"collectors" poems
Is that what we wake up to every day?
Fast food and gas stations are forever stamped in the corners of my eyes as they are looking through the glass of minimum wage to the red flashing lights of a man hoping to get back to his children safely.
Is life is a pointed dagger then my blade is rusted and dull when I wonder why I even try some days.
Do I dare defend my pride and still demand something more than this? Is this a call for engines in the air or wings made of wax? Death would be more alive than waking up to another day of shampoo commercials and microwave dinners.
You are always whispering in my ear though dear and telling me that you're more than just a particle flown into my imagination from a world so oh very different than ours.
Are your eyes as bright as I imagine? Will the glare from them blind me from the tax collectors whip and will your laughter drown out the screams of onlookers who are throwing peanuts through the bars at my feet?
Will your kiss melt me and cause me to fall into wind like leaves in a storm, a tornado of color and beauty..?
I lay in bed and my eyes close tightly, my breathing slows and thoughts drip into pits men drown themselves in, the murky waters of nihilistic cynicism...
Though my hand will still not be closed around yours when the sun rises, the whisper lets me know you are still awake and searching for me too...
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
I use technology to take me to a time when it only half-existed. In a blue-shell room of mega-pixel photographs and rolling news feeds, I can put on my headphones and disappear into an instrumental Sunday.
There are stamp collectors making their lazy way over beaten roads and disused railways. 'Surrender' only means to fall asleep and to leave your book as a hut on your bedside table. Where war may still go on and on,
but at least you don't have to hear about it. Show me the place where pine-cones fall and women stare across the river. Where coffee is for taste, and not self-medication. I want to walk bare-foot and feel thorns
toughen my heels, infect my blood with Earth or God or Any Other Name. We will **** in the bushes, singing those fragments of Leonard Cohen lyrics that we can still remember from times spent smoking in my room.
I can almost feel that pointless happiness. That location in a canopy to retreat when the bills are due, when the walls needs re-painting. When the neighbour strangles puppies and all you do is complain about the time.
I use new music set to old sounds: freed slaves living in the cross-hairs of tradition. White lovers breaking their hearts over guitar strings and harmonies, always a semi-tone apart. I find your hair on my pillow.
There is no technology in the world to distract me from that.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
When the bakery was bought,
For the sake of novelty, uniqueness, etc,
Called it ‘bitter’
Laddu was bitter
Jalebi ws bitter
Cherry was bitter
Bitter, bitter
What bitterness, said people
The servant got bitter
Sir,
There are no bill collectors to turn away
Flies mock
She at home
Serves bitterness
While sharing the alienation
Which novelty and uniqueness supplied,
With eatables,
Biscuit said
Let’s add the salt of tears,
Eatables will not sell
If bitter
‘Please give me something old”
When the sound of a beggar
Intervened
Myself, who stood for novelty and uniqueness
Told him ‘ you can have this bakery’
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
This was just published so it is copyright 2015 by Holy Cow Press ~ mce
Poverty is the fence around your life. Poverty wakes you up at 4 AM only to whisper meaningless slogans in your ear. It is the school of Piranha nibbling at the back of your brain. It is two hours waiting in the anteroom of despair for $22 worth of food stamps and being glad to be there. It is changing your phone number frequently because bill collectors are such boring conversationalists. It is the empty space your heels used to fill. It is letting your hair grow long and scraggly and your grizzled beard sprout because you know that although you sleep in rented rooms tonight, the street is not far off, and you want to fit in when you arrive. Poverty scalds the lint from your pockets. It is your private Treblinka within which you rage but are crushed. It is desperate prayers against dental catastrophes, blown tires, surprises of any sort. Poverty is when everything you own is frayed including your nerves from sleepless moments spent trying to solve the equation that will make X number of dollars cover X + ? number of bills, knowing that such math would defeat Newton or Einstein. Poverty is eying the cat's kibble imagining that with a bit of sugar and a splash of milk it might be fine and then eyeballing the cat himself thinking of protein of last resort and trying not to measure him against the microwave door. You ration your cigarettes; whiskey is a fading memory. Passing a diner on the street, you catch a whiff of burgers too expensive to consider and experience a Pavlovian moment. Poverty is trying to keep your head up and then remembering you pawned your neck. Poverty is watching the needle eat your last few gallons of gas. Poverty is the archeology of despair. It portends the death of irony. There is nothing ironic about a car with 217,000 miles and no insurance on it. Facts are facts in the world of poverty. Poverty is the last quarter reclaimed from beneath the cushions. It is too much time and not enough quarters. It is the specious logic of the self-righteous proclaiming that you deserve to be poor because you are, which in Amerika passes for wisdom. Poverty makes each day like the next because nothing does not vary. It is who you are and where you are going, although you won't get far. It is the life you lead inside the fence. It is the sum of what you lack. It just is.
- mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
bowling pin serenity
white and controlled
everyone loves the separatism
as it is encouraged and propagated
revolution as a fad
for ****
right to buy, die, fry, and try
skin-color guarantee
Paul Mooney, “complection for protection”
meaning my pigment protects me
from what….
I experience the loss of loved ones to cancer and illness
I suffer years of addiction and the lasting effects of liver damage
I am poor, was raised in poverty
my skin means nothing to the bill collectors
or the tax man
or the capitalist system
do I not suffer the slow poisoning
of industrialization
of globalization
infection
rejection
……
We all sit as slaves in this new America
I just happen to be in the front of the bus
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.
Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.
Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.
Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.
Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
I wish I was a big fat brown furry squirrel
Up in the walnut trees I'd scamper and twirl
Collect my delicious nuts for the frigid winter time
Invite squirrl friends over to party and dine
Take sweltering summer days to run, jump and play
Frighten some silly song birds along the way
No worries of the coming days
No bill collectors at the door to pay
To just live wildly free
Like nature was ment to be
Live out my life in a comfy hole I made in that old walnut tree
That tree was here in my grandpa's days, it's as sturdy as can be
In the winter curl into a warm ball and try to remember
Of where I hid my stash of nuts, come December
I want to be a big fat happy squirrel
Never angain a sad woman-girl
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
Such a thief, stealing so many of my glances
A Robin Hood, taking from my once rich heart
I had so much to love; yet locked it all from those outside
Allowing only collectors of childish heartbeats to enter;
Like most thieives, you work in the night
Quiet words, light touches,; you took all I had saved
If only you hadn't followed the story of Robin Hood so blindly
Because you gave my love to another.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
The Lung.
The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests.
As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces..
The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces.
Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world
that is most unearthly to there reason.
Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp.
The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung, the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row.
Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night.
A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young.
Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC
May God bless the poets,
And our slice of paradise.
I think it goes to show just how far we go,
That no AI crawler will take our place,
Bill collectors to disgrace!
Oct 8, 2025
Oct 8, 2025 at 9:33 PM UTC
1. Chew 3 pieces of Grape Hubba Bubba at the same time.
2. Wash your car in the rain in your bathing suit.
3. Walk in and out of a store over and over again just to be greeted
repetitively. (this works best at Racetrak and Cici's Pizza)
4. Wear comfortable clothes.
5. Stop caring what you look like.
6. Sing loudly in your car without any music (even at redlights), with your
windows rolled down.
7. Swing, for heaven's sake, swing at the playground.
8. Be nice to everyone, even the snotty retail girl.
9. Go to a church where every Sunday the hairs stand up on your arms
because you feel the presence of GOD.
10. Visit an old cemetery and just sit for a while.
11. Say "I love you" at the end of every phone call, especially to the bill
collectors.
12. Play a video game with your kids, just so they can laugh at how bad you
are.
13. Go without underwear one day.
14. Read Pope and the Bible.
15. Once a month eat whatever you want and however much of it you want.
16. Work out.
17. Snuggle with the warm body of someone who loves you.
18. Let a dog lick your face. (it's really not that bad)
19. Call a random number just to say "hi" to the person who answers.
20. Be yourself so others can know who you truly are.
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 3:44 PM UTC
At goodwill Buy the Pound
every day is black friday
Hundreds of soccer moms line up their
white sneakers on a black and yellow caution tape line
zombie over it streching for yu-gi-oh cards
wait for hazmat suits to wheel out eight bins full of trash gone treasure.
When the bins are locked in place the hazmat suits go back to pack another load
The air horn sounds.
You do not want to be anywhere near that caution tape line when this happens.
At goodwill buy the pound
If you're not part of the fight,
you're part of the floor.
They need to find their
puzzle peices lost in cat liter
Johnny really needs
every single nerf dart
DID YOU TAKE A NERF DART?!
WE TALKED ABOUT THIS JO-ANN
THOSE WERE FOR JOHNNY.
Johnnys grandma is not the only elder throwing elbows
varacose veins are curb stomping dads hauling consoles to make a quick buck
Skinny College aged video game collectors swim through the mom-pocalypse
raid the stashes for disguarded NES cartridges
Jo-ann grabs a twinky boy by the black graphic hoodie.
Tosses him back into the horde
lunges for a barbie doll hidden under some wires.
This is not a place for nice children.
If you aren't willing to push around some nanas
you will leave covered in nike prints.
This place turns people.
Ever look at someones mom and think
She looks like she's always wearing a mask.
She is!
Buy the pound is her natural habitat.
One grandma keeps so many cats, her living room is a Petrie dish
I think she just wants to be in charge of a small third world countrey.
Granny needs to go rally up the soccer moms at buy the pound.
To lead those cats into a mother thirfting revolution
These woman leave feeling like they saved their family a fortune
Dumpster diving for sport.
Every tossed or trampled stranger
One flip flop closer to
feeding their children
clawing through poverty
When that airhorn sounds again.
They scurry back to their carts.
Tell their children
"Make sure nobody steals this"
as they line back up in haste.
Touch their all white nikes to the caution tape line.
Hold their family close like brass knuckles.
when that airhorn sounds.
It's time to fight.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
An art movement is a tendency or style in art
with a specific common philosophy or goal,
followed by a group of artists during a restricted
period of time, usually a few months, years
or decades or, at least, with the heyday of the
movement defined within a number of years.
Art movements were especially important in
modern art, when each consecutive movement
was considered as a new avant-garde;
According to theories associated with modernism
and the concept of postmodernism, art movements
are especially important during the period of time
corresponding to modern art. The period of time
called "modern art" is posited to have changed
approximately halfway through the 20th century
and art made afterward is generally called contemporary art.
Postmodernism in visual art begins
and functions as a parallel to late modernism
and refers to that period after the "modern" period
called contemporary art. The postmodern period
began during late modernism, which is a contemporary
continuation of modernism; and according
to some theorists postmodernism
ended in the 21st century. During the period of time
corresponding to "modern art"
each consecutive movement
was often considered a new avant-garde.
Also during the period of time referred to as "modern art"
each movement was seen corresponding
to a somewhat grandiose rethinking of all that came before it,
concerning the visual arts. Generally
there was a commonality of visual style
linking the works and artists
included in an art movement. Verbal expression
and explanation of movements has come
from the artists themselves,
sometimes in the form of an art manifesto,
and sometimes from art critics
and others who may explain
their understanding of the meaning of the new art
then being produced;
In the visual arts, many artists, theorists, art critics,
art collectors, art dealers and others mindful
of the unbroken continuation of modernism
and the continuation of modern art even into the contemporary era,
ascribe to and welcome new philosophies
of art as they appear. Postmodernist theorists
posit that the idea of art movements
are no longer as applicable, or no longer as discernible,
as the notion of art movements
had been before the postmodern era.
There are many theorists however
who doubt as to whether or not such an era
was actually a fact;
or just a passing fad.
The term refers to tendencies in visual art,
novel ideas and architecture,
and sometimes literature. In music it is more common
to speak about genres and styles instead.
See also cultural movement, a term
with a broader connotation.
As the names of many art movements
use the -ism suffix, for example cubism and futurism,
they are sometimes referred to as isms
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
For the first time ever; I truly do not care
if you, him, or her wished me a happy birthday;
But, I wouldn’t mind if you did. Though it is fair;
I am one of the lesser friends; I am a boring play;
A play so fake; I am of made up characters,
Sometimes I am the flattering villain in smiles,
And at times I am a copy of the Westerners,
At others, I am gullible, yet I never am;
I pretend to be; but I am miles away,
For interesting I am not; so funny at least be,
Says my brain; for maybe they will remember,
That my birthday was today; It is an endless plea:
I always remember and prepare pages of wishes,
For almost everyone, but all I get is 4 days late
One liners sent out of guilt; to stop the guilty itches,
Not out of care, love, or from genuine friendly state;
I deserve it; for again; I am merely a boring play;
A paradoxical headache of weird introverts,
And annoying extroverts; I barely even weigh,
To a normal person; I am made of endless alerts;
Alerted, focused, attentive; all on your acceptance;
I am what I feel you want me to be; a nice man,
A racist gangster, a diplomatic figure; I am resemblance,
I resemble everything I see in you and scan;
I am stardust that was never meant to shine,
I am a thread; intertwined as I feel pleases,
I am a road with temporary signs; I am grapes;
For you I squeeze myself into juice; or ferment
Into wine; I am a fake play where you write scripts,
I submit, because all I cared about is receiving,
A birthday wish. On that one day in the entire year;
I do not want even want gifts; because when you don't,
I feel like I am ceasing to exist; slowly deceasing
from everything that we were: teenagers ambitious,
WhatsApp stickers collectors, School runaways,
Kids deceiving; it feels like I am dead; for the dead
Do not receive birthday wishes; I feel peerless;
A white beans *** lidless, a body complete limbless,
A walking sickness, a moving flesh in stillness,
unpardoned by my faux and obvious silliness.
I do not care about not getting birthday wishes;
But I cannot not overthink what it means.
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 4:25 PM UTC
we're such a benevolent lot
we give the Welfare set
our hard won dough
they sit on their *****
and do not a thing
while we're out working
for a wage
but our kindnesses
are being exploited
by the dole collectors
those ***** mothers
having broods of kids
and we hand them
our toiling quids
those kids
should be supported
by their daddies
let them get a job
and become
responsible
for their sprog
the Welfare system
is getting plundered
every day
by those who won't
get out and earn their pay
how nice
our honey *** has been
taken for granted
and bled of its generosity
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
I awoke just as the dark clouds gathered above the coffee shop .
Two months without rain had parched the once green grass where
Cows and Bulls once grazed ,
their land now a slave to the clouds shedding even more rain .
Rolling thunder clipped the trees and their branches fell hitting the yellow grass as if the heavens wept for what was about to happen ..
A Falcon swept into my nest and soon my chick had gone .
How many more like tax collectors collecting their dew ,
Yet without them we would fall prey to a far greater evil ,
as to what lies beneath!
On Falcons wings we climb above rocks are left to die ,
to some Falcons nest we lie ,
always for the greater good .
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Such falacious thread
is pulling tight
from no Holy Book
I know.
For those, self considered
right, allocating this
self seething show.
Creed or colour
should not divide.
Derogatory agitating collectors
paid off with sheer synthetic pride,
sponsering religion as their own
connector as they twist and they
tear at its written word.
Packaged to a self corrected tone,
fantasy provides absurd images
directed at the degected zone.
In anothers name they do their worst,
projecting miss-shaped Holy vows,
they drain sacred trust
for evil's thirst and so that
impieties seed should sow.
If you do aim to speak this way,
then have the courage and take that
leap on your own head.
Leave pious scriptures from
any religious source and form
well alone whatever faith or race.
For it is true that people will
for their own self enhancement
treat religion with disgrace
and thus, try to
demenaor such elegance.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
Got a Hellhound on my trail
Devil Dogs locked on my scent
Hears the barkin and yowlin
Still runnin but my energy's spent
Got a monkey on my back
**** thing stranglin my soul
my skins crawlin, liver aching
self abuse done took its toll
bill collectors keep callin
dialin me up in real time
debt for ill spent life past due
bro won't spare a **** dime
ol sun did rise this mornin
Lord gave me one more day
to see the light, set things right
before he takes me away
sick and tired of sick and tired
can't play this tune no more
take one step to a brand new life
before I knock on heavens door
Music Selection:
Robert Johnson,
Hellhound on My Trail
NYC
3/19/05
jbm
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
Caaaarpe
…
caaarpe
...
Caarpe Diem
Keating whispered
He whispered.
in Delay there lies no plenty
Shakespeare warned,
gather ye rosebuds while ye may
Herrick advised.
We don’t
whisper, warn or advise
Generation Y
PROCLAIMS!
We shout, strong, sure and proud
YOLO
We chant, graffiti, hastag
YOLO
We get
*one shot one opportunity
to seize everything in we ever wanted in one moment*
**** the romantics,.
The critics, the experts, the analyzers too.
YOLO
Who says we can’t be prophetic,
Philosophical,
Beautiful?
This is us,
Our time
our chance,
so
let’s make the most of the night like we’re gunna die young.
It is our excuse.
The reason I hit the gas
rev the engine and slam it to the floor.
With squealing tires,
loud exhausts and smoky exits
You can hear me
we are young so lets set the world on fire we can burn brighter than the sun.
We need to do this now,
before the light in our eyes,
light of our lives,
go out.
YOLO
The reason we face mountains
of debt with a smile.
The face we put on
brave, ready, awake
when the bill collectors call,
the healthcare goes into reform
and the government shuts down.
YOLO
This moment, we own it
this second in a catalogue
of years.
The months we spend crashing cars, bars and acting like stars.
YOLO
The reason we apply for jobs,
we’ll never get.
Taking rejection with a grin
we will always try again.
YOLO
it is the reason I joined the race.
After all,
You.
Only.
Live.
Once.
-Kayla Morrison
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
Because man made spheres of synergy are treading on the verge of life support
No cooperation within the conglomerations
Perhaps we need brotherhood outside the cubical
The economy failing
Middle class working heroes about to **** themselves
But they have no money to buy a gun…out the window it is!
As insurance men and tax collectors and bill collectors beat a smile from my face with overturn fees and late fees with interest
And are all my reactions just misplaced projections?
I say **** ‘em I have no money
I’ll pay you when I can
What more can I do?
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
The mystic Sadhu
chants cryptic
mantras,
I hear
the Hammssss of his voice,
He is lost in his world
Like I'm with mine,
Above me, the bridge
clanked gleefully
announcing the arrival of her lover;
Shimmering in white, honking
it moves slowly like a big serpent,
Ending the tryst
with a flickering red light.
Several mounds, smoldering woods,
and one body stuck to
the trunk of the bridge
swirled in me the fear of
leaving this world early,
leaving all that I strived to
achieve, and leaving all of
it in the middle.
Buses pass on the next bridge
A hand came out
and aimed the stream with
something, probably a coin,
to compensate for wrongdoings,
Coin-collectors waiting like a
starving lion in a zoo
pounced on these throwings,
aiming the spot
with a magnet like
a trained ninja in nocturnal warfares,
After a few unsuccessful attempts
A boy yelled in joy
"Har Har Gange".
The Ganges was like this
from the beginning,
She was moderate in demands
offering so much
at the cost of a penny,
Throw a coin and
you are absolved from all your sins.
Oct 21, 2021
Oct 21, 2021 at 7:31 PM UTC
A Life of Humble Humility
The creator and ruler of the entire universe so powerful and so great, wanted a relationship with his people and loved them so much that he would leave heaven to be with them. He was concieved by a very ordinary ****** girl no older than 13 or 14, was born in a stable with pigs, oxen, and donkeys where it was cold, dark, and smelled very bad. Throughout his 20's, he ate and dined and held the company of prostitutes, tax collectors, uneducated fishermen, bad men, and unclean people. He did things that few could believe and none could explain and often did not take credit for these things. He took time to pray, ask for help and to rest, but was always ready to help those in need. He lived a life of service, of love, compassion, prayer and healing. When he rode into Jerusalem at the age of 33 on a Sunday, the king and ruler of everything came in on a donkey; a pack animal and lowly beast of burden of peasants rather than a horse or camel more fitting of his royalty and status. A week later, he was falsely accused and, though found not guilty, was condemned to be flayed till he was near death and then forced to carry a heavy piece of wood through town, beaten, mocked, spit upon and publicly humiliated to be nailed by his hands and feet to die in the most painful, brutal way imaginable. He was obedient to his father's plan and will to the very end and gave everything so that he might have a relationship with his beloved children.
Lord, help us please to love as you loved, serve as you served, to live as you lived. In a society that focuses on competition, personal gain and success even at the expense of another; send your Holy Spirit to be with us as we try to live by the example you have set for us: a life of humble humility. Whatever success we have, help us remember that it is from you or you working in and through us. As we strive to serve each other and you in a way that honors you and gives you glory, fill our hearts a with joy and peace that only you can provide! AMEN.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
I once knew a girl,
back when my posture was good,
we wore matching shirts,
jeans and shoes.
She kept her hair long,
to hide jealous shoulders.
All the loud voices
didn't have a thing to say.
They didn't resonate,
hammering on doors,
denting ear drums,
enunciating mispronunciations.
I played football in times square,
passing glances and stairs,
had rock climbing races
to higher elevations.
My badly tuned feet couldn't run,
ankle bones off key.
There's a saltwater film
frosting my eyelashes,
clinging to my tongue,
holding down my yells
to the quiet machines
that toss boiled eggs in the air.
Up to their knees
in the dark left behind by streetlights,
they rolled up their pants for wading.
They lingered in docking terminals,
standing still,
becoming dust collectors.
Somehow we're all just wanderers,
citing passages we herd
in front of us like mountain goats.
Ambling across empty intersections,
walking in handstand through cul de sacs,
picking up litter from busy streets.
Books for readers wear little letters,
use big words with four syllables.
They showed me how to fence with trains,
ride red wagons down hills,
win marmalade coated cricket matches.
I never judged the typos to be out of place
(I accepted the bits they forgot to erase)
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC