaken and feel the spark of divinity within themselves coming to life. Now ask the radiant Net of Light to hold all life in its embrace and know that each time you work like this, you are adding to the reach and power of the great Net.
"Cast the Net to all women and men everywhere,"** they say. "Cast to the leaders of this world to remind them that they are a precious part of the Net of Light that holds and supports life. Cast to the animal kingdom, asking that every animal receive what it most needs. Cast to the plant kingdom and to the mineral kingdom as well. Cast to everything that lives," the Grandmothers say, "and when you have done this, ask, 'May everyone in all the worlds be happy.'
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
Boostin' and we're mobile
But we still don't see no bars
Laugh it off in the back of the car
Smoking cigars
Whole lotta trouble lately that's been creepin in my mind
Cash low ******* status when I get into a bind
Settle balances breaking tablets in half just to unwind
Knock over knock-offs inching my self from suicide
I told myself that I'd do this suppose it's do or die
Cause I'm cracking under pressure influenced youth who will ride
Down to make this money they don't want me to make
I'm prone to make mistakes taking steps that I hate
Toward the door with more in store than what they see on my plate
But how do they expect me to eat?
No one's feeding me grapes
Palm fronds fannin' my face
Can't relate
To the ******** they paint
Fade to gray
This has been a public broadcast
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
there is an old persian legend of a man who falls in love
with a woman and goes insane when he cannot have her.
even after she is married to someone else, he spends his days
composing love songs in the dirt, building sandcastle hearts
just to watch them collapse again when the tide rolls back in.
years pass, and the girl never writes anything back.
i still wonder if she was ever given the chance to.
i was twenty-seven when i learned that you could fashion a
stethoscope out of a cassette tape, broadcast the sounds of your
heart to a double guitar riff that screamed desire. you pressed
play and in an instant, i was priest to your deepest confessional.
i never asked about how you looked at me on the days that my
husband was too busy finding god to join me in bed at night.
i never wanted to know that you sinned in the color of my eyes.
i never thought i’d be remembered for the moment that i traded
krishna for ******* and the thousand days that followed:
day 176: we mix love and self-destruction in an old hotel room
until they go down my throat as easily as sweet red wine.
day 472: you turn watching me get ready for a party into an
excuse to make love to my reflection with the windows open.
day 894: you spend the entire morning restringing your guitar
but i can still recognize another woman’s voice in its tone.
day 1000: i loved you but never had the instruments to prove it.
we’ve both realized that obsession is a drug best left to legend.
to this day, they still call me the greatest muse of rock and roll,
but each switch of the radio dial is just another reminder that i
once tasted like music in the mouths of men, that their words built
me up like a flower-child mona lisa in all the permanence of three
minutes of vinyl, that though i inspired the most beautiful lyrics
ever written about love, they never called me onstage to sing them.
i was once told that if you love a woman to the point of madness, she
will become it. but any insanity i have remains etched on the insides
of my veins; i walk beaches now, much too old for sandcastle-building.
years pass, and the girl has never written anything back.
i still wonder if she will ever be given the chance to.
even the world’s greatest muses sometimes want to hold the pen.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
Screen time
We need to have
Essential
Moments of mandatory misery
Grasping, tugging emotions
Un-liked, ignored emoticons
The puffed-green faces of ourselves
Dot
The landscape and portraits of
Screens
Screaming at, about, into
The refined, together
Socially happy selves
That we would be, should be
If we abide broadcast expectations
Joyful, complete, happy, helpful
Free…
We are not
Not always
Precisely completed
Or so
These moments
Remind us
With beautiful
Misery
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
Better natured today than yesterday,
smelling less like cigarettes and more
like laundry detergent, you sit across
from your therapist at the bar and
ask for one more boilermaker.
You say, How do you desire what you already possess?
And your therapist says, Don't go down that drunk.
That's a bad drunk.
You're in a floral print A-line dress, one
you bought from your sister-in-law.
She's doing one of those multilevel marketing things
and though her Facebook posts make you want
to suicide yourself, she's happy and independent
and at home with her kids. Despite these lukewarm
feelings, you harbor some resentment as you finger
and thumb a seam that's already coming undone.
Sloane. Your husband keeps mentioning a woman
at the office named Sloane. You're at the bar,
almost alone, and promised yourself
you wouldn't think about Sloane. But here you are.
Sloane in a pencil skirt and stockings. Sloane
with a fresh ****** energy, the kind you can't
seem to summon, and you wonder why ***
is such an important thing. It's so brief,
forgettable, full of abject compromise.
*** is an inherently violent act, don't you think?
You say to the therapist.
If your therapist hears you, he doesn't respond.
You don't repeat the question.
You watch yourself broadcast on the TV above the bar.
They're commenting on your hair and your arms
and going on and on about your likability.
Your therapist changes the mood. It's 6:30.
He gives the place a nighttime feel.
He kills a row of lights and turns on the
colored bulbs, the blues and greens.
The TV is turned down. The music is turned up.
This is what you've been waiting for, the lights, the music.
There's an hour before anyone really shows up. You can
close your eyes and drift.
Two or three drinks pass. A couple walks in.
You have your therapist put in for an Uber.
Maybe I've been asking the question the wrong way, you say.
Oh yeah? the therapist says.
Yeah. Maybe the question should be reversed.
Maybe the question should be
how do you remain desirable to the objects you possess?
That seems like a lot of work. Seems like you'd have no
sense of self. You'd always be bending.
I've been a plus one for a long time.
You say bending. But I wouldn't be
doing anything new. I already do all these things.
But I see them as a compromise. I'm just trying
to reframe, you know?
Why? your therapist asks.
You open your mouth and find no words. You smile. You say you've had too much. You're rambling. You're sorry. You better go.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
You are a poet lacking poetry
A composer who never penned a symphony
A clown plagued by misery
A broadcast not shown on T.V
A duck pond missing mallard mates
A panda without panda traits
A perfectionist who makes mistakes
A pacifist who fights and hates
_
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 5:50 AM UTC