"cashiers" poems
The clock gets me.
It comes to me in the middle of the night
Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko."
Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids,
It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters
Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint
Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever
The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go
Out to do something, whatever something is.
Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so
Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me
Again.
And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock
In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your
Boyfriend, say
Fighting the Nazis, say,
Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to
That rando guy we met in that club that lives
in Prague-
I throw the clock at the ******* wall.
Because who knows, I make the bed wrong
Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or
Smile the right way at the right
Time. And you start thinking that I have to die.
The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your
Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're
Supposed to be, say
Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of
David Attenborough.
Instead you're thumbing through that index
of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face
To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes
A feat, an unjust cause of mine to
Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've
Been sewing up Monday twilight.
That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between
A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Saul. Babbittz.
Slight variation of the name Paul - sometimes pronounced
with the
"ah-oolll"
of Raul - to intrigue cashiers and toll booth attendents.
These words seem meaningless and even less interesting than the blank white background each letter invades.
And still I thank the God in my stomach that wakes up every once in a while to capture butterflies before I leave the house so I can turn down the sounds in my head that stir the butterflies to a frenzied mess of tangled neurons and synaptic maladjustment.
My interaction goes something like this:
cashier-"do you have a bonus card?"
me-(holding out the pad of my thumb - serious like lava)
cashier-(looking at me with a confused look)
me- "I thought thumb scans were enacted throughout the states. Sorry about that, I just got used to the thumb scan back home in North Dakota".
cashier- (dumbfounded, slightly annoyed)
me- (chuckling-embarrassed smirk) "you know, like a dystopian tracking system?"
cashier- "uh, not really" (avoiding eye contact, rushed transaction) "freak" (under her breath).
butterflies again
I've never even lived in North Dakota!
Just uncomfortable enough to prove that body heat activated "degree" does not provide 24 hour protection...
Next transaction a day later:
me- (silence)
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
oh, **** i'm so full of love it's spilling out of me
like bullet wounds, like i've been court martialed,
like i'm the pinpoint of a broken sheet of glass,
the part from which everything else shatters;
of course i'm the centre of the universe,
who else would be? who else could love this way,
fierce and terrible and hating? who else other than me
could break the universe for another chance at hello
or at two thousand and nineteen?
which isn't to say i'm manic. which isn't to say
that i don't cry in the shower and scream in the car.
i do. but when i do, i'm the main event;
nobody booked tickets to see anybody but me here.
don't kid yourself, world. don't make me laugh.
don't act like everything is okay when i'm breaking the baby-bird bones
of my fingers every time someone else talks.
me, the human stress ball.
me, twenty stories tall and universe-filled with love,
nothing else can even come close. i'm ******* godzilla,
i'm interplanetary, i'm that giant ******* marshmallow man
from ghostbusters getting shot at by the heroes.
maybe there's just too much of me to love the way i need
to be loved; completely, obsessively, like an illness.
oh, god, i want to be loved like i'm sick.
not just another hospital bed but the whole **** ward
all for me. all eyes on me. nobody looking anywhere but me
and *oh, please, i'm fine, really,
i don't need all this attention.*
like i'm daring the world to divert it away.
a birthday list of gifts:
- a fifth of whiskey
- a gun with one bullet
- the attention that people get from the crowd below before they jump off a building
i don't think i'm asking for too much here.
i feel like i'm one of those unlucky ******** born on christmas day
who get half the presents for twice the occasion.
how cruel must god be to birth me anywhere but eden,
into a world where other people exist,
where we have jobs and say hello to store cashiers and divide up our attention like slices of mandarin.
so where's this revolution i ordered?
where are the people making me important?
i need a cause to lead and a muzzle for my heart,
and i'll burn on and out,
not like a star, but like the end of the ******* universe itself.
and here i am, acting like i matter
when i really only want to matter to you.
i don't care how you want me to revolve
as long as i'm a lone moon. as long as the tides
are all mine; see, it's a lot more complex
than me playing easy villain or anti hero. it's not
been about me this entire time.
but i can't write poems about any other subject.
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 8:13 PM UTC
Sunglasses stolen from Wingz in Duck, NC
a $15 thrift shop suit - just in case
the car is used
and the cashiers at the GoodWill down the street all know his face
bagged eyes
morning after hair
in need of a shower and a smile
He just bought a $200 laptop
now he masturbates in style
shoving Lenovo 2in1's and iPad's up their ***
please sir - may I have some more
status symbols symbolic of castes
and he hides among the untouchables
but this **** is loud
and I don't drink ***** unless P Diddy made it
Memento Mori
when we die -
we'll leave behind remnants of our false idol
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
Supermarket celebration
shoppers are cytoplasm searching
for cellulose, muscle, photosynthesis.
Oils, petrochemical and vegetable
love: faith and trust
for instance, the Food and Drug Administration.
In America, the custom is
to avoid meeting the other shoppers' eyes. We graze
like cows or wander as zombies to the oldies played over the aisles.
I've always liked it here.
Cornucopia, yes. Also
a place to be alone and depressed, or cool off.
Water and bone
and the known ingredients. Neurons
for remembering, calculating, touching stuff.
I have a favorite bagger
who has the smile of a lover,
wouldn't rather be elsewhere.
Like glamour stars in bikinis
(but unlike tomatoes and bananas)
cashiers and clerks are admired from afar.
Joe says What's not to like? Ice cream, yogurt,
profit, tofu.
To eat your fill is a blasphemy against God.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
The metal cart intertwined,
forcefully ****** it free.
I wipe off the microscopic organisms,
that manifest in the plastic fibers.
Push the cart across the cracking linoleum tiles.
Hearing the rusted wheels squeak,
as I veer through the narrow aisles.
Collecting an assortment of desired items,
that seem appealing despite the harsh florescent lights.
The radio ads try to entice me to purchase new things.
I grudgingly ignore them.
Crossing the goods off my list,
with a swift black x’s
the same black that is seen on the signs for sales.
2 for 3 dollars?
Is hard to resist.
Blackberries, Greek yogurt, a head of broccoli,
soon I have a heaping cart.
To my dismay the lines are long,
they slowly begin to dwindle down.
Cashiers frantically punching codes,
scanning coupons, counting change.
What is this? Okra?
The black conveyer belt constant hum,
as it carries my purchases down.
Until they are all awaiting for me,
in paper bags.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
This time is precious,
every moment infectious.
One minute in a parking lot,
parking cigarettes in the dirt,
outside a library no less.
And from one minute to the next,
shaking hands with a councilwoman.
Just her presence,
was a good omen.
This is a community meeting,
ahead of a strike,
on May 15th.
Our fight?
Our cause?
Wage parity.
The resource vitality,
of every worker,
and every family.
Every human deserves dignity.
Repeat it with rapidity.
We are all created equal.
This is a civil rights sequel.
You can't survive on $7.93
And if it were up to me,
No job would pay less than
FIFTEEN.
The rich can't inoculate,
what they didn't anticipate.
Fry cooks, cashiers, drive-thru tellers,
(these ain't no "bums" or beggars!)
They met up with activists,
and labor leaders.
They've walked off the job
and into the streets!
They've come out,
to take a stand,
to shake off their chains,
and make some demands!
$15 and a union!!!
If you haven't taken notice,
I don't what you've been doin!!!
I hope McDonald's, Wal-Mart, and retailers galore,
value the profit-producers,
running their stores.
The notion upon which,
both capitalists and socialists can agree,
is that labor produces value according to theory.
The media are watching,
in case you need reminding.
Watching you rake in BILLIONS,
while paying and STEALING,
POVERTY WAGES.
We call this condition,
hard-working ENSLAVEMENT,
with pay-as-you-go debit card "paychecks"...
And all this "part-time"
just to make sure workers are best
nickel'd and dime'd!!
But what you don't seem to understand,
is that this movement is long overdue.
Do we need a historical inflation review?
And this $10.10 business?
Please!
What is this 1993?
You can't sanitize,
Baptize,
nor televise,
this struggle.
These are a people who've had enough.
'Ya Basta!' they say! 'Enough is Enough!'
Enough struggle,
enough hustle,
Enough putting in muscle,
and your time, and blood,
and sweat and tears,
many with children,
many for years,
without a pay bump that keeps pace,
with the basic cost of living these days.
Still a minimum wage,
of only $7.93?!
I say 'Ya Busta!'
if you ask me.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
yesterday a seventy year old man
named Stan slid a crumpled receipt
across the teller counter and asked
me out--and James from Faricy had
his manager give me his number
on the back of a deposit slip
and I told Ryan that I was positive
he had caught me off guard, that anything
more than friends is not doable so he
thanked me for my honesty and
stopped responding.
and a whole slew of other men,
other apologies, other dancers
and sweaty palms, all lengthy,
wordy paragraphs ending in
too quiet or *christ, just take
a break* but -
i am falling asleep. upright, at
the bank, to the sound of cashiers
checks sliding out of the printer
an angry little girl knocking at
my door, a child from too long
ago who's never been in love
slipping in and out of a
subdued conciousness
I give up my idea of
the perfect man,
I give it up
i give it up.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
Please for the love of God help my people.
3.5 million U.S. citizens live on the island and are in need of help.
America you claim you want to help your people well let’s start with people who truly need it.
America your necessities are their luxuries.
Puerto Rico was not yours to begin with
But now that you’ve claimed us at least take care of us
We don’t ask for much
We are only asking for the ability to breathe and read books
I didn’t know that was such a high demand
My people are suffering
With no water to drink or bathe
We are left with the stench of hopelessness
Because America, you are more concerned with toupees
Than your own people
Yes, I did not stutter
Your people, Puerto Ricans
No not the immigrants because we are not immigrants
Our passports are twins not fraternal
Why do you like us when we hit a baseball or sing some tune on American Idol
We are doctors
We are cashiers
We are students trying to better our lives
We are a people begging for help
Do not look at us and turn away
My island was once a beautiful place where birds sang in harmony
And the coquis call smoothed the worst of souls
We don't know this island anymore because our island is America’s landfill
A place where the government tested nuclear bombs without thinking of its own people
The people are living on faint hope backed the knowledge that tomorrow probably won't be better
Why do you, America, want us like this
America you ask me why do I care so much about an island I haven't been to
I care because my roots flow back to the land 100 miles across the sea
One that I have the ability to call home from my rented home here
America, you created this land so people of all nations and backgrounds could have a chance at a better life
My people are still waiting for this promise to be fulfilled
America we beg you, help us
My people are suffering
We are tired of being the last pick for the team we didn’t even want to join
We are tired of the rottened mold you have put us in
So let this be a warning that your mold is finally falling apart because of your greed
Do not blame us for this
You are the hand clamped onto ours and forced us to cover our mouths
America, Puerto Ricans are ready to talk so we can live in harmony
All you have to do is take our hand off our mouths
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:19 PM UTC
Barefoot, and exhausted she enters the plantation,
The sound of leather loafers move towards the counter,
Decadent heat swells across her forehead making sweat shiver down her temples,
*Sweaty palms ****** a decorated mug, and contaminate the elixir with milk,*
Her dark hands desperately search for more beans from the plants, before giving up and filling up her sack and returning to the village,
spices and sugar sweeten the blow, of knowing the bitterness of black coffee,
The sun is an enemy, and pelts her forehead with heat as she returns to the place called home,
Artificial winds cool down the man of many titles, as he pretends to take an interest in the international affairs presented in his daily newspaper while waiting for the finishing touches to his brew,
the load begins to take its toil on her back and she drops the sack,
searching for a visa, meaningless coins are dropped on the coffee shop floor,
She immediately collapses in a frenzy to pick up the goods and dust them of with her fingers,
His eyes momentarily dart towards the silvered coins on the floor, and he ignores them and enters his card into the machine,
‘These are still good, they must still be good, they’ll never know, we can still sell them’ she convinces herself as she clasped the coffee beans into the sack,
‘Aren’t you gonna pick that up sir’ , ‘Um, yeah probably afterwards’ he laughs at the cashiers unconscious desire to obtain as much money in the tip jar as possible,
She picks up her sack and continues walking up the hill, until eventually shanty huts are in sight,
*a printed off receipt is quickly ******* up into a ball in his pants-suit and he obliges himself with a sip as he strolls towards the doors,*
Her faint body seems to motion towards the ground, but by this time other villagers have spotted her and begin running towards her, her lifeless body is circled by their glances,
‘Too bitter… it needs to be diluted’
‘Spices and sugar sweeten the blow, of knowing the bitterness of black coffee’
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 1:42 AM UTC
When a customer gives you a Food Stamp card that is lying face down; politely return the card back, in the manner, in which it was found.
Don't put the bread, in the same bag that you have for meat. An angry customer may get mad, with a desire to knock you off your feet.
When lying the customer's groceries down, don't throw it as fast as you can. You can break what's in the bag; depending on where it land.
When giving the customers their money back, patiently count it out. You will have peace of mind, and that without a doubt.
Treat the customer with a smile, try hard from looking mean. You will always come out on top; your record will end up clean.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
Anyone
who is selectively nice
is not a nice person at all.
One who is nice to you
but not to others
is but duplicitous at best.
How One treats waiters, servers, cashiers and strangers
is a better indication of how they really think of others.
How rampant the internet is with sociopathy!
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
today, sunday is for reading poetry
but yesterday was for breathing heavy
maybe tomorrow is for walking
for searching
for listening to the sounds that the wind makes
like a nurse on a cigarette break
like children two parents raise
maybe tomorrow is for singing to you
in a voice so heartbreakingly small
it makes souls shake
maybe tuesday is for calling my grandfather
for feeding on the genius of humble experience
for drinking in the songs of decades before me.
maybe wednesday is for resting
resting like reflections on a river's face
always in the same place
but moving, vibrating, dancing
maybe thursday is when it rains too hard
and the house is too cold to be comfortable
maybe the thunder makes the dogs bark
and the echo of a leaky sealing screams at me
"you'll never be as much as you hoped you'd be"
but on friday mornings, i'll watch the flowers grow
i'll walk down a new street looking for a child's face
and tugging on his confidence like shoe strings
because he deserves to know he can run
and run faster than he ever dreamed
maybe saturday is for breathing heavy
but maybe for better reasons
maybe in the setting sun,
when i can see an alive love in the corners
of the cashiers mouth,
maybe thats too much
maybe my lungs swell up
maybe sunday night
when i've finally let the poems aside
you'll ask me again,
"what is life?"
what is life.
maybe this time i'll smile
i'll smile because we both know
we just forget sometimes
life isn't,
we are.
maybe sunday night is for changing the way you ask questions
because the first one didn't bring the right answer
maybe it's time we asked what it is to be alive.
because we know, oh you know
the answer is there in that little gasp the stars steal on the darkest nights
and in the look of a mother's eyes
its that feeling in your chest, the one that feels like the wings of tiny blue birds
drumming to a song that our ears don't know how to hear over the engines of cars
but a song that our eyes see, in the lights of a city at midnight
to be alive is to feel the pain that comes with knowing you're far away
but also knowing that that pain exists because you,
you're the match of my creation, if only for this moment.
to be alive is love the sunrise
because even when it is too much for your tired eyes,
even when you broke during the night,
the sun comes to set it right.
show me what it means to be alive
it never stops
it goes on like a river,
finds it's way into an ocean
it continues like pages of poetry,
the songs that a heart sings,
a mind stitching up dreams.
today sunday is for reading poetry
but yesterday was for breathing heavy.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
ladies with flashing eyes
and flashing thighs.
I love it
He loves it
we all love it.
My pets are dead
at least the pork I cooked
is perfection in the mouth.
at least you have money
I like to give it mine away.
to cashiers
to give myself a false
high on life.
drink another drink
smoke another smoke
that’s life for some.
I do hope you still have
some reason left in the head.
my reason is a burning maze
a head light flickering
the good
the bad.
what do I do with it all.
my reason is a little sane
and I feel like eating my
soul to grow another one.
days become lazy and so do you
it’s good, sleep
for long hours
I couldn’t sleep for the past week
two or four hours of sleep
finally I gave up and slept for probably
the whole day missing life outside
people seem happy
and I seem sad
but something still in me
makes it all good again
and the money fades
a girl you like fades
a friend fades
others will fade as well
they will go
and you can still beat it
it smells like onion and
burned beef
old people are crowding
two oldies mucker about
not winning at the slots
and losing one hundred bucks
the oldies can ***** with ease
the talking never seems to stop
from them
they keep going with their tongue
going and going
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
a.i is already a failure to me: i write one thing, html misspells what i write, dumb robotics ahoy!
at the cashiers', hot topic...
a burning toothpick that illuminated the woods:
headmaster in some school extends his jurisdiction
from children to parents, wants the mothers
to be less sloppy dressed in the english casual: pyjamas.
two cashiers debate, i take my usual three beers and
a bottle of scotch for a walk (i drink the scotch at home),
i side with the liberals... wear the ****
you want... the other side can't decide a line of argument,
conversation turns to my frost bitten hands,
nasty winter mosquitoes bit my hands all red...
i say it's not too bad... she takes them into her hands,
warms them up, she's older than my mother,
but i still would... given girls my age are *******
the legs of hugh hefner for the retirement pay-cheque
and prior to a bosom-spread photoshoot... i walk out patting
the head of a stranger's dog waiting for the hands that
drop food onto the plate and keep the leash stern...
your typical evening at a supermarket.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
12 AM silent tears, matty hair, wet cheeks, exhausted sockets
1 AM runny nose, hushed sobs, escaping eyelashes
2 AM car horns, brisk winds, rising goose flesh
3 AM screams, pain, quiet
4 AM unsteady breathing, ripping apart of pearl necklaces
5 AM cocking of a pistol's safety
6 AM whiskey breath, ***** tongue, an empty orange juice carton
7 AM chattering of neighbors and schoolchildren
8 AM shouts of husbands and wives briefly forgetting how to love each other
9 AM ringing of flower shop cashiers, whistling of tea kettles
10 AM guilt, ample remorse for the undead
11 AM business lunches, speedy dates, short ***** to pass the time
12 PM recollections of a first kiss in Central Park, replay of 12 hours ago
1 PM promises to meet for dinner someday, hair salon gossip
2 PM chiming of church bells, unanswered prayers to invisible gods who doubt your purity
3 PM catcalls, ignored pleas of attention
4 PM passing of verdicts, granting freedom
5 PM wasted apologies, divorce papers being signed
6 PM an old woman's sheets ruffling for a final time, descendance of the sun
7 PM lighting of street lamps, laughter over pizza, beers and a dining room table
8 PM locked doors, readings of bed-time stories
9 PM whispers of "I love you", murmurs of "I'm sorry", snores of a newborn
10 PM breaking bottles, crashing glass, foggy windows, smoky glances
11 PM blood stained clothes, yells of fear,
the sounds of a lonely girl running into a busy city street
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Here i turn and look outward
A practiced eye seeking more
To see to sing sweetly
To lark and to crow and to sparrow
To twitter whatever appears
To imbibe and regurgitate life
Somalia taxi drivers
Mexican store owners
Black cashiers policemen lawyers
in suits
White nobody's with hard bodies
White somebody's with soft bodies
Computer mind buddha mind angry mind
Is an angry mind red angry haze mind
Red army massing hoard
God **** car horn out the window
Crashed air planes into buildings
White paper fluttering down from heaven
Black boiling smoke pot smoke
Crack puff cloud smoke cigarette
death
Rage against the machine failure
As the raging machine rages on
Expensive cars poor people buying
expensive cars
Hot humid days cool nights
Sticky cummmmmmm thighs
Whale cry baby sigh
New confusing war cry
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 2:27 PM UTC
Technology walks into world
Flick of a finger bought and sold
ATM machines replace a cashiers smile
Robotic voice replace the sweet voice in style
Foods and things home delivery bliss
Feel of things we bought we miss
A smile of a known baker
The small talk with a grocer
A few change short overlooked
A special item by request booked
Lost the heart and art of a sale
To machines accurate heartless scale
Human touch with a smile calling my name
A buzz and whirr of a machine never the same
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 9:19 AM UTC
the fledgling light being carnivorous ate up the stipends
of the hopes that suggested anti-colonial rule
beginning with India and pop-culture;
i'm sure they recorded Frogstomp aged 15...
imgining it, Israel's Son teen fancy for politics, **** me,
Nevada in an hourglass trickles a month through...
curses worse off than attributed to Nirvana -
i'm with Heath Ledger on this one
and his joker dubbed Neil Swats
given the drunk accenting debauch;
called him the Watts or the Volts,
or Tom Waits - grr, gurl or curl the toothpick -
for use in chop-chop-Bruce-Lee
mitigating Springsteen with chord rhythm -
i get it, a crowd pleasing type,
i wasn't, never will be - i minded midnight
tomorrow than the noon of today -
so many people ended up on a car-boot sale of
expectations that few geared into owning a
sports car - it was wonderful, thank you,
some of us educated ourselves for no reason,
that we know happened, because all the **********
capitalised on your stupidity -
we were never the nuclear physicists,
so why did we bother rather than investing in being
supermarket cashiers? why did we?
what was the point? i guess we fabled having parents
who wished us a better life, and in so wishing
begot themselves a better one, and for us a worse one...
oh well... what awaits us in redemptive spirit is
a Samurai's death and nothing else;
akin to Isaiah's oath demanding populist demand
from the heights of formerly being a socialite
in the rigidity of an Israelite king's courtship -
for sooner the pauper claiming to be king,
than the king claiming to be pauper - should both
compete to make his stance righteous among
the merchants / Mohammads / or among those
selling pigeons for worth of postage stamps in
Jerusalem's sacred temple that suggested the news be spread,
rather than those spreading it be whipped and
thrown out - so a pauper-king precedes a king-pauper?
oddly, had that Tibetan prince not descended to India
rather than scaled his way to China - then the similarity -
as the man who desired the northern lands but had
misgivings to the Arabian soil.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
what happens when you're the sole
male in a supermarket,
filled by females,
cashiers, and the customers...
you walk in, you walk out,
which is not as bad as being intimidated
by nine prostitutes while
you wait your turn..
you walk in, and then you walk out...
with aud lang syne
booming from your ears...
(i kannie **** cry at tje track..
mountains man... just mountains...
i kannie not cry...
or forget that i danced the Kayleigh
without donning the kilt)
o heart o thistle...
o my dear earned hands,
to hand over the land
worth of till and toil...
my own and sole wish...
that Scotland take my heart
and gives unto it... bloom...
once upon the cobbled stones
of the Royal Mile...
then upon the dawn of day,
upon Arthur's Seat...
for what i am worth,
to have but this sight,
of seeing far an wide...
Edinburgh...
the only city whereby i refused
the ingenuity of the compass...
Firth of Forth...
however welcome
or unwelcome...
through to the backstreets of
Dundee...
and behind the history of Glen Cove...
i cry...
because Scotland is the only
"convenience" of home know to me...
a home, that is more...
it's an ideal...
an.... idea...
England can never be it...
England could never be "it"...
England was merely
the handing over of Hong Kong under
Blaire...
it was the Labor government...
the late 90s...
but Scotland was
so much more... and will forever
be more than just much more...
had the heart eyes,
it would see this thistle baron
as for what i see it as...
as i leave it, as i've left all prior
palaces of my habitation...
always the fonder memory,
than a fond-of experience
among the living...
may the dead serve the same exacting
justice upon me,
as i, among the living,
revive them... back t life,
and the knife of mortality's
burdens...
and us do our part,
to part,
with a hope of once more,
congregating, in either a heaven,
or a hell.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
TURN INTO ZOMBIES
WHILE OTHERS JUST
ROT IN THEIR GRAVES?
Zombies are just like you and me: they crave understanding and
physical displays of love. Many ex-lesbians report that their form-
er lovers often become "zombified" before jumping off the top of
the Washington Monument (obelisk). These jilted lovers are
like ice cream that doesn't get hard or Walmart cashiers
with large **** cysts that make squatting painful.
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 5:38 PM UTC
ever is times go so fast
flies I swatted come back as mosquitos
Sly grins from cashiers. I think they shortchanged me.
All the small things live
in seconds of life
that add up to
picking the exact ***** out of the millions at
the hardware store.
Or the way I try to perfect a joint
like a diamond finish in sheetrock.
Or the way I get off hearing my saw buzz
through a two by four at dusk
on three hours sleep
with a hangover.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
I waited in line,
Standing behind those in need.
Women, children.
Full carts, the other cashiers closed.
I stood in line,
Barely making it to the store.
Hurrying, grabbing what I sought.
Making it over to the line before it got longer.
I waited in line.
A deep thought, It never use to be so complicated.
Coming, grabbing what you needed.
Bypassing everything that compensates essential need.
I stood in line.
Barely making it to the store.
A different brand to replace something or another.
The P.A system announced the store now closed before I could buy a new heart
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
I heard you moved,
out of town.
Somewhere far away,
and I'm still waiting here.
And to think I was foolish enough,
to believe every word you said.
Let you and your lies,
get inside my head.
Sometimes I go to the grocery store,
just to make conversation.
Usually no one talks back.
So I give them my money,
the little I have left,
and take my candy bar,
and walk away.
I can feel them staring,
at me as I walk away.
I can feel your heartbeat,
why didn't you stay?
Read a book on moving on,
and it made me regress.
So I threw it in the fire.
I wonder if you're thinking of me,
or if I'm the only one.
I hurt just beneath the surface,
my insides are melting.
I can't seem to find,
a way to forget.
My mind says let go,
but my heart says no.
So if you're looking for me,
I'm most likely at the grocery store,
talking to all the cashiers.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC