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Daniel Magner Nov 2012
Sun drawing out sweat
causing clothes to fall off
Deep breaths and quiet grins
Eyes of strangers met

Shirtless against the wall
but only in the head
Standing like a scarecrow
so nothing stands out at all, oh god

Chitter chatter to cover up
But the sweat is growing thick
Better act natural
to keep from becoming the stereotypical
male ****
Keep cool, self, be slick
© Daniel Magner 2012
Mia Mcdaniel May 2019
Lily pollens glow
rain of tears drops though it rained
petals glow
lily gleam and glow through it reverses time
night crickets chitter in joy
clock hand reverse twelve
midnight bell rings
willow leaves raddle like reindeer bells
pasture sound chitters and shallow
river flow down the stream fast
the wind made tree leaves raddle
so quick time stopped beneath my feet.
Jay Jimenez Sep 2012
When we speak
in whispers
Shh and fingers to the lips
so we speak to speak
But listen do we really
confused looks
tired eyes
my pillow seems nice
where my mind can rest
of all the chitter chatter
Edward Laine Dec 2011
Chapter one:

  The strange entanglement of the sun, twisted in kooky bedlam with The Great King Moon in winter.

Have you ever looked down at yr feet on the long walk home & wondered if you’re really moving forward any more or if all your really doing is just moving the ground? Don’t answer that, its a rhetorical question. Of course you have. We all have. You think you’re moving in the right direction, following the north star or the compass in your brain or maybe just your nose or your thumb and fore finger. You  believe that you’re gonna make it somewhere, you have to believe. What else is there. The truth is, you’re going nowhere, we are all going nowhere, we just spin on the slanted axis & never really go anywhere. We have been conditioned to believe that this is the way the world works but I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t, you gotta buck up, **** up or ******* ‘*** let me tell you, yr ‘dreams’ mean nothing to anybody ‘*** living, real living is not connected to REM. That’s all just more ******* you’re gonna have to put up with people trying to sell you. Lick the boot, get over the barrel & bite down on your watch strap. That’s all there is to it. The mind is a magnet. If you find yourself staring in to the abyss: Jump right in. Swan dive. Hold your breath & wait. Everything will be OK. I promise you.

I’m writing, ah writing! Writing this worthless piece of *****// manuscript of means for you. For me, for the future, for love, for lust, for hatred of all things hating, for your mother & farther, for my friends, my beautiful angelic, clinically insane friends, for time, for the soles of my shoes with hundreds of miles under their laces, for your fat greedy pockets, for the moon, for the sun to spit on, for the wind to taunt, as he does like the great cowardly, perverted invisible fiend that he is, for nothing, for not quite everything, for your aching lovers, for your broken hearts, for the worlds water, may you always be clean & run free, for the great biblical liars, for the sorrowful wonder of the great homeless & may all their wants come to be wanted, for *******, for fumbling, for the vast oaken heavy doors on bars that keep us safe from the  horrors outside, for guilt, for sugar-blue smoke, for all the kids sitting in **** stained squat houses with half a horse embedded in their face, for my schools that gave up on a bored child, for warmth & fire & woollen clothing, for Paris where I can fulfil my great dream of becoming a sullen cliché, for the gravel-mounted marching marvel, may you never lose your way, for the Parthenon, for Aubergine, for The Firefly, the swan, bleeding,for growing up, for all the music makers,all people should play all instruments to any degree(rather than just, age & shrivel), for Howl for Carl Solomon, for every down & out that ever clawed his way up the street & through the yellow door, for all the animals that gave their lives to keep me fat & red faced, for Christ sake, for the invisible man in the sky, causing all war & so much death-thank you, for the wild west, for Bert & John, for the great literary mastodon to look down his reset nose at & ask me why. Why?

The way that old dial telephones look & feel. The questions that need no answers. Feeling down, down & out, upside down & inside out,upside in & downside out on the pavement at five am. Waking up in unknown beds & crawling down drain pipes. Getting lost in a place you have lived your whole life. Being in the woods simply to be in the woods. Drinking coffee even though you hate the taste. Never telling a stranger the truth. Living under a false name. Drinking yourself to death in the dark lonely-crowded corners of ***** stained wood floor warehouse floors. Feeling solid-sterling-gold for feeling so terribly horrifically half-corpse-like the only way you can really feel is completely statuesquely angelically magnificent and the only way is down(you really have no idea how far I fell that morning) , Only going out when it rains. Only going out in the dark. Staying up all night dreaming and sleeping all day. Remembering to forget, forgetting to remember to remember to be forgetful. Understanding that you and no one else understands nothing but eat-drink-sleep-****-death. Smoking until yr tongue bleeds and yr eyes burn like that fire in the sky in the fearful month of June. Wishing you knew how to tie a noose & writing ”suicide” on yr calender on a day you have no planned engagements. Shooting to the moon & back in the bee-bop-bo-bo-batter-batter-chitter-chatter like jazz on the neon streets of the earths mother. Crawling in to a stone cold bed after walking for six days & feeling bored & lonely again in ten minutes.

That’s why, I’m glad you asked. If I’m going out, then I’m out going with some steeze in a cloud of smoke, yr wife & I’m not taking you with me.

For all these things & more is the reason I write. To write for the sake of writing. For, some people write, just to write & they are truly the the lost meaning of it all.

Automatic travel rambles to plug up the holes in yr lonesome pockets. Blues.

Chapter two:  

Creeping moss-stick under-flowering the useless but grateful Tuesday poet, Jim Gravestone Sr.

The ghost of the monorail, living only in upturned memory sits slow & smooth/low against the Sunday evening rapture. You gotta know which way is down. Down. The dew on the grass & the creamy-green residue of the night before is just too close to a real drama. Absolute dahma. Down in the cold rising damp & the stain on your shirt.

He sits , sits like you, like me & like old Tom Mooney the prison king. If you ever saw such a sad sight as he, I do believe you would roll out your tongue on the pavement right there & then & wait for the road sweeper & all his secret, early morning charms & the great wolf man, pork chop sideburns (lupine dreams)to clean you up & clean you out. I do declare!

For he knows-for he has seen. Seen the sun rise from his pearly throne up on the dark side of the moon, the very face of Bowie, right there in the eye socket. He sees all. You can live your life, & you do, & you should, but he, O’ he, he has really been there & where & back again. You carry on with your sleepy routine of mule-back coffee office doom death jobs(you sleepy Bohemian, you)  & in you spare time trying to keep your nose from filling up with water & your private parts entwined with somebody else’s most private of parts, & on the side lines of you spare time you can deal with your family & all the friends that you’re sick of but hold on to, only for the fear of being left alone in the dark with nothing but all of the above. Then again you always have your studies(STDS)all of the ologies, of course.

Sleepology, cocaineology,rainolgy, sunology, lonleyology, depressionology, suicideology, talkology,empypocketsology, meaninglessology, masterbationology, coutntingyourmoneyinpintsology,walkology, onenightstandology, jumpthetaxiology, begology, borrowology, stealology,feelology, upallnightology, sleepalldayology, Xology, ologyology, etcology etc…ology etc.

Just find something you can care for ‘*** [insert atheist god/idol] knows that nobody is going to do your caring for you, even I they do in fact care for you.

I have been beginning to notice,that I(and I may not be alone)

always look at the past through a marigold monocle.

This, meaning nothing now ever seems to be joyous or gay or splendiferous until it is a past memory.

A cobweb. A rafter. A leaf on the ground. …I guess.

         Chapter three:

I know you know it but people that you don’t know, really are a funny, funny thing…

I stand outside the rain & watch the people passing by; really the most depressing experience of my ever increasing years. Un-jolly fat men with whiskey-nose & scuffle-feet stanzas of gibberish, talking gibberish & gibberish being their inner most self. Pre-war women with Arctic-blue hair, faces melting, everything pointing down, shuffle. Kids pushing prams full of ugly babies towards a house of who-gives-a-**** & ******* & I’m-gonna-die-here and what of it. Is there really no more to life. Listen to the top 40 on the radio, clueless, oblivious. Cogs. All cogs. Military troglodytes following them back in a dead eyed daze, dreaming of killing in the real and virtual. No you may not have a cigarette. Leave me alone, please. Let me listen to my watch ticking in peace & at least pretend that you don’t exist.

The human body is comprised of several ‘substances’

including..

Mercury,

hydrogen hydroxide,

fountain pens,

the lost dates of calenders,

various small woodland animals,

including…

Voles,

rabbits & field mice.

Other such things as…

Misplaced birthmarks(of the brain)

feelings of remorse and regret,

the stolen trinkets of past lovers,

and of course,

white blood cells,

pesticides,

and the second hand

from a 1956 ’Hamilton Rail road’ pocket watch.

E.L August 7th

           Chapter four:

Last night, last night was the last night it was the night last

Picasso raincoat. Imagelessness. Bottomlessness. I lost my umbrella & my Holden Caulfield head-wear, again. I was skipping on a rain cloud, corduroy boy and scarecrow girl, reunited in a soft entanglement sticky in the senses. Hoof! The only way is up when you walk down these stairs, snakes and blisters, but you’ll sweat it all out in babble cream conversation and love in your eyes. Tell me a story, tell me a story, tell me something to prop my chin up in this brown tunnel. Your name it is something I cant care to remember but of course I never really had a name of my own either, so we shall be the great wonder of the nameless masses, the ones born to no name and never wanted one anyway. A name is nothing but a label, a calling card, call me anything, call me king Charles II just as long as you do call me, the sound of a voice, your voice, any voice reeling off a comprised anagram of the alphabet is enough to get my short attentive ears to perk up and twist my noggin backwards towards the direction of my inbuilt gypsy sonar. So anyway, I was going to talk about something, something great… but now its gone and all I have is bloodshot eyes and sweaty liars palms to prove to the world that I had an idea once, I swear I did.

Here’s an idea for you to dig you heels into:

The world keeps making mistakes, everybody makes mistakes, its natural, nothing to fear, it happens all day every day. BUT, with every mistake we make, we then proceed to learn from that mistake, so.. stay with me here… Once the world, the whole world meaning everyone in it, has made every mistake they can make and of course and one would hope of course, that they have also learned from all of these mistakes; once this has happened, there will be no more mistakes to make, right? Therefore leaving the world perfect as a whole, no mistakes to make, learnt their lessons on every lesson and we can all go on with living a perfect existence, yes?…

No.

I’ve really thought long and hard about it -could never happen, people are not perfect, they never will be, if they were I wouldn’t want to know any of them, and the world, well the world is an imperfect place, and the same rule applies.

But let me hit you with another bit of knowledge to round things off and maybe put a positive spin on things. Hoist ye marrow-thumbs around this;

One of the many few early times that my legs forgot how to use them selves, I was sitting on the pavement, trying for one to reattach these two now useless appendages stuck like butter to my lower torso, but foremost trying to light a cigarette with my useless cold hands and equally useless matches, fearful of the sneaky clear coward, invisible old Mr wind, when a kindly stranger, half my size, red my hair, opposite my *** and now opposite my broken legs appeared like a person will appear when you mind is in other minds, a smile, a sympathetic look and two working hands to fire up the stick in my mouth. I said my thanks, babbled about babble and the generation of gibberish and im sure many other things inconceivable to the sober ear of a dame such as she, the bringer of flame and enlightenment, not of the smoke but of the simple mind, an idea is what she left with me and it never left. She stopped my rambling typewriter of a tongue and said ‘shush’ she held my head in her hands, looked at me straight,so I thought she might be death or god or that I was passing out,she all green eyed and like the woods, looked at my eyes like they were tethered together and dropped the bomb on me, she said ”if you are looking at the moon, then everything is alright” kissed my warm on frozen forehead and was gone into the night, never to be seen again.

That’s all the advice you will ever need, & so ll I will leave you with.

You never left a name, but I never wanted one anyway.

Midnight moment

beautiful rags

midnight joy.


Nevermind your little light,

set apart your golden dreams

that offen break,

& come to play.


Chapter five: There are things I want to write but I am not going to write them.

The End.

‘Stay gold, Pony Boy’
Universal Thrum Mar 2014
A bird flew in through my closet
I had to let it go
out the window, it flew into the morning

Buzzing chatter sin and spirits
madly the dance carries on
inane questions with one word answers
reporting the days trivialities
carrying the glass
the deluge of phenomenon strikes at the quick
a deepening glacier through the amber halls
Independent motives form a scarlet solstice
The corner punch
a late coming truth
wrapped around a fly town mule to be found after the chips were down
and the explosives tucked onto a full chest
ticking away the blood buzz
Deceipt is easily repeated
Betrayal is a child's game of hide and seek
take the vows to the woodshed
smoke out the liar and the instigators
tell the mayor and the pauper that the world is burning
and to strangle honesty in a warm blanket, twisting the service
manipulating truth to serve ***** ends
Oh Mystic Mama of children unborn and never met

Chitter Chatter Chitter Chatter Chitter Chatter
platinum blonde birdies
chickies, full breasted youth fresh out of the nest
peep peep peep
sonic cataclysm reigning groove puckered lips and loose necks floating on a string in the whistling gale
My cornered ambition surveying doorways to fate, kind and cursed
the runestone heart scrying destiny
torchlight in a catacomb
smokefunk in a polar vortex
Lions patiently gaze savannas, so shall I, wait for the moments prompting,
a glance, a smile, the eyes are portals to new beginnings
will ours meet in time-space, energetic bridges spanning fate
feeling the flowing force flowering
a daisy, a rose
the scent of burning sage sealed into my clothing, my musk
open your palm now
kyanite slips from mine
polluted temples housing pure souls
speak of fires and nooks and warm bellies full of honey liquor stretched across a bear skin rug, naked,
run your fingers through my thick pelt of curly fur
let me taste your cold smokey lips
take a drag of you
inhaling embers that burn my throat with your incendiary nature

The grey lady of the mirror invites the forgotten man to the palace of pain,
entering into a crystal ballroom dancing blindly into past circumstance marauding as purpose and plan, dusty photographs and scratched records

Lean against the wooden ledge and dream of what could be
crusted sea salt collecting on unspoken thoughts
Nauseous vectors pulling weight against the grainy side
a sigh, a bored youth hidden deep inside
Come children, sway to the intoxicated beat
the pied piper of jazz rolls our frolicking feet steeped in cement
rebellious laughter pours out of aged caskets
barrels of wine flow forth into puddles on the street reflecting the twisted value of the vine, constant motion pretending to be holy endeavors of self conscious people flailing for purpose

Vast desert, without voice
only eyes, silent eyes
hands reporting, sketching symbols
code for a future age
Names and labels filling conceptual minds
Bass groove melting into permeable streams of fluid conversation,
as the wood beams stare silently above reflecting the glow of a mid-winter lantern on a snowy street
nimbly, we punctuate and nod in this, our confused jungle of intention
suddenly, the face of God appears at a crowded bar with jazz and a morraca's hiss
Wild sweet Annie goes down easy with the Corner Punch lost in Lucey's Summer
taking a last ride to Courtland alone along the Mazerac mile riding that same Fly Town Mule on Sunday
Visions of Columbia and Ohio Gold send Blood Buzzing into my dome
With every Call the desire rises for the forsaken, like a memory wrapped in past life
With every stranger passing through the entry way, my hunger for the liar grows, thirsting water from the dead
with bark like alligator skin
the pines reach up up to the sky
eighty   one hundred   feet they fly their needles
as if to say
here we are O Wondrous One
take us
do with us as You will

little shake-tail squirrels chitter above me
as if to say   go away! this is our pine
you don't belong here!

I reply
I do belong here    the pines have told me so
I do belong here
the wildflowers have said so
and the creek has burbled its assent as well

I belong here   I repeat
I will stay here among the pines with alligatorskin bark
and the winds singing through the wood
and the creek seeking the sea
yes I will stay

and I will roll in the feeling of belonging like a dog rolls in herbage
and savor that I belong   I belong   here/now
at last


c. Roberta Compton Rainwater
2009/2014
Mark Ball Aug 2014
Tick-tock
Went the clock
The day I wanted to stop.

The pitter-patter,
Chitter-chatter.
The walks,
The squaks
And the all 'important talks'
The day I wanted to stop.

Intrusion, confusion, pollution
And social 'evolution'
The day I wanted to stop.

The swearing, the caring.
The 'how are you faring?'
The day I wanted to stop.

The girl, the boy.
That unexpected smile.
Kindness flowing
Kept me going;
If only for awhile,
On the day I wanted to stop.
A little something I wrote on my birthday.
Vince Paige Jun 2010
where are you when i need you most?
when the day has reached it's twilight
and the bitter night creeps through my house.
the pitter-patter of little feet has become
the stimpy-stomping of little monsters.
the chitter-chatter of nig-nig-nagging
is constant in my ear.
oh, heineken, heineken, heineken.
were you but a woman, i would flee this world
and steal you away as paris took helen.
we would spend day and night in each other's embrace.
i would sing praises and songs in your honor
and the world would stand back and marvel
at the love between us.
but, you are not a woman, but still i long for
the feel of your firmness in my hand,
your wondrous good taste chasing worry away.
i would drink you and all of your companions
and dance/prance/stumble to the bathroom
as if in heaven.
the pitter-patter would turn to clinking of bottles.
the chitter-chatter would turn to clicking of caps.
but alas, i am merely dreaming and sober.
and tonight you are in the hands of another.
tomorrow, i will venture and seek you out.
oh heineken, you will soon be mine.
mine all mine, the world will tremble with my
drunken laughter.
05:10 PM 6/24/04
Cedric McClester Mar 2017
By: Cedric McClester

It’s, “affordable housing,”
That we can’t afford
Our cries in vain
Go largely ignored
So please don’t ask us
Where the grapes of wrath are stored
If you don’t want us
To respond untoward

They show us an unaffordable
AMI
For people who barely
Are just getting by
So to call it affordable
Is a bold face lie
That try though they may
They cannot deny

We’re brought together
To plan and plot
Our community’s future
Are we not
But they won’t admit
To what’s already in place
Like a zoning change
What a disgrace

Ultimately we’re told our future’s
Up to us
And if we believe them
As they say we must
They seek our ideas
Like they really matter
But I know all that is
Is just chitter chatter






Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017.  All rights reserved.
Lora Lee Sep 2017
Within the salty swirl of foamy loam
where depths collide with rushing tides
mystical creatures' hearts do roam
their secret desires, they so carefully hide

But one day among crystalline shadows of light
in shades of turquoise and emerald,
two beauties emerge from dark into bright,
and in their meeting a shared destiny heralds.

One with a voluptuous feminine grace,
swaying hips, fullness of ******* and velvet thighs
auburn-haired, with lips made of cherry
and her mellifluous voice her treasured prize.
The other a magical alchemy
of shapely woman and magnificent fish
her violet eyes and iridescent smile
would fulfill Poseidon's deepest wish.
With gemlike scales and long, lithe limbs
a glow lights up her mystic aura
yet behind it a sadness and longing for love
hide behind the coral reef's gentle flora.

Chancing upon each other,
at first hazy shadows
in the blue-green light
the Siren and the Mermaid
started to discover
that they shared a similar plight.

"Are my eyes really seeing what I think?"
breathed the Siren into the salt
"I've never seen a more beautiful creature,
I thought the chances would be nought"
"My name is Nerine," said the Mermaid. "For a sea nymph I truly am
who has roamed the oceans day and night
feeling more empty the harder she swam"
"And I, am Ula," declared the Siren, in a voice like crystals , fine-tuned
"They say that my voice is as clear and smooth as a sapphire
which is why I am called a 'sea jewel.'"
The two embraced and began to talk, speaking of their pasts,
their present and future
and both realized that they wished for spiritual and ****** mates
to mend their hearts that were achingly sutured
"Oh darling," said Ula
"Let us journey to the land of the forests
for surely as they day I was born
we may find our blessing a-waiting us
in the spell of the wondrous Unicorn"

And so a sacred pact was made
as they swore unto each other
that their vigour would not fade
until they found their one-horned lover
and with knowing eyes,
pressed palm to palm
the beauties made their choice
Nerine would give up her tail for legs
and Ula her singing voice

Foreheads together, arms raised in light
their prayer was spun to sky
and suddenly, the two enchantresses
found themselves on land, quite dry

Excited, giggling like nymphets
they jumped and twirled in delight
and set off for the forest green
For their hearts they were ready to fight

I feel their presence first
a Fey being knows another Fey being.
The magic of the Otherworld,
announcing arrival long before seeing.

Into view they came walking along the forest path,
fluid movements hinting at an elemental source.
Chitter-chattering, the same way that finches laugh,
feet strong, steady, never straying from their course.
Two carefree girls, making trails through my Green,
I feel a purpose brooding, so sound out a call.
They stop, gracious, as if surprised to be seen,
whispering these words as on their knees they fall.

“We are Sea-sisters of the ocean,
we are here to follow our notion.
Searching the forest in gentle kind,
for the Unicorn we wish to find”.

Hark! Hear your wild Lord speak,
listen as your mind he frees,
leading you on a fantasy journey,
through valleys and betwixt the trees.
His stories weave a forest dreamscape,
a sylvan land of purest Green,
leading you by a cautious hand,
he'll show you things you've never seen.
Twisted hazel and the mighty oaks,
meadows and glades of sweetest light.
Streams that catch the moons cool rays
and secrets held within the night.
But the Unicorn, a law unto himself,
is one thing this Lord cannot show,
a creature to be sought for alone,
so off through the forest you must go.

Following deer tracks and mystical ways,
strange paths that turn and twist.
Deep into the woods the wanderers stray,
yearning the fabled Unicorn to exist.

Then it happened, inclement weather,
rain soaked the bracken and heather.
So Nerine and Ula, a decision made,
took to shelter in a canopied glade.
The irony was, to them, quite plain,
creatures of the sea hiding from rain.
The forest floor did start to steam,
creating an eerie warm sylvan dream.

And the girls so excited hugged and kissed
as a mighty beast emerged from the mist.
Slowly coalescing and so taking its form,
the raw masculine power of the Unicorn.

I had felt their presence as soon as they touched land,
emerging from the foaming waves, crawling hand in hand.
I heard the echoes on the ether, as they made their Sacrifice,
the resonance throughout feydom as they gladly pay the price.
I knew their wandering had led them a merry crooked dance,
and now they shivered before me, they think as if by chance.
But I am a law unto myself, the Unicorn of the trees,
roaming at will in the forest, showing myself to whom I please.
So these Maidens come from the sea where they were born,
two adventurous girls' brave quest to find the Unicorn.
Nerine and Ula looking awestruck statues in my presence,
rooted to the spot, rigid liked scared and paralysed pheasants.
Their deepest wish fulfilled, they marvel at my existence,
and I in turn marvel at their resilience and raw persistance.
But the Sacrifice means that the sea is no longer home,
tied well to the land, destined now to forever roam.
And what of love, their desires and lust to find a mate?
Well, for Nerine there is no choice, feelings came so late.
Parting from the Forest Lord, latent attraction she had felt,
and knew she would return his way, in his arms to melt.
The Siren Ula was very quiet, looking frightened and forlorn,
her greatest dream had always been to follow the Unicorn.
So now we walk together through glades beneath the Moon,
my primal urge keeps calling for her to sing a tune.

Sacrifice made, quest fulfilled, to her Lord, Nerine has gone.
Ula happily rides me, never once missing her Sirens Song.
And here, for now, is where this story sadly ends,
Nerine and Ula Sacrificed their gifts, forever sister-friends.


© Pagan Paul & Lora Lee (25/09/17)
Thank you, PP, for your time, flexibility and patience! This has been a lovely creative process. The end result was worth waitng for  :)
Austin Heath Jul 2014
I can't remember the last time I lived somewhere
that didn't have running water.
I wonder if it's actually happened.
We're moving a maximalist aesthetic
into a minimalist situation.
I just want a glass of water,
a hot shower,
a working toilet.
Ive never been so tired,
and I've never smelled so bad.
My leg are two masses of limp pain,
my hands are stiff, calloused wads of meat.
My right eye is experiencing a
mild swelling, that I'd ******* pray
isn't pink eye, if I believed in god,
which gets harder from here.
Illuminated in the dark of midnight
by computer light,
with only the tickings
of a cheap watch for condolence.
Their voices complain from downstairs.
Then laugh. Then return.
Trinkets chitter around.
Rooms full of garbage.
If you hit it softly enough,
can you still tell you're at the bottom?
Harry J Baxter May 2013
Sitting in that cafe
was like sitting atop the tower of Babel
a cacophony of language
like a hurricane was going on all around him
the homeless black men
who spoke with their own jive and jib
he knew some of the language
but was far from fluent
there were the Arabian men
talking into blue tooths on their ears
or into cellphones
or arguing with each other
outside over cigarette after endless cigarette
nothing but harsh blunt sounds,
it was beautiful in a way
and there is the Russian couple
bombshell athletic blondes
it was hard to determine whether the relationship was
Mother and Daughter
or coach and athlete
they were seemingly
all business
broken with interspersed bouts of laughter
and their were the Asian boys and girls
coming from Korea or Japan or China, or some other place
talking fast and easy
gesticulating wildly with their hands
and of course their was English
thick and arrogant in its tone
it was a language for movers and shakers
money makers and deal breakers
it sounded nowhere near as special
as the other languages
And there was him
sitting silently in the corner of the cafe
his language
the chitter chatter of the keyboard
anonymous Jun 2016
if we were peacocks,
i would blue-green iridescent burst beauty
all the other ***** would high five me for my excellent choice of eye shadow and  elaborate evening gowns
brightness would be bravery, screaming LOOKING THIS GOOD IS WAY MORE IMPORTANT THAN SAFETY FROM PREDATORS
pretty would mean masculine and drab would mean feminine
feminine would still be an insult.

If we were leopard slugs,
we would all be one ***
maybe my dad would be your mom and my mom would be your dad
I would never worry if I was man enough
I would love all of my hermaphroditic glands equally
or, more realistically, I would be ashamed of all of them equally,
never sure if my gonopore was symmetric enough,
if my translucent blue-white ***** was beautiful enough to ever intertwine and bloom with another's
there would be no gay bars or marriage equality movements or swallowed-wink "no ****"s
no one would tap around your abdomen in search of the right organs before declaring your birthright aptitude in cooking or car repair
you and I, we would follow each other around all night, exchanging playful licks, before impregnating each other, circus-suspended from a tree branch
... I guess that part would be the same

if we were blanket octopuses or anglerfish
masculinity would mean smallness,
would mean quiet dependence,
would mean dissolution of self
i would search for you, my love
cling to you, give you my everything
you would be my big strong hunter, my provider
this is the only world i can imagine needing men's rights activitists
i would log in to chitter (like twitter, but, like, instead of birds tweeting, it's a sound dolphins make? it was the best i could come up with)
i would log onto chitter and try to tell of my deletion, but
some overly muscular two-meter-tall woman would write back,
"I've never had my body gradually absorbed into anyone else's. If it were a real problem, more octopeople would be talking about it."
they would threaten to eat me, to rip me apart and feed me to sharks, would laugh.

we're humans.
we're closer to slugs than octopuses
we aren't from mars or venus.
we don't act like it.

masculine and feminine aren't straightjackets. they're edges of a map.
on my continent, we take ballet and write poetry and cry in public
we love math and cooking and we don't really know how to fix cars but we can figure it out if it's in the user's manual
we want to be strong and graceful and warm and safe.
you don't have to live here, but don't tell me not to.

i don't know what it means to be a man
i know what it's like to be treated like a man
to be given deference i don't deserve
to be obnoxious or impulsive in conversations and not be called out for it

people with bodies like mine, with skin like mine, we take up too much space.
we can be smaller.
there's room for everyone.
Commentary welcome
Elizabeth P Nov 2014
Starless, chilly an autumn night
It all started right
A dance it would be
A stranger I was
Amongst a two roosts of Latter Day Saints
Popular, I was not
Neither shy nor sociable,
I stood in wait for a suitor
Then a lad glided in
A bit taller than I, blonde hair, green eyes
And an adorable hat on his head
Chitter-chatter,
Smiles, laughter,
Then the Games began
This suitor, Gage he was called
Had speed, but not dexterity
And was soon defeated
Charming, cheering, continuing
The dancing came
Clumsy, was I ever so
While he radiated mastery
Every misstep spin on my part
Made him smile
He whispered in my ear,
In hot breaths,
Compliments of golden rarity
A suitor of suitors I see
A spectacular dance, then another...and quite a few more
Each spin drawing me closer,
As we learned the ways of our bodies purely
The intense stares making my cheeks glow rouge
Beguiled in the moment,
I followed Gage out in an innocent move
Outside, taking a walk around the sacristy
We sat upon an abandoned stair
We spoke, we laughed, and...
His sparking eyes locked with mine
And I knew such a day would come!
An elegant milestone!
Lips in incoherent shapes as we did the most ancient of things
Simple and sweet
Breathless, I was
Yet I wanted more
We kissed once again, longer this route
Your lips are sweet, he said in my ear, as I shook in delight
Paper and pen, number in hand
My phone in his hands, exchanging modern things
A quick hug
And a long night of thought for me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Since then, contact has been strangled to a near death
As though it was alive beforehand
My hope has faded
But still, I choose to see it as a lesson for the wise
Not a regret for the stupid
It was magical,
It was ordinarily extraordinary,
And blessed I feel for the experience.
Please no negative comments.
MJL Mar 2019
Dawn casts her long line for spring
Days linger to catch the angel irises bloom
Enveloped by early chirping chitter-chatter
Lightly crusted sleep argues for lids to remain closed
Black perking wake-me oil makes a strong cups case for compromise
A nudge to join the living
- On negotiated terms -
Somewhere between another dream and lavender bubbles
The contract will begin
Foggy feet shuffle onto the wheel
Spying steps creak tattle-tale floorboards alerting all on the way
Pleading thoughtfulness
You beg for silence as the Ra room comes into view
Brightly checkered yellow-brown mustard window patterns
Cut diagonal boxes across maple hardwood
Stained glass dots of emerald, violet, and red raspberry
Dance on lemon washed walls as they turn and wink for a smile
Your morning chair sets at the edge of the warming sun pond inviting you
Join them
You listen to the ripples of space
Your cushioned dock perfectly positioned for a loving embrace
You sit
And slowly dip legs into the glowing pool
Drenched limbs cocoon in the heavy webbing of golden rays
Bathing
The chickadees celebration is known
Immersed
Lids succumb to the orange haze
The Girl from Ipanema sings
Young and lovely
You feel wonderful
No risk of drowning here...
Only in happiness
One radiating breath
Before the Samba plays again


© 2019 MJL
Sunrise. Before the day begins. Time in the window. Like a cat.
Rupert Pip Jun 2021
You didn't tell me we'd be listening
to music when I picked up the phone.

Your dulcet tones danced through my velvet
head and perched upon the crescent
moon that was my lips.

You could see my body drifting away,
so you took my hand and saw that I moved
in time with you, sailing upon the song
that jumped over a telephone line.

In awe, my tongue was pinched,
my ears became a playing field for
all the ***** you had to bat.

Birds began to sing in the early hours
as we put away the chitter chatter

But it didn't stop my phone from
glowing

me from glowing,
you from lighting up.
A phone call with a lover leaves the sweetest tastes on your tongue.
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Within the salty swirl of foamy loam
where depths collide with rushing tides
mystical creatures' hearts do roam
their secret desires, they so carefully hide

But one day among crystalline shadows of light
in shades of turquoise and emerald,
two beauties emerge from dark into bright,
and in their meeting a shared destiny heralds.

One with a voluptuous feminine grace,
swaying hips, fullness of ******* and velvet thighs
auburn-haired, with lips made of cherry
and her mellifluous voice her treasured prize.
The other a magical alchemy
of shapely woman and magnificent fish
her violet eyes and iridescent smile
would fulfil Poseidon's deepest wish.
With gemlike scales and long, lithe limbs
a glow lights up her mystic aura
yet behind it a sadness and longing for love
hide behind the coral reef's gentle flora.

Chancing upon each other,
at first hazy shadows
in the blue-green light
the Siren and the Mermaid
started to discover
that they shared a similar plight.

"Are my eyes really seeing what I think?"
breathed the Siren into the salt
"I've never seen a more beautiful creature,
I thought the chances would be nought"
"My name is Nerine," said the Mermaid. "For a sea Nymph I truly am
who has roamed the oceans day and night
feeling more empty the harder she swam"
"And I, am Ula," declared the Siren, in a voice like crystals , fine-tuned
"They say that my voice is as clear and smooth as a sapphire
which is why I am called a 'sea jewel.'"
The two embraced and began to talk, speaking of their pasts,
their present and future
and both realized that they wished for spiritual and ****** mates
to mend their hearts that were achingly sutured
"Oh darling," said Ula
"Let us journey to the land of the forests
for surely as they day I was born
we may find our blessing a-waiting us
in the spell of the wondrous Unicorn"

And so a sacred pact was made
as they swore unto each other
that their vigour would not fade
until they found their one-horned lover
and with knowing eyes,
pressed palm to palm
the beauties made their choice
Nerine would give up her tail for legs
and Ula her singing voice

Foreheads together, arms raised in light
their prayer was spun to sky
and suddenly, the two enchantresses
found themselves on land, quite dry

Excited, giggling like nymphets
they jumped and twirled in delight
and set off for the forest green
For their hearts they were ready to fight

I feel their presence first
a Fey being knows another Fey being.
The magic of the Otherworld,
announcing arrival long before seeing.

Into view they came walking along the forest path,
fluid movements hinting at an elemental source.
Chitter-chattering, the same way that finches laugh,
feet strong, steady, never straying from their course.
Two carefree girls, making trails through my Green,
I feel a purpose brooding, so sound out a call.
They stop, gracious, as if surprised to be seen,
whispering these words as on their knees they fall.

“We are Sea-sisters of the ocean,
we are here to follow our notion.
Searching the forest in gentle kind,
for the Unicorn we wish to find”.

Hark! Hear your wild Lord speak,
listen as your mind he frees,
leading you on a fantasy journey,
through valleys and betwixt the trees.
His stories weave a forest dreamscape,
a sylvan land of purest Green,
leading you by a cautious hand,
he'll show you things you've never seen.
Twisted hazel and the mighty oaks,
meadows and glades of sweetest light.
Streams that catch the moons cool rays
and secrets held within the night.
But the Unicorn, a law unto himself,
is one thing this Lord cannot show,
a creature to be sought for alone,
so off through the forest you must go.

Following deer tracks and mystical ways,
strange paths that turn and twist.
Deep into the woods the wanderers stray,
yearning the fabled Unicorn to exist.

Then it happened, inclement weather,
rain soaked the bracken and heather.
So Nerine and Ula, a decision made,
took to shelter in a canopied glade.
The irony was, to them, quite plain,
creatures of the sea hiding from rain.
The forest floor did start to steam,
creating an eerie warm sylvan dream.

And the girls so excited hugged and kissed
as a mighty beast emerged from the mist.
Slowly coalescing and so taking its form,
the raw masculine power of the Unicorn.

I had felt their presence as soon as they touched land,
emerging from the foaming waves, crawling hand in hand.
I heard the echoes on the ether, as they made their Sacrifice,
the resonance throughout feydom as they gladly pay the price.
I knew their wandering had led them a merry crooked dance,
and now they shivered before me, they think as if by chance.
But I am a law unto myself, the Unicorn of the trees,
roaming at will in the forest, showing myself to whom I please.
So these Maidens come from the sea where they were born,
two adventurous girls' brave quest to find the Unicorn.
Nerine and Ula looking awestruck statues in my presence,
rooted to the spot, rigid liked scared and paralysed pheasants.
Their deepest wish fulfilled, they marvel at my existence,
and I in turn marvel at their resilience and raw persistance.
But the Sacrifice means that the sea is no longer home,
tied well to the land, destined now to forever roam.
And what of love, their desires and lust to find a mate?
Well, for Nerine there is no choice, feelings came so late.
Parting from the Forest Lord, latent attraction she had felt,
and knew she would return his way, in his arms to melt.
The Siren Ula was very quiet, looking frightened and forlorn,
her greatest dream had always been to follow the Unicorn.
So now we walk together through glades beneath the Moon,
my primal urge keeps calling for her to sing a tune.

Sacrifice made, quest fulfilled, to her Lord, Nerine has gone.
Ula happily rides me, never once missing her Sirens Song.
And here, for now, is where this story sadly ends,
Nerine and Ula Sacrificed their gifts, forever sister-friends.


© Pagan Paul & Lora Lee (25/09/17)
.
To Lady Lora Lee : A long pregnancy, labour of love, and we have given birth to a wonderful story poem :) Thankyou for writing with me <3 PPx
.
Chitter , chatter chirrup
Three birds of a feather
A friendly chummy posy -
in perfect morning tide pleasure
Trilling , thrilling , touring Thrush's in the noon palmettos
Chiming sweet refrains in the -
broomcorn meadow
Musky , dusky weary
Gold songsters in a bush
A huckleberry trio in the-
nighttime hush
Copyright April 5 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
pookie Dec 2016
The hub bub of the local pub,
The endless chitter chatter of pointless conversations,
The no point small talk of weather and how do yous do's,

The noise of comfort and solace,
The shield of silence,
The comfort of anonymity,

This is England,
This is the pub.
LJ Jun 2016
They call me bohemian,*
a lost intellectual
hidden with no ambition

A happy go lucky,
who hops and hits
like a river flowing downhill

A philosophical dreamer
with subjective absolutions
unrealistic surreal expectations

They see my eccentric fashion
the chic grease of mismatch
A happenstance of my day's mood

My mind is indigenous
My soul is gender fluid
A vessel of masculinity and femininity

One day, it's a skirt and blouse
The next is a bow tie and shirt
The other is a blend of two

A maverick in a world alone
I felt it all my life, the lack of connection
No motions with the convectional

Their whispers cannot be heard
I am done with biting my nails
Let them pull their hair with their noise

Their chitter and chatter complaints
As I gaze and talk to the floor
*weary of their mediocre complaints
Halie Harris Sep 2011
wind in the willows and the hollow tree's maw
the howl and the moan, chattered whippoorwill song
golden leaves crumble into golden leaf dust
withered willow creaks and sways however it may,
dancing to demented beat from perverse piper's pipe.

The moon is gone hiding not present on stage
of this eerie queer setting in this most uncanny scene
hark, come in the calling owls
sing harsh the shadow come by bleating of night's drum
a hit come dark, a hit pitch shadow cast on the land.

Owls call who, call who to none there
crickets screech a symphony with wicked leg's sliding
horned incessant toads boom tenor through the night.

Come twilight, come dawn
the moon is chased from clouds to the horizon it returns.
come 'gain the whippoorwills with strange and deviant song
come now the shady crows to join and gibe along.

When light comes now through purple veil of dark and mal' cast
cascades the sun through horrid mask; the sky a great cloud
a swirling pool, a terrific mass, a great storm of poison,
can't run for fear for end is near
solace in light is naught,there is no savior from the tempest.

The night was prologue enough, now day will be pure no longer
the nymph of sun ***** in taint of wicked shadow's hand
now alone evil and mal' shall stand.

So come the crows, come the raven
sing a devil's tune with the chitter of the chattering birds
sway now the willow, howl the wind and moan along
laugh the maws gaped of the trees
whirl the wind, wither and crumble the plants; now gone.
dance and sing and cry as one, symphony
symphony fade to whisper... whisper fade to dust...
Odd Odyssey Poet Dec 2021
the chitter chatter,
of the day,

are conversations of-
sun and rain,

that greeted the ground of,
this splendid rainy day.
WA West Aug 2018
Barely do my Wednesdays fill with longing,

Lost observers rendering August whims to the scrapheap of infinity,

Galvanized entities downing tools schematically,

A posse of awareness pronating towards incandescent light,

Mostly everything a prolonging of jest and belly laughs,

Dawn brings the sick belly of listlessness,

Hordes of happenchance and imaginers of silence dancing,

The chitter chatter cadence does dim for a minute stretching yonde
#listless #wednesday #shortpoem #silly
HEK Jun 2010
Hushed whisper through

sylvan leaves

Cast swift through brook

past hoary fur

and chitter-chatter claws

Blue Jay names it

to the sky:

'Trouble! Trouble! Trouble!'
Copyright Hannah Kollef 2010
Eman Wani Aug 2020
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it in the blinking of frail eye.
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it in the chitter-chatter of every tongue.
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it behind the face grinning like a Cheshire cat.
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it in the amble of every feet.
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it in the shadow of a carcass.
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it in the agony of every single soul.
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it in the anecdote of every man jack's life .
Sylvie Wild Dec 2018
I wish,
I was a squirrel,
I'd make people hurl,
Get that girl,
I'd go the distance,
To find resistance,
I'd chitter and chatter,
Yell it's my planet too,
Control my own fate,
I'd muster up irons,
And fire those nuts,
Count up the squad,
Workout the Quads,
I'd be the biggest,
Baddest ***,
The other squirrels,
Would come churl,
At my fine witness,
My pretty fitness,
With giant fluff tale,
And nest fit for the stars,
I'd be a royal pain,
For my own gain,
I'd show them hows its done,
How things are meant to run,
A mental score,
The acres of treedom,
Scream out my freedom,
At home in the forest,
****** ******,
Bitter end,
Revenge on the mend,
The master of my own den,
I'm a nut,
I'm a squirrel,
I'm a tree,
I'm me,
Nature's finest,
Mother's creation,
Father's Love.
Lawrence Hall Jun 2019
A Poem for June


Just why a cucumber should be so cool
Eludes the logical; a cucumber’s just
A vegetable a-lying on the ground
Awaiting consumption.  But let’s accept
This vegetarian cliché’ simply
To get on with this cool descriptive task:

Whatever’s cool in the falling June sun
Descends through oak leaves, dark and summer green
And dancing down the air falls happily
Upon this cool cucumber cave where sits
Upon a wooden bench a lazy man
Who should be taking now another turn
With lawnmower, shovel, or shears against
The wild greenness of happy midsummer.

But, oh!  Persephone surely won’t mind
If her allotted garden tasks are paused
By her appointed minion rustic who
Takes now his ease in her delightful shade.
For summer after all is more than work;
She calls for dozing too, and dreamily
Watching busy bees buzz among the flowers,
Like fussy matchmakers arranging marriages,
And hummingbirds humming in and out of leaves,
Their sanctuary leaves, to argue at
The nectar-feeders, as if there weren’t
Enough for all.  The squirrels in the trees
Would never condescend to chitter there;
They glare at humans disapprovingly,
Like old teachers unhappily aware
That, oh, somewhere, somehow a child might be
Enjoying life, and that would never do!

Even the ribbon of smoke from the morning’s
Trimmings and cuttings and sawings appears
To be taking a nap in the summer noon,
There gently snoring up wisps of ashes
Instead of roaring, hissing manfully
As it did in the early hours.
                                                     The bench
Along the fence where the tired old man sits
Creaks as he shifts his weight, and watches
His backyard world doze in the leaf-laced sun;
He lights a well-deserved cigar, and sees
Its soothing smoke join with the ******* fire
Ascending heavenward with peaceful thoughts.
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Sahara Niamh Apr 2013
All at once.
Chitter chatter
Jabber.
Pointless banter.
Back and forth
Words pour out from lips,
Hang in the air
and resonate a bit.
Then fade away
become forgotten.
But for some they stay.
Shaping, molding
Minds are holding
On.
To the two dimensional
Too much, Too soon.
Two words are seeds
and assumptions root.
Grows the confusion,
Constructed reality
Confused consciousness of
this time, moment, universe.
I cannot write this poem here.
The future
Is now
Is past.
So when?
Heather Moon Mar 2015
Hands that hold to speak
quiver in this moonlight
awaiting slipping moments peak
to cry to the heart
Trembling its darkened dawns
dusting away at the pieces
of myself that have been
left to the wind.

Emptied caskets
fill the spaces of
energetic flesh
on my breast
Gashed and still
in this wippity whimperous moment.
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me when I make silent calls between two worlds,
Do you hear my voice calling to you?
Then gapes a girl curious to explore the world
"I think I hear you" she says,
all the while raising an ear to snippits.

I,
I just want to love you so, so deeply
I want to cleanse you
I want to make you shine with a radience like sunlight
liquid dancing flickers on flowing river songs
creek beds of bliss
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you, you , you, you, you hear me?
I´m pleading to that smile
hidden by mental chitter chatter
hop off the train, empty off your platter
of burdenous fruits
release all of that matter

Do you hear me?

Hey darling, moon belly seastar
dancer
I see you
I love you
I am you
Do you hear my long echoing cries for freedom?
Do you hear my gentle sighs,
gateways to divine skies
Do you hear me?
A drop of arms
A rising breath
an emptied teth
"I hear you¨" she says,
"I hear you, I hear you, I hear you!!"
her voice roars on
"I hear you, I am you"
Wild ravonous wails
I hear your nightingale calls,
I hear the ups and downs as heartbeat falls,
I hear rambling nectar
rollin smoothly off our soul
I hear a lovebirds
sonnet roll
Oh mother, oh Great on in Me in You in We,
I hear you, I hear you, I hear you,
I hear you

and I´m ready to listen.
Maelynn Jun 2021
Fire crackles as I take my tea
–2 creams 3 sugars
The heavy drops of summer rain
Fall to the parched earth out the window,
A symphony on aged tin roofs

I let out a contented sigh
My movement inspiring a small chitter
My furry companion curls tighter
To The the alabaster skin of my hip
At peace once more.
WordWerks Feb 2013
I know Lonely Street.
I’ve walked its beaches,
Stared mindlessly at
Friend television.
I’ve filled afternoons
With sips of coffee.

I know all of the
Hiding places there:
Bars with cement floors,
Noisy ceiling fans;
City libraries;
Movie theaters.

There is no color
Here on Lonely Street -
Only replicas
Of houses ashen.
There is no music -
Reiteration.

I know its benches,
Where I tease pigeons
With my popcorn and
Chitter at tree rats,
Watching worlds go by,
Waiting for passage.

I know this safe place,
This sanctuary,
This holy sector,
This respite from feeling,
Where any feeling
Feels likes it's torture.

So, I hide or seek
Anonymity.
Matthew Harlovic Jun 2015
Chitter chatter,
pitter patters
against my ear drum.

© Matthew Harlovic
Someone please stop the voices.
Daylight 4U2C Feb 2015
Pitter-patter.
On the window.
Pitter-patter.
On the sill.
Pitter-patter.
Does the child.
Pitter-patter
from your mouth.
You say you don't,
I know you do.
You say you won't,
I know you will.
You pitter-pat all the time until-
until you pitter-pat your way,
to driving out insanity.
Pitter-pat.
Pitter-pat.
Tisk-tisk-tisk.
Tat-tat-tat.
Yo­u pitter-patted through the house.
You pitter-pat like a measly mouse.
You say you don't,
I know you do.
You say you won't,
I know you will.
Pitter-pitter.
Pat-pat-pat.
The rain against the window resembles,
the sound after a pitter-pat.
You clasp your lips,
say you'll make no sound,
but you pitter-pat
all the time;
all around.
You say you don't,
I know you do.
You say you won't,
I know you will.
You pitter-pattering,
chitter-chattering,
skitter-scattering,
little rat-like
mouse.
sinandpoems Jun 2013
Pan
Plan on holding my hand
I’d endure the wrath of raspy snake tongues and burning bites so you
Can be a little happier today,
My darling

I’d take on every wild creature with yellow
Eyes
Poison on medusas finger
Inside of my brain
I’d shake and shake
Shake and shake
The sky a vibrating landscape of your
Emptiness and no phone calls back
I’d shake amongst the choreographed reeds
And die
Die for you
My darling

And if it isn’t enough
I’m sorry I made a bad estimate
Of what was in the jar
If it wasn’t enough
I’d find a way underneath the windowsill glued tight with the obstinate no’s and the moons idle hands moth cadavers and fits of frostbite blues
Inside of your room where no sound bold sunflowers pink sundresses the incessant chitter chatter of chastising chumps ever finds it’s way into your abode of sadness my
Darling
I’d brush the rectangular flesh that sits gracefully, sadly, atop your
Handsome cheek
and
I’d kiss you my darling until
Death discovers my sheets cold and
The devil flushes with purple rage
joanna dibble Apr 2012
hollow whirr of swift wings returning to clamorous nestlings' chitter
Zach Gomes Aug 2010
I’d have left off loving you long back
If not for the glory of our local greasy spoon.
Your long fingertips
Curled over the red plastic borders
Framing the menu’s backside, showing me lunch specials, the Hungryman plate.
In this scene we are the couple caught up in a picture-book love
And so shy of speaking it that affection
Becomes a game of concealment versus concession.
We are good at the game, and our strategies evolved
Complex techniques of deceptive chitter chatter.
We made greasy spoon small talk, talk like artificial sweetener;
Because talk of substance would be to take account of the closing in of reality and my
Impending departure to tropical countries, names unpronounceable.
How much simpler to order soggy hash browns.
How much simpler to butter white bread toast
With white butter wrapped in gold packets.
Map spread on the linoleum tabletop,
I pointed out places with names full of P’s and K’s,
Overstuffed with consonants and gathering
Crumbs from our buttery palms.
Our fingers touched so often,
These hands might as well have been holding;
But then, days before my flight into the hot tropics,
These hands won’t touch, they’ll let their fingerprints drown in finger food grease.
Those days it was summer, when the weather was a mystery—
Ceaseless weeks overcast, when grey skies hanging above
Pondered pouring rain on us; it was a very indecisive summer.
We walked from the diner, both tucked under one umbrella,
Felt the unpleasant humidity and
Our own hesitance before saying goodbye.

— The End —