"conversationalists" poems
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
I keep fondling dreams as I
flip through FOX, CNN and MSNBC networks.
An electric lady land fantasy
of revolutions where over and over and
under and through inconsistent gibberish of
conservative conversationalists’ and
liberal libel is taken for truth.
My heart is pumping out toxic fiber optic
editorial journalistic pollution like kidneys
secrete the habit of alcohol and
cigarette poisons.
Our dependence on government help is
broken glass shards ruining the
veins of society
while Limbaugh, and spring chicken heads with a
View are enslaving our voices and
limiting the truth of our choices using
eminent domain for our minds as they spit out
their opinions through television and radio
frequencies into our brain waves as truth.
How some American hearts stay warm with
nightly news schisms, burning intolerance,
unreal realism, religious sincerity posed
and limp **** ****** commercials
is amazing. But still a paradox hoax.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 3:15 AM UTC
Everyday I get up
Animal crackers are what I stuff
Into my pockets to make it through the day
They're not only my passion
But also great on nutrition
And comfort food in the sweetest of ways
They give me something to chew
And also nice to talk to
With the lions and tigers and bears, Oh my!
Animal crackers and me
Have a commonality
From spending time in the circus to our love of pie
They're really great conversationalists
As we share our many interests
From Tupperware to scuba diving to pocket lint
Now you know why
I pack my pockets tight
When going about my business makes so much sense
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
PROSTITUTE’S DREAM
Ayad Gharbawi
A helping hand waves in distant appeals
While realities projected by liars
Transpire in hatred waxed and refined
The conversationalists’ hollowness laughingly
Excused the wars individuals fight
While a ********** yells
To godless martyrs
Who preached of Gods
As the dwarfs compared themselves
To the beauties of loneliness
The hungry painted ships of adventure
In their mysterious journeys, they asked:
“Where are we to go?”
The woman was betrayed
By the quick-tongued lover
Her eyes chased different circumstances
Forgetting that circumstances change
Therein lies the equation of human beings
Humans who care not
While the dying one
Strums
Her brittle
Guitar
Made of tender wood
Where the hollow tunes soon died
Her voice squeaked in No-Man’s-Land
Her eyes, a sunset they revered
Her eyes that followed her lover’s path.
Somewhere in a dark distance
Eyes rigid and fixed
Even though the winds sway you with pain
Your Protectors are dead, I declare!
Your Protector is no more
Understand that;
And understand your enemy
The one within you
Then shall you feel so much more
For alone you walk in this life
You breathe in.
Dec 27, 2009
Dec 27, 2009 at 8:08 AM UTC
I hate how you sit out on the dock in the late afternoon sun
with your canvass and paints. Stretching me and pulling me
for nothing but the pleasure of your latest muse. I hate
that you get to talk to the strangers fishing down the way
and the only people I have are the wooden planks you push me into.
And believe me they are horrible conversationalists.
You run after butterflies to match your paint to their wings
and softhearted blades of grass try to dry my tears. Darling,
I love you, I hate you, I love you but i don't love you anymore.
You get to live your life and manipulate me however you wish.
Only next time we play this little game of ours
you'll be my shadow
and I'll be your
master
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
Excommunicated
Only to be exonerated
on this road less traveled
All this knowledge
for what?
No one finds it to be important anyhow
No one cares to know
Where are all the conversationalists
Where has the brilliance gone?
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 1:44 PM UTC
Insignificant chatter looms over my decaying ear.
The tantalizing haze floods the hidden floor boards,
the stained walls.
The prevarication is located in the detrimental couches.
The blissfulness of your ignorance feeds the self-inflicted smoke of their sensuous cigarettes.
We're all dead.
The instant gratification hovers over the greedy fingers as they dance across their contemplation of sanity.
The platonic conversationalists seek more than the lonesome intoxication.
And I, the flickering light caress the delicate chipped walls.
We're all dead.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
I hate how you sit out on the dock in the late afternoon sun
with your canvass and paints. Stretching me and pulling me
for nothing but the pleasure of your latest muse. I hate
that you get to talk to the strangers fishing down the way
and the only people I have are the wooden planks you push me into.
And believe me they are horrible conversationalists.
You run after butterflies to match your paint to their wings
and softhearted blades of grass try to dry my tears. Darling,
I love you, I hate you, I love you but i don't love you anymore.
You get to live your life and manipulate me however you wish.
Only next time we play this little game of ours
you'll be my shadow
and I'll be your
master
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
It seems that every night
I lie in bed awake;
haunted by
My past mistakes
Knowing that sleep will set it right -
If only I weren't to wake.
But sleep not and see not I; tears fall
As I slowly wither -
A flower deprived of sun
Beaten down by the continuation of small tragedies
And the dread of life;
That throng of trivial ****
Killing quicker than AIDS
Which is always there ...
And among mine, I saw many minds
Of my generation
Destroyed by madness
A lost brigade of platonic
Conversationalists leaping down fire escapes
Off windowsills
Out of the moon
Because the world had failed us all.
But an old tale it is fore
Humanity, you never had it
From the start
So let us endure this hour and
See injustice done.
See the horror and scorn and hate
And indignation -
Oh, why did I awake? When will I sleep again?
I'm tired and I
Long to rest
And don't try and wake me.
I'll be gone
And glad to go
But it matters little
Because life is nothing much to lose
And this pain is absurd because it exists,
Nothing more.
So I feel this misery in
The boards of the floor, listening to music,
My melancholy,
These thoughts that sing within the caverns
Of my chest
A song that will
Never be heard.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 4:53 PM UTC
An ode to all those lower-middle-class kids raging against their own insignificance,
romanticizing their circumstances and chasing cheap bliss.
An ode to all conversationalists,
who kiss each and every sentence with well read lips.
Here's an ode to those who,
while watching a meteor shower,
remember to make a wish.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC