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Audrey Howitt Dec 2011
I miss you baby.

Seems like I cain’t get warm no more

and winter’s a comin on soon.

I didn’t think I’d make it this far

with you gone.

I wish I could still feel

the heat of the July day

you passed.

I try.

But I cain’t no more

You’re both gone.

A’times I miss you so much

I feel like I’m gonna break

But then I look up

And still see that old dusty table

In front of me.

How many years we had that table?

Corn bread don’t taste the same off it.

Not so sweet in my mouth now.

I picked up your coveralls the other day.

I keep ‘em in that old trunk mama gave me.

They still smell like you,

your sweet sweat and tabacca

And the gin you’d sneak when you thought I wasn’t lookin’.

I needed a new blanket

but there just wasn’t enough for it.

So I took all your coveralls

And stitched ‘em--

I hope you don mind"

Into a blanket--

And covered myself in you,

So I can smell you and dream of you

Through the long winter.
copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2011

I saw the exhibit of quilts from Gee's Bend, Alabama when they toured. I was struck by one woman's story in particular. She made a quilt from her dead husband's clothes to feel closer to him.  For more, please go to http://www.quiltsofgeesbend.com/
Criss Jami May 2014
Lately
What I do is a vacancy with
A disposition made just for me and it's
In a position that they can't see, you see
In deep blue seas
There's the place where a vacation is free for me

And then you dream in peace

So call me maybe the ghost protocol where most of those photos of all the things I do
Are used as prototypes, baby so-called clues of my new call to move where-
In everywhere and wherever and with whomever and whenever which
Is whosoever or whoever's whichever of whatever, for all of you
Whether the weather's a typhoon in-
Cluding the SoCal blues but
This isn't all I do
It's just that it's my call of duty
On a mission for all of what's true
But without bailing, balling or brawling in her suit
And then failing, falling, bawling and calling and then crawling in pursuit

Like some other subliminal, minimal flukes
'Cause it's done much better than those "lyrical, miracle, spiritual, individual and criminal" dudes
Or bitter, fritter critiques with the use of twitters
In order to refute the fullest of all hippo-critical fools and critters sitting and fitting
Itching to switch to snitching about this glitch
Which is hitched to renewing, stitching and gluing our fitches to truth and
And yes without twitching to their witch's magical, musical flute

Then in lieu of the altitude of the attitude rude of my pirate-like crew's mood
Whether longitude or latitude and more than impractical platitudes
I'm not as irate as I seem al-
Though it ensues that right on cue in due
Time with an aptitude of gratitude and exactitude in
Solitude throughout fortitude or servitude, to allude what you elude and dude
To intrude what you conclude with certitude in an interview interlude and now
Then out of you, under coveralls to view the overall outerlude
I rate the magnitudes of the habitudes it seems you take for granted in dreams and all types of things

And though my soul is a hologram
Hollow weight and zero grams
Hero traits with a villain glam I'm
The man of love and that of
One of the toughest clams above
Or below, I should say
Like Poseidon
Oh baby we ride on
Or sail on, should I say
The ghost of Poseidon

Then in lieu of the attitude of my pirate-like crew
I'm not as irate as I seem or
Even irritated as they deem nor
Norse, Thor or a heart of granite
I rate the things we take for granted, granted far asleep
Stereo-hyped in dreams with all heights of wings and

Although my soul is a hologram
Hollow weight and zero grams
Hero traits with the chill of a villain vibe or glam I'm
The anti-hero, champion of love and that of
One of the toughest clams clamping it above
Or below, I should say
Like Poseidon
Oh baby we're riding
Or sailing, I should say and it's

It's the ghost of Poseidon that's
That's trailed night and day
The ghost of Poseidon that's
That's trailed night and day 'cause
They say, I did it my way then they're
On my tail right away
On my tail right away
Our family got the news today
Our bubba's gettin' hitched
Young Daisy Mae, she's near fourteen
Got our boy bewitched
He's sayin' that he loves her
He's making her his bride
She's the first to get him this close
Though not too many tried

We've got to get things ready
Send invitations and make candles
We've got to get the good jars out
The one's that still have handles
The minister is on alert
We've got to make some shine
Grandpa says he'll make some up
But, it will not all be mine

Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow

This time there'll be no shotgun
Like the last time for old Ben
This time the guns are empty
Not the way they were back then
The banjos will be tuned up
There'll be music in the air
The cops won't try to stop it
I think most will all be there

The ladies will be planning
Just how to serve up all the grub
While Bubba has to find a suit
And therein lies the rub
He's never worn a suit at all
Not even for a day
He's only dressed in coveralls
And that's how he's gonna stay

Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow


It'll be a **** dang doodle
A hell of a good time
It'll only be completed
When they run out of the shine
there'll be singing and some dancing
Underneath the harvest moon
We can't wait for it to happen
It cannot come too soon

There'll be readings from the bible
Which the minister will read
And as good holy Christians
Everyone will heed
There's sure to be some fighting
Before the couple say "I do"
I mean, they are both cousins
I'm gonna go...aren't you?

Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
Chanel McCartney Feb 2012
It all kinda seemed like yesterday that I began to unpack my car full of my things and headed in Vic Hall for the first time...
- And it all felt like yesterday when Sara was attacked by the creepy purple people in kilts and chains...
- And it was like yesterday when we met Simon and Dana and offered them a fridge...
- And it seems like yesterday when I was covered head to toe in peat moss and shaving cream in navy blue coveralls...
- And it was yesterday when we all took our first jump in the Lake off the pier
- And I could have sworn that it was yesterday when I went to my first class scared stiff just to find out that my profs were the coolest people..
- And it feels like yesterday that I met Margaret for the first time, and she thought I lived on her floor which I didn't...
- And yesterday I almost failed my first assignment and felt the tears rolling down my face, worried that I wasn't going to pass..
- And I will swear that it was Homecoming yesterday...
- And it was soo definately yesterday that Mariah, Sara and I conquered the BEHEMOTH!!!! Wonderland!
- And it definately was yesterday when Drama 100 went on their roadtrip to Gannanoque :P
- And it could have been yesterday when we went out for our first of many fire alarms in Vic...
- And it might have been yesterday when I realised that my calender is my new best friend..
- And it feels much like yesterday when my cousins came to see me and show me the best places in K-town...
- And it all went down yesterday that I wrote my first midterm...
- And alas it was yesterday that I found a boy and left him..
- And it must have been yesterday that I found out how much talent was in Drama 100's fall presentations...(especially Lab F... :P)
- And it feels just like yesterday that QMT astounded me with Jekyll and Hyde..
- And it could have been yesterday that I joined the Hip Hop class..
- And, of course, yesterday I helped organise Ale with the Profs for English DSC..
- And, yes, it was yesterday the I voted for AMS president...
- And then there was yesterday when I went to my first Hillel Dinner and loved it..
- And it was most definately yesterday when I discovered my hatred for chemistry...
- And yesterday, I went out for my room mates birthday...
- And then, yesterday, I figured out how much I love Indigo books... and Starbucks coffee..
- And yesterday I found out that people actually live in Stauffer Library.. sleep on couches...
- And it really was yesterday that I found out I was going to be a Gael and met Chris Mitchell aka our OC!! and my future Gael FAM!!!!
- And it was yesterday that I joined the costume crew for Man of la Mancha and learned how to use a sewing machine... sorry Julia :P
- And then yesterday, I went to see Ted in Anne Frank.. he was really great!
- And yesterday, I found out that Drama 100 was way more talented in their Winter Presentations...
- And it seems like yesterday that it was my last day of classes... but somehow I still had projects due..
- And it was sooo yesterday that I finished my last essay of the year...
- And it feels soo much like yesterday when I met to whole cast and crew and went to the somewhat and the gala night and closing night (the strike and cast party)!!! You guys are fantastic..
- And yesterday I began my first of many finals...
- And then yesterday I said goodbye to my lucky friends who finished before me and going home for the summer...


But it was today, as I was packing my things and talking to my parents, that they asked,"How does it feel to be finished your first of four years of university?" and I said, "It all seemed like yesterday."
What I see is the product of wholesale hate.... an inexpensive solution to happiness… a scratched table leg...
The memory of laughter around a table or in a red station wagon... Long trips in a car with no air conditioning.. When i found out my feet were no longer kissable...
The thought of " Im Happy"..... Maybe its never a good feeling....
Then i learnt that distance is equal to money... Then it was not watching you eat cake...
My wishes were no longer " Ours"....
A bike ride became an excuse to watch the highway.... high flying jumps as you drove by a honk was as good as a hug....
Being mad as you were always asleep in your spot... Hating the dent on the couch...
Now wishing that the imperfection of furniture meant you were still here...
Watching the spot in our garage fill with picture albums...
Where every garage sale Our memories were only a buck....
That day when our red station wagon became a shiny new truck... Still red but to clean as if we were not gritty....
My Friday nights when ten o'clock was the limit.. And faking sober over minty mumblings...
And soon You would say.. "Dont breathe on mom"....
Even though the truth you hid was like a slap in your face...
Saturday morning where a quiet " Davie son"... Was always met by a simple "Im Up"...
A white lie to cover the truth.... I loved Saturdays more than Friday nights...
Fridays were for friends..... Saturday was for my hero, Black tar in faded cups...
Because sugar must have been a luxury you couldnt afford.... I wont drink black coffee anymore......
The more blue creamers make it less painful...
That time you said get out of "His" chair.... Then everyone knew it was MY chair....
Such a simple thing a place where i learned that a set of blue coveralls was as good as a red cape....
A briefcase was not just for lawyers... It was the place where you could find the last picture of us together....
A sunny day where i watched you turn an empty room into a work of art only now I know WE could only appreciate...
The bending two by fours as you made them a highway for black pipes...
That day i carried both tool boxes at the same time... Thinking why did you park so far away?....
But the way you smiled and winked when i put them down...
I catch myself sometimes in moments of pride winking at her.......
Those times where i can hear You in Me and it shoots out my mouth with a "Jesus Christ"...
Then apologies in the form of gifts... Men don't apologize......
I still cant afford your gift.... Maybe its not available in bars.. Or in measured amounts...
It cant be bought all at once...... Only in payments of my best.....
I haven't made a payment in a while....
But I remember I sign an extension every night.... Signed in tears in an office only visible with eyes closed....
Its the only place my chair still exists... A room with a briefcase on a desk... Slurppes with ice cream Dire Straits over the radio....
Playing in a shop i cant get too....
Where i can still carry your tool boxes...
Then flashes of black cowboy boots... Blue coveralls...
But never a smile or a wink...
Then i come back and whimper "Jesus Christ".....
Real men don't cry... Its been a while since i've been a real man...
Now its just an excuse for bars and measurements……
Lost my parents recently my dad was the only thing i never thought id lose.... I struggled with alcohol and drugs... Thats the bars and measurements.... It is basically everything I remember from poverty to wealth how he taught me a trade skill and how now I understand....
CK Baker Apr 2019
tight are the waxers
with gelatin scrub
their alcove smiles paired
on a check-board slate
dive jackets
and coveralls
mark the blue persuaders
stuffed lockers
and lattice straps
for a cold
pilgrim's stare

cork boots
and poly rot
rest in the C block
rank and file
mask a heavily
worn charade
windows wide
and curtains
thread bare
greasers
and **** rats
pardoned
on principle

chain link and
tether held
firm in the grasp
bead bites and
castle tops
slip in the **** steam
chants and speakers
blast from the back wall
elements stacked wide
for tainted leaners

strummers and pickers
held high on the jimmy jack
a chilled base breeze
at the ****** hole
rogues and hatters
stir at the mixer
an imitation face
closing in on the feast

maiden hands clasp
hard at the inseam
scuffed heals shuffle
on the peripheral scene
a cloaked man scurries
(chilled in his double sock)
moonshine
and mickeys
turned up in the jar

light streams blind
the paranoid eyes
laggards peeled
from the wretched
framework
veneer shattered
on a point strip groove
an overwhelming trauma
from slaughter
harbor
Kurtis Cullen Feb 2014
Prairie winds howling from the south, the entire southern plane a gaping maw issuing forth wide frozen tides in the air scorching the land. peering thru the open blotches of the windshield on the way home, headlights revealing the rolling billows of misty scintillating snow devouring the gravel road way, old raised green truck roars thru the drifts. Earlier, twilight. Freezing. Everything the wind touches, everything that blocks its path becomes still and solid and severely dense. Had a bubble bath before i went out. AB =Long Johns 7 mo's. outta the year. Cheeks barely exposed to the elements, cells begin to deteriorate instantly, the strong stolid ache appears seconds afterward, and spreads in my blood quickly, and doesn't stop till some minutes after i seek refuge in the truck. Taking an elk. old bull. my step dad bumbles the first shot and the beast runs down the *****. He shoots it again. Cuts the throat and eventually takes off the head. Draining Blood is steaming. Leave the entrails in the snowscaped pasture land. Chain the legs to the bale mover on the back of the truck and make for the shop a few miles away. There Fire rages in an old steel drum in the corner, burning wood blocks and black petroleum wax leftover from the pigs that blast out from the pipelines. Feeney's in my coffee mug. The heat radiates just enough to reach us in middle room but we still wear full coveralls against to stifle the endless cold. We hang the carcass by running a steel rod through its achilles tendons. Grandpa & Stepdad refer to a murdered family in Consort whose place was burned down, suspect the son was involved in a drug deal gone bad. (Cohen bros. come to mind. Real life in Alberta & BC seems a blend of Big Lebowski and No Country). Skinning the elk. Carving it up. Learning the different cuts of meat, where t-bones come from, tenderloin, round steak, sirloin. Cool. Mass more than a 100 lbs of meat for jerky making. Country cousins comin over the next few days to help with cutting it all up. Striking a balance between fine articulation and the art of laughing. Turns out Everyone respects poetry for the audience. Good god y'all.
Written during Xmas break
Mike West Aug 2012
You're on your way to where the job is at.
Wearing boots, coveralls, goves and a hat.
It's **** that floats in an unergroung vat.
You dig that up, but that isn't that.

You remove the old lid and there you find.
A smell that drives you out of your mind.
Digested food of every kind.
The sight of which makes you wish you were blind.

The special function of your work truck,
Is to siphon up all of that muck.
You start up the pump, and with any luck.
The machine will then sloppily ****.

Slurping hungrily at the waste.
And hopefully doing it with all due haste.
Removing a greyish sort of paste.
Feces, that five years, has been encased .

Now with the job almost through.
You suction up the last of the poo.
Replacing the lid but as you do.
Some of the stuff splashes on you.

It gets all over your clothes and your hat.
And all over your face. What's up with that?
Now you are as filthy as an old, greasy rat.
That was chased into a sewer by an ill tempered cat.

So you wipe your face with a rag that you brought.
Just in case that you might get caught.
In the kind of mess that has just been wrought.
A precaution of which, you had thankfully thought.

As that nasty job is finally finished.
And your good cheer is also diminished.
You can take a shower and so be replenished.
To face another day that you will be punished.
A harsh Winter day , sweating copper , shoring ditches , sporting long johns and ***** coveralls , thankfully returning home to hot coffee and a chair in the kitchen ! Glance at a seashell on the window sill from Daytona Beach , recalling beautiful blue Summer days with Brown Pelicans , white seagulls and salt water taffy ! Ships on her horizon , children laughing with frisbees and sweet Summer memories ! What beautiful token from that magnificent coastland tempers a thick skinned , calloused workers train of thought such as mine this very evening ?
Copyright October 12 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
brooke Apr 2016
my hair is a wild mess and smells like gasoline,
like solvent and you--old spice and hay
you can't chicken out now you tell me
and though I can't see your eyes, your smile
is the whitest thing i've ever seen and makes
my shoulder blades ripple and pinch together
and my pulse unwinds and slows to a heavy
hum--picks up like a bush plane when you
start up your truck.

you throw an old jacket at me,
smirk when you see how i'm drowning in your coveralls
and tell me well, you shoulda worn something warmer
drown out my replies by gunning the engine and I have
no choice but to shut up and hang on--ask me if I had
anything else to do today but barely wait for my answer
you knew better through a grin that I have no problem hearing.

i think about how i've changed a lot in the past two months
how I feel like all of the little girls I used to be are growing up--
how you teach with your voice before your hands and are silent
during my expected bouts of self-doubt, don't shoot the bull, is all you say before I pull the trigger and my ears start ringing--so funny
how I'd trade dozens of other moments just to relive that one over
and over, hear you say i think you hit it, at  least twice more.

You're not smiling but there's sunshine
in your drawl that I can't help but taste,
there's 14 inches of snow outside your door
but you could melt it all blushed with those red flannel cheeks--
can't help but feel like your dog loves me a little more
even when I'm full of fears that you don't bother to coddle but certainly don't ignore--

how even though you're probably hurting
you still want to show me every last thing on this green earth
in your red heart, this stretch of land from here past your
grandma pat's house--
 raise welts--
and snap my thighs
with dish towels
throw snow in my hair but gingerly
pick it out once we're back inside
trash talk my aim but make sure my shirt gets dry
dislodge my sedan near the corral--but not before rolling me into one of
those side embraces, where you tuck me beneath a heavy arm and lift me off the ground, oh,
i never want to touch down
i never want to touch down
(c) Brooke Otto 2016

a little more time.
Kewayne Wadley May 2017
Every day I am leaping higher
Jumping from brown blocks and green pipes.
From the pluck of fire flowers steams this passion that I pursue So adamantly.
Question mark filled boxes highlighted yellow.
Flickering on and off.
The alchemy of white gloves, stomping and flipping the backs of turtles.
Small mushroom men with small feet.
Flying bullets of unusual size.
Large man eating plants.
I no longer fear the height of odd shaped trees, and small collapsing bridges.
What I fear most are the walls of empty castles.
Flying bullets and funny shaped ghost.
Soon to attack soon as I turn my back.
Lava filled pits. Huge block castles.
Torn blue coveralls. Dull and weathered black boots.
The slip of a shoe and everything I know comes to an end.
Still,
I travel land, sea, desert, space.
No matter what adversity,
In search of a princess that I love so adamantly.
No matter how long the journey
brooke Feb 2017
well he's back from the rig he says,
heels up in dragon's blood
crept through denver at an easy pace, left his soul
on the toolcase, packed up with the coveralls
said there's never room for that--

and he sleeps while he's wide awake, said he
left his love up there, said he'll be by, but he ain't coming back
where back is home or here or me, he's spinnin'
i'm grounded, i'm looking for his strings,
he's unwound, divided and callin' my name--

used to kneel by my bedside, hold my hand around 10 at night
smelled like pine and cold wind, but you'd never tell him that
and I wonder about the longevity of his trust
the miles left in those long legs,
If I've all but said too much
to keep him runnin' from me

well he's stained by the deaths of many
and I've them locked away, makin' sure there's no anniversary
where he'll drink the funerals away,
we're both troubled by the other's demons
but his don't scare me much,
just play things and shadows all rearin' their heads
his own chorus of voices tellin' him it should have been him


and he sleeps while he's wide awake, said he
left his love up there, said he'll be by, but he ain't coming back
where back is home or here or me, he's spinnin'
i'm grounded, i'm looking for his strings,
he's windin', drawing fangs and ready to flee
to show me how fast he can run away, and he can
probably will, out of spite, out of fear--

and if timing is everything like he fancies it is
i'll be here waiting like i promised i would
'cause he'd hold my hand at ten at night
before i'd wait for the sound of that engine
pullin' up,
him whispering pretty girl
to wake me up,
hey, pretty girl

hey pretty girl


hey, pretty girl.
(c) Brooke Otto 2017

you like all those country songs that tell stories. So here's your own.
The Fire Burns Sep 2016
I'm just sitting here
waiting on a deer
wishing I had a beer

Or better yet some 40 creek
some 7up to mix I  seek
hoping the stand roof don't leak

In the driving rain
it would cause some pain
cold rain down the neck causes disdain

**************
In my coveralls
made by Walls
Coleman heater warming my *****

Bushnell binos around my neck
looking out, what the heck
oh it’s just a speck

On my lense
I feel dense
but I used uncommon sense

It wasn't a ghost
it was at most
something from the post

Where my binos sat
right next to my hat
and above the mat

Where my boots are
drying out from walking far
most people would drive a car
***********

Now sitting in the camper
feeling a bit hampered

By the cold and rain
it's the mud that causes pain.

Slippery and wet
a mess you get

with every step
cannot move with pep

It's like walking on wet glass
you will slip and bust your ***
then a muddy mess you'd be
wouldn't want anyone to see
Clem C Jul 2013
she dragged a clear bag,,
a patchwork of her clothes,
she held her hands behind,
her back, checking traffic,
to make sure all crossed safely,

ours eyes met, and I assumed
some things about her life choices,
we smiled at one another,
she recognized my thoughts,
and I looked away, all cars paused.

her blue coveralls, were extra
large and extra tall, she had the
cuffs tied and they
scuffed along the
asphalt like her
clothing in the
clear plastic bag,
the blue over-sized
jumpsuit was tied at
the waist, cropped hair,
gave her a girlish flair,
but she did not care,
twenty pairs of eyes
all stared, waiting for
to get out of the way

it was laundry day,
and she was going to
pay to wash the stuff
out of each piece she
owned, oh that smile,
said that I was right,
and she was okay
with it, as she was
off
for the night.

©ClemC072013
Rochelle Foles Feb 2019
there on the scaffold
          colorful cacophonous screams emanating from workman’s coveralls  
           captivated her
           rebel in real life



engaged by her lack of hero worship    dedication to her art     the common cause
            her fire drew him to her

and so they began to weave their tapestry

it tells a story
tumultuous
traveled
torn
tragic
timeless
true

brilliant hues
life
as art
compatriots
rebels
lovers
newsreels  
public pride
personal degradation
recovery
reconciliation

back on the scaffold
             cacophony revisited

back on bedrest
              resilient resisting unceasing unaccepting


scaffold and ego deemed titanic-like         demand artistic license  uncompromising
                     crushed   crumble  disintegrate  
               lose face    credibility

turn tale
and run to the one deemed feeble
whose
spirit knows no bonds                        
      as body knows no freedom

yet
is Hercules for them both

until
the day her plaits were drawn crisscross on her forehead
decorated with huge glorious blossoms
      plucked from the patio

lips kissed

last breath

a pair destined for the history books


a love
            rollercoasterlargerthanlife




FateD?


  










Frida & Diego: FateD?    

© 2017 rochelle foles
did you recognize this couple?
it’s my most influential ****** (yes, i meant to spell it that way) in life and art- the ever introspective woman, artist and tough as nails survivor, Frida Kahlo and her brilliant but wandering husband, Diego Rivera.
Now does it make more sense?
i challenge you to now read it again with thei. relationship in mind.  i’d love to hear your take on this!
thanks
rochelle
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Family Tree

They come from far and wide
once a year to mingle and snack
on catered shrimp and small talk

in the long line that snakes around
the room to the open bar besieged
five deep, the beating heart

of the party until the string band
starts up and everyone hits
the dance floor, limbs loose,

knees high, hair down, skirts hiked
generations of farmers and drifters,
rail men and conscripts, schemers

and failures, a cacophony of native
brogue and broken English, long
lazy vowels stretched to breaking.  

The men have my nose, the women
your eyes, but neither you nor I claim
the crazy cackle coming from

a skinny gal with electric
hair or the flat, vacant gaze of
a fellow in coveralls,

hands like hay rakes, yellow
fingers balled into fists.  The bar
closes at twelve, they start to drift  

away, arms draped, propping each other
up, telling the same old tearful tales,
falls down wells, battle axes

to the head, starvation in alarming
numbers and many iterations of
pox and croup, ague and catarrh,

bilious fever, dropsy and the flux,
melancholia, milk leg and screws,
a miserable game of one-upmanship

savored by all as they disappear
into the night, fore-bearers eyeing
us at the door, polite yet taciturn,

playing things close to the vest
mum on the matter of the higher
branches of our family tree.
Christina Dec 2020
There you were on 658 North Skyline drive, visiting the place where you once called home
With those innocent, helpless girls on your restless, manic mind.
At the age of twenty-five, a hopeless law-student drop out
Sitting in the blistering hot Summer Tacoma heat in your battered beige Volkswagen windows down,
wind blowing on your ruddy face.
Wishing you had a flashy Maserati
Thousands of beads of sweat trickle down your head like a waterfall.
Frustrated and exhausted
Knowing the fate what's going to become of the pretty, carefree girls laughing, walking ahead on the street by your car, but they're completely unaware.
The reminisce of cheap beer and stale cigarettes on your breath
As you quickly glance at your velvet crowbar, that resides on your chair-less passenger side, so desperately wanting another hit.

Jittering with panic inside, that familiar feeling surges with an adrenaline rush in your body, going from zero to eighty in 0.01 seconds
You start to get in a trance with self-destruction, panicking with chaotic anger beginning to emerge again, in waves like the ocean.
The entity begins to set in
Yet something abruptly stops you.
Holding a crumbled picture of dear Elizabeth and Molly, you keep your wallet in your right blue jean back pocket.
Yet you don't give in to your double life.No. Not this time.
Letting the devastating, destructive behavior from the entity consume your entire being.
As you begin to have sudden regret ignoring the powerful, impatient fidgety urge.


Ten girls have now suddenly evaporated into thin air, caused by your harmful doing.
Police and newspaper sightings of a certain man named "Ted" have appeared out of the woodwork,
But you keep that identity hidden under lock and key.
Newsflashes pop up at the five o'clock hour, but nothing seems to phase you into utter shock.

Now sitting in an unclean, rat-infested jail cell in Colorado
The walls only seem to know the REAL you
The light fixture is almost sawed off entirely to your liking, for your excitingly filled escape, set for tonight.
Going through the small labyrinth of the ceiling of the jail,
New, fresh, clean clothes on, and annoying coveralls off
You open the front door, as a blast of the bone-chilling cold goes through your body,
Fast, snow falling on the ground, and luckily a car with its doors  unlocked
You now fade away into the blackness.

After you've completed the horrendous event in Lake City that you so desired to do on a whim
There's now no recollection of your recent event, even though you were there.
The trees with the wind are whispering and gossip your horrific acts.
Only they truly know your lawless stories


A couple of years has rolled by,
Trial after trial, day in and day out
Hoping and confident that you'll win, but each time, you've disappointingly lost.
Judge Cowart sits on his throne, tentatively listens
The buzz from the ***** and pills that your beloved Carole snuck in for you is finally beginning to wear off.
Irritation sets
As you razzle-dazzle each individual with your stealthy charm
The time has finally come that the jury decides your ultimate, timely fate


Flash forward to eight years on death row, with that heavy metal that you wear
Living in a concrete castle, in a desolate foreign land
Indeed not Buckingham Palace.
Rowdy, loud, *****, unclean, unshaven men surround you.
Something that your not used to doing.
Not the place you wish to be at the moment.
Body odor and sweat with no air conditioning in a stagnant, minuscule cell might also be Hell on Earth.
While just an old malfunctioning fan tries to keep you cool from Florida's oppressive heat.
You talk to the four walls, that listen when the detectives get fed up and bored. With your perpetual beating around the bush rhetoric.
You wasted  your life on behalf of your destructive behavior and wrong choices
Time is ticking faster and faster when you only have a few days left till death day arrives
Rose is officially gone and is now a long distant faded memory of your failed career of a deadbeat father and husband.
It's been a few years since you last saw her and Carole as they vanished from your life.
Vanished and stolen.
Like the girl's lives, you had vanished and stolen from happy families only to destroy when you willingly obeyed and fulfilled the entity's destructive wish.
Your tears become your lullaby, for your last night on Earth.

January 24th, 1989.
Your expiration date has arrived.
Rowdy, drunk onlookers are at your last hurrah
The warden swiftly comes to your death watch cell and wakes you up from the unrestful, anxiety-filled sleep you had gotten
Are you ready? He asks you.
No longer now is a handsome forty-two-year-old, but a shaven bald gangly, ailing man, with the appearance of looking like a sixty-year-old who's unrecognizable to one's eye.
"Deadman walking," the warden shouts.
Emotionless expression looks of people that you've once known in your past are now seated in small white chairs
As officers restrain you in the infamous wooden chair, of the many in-humane men who've gone, years before your time.
Adjust your electric crown
Nerves begin to quake internally like a rattlesnake
And in less than a flash, with two- thousand volts, you'll be gone from this world forever.
At approximately 7:16 am, you're pronounced dead.




Alone & Forgotten.
BTW Jul 2021
Mistaken identity
22 July 2022


Orange juice on my fly,
No sleep in my eyes.
Scotch spilt on my shoes,
Reading last week’s news.

Coveralls, oily wrench,
Catching lunch park bench.
Lip kissing my best friend,
“Oh! He’s one of them”.

Left my keys at bar,
Breaking into car.
Checking a back seat,
Now I’m peeking Pete.

Naked in the dark,
Cop says nasty lark.
Holding the water hose,
Sprayed on my own clothes.

Food left on my face,
Shoes still unlaced,
Shirt ripped and torn,
Mistaken? Lots of scorn!

Candles on my cake,
Heirs can hardly wait.
Writing this sad poem.
Should’a stayed at home.
I've been labeled a freak , a hippy an a
"hayseed"
A guitar picker , a second hand musician , a free
spirit in torn blue jeans
Neurotic , dangerous even stoic
A 'stoner' , a drug fueled guinea pig ,
a soldier and a poet  
A 'touched' brother and family member
Father , grandfather , anxious , lost , -
melancholy , ****** up an destined to be unremarkably
remembered
I've worn suits , coveralls , overalls -
uniforms and battle scars
Attended a hardline baptist church , ridiculed religious
organization , studied buddhism plus
everything in between in pursuit of -
my famished spirit
Temporarily snared in wrinkled flesh
Always wondering what lies next*....
November 14 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The evening sky surrounds them with its cape,
of coral hues spreading into claret clouds;
This unforgettable sight lingers for awhile,
till blue-back skies overcome them like a shroud.

A factory whistle blows to show a change,
in toiling guardians of its precious property;
These workers carry lamps to the highest tier,
waiting for the distant dawn when they'll be free.

Night watch life is usually lonely and cold,
while sitting with their lanterns growing weary;
Opening heavy lunch pails packed with care,
always certain of the danger that's lurking near.

The quiet town sleeps below yet not unaware,
that someone is always looking out for them;
In coveralls that reek of oil and dusty brick,
protecting their precious livelihood from harm.

When dawn arises the men carefully climb,
down steel ladders bringing them to the ground;
Despite a small fire built to last a lengthy shift,
chilled and exhausted slipping home without a sound.

History shows our country was built on the backs,
of laborers who struggled intensely through the day;
But a night watch guard was someone special still,
that his steadfast sacrifice stood far above the fray.
I wrote this long ago, recalling how my mother's step-father worked the night shift at the Roebling factory, the family which built the Brooklyn Bridge, among others. He had little education but was steadfast in his purpose to guard the grounds and the surrounding neighborhood, and to keep his family clothed and fed in the early 1920's.
Calli Kirra Feb 2022
Plague rat,
Faded nineties autograph
On an Italian restaurant wall
If ruining my day was an Olympic sport,
You’d be on the cover of Men’s Health
Smiling in coveralls

You have a hold on me,
The look in your eyes is loveless
You have a hold on me,
How I love it
Franklyn Orode Apr 2020
Hanging up there like an over ripe grape, ready to fall

O! stop trying to burn my eyelids

Before you calm your nerves

from this uncontrollable anger eating you up, giving you a bad name?

Keep your ears attentive while I school you about good behaviour

Bad temperament is not good for your health, and you know it

See how my blood complains of high temperature, crying in loud

silence, while you fry my bones

My skin suffers from corrosion like an uncoated steel

licking water  from the prying dews

Your entangling claws

have made a million holes on my coveralls,

tearing off my flesh with your dead conscience ,

While I scurry home to escape your dreadful wrath
Ridiculed with opposites..
Positive..
I talk with walk tall confidence
But meekly speak
Of god given talent.
That might amass. To
Accolades accomplishments
Its just room for coffins
Under clothe to be
Cleaned and walk
With losses from my past
That seem to be lost on me...
And haunting me
Like impossible im calm
But I just got my period...
Wait the point is.. impossible
From your colossal disbelief
Like separate. Apostrophe
Inevitable
got it all....
Like model aspirations
Intimidation..  *** i speak
Non judgemental gospel bro....
Like topical relief
For depression.
Anxiety.. bipolar.. **** clozeral...
The boss is waiting in
His office...
I got a shot. With far im possible...
And no way
**** it logan
Says make it probable...
Facing difficulties...
Like riddles to Batmans job at home...
The riddlers ******* got to go
And under neath the ledge.
I'm sure heath.
Has got a spot to watch it all....
Screaming. William
Like black eyed peas...
In the freezer bag...
*** I got to swell....
With beating demons till it freezes over
Believe me all I want from hell...
Switch the flow

Taught me well.. with hard ambition
In it...
Built for ***.. genius. Reaching
Optical incremental prisons
Dysmorphias a numbers game...
And we got it all in switching
But liberation
Is a greater joy. Than all this dimension different vision...
Like a tape you read
Your project with
But yoir vision says.
Two inches and 11 keep
Swapping
Stop this ****....
So you walk into lunch with coffee...
And people switch the fuckinf spots to
Sit in...
*** your coveralls are different...
Laughing
*** your wishing to be a proper certified electrician...
But your just not the idea
Or proper vision
*** your body is the opposite
Of electrician....
**** **** in the parking lot...
All you hearing as you exit
Your not a tradesmen
Dude keep wishing....
Shoulda kept your birth genetics....
Or stick with roofers
**** ill do that ***** you *******
If i woulda kept my ****..
You jerks would still
Look at me different....

— The End —