"contractor" poems
Oh my it is great...
to have this headache...
after trying
to understand
what numbers are real and fake
I don't see
how this will help me
through my course of
life
Will I ever be
trying to see
what the angle of a chair is again?
or will I ever need to use
how to find a hypotenuse?
I've thought and thought
for a very long time
and came up with a list
of jobs that would ever
need algebra
Math teacher
Crazy Math obsessor
Architect
Carpenter
scientist (on occasion)
contractor
Someone who builds triangles
kite maker
someone who makes graphs
salesman/women
Too bad that isn't any of the jobs I ever want...
Algebra...
oh how my head burns
and I'm sorry if you like it
I don't mean to offend
but Algebra just aint my jam
I'd rather be painting
or writing
or singing
I'd rather be strumming(my guitar)
be sleeping
or eating
I'd rather
go play soccer
or basketball
or ski
Really I'd just rather be free
free of the confusion
I feel after class
of the helplessness
that I have
towards math
Oh how am I going to survive???
PS. I still have to live through geometry (I **** at shapes)
pre calculous (I don't even know what that is) and calculous (Ugh ***
I hope you enjoyed my "radical" poem!
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 4:54 PM UTC
When education was restricted
They ran to religion
When solace was stripped away
They ran to martyrdom
Loved ones fell
Hated ones rose
As hearts sank
To the depths of the maelstrom
Fueled by the unholy trinity
Value, vindication, and violence
Bombs decimate Afghan villages
With the precision
Of a needle hitting a vein
And as casually
As a contractor putting a dollar in his pocket
The rubble of their town
Lost in a mist of dust
The rubble of their minds
Lost in a mist of vengeance
The rabid dog chases the subjugated raccoon
The raccoon discovers a sacred hole and hides in it
The predator attempts to encroach the void
The raccoon quivers in it's sanctuary shelter
Finding relief as the hound becomes stuck
And laughs as the infected beast starves to death
But ecstasy turns to terror
As the raccoon realizes it's only way out of this hole
Is being blocked by the gargantuan corpse
Terror turns to sorrow
As the raccoon starves to death
Alone
In the dark
It's holy land now hell
For once it had protected the raccoon from unbridled rabies
But since the hound's death
It's Cerberus size obstructs all progression
Holes become graves
And prey are left to pray
For someone to drop a bomb and clear a path
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 4:45 AM UTC
Dear Mithila,
The mother of my children,
the love of my life
.
Yes, this place doesnt have wine
so no i havent been drunk
Heard my grandson's prayers,
you've been ill.
Heard you dont even go to the stock market
all day my wife is still.
I met your insurance contractor
And oh! is he a fine entity
he still bestows his powers upon me
My dearest Mithila
Loved you i have for seventy years
And ill love you till seventy eternities more
Our dead son, opened the door
and this place we reside is warm
unlike the winters where i went to the storm,
and blasted rifles in names of a revolution
The love of my life,
the mother of my children.
Teach our grandsons the song we sang
The bells in the market we rang
And let them ask if not pray
for their grandfather far away
Let not little grandsons of mine
forget honor due to evils of time
Oh! how i miss you dear
and oh, how i was wish i was there
You'll come in time, but understand
your wishes, my queen, were commands
but this wish i cant fulfill and i wont let the company,
wont let them take you like they took me
Stay! for my daughter still needs her mother
and my grandsons and granddaughter
needs to know of our love
Forever yours,
Madhav
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
A Long time ago,
I was far from home,
Far from good food,
company
and familiar sights.
I was washing my bike,
Hoping for my neighbor's
sweet daughter
to come out
on her Balcony
Light up my day
with her sweet smile
My neighbor
My landlady,
Had a family of six
Beautiful daughters,
Who had no father
This churned my heart
I went soft for this family
But had no Intention
to ruin
Disrupt their peace
Nor interfere
In their daily lives
I kept my feelings
bottled in steel
but smiled
Good naturedly
at them all
and stood guard
against
any male that threatened
their gentle citadel
They treated me
with snacks
and their gentle
smiles like I was
the Orphan
and I was well fed
with my sacred
relationship
But their smiles
created pangs
in my young heart
which good breeding
stifled with iron hand
Until one day
I espied
my contractor
make eyes
at the oldest
This enraged me
Lit a fire
(I thrashed the man
Ah, the strength of youth
Knows no bounds)
into an inch of his life
till he begged
for mercy.
This fell on the ears
of my superiors
who in their enthusiasm
to please
their clients
had me transferred
2000 kms
from home
I waved goodbye
with tears in my eyes
my six angels
and their guardian
who had grown
to like me as well,
That day I swore
that no girl child
would come to harm
under my watch
without her will
and some times even
with her will when
her delicate youth
made her stray
into harms path
I would slay the dragon
of temptation
at the cost of
my reputation
among friends of
being a Casanova
I wear my disguise well
To Please God and Man.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 2:32 AM UTC
Robot Kills Man at Volkswagen Plant in Germany
"BERLIN — Automaker Volkswagen says a robot has killed a contractor at one of its production plants in Germany. A spokesman for VW says the man died Monday at the plant in Baunatal, about 100 kilometers (62 miles) north of Frankfurt. Heiko Hillwig said Wednesday the 22-year-old was part of a team that was setting up the robot when it grabbed and crushed him against a metal plate." (source MSN, 7/2/15)
It begins . . .
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
They punch me in the face
Until it is apparently asymmetrical
They call me human waste
And tell me not to be sentimental
When they're insistent
On our difference
I begin to see asymmetry
In the way they're treating me
Does anybody remember or even care
About what happened in Nisour Square?
A Blackwater slaughter
Killing sons and daughters
An unprovoked
Macabre joke
The militants were convicted
The victims remained deceased
The locals were livid
When the problem would repeat
We don't mind taking innocent lives intentionally
When we see their value asymmetrically
Does anyone remember when the city of Fallujah
Smoked like a hookah?
Thermobaric rocket launchers
That used depleted uranium
To melt insurgent craniums
Left behind waste
That is radioactive
The citizens could taste
The shame of being passive
When they couldn't reject
The spike in birth defects
A child is born with its heart protruding from its chest
So we can more easily grab it
That child was born with an asymmetrical breast
Because of our capitalist habit
Contractor corpses hang from a bridge
While we stand on a ridge
Separating chaos and order
A symmetrical border
Order oppresses
Chaos undresses
Both cause messes
We need to see each other equally
Or we'll continue seeing sequel sprees
We need to stop seeing asymmetrically
And adopt a completely loving creed
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC
I am a physician.Last fall, I had a very interesting
conversation with a patient who is a trucker. I asked her if she knew
anything about deep underground military bases, and then I played ignorant
to see what she would say.
Without further prompting, she informed me she is an independent contractor
trucker, driving 18-wheeler rigs cross-country. She said the bases are real
and are located all over the country, "especially under the mountains out
West". She said one of her main contracts over the last few years has been
with DHS.
She said there are underground roads running all over the United States,
connecting the underground facilities.
She said she has personally delivered many truckloads of supplies to the
underground facilities. For each DHS shipment/delivery, there was a stack
of non-disclosure forms about (by her description) six inches thick she had
to sign.
DHS would attach a tracking device to her truck for each of these shipments
and monitor her truck's every move. She would be told where to go to accept
delivery for each shipment. In each case, she would be escorted by guards
"with machine guns" away from her truck, so she could not see what was
being loaded into her rig. The truck would then be locked by a large lock
with a ring 'as big around as your finger", which had to be torch-cut off
at the time of delivery.
When she would make deliveries, often within underground facilities, she
would again be escorted away from the truck by armed guards, the lock would
be cut off, and the goods would be unloaded.
She said the only shipped goods she ever saw in these DHS shipments were
stackable black plastic things that looked like coffins.
She told be the gov't is getting ready for a collapse, which she told be
she expected might happen as early as late 2014.
She also told me she thinks the gov't has just about everything is needs
stored underground, because the number of DHS shipments has been
declining.
I asked her if she would be willing to have lunch with me and tell me more.
She replied, "yes", but afterwards when I contacted her, she had changed
her mind and would not talk further about it with me.
Another pt of mine, whom I saw within about a week of this lady, is a local
trucker, but he told me that he has lots of friends who are truckers, and
through them, he said he had learned that there are "thousands of miles of
underground roads" running across the country, connecting underground gov't
facilities.
He had just recently, in fact, heard among his trucker friends of a
shipment of frozen meat being shipped to one such underground facility,
totaling four million pounds of meat.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
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Relate Articles:
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
Virginia Nicholson
How To Build A House In N-Dimensions
1. Begin with lines, pencil to paper (if they could exist) drawing graphite arrangements, N-space reduced to one, a structure viewed in slices. Imagine the bathroom off the foyer, the den off the dining room, viewable only as inked lines, dit-dit-dah, a contractor’s Morse Code.
2. Progress to carpet squares, linoleum tiles, the coral paint pairs well with the eggshell trim. Dit-dah-dit becomes something useful to the non-contractor, “door” or “Master Bedroom” or “x hundred feet of pipe.” Envision the imagined patterns hidden in the bathroom floor, the kitchen hardwood.
3. Move to volumes, solids, conic sections, height. One story, two stories, a basement, an attic?, take advantage of the introduction of 3D. Upgrade the closet to walk-in, needs more carpet squares. A snapshot of a family barbeque, Charlie’s height 1D penciled in to the 3D door, marring 2D eggshell paint.
4. Adding time, the house is built, ages, gets sold to new families with little Charlies of their own, new markings on the cupboard door, 3-foot-2, 3-foot-5, 4-foot-9. Grass fades from Kelly to sand to Kelly, saturation a cosine function with respect to time. The Zoysia starts in one, breaking ground in two, growing in three, a well-manicured 4D experience.
5-11. Include the things invisible to us, objects on the order of 1 meter, orders of 10E-2 to 10E9 seconds. Five to eleven drip through leaky pipes, seep through porous flooring, get lost in iron-rich soil and oxygenated exhalations. Five to eleven stay hidden, wrapped up in Calabi-Yao manifolds smaller than graphite hills and valleys marking little Charlie’s height, stronger than the 2-by-4s and stone foundation keeping strong in 4D. Five to eleven circulate undetected, seven dimensions shrunk to sub-pinpoint size, keeping seven dimensions of unexplainables covered until their traces are seen in the blades of Zoysia.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:20 PM UTC
Once a month in the ghost restaurant
we bring wine,
we light candles.
Alan (veterinarian) recites a rowdy lyric
about the cloacae
of waterfowl.
Dennis (percussionist, oldies band)
recites from his bar stool about a pretty lass
courted by men at a dance, it’s his daughter,
she saves the last dance for him.
Lynette (social worker) tells how her big brother
tricked her into looking down
the nozzle of a hose.
Bob (physical therapist) sings about fishing
in Canada, then selling all the fish
to Japan.
Joyce (office manager) reads a poem she wrote
about music,
so I (contractor, retired) tell about singing
la la la
to my grandson
who needs constant holding.
We all agree holding is a good thing
but hugging among men is an acquired skill
not taught in Ohio.
Terry (maintenance man) reads a poem
about the secret meanings
of words.
Denise (nobody knows what she does) tells a story
about hitchhiking in France
where trapped in a truck
in the remote alps
with a man’s hand on her thigh
she thwarts the tough guy
by singing songs from The Sound of Music.
Bob washes the wine glasses;
Terry returns the key to its hiding place.
We hug, some of us anyway.
Our little town, once a month.
Literature, home-grown.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC
I've got an idea, that's just too weird to be real
But, if we could get it to work, I'll let you in on the deal
It's a way to fix things, that's as easy as pie
When I say what it is, you'll just sit and cry
You won't need a mechanic when the car goes to ***
You won't need any makeup to cover that spot
The roof has a leak, don't call for repairs
The window is broke, act as though it's not there
Your tooth hurts like crazy, no dentist to call
Don't call a contractor for that crack in the wall
The baby's still crying, leave the doctor alone
The dog ate your homework, just throw him a bone
The bank just got robbed, don't call for the cops
Don't sit there just waiting for the next shoe to drop
The answer is simple, you won't believe it....I know
But if we could get it to work, our wealth sure would grow
It's a thing so **** simple, that we do in the loo
I know that we do it, and I'm sure you do too
It's a thing just as easy as lighting a candle
to make problems go poof....just jiggle the handle !
If we could apply something this simple to our problems each day
It would be so **** easy...and they'd go away
So before you go crazy, overwhelmed with the world
Just think of this answer that I have unfurled
Remember it now...just like lighting a candle
You can make them go poof...just jiggle the handle.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
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. In the summer months, cats, two mothers and two mothers were great. Take care of the lost विच, witch in Africa. And then he burned it. There is a golden movie in the hands of O. After the game, no plants, animals, wolves go onto church that do not follow their orders for many years with no one taking over a beef farm and killing their fat friends with a pistol. Great vegetation from that day to evening and evil. Is he a soldier? Flowers are often deserted in Greece; Martin Nantes is a high quality black group before scattering products cleaned up by Joseph Martin, 1790; Brothers City, City Buy, Nusicians, Music Awards, Acid "But with my rage, I do not do business with black blood and blood sugar washing with Black African मनी," Britney Smiles, Christian At Risk»: Public Secrets' Your Ideas include hidden windows and window translations and tattoos, kids, cocktails hidden in shadows, new class of helper and a large gypsy. Sweet drinks, sports, regular Shelves, Bulldog "Gender is my first job, what is the reason for clothes?"
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 1:00 AM UTC
why is there trash in the Whitehouse
this question
the American people ponder
Obama garbage is polluting the residence
and yet he can't be removed
there must be a cleaning contractor
somewhere in the Congress or Senate
who has the wear with all
with a thorough broom
to excise the filth
that is inhabiting the place
action is needed on the clean up front
to rid the Whitehouse
of this most ugly affront
if he stays around
too much longer
Pennsylvania Avenue
will stink
worse
than a pellet of dog pooh
the American people
deserve a fresh smell
in the Whitehouse
the delightful bouquet
of a Republican resident
will make for a nicely perfumed incumbent
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
If at first I had seen you as a still-life
Of passing interest, in one of those restaurants
With heightened pretensions of the eclectic: culture in a can
You would have remained void of deepness, to me:
A face half-hidden behind a menu, buzzing neon lights behind your head
Faintly visible enigmatic eyes, above the hors-d'oeuvres list
Some inaudible small talk with another person,
A casual tabloid easily forgotten.
If I had noticed you while you were working
You would have seemed another skilled contractor or employee;
The answer key to the solution I was seeking, though I might have paused
Long enough to suppose you wise, well educated: noble
In the struggle, perhaps wondered if you were always this serious
Even if not on someone's time-clock or your own pay roll
Maybe I would have thought you had a quizzical expression, or questioned
If I had imagined that wariness which seemed to hide behind an easy smile.
Instead, you've drawn me closer in, only toward you-
Pulled me in with no touch, not a glance, nor hushed voice
With only your words, your wit and keen intuition, against which
I've no sort of defense, no sophisticated angle of attack
And words can promise all, or nothing; or simply imply a supposed future
Towards which we might have been running backwards
All this time, while caught up in thinking that eventually
We would be arriving at some place completely different.
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 8:02 PM UTC
I sit here
counting windows;
six, twelve, eighteen,
et cetera.
How much money
could the contractor
have saved
without them?
Easily thousands,
but would it be worth
blotting out the sun?
Workers shivering
at their desks,
wishing for
brighter lives.
Clients choosing
the competitor,
who's employees
shine a little brighter.
The windowless building
closing its doors
because they couldn't
afford the bills,
all because
they saved some
money on the windows.
I sit here
counting windows;
six, twelve, eighteen,
et cetera.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
Does it matter how the flames began
to creep about and up the stairs?
A mansion on the Waterfront
with seven people sleeping there.
A scaffold on the Second floor
signified that restoration had begun.
An Ember carelessly discarded
burst forth to threaten both old and young.
When firefighters approached the scene
They saw the mother attempt to save
her children on the second floor.
but tongues of fire drove her away.
Her contractor had likewise tried
to save the girls who slept upstairs.
He had two nearly in his grasp
when they both panicked and ran away.
The girls’ grandfather came the closest
to saving one granddaughter dear
He brought her to a window seat
and tried to get her in the clear
but choking smoke and his weakened heart
brought his attempt to end in tears.
A mother weeps, uncomprehending,
as water hoses douse the flames.
Both her parents and her children dead,
and her home a smoking, ruined frame..
Sophocles, the attic poet
called man a thing of “breath and shadow “.
Too long a life can be a curse
A life too short, a cause for sorrow
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
this tree would grow big
and bear fruits
crows would come
honeybees,
ants, centipedes and all
then the wind, rain
and sunshine would come
savour the taste,
in one way or another
the tree would grow again
when the branches
grow beyond their reach
children would leave the tree
then comes the contractor,
and the chopper and carpenter
arrive in their turn
when the chisel touches
the same branch, where
the crow used to sit,
there arises a sound, cawing
hearing the sound
the remaining children
would fly away sturned
when the nail pierces
its windblown shoulder
there 'll be an eerie silence
desolate like the midday
of friday without anyone
going to the church
gradually it becomes the door
and enters inside
and sits as a chair,
then lay down-
as a cot, tired
I am waiting for her
under that tree
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
You send National Register of Historic Places Evaluation of the Freeman Creek Site, 31ON076 back to the contractor without payment because the Methodology chapter had no rhyme or meter (or reason, for that matter).
r ~ 14Mar14
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
Thank you for the best present I ever got
Our oasis by the bay,
Was ravaged by storm and hurricane,
And the men came with earth moving equipment
Built us a renewed sheltering wall that,
Soon enough, will be tested.
The earth movers have long gone.
But a malted milk colored mound,
Broad but not too tall, of the good earth,
Smack dab in the middle of the lawn,
Somehow was left behind,
Like the stickers, the new car dealers plant w/o asking.
This mound, conspicuous like most of us,
Seems very out of place.
But like the box the toy came in,
The young children come from houses all around,
To climb upon it and declare for now,
They are the victors over life.
Even the **** deer that eat
The most colorful plants we raise,
Come in the early morn,
To climb to the top,
An advisory from the animal kingdom,
This place, this land, this isand,
You think is yours,
Was ours before and
Has never left our possession.
So I call the contractor,
Come take this vestige of the
Future and the Past off my kingdom of grass,
And when he picks up the phone,
And asks what he can do for us,
I am looking at the children
Dancing, scrambling, climbing upon
An obstacle perfect-sized to let them
Learn the pleasure of success,
I remain silent for I know not
How to say without sounding weirder than
I already am,
Thank you for the best present I ever got.
June 1st
This day, this morning at 5:55 AM.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
the outside of the house
was looking rather dull
and over a color chart
I did ponder and mull
a shade of maroon
made for great appeal
so did a rich shade
of Kensington teal
with the color decided
for the paint job
into the local hardware store
I did nonchalantly lob
the chap behind the counter
asked if he could assist
I said of course you can
as I waved my wrist
we walked to the paint and putty
section of the store
where there were gallons of paint
sitting on the floor
we discussed the advantages
and disadvantages of exterior gloss
and I opted for a shade
known by the name of Rock Moss
the paint was placed in the trunk
of my Nissan four wheel drive
I then set out for home with a paint
which would bring my house alive
the overalls that were in the tool shed
I quickly hauled on
and I proceeded to paint
the exterior walls with great aplomb
there I was on ladder high
slapping the paint brush around
when all of a sudden
I landed face first on the ground
the house painting job
came to an abrupt finish
ye olde ladder and I parted company
after the skirmish
a painting contractor is finalizing
what I didn't quite complete
and by next Friday week
he'll have the outside of the house looking neat
it has been an adventure
improving the exterior of my home
yet I wouldn't have had the adventure
but for the ladder wanting to roam
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
How to skirt
Laws built on blood
Tears and people
How to profit
During a depression
Worse than 1920
Simply don't afford
Worker rights
It's that easy
Apparently
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
Oh, this long road seize no end.
Should I sue the contractor?
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
I feel bad
Catching my own reflection
Trapping it with my eyes
Because hey
I hate it enough when you all do it.
Only, the difference is,
I see through this guise,
Know the dark secrets,
Have seen all the ugliness
And by god
I just
Hate it
I hate being looked at
watched
I wish I was invisible.
Because
All I ever wanted to be
Was nothing
But even when you’re ‘nothing’
They can still see you
Even though they see ‘nobody’
But the really funny part
Is that
I have
The hardest time
Even considering myself
Alive
Real
In existence
If I’m not ’visible.’
Maybe I wasn’t created
To exist on this plane.
So I write
I write and I hammer away
At this keyboard
Like a contractor trying
Desperately
To repair this ramshackle house
To fix it without
Ruining the foundations
So fully
That it crumbles.
Because, in many ways,
I’m in active decay.
You never know what’s
On fire or broken
And sometimes
You’ll find carcasses
In unexpected places
Because these
‘Skeletons’
Keep crawling under my bed
While I toss and turn
And sneaking out of closets
While I write to you.
Because if home
Is where the heart is,
Then where did mine go?
And suddenly
I don’t know what to do
Because suddenly
I’m not fine and
I’m learning how to speak again
But I’m still so trivial
And inaudible
And I barely exist.
No, no,
Really, I’m fine
I’m fine
Please don’t touch me
I’ll hate it or I’ll like it too much.
Please don’t look at me
Please pretend that I’m not here
Because your attention will
Make me even smaller
And soon
I’ll really be nothing.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Darnell is
trash compactor
a general
to fabricate
thrift in
whiff of
blustery air
but doctoring
his hallowed
fornicate only
compressed tires
into rototiller
with compost
to enrich
their denizens
with commercial
paper here
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC