"businessmen" poems
over the past weeks
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges
most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in country garbs
vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores
hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark
schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen
businessmen
remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and of those never-ending nights
on the Algarve
I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
and do best
when nature’s breath goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year
or were it better
that we also took a rest?
* * *
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
sometimes i get
suicide bombers, rapists, killers, robbers and thieves
because their motives are visible through their actions.
but i never once in my life
bothered understanding businessmen, pastors, priests, muslims, religions, politicians,
and people whose motives in life
remain hidden
until caught red handed,
and also those people
who choose not to see the world naked for what it is.
maybe the UP activists are right
and that i shouldn't think of them as brainwashed kids or
just paid heads to do
what they do but their actions,
my thoughts and this poem
doesn't change anything.
i bet 100% of you
who are reading this would either think i'm deranged or seeking for attention.
i could go on and on writing
this **** and explain thoroughly
but the people's brain
are now wired to ex b's
hit single and yes,
mentioning that made
this a little bit funny but no.
as a ******* filipino
who should be typing this in tagalog, working overseas,
i've seen some fellow countrymen showed some pride
against their oppressors
from work but they don't get anywhere but jail.
i must've forgot,
the movie about manalo
trampled the one
about heneral luna.
see how helpless
we are in reality?
what's your photo that comes
with a bible verse got to do with others?
are you spreading
the word of God?
what does it do to you?
Sometimes I get
The New People's Army.
But I don't get Muslims
who runs businesses and the Chinese too.
Sometimes I wish
I could spread fake news
that doesn't harm others
and last but not the least,
I hope someday the world would stop not and smoke Marijuana all
at the same time
including North Korea.
I couldn't stop.
I also hope that these people,
those who has a lot of followers
use the attention properly but no, people are so ******* dumb and Salinger is right with Holden's, "People never notice anything"
and nothing's too big
if people will stop creating bigger things that'll only add up to the congestion clogging up the world.
and Allen Ginsberg is right,
we are breaking our
******* backs just to lift ******* Moloch.
**** your Mosques, your INC branches, your corporations, your religions, your borders and divisions, your trends that kills the minds of the youth.
**** your laws, about making Marijuana illegal.
**** your disguise and your intelligence.
I almost believe world cleansing is the answerbbecause the ant colonies are so much better
ruling the world.
I don't know anymore, my smartphone's ******
and I am not smarter. . .
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
While Zafar takes his crop to town
Businessmen snort ******
Teens buy bundels to fill their veins
With housewives Oxycontin reins
The Generals demand their Percs
Technocrats love Dilaudid's quirks
While drones fly over Zafar's field
Counting flowers for next year's yield
r 9Jan14
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
Don't panic at all
Don't bother at all
What if the buildings are
Damaged dangerously?
What if all the walls
Are full of cracks
Things can be easily controlled
And you have enough money
So don't panic at all
Don't bother at all
Use your money with caution
Apply your mind, use your money
Get all the walls painted
With very nice painting
Paintings of the folks
Paintings of the modern era
Paintings of saints and heroes
Painting of beautiful landscapes
Raise slogans here and there
Unfurl flags and sing the anthem
What if the rivers are di*ty?
Only raise awareness campaigns
Put hoardings and banners everywhere
Do nothing else, but show everything
Just adopt these cheap tactics
You can save lot of wealth
And can spent on yourself
Or can buy more votes with it
Paint the bark of all the trees
Break all the records of shame
Create a new fake history
Make silly new records
What if there is poverty
Just make monuments for god
And ask people to pray there
God is there to listen the prayer
What if there is unemployment
Ask your businessmen friends
To start training centres and train the youth
And make money, money and money
Leave the trained youth as they were
Ask them to create employment for self
Call it self-employment, call it freedom
Ask them to rejoice this freedom
Open new schools and colleges
But don't appoint staff in teachers
Collect hefty amount of fees
Spent that fees on yourself
Also spent some to collect votes
Manage the peoples
Manage the machines
Manage history, manage geography
Manage the media, manage the news
Spread everywhere, fake news
If you do, what I have said
You will be the king again
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC
The weak inherit the Earth
The meek inherit their lead
Unaware of their life's worth
Until after they're dead
We are hopelessly trampled by a bullet stampede
Inflicted upon us for the wealthy man's greed
They sell us death as a commodity
While we can only mourn solemnly
They are arms dealers
We are harm feelers
They are life stealers
When we can't find healers
For the fatal wounds that end our lives so abruptly
And the man with the gun has no need to trust me
He has placed his faith in Ares
His humanity he failed to carry
He sold it urgently to feel secure
But then his thoughts became impure
For whatever reason he cast a death sentence
He felt injustice and wanted to get vengeance
But to the merchants of wrath
He is just math
Numbers on a graph
They must minimize
With blatant lies
Businessmen will try to create a need for their product
But engendering fear for profit seems like misconduct
Because as the bullets are raining
And the militants are training
Their money is stacking
While terrorists are attacking
Their nature seems callous
When they rely on our malice
They see us as a body count
They see us as simple trout
Swimming upstream to die
So they can eat us
Convincing us we'll fly
With minds of a fetus
The bullet burns as it punctures our civilization
It fuels our bitter spiteful incubation
We sit in the chamber
As they utilize our anger
The rich get richer
We don't see the picture
When gunshots scatter crowds
And the echoes scatter our thoughts
They want the volume to be loud
So we'll forget what we're taught
That our lives are the price of a gun and a bullet
Our paranoid lives become hard to live to the fullest
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
You know, if I had a penny for every poem I have read with the theme of
"You don't know what you have until it's gone"
I would be a rich man
It's a shame that it took me seventeen years and a handful of special people
To realize that sometimes clichés are correct
I am not sure if you are aware
But each time you inhale
It is called an inspiration
And each time you exhale
It is called an expiration
So here I sit
Echoing a process that has been perfected throughout the millennia
Except I guess perfected would be a strong word
Because we don't have it right just yet
You were someone who inspired me
To become someone who I could be proud of
Someone whose own stories set my blood on fire
And filled me with hope that I could take the raw elements
Of myself and forge them into something great
Because that is exactly what you did
Just a milkman's son
Who ended up becoming the smartest man I know
Who taught thousands of students
Both privileged and poor
And couldn't tell the difference between the two
Who inspired two generations of people
To learn
To love
To laugh
Whose little gestures meant the world
To everyone who had the fortune to inhabit yours
Your five sons went on to become
Doctors and lawyers
Businessmen and police officers
Even if one wanted to be a clown
You married a beautiful woman
Who walked with love in her heart
And kindness kneaded into her hands
Your grandchildren, while there are a lot of us
Each owe you for the knowledge and kindness you instilled in us
All this from a milkman's son
This poem isn't goodbye
Because each time I draw inspiration from the atmosphere around me
I am thinking of you and I hold that **** breath for as long as I can
Just waiting for inspiration to hit me
I squeeze my eyes closed and hope against hope that everything is going to be okay
Because I am too scared to let that inspiration go, I am not ready to expire
So grandpa,
Please
For me
Take that breath.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
the
boonies
where you are
in the outback, and
the middle of nowhere, but
y'all like callin' it "God's Country"
because it's a place which is tended by God
where businessmen have yet to overrun and ravage
to fell forests,and clear acres of land for cozy developments
and it's a place where you are dangerously closer
to the wild elements and are self-reliant
comfortably near to the natural
free of the 'pressures' who
could encroach upon
your space and
freedoms
wow
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
The city tosses, turns, and finally rises,
Surrendering to daylight and giving itself over
to the bustling movements of its citizens.
At the crosswalk, an old codger in rags holds a panhandling sign,
And nearby a bearded hippy plays guitar.
The sound of beggars, musicians, bored businessmen,
And all the teaming masses drift through back alleys,
And float through the air like the heady perfume of car exhaust.
Each street, each block, each break in the never-ending flow of man’s own personal jungle.
Brings to mind stepping into a whole other world.
Here, in one such strange nexus, a building likened to a castle,
Stares across a narrow stretch of road at an abandoned building,
Cracked broken and peeling, tattooed with graffiti from a hundred vagabond artists.
It conjoins directly to a new building,
the fresh, well maintained walls of which offer striking contrast.
The confused, confounding nature of the true jungle is in this manmade facsimile
More well reflected than anywhere else in the world.
The muggy air rings with life, the heat is stifling,
And for all that it has a strong allure.
This city, and all cities.
For in every corner, at every street, life bleeds from a city.
It grows from the crack like a flowering ****
And in truth,
Is a flower born in the streets of a city, atop the stem of a dandelion
Any less a flower than a rose from the heart in the woodland?
To me, that a flower could be so brazen, so proudly out of place,
Makes it all the more a thing of beauty.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
early morning
and the same sun rises over distant lands
and close-by skyscrapers
searing rusting infrastructure
with its harsh orange glow
spreading westward,
stretching over asphalt pathways
that connect, divide, structure, and destroy
alighting wearied faces of automobile drivers
careening through their morning commutes,
consuming caffeine like *******
while they deftly maneuver their 2,000 pounds of steel behind,
along, aside, and ahead of their neighbors
this,
is New Jersey,
where all roads lead to Newark
and there is nothing left but roads
approaching the colossus,
the cars cram and crawl into curb-side cases
narrowly avoiding calamitous collisions and condescending traffic cops
doors, fly open
and a mad flurry of arms and legs,
boxes and backpacks
come whirl-winding out onto the entryway
rushed goodbyes and abrupt adieus
color the palette of the doorway
dripping inside,
bleeding into the harshness of late businessmen
and screaming families.
Shoes Off.
Laptops Out.
and pray dearly that the TSA
doesn't shove their fingers inside of you
today.
arms up, legs spread
exposed to the imperceptible energy of American exceptionalism
the magnetic arm swings,
impregnating its subjects with the Joy of Fear
and the awe of empire
swings again,
and releases the hapless passenger from its total control
Through.
Checked.
Complete.
Pass Go, collect $200.
and into the international installation itself.
Enjoy your flight.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
All the pretty birds
perched on leafy branches
chirp to the waking morning,
“I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?”
And the puppy dogs
all starve for something
While the cats of fortune
laze about the alleyways.
But the pretty birds
all the morning long,
“I am here. Where are you?”
The tardy businessmen
and their non-fat lattes
squirm in BMWs,
Honking at traffic
with the most colorful swears,
“I am here! I am here!
I am here! I am mad! I am here!”
High-octane housewives
power walk the parks,
Gabbing. And the old folks
tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks,
Mumble to long gone loved ones,
“Where are you? Where are you?
Where am I? Where are you?”
But those ****** birds-
Those pretty, ****** little birds-
They have it figured out.
They know the secrets
to Happiness:
‘I am here.
Where are you?’
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:27 AM UTC
White, calloused hands
Gripping white soft belly
Bushy white hair
Rubbing clean white face
Unfurling smoke rising
Rising like the tide on a full moon
Into blue sky
Blue as the ocean itself
Lakes north of the Twin Cities
Life living liberally under rocks
Death staring darkly from the depths
Moon glowing brightly above
Train brakes screech
The passengers rustle a bit
Black as the night
Hard as a rock
Rampant youths file into the alley
Raging inside
Ranting out
Rigid bones cease
The drug addicts plead mercilessly
With their alter ego
More more more
**** **** ****
The businessmen do their fast walk
And the women do their little sway
Walking dogs and walking strollers
Clinically insane they repeat
Dark blond hair
Ripped jeans
Tighter than skin
Gay shoes
Beautiful brunette
Big *** ****
Smirking smile
She knows she’s hot
Random dudes street talking
Random chicks street banging
Random kids street dealing
Random guys finish the job
Men in work clothes
Buy love symbols for their niece
And rock shows for their nephew
But nothing for their sons
Watching the sunset
Watching the moon rise
Watching the tides roll
Watching you fake it all
Justine took all the pills
She’s passed out on the futon
This basement gives me chills
I think I heard someone call 9-1-1
Someone in uptown died tonight
Shot
On the street
Blood rained like rain
Red towels from the hotel
Stolen again
Marriot’s free swimming pool
Cost me 800 dollars
*** and drugs combined
Rugs and thugs
And enemy teams
Gunshots, gun fights
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
I am victim only to constant distractions,
restrictions, prescriptions, vicarious factors,
as various factions of elitism prescribe defeat
to the common man; the hard working talented
beaten upon by the self driven commerce land.
Businessmen, crooks, warlords and bankers;
victory purports itself the higher moral ground.
******* the world, lie on the crimson sand.
The brevity of riches in led laden ditches,
trenches v armistice; one man’s control over
cadets and lieutenants. Equality it seems
is general ignorance, propose roll reversal
and receive corporal punishment. Capital
interests will be met with bursaries, bail
out the banks and return to your knees,
put out your hands and beg for your feed.
If the top three percent own more wealth
than the lower half put together while
politicians claim to be fair-weather,
conclude that sincerities amiss, that
your representatives are on the pay roll
of profit driven lobbyists. Career crazed fat-cats
couldn’t care less if you're in tattered garments
or there’s a hole in your dress, their polished
boots carry them from vault to vault
while we fill another with oil-baron asphalt.
As social repression pushes populations
science progresses, enabling armed forces
to kettle us, cut us off and circle on horses.
Power-shifts across the globe become jaded
by investment with private militias and fascist
supremacists seizing resources from war
torn villages to fund their crude sourced
morality, migrants and refugee families
are vilified by ignorance forged in cynicism
caused by the inequality of education.
Here lie the symptoms of infinite regression,
hold mirror to gene-pool as it replicates
the same flawed equation, as populations
expire and conspire so does the problem.
Bombing a country without repercussions,
is as likely as a breaking the waters surface
without sending ripples to the adjacent atoms.
These are the dark ages of social stagnation.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
There is a beetle on the high street,
pushing the sun along at a fraction-
0f-a-mile-per-hour. He is pondering
his plans for the summer.
Perhaps different venues?
Perhaps different dung?
But he knows it's all foolishness.
He never goes anywhere.
Then a god falls out of the sky.
Not a particularly large one,
a medium-sized god as far as
they go. Roughly human-
shaped. Not counting those
streaming banners of fire
that pour from his eyes.
Few humans have burning eyes.
A dagger drips from an open
wound and he clenches his
blood (it is his own blood) in his hand.
More are coming he realizes.
All of them. And he's quite
correct. Without trumpets or
lights or choruses or bowls or
scrolls, it starts to rain.
The beetle pauses in his
pilgrimage to survey the
man underneath the god's feet.
A hand in a crater of asphalt
with a keen, nigh-inaudible
wheeze of breath. A cough
and a choke.
And the beetle scuttles on.
They fall from clouds that aren't,
I mean, actually in the sky. They crush
buildings and businessmen, They
eat fountains. They descend into an
unthinkable and unthinking
age like a dizzied chorus that cannot
pick up on the beat. Purple sash
and green helm, They build mountains.
Teeth chip around the clay- the men
and women- like fireworks.
The gods' great works resolve
like a finished slider puzzle, like the
back of the sun. Mannequins watch
the moving marble for a moment.
But the Mutes eventually find a voice,
they shout, they run into the fray.
Tantalus' mouth fills with
wine. The beetle walks around his
head. Sisyphus' back was broken
by a boulder. The poor little fellow
descends into an inferno and
climbs the devil's back like a
Purgative mountaineer. Such struggle,
thinks he, to have to take a detour.
Sky sets fire to the shell pink
sun at night.
The liquid spheres engulf ideas
on a dry stretch of ocean.
Clouds splinter in a victor's hands,
are frozen shut.
and everything sinks back home
in the middle of a wor
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 2:32 PM UTC
Someone’s world jumped
onto a cold set of tracks
at Jamaica station
early last week.
Someone’s world jumped
into the universe next door,
leaving us all for
being too human.
At the time,
I was trapped at Penn Station.
A pain spread
about my stomach
like a pen pressed against
a sheet of looseleaf.
MTA officials made announcements,
calling it a mechanical malfunction.
9 to 5 businessmen in
deep black suits with bluetooth headsets
groaned and bargained
for passage home,
ready to ride
through a stranger's graveyard.
Little kids ran through shops,
fingers sticky with frozen yogurt
and popcorn- surprise treats
used as pacifiers.
I sat in a well known coffee shop
pondering life and death.
The word suicide didn’t hurt
like it used to, but I felt
connected to this stranger.
I thought about
that person’s lover,
that person’s sister,
that person’s mother,
that person’s friend.
I thought about how
all of their galaxies stirred and switched gears.
A planet of theirs- tremendous or trifling in their own imagination-
collapsed and changed the course of everything.
I wondered if their galaxy halted and
each star and planet mourned or
if their galaxy smoothed over the craters
and dodged all the meteors and
didn’t even blink.
My galaxy shifted and
clouds laid thick.
Stars dimmed their lights in harmony.
A few years ago
or even a few months ago,
I would’ve cried
and thought
about following this
stranger to train station heaven.
But now,
I thought about
my sister’s galaxy,
my mother’s galaxy,
my best friend’s galaxy.
Now,
I felt sadness
but I also felt love.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
The sloppy rain slips and slides down the fogged-up windows,
and this lets me know that I am not as small as I think I am.
In a city of three million plus, I feel like the soul of a nation,
even though I'm just a twenty-one year-old piece of plastic, drinking a hipster beer.
The waitress has frizzy hair and oily skin.
She's holding in late-night infomercials and missed ballet recitals, behind her words.
She looks at my luggage and asks where I came from or where I'm going,
and I tell her that the fun thing is that I have no idea where I'm going --
and that I still haven't decided where I've came from.
This city allows new-found anonymity, and I want that to be my cause.
With each passing glance, I know they don't see me, and, to me, that's the slumber-kissed throat-slit I've always dreamt of...
...the streets play music that I only hear -- and I know that's not fair, but I don't care.
And the homeless represent the bowels of the city.
And the businessmen are the ghost-filled engine.
And the middle class is the defense-mechanism I always wanted for Christmas.
And I am the empty delusion, desperately seeking a new pollution.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
**** you
and **** this entire patriarchy
and **** the thoughts in the back of my head
that say that every person feels this way because
it doesn't make it any better.
**** me for being anxious
while there are orphans that don't have friends
and when I try to be their friend
they lure me into love and kiss me only to have me realize
a full
year later
that I am one of a thousand
and yet I'm still torn.
Why?
Are men torn over loving their ********** from James and 7th North?
Are businessmen torn over their secretaries?
Is my brother torn over his tears?
So why
am
I
to-
-rn
over you?
**** you
and **** everything you do
to make me love you
and hate you
and want to be in your arms
like I was but 5 minutes ago.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
men would always tell me about the
arcs of screaming air splitting through gaia’s hair,
the heads of wheat falling, light shredding, and the sun bowing before
Leah and her scythe
this woman spent all her twenty one years in the fires of idaho
working for her father
preparing food for her brothers before their schooling.
she was made to stay at home,
and there she worked and washed and read and cut and crystallized
business men in windup cars would see her off the highway
her muscles swaying with the wind, treetop hair flogging the setting sun
singing folk songs to herself in a falsetto that sounded like a rocking chair.
these men would stop to chat, but soon realize that this
Leah was burning too much for them.
her heart was different from city folk
and most country folk for that matter.
her ventricles were connected through a series of
crimson twigs and gnarled vines.
it pumped like any other heart,
but it would crack and wheeze anytime she left that farm.
those businessmen expected that she would be enthralledby anything out of town.
but it was the opposite; fancy gadgets bore her and
snazzy suits and autos seemed like pointless little ornaments.
she’d be more impressed by a man who could cut wheat like she could
a man who could shoot life out of the iron earth
and feed his kin with the pickings of his heart.
but she never quite found a man like that.
she stayed there, and let herself bleed into those idaho hills.
the roots of the grain wrapped around her veins
and her lungs breathed for the farm
just as its rainfall pumped her brown blood.
she never grew old that Leah, because she kept her crop so fresh.
every morning she watered and plowed and every while,
with scorching eyes and whipping locks
she’d swing her scythe, and smell the breaking spines of wheat,
and would quietly sing,
like a rocking chair.
Posted by David Clifford Turner at
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:19 PM UTC
the only time we care about the poor
is in disaster,
there's been freedom for decades,
but we're still owned by slave masters,
incorporated trademarks
branded on our spine,
the american dream,
might as well be bovine.
flagpole sitting flappers,
never expect to fall,
'33 til infinity,
greed affects us all,
and it's more,
than a disease,
there's no atticus,
instead, great gatsbies.
and boo radley,
aint gonna right these wrongs,
all we've got are our words
and the will to stand strong,
and it seems we're just monkeys,
launched into orbit,
in spaceships,
that only fall once reality hits,
and i don't see any solutions soon,
we consume and presume,
that this is all a cartoon,
asterix fiction,
we lack conviction,
we lack the diction,
to speak our mind,
we are confined,
to the roles,
and the moulds,
and the holes,
that are made for our souls,
we stay out of the spotlight,
even when the times right,
allergic to great heights,
like madden going to superbowls.
ice cold,
a wise man said was cooler than cool
but these fools aint never heard of ice-nine,
it's the right time,
got the right rhymes,
who cares about these thugs,
i'm set on madoff crimes,
who cares about the dealers,
follow the money like the wire,
we're civilians in vans under apache fire,
and the cover-up is comin,
the cover-up is comin
the cover-up is comin
the cover-up is comin
the only time i'm hostile,
is within,
when i gotta smile
at these businessmen,
that are tearing us apart,
and ******** on our soil,
tearing out our hearts,
creeping like the mcboyles,
i've toiled in the trenches,
for most of my days,
as have the majority of those i know,
and we can't just quit,
we gotta get paid,
materialstic societies depend on dough,
so we dream of being on boats like samberg
the only threat to our fatasses is the hamburg
-ler, there's no cure, there's no care,
there's no health, it's not fair,
but if you keep on dreamin, one day it'll be there,
simply stare at the sun, things'll brighten up,
keep buying that product, trust me, they give a ****
fall into place, stand in single file,
and whatever you do, don't forget to smile.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
I am ready
I disobey the god's revival
And trash the odds of my survival
Unlike my mother, and her mother before her,
I refuse to dabble in caution craft forevermore
Second sight seductive suasion
My vaulting vision sans precision
Harlot harbinger I am of endless happenstance
Sterilized with indecision
C'mon, baby-bomb, take a chance
I am ready, now,
To throw everything here away
It's all just trash and trials treacherous
Earlier today
I had a fever dream--
Of waking in another place
The sun fracturing the skin on my face
(But still I laugh to dance blind
And kiss the cyan sky)
I dream
Of the tandem-lipped tides that vie to taste me
Wet finger fringes ******* at my toes displace me
Rising up to bring me down
(Almost makes me want to drown)
...but here my bubble won't burst
Here it freezes first and dies of thirst
And so I am ready
To dance dollars out of rich Japanese businessmen
For paradise I can translate all their yen
It doesn't matter
If I slither for our supper
Or whether we sleep indoors tonight
Islands wild with abandon
We could be living radical and random
We could be living freezer-burn free
An outbound invite to jaded shade
This golden opportunity
(Hourglass sands swallowed by the sea)
The spiders of the rainforest are calling creepy
And queer, sustain and dim to disappear
Echoes of whispers from the ancient banyan tree
Calling me....
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
Lavender parted by blunt wind:
the unkempt morning hair
of a park's running path.
Pale-green grass crawls up everywhere
in tufts like a thousand lost toupées.
In spring
cars, northbound from San Diego,
packed with kids and camping tools
or slimmer businessmen,
get full view of it:
a transient glance
between La Jolla and Los Angeles,
a moment of flashing color amid asphalt miles.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
You told me you dreamt of stars
From before cave painters
And ice ages
Celestial
You said you came from the time
Before “Let there be light”
When light and dark pooled
And eddied together
You said we could exist
In an isolated state
When even oil and water were in love
And we are but atoms
And you said
We could run away from
The ills and the joys and
The businessmen clocking in on time
But I am a cynic
And a threw down your sonnets
And your romance
Because I’m not a dreamer
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
Sanctimonious priests and their **** Biretta hats.
Tell me of me of gods praise and a world in its hard collapse.
Where were you when I needed you.
Breaking hearts I suppose.
Wilderness and forests breach out across the hills.
Sunshine and rainbows will bless our day begin.
But I'm not watching anymore.
There's no need to get preachy.
And I reek of desperation for another mans touch.
And there's none to hear me scream I've got a pretty good hunch.
Do you even seem to care?
It's not very nice over here.
Harbor buses ship Asian businessmen back over gentle seas.
The city is alive against the saintly laden breeze.
I reach out to the stars.
They turn away and blush.
And I'll be ****** if I ever admit its not you its me.
And I'll keep up this facade, I'm over here and I'm free.
My body wanes past the flowers.
Their beauty turns to coal.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC