"condos" poems
Some clichty folks
don't know the facts,
posin' and preenin'
and puttin' on acts,
stretchin' their backs.
They move into condos
up over the ranks,
pawn their souls
to the local banks.
Buying big cars
they can't afford,
ridin' around town
actin' bored.
If they want to learn how to live life right
they ought to study me on Saturday night.
My job at the plant
ain't the biggest bet,
but I pay my bills
and stay out of debt.
I get my hair done
for my own self's sake,
so I don't have to pick
and I don't have to rake.
Take the church money out
and head cross town
to my friend girl's house
where we plan our round.
We meet our men and go to a joint
where the music is blue
and to the point.
Folks write about me.
They just can't see
how I work all week
at the factory.
Then get spruced up
and laugh and dance
And turn away from worry
with sassy glance.
They accuse me of livin'
from day to day,
but who are they kiddin'?
So are they.
My life ain't heaven
but it sure ain't hell.
I'm not on top
but I call it swell
if I'm able to work
and get paid right
and have the luck to be Black
on a Saturday night.
7.2k
I hate it when dad comes home
He is ***** and he has smelly feet
Having spent long ours at construction site
Smelly and filthy.. what a sight!
I loath him, I look down on him
When I walk pass the working site
I turn my face, pretending he is out of sight
I constantly accuse god, I said he isn't fair
I want a different dad..
who drives a much better car
goes to work wearing tie and suit
The perfect dad I always think I should have...
At school one day
My best friend cried
She was devastated
Her rich dad left home
left for good with a pretty woman...
She has a house as big as a castle
Fat bank accounts and pretty outfits
Constantly travel around the world
Houses, condos, hotels
just name it where
but she has no dad to cuddle anymore
at night when she gets scared
of storms and thunder
I remember my dad's smelly feet instantly
annoying.. disgusting.. frustrating..
This dad of mine
I used to loath...
But he works all day
his sweat is his labor of love
to bring food on the table...
so we kids don't sleep hungry
This dad of mine
doesn't own expensive car
has never been overseas
has never worn a tailor made suit
and but he loves us wholeheartedly...
and always want to give only the best for us.
This dad of mine
whose smelly feet
will annoy me forever
but he loves his family truly
and will never leave our side
at anytime when we needed him most...
I love you daddy
All your perfect imperfections
I am sorry................
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC
They warned us not to worry,
Just do our best in school;
Those worldly professionals,
Taught us work-to-rule.
They did a few case studies
On twins from day of birth;
There's a fifty-fifty chance,
A will be born first
They are urban fighters,
Of fire, crime and blame;
They live in high rise condos,
They return from foreign lands.
They wait over subway vents,
Their hearts and heads are bent;
They show-up in walk-ons,
They go without for Lent.
They fly in and out of space,
They don't identify with race;
They're picked up for vagrancy,
They dance cautiously in the street.
They volley warning shots
Across our private dreams;
They sign and seal a peace accord
They're sincere to a degree.
They contribute to the run-off,
And spiked our holy water;
They enlisted Moms and Dads,
Then slaughtered sons and daughters.
They made rings from ivory,
And pale lamp shades from skin;
They list dissipation
As a personal sin.
Then they did unholy things
With wood and nails, then atoms;
They tore at our goodly earth,
Wreaked havoc with their mapping.
They distilled our alcohol,
Made smoking so appealing;
Then they rang the tower bells,
And preached we had no feelings.
They dug deep for wishing wells,
Grew stuff to **** our germs;
They bestowed us rods and reels,
And spades to dig our worms.
They connected us
Through wireless touch;
They counseled us on loneliness,
And the traps of busyness.
They pronounce death is art
When they hang it on a wall;
Then blame it on our women,
In a scene based on our fall.
They're newsy opaque,
In love or hate;
They are the ambiguous,
The they, them and all of us.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
RINZAI BOX
Had to have a psych eval
at the box factory
a human resources workup
to make sure
I could handle work again
making cardboard condos
for little mammal prisoners
of the pet trade
who live on hot windowsills
until someone comes to love them.
I got too depressed once
when I found tiny bunnies
mewling in a dumpster
their only refuge
yes
a box I had made
you could tell
it said assembled with care
by Kevin
and I missed a month of work
and got written up
for just being sad.
The shrink diagnosed me
a cognitive distorter
a predictor of worst case scenarios
but I disagreed
since I saw the sad bunnies for real
and he puffed up like a blowfish
stammering you’re the patient
I’m the man.
Well I’ve been around the zendo
so I challenged him
smartypants answer this…….
Do bunnies in boxes
have Buddha nature?
Irrational and pointless he said
hmmmmm I said
how do you know
maybe you’re a narcissist
on a psychobabble fugue
echoing in a therapy box.
But I have Buddha nature
and I put that in the boxes I make
and the Buddha bunnies go in the boxes
and you here in your Buddha office
are not separate
just uniquely boxed
and the label on the bunnies' box says
assembled with care by Buddha.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
Your pillowcase
Is still in my closet,
Remember when you
Let me borrow it?
My fever sweat
Soaked through mine
And you were kind
Enough to let
Me use yours
So I could be comfy,
You constantly
Took care of me,
A monthly ordeal,
Ordering meals
Every night,
Every morning
The white hot light
Of mourning
Keeping me
Yawning
In my bed,
I didn't leave
For days,
Where could I go?
So confused and dazed
Watching Dazed and Confused
On infinite play
On the tube
With no attention paid,
Cuz its your favorite movie,
It got me lost
In thoughts of
Going to the premiere
At the cinema
Near
The mall where
You used to rack shirts,
They're both gone now,
Replaced with a Hertz,
Some condos
Of minimal worth,
And a David's bridal
Full of gowns
I'll never see you wear,
Cuz you disappeared
Into a habit,
A rabbit hole
Smeared
With ancient demons
That appeared resolved,
But in fact
Were the reasons
Your love dissolved,
As well as the ambition
To solve
Life's questions,
Your mission
Became
Obsessive
Injections,
Oh, my
Jesse,
I wish I
Still had
Your affection,
But the reaper
Has added
You to his
Collection
Already,
So I guess
I'll hold
Steady,
And maybe
He'll
Take me
Soon,
Cuz I'm
*******
Ready
To sail
To the
Moon.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
It’s 30…
it’s 28 degrees outside,
or so says the rust-cased thermometer
on the balcony.
The blizzard we’ve been expecting all week
is a churning grey mist in the distance—
it is easy to see from the balcony
if I look through pine boughs.
The woods expanding below our mountainside balcony
are also home to several swanky condos;
evergreens and birch all down the mountain,
and a dusty snow falling in the valley below.
We are all familiar with the reddened barn
staring at us, perfectly opposite our balcony,
commanding a small field
on the little mountain across the dip of the valley.
But the blizzard is swallowing the neighbor mountain
in its snowy march towards the balcony.
And the lazy, drifting flakes above the pines
are shook into a frenzied dance.
A group of skiers, lost and floundering in the white
near the buildings lodged in the woods below
understand that cold, chaotic feeling I know
as the valley blurs in whitewash.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 9:20 PM UTC
Nearly four decades ago, nearly half a century
I walked Freedom Boulevard from
a lonely bus stop and as I drove there
the other day I saw a girl standing at one who could have been
me, in memory -- frozen
Would it still be there? One of my treasured childhood memories
Still living, not someone's brand new home, or a bunch of Villas in a gated community, lost
The land bleeds in California, but has started to scar over and forget the apple orchards
across the street from The Barn, where I used to ride, and now the houses are at least
covered in trees as nature tries to overtake the foreign, like in Cherenobyl
The big red barn sitting atop a small hill, crammed with horse paddocks now that
the little barns turned to condos. But it is still there. Like magic, frozen in time.
The red barn, I walk in, it looks smaller than I remember
but the ***** brown cobwebs still cover the cieling and I am
nine years old again
Before I knew the boundaries of my gender
When I felt powerful, if neglected, strong and in charge
Before I knew the bindings of my ***
The limitations
I felt strong, and as I stand here,
I may as well be nine again, a single digit
And my fear melts away, and the lessons learned about my place
in the world evaporate
I stand, and look around at the barn nearly unchanged
and reclaim myself
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
My happiness comes from me ask my friends and the world around me blossoming in a spark of crimsony red moon glow on forethought walks through the shivering lenses of percept that trickle down our backs as we enlighten ourselves with all that is in between and unseen.
It is as if our aged limbs were caressed into a symphony of leverages and their shapes. We cannot be cadavers. We are arms of cheer and picture jasper, adolescent googled-eyes gathers with virile fixations on our partners as we prey on the map lines subtly employing our eyes as we dart across each dimple, pimple, freckle, and gently worn rash lines.
These are the dogs of our incessant barking. Idling for sincerity, as actors swiftly press Winter into us while our limbless diction presents our inadequacy Rd upon our ugly and I'll-tempered neighborly-things. Aliens of the afternoon, first floor agony and karmas standard for living in a reduced climate One.
Wearing down the hooves, undulates from Pepperdine mark trails with breaking breads and twigs and bones. Undulates from another world, behoofed and bemoved, curdling their sappy reselling a of drat and unkindly remarks. And we have begun to wonder when evolution will kick-in. When will the military come for them at the doors and vacate is all from our nontoxic lie-shrouded apartment complexes, condos, and cabins. Slaughter numbers of letters and integers right out in the street; loonies in the town square and the moose are crying.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
We sang: retro post-modern.
With tattoos of Lynard Skynard
And boats sailing
At high mast.
Mediocrity accepted as norm.
We came rarely,
For legal reasons.
Religion stained our blood,
And our *****
With pine smoke fragrance.
Laughter,
Few and like
Stucco condos-
Birds whispered secrets to life
As we murdered each other with silence.
Sun rise:
Gleamed positivity with
Bling chains of Christ.
We danced while naked and alone,
Another legality-
And culture was processed in the blender of commerce-
Black and white word puzzles plagued our lethargic minds.
From triviality—
Transience.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:03 AM UTC
Where were you when I was growing up?
You were in college getting A's while I was getting D's in science class in the 5th grade.
I remember asking if you wanted to draw with me and you never had the "time"
10 minutes out of your ******* busy day to spend with your CHILD.
yeah, I understand bringing food to the table is important and your brain wasn't fully developed until 25 but, where were you?
I loved that computer. Oh, AOL 5.0, talking to strangers, going into lesbian chats, looking at naked pictures of women.
I appreciated when you paid attention to me when I would wear the same underwear and pants weeks straight.
It was amazing that you noticed I never used to take my Ritalin and that I would hide it under my tongue and then stick it in a mug under my ****** twin bed.
I've had 8 cats during my lifetime?
Do you remember April that cat, that siamese cat, our 5 cats? What was up with having so many **** CATS?
I loved watching nickolodeon and nick at nite. Cat dog all day with 5 kittens in our lovely apartment.
LOVED having your now "husbands" nephew trying to have *** with me when I was like 11 and he was 18.
The moths were fun.....fancied smelling like moth ***** during school!
I loved taking baths only because we had no shower head. Filling up a plastic cup with water to be able to wash my hair was my favorite.
I loved when you threw a hair dryer at me.
Digging your stupid fake nails into my skin, not sure what I did "wrong" then but that was always the best treatment, CHILD.
My favorite was when you helped with my homework.
Loved when you threatened that you would "tie a rope around my neck" and that you hated me.
Loved eating raviolis and getting 2 chicken sandwiches from Mcdonalds. Oh, 4 mini burgers and fries from Whitecastle after going to Marshalls was my favorite.
That guy, that assyrian, iranian guy that owned Carvel and was 20 years older than you...I loved when he used to let me go outside alone the condos when I was 3.
Loved when he'd force me to where overalls and ugly clothes in elementary school.
Being forced to go to an Assyrian church every sunday was the best!
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
When you die alone
nobody beside you to see
your heart erupts through your chest
and a thousand tiny people crawl out.
Some of them climb down the bedside
and build condos in your carpet;
others climb up the lamp
and start hang gliding businesses.
Still others make their way
down the stairs and out into the garden
where they ride on great snails’ backs
singing wistful cowboy songs
in memory of your greatness.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:25 AM UTC
We laid in bed, bathing in muffled sunlight
A golden stream seeped between the drapes
Our Arms and legs tangled under love stained sheets
-It was the morning of the New Year
And so the sun rose slowly over the condos that barricade the shore
We were not working, not buying, not selling, not talking, not thinking
We were not planning not worrying not regretting not celebrating
But embracing one and other, both physically and spiritually
Her breath a weeping violin, her heart plucking an upright bass
And as we shift, tossing and turning in a rain stick lullaby
We were alive, in love. And that was all that mattered
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
The whole condo is full of Doritos.
It smells like a dentist's office, only
without any pretense of dentistry.
All assumptions aside, I plug my nose.
Crunching under my feet, the cheese meadows
spread the carpet's sprawl. Who'd live in this place?
I compose myself, set my briefcase
down, crunch through the living room. *Who knows?
This is ******* gross. Out of these condos
this one's the very worst.* A baby's cry
emanates through this urban pigsty.
I peer into a room and...baby toes? --
baby toes! -- peeking from mounds of crushed cheese!
Why do these crack heads keep having babies?
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
Right in the middle of the busiest area of the Poconos, the group of condos sit in a large circle. The sky is dark, for it has been hidden from all possible sunlight by the many awnings and porches that join the different housing units. On one side of the condos the neon lights from the bar next door shine through the children’s windows, but the more occupied side the parking lot is lined with fast food restaurants- clumped together and riotous with large families that frequent them, juggling their small children and many diaper bags; and noisy cars speeding past with loud engines, pungent, murky exhaust spewing out of the back and police sirens constantly blaring down the street. In the parking lot encircled by the condos the tenant kids run around full of light yet somehow full of darkness at the same time. The older kids come out of the small houses to sit on the sidewalk in the evening, and the cracked sidewalks are covered with the faded chalk drawings left there by the youngsters earlier in the day, and with the sheets of crumbled up paper containing poetry no one would ever read, and with the old needles and discarded blunts of their parents who had left them there over the course of the day.
There is one unit in particular, a unit with a broken door from the many men who had tried to force their way in, a unit with holes in every wall that were put there by flying fists and thrown objects that had missed their true target- the oldest daughter. In front of the many holes in the their smiles are fake and their hugs are forced.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
The rotten fruit shall be shaken --- W. H. Auden
Do they somehow envision sainthood in the homeless
or extol the virtue of the millions toiling for minimum wage;
see themselves as the feudal overlords of trickle-down,
their enormous profits banquet omelets for the common good?
You know the politics whereof I speak,
the Me, Myself and I of anachronistic yesterdays,
the concave years of soup-kitchens supporting high-rise condos
and batshit crazy presidential candidates admiring selfies.
I wonder if it's all because they can't reach ******
impotence and pharmaceuticals which fuel our economy?
A nation moans from the exhaustion of despair with
forgotten cityscapes of odorous blacks and blues.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
The ancient tacoma grainery,
Stands in a corner of its own now.
Tne dark tunnell still has leggs when
she lets go.
The dock street rail yard fills up the city like a
loaf of hotnsteamy bread.
Farther down our ambitious tycoon
Stacks up condos, wheat pancakes,
Is his breakfast of choice.
They demolished the old elks club.
Which sprung across the street
like a walmart super store.
Blue and yellow is workers vest
perks and all. Their members still
grase for golfballs off the ten million dollar tees.
There isnt much enjoyment, they'd rather drink.
Last month my two foot clarks walked through the sliding dorrs hospitality.
Wanting to see the high mountain of sucess,
I looked for organic oats.
My minds to random.
I inch up to the screen and see the faces of migrant workers,
Hang like meat.
After six months in america half the under employed,
Are giving up.
Deported with their children.
My hope still goes out to the college students.
And their first morgage of inflamatory dough.
They all buy up every job still hoping for change.
No marrijuana in public,
Get away while the officers turn their backs,
With their guns to pepper a face.
In the taxing store.
Im afraid we smoked heavilly.
Love to the workers,
Love to their vests.
Everythings devoliping to quick.
My new bike slices by cars of ritz crackers.
Everthings been built to last.
There nothing left to buil on,
Only a few vacent lots that wait for tresspassers.
One man dives through a trash can and isnt scared.
He picks out a hamburger bun and eats his lunch.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Don’t know what to say
Other than fairwell
Death has finally claimed
Another venerable hotel
Where everyone from
Sid Vicious to Dee Dee Ramone
At one time or another stayed
And called it their home
Requiem for the Chelsea
May she rest in peace
Now that all activity inside her
Has finally ceased
Closed for renovations
See we’ve heard that before
The death knell has been tolled
She ain’t coming back no more
Nevermore to open
In its present incarnation
Cos now the Chelsea’s history
Despite the acclamations
What the future holds
Is anybody’s guess
But if I’m forced to take one
I’d say condos at best
The Chelsea was a grand hotel
Back there in the day
Name me one musician
Who didn’t book a stay
The Chelsea was iconic
What else can I say
Except that it’s ironic
That it went down that way
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
Found my slice of paradise on the southern coast today.
Although I felt ill prepared at first: cycling in my climbing shoes (the only shoes I found tossed in my car),
no helmet, and nothing but a large body of salt water at the end of the trail to quench my thirst for refreshment,
perhaps what I was most unprepared for was this small patch of sand I stumbled across at the edge of the lagoon, much unlike the pristine white sandy beaches with ******** clad women that embody San Diego County, this slice of shoreline is squeezed by a motel parking lot to the north and tightly packed condos to the south and seems rugged and uncombed, like an abandoned lot the city had intended to develop before the recession but instead left it to sit, collecting seaweed and mangy seagulls.
Slightly windy, home to an unwelcoming rip current, and the view of the freeway not far behind me, this was paradise. My unkempt paradise.
Although a few scattered families littered the sand, who somehow felt like intruders to a secret jewel I had just discovered, I still felt that this was my new patch of sanity. I felt a strong urge to keep it a protected secret matched with a sense of pride in finding it and the desire to share this hidden sense of serenity with all my friends on the central coast; bring them here to christen it with the free-spirited energy I had unwillingly left behind.
But instead I left that decision for another day, rolled out my yoga mat I had haphazardly strapped to my back, and started my Vinyasa flow with a view of the Pacific Ocean; a sputtering plane engine was my mental Sanskrit, the tide my metronome for breath.
Even the stares of my fellow beach-dwellers wouldn’t deter me from this spot. I had left my mark near the lifeguard tower, a skinny path from my tires and a rectangular imprint of my mat that said: I'll be back. Perhaps what sealed the deal was the sign I passed as I pedaled away: Bicycle Friendly Community. Yep, maybe this could be a home away from SLO.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 2:05 AM UTC
There is an immensity of life between us
in the cracks of the tar lining the streets of the new and the up and coming
in the cement foundations of pieces of history torn down to make way for condos
in the luxury of the innocent
in the opulence of the well versed
(I was never brilliant or oblivious but I understood the weight of it still)
and still
there is life here
in the filthy river water we use to cleanse ourselves of modern day idealism
in the pedicured grass of the only wild space left in the city
in the eyes of the people who go unnoticed for years
in the hands of the business men devastating and deciding the price of our humanity
we swarm
we collect
we nest in this hive
we levitate and gravitate towards new heights and new highs
vowing to go up and over up and over until we revert back to the way we once were
nostalgia
a pretty word for dissatisfaction
tearing down walls only to romanticize their restriction ten years later
we build up to break down to reenforce what we already know
but yet there is a beyond
and yet still there is more
still there is life in the existential
still there in the thoughts between sleep and waking
still between the jump and the fall
still
and even still you take your forearm and run it along the curve of the earth surrounding this city
this coal eating monster washed with the dreams of a thousand drunkards looking for some other body to call home
and we call it home
with the austere buildings and mirror images reflecting bricks and soot
reflecting breath and sighs
reflecting life and death
and between it all
there is so much life
yes between us
there is an immensity of life.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
We look past meaning, still blinded and dreaming of riches,
Which leads us toward track homes and condos, cruel chapels
While the hapless live in the world’s mansion: the most open convent
And what we don’t see is sometimes the crux of our content
The streets offer a morose array of the discarded
They, the wise and most wretched, who humbly suffer
Are perhaps the truest, comely Christian-hearted men and women
They bless the day as they pray to the ground
Where cracks become twisted crucifixes upon which
The most selfless are displayed for public derision.
Ironic is the formula written with precision on the tome of our existence
Iconic moments of pain bloom into the banks that loan out inspiration
Each electron is one thousand eight hundred thirty-sixth of its proton
And this proportion, though grandly and numbingly unimpressive
Is the basis upon which we live and whir and spin as matter does
Coincidence is a lie in the face of the certainties within what we cannot see
For, though one decade separated the births of Crockett and Bowie
And, though their names might conjure knives larger than pockets
And hats, stolen from conquered bandit-faced creatures’ tail ends
It was on the same 1836 day that they evolved from flesh into legend.
Joy is a strange element that seems to come and go without a plot
Yet some know how to wield their emotions with little thought
As if joy and love were as a hammer worn neatly at the belt
So, I yearn for one day to grasp a handle in a hand that has never felt
The shape of certainties, once discerned as chance and circumstance
And when the hammer falls, I hope it breaks a twisted crack into my heart
I hope to, from my reflections, thus bereft,
Find some perfection hidden deep in death
As one might decipher, through foreign language,
A light that warms within a sonnet
In a way, I think my life depends upon it.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
Music bleeds out of the 12th story window
The sidewalk is freckled
with old chewing gum
and stacks of cigarette butts
The urban equivalent of leaves on a forest floor
This side walk has been seen by many travelers
thousands have walked its
concrete skin
Buried underneath subway trains travel
like bullets
carrying the cramped masses of morning commuters
There's a man in a suit
Sunglasses shield the world from his eyes
Cellphone in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other
Walking briskly in his Italian leather shoes
Not noticing the man in the burgundy hat reaching
deep within the trash can
Chirping birds have been replaced with the honking
of car horns and air brakes of city buses
Towering trees have been replaced with towering
condos, offices, and monuments of capitalism
We're told when to cross the street and
the rivers have been told where to drain
The birds have been told where to nest
We're told where we belong
Within its neighborhoods
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
There I stood amongst the crowd. Hundreds have gathered, like prairie dogs, we are still, with our eyes focused out past the rocks, and into the setting sun. The dolphins are rolling in the waves, and feeding on the snook. The earth is now cooled in the late evening breeze, and the sun begins its journey to the bottom of the ocean. The sky lights up with the most brilliant of colors, oranges, reds, pinks, and blues. All eyes look west, soaking up the picture.
Against the crowd, I turn my back to the setting sun!
I look away and into the eastern sky to see the clouds lit up just as brilliantly as the west, but there is more. The sun reflects off the condos showing their true colors, and the sandy shore is a fiery orange lined with birds after their final meals.
It is the picture that most won’t see. It is the forgotten view. Just as beautiful as the west, but with our backs turned against it we often miss out. Most will look west in hopes of catching what every one else is looking for. The beauty of the sunset, But what is beauty?
To me it is what most will not see. They want to see it, but they will miss out. Distracted by the obvious sunset, they forget to turn around.
Beauty is intentionally turning around and looking at something for all it is worth. It is looking at something or someone for more than what the world looks for. It is seeing the whole picture. It is the uneven dimples of her smile. The sorrow in her eyes as we pass by the homeless. The gentleness of her fingertips pressed against mine, and how she tries to hide her little sneezes. Beauty is the way she looks as she brushes her teeth in the morning, and smiles at me through that foamy mouth. It is the words she whispers gently in my ears just before I fall asleep at night.
I am turning my back to the falling sun in search of that true beauty. What will the east hold for me? I am looking, where are you?
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:18 PM UTC
No (wo) man is an island
But is it possible to be the
Roaring ocean?
Swallowing rocks with animosity
And spitting out a
Glittery product
Of sandy turmoil
No (wo)man is an island
But is it possible to be the grey
Black boulders?
Among the edge
Where the green lush ends
And the midnight blue
Sadness begins.
Stagnant and indifferent
To the wild hearted seagulls
Perched and picking
Pointing out the imperfections
Of a jagged way of being
No (wo)man is an island
But is it possible to be the drifting
Lofty limitless clouds
A pertinent part of the paradoxical ceiling
Of the globe
Floating and spreading
Fluffy wings of idealism
offering frustrating fantastical
Dreamy substance
To a crooked solidified world below
No (wo)man is an island
But is there just a small
Glimmering possibility
That if I wanted to be
I could be an island
Lone, and far away
From these
Destructive city slicker
Emotions
That stack on top of each other
Like the condos neighboring my mind
Crowding my consciousness
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
- Black squirrel carrying walnuts to her nest, wary of winter's triumph.
- Stephen and John drinking coffee too late to notice it's time for bed.
- Seven-forty, golden skies, power lines intersecting, delivery.
- Going out of business, entire stock fifty percent off, buy more save more.
- Houses are taken from the elderly and they are put in condos.
- R C A cables, seven cents, an iPod wait to be "used" again.
- "Do you still feel thirsty?" the man asks her as they set the table.
- Listening to dub without step is dub at its best, one would believe!
- Impatiently stabbing into the White-Out with a pen yields ****
- On TV there's a documentary about its own history.
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 14, 2011 at 10:27 PM UTC