so greed took mankind

with genetics
decomposed from the inside
a sick thought, I thoughts.
... inhale your doom, I thought. change your ways, you ought, I thought.
choke the carcinoma cells.
knee swells, Capricorn.
better go later for assurance of;
Death.
talk to those doctors;feed your own lies,
only to discover
them being drunk off of disguise.
sick conditioned,
The words definition, domestication
of everything
Everything

gratitude gratitude to Pavlov, whose name capitalizes;  
a way of nature
creature creator, part of the world's annihilator.

cousin to eugenics we have cosmetics, anesthetics for the mind.
a nice golden walkway for mankind.
inevitably so, We herd along, too dumb to fight what we refuse to know.

Ignorance, etiquette, silence; rhyme.
herbal healing humans; survive.

© 2015 Kate Volk

thank you thank you thank you
you are fuzzy belly rubs and
unraveling spines
i am
picked scabs and
hard play-dough but
whatever we have right now is
my favorite flavor of
ice cream at
the pier in Illinois
where my mom grew up
thank you
thank you thank you thank you
my phone capitalizes the first letter at the beginning of every sentence
just like my brain capitalizes my first impression of everything
it was good
thank you thank you thank you

Read too much prose today
Kerouac, Micheline and Miller
And that old Bob Kaufman too
Tried to sell me their rhymeless lines
Child, Eyed, D.A Levy capitalizes all
Splashing bloods and vessels on the wacky paper
Airs of San Francisco, Paris and even…PAUSE!

Read too much prose for hours
On end, Kerouac, Micheline and Miller’s
And that old Bob Kaufman as well
Tried to sell me their rhymeless swell
Child, Eyed, D.A Levy capitalizes, he does
Splashing bloods and vessels on the wacky paper
Airs of San Francisco, Paris, and even… PAUSE!

Renegades and outlaws, Bible of the Outraged
To me rhymless poetry is like a hammer’s sledge
Ramming its fake fluid down people’s throat
And all is left on here is some ink one should blot.

January 19, 2016, 7:45 pm
Guillotière

Type it out you *******, this could be
The last one
For a little while.

I made a promise with myself
Or whoever that shady character is,
Outside
On the deck with me
The one who
Makes fun of me
Delete words as I puke this
Poem?
Out.  

Its best that me and this keyboard become friends
My anger towards, understand and accepting
What is proper type,
Or am I the proper type
Of guy who wants Vegas
And EDM
And MDMA
in My life

So writing
Or typing
Whatever
Which one
Of me

Wants to deem it
for only when I dream
It, cheap rhyme,
I want my style to be my own
And I want my intoxicated
Meaningful
Ramblings to be a
Part of it
A part of the
Bigger picture.

I will only type **** like this when i am not sober.

Sober sure is funny
And not just a funny word
Smiley face emoticon

Emoticon is not
a typo
....

Dear lord, oh god oh mighty,
Blasphemy that I would
Even start
Talkin' about
galaxies and universes
outside of this one

Puke some more
As I delete and pull
Words
From
One
Line
To the
Next
Without
Giving a
****
That my
Microsoft word
Capitalizes
Every text

My little brother text (texted?)
Me tonight and said
"Get more ink
For the typewriter"
.

Aside for my desire to ramble on about
Getting more ink
The 16 year ol’ champ
Is right

My biggest dreams at this moment
Are childlike

If that’s a good thing…
Then my 6 year game plan
From this day is in jeopardy.

Autocorrect me more
Higher intelligence
And answer me question’s
The one’s that Christan’s
Don’t need answerin’

Have you ever been introduced to a
16 year old ****?
A 16 year ol’ ****?!

Honestly, I had my eyes locked
On – one
Tonight
And I don’t know so much if
I was looking
But maybe I was recognizing
Recognizing a certain
Level of respect that I had
For her
That she didn’t have for herself

She ****** off my best friends brother to get her backpack back tonight
In front of car headlights
And I have always wanted to type
Backpack back
My entire life.
Put your backpack on buddy,
And walk away from this
Poem?

The problem is I do like him.
I certainly hate him
But I also like him.
I like the way he capitalizes the beginnings of his sentences over text,  I like the cute little crinkles that appear in his forehead when he smiles
The coy way he responds to flirtation with something like "Oh really now?"
I like how he calls things "sweet", the way he says "aww" I even f!cking like his annoying as hell overuse of the phrase "haha" when he texts which ****** me off,
I like how he is the only teenaged boy I know who says something is "quite" fun and how he uses the word "lovely" to describe things because no one uses that word anymore and more people should.
I like how he has an immense love for Spiderman,
How he has all these aspirations of travelling all over in the future
I like how he wants to live in England one day, I like that he is into cooking and drinks coffee and hot chocolate and how his favorite book is "Looking for Alaska" and how he's read everyone of John Green's books and how he wants to be a writer one day.
I just remember the dumbest little things that I still like about him
For instance how he likes Neil Gaiman and loud screamy music even though I hate that stuff, how he is the only one in his fractured family who doesn't speak French but his older sister and mother do. He has a dog named Charlie and when he was a kid he always spelled "subtle" wrong. I just don't know *** is wrong with me I should have known better. I should hate him for half this stuff and all the rest of the reasons I have to loathe him but it's hard to forget those little details about him. I just hate feeling like a broken lock. A lock of dark secrets and completely irrepairable. Though it's not the fact that Im irrepairable that bothers me as much as feeling so... replaceable. Idk. Maybe I need to go out with someone to get him out of my head.

Starving for meaning, an agnostic
bruising grey and white matter,
choking on maybes and half-truths,

finds indifference too easily. Never
pushing further through, cloudbursts
condensate but never conceive rainfall.

Something and always something
more gives pause, upon bathroom wall.
Scribbled as an epiphany lightening bolts

eye-opener, and its leakage capitalizes.
Each tagger finding more prophetic
words to denounce anything mystical

or godly. So, what's being fertilized
beyond the tinkling drain of insistence,
slumps downgrade to ebb of sewage

reaching sea. There amidst flotsam,
aeon's class of power perceived become
one with Supreme Being, an ocean.

when in doubt-i-hyphentate.

this-also prevents Microsoft-word
from capitializing my i-‘s when i-want them
to stay bite-sized humble pie,
but it still capitalizes
itself)

Microsoft word
               big ‘m’ added by bill gates

misspelling it prevents this

micropoft word*
* i-am the best kind of rebel

i-refuse to be told how to write by anyone
gate-related or otherwise,
even if i-may occasionally **** myself
on paper, the rain will take it all off,
we shall all be healed.
we *will all be healed.

carried away from the squaggly
green/red/blue lines of a processor
which doesn”t understand: poerty so often is
sentence fragments and uncapitalized i-s
untied shoelaces in a dark boling alley,
my bad breath and watered down alcohol,
stains and the hours spent rubbing them,
sounds on a dead tv set, rubbing carpet in
your aunt’s living room,

i-can spell
things how
i-want to
poerty is fun
like this;

texts I've written but never sent:

let me start off by saying over a million times I've gone to text you those three sacred words but I've long realized they mean nothing to you coming from me.

I have so many times typed out a long and thorough text including everything good and bad about my day to you because you're the person I share everything with- expect, I'm not allowed to do that anymore so I spend 5 minutes backspacing my story.

referring to my previous dilemma, I've often wanted to ask you every detail about your day. every single time I've had the guts to type out a simple how are you, I've also had the guts to refrain from texting you.

there's so many questions I've spent a life time wanting to ask you, specifically. questions about the universe, love, life, death. questions that secretly beg you to come back. why did you leave? silly questions. stupid questions. but I've never been stupid enough to send them.

**** her. *******. loud, screaming, angry, texts. texts that go into great detail how you've hurt and betrayed me. explanations on how I know you've never loved me. angry and mean, out of the pain my heart was going through, words that I could never stomach to say to you.

I don't want to live without you. but I could never allow myself to guilt you into my life.

come back come back COME BACK. I think I've screamed come back into my phone so many times that, to this day, my phone even flinches when I say those words. those texts were always so pointless to send I didn't want to put myself through that pain.

along with the phrase come back, I've screamed/typed/cried the word why in my messages so many times I think it automatically capitalizes itself to show the emotional damage. I just always knew I'd never get a real answer.  

for some reason I have tried to say I'm sorry to you more times than I'm proud of. I'm not sure what I have to apologize for but I think I wanted to try to see if it would make anything better. I don't think I ever found a good enough reason to say it though.

I need you. the three words that probably helped ruin whatever we had in
the first place. I've been so low in the past year so many times that all I needed was you in some way, shape, or form. the many panic attacks, lows, and break downs I've typed this phrase out during, I never once sent it because I knew you wouldn't be there, anyways.

I think I'll always miss your voice. but like the words I need you, your voice is something I many of times wanted to beg for because of the affect it has on me. I was always too afraid to ask this of you, for the fear that I would start sobbing at the sound.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I was so ******* scared of never hearing it back.

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lust.

No. Lust...

That need which cravenly capitalizes upon itself.

Covet -- lust. Hunger -- lust. Adult -- lust. Blood -- lust.

My eyes are burning red

and I cannot see the forest for the

bruised
beautiful
******
bare
branches.

I've a check-mark to make
satisfyingly
checked

done it
i say
almost carved

touch your
finger
to your lips

that sensation
of absence
of other

need
capitalizes
itself

with what you had in your hands was simply

an ellipsis to emptiness. Hands can only carry
                very little weight.

and to have been caught in a virulent string
   of your Decembering noontime air – was it,

just birds spry and singing or was it
a wreathe of girls surrounding the *****

back to how it was to create light out
   of primitive engines?

once it capitalizes, we are caught in this
small circle. often retained, the detritus of

such duel: once ripples are May and
  initialed the reprise of springtime,

yet here we are only tropics, and cancer,
   and the heat is too much as to bear

charge, your tired, sleuthing dog Django.
   rasp for the lift, was it before the collapse

when both a yawn and a dance trembled
into   /stillness/

You can’t trust a pretty woman.
Those eyes, ethereal, glittering
in focus towards your direction.
You can’t trust a pretty woman.
Caught between the burning touch of
skin on skin and the soft taste of lust
in the nape of her neck. Her hand
is in your hair, perhaps finding its
way down your back. She’s smiling
through clutched lips, perhaps nibbling
on yours. You need her for a minute
there; all pride, all dignity, cast astray
for her fix. She understands this.
She capitalizes on your momentary
weakness, slipping the knife
slowly between two of you ribs.
You feel it miles away.
You feel it, pain careening
from far off, clenching
your teeth and muscles.
You can’t trust a pretty woman.
You pull away, look
into those eyes.
Nothing.
Nothing but that smile,
and the sweet taste of lust,
dead on your tongue.

I can hear the birds chirping loud on this morning.
I hear them chirp from tree tops, traffic stops, outlet shops, and until their lungs pop.
Their chirping is a sign.
It's a conveying message.
It capitalizes on the dualities of hope and inspiration.

These birds fly every single day.
They remind me of my mother.
She went day after day caring for us after my father left.
She never stopped, much like this bird I see above me.

These birds chirp to find other birds.
It reminds me of my friend Rick.
Rick was a struggling alcoholic who always pushed people away.
But one day, that changed like the tides.
Rick realized what his life was amounting to, and changed.
He saw life for better, and he reached a helping hand out to anyone who needed it.
He'd give you the shirt off his back even if you had 20 to spare.
I remember the first day I met Rick, he offered to pay for my movie ticket.
Man, how fast two years has gone by without you here.

These birds I watch from my window, they never look sad.
I wish I could put on that facade.
I wonder how truly happy one must be if they're happy all the time.
I know some people who are happy all the time.
Or atleast they act that way.
I just feel like they are drowning, but they don't want to bother people by saying, "save me."
Birds can fly away, so people would think they wouldn't need saved.
But what happens when a bird flies out too far over the ocean?
Who can hear its cries then?

These birds, they're pretty cool.
And I'm probably not pretty cool for calling birds pretty cool.
But when it comes down to it, birds are warriors.
They can see what other's can't view, fly where other's can't reach, and sing unlike any other creature.

Many people go through life trying to be a strong valiant warrior.

And birds can do it on a Thursday morning without even breaking a sweat.

I type my poems in Microsoft Word,
Which capitalizes when I don’t want it to.
Microsoft capitalizes on its digital monopoly.
Monopoly is a board game about capitalism
that I played as a child with tokens and play money.
But I spend real money on Microsoft Word.
I don’t want capitalism to rule my world.
My world needs rules. Such as, the writer decides when to capitalize.
Capitalizing Word makes it a brand name.
A brand name is copyrighted, as are my poems.
But do  I own the copyright to my poems in Microsoft Word?
Word has it that if Monsanto seeds blow onto your farm,
the plants they become belong  to Monsanto.
Word.

In 2022
we discovered humanity
I like hyperbole
We found them
learning to be
while doing
everything-ly
failing and looking
for more

trials
and those
tribulations
a single use word
speared into
by whom

let's work the room
see who's bluster
capitalizes the moment
in my abandonment
of you to bombs
and artillery

They say if the shoe fits wear it,
but if i'm supposed to walk a mile in another's shoe,
How am I ever supposed to ever make it?
I just don't get it?
Running in circles.
Getting run rampant,
Running ragged.
On the run.
Running out of ideas.
Always running or walking.
English sure is a weird thing ain't it?
It's ok... there,their, they're.
Here ye, hear ye.
I'm through, I am just threw with this!
As time goes by, I want to buy back time, because i'm scared to go bye, bye, bye.
Having so much to do due to the dew drops that flood my life.
Just trying to make capital in my capital city.
While the capitol CAPITALIZES on me.
When I got so much to lose.
I just feel so loose.
Deserted from having a slice of that precious dessert.
Too many times I tried, Too much stress that comes to mind.
Sometimes it's barely worth it, sometimes being eating by bear almost seems worth it.
Maybe I just need one more time in order to overcome, so that I can actually say I won this time.

This little death
of which you write
capitalizes

exhorts
oh what a distasteful
word

that stabbing
expansion
of fight

i abandon all
these words
here

on this beach
of entangle
us

lying into
supposed leaning
into

poly
syllabic
sheeplyness

i do not
surrender
"it's complicated"

an easy draw
an easy drought
that's draft

i sink
to
here with you

that makes me laugh
catching you
-run-run now