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Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Could be I’m on a mission:
Convince the entire world
I am the World's Greatest Living
English Language poet;
Of course, genius such as mine
Goes generally unrecognized until
The posthumous crowd weighs in.
And yet, wouldn’t it be nice?

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Yes, wouldn’t it be nice?
(The Nobel Prize,
Tribute at the Kennedy Center,
A MacArthur Grant,
The Presidential Medal of Honor,
Reverent BJs from hipster groupies . . .
The Poet Laureate in his vicarage,
Enjoying my sweet twilight celebrity.)

(Cue “Guys & Dolls” soundtrack: “What's in the daily news?
I'll tell you what's in the daily news.”)
23: Beheaded at Nigerian Election Rally!
Amanda Knox Gets Away with ****** Again in Italy!
Kung Pow: Silicon Valley Penisocracy Crushes Ellen Pao
German Crash Dummy Co-pilot Flies Jet into the Alps!
Hilary’s Emails Are *****!
Sierra Leone Ebola Lockdown!
Iran: Kooks with Nukes!
Sri Lankan President’s Brother Dies from Ax Wounds!
Saudi Diplomats Evacuate Yemen!
Stampede at Hindu Bathing Ritual, Bangladesh Kills at Least 10!
Simply put:  THE WORLD IS IN A STATE OF ****.

Perhaps it’s time we turn again.
Seek solace in poetry—
“Yeah, chemistry,” insists my Sky Masterson,
My “Guys & Dolls” alter ago.
Surprised? You shouldn’t be.
All poets are gamblers & moonshiners.
We polish our chemical craft,
Sweet-talking the distillation apparatus,
Getting us, getting at linguistic essence.
Cunning linguists are we.
(Colonel Angus, are you back?)
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
We open this hearing to determine
Whether or not S.I. Hayakawa—guilty of
Numerous crimes against humanity & other
Professional Neo-Fascist “entrechats.”--
Whether or not he merits a kinder, gentler
Wikipedia BIO.
(Wikipedia ( i/ˌwɪkɨˈpiːdiə/ or  i/ˌwɪkiˈpiːdiə/ WIK-i-***-dee-ə) Wikipedia)
We open this forum, focusing on his
Courageous stand against the
SDS & Black Panthers, part of
An unlikely coalition: The Worker-Student Alliance
& It’s rival, Joe Hill Caucuses.
Da Name of the Place:
(“I like it like that!” Hot Chelle Rae-“I Like It Like That” lyrics| Metro Lyrics www.metrolyrics.com Lyrics to 'I Like It Like That' by Hot Chelle Rae. “Let's get it on, yeah, y'all can come along/Everybody drinks on me, buy out the bar /Just to feel like I'm.”)
The name of the place: San Francisco State,
1968-69, the longest student strike in U.S. history,
Led successfully to the creation of
Black & Other Ethnic studies programs
On campuses across the country,
And, one could argue,
Gave the green light to
Osama Hussein Obama,
Our first Uncle Tom President.
But I digress.

ACTING SFSU President, Dr. Hayakawa—
Perpetual audition, the pressure on,
Feisty, independent-minded & combative,
Screaming at that skeevy student mob:
(Skeevy as in “He bought the thing from
Some skeevy dude in an alley.")
Declaring “A State of Emergency,”
Calling in the SFPD, whose
Inexplicable slogan says”
“Oro en Paz,
Fierro en Guerra.”
Archaic Spanish for
Gold in peace,
Iron in war, by the by,
For you holdouts,
Those of you who still
Think the “English First Movement”
Breathes life still.
I’ve got more news for you:
That crusade died long ago,
Locked up, dark & shuttered,
Bank Repo thugs, their thick
Neck muscles flexing from side to side,
Sashaying across the parking lot,
Like John Wayne on steroids,
Right up to the front door.)
The SFPD: San Francisco city fuzz,
(As they were known at the time) &
The California National Guard, as well,
Obstreperously, generously catered by
Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan,
(Early stage, Alzheimer’s at the time.
But still very much “The Gypper,”
Still chipper in Sacramento.)
Ronnie--keenly interested in
The Eureka State’s congressional clout,
Lassoes a seat in the U.S. House of Lords:
AKA: The U.S. Senate, SPQR.
It’s still hard . . .

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Still hard to believe that California was once
Rock solid in the clutches of the GOP,
Gripped tightly in the Party’s
Desperate talons. But the grip slipped,
Slipped in the slip-sliding 1970s.
It got harder and harder . . .

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Harder and harder to remind
Leroy & the rest of his ebony posse,
That it was Abraham Lincoln—
“The Great Emancipator” himself—who was,
Our first Republican President.
The Emancipation Proclamation:
That toothless rhetorical flourish,
Based solely on Abe’s
Constitutional authority as
Commander-in-Chief,
Not on a law passed by Congress.
It was just Abe blowing smoke
Up their ***** again,
Just an egalitarian blast from
His Old Kentucky past,
A youth spent splitting rails,
Busting his *** just like
Any plantation ******,
A stark plebeian commonality,
Too deeply etched to be ignored.
Poor Abraham Lincoln:
Probably a **** Creek crypto-Jew,
Neutered by the opposition:
His very own Republican majority Congress,
Another example of the GOP
Shooting off its own foot, right up there
With Mitt Romney’s "47 percent of the people,”
The rhetorical gaffe which cost him his
Second & final shot at the White House.
But I digress.

Senator Sam S.I. Samuel Hayakawa:
That inscrutable Asian fixer, is now U.S. Senator,
Republican, California, 1976-83
Pulpit-bullying his Senate colleagues,
Fiercely opposed to transfer of the
Panama Canal & Panama Canal Zone to
Panama: a diplomatic no-brainer; Duh?
Their freaking name is on both of them.
Senator Sam, obstinate & blustering:
"We should keep the Panama Canal.
After all, we stole it fair and square.”
And Hayakawa, later the driving impetus
Behind the Far Right “English Only” movement.
His co-founding an "Official English"
Advocacy group, U.S. English;
Their party line summarizes their belief:
“The passage of English as the official language will help to expand opportunities for immigrants to learn and speak English, the single greatest empowering tool that immigrants must have to succeed."
That’s how they sold it, anyway.
In sooth: just old-fashioned nativist
Anti-immigration hysteria.

Hayakawa: always the high achiever.
Hayakawa: The Great Assimilator,
Preaching his xenophobic Gospel:
“Immigration Must Be Reduced!”
Aryan rhetoric, of course,
A bi-product of radical authoritarian nationalism,
A movement with deep American roots.
Senator Sam: a Japanese-Canadian-American,
Always tried too hard to fit in.
Sam, comfortable in Chicago during WWII,
Not personally subject to confinement,
Advocated that Japanese-Americans
Submit to FDR’s 1942, Executive Order 9066.
“Time in camp, will eventually work to Japanese advantage."
Later, during the Congressional debate over
The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 . . .
(Passed the House on September 17, 1987 (243–141)
Passed the Senate on April 20, 1988 (69–27, in lieu of S. 1009)
Reported by the joint conference committee on July 26, 1988,
Agreed to by the Senate on July 27, 1988 (voice vote) and
By the House on August 4, 1988 (257–156,
Signed into law by President Ronald Reagan 8/10/88.
He opposed $reparations for WWII internment:
“Japanese-Americans should not
Be paid for fulfilling their obligations."
Some guys, I guess, would say, or
Do anything for Bohemia Club membership.
Plagued by night terrors, nonetheless,
His Manzanar nightmares, his vivid
Imaginary experience at other Japanese
Internment Sites: Tule Lake & Camp Rohwer.
Stalag (German pronunciation: [ˈʃtalak])
Stalags, infamous still,
“Stalags ‘R Us,”
Still palpable memories for
Issei ("first generation")
& Nisei ("second generation").
See: 323 U.S. 214. Korematsu v. United States
(No. 22: Argued: October 11, 12, 1944.
Decided: December 18, 1944.140 F.2d 289.
The opinion, written by Hugo Black,
Chief Justice Harlan Stone, Presiding.)

Hayakawa: a strange duck, of course,
But we mustn’t ignore his strong credentials,
And I’d like to disabuse anyone here
Of the notion that it was anything
Other than his academic record
That got his case to this Forum.
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
So begins this fractured Pardoner’s Tale,
This petition for forgiveness,
The Capo di Tutti Capi,
Presiding: the original Italian mafioso,
His Eminence--the Vicar of Jesus Christ,
The Supreme Pontiff
Pope Paparazzi of Rome!
Roma: the only venue large enough to
Dispense dispensation of this magnitude.

Hayakawa: everyone says his C.V. is “impeccable.”
But did anyone ever freaking Google it?
Just where did Professor Sam go to school?
Undergrad? The University of Manitoba,
Truly, by any Third World Standard
A great bastion of intellectual rigor;
Grad school? McGill and U Wisconsin-Madison.
He was a Canadian by birth,
His academic discipline was Semantics.
(As in “That’s just semantics,”
That all-purpose rejoinder in any argument.)
Professor Hayakawa, The Semanticist,
He taught us: “All thought is sub-vocal speech.”

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Hmmm? We think in words.
The medium of thought is language.
If you grok this for the first time,
Let’s stop to celebrate our enlightenment,
With a cultural nod of respect,
We salute our Islamic brethren.
Radical Islam: the new bogeyman,
Responsible for keeping lights on in Alexandria,
Paying the defense & intelligence bills,
Sustaining that sinister
Military-Industrial complex
Ike warned us about.
Hang in there, Mustafa, old buddy.
Like the Cold War, this insanity
Will eventually blow over.
Orwell’s Oceania will reshuffle
Its deck of global grab-***, and a
New enemy will suddenly appear.
Big Brother, as always,
In the full-control mode,
Simply put: on top of the situation.
So Hurrah!
Allāhu Akbar. “God is Great!
The Takbīr (the term for the
Arabic phrase: usually translated as
"God is [the] greatest.")

“All thought is sub-vocal speech.”
What a simple, yet profound insight!
Just a short hop, skip & jump to the
Realization that, perhaps, the clarity
& Power of our minds can be groomed,
Improved upon by mastery of—
In Sam’s case, anyway--the English Language.
Was this, perhaps, the germ of U.S. English,
The political lobbying organization
He co-founded, dedicated to making
English, the official language of the United States.
Hayakawa: a wooly conservative of his own design;
No wonder Governor Reagan loved him.

Dr. S.I. Hayakawa, a colorful and polarizing
Figure in California politics during the 1960s and 70s.
Can we forgive his daily afternoon naps.
Asleep on the floor of the U.S. Senate,
Leaving California so pathetically,
So ostensibly under-represented.
Senator Sam’s comatose presence at
Washington-on Potomac; the
District of Columbia.
A long time ago,
In a distant galaxy . . .
Far, far away.

TEAR GAS.
Alas, long before he got to Washington,
Long before ever setting foot off campus,
He called for tear gas to
Disperse those pesky college kids.
I repeat myself for emphasis:
He authorized the use of tear gas at SF State.
Tear gas: a lachrymatory agent?
Actually, a potentially lethal
Chemical agent . . .
(Yeah, Chemistry!
To wit: Sgt. Sara Brown,
Referencing “Guys & Dolls” again.)
Outlawed for use during wartime,
Banned in international warfare
Under both the 1925 Geneva Protocol; & the
Chemical Weapons Convention;
“Tear gas:  a weapon of war against
The people. We believe that
Tear gas remains a chemical weapon
Whether used on a battlefield, or city streets.”

Thus, history will be your judge,
You unleashed tear gas on college kids,
So I wouldn’t expect a rep makeover
Any time soon, Ichiye-san, my ichiban friend.
Moriah Harrod Aug 2012
Hello there. You seem a bit uneasy. Look around, and let me explain.

This is your funeral. I am your funeral. This is your casket. I am your casket, the black balloons, the flowers placed strategically around the room. One flowerpot per five square feet, like your brother ordered. This is the scientifically proven amount of flowers to keep grieving people at a calm level. These flowers are the happy facade behind which grief lies. These flowers are pretty deceit. I am the crying faces, begging to talk to you one last time. I am every tissue that will be picked up and disposed of by the janitors after the grievers return to their lives.

I am your death. I am your last breath, your last sentence, the cancer you battled with for the last three years of your life. I am every doctor's appointment, every shot that left you bedridden for the next two days. I am every particle of hair you watched go down the drain in the shower. I am every strange look, uncomfortable glance you received. I am all the tears shed after your diagnosis, and every benefit held in your honor. I am every sacrifice your family made to attempt a wall of happiness around your sickness.

I am the birth of your only grandson, the beautiful boy of your only beautiful girl. I am the scary morning spent in the waiting room of the hospital. I am every doubt you and your wife had about your grandson's condition. I am the condition that made him two months premature. I am his three weeks spent in an incubator, and the formula he was fed to stay alive. I am the relief your family felt when your daughter and grandson were released, both completely healthy. I am your grandson's first, second, third, fourth birthdays.

I am your retirement. I am the completion of your life's most well-known activity and purpose. I am the years you now plan on traveling and raising your future grandchildren. I am the mornings you will now spend waking up next to your wife, the woman you've been married to for thirty years now, your best friend. I am the breakfast you will make her in bed and the organizations you plan to join in all your free time. I am your old cat you will sit on your porch and pet. I am the party and the gifts you were given, and the flat, insincere Happy Retirement cards that were obligatorily sent to you by your co-workers. I am this last milestone of your life.

I am your daughter's high school graduation. I am the lip-biting your wife partook in as she walked up and shook hands with the principal. I am her boyfriend, who sat beside you two and joined in the clapping, eyes watering for the girl he loved. I am the marriage they would agree to and abide by for the rest of their lives. I am every late night she was out, every test she was nervous about. I am the teacher who called you complaining about her unorganization. I am the cat she brought home one year, promising to take care of. This cat outlived even you.

I am the loss of your virginity. I am the party you mistakenly went to, and the alcohol you mistakenly drank. I am the girl who mistakenly came into the bathroom and held your hand while you puked. I am the drug she took prior to walking in, and the bed she led you to. I am the feeling you were given in the morning, the feeling of the realization of loss versus gain.

I am the day you met your wife. I am the book section of the retail store you both were perusing. I am your heart beating quickly as she smiled, and your hand sweating in your pocket. I am the beauty you saw in her. I am the money you saved up at your after-school job and the Italian restaurant you took her to for your first date, and I am the city in Italy you took her to for your honeymoon. I am the mistakes you both made and all the hours spent awaiting forgiveness.

I am your childhood. I am your first few friends. I am the bone in your foot, broken by a nasty fall. I am the bridge you were playing on and the cast you wore for a month. I am the day you learned how to whistle and the day you learned how to read. I am every birthday party you have ever been given, and every candle you blew out. I am your first word, your first step.

I am your first breath. I am the decision your mother made to keep you. My how easily all of this could have never been.

I am all the sadness you have ever felt, and I am all the joy. And it has all led up to this day. This funeral, this event catered by a food company and paid for by the government and a savings account made for this day. I am that government you lived under, and that savings account you worked so hard for.

And as of today, I am just a memory. I am simply the memory of your life. I am simply the collection of days and days and years, and times. And now, I am gone.
I am a guy.
Just a guy.
Not an "ummm...technically."
or "biologically female."
Not: "used to be a girl",
"Thinks she's a guy",
"Doesn't dress like a boy",
"What she got between her legs?",
"Wears makeup",
"Doesn't pass"-

Gender norms literally **** people.

Every "I'm sorry" is just a peeling paint job
over an intercity wall,
no one really wants to look at,
or fix,
or admit to.

This is not a problem I brought on myself.
My gender is not a problem,
You are the problem.

I'm not running from what's inside me anymore,
I know what's inside me,
I've made peace with what's inside me
It's the same old, same old,
with a new set of words
you ******* can't wrap your tongues around.

I don't care if you slipped up,
Fix it.
I don't care if you didn't know I was a boy,
Fix it.
I don't care about your cis guilt, cis excuses, or cis ignorance
Fix it.

Because you don't know the age limit
not to be Emily anymore.
The hundreds of dollars it costs.
Every: "Hello Ladies",
every "Sorry Miss",
every "What can I do for you Ma'm",
every "You'll always be my niece-"
"My daughter",
"My girlfriend".

The cis questions,
cis answers,
cis stares,
cis disinterest in my ******* feelings.

I am not going to hold your hand
and politely explain to you that
I
AM
NOT
MY
GENITALS.
That's your job cis people.
Fix it.

Every misgendering is peeking through the veil
of how people really perceive you.
It's all just a game they play along
with in your presence.
Going along with a trance they think
you've put yourself in.

They don't really see you,
When all it takes is
changing a single word
in one ******* sentence.
That would be no inconvenience to them,
But makes or breaks the world to you.
Covering it up with a strained smile,
Lying that it's fine.

Is it even a question that over 70%
of trans people **** themselves,
as opposed to 1% of the general population.
It makes so much ******* sense to me.

Because trans means knowing
I will never be properly gendered by a stranger,
Unless I get a **** I don't ******* want.
Being trans is waking up everyday
with the guarantee you can not
use the bathrooms in public.

Can't be called a guy
Hearing: "Emmett? That's a weird girl's name."
Having people ignore you
When you're on the verge of tears
begging them not to see
your soft curves and small chest and skirt
as one big sign that says 'SHE'.

Then being told:
"It's not their fault,
people just don't know."
"You have to be more understanding,
more patient -
be nicer about it."

How 'bout applying that to yourself?
Don't tell me I have to be kinder
about being denied my identity everyday.
Don't tell me to shut up about a system
so ingrained in my brain
I still misgender myself.

It's gaslighting,
A society denying reality
And telling us we are the confused ones.
The crazy ones.
For veering outside these neat little boxes
ahem, cages
of made up rules
they've tried to lock us into.

The consequences are absolutely deadly.
Is it any question
That people bleed themselves dry
Get drunk, get high
just to escape it all?

Then get thrown into a 'health care system'
for attempted suicide,
get misgendered by the nurses and doctors
who ignore why they're there in the first place.
Then denied hormones for their
'mental instability'.

We are thrown into a world of glass ceilings
and imaginary borders
with all too real consequences.

Make no mistake,
We are not dangers to ourselves.
You absolutely put us here.

Blame it on whatever generation or
individual you want,
but we are all participating in cisnormativity
if you are not constantly unlearning.

If you equate genitals with gender,
Ask what the baby's going to be -
As if it ******* matters -
Don't think to ask pronouns and get it wrong,
See every character, every face on TV
that doesn't look like ours,
have everything catered
to the way you turned out to be,

That's privilege is our danger.
The gaps in judgement
and consideration for our situations
is where we live
and our destined to fall.

Because when someone hits you with a car
It doesn't matter of they didn't see  you,
didn't mean to,
have never done it before,
are the nicest person in the world -
They ****** up.
And it still hurts.

Sure, if they meant to
it would be worse,
But I'm through with this rhetoric
about intent.

Don't think this is too drastic a comparison,
Gender norms literally kills people.
Every mark of 'self-harm' on our arms
Is a scar society put there.
Every trans suicide is a ******.

The question isn't why
we are killing ourselves.
It's how the ****
are we still alive.
Paul Butters Nov 2016
I say again
That from my perspective
When I Die
The whole World will cease to Exist
Including You.
And it will be the same for you
When you go too.

So we are Lucky now
Having the Internet
To speed our Education,
Bringing knowledge and experience to us
As our mobility declines.

It’s as though Someone has catered for our needs,
Ensuring we Learn as much as we can
Before we go.

Lucky too we are to have our radio and TV.
And some of us are lucky enough
To live in relative Safety.

Some day, if we are lucky, we might even learn
What all this Learning’s for.
Someone may even let us know.

Paul Butters
Early this morning I had a bizarre, vivid, scary dream. When I woke, poetic thoughts appeared...
Aaron McDaniel Jan 2013
There were wounds covering the small of my back
Where you stabbed me time and time again
I handed you trust
Watched you dice it like onions
The fumes exhausting my tear ducts
Doing everything I can from letting them flow

The knife is on the ground
Rusted and tired
Those wounds have scared over
I know now what I didn't know then
That trust is not to be catered
It is to be earned
You've exhausted your rations
It'll be difficult to watch you hunger for the taste of my trust,
but I am stronger now than I was yesterday
That, I can thank you for
Kemy Sep 2018
It’s astonishing how you knock me off my feet
Enrapture spoken, sentiments we savor as we greet
A relishing secret catered for me, my needs, as we mental feast
It’s getting harder and harder to breathe
Echoes turning, twisting, as they blissfully weave
I wish I could take a journey through your mind
Dine on the emotions you refuse to hide
Cautionary pause, where are you, do you no longer reside

Tempting fate of awakening emotions dancing inside my head
Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread
Dreams of roses, chocolates, wine, a silk covered bed
Beautiful images of a love to be shared
Where feelings could suddenly vanish into thin air
No safety net, no sure bet, hotter than July, to have let
Nurses cannot heal thyself

I need a quick cure from sipping the tale of Sleeping Beauty’s lover’s cup
SOS smoke signals has been sent up
Rescue me Destiny, Fate knows I cannot swim
Horde of feelings have quickly flooded in
Melody of the heart sounds sweeter than the violin
No shore, no dry land
State of mind standing upon quicksand

Tarzan swing me from your vine, refuge needed in this moment in time
I need an escape from this deep ocean of carnal designs
Mind management, intoxicating as sweet wine, softly trickling from off a grape vine
You’ll be the one who brings the pain
Bring the umbrella in the pouring rain

You’ll be the one who makes me cry
Bring me the tissue to dry my eyes
You’ll be the one my heart can’t deny
Sending my body beyond pleasure while entwined in the sky

Whispers in time are arresting, strong
Tarzan embrace me, cocoon me with an escape song
As I tightly hold onto your body as we swing in ecstasy all night long
Distance shouldn’t matter because at the end of the day we’re all under the same sky.

Unknown Author
Fheyra Jul 2020
Festive morn, I crossed with thee
Embellished silk shines with whirling elegance—
Of translucent textures and fine fragrance
The royal formation— that anticipates a chance—
A romantic browse of catered acquaintance.

As I swipe to slant,— Thy arms braced my shoulders— and uplift me—
In awe of my still,
Slipped palms of thy distant longed—
In the halls of hide and seek—
Despite the fragments,— Thou aimed to break the lines,—
Chasing this harmony,
Unravelling the elflock sway;— to clutch the Orchid; Until she stays..
In a prestigious ball, where all has started. They met gracefully.
Andre Baez Nov 2013
The successes of others who've long since forgotten me are overjoying
You were my dream, but I preferred my nightmares
The ability to remain scared of what's possible, yet you cared
You would coo in my ear as your fingers flowed through my hair
My lost ones are successes yet I'm trapped in the recesses
Of my memory soliloquies the harmonies of being tortured mentally
Constructs of what's dressed up as angels yet hell struck
You fled from the inferno to an apple of grandeur and banter and slander
If anyone were to stand tall through cancer it would be you, its truth
You're the beautiful black angel, from a black heaven, with red and black shoes
I only wish I could've bought them and put them on to you
Before that though I would soak a towel in soapy water to clean each foot
Then we could've had mixed little kids like we planned through our youth
Although you were older you treated me like a nurse treats a soldier
You catered to my whims even when the lights got dim
And through the thick of moans and groans your light always shined
You were home; a light house, a star which tore through the night sky
You were Michael Jackson's Thriller and you had no filter
You were Naomi Campbell even when life was in shambles
You were a beacon of hope I had so long searched for in dirt
You, firefly, were born not to cry or to be trampled by hurt
Yet you did as a result of me, sweet serenity, due to my lines traced with lies
I was your love, the heavens above, in human form, to adore
You were rich in soul and mind although I was poor
You would still give me passwords to your front door
Even if I wouldn't let you touch my cell phone
Funny how things have changed now that I've grown
After you found out I was in a tryst with another lover you suffered
You screamed and tears fell as you told me to…
“Go to Hell, how could you do all this **** to me Gabriel?!"
I have the name of an angel and a voice to lend charm
But I'm nothing but a hoofed devil walking slowly to cause harm
You were never armed our prepared for what was in my heart
The darkness was never going to let you become apart
I had a void that couldn't be filled with your love
Your tears grew heavier and landed to the ground as blood
I know you're better than Eve because you'll bite that apple and win
And I still think of you every time the light dims
Although I know you have a new him
One day I hope I get famous so you'll have to hear my hymns
To make you witness my lack of self-forgiveness
To, for the first time in my life, lend you full attention
This is what I say to justify my intentions, when in fact I'm being selfish
I'm selfish because I want you still
I want to feel your lips and give you the same love that you felt
To adore you and hold you the same way you held me and told me everything
On your mind at the time, I wish to rewind and give you my life
I had some semblance of unconscious hope when I reached out to you once more
Though last time we spoke you said “I don’t hate you,” still
You said “I want to forget you,” and my little light was killed
You'll never want to measure my soul’s difference and my heart’s repentance
You are a permanent tenant as part of my penance
I must sit here and bear witness to your happiness
Yet not be a part of it, I simply smile for the entirety of your being is wondrous
Tarnished are my veins for the liquid which flows through them
Beg ownership to a person destined to such consequence
I am the unspoken memory, the dusk on the horizon
I am the melancholy symphony, a misery cypher
You are the art piece which overshadows Mona Lisa,
You are flowery fields of grace; you are the colors in bloom
The shadows of the sun and the heartbeat of the moon.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
it's etiquette, aesthetics in itself? a bit like: art for art in itself? who the hell minds calling etiquette an aesthetic movement, when etiquette only serves itself, rather than an aesthetic for others to observe an call for the: decor in oculus ex spectator... the concept of etiquette ***** sweaty salty ***** in the realm of aesthetics, it's principled for itself alone, and no one else... what it is is: absurd.

i don't understand why the english press
doesn't fathom polish nationalism -
i simply cannot fathom it -
  implying that polish nationalism is
tinged with neo-**** slurs is simply
unfathomable to me,
   might as well add:
at least the poles do not have the problem
to discuss ethnic-cocktails of
3/4 italian a quarter jew...
                   it's not out of bias -
i've lived in england for over 20 years,
i have not pledge a dual-national identity -
and i lean toward using english in
my cognitive realm more than i tend
to entertain using polish -
proof? i can't remember the months
alphabet in polish...
                    a week i can remember,
the nouns, but a year? **** me,
near impossible.
                     yet what bothers me is that
western journalism is afraid of:
not so much the nationalism -
          but the collectivism -
the uniform undisputed collective -
   what scares them is that in poland,
   there is no fringe movement -
   it's populist - they're actually afraid
of what an authentic nation looks like...
   this is not some ***-crack of an alt-right
movement, this is people coming together
without a dialectical impetus, or precursor,
it's a tsunami, an *******,
and for that: there's no chance to slander,
to pick out the weakest antelope,
the youngest, and apply the slander,
the naming, equating that person with
being neo-****... ironically in about 100
years they'll call them polish concentration
camps, rather than german concentration camps,
which is why i once suggested,
pull them apart, and ship them off to
germany...
                    neo-****** doesn't exist
in poland, what western cultures fear
is an actual *nation
- a collective -
not bothered whether there is a worthwhile
individualism to be catered for -
put twice simply:
  for all the care for individualism -
western individuals have produced
   a stock of, rather, unspectacular
individuals...
                          this abhorrent politico
of defending the mediocre expressions,
hopeful for the ******* "golden child"
is exhausting - in the anglophone world
i'm either living in an insane asylum,
or a nursery...
      can't decide which...
    but if you look at the most
mediocre person in a collective?
    can you see any mediocre, can you
actually see it? i can't:
because the people have gathered,
        and the tsunami doesn't dismember
you into an individual:
  it dismembers you to align you
into a collective, and as a collective:
     you are a force to be reckoned with.
neo-**** slurs will not work on these people,
you have to gravitate to this conclusion,
when people are united,
they do not feel intimidated...
esp. when there's no ethnic-cocktail
to mind, pick and choosing paternal or
maternal heritage...
                 western journalistic turnip-heads
can't tell the difference between
healthy, collective nationalism,
  and fringe groups in their own
countries...
don't you ******* get it?!
of all the countries in western europe,
what country in the amalgam took an
existential "hiatus" from the history books?
which one became incorporated in
the trinity of prussia, austro-hungary
and russian?
  waiting for a ******* answer...
answer? none!
                        can you at least entertain
the idea that people are celebrating
their nationalism, because they have
regained their nation?!
        no? wait till you lose yours,
            you'll be ******* jack ****-a-boo
         in a few years...
   slurring these people as neo-**** is like
typing out that typical psychiatric:
false regression technique...
                  were you occupied by the nazis?
wait, i thought you said the israelis were nazis...
no i'm confused with this whole
   trans omni movement that branches
into ***, skin and tears...
                   it's simple fear,
that the centre of warsaw can be lit up in red,
and be filled with a cloud of smoke...
       emerging from the flares -
and that similar attempts in the anglophone
world are equivalent to:
  poached oysters,
                            under cooked potatoes,
overcooked spaghetti...
      pointless as an umbrella opened,
when shoved up someone's ***.

p.s. guess what, i'm not afraid of an individual
opinion,
                individuals harass and
mongrel the idea of bullying by
collective consent -
                           they have none...
and don't you think that any sport,
most notably rugby, is a simulation
  of *******, and the travel through
the ******? i guess most sport is,
but rugby exemplifies the ***** journey -
notably: they're passing an egg-shaped
ball.
Leila The Kiwi Jan 2017
Fresh wounds
Begin to fester
Tearing inward
Scars  deepen
Transported from flesh
To the soul of a victim,

Specific pain
Catered to the controller
An intimate bond of blood to emotion
Crimson Consumption
Pristine Flagellation
Perfect Punishment

With each step
My youth deteriorates
Enticing me deeper into the void
To which I am held captive

l.v.s and z.w.b
Em Glass Mar 2016
the sun is setting in slant
through the window, outlining
everyone in gold thread

there’s loud music and
laughter and RESERVED
tables full of people eating and
laughing like they’re at any tables
at all

at the end the music is still
playing
and the sun is still slanting its way
down but the rainbow flag is draped
over the dusty piano to free up her hands
so she can clean other things. everything
is tidied up, things gathered, minimizing
space taken

the stickers, the flags
of all combinations of colored stripes,
pink and blue and purple sunsets,
prism rainbows, the black table cloth
stretched out below the window
as two people fold the sunlight into it,
packing it away. name tags
are peeled off shirts. In the end,

they leave with a whole
foods canvas bag full of things
that could be anything,
ready to blend back
into everything else.

the sun ducks behind a mountain
on the horizon and the sky purples,
bruised by indifference. the sun ducks
behind a mountain on the horizon and
no one is outlined anymore.
Death-throws Mar 2015
Talk to me about indifference
Can anyone define it? Who defines ?
It’s a word we should understand clearly and fluently
Why? Well…Why not?
Because as humans, indifference is valued
Prized even
Genocide in Africa? I’m indifferent
Pity…
Poverty in our country? I’m indifferent
Pity…
Indifferent it is a word we should use so much more than we do
Indifferent to the screaming of my next door neighbours wife
Pity           …
OH Indifferent!  INDIFFERENT to the hallowed call of a child at the 6 o’clock news with a swollen belly and flies in his eyes
PITTY!
Indifferent to the passions of a man foresworn to his pride and under the influence refuses to admit to his shame!
BY GODS IM A ROBOT
Remove my emotional hardware its malfunctioning strip me of my programs their not the normal
Remove my speech circuitry I’ve been lying…
This hole time I swore closeness and collaboration..
Ideals you all share, seeing pain, listing to the agonising news off a car bomb in Syria! 118 dead! Thank god ill never meet them!
Did I know them? No? ! Well ill share a moment of agony and grief and then continue to buy slave made products and feed my mechanicals beasts with petroleum stolen from foreign lands !
I AM A ROBOT AND YOU ARE TO
Devour my heart it no longer beats, my eyes are desensitized, my spirit aghast at the agony of existing,
The high price of living I was told,
Stand fast and ready your ears like a galleon with no sails and receive the news of your defeat , or would you rather not be there to hear it?
It’s time to listen to the high price,
Social media seems to have developed unto me a craze for the worst ! ive liked pages that post videos of people killing themselves death fascinates me!
I have all of my needs catered for,  
have sources of entertainment
I have a job that allows me  to pillage part of the earth for my enjoyment
I have food that sustains me  and a group of robots that  I call friends, we share the same software  I can relate to them  via USB
And thus the only thing that excites me…that gets me going, that shakes my distraught existence is the thought of..not.
Of not existing
Indifferent..
Endure the agony of hearing that our own… brothers and sisters in humanity where killed,
Beings we share the same DNA for and beings we by some estranged number of generations are related to
Pretend to care for a moment
Indifference,
Watch my world ware thin
Watch my skin grow pale
Watch my organs fail
Indifferent.
Watch cancer take my loved ones
Watch fear destroy my hope
Alone I stand indifferent


Take me to emotion

This is not the way I was designed
The dull thud in my chest is not of rifle fire
Nor is it requisition of my life force of some higher being calling me home
No
It is the device that fights my indifference
It is the vessel that commands my soul to walk on broken glass
The dull thud It is the idea that in ideas we will never die , only grow as humans, within humanity
The dull thud ringing through my chest quickens  when I see you,
The dull thud dies down when I grow cold
It is not the pilot aimlessly guiding me through coordinates listed on a fact sheet like a tour guide
But it is the engine that drives me to aspire to be more, the location from witch I draw force, power,
I do not want to be a robot...  I never asked to be made of steel nor carbon nor sparks
An emotionless vessel to power through indignity and anxiety without a notion to an outsider,
Without consideration to feel
Without consideration to feel alive But sick…steel skin does not get ill without strain,
Steel skin does not grow pale or wither with age
The computer in my head will not fade with time
And my heart has never once stopped
I am not of robotics
I am not of steel
I am merely…
human
And I
Am not
Indifferent!
Scream to me the agony! AGH!  Genocide in Africa?  I will denounce myself to humanitarian work!
I will design my life to bring happiness and joy and inspiration to the masses! I will re-write the ground on which I stand in favour of my own desires!
Poverty in my country?! I will rise to be what is needed! And fall to be humbled!  I will writhe with angst until the government I serve hears my cries and writhes also! To change those laws written in stone and redefine what it is to be human! I will cry for every child living like a dog under the stars, under-influence and angry, because I am angry to!
The cries of my neighbor will be brought to append in front of a judge my community will whale together in her agony and burst forth with our love! we will provide! We will carry her down the streets and sing her name she is not a beaten dog but a queen of queens! As we deserve it!
I AM NOT INDIFFERENT
I am not of the programming I was designed,
Nor am I to append the functions I was written for
I am an arm that writes itself hole as it continues down the page..
I am not of machine
I am not guided by that actions of others
But I am the wholeness of myself
Though fractured I am pure,
Though ***** I am clean
Though broken I am definitively joyful.
I am not indifferent, and I will forever refuse to be so
Because if you take away my indifference…you bring me back
You will bring me back…to my humanity,

*L.G
jeffrey conyers Oct 2012
Changed is always for the better.
Altho' the past holds some good.
But when you hear athletes cry about being called soft.
And it's calling out his manhood.
You begins to wonder, if he knows what a man is?
Because words shouldn't control your action.
But they do.

In a world, where people have been called many things?
The word soft shouldn't make a real man enraged.
My , how time has changed?

If you secure.
Then you're sure of your manhood.
You don't need clarification.
Or anyone to support your view.
You alone should know you.

But this generation is a learned group.
That hadn't faced the toughest of others generation.
They been catered.
They been spoiled.
And they been fools.
To let a simple comment create havoc.
My, how times has changed?

With this new technology.
And new constant creation.
We see things that amazes past generation.

Where respect was a guided skill?
We wonder about these we see today.
That feels respect should just be given to them.
Then many have never worked hard to earn.
My, how times has changed.

It's true.
The more things changes.
The more.
It stays the same.
Still, I like those good old days.
Well, I'm not so sure.
JJ Hutton Jul 2012
To a cat in a cul-de-sac,
she's a stone rose,
malaise with no remorse and a penchant for suicidal grammar.

Backsassing and backroom massaging
her way from Tanner, Illinois to Irving, Texas --
her interstate veins and her data plan brain
catered to the orifices of the weary,
and soothed the spidertongued and sleepy.
In the last postcard, she signed Evangeline,
the number of name changes: 23
in the Sunflower State alone.

A dive bar in Ulysses, Kansas
beamed as a brilliant model of
"Starved wives and stray dogs," Evangeline explained.
"I found the dark side of beet farmers
and the redemption in callused hands."


A letter came from Pryor, Oklahoma:

"Recognize the perfume?"

The only line.
Printer paper close, inhale --
my mind drifts to my former
high cheekbone'd bride, Skye.
Evangeline bedded her spindly body.
Spite, spite, spite.

Confused, I answered her call on the
first morning of December.
Tent living with a retired acrobat on
the growing shoreline of Lake Texoma,
she downed a mixed bag of his sleeping meds,
and sleeping by his side, she fantasized about me.

"I think you drank too much in my dreams.
I woke up dissatisfied."


Once she arrived in Irving, I mailed her
my edit of her suicide note.
A call to say it looked good,
and she'd let me know if she ever had
to use it.

I never heard from her again.
scully Oct 2015
its taken me too long to unstitch my hands and free every thought you shuffled and stuck inside of my head

one. i think you lost me somewhere between wanting to cross miles to get to me and forgetting i exist because at some moments it feels like you worked overtime to fix the abandon architectural artwork inside of me like i was community service

two. after you came and knocked down trees and shifted the tides, every ounce of clarity was able to mirror
your whimsical efforts of drowning me out with pretty girl phrases and only calling me when you were too high to choke out my name

three. i had something inside of me that was kept under glass and i let you behind closed doors and watched you destroy it
i let you build me up with toy blocks just how you wanted me, and i let you lose interest when you decided it was more fun to knock me down and listen to the noise i made when i hit the concrete

four. the Worlds Most Fragile museum was being catered to in the holes in my chest and if i was an armoire and you opened me up your name in red pen ink would spill out of me over thousands of artifacts and priceless memories that you've bubbled over and consumed

five. even as i write this, you'd think i would find a home in an elementary classroom by the way i can barely remember how to speak
and ive got no doubt that you went out with your usual bang
and when you left you took a goodbye that never quite delivered and all of my words with you

six. my grandmother told me insects sing, for months, the same song in hopes that they will attract a mate with their repetitive soliloquies and maybe that's my hope when i tell you i love you even when you hurt me, hope that maybe one day you will pick up the phone and echo my ache with a clear, sober melody that sounds like home.

im sure the insects will find someone who enjoys their neurotic patterns and im sure i will sleep alone in an uncomfortable bed only shushing the silence as the mailcart comes by my front lawn and pauses for a second as if it empathizes with the way i stand at the door.

seven. im always waiting for a manilla package addressed to me
containing every night i spent trying to be anxiously clever and overlooking your bad judgement and the flickers across your sentences where you were forcing yourself to care

eight. every night all i receive is the crickets and a reminder that the letters that spell out your name had become my own personal hamartia before i started whispering it in my sleep

nine. ever since we met you've infected my veins like you were a deadly back alley drug and there's something so addicting about wanting to fix someone and figure them out and work for their love

ten.  if you steal my expressions and bury them in your ground and stick a wooden stake through my last words in order to make sure i only resurface when your sobriety is fully compromised, i will, as writers do, create myself a new dictionary

the act of your name will become a verb: forcing time to scrub the inside of every part of me you touched like im a sold off garage sale item and you're trying to expurgate any emotional damage that might have been done to lower my price

the way the bugs echo will become an adjective for when i am too tired to go out and pretend that my feet arent sinking into the floor

the drilled-for-oil glass museum in my heart will become a noun;  the eighth wonder of the world, and i will continue to let people destroy it and piece it back together for the sake of art

the way you left me and the ferocity of how you stole every part of me i showed you will join adverbs and Aristotle's tragedy principles among people who created their own cloudbursts.

the way i wrap everything i've wanted to say to the back of your head as you walk away into a bulletpoint essay will become my new definition for poetry and i will build myself up from the ashes i will create from your destruction, i will sing my own songs and showcase my own museums and mail my own letters and i will **continue.
*******
Donna Feb 2015
She looks at this stranger across from her.  Who is this man?  She searches for some sense of familiarity.  There is none.  She is struck by the grayness and aging she sees in his face. She closes her eyes and tries to remember the man she once knew.  The boy really.  She was 17 and he was 21.   He was her first true love and  her first lover.   She fell in love with him or maybe fell in love with love, or maybe just fell, through the door that lead out.  Out of the war zone that most people call home.  She is a survivor.  A survivor of abuse, with all the battle scars to prove it, and a survivor of marriage.   It’s rather ironic, she thinks of them both in the same way now.

She tries to remember  the moment their love stopped, or that she just stopped loving.  Like marking the milestones in life, there should be a marker there.  Maybe it began in the first few months they were married.  She was 7 months pregnant with their first child, and a bride of only 9 months.  So trusting, so naive, so full of wonderful hopes and dreams.   In her 7th month of pregnancy, her idealistic, childhood fantasy was destroyed.  She found the man she had walked down the isle with, sworn to love, honor and cherish, in sickness and in health, till death do us part, with another woman.  Oh, “they were just friends,”  of course.  “I only lied to spare your feelings,”  of course.  “I just needed someone to talk to,”  of course.  Sad isn’t it, 9 months into a marriage and she didn’t understand him, he couldn’t talk to her.  She should have known then but she was young and she forgave him.  It seemed to hard to do anything else. To stand up for herself  meant to admit failure.  Like somehow she had failed to meet his needs.  So she tucked away the pain, burying it deeply, right next to the pain from her childhood.  

But she survives.  She knows the price you pay for survival.  You learn to live with the pain.  The physical pain and the mental pain, they are not so different.  They are destroyers.  Destroyers of  the person she wanted to be.  Stealing her hopes, her dreams, and finally her soul, one piece at a time.  

He never hit her, he could never have done that.  Besides, she swore no one would ever lay a hand on her again.  Her mother had beaten her enough for a lifetime.  For many years he never even raised his voice to her.  He just left her alone.  It was the loneliness that became her prison.  

Time moved on and they learned to coexist.  He avoided confrontation and she became a master of manipulation.  They would always mend the bridge but they could never repair the dream.  Months turned into years.  She tried to regain the newness, the trust, the feelings.  Constantly needing, no demanding, reassurance.  Only to watch her needs build a river between them to deep to cross alone. The bridge had been repaired to many times and was to shaky to stand on.  There was only one boat to reach her and he owned it.  Unfortunately, the only place he took his boat was fishing.  He never came to get her.  

The years passed.  She gives birth to another little girl.  This precious gift, life out of lifelessness.  She pours all that she has into her children, trying somehow to fill the void. She tries to reach him every now and then, tell him what she is feeling.  But he never understands.    Then one day she stops.  Like the death of her innocence, she finally concedes to the death of this existence.  Like a cancer victim, the disease has consumed her.  They are no longer husband and wife but two people who live together for  the sake of the children.  The only joy she knows is the joy of motherhood.  

They come together now and then to relieve their needs.  Even that is more mechanical and at her pleasure.  Sometimes during  that moment she let’s her guard down, desperately groping, praying somehow he will look at her and really see her for the first time.  The ache is pounding so loud she can’t believe he doesn’t hear it.  How can he not see the pain that is swallowing the woman she used to be and leaving this empty shell of a person behind.  From somewhere deep down, a tiny light of the person she used to be shines through. It is quickly extinguished by the darkness and his snoring as he falls asleep, oblivious to the emptiness she is feeling laying sobbing right beside him.

Morning comes and she waits for the words she has memorized so clearly.  He smiles, as always, “ thanks for last night.”   He says it no differently than he says “thanks for breakfast.”  Knowing that only his need was fulfilled.  Her aching to touch, to connect with this human being still remains ripping at the very center of her being. She puts on her practiced smile and accept his kiss on the cheek as payment for a job well done.  He walks the dogs, showers and heads out the door.  He says “I Love You” the same as he has a thousand times before.  He doesn’t notice that for months now she has not replied.  She cannot bring herself to listen to the empty hollowness of her own words.  

Then the predictable happens.  She met a man.  He was not a very handsome man or rich man or out of the ordinary man.  He was just a man.  But one day he reached out to her.  He paid attention to her.  He catered to her every need.  He was experienced.  He knew the fruit was ripe for picking.  He said he loved her, and wanted to marry her, and she believed him.  How naive she was.  She looks back now and cannot help but laugh.  A married woman, having an affair with a married man, who asks her to marry him.  She should have known better.   It did not take long to learn the truth.  She was not the only “other woman” in his life.  She had ended it long before her husband found out.  When he finally learned of her betrayal, he showed an ample amount of righteous anger.  His male ego had been damaged.  But he forgave her, as she knew he would.  She never felt guilty.  As a matter of fact, deep down she knew this would happen.  She felt justified. Like somehow she owed it to him to show him how it feels to be betrayed.  

And when the smoke had cleared, she took the easy way out, again.  She said she loved him.  She wanted to make it work.  She wanted him to love her.  It didn't sound like such an unreasonable request.
I'm not sure this is so much a poem as a much needed release of words and pain that I've carried inside for so long...thank you for letting me share
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2012
Bird watching, day dreams,
Catered meals, naps, massages,
Another day for cat.
She'll be digging her toes in the California sands
Only Being catered to by the loveliest of hands.
Her heavenly vocals will take her to the top of the charts
Mangling and delighting a billion hearts
She'll be the next Beyonce or Lana Del Ray
But probably something better, many would say.
She'll get everything she wants, all and more
I just hope she remembers me when I see her on tour
scully Jul 2015
I've tried to record
The way your name falls out of my mouth
When I drop glass onto the floor
Like my mothers list of forbidden words
In spreadsheets
Counting with fingers and letters
Every time I pass a red pushpin in a map
Of where you told me
"You're so young and immature"
Like a compliment traced with
Sobriety and melatonin
I've picked up pencils
That end up in pieces
After scrawling your dialogues
Onto "it's your own fault" paper
I've scrubbed myself raw
With people who wont
Look me in the eyes anymore
With your goodbye words
With the flashbacks of
Your hands manifesting
The uncharted areas
Of my brittle hips
How my ****** syllables were
Dinner party jokes
There's nothing that can hurt
A god of power
And business suits
Someone who's never told no
Holds a child
In a way that erases the thought of comfort
And now
I lack the maturity to refuse requests
And you tell me
I'd make a good corpse
At a funeral catered towards
Twenty-nine year old men
Who never learned the difference
Between property and personality
And my promises
Tighten around my throat
Gratefully
Like your hands
Fostering the
Aurora Borealis of love
In a way that
Makes me choke on
The things you've shown me
The things you've ruined for me
The words I will never get back
And I sit
With you surrounding me
In and out of every crevice of my body
You've claimed for yourself
Helpless
And defeated
Like a child
Just how you like me
im very sorry
Trevor Blevins Apr 2016
King Kenny,
Like God on Earth upon mat...
Rising sun in his eyes for rainless morning,
And superkick party, catered and cleaned.

Technician of great finesse,
Not living off technicality,
We pay thanks to our savior
For handing out the wrath.
Londis Carpenter Jul 2011
Tamaker

I won her on a whiskey bet,
At a place called Rusty's Shack,
In a poker game in Fargo
With three deuces and a Jack.

I took her from a mountain man
Who had bought her in a trade,
For a rifle and a jug of Rye,
Off an Indian renegade.

I had no yen to keep her;
I meant to set her free.
I never thought she'd want to stay,
Or that she'd follow me.

I told her she was free to go,
No longer be a slave.
But the squaw refused to leave me,
Called me her Paleface Brave.

And when I rode out of Fargo,
Headed for Cheyenne,
She followed every trail I took,
No matter the terrain.

I couldn't seem to lose her
No matter how I tried.
By the time I got to Deadwood
She was riding by my side.

We rode hard through a valley,
Forged across Powder Creek,
When I fell from my saddle
Three miles from Miner's Peak.

My saddle pony stumbled
And landed on my knee.
He broke his leg and I broke mine
Unable to get free.

If I hadn't had that Indian squaw,
A maiden called Tamaker,
I be wearing a peg-leg now,
Or living with my maker.

She patched me up and catered me
With herbs and Indian lore,
Until my health and strength returned
And I was whole once more.

And when we finally reached Cheyenne,
Still riding side by side,
We found a cowboy preacher
And I made her my bride.

The squaw I met at Rusty's shack,
Won on a whiskey bet,
Became the lady of my dreams
And we're together yet.
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2009
The monetary balance has gone crazy
In this world we call our home,
The fiscal market's shot to hell
Stock collapsing like a stone.
The hedge deals are un sellable
Most banks refuse to loan
Good real estate is valueless
The roof's a "Plummet Zone".

Oh yes the suits are stepping out for air
And falling like a stone,
Termination of their worries
Beats explanations on the phone.
There's always a dependable
To help clean up the place,
And oblivion's a better option
Than awkward questions and disgrace.

Capitulating companies,
Whole nations in default
The piggy banks are bulging
With the greenbacks from the vault.
The banks refuse to part with cash
Lines of depositors do queue
And the finance houses shut their doors
Explaining, briefly, "Well...*******!"

Heads of Government meet and talk
The photo ops are really grand,
Banner headlines in the daily's
Report resolutions that seem bland.
The fanfare and the hoopla
Announce the remedy is payoffs....
And global confidence is sprinting
For the trees...In panicked chaos!

But the C.E.O's are catered for
Their future is secure,
There's several million tucked away
In the Cayman Island tour.
Unfortunate about the desolation left behind
But these things are bound to happen
When the blind do lead the blind.

There will be some opportunities,
Some bargains coming up
And the prudent keep the check book close
For when the number's up...
Of all those struggling little people
Who bravely slave away
And collapse before they realize
Their firm's capacity to pay.

So What's around the corner?
Do we hide our heads in sand?
Do we kiss our **** goodbye
And join the suits in splatter land?
Or do we bravely hoist our trousers
Hitch our belts another notch,
And convince ourselves that someone
Higher up has got the watch
And the ability to work out
What the hell is going on..
And deliver us from evil
Before the world is ****** gone?


Marshalg
Mangere Bridge.
8th October 2008
David Ehrgott Nov 2014
What Geromino said when he ran
into General Custard.

"Hey, who ordered the flan?"

It was a catered affair.
Chelsea Eldridge Oct 2010
A married couple built a home.
They filled it with sustenance, carried trouble from the mist
Shrugged their tired shoulders and said, "the heck with it."
A few months later, they worked diligently
to make ends meet and settled with three.

The first was science;
his eyes black to the depths of feelings
catered by human beings.
He had no ambitions;
Life carried for him, no mission
He settled with a distant universe
Lost to the world, cradled by the stars.

The second was art;
her eyes open to life's imagery,
Frivolous to reality,
Living in fantasy,
Outwardly misplaced in a world confined,
By laws and walls that vex her open mind.
She sees the universe in people;
The color they shine from souls, divine
While the world just comes and goes.

The third was physics;
Always in motion, unable to rest,
Fixed in her thinking, quick to protest
the world's catastrophes offsetting her inertia,
Grounded by gravity bound by rule,
Drugged by ambition avowed to a criteria,
Where everything needs fixing and she is the tool.

In the company of such diversity,
Option created the university.
Send your offspring there.
Tell them to learn what is worth knowing:
That change is infinite and life keeps going,
and love has no limits, it keeps on growing,
as long as there is air to breath and feelings worth showing.

In the end it comes down to chemistry,
But the result always varies;
Creating a creature of beauty
From acceptance and unity
That carries on the legacy,
Of subjective company.
Sometimes, the unexpected can be so lovely.
Rowan Nov 2018
They say "I'm not sure,"
and they know it's veritable.

Cluttered desk--hats and
textbooks and papers and
earbuds all askew, heart
pumping too quick

Sitting on a black plastic chair,
legs curled up underneath, eyes
flickering to The Latehomecomer,
stomach unsettled

"I'm not sure." of what?
head down, eyes searching,
mind spinning, lungs catered
like coffee at noon
"Everything."

Supplied lies, shaking hands
pouring chamomile tea into a
white cup, hoping for--
that too.

"Everything?" on their mind
is falsified and unknown,
twisted skin ruddy,
shoes all in a row,
nails bitten like marionette

"Anything." of confirmation
belongs to the stables
which blossom with the
stench of sweetness and
wild, roving insecurity

"I'm not sure," they
murmur, "what you mean."

Precipices are lonely business
and so are "People like me,"
Forks are steel but the
mind is molten
and rusted in decay

"dream of quiet," they laud
slick on thin ice of
the essay due tomorrow in
history on the death
of too many

Sunglasses are similar
to winter waters and
lightning spirals in;
they are in debt to
themselves, in depth of

"broken moments." that
clash and too much
to think
              slivers down in silver

carcasses of thoughts
"Okay, I can't help you."

"I know," filters out
behind lips of burning iron
"I never expected you too."
floats down the crowded
unfinished
                    street.

They're not sure of
everything and
I'm not sure of
me.

I know it's true.
Brea Brea May 2013
Well, you'll pobablly be in another womans arms in the years to come
but that doesnt faze this thing
welling
that runs through the tunnels and the funnels of this heart
my love
because it gives me conviction when you are weak
it gives you the loving that you seek
and yours
like chemistry
it gives me the wish fullfillment, the dream I'd always wanted to meet
you are my sorrows dry
the tear drops from tears
separated from thier highest fate
transmuted from young coal to old gold
you bring something with you
with that pride welled up in your heart
ike a wise kind serpant
that only seeks to help
only seeks to pleasre it self
to helping me
and those who are comming
you have the ancients in those eyes
considerable, and powerful
they recognize the same power inside
me
I didnt need your acknowledgment for it to be here
but without it
I wouldnt be here
it would die whith te last morsels of my heart
to a kindly but devious part
Ive been called from the old story books, then
when the gods were our best of friends
but now I am here
in a world that is no longered catered to
because of fear
the children are blind and weak
and recognition, friendship wa all that I really ever seeked
with shoulder bones of gold
you reached into me
and saw something old
saw something untouched by the hardships that has the power to turn something beautiful
decreppid and old
not that Ib havet
havent felt the shiver of the cold
by my own small fraction of foolishness
because I listened to what this life had shown
but all the while I thought of you
even while others ran me through
this same kindness isnt wasted on you
it gives me great pleasure to do
all of this for you
because you dont look down on me
yu see yoursef in my glee
and I see a young god
with a youthful nourished body from the glitters its mind contains
like a wise stag, you've lived your ife as not to shame
the wisdoms and truth carried in your name
you make love to me
my wounds you clearly see
My lovliness dare not loosen themselves from me
my spirit is wise
and its beauty
its heart
its demise
but I am safe with you making love from behind my thighs
I am recognized for the creature I really am
not the kind to still be walking the land
but with your face in mine
my eyes flicker with a hope, completely consolidated

by your firm touch

your firm kiss

upon my soft halo

we are

the same creature
JB Fuller May 2010
once she could think well; the world catered to her call
no monsters hid under piles of newspaper over warm grates
the street was a black river, not an interruption of being
strangers sold tainted chocolates; the apocalypse was being lost
but she revolted to the wrong road and saw a flash of color
as the landscape came with thoughtless clarity
alice could never resurrect a deadened neverland
true utopia was reclaimed and found to be in reverse
the rosy view of a negative came in three-by-five prints
although she discarded knowledge and journeyed to kansas
her eyes could not forget the lure of exquisite babylon
You existed; lived simply to love me
At least that’s the way I thought
Until the ghost of you no longer see
Made bereft and left me overwrought

I thought I was all that mattered
Was your centre; your whole life
Your own hopes and dreams shattered
When you became my wife

You did your job. You kept me happy
Catered and bowed to all my needs
But me like a greedy puppy. Yappy
Selfishly caused your soul to bleed

The more you seemed to do and give
The more I grappled to take
The fact you had lost the will to live
My selfish brain no dent did make

I thought you were just bluffing
You couldn’t be so depressed
So lazily I carried on; did nothing
Broke you down in final test

They said they found your little car
Your licence cards, and keys
Angry engine humming. Doors ajar
At the docks down by the quays

Of you they said they found no trace
The currents there were stronger
You would wash up in some other place
They would find you. Just takes longer

Months have gone by but still no you
Has washed up. The police have said
The protocol. What they now must do
Is officially declare you dead!

She couldn’t handle it any more
Suicide; she took her own life
Her husband killed her to the core
Destroyed this doormat wife

So now I wallow in my guilt
Too little too late; now realising
The man she nurtured. Fed, and built
She killed herself despising

She has gone…….

In a cottage garden in Bordeaux
A lady sits smiling; quietly contented
Tragic suicide. Drowning. NO! All faux
Make escape her living hell tormented

She’s glad she saved that money
Stayed strong when life hit the buffers
Gorge on new life sweet as honey
While her hoggish husband suffers

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
Be careful how you treat her............ "Gone Girl"
Ryan Seth Cole Sep 2017
I dont think she remembers why she came.

Why she is a different person, when it rains.

When everything began, before she knew her name.
Before this creature, she became.

With the thickening Fogg and Desolate Rain; she grip's her cloak and follow's her pain.

Her lifeless eyes lead her astray, as her feet trip over one another before two others came.

She made her way into a clearing and silence she regains.

The dark purple skies reveal a shape of blame and into her form she became.

Her sense's heightened like a catalyst, her intentions were vague. Inside her heart was filled with rage.

She made her way into town, devouring all that stood in her way.

Her blood shot eyes could see for miles. Her smell was refrain.

But unto others she would look the same until her mistakes began to leave a trail from which she became.

They gathered in many, they carried they're pitch forks and Stakes but nothing would **** her and she would eventually get away.

Leaving the town in fear, she made away. She layed low for year's until one mysterious day.

A weary traveler stumbled across her home fatigued. Riddled with torment, the man lay waste.

Her heart poured for the man and so she decided to let him stay.

She catered to his wounds and she fed him each day.
He then returned to health and asked for her Name.

She barried her head, she did not say.

The man so thankful for her help; he decided to stay and pay back the woman who had no name.

He did not remember from which he came, this weary Traveler also had no name.

He promised that he would do anything for her to let him stay.

She gathered his stuff and pushed him away.
She shut him out when it started to rain.

The man confused inside but determined for change.
He decided he would go into town and return with necessary things.

As he returned there was a beast at her door. In a panic he grabbed a rock but The beast instincts much quicker than his own. The strength of ten men charged him down to the ground.

This beast would not take his life all at once.

The man remembered in that very moment from in which he Came.

But he still loved her, So he pursued her any way.

The beast then Struck him down. This time oblivious in rage.

She tore him limb from limb but Realizing was half of her Pain.

The other part of her enjoyed it and so she continued to slay.

I dont think she remembers from which she became. Her lifeless eyes that lead her astray.

Her feet fall over one another before two others came.

-RSC
Werewolves have no love life
addy r Jan 2014
Did you notice me standing on the sidewalk a little ways from the both of you? I don't know if it was a dream but I remember slicing a part of my arm to let my crimson blood drip onto the ground to mix with precipitation and flow into the sewers to feel something, to feel confirmation that it was only a dream. I felt the pain, saw the blood and still you were there, intertwined around her like ribbon around a gift. I think of the times when you showed up right outside my door, looking desperate and deprived, and I still catered to your every need even though a little voice in my head screamed STOP HE'S USING YOU as it cut into my nerves and shook my conscience. Yet I broke all the rules for you, committing modern day badass-ery. And even now I question you on whether you would break your clock and volunteer time you didn't have for me. You wouldn't, I think, you didn't even speak to me and you answer awkwardly, like snakes were choking you and constricting your windpipe and as if acid were burning your larynx to the point of muting you when I did. I stopped questioning you and let you be for a very long while even though the little voice protested that I should think for myself. You seeing me started becoming a privilege because you only showed up once in a while to lock lips and embrace me. I don't remember a single day where all we did was just get ice-creams and chill somewhere with the company of only each other.

I was used and boy is it emphasized as you stand a little ways from me, wrapped around her.

I see you kissing her like how you kissed me, putting your arms around her like how you did me. But will she ever know how the love I had for you engulfed you in a dark shadow, stretching to the galaxies beyond and appealing to the moon for it's blessing? I knew, from that moment on, that loving you is mistake I will never make again. Even if I'm breaking down at 2 am suppers, consuming yogurt by the tub and pulling all of my hair out because of that one kiss I saw you share with someone I trusted, I will never tear my heart in two ever again just to share a piece with you for I know you won't care for it. Don't burn me with the memories we had since I have set them on fire the moment I saw you and her.

But I don't have the strength to keep myself standing upright as I stand a little ways from you wrapped around her, and I crumble to the ground, shattering into ash...

(lunarlullubies)
you and her were my inspiration for this ;)
Helen McKean Apr 2010
like a damp newborn
my wings have yet to dry,
but no longer required
to inch on stubby caterpillar legs,
unfolding, yielding to the sky.

growing,
bigger or stronger?
shedding the skin
that until now catered to your touch;
without ears
(for you supply no words)
listening with my tongue
for your toxic presence.

a ball of fluff,
that cannot swim,
who you leave to drown,
rises up out of the water
its wings sleekly curved
stunningly bright, bold, and beautiful.

and you wonder
at the transformations,
even though you were
the noxious chemicals
that began these
beneficial mutations.
1998
Joseph Norris Jun 2013
I believe in broken love and love lost,
Which may seem like two separate things;
However, they are in unison.
Love has grown to become so cliche and overplayed;
But in it's most pure form is spectacular and divine Until taken advantage of.
Love can come young,
but it is rarely understood, ever.
When love is misinterpreted,
There is chance for it to become broken.
Then, after the love breaks,
It leaks out until lost
In a deep ocean of emotions and thoughts.

Three years ago,
My first serious relationship had started.
I was completely clueless to what had started happening.
I knew I had felt different.
I began developing a sense of "we" instead of "me".
I had never been so happy, intrigued, or fascinated.
All this by another mortal human being.

After a few months,
I realized I had finally started experiencing what seemed to be true love;
And as time progressed,
I lost myself
For what I thought was the relationship itself.
I attempted to regain independence,
But one thing lead to another
And hate began overpowering the love and affection.

Though I never left,
I found another lover.
Well, I guess one could say another found me. Misconstruing love and lust,
I drifted into a world of sin and slickness.
My needs were finally being catered to
As I indulged in the best of both worlds.

I felt as if I finally deserved this.
I had been faithful for two years,
So shouldn't I get some free time?
After all, I stayed after they cheated.
They can do the same,
Especially since I won't keep this up for long.
I thought this was acceptable in my own eyes,
Yet I ignored the agonizing conviction that laid within my heart of being wrong.

One night, things had come to a ******
Between the new lover and I.
In the moment,
Boundaries of existence were broken.
However, afterwards I realized I had soiled the upmost precious thing I had ever possessed,
And that would be true love.
How could I have done this for pleasure?

Within a week, guilt had overtaken me.
I had to either come clean or leave.
I knew I would hurt her if I had told the truth
More than if I left.
I said that we were no longer meant to be
Because our love had been broken with fighting and deceit.

She cried for a week,
Begging me to come back.
I realized I had done something so horrid.
I could never take it back.
I left someone good for someone great.
So, why did I feel so bad?

Now, I am without either
Because of the guilt trip I went through.
I had broken a love.
And now, love was lost in the sea of emotions,
Sinking to the infinite depths of darkness
To never be found again.
Logan Robertson Sep 2017
Restless Encounter

Returned from the graveyard shift
I needed a lift
Puppy eyes shut
Barks abut

I couldn't sleep
So I counted sheep
One, two, three, four
There's  a knock at the door

It's an old cougar
That wants to borrow sugar
Coast was clear
I had no fear

Two hours later
The gator was catered
It's back to sleep
Counting sheep

Halfway to fourty
Lawn mower sounds, oh lordly
Two hours later
The gator's  a hater

It's back to sleep
Counting sheep
Twist and turned twenty five
And more unneeded jive

Alarm clock set for wrong time
Chime, chime, chime
Can you believe that
The gator spat

It's back to sleep
Counting sheep
I see her in the lea
Playing with me

Her wool a nice set
As my gator's lip wet
And this time the wifely returns
My insides want to burn, burn, burn

My gator sighs
As she says hi
Hi I weep, weep, weep
Please I need some sleep

She looks (esoteric) at me
With that look of plea, plea, plea
She wants her sugar fix, too
My gator singing it's blue

My eyes want to close
But there she blows
Chime, chime, chime
Wifely having a good time

On top of the train track
Gators attacked
His sheep counting on him
To stop the bedlam

Logan Robertson

9/6/17
I sat with a blue emblem of bruised hollows
Voice....fractionless in the gap between words
Fresh out of rhymes caught up in a grey scenario
Sellotaped up for the time being.  Until 'They' create the story
Board.  Temporary measures, I called in its truth
Asked it to surface.  It could not; remaining submerged
Seeping into human unknowns.  I sprinkled an ounce of
Salt on the wound.  It stung like hell, in healing hibernation
The billboards flapped their curiosity, taking on the sellers
Argument. Advertising its limits, search parties calling
Out to investigate.  We sat down with disbelief, about what,
We were unsure.  Clusters of acidic thoughts back dropped
Our vantage point and poured sour silence into our sentences
The near on tragedy catered for by reapers in hooded outcomes
Sell me another box of tricks I asked, one I can enter into without
Criminalising your purchase, slinking off on a day trip of borrowed time
C Jacobine Nov 2011
The lovers in their windows
drew my bitter eyes;
Heavens aligned that I would find a heart on to rely.

The eyes that caught me glancing
were faded as my boots.
The words inane, we shared our pain in darkened disrepute.

Her breath assuaged discomfort
and hazed my gazeless stare.
Reserves dismissed for hollow bliss, I came to be ensnared.

She stole from me my envy
and catered to my pride.
At my whim she’d quell my dreams and hold herself astride.

Today is not remembered
by distant sons, estranged.
The grand divide one must decide is cold comfort or change.

The grains upon my table
could satisfy no more.
Again enticed, against advice, I shattered our rapport.

I sent my love a dying spring
so she’d remember me.
But when the tears fell from her face, they washed into the sea.

The stars that rose above me
emerged from out the foam.
And by their light, I stood, contrite, and spent the night alone.

Removed beside the brookbank,
in hopeless disarray,
The rock and roll will steal her soul and watch her float away.
Brandon Jul 2013
Jared held his breath.

He knew this was going to be a very close race going into the final weeks of the election but he did not anticipate such a nail biting last minute count. He took a long swig from a local artisanal beer that had been brewed as a tie-in with his campaign. His slogan was emblazoned on the side of the glass and a scene showing the peace that would come when he was in office was depicted on the label. he knew the beer was a campy campaign gimmick but he felt above his opponent by bringing in local businesses as part of his election. Jared knew his win would be won by the proletariats and not the business classes that the other candidates catered to. He savored the hoppy taste on his tongue as he gulped the ale back and sat the bottle down on the table allowing the beads of condensation to puddle up and leave a ring. His wife would be mad at him for not using a coaster but he had made it okay with himself by reasoning that when, not if, he wins the election he will buy her a new table. One that matched a certain house painted white.

Jared ran his fingers thru his slightly balding blonde hair and couldn’t believe he had made it to this moment in his life. It felt like just yesterday when he had passed the bar exam for New Vegas and celebrated with his buddies by renting out a tennis court and getting wasted.

But that was nearly forty years ago and much had changed. He saw his country torn apart as he reached his thirties and watched the States die and be reborn as new states, watched with tense shoulders and determination the outcome of the second Cold War as it became the Third World War. He watched his brothers and many of his friends take up arms for their countries and lose their lives in combat. He became a lawyer and fought old and new laws. He saved lives and condemned others. He listened to the politicians spread lies as their power grew and he saw the people grow tired of it and rise up. He saw the tearing down and building up of a new government.

He watched and watched until he could watch no more and had to be a part of the solution.

It was hard going at first getting capital and endorsements to run but he did not let that stop him. He would politic on every corner and his charisma would draw people in and he would win them over with his platform. Soon the street corners became auditoriums became venues became local tv became national tv and the gathering of people grew all the time as well. He was announced as a candidate and immediately went into political overdrive, getting himself, his brand, and his message out to the people as quickly as possible. He was for the people and by the people. A real presidential hopeful in the days that needed a hero to lead them.

He drank some more beer and watched the television as it reported ninety three percent of jurisdictions were reporting in saying that his opponent, Warren, had won but that the race was still too close to call.

The phone rang and he picked it up. “Hello?" “Hey-o j-loser," warren said. “Have you seen the good news, looks like I’m winning. Guess you shouldn’t bet against big business. After all they’re the ones with money and we know everyone can be bought, he-haw-he."

Jared put the receiver down, he didn’t feel like listening to Warrens donkey like laughter.

Jared checked his beer and it was empty so he left the tv and walked to the kitchen to grab another one. He twisted the top off and put it to his lips as he walked back to the living room. As he was about to take another drink the news flashed on screen and reported that all precincts were now reporting and that the winner and new president was Jared.

He had won.

The people had voted him in.

The phone rang.

It was Warren again, conceding the race. Jared laughed and told him it was a hell of a race and hung up.

The phone rang again.

This time it was friends and family calling him up to congratulate him.

He took the phone off the hook and finished his beer and grabbed another one and went to looking out the penthouse window at the city celebrating below. Tomorrow he would start on all the promises he had made and he would get his country back on track but tonight, tonight he would drink his beer and celebrate the race being over.
Unedited.
Keith W Fletcher Jan 2016
Have you ever had the experience
A coincidence becomes dissectable
And every nuance  and subtle twist
Can be seen for the impossibly relatable
Series of razor thin events connected
By the most tenuous reality imaginable.

So there l was ... sitting  on a bench
In the very mall I practically lived in
Back when I was a kid of the eighties
"20 years since I had even ....drivin
   The cracked and humbled asphalt  parking lot  

College called  - I answered  
Job  offer - ouldn't refuse
First wife walked-while I strayed
Second paid me back my earned dues
Third passed my name on into tomorrow
And the next ones due - Doc says is two

Mom called ....had cracked her vision
Time to readjust her optic imbalance
So here at the mall her optometrist  catered
While I kept tripping on that crazy window display

Why was it so familiar
I knew I knew  
But had not a clue
Where why or how that motorized
Chunk of plastic oscillating there ...like...like....?

Next morn it was back to the routine
Of a now eight year old commute
25miles on the turnpike then 3 mile of side street
To the .....o.m.g.  It was sarge  at the mall
It was sarge that musta always waved ...... it was sarge
   That what I nicknamed him
Funny how you can miss something
And not know that it was gone
Until that moment of clarity
When suddenly it will dawn... upon...you
That you should have noticed a week ago.

There had been a time when the routine route
Had just become a part of my future
And he stood there waving like a mad king
In that small patch of green behind the chain link
Beneath the curving memosa limb
Leaning on the triangle leg of a kids swing
Comical the first week anoying me the next
But every day rain or shine he was there
Smiling as he waved --enthusiasm portrayed
On the round cherubic ageless down --syndrome face
Infectious as a yawn everyday his hand waggling
Back and forth, back and forth until a week ago
When he was gone. Just a worn down spot in the grass
So.... Today I shall make commuter history. By pulling over
I parked among the honking horns .the shaking fists
And walked along the lawn through the gate and to the door
When a lady laced with smells of cinnamon rolls and coffee
Opened the door and began to cry when I told her why
His name was Harold he prefered Harry 52 just 3 weeks ago
And thats as old as he will ever get. We had coffee and a roll
As she told me of his life and times and I said his waving
And his smile would be missed. By more than just me I did insist

That day I didn't go on to work I set off for the mall
Where I entered into that novelty gift store
Then I left with a package that contained some yellow plastic
A motor and a battery and I had splurged on a solar panel
Then I parked again where earlier I had been
On silent steps and unspeakable joy I mounted what I carried
To the leg of the swing directly in line with the worn down grass
Then I turned it on and watched that yellow hand wave
Waggling to beat the band just like Harry did .
When I knocked she answered with puffy eyes you can't disguise
So I wasn't sure as I pointed toward my tribute -manic and gaudy
I felt as though I had crossed a line till then I had denied
But then Harrys mother looked real close . then busted out laughing  till once again tears filled up and ran from her eyes
It  aint the same , nothing replaces but I see smiles each morning
As his audience of jaded commuters replace the driving faces
With entheusiastic smiles that lightens up the commuters  route
And all those endless miles.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Rain drop drip,
mist pale
as starving
white ghosts
clings
to tree limbs,
deck railing,
undergrowth.

A world
lightly glazed
or frosted
like a wedding cake
catered by God.

What secrets
this valley
whispers
through the damp
morning chill.

Cherokees,
long hunters,
dirt farmers,
lost hippies.

Listen closely and
the land speaks
their spirit stories.

In this drifting mist
their insubstantial
shades seek
to live again.

Actions of the heart,
lives of the past:

Nothing
the world
has known
is ever
completely
lost.
- mce
A mysterious place, Tennessee.

— The End —