butterflies on a beautiful boy
cling with insect intensity
they wear candy pink lipstick
he has his face reddened
with blusher
his hair is depicted in triplicate
on the cubical doors of toilets
black painted cubical doors
that possess an objective scrutiny
of an immediacy that suggests
a knowledge of expendable names
of disinterested inspection
names that are deletable with time
all that is left is a screaming solar plexus
he waits like an animated aura
a haloed head of violet rings him
as he leans against the toilet wall
with beautiful blonde ambition
the butterflies cling with insect intensity

Todays Cubical
Is Contradistinction of
Tomorrows road trip

I write in my underwear.
I write in my underwear, so my thoughts are not caged
underneath my clothes.
I refuse to look at the screen.
I only look at my fingers, hitting the keys as rhythmically as I say the words in my head.
I type because my thoughts are too fast
And I fear if I write I will forget

I am one of many.
One of many who speak because they cannot help it.
Whose words burst forth from their lips in spontaneous spasms of passionate opinions.
We will not hold our tongues
We will not mind our manners
And we will not conform to please
For we are romantics,
and poetics,
and hopers, and dreamers,
and liars, and cheaters.
We not only do things because we feel them,
But because we want to experience them.
And with are experiences
Of love, tragedy, happiness, and despair
We aim to awaken passion in others.
Others who fear emotion.
We aim to shake them
And awaken the life that they have.
I will not confine my soul
inside a cubical
And I will not shut my window
and deprive the world of my dreams
And I will not straighten my curls and **** the energy that they harbor
And I will not cage my thoughts underneath my clothes
It is for them, and for us
I write in my underwear

The rain beat the pavement as the man ran to a nearby bus shelter holding a newspaper over his ragged hair. The rain hitting the glass was nearly deafening, but there was comfort in the sound. A public transit bus comes and goes, recognizing the bleak figure immediately. This was, after all, his commonplace - the closest thing he had to a home in the past two years.
"Get a job", people would say, as if it were ever really that easy.
He had been diagnosed with depression after his wife’s passing nearly four years ago and suffered alone as he mourned and pushed through what most people see as a normal life. On the outside, it was unapparent how miserable he had become, unable to share the world with another as he had now for so many years. He came to his cubical on time each day, he worked until the late afternoon had came and went, and he left without a word. He was the unnoticed face in a crowd.
All at once, he lost his drive to live his life. He stopped showing up to work, he did not pay his bills, he didn’t answer the door or the phone. The clear print reading “EVICTION NOTICE” had meant nothing to him. He took only the essential things with him as he left behind an empty house behind. The last thing he put into his bag was a copy of the Odyssey, worn now after so many years of attentive reading.
The tattered copy sat open on his crossed legs, the moment passing by. The walls of the shelter sheild him from the wind and welcome him into their embrace. the adequecy of lighting was questionable as the sun descends and the world loses its colour. A streetlamp flickers to life and casts an ominous glow onto the street beneath it. He continues to read about the long journey of a man trying to find his way home, not unlike himself. What’s happening on the page is disconnected from thepart of the world that he is trapped on; he watches his secret world become a vivid painting beneath his hands and turns the page.
"Hello," said a man waiting for another bus to take him to a far off place.
He didn’t respond.
"I take it you like the book, judging by the condition…" The man tried again to grasp his attention. His dark figure loomed on the other side of the glass.
"I do", he said.
"What’s your name, son?"
He paused, turning to fully look at the man. “Its Tristan,” he said, contemplating the man as he stepped into the light. The man shuffled into the shelther gingerly, leaving behind the loud clack of his cane. His clothes chaffed against the skin on his legs, and he carried his fedora in his hand. He creased his face in pain as he sat beside Tristen.
"My name is Connor Wright", he breathed heavily, struggling to continue. "I have a spare copy of that book myself, laying around at home. No use to myself. Would you want to have it? I can bring it to you the same time next week"
"How do you know I will return it?"
"Perhaps I don’t want it back"
The silence stretched. “I would like that very much, sir” replied Tristan.
A dark blue bus pulled up to the stop without warning and stirred the stillness in the air. The headlights shone in their eyes and caught the edge of the mans thick-framed glasses. “I will see you next week then”
Each week came and passed as Mr. Wright began to bring Tristan books frequently, exchanging each new book for the last. “Why do you treat me with such kindness when I have nothing to give?” Tristan would ask him each week, never recieving an answer.
A year passed by in the presence of the silent agreement. Mr. Wright would often bring Tristan a warm container filled with soup, or a sandwhich left over from lunch to accompany his reading for the night.
On a cold night in april, Tristan waited at the bus stop for the greying man. He spotted him across the street as he waved to him. Tristan, flashing his increasingly more common smile, returned his vivid wave in the direction of Mr. Wright.
"Hello Tristan", he began as always with a bright smile. His distinct aroma filled the hollow bus shelter - a mix of burnt wood, but also new paper and musk, and apparent paradox. After a brief conversation, Tristan took the book out of Mr. Wright’s frail hands.
The bus arrived shortly thereafter and Mr. Wright borded the exhausted vehical, taking his time going up the short stoop of stairs.
This book was rather unlike the other books that Mr. Wright had given him in the past months. His books had usually been full of journeys abundant with creatures, or filled to the brim with a quaint scenery, embodying an allegory in a far off place. The book he held in his hands was called “Darkness Visible”. It was a self-help book for those in the winter of their lives, much as Tristan was, though he hated to admit it.
He opened the page of the book and the spine cracked as the smell of fresh ink and paper filled his senses. This book was new.
He read with curiousity at first, which later turned to deep interest, and later still, turned into inspiration. The following week, Tristan returned this book to Mr. Wright as he told him that he would not be returning to the bus stop with any more new books. “I wish to see you again in the future”, he said, handing Tristan a slip of paper with his name and phone number on it.
Many years passed by and the two men kept regular contact, discussing the endevours of Tristan and his success in his new life.
"Doctor Spense, you have a visitor" his secretary informed him in her usual airy tone.
"Send them in, please"
A man with strong lines creased into his face turned the door handle and entered his office at Kingston University. Commonalities were exchanged and the man fought back a solemn look as he took a seat across from Tristan. The armchair engulphed him.
"Doctor Spense, I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Connor Wright passed away this morning as he succumed to his long fight against cancer", he spoke as though he had said these words in practise. "I am here because you were included in his will and we need to speak about legalities".
Mr. Wright had left him his entire collection of books, including that first copy of the Odyssey that Tristan had cherised so many years earlier when he had had nothing else. As he opened the familliar book, an envelope fell to the ground.
He stooped to the ground to pick up the white sheet and put it in the pile of other loose pages when he saw in handwriting, “To Dr. Tristan Spense”.
He read the words and tears filled his eyes, prickling at the corners and pooling in the clear canvas of skin before his jaw.

"The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty…" - Mother Teresa
I treated you kindly holding the knowledge that you would have nothing to give in return because I saw something I once saw within myself during the darker days of my time. I helped you because I knew your soul would rot and perish in a sickly way should you go unnoticed. I helped you because I hate faith in you and knew you had the kind of illness that could be taken away with the love of a friend. I hope that I have been able to give you the medicide loneliness, desparity and hopelessness and that your cabinets are stocked full. Remember where you have come from, and remember that it is always darkest before dawn.
Your friend always,
Connor Wright

I sit here at my desk in the tiny cubical, the depressing gray of this place drives me insane.I sit here each day, stare out the window and pray. For gun to place under my chin. It's icy cold metal caressing my cheek. This place... with all its windows , yet I see nothing. No blue sky, no birds, or people who look like ants from this height. The thought of tasting lead wets my appetite. I crave the gun powder, it intoxicates me. A suicidal trance that makes the windows look so inviting. Falling hundreds of feet would take too long, with each second that passes is time to reflect, regret and wonder, what may be...I sit here at my desk in this tiny cubical, the depressing gray of this place drives me insane.It makes my want to paint it red...a dark blood red.

Because man made spheres of synergy are treading on the verge of life support
No cooperation within the conglomerations
Perhaps we need brotherhood outside the cubical
The economy failing
Middle class working heroes about to **** themselves
But they have no money to buy a gun…out the window it is!
As insurance men and tax collectors and bill collectors beat a smile from my face with overturn fees and late fees with interest
And are all my reactions just misplaced projections?
I say **** ‘em I have no money
I’ll pay you when I can
What more can I do?

This is the last ******* time
I rent you space in my head
I've written about you so much
When I'm done I'm like.... Again

This dudes annoying me, get over
It, she's a *****, what can you do
I never asked for child support all
I wanted was our son to know u

But maybe it's better he doesn't
But it breaks my heart that aches
When his preschool made crafts
On ur dead beat Mother's Day

And he had to make one for nana
And asked me where u were
And now I finally get why some parents say, the dead beat ****

That isn't around had died
Cause I rather that than the other,
Which is tell our beautiful son that
The truth,narcissists can't be mothers

So *******, and this will be the
Very last ****** time
I waste a thought , or a tear drop
On your heartless ***, but I

Still hold pity for you!... Why?
Because I know what you don't
That regret can evolve when u let
Important things left, so I hope

I can hold in the joy, when the day
Comes and your blind *** sees
That our child, your flesh and blood
Has a value, your drugs can reach

A life you made, that you trade
So you can run away but one day
All the pain you left me with will
Find you ***** and it'll eat away

At whatever's left of your soul
Whatever's left of your neurotic
Selfish, ****** up, drugged up heart so black, I reverse oscars, and boycott it

So when psychosomatic Psychotic
Psychosis sets in
And you feel sorry for yourself and
All the time you wasted with him

I will tell him. To make sure he takes
What time is left with u and not
Say what I want to which is, let her
Live knowing, the cost of what's lost

Is being a deadbeat. But sought
Will be knowing if I did
That would encourage the son I love
To lose out so I sacrifice for my kid

Something u know nothing about
And probably never will
But 4 years have gone by so fast
Soon the futures the past and filled

Will be your blinded eyes
Full of consequence disguised
As poor u, self pity, ****** cries
Just like the cries our son cried

As I learn to handle a four month
Old baby boy, but hey .. I did
And you'll never know why sacrifice
And a selfless life fills the void which

We use to try and fill with ****,
Parties drugs raves all the ****
That lead us deeper into the darkness
We thought we escaped and hid

10 years of living for only us
Temptation, inebriation lust
Feeling numb cause sobriety
Brings anxiety in society full of

People who grew the **** up
Responsibility. Purpose stability
The knowledge that pretentious
Isn't being clean, so tranquility

Is real when it's felt rather than
The induced, bile filled puke
That's only half as vile as you
And if you ever see me smile *** u

Is what's meant, as I see now
Why we had to part ways it's sad
You were scared to grow up and that
Will catch up with you but a dad

Was just a scary . Trust me I was
Terrified.. Emasculated embarrassed
The years we spent that i cherished
We're all spent high so apparent

is how sobering up left transparent
Facts that say I didn't know
Who I really was, expect for the one
I was when sedated and I know

Now that there's a difference
In the way your emotions process
And now I maybe who we said we'd never be, cubical Steve at the office

9-5 and ya I get it, got it,
I'm exactly what u hate I know
But one day everything u aren't is
What you will be, but *** this poem

**** the nostalgia the reminiscing
See..... I always end up lost
Cause admittingly I can't get over it
When your eyes stare at me off

The face of our son, the ****** expressions the stubborn head its
All you that I see sitting across of me
And thank u for him, so like u left

Us, I will attempt to leave u
Abandoned in this coffin poem
And hope it doesn't follow me back
Like a horror movie villain to a home

I built without u, stop thinking bout u
It's easier to say
Than it is to do, so with a *** u
I mask the pain the scars gave

To remind me what's behind me
So on the day regrets blinding
This pain will be yours cause karmas
Tour can move slowly but finding

Who it's meant to, means it'll get u
So goodbye dead beat goodbye
I hope u drown in the tears u cry
When u see what u trade to be high

A careless  zookeeper lost the key to a cage
A  lion sneaked out ,
said good bye to its cubical home

Curiosity was the urgency to  flee
Surveying a potential new residence
Perhaps seeking new environment...
Lion was excited to discover
The excitement of the world outside  his  zoo...
He ran and ran as he had his golden chance
Soon he'd  find out the reality of life
in the human zoo...
Will he be Spending the nights
reminiscing the place and his people
those he had left behind. ... ?

nail my coffin shut with corroding roses of a valentine pink rust
compress the woodboards until i comprehend that oak and fine birch are the smell of suffocation
crunch me into a cube as an awaiting student crushes his returned test with more errors on it than a 1950s military map of a recently constructed city

cuff me up in this coffin

I've been living in it ever since this office cubical has been my slowly disintegrating temple of economical sustainability

I fumble my tongue to please my brain. To ensue the passion of hilarity for others through the shame I lack.

If you write, you write wrong. No, sorry, you write incorrectly... No still not the right writing.

The grammar you possess is lacking enthusiasm in construction and production.

You fumble words in a loose platonic, exploitive passion of hilted disappointment.

Grammar and creation grow as production does. One-to-one the tower grows on an even playing field of iron I-beams and the office on aluminum T shaped cubical walls.

I apologize profusely if this has been difficult to process. Let us consider this a difficult simulation of your current level on sentence structure, and comprehensive understanding.

What I don't seem to understand is...
before you become a man and
everyone cradles you,
holds you by the hand and
fills your thoughts with these dreams and aspirations,
(no exaggerations...just genuine life expectations)
but nothing is impossible,
you are fresh.
Not to death, but from birth.
A brand new mind that has yet to be tarnished.----

Through adolescence,
you start to learn adult lessons.
Cowboys are no longer real...
President's have to wear a tie!
And if I become a stuntman...
then I'll probably die.
I can't be a wrestler on TV if I actually fought?
I need...what!?...on my SAT's to become an astronaut?
Reality, Gets In.
Our Ways, Set In.
Goodbye Dreams,
Goodbye Imagination.--

"Today you are eighteen years old,
you are an adult."
God, do I hate the way they say that.
An elongated "u" as if emphasizing the key component that I am an, "adddduuuult"
Then to agitate my irate sense of frustration they ask my for my declaration:
"Now, just what you want to do for the rest of your life???--
You don't have time to think.
This is it, hurry.
Choose.
Now!
Did you figure it out? No...?
Now you're already behind!
Wasting mine and your own time.--"

Time...the only thing that remains omniscient.
Time...the real gift to represent the present.
Time's up.
School's over.
Time to get a job, a good ole' nine to five.
But, I can't listen to that:
For I know that it's lies.
I know sitting in an cubical in an office drinking water from a cooler pretending to be cooler
will be my own personal demise.

I believe everybody has hopes and dreams.
From the oldest person alive to addicted drug-phenes.
Never write a person off by social means.
Never let the American Dream become the American Scheme.
All of us have our own devine-mind.
Life's a playground, don't *** on the slide.
Re-capture that child-like spirit.
If they tell you: You Can't.--
Don't Hear It.
Jump out of the line!
As the rest watch from behind.
No more: Stress.
No more: Fear.
Disregard all: Turmoil.
"You must be the change you wish to see in the world."

.Peace.

Lately I am quite bothered by an
Innocent comment from a friend
Who explained, how he only obtains
Pain, when he reads what my pen

Gets sent, from an end
my mom Says was damaged at birth
And all though it's a joke. I'm told
Every joke contains truth, so first

Let me warn you of the absurd
Outbursts that may occur as u read
Hyperboles, that fabricate trolls that
patrol, with holes in their soul, lead

With similes that prove chivalry
Has now shriveled like these
Two nuts, hidden by my gut so if I
erupt, and ****** proceeds

Excuse the poetic **** bleed;
That are like a *******'s **** beads
But it's how I express what's painfully painful to me, don't be **** please

With that said, so I can now tread.
And wrap my head around the topic
explaining, why all my poetry
is sad, and often

It's cuz life is a beach, like the tropics
And when it's not, to be honest
I get lost in the moment, but also
When I try to write "happy" it's novice

And is more narcissistic garbage
Self righteous, lacking meaning
Like.. Look Here... I'm happy & gay today, oh ur hungry? Cuz..I'm eating

And you should too! Oh your broke?
Your down? I get those days too
So here's a rainbows & a flying unicorn that ***** glitter when he poos

And Don't you worry my friend,
It's always darkest before ****
Everything happens for a reason,
Your grampas cancer will soon be gone

soon as he's dead, So it'll work out
By the way I used that example, cuz
My grandfather died of cancer a few years back, and I was told that it was

For a reason. But when your readin
You want honesty, poetry that's blunt
So I refuse to **** my reader, like a
Preacher, who touches a boys butts

But in a godly way of course, cuz he's a
Man of god... Are you annoyed?
Cuz that's what rainbows & butterflies sound like to a reading alter boy

Looking for solace, looking for depth
Someone who knows how inept
How lonely, this ****** phony world
That only the snakes seem to get

What they want, and flaunt,
so it can haunt them more,
But most don't get what they want cuz
theyre too busy just trying to afford

What they need, and when the Greed
Exceeds what optimism is left
All they have is knowing how sad.
Another felt, cuz relating has swept

Away the feeling, so hard to accept
When their overwhelming life crept
With emotion. Bringing the notion
He can't relate to people or connect

So both monetary & Mental pay
Starts to mount, as a debt
Shows amounts to physically mount him. Til he even feels short on breath

Starting to consider that only death
Can relieve whats received so yes
Forgive me if my writing lacks,
Calming oceans, possessing even less

Patronizing, condescension, set
On a scenic mountain top, where I
Tell u how beautiful, ur office cubical
That's suitable for monkeys is, why?

It's a lie, but ok...the sun will come our
Tomorrow like Annie would say
So when it comes Tell ur creditors who Harass you 200 times, a day

That today's a new day. And that debts
yesterdays, and should be left
In the past. Where they say, to leave
Worries, which is insulting, but yet

I AM the dark one, with poems lacking
Goldielocks featuring her poorage
Or Snow White who lives with 7 men? deflowered more than florist is

Deflowering, & who am I to question a phony psychedelic, enchanted Forrest
It's not my business who's Orifice
A draf is, usin like it's a drawer of his

Cuz dwarfism like Orphism's an art, Snow White users for organisms
No wait, that's not right. Anyway...  
Where was I? ..rightt? ***** division

So, fill up the tub with ice. Make sure
Your "patient"s subdued.. No wait
Ooops ... Guardian angels, playing harps, on a cloud feeding you grapes

As Sunshine, hits your face, with
Beautiful UV rays, but...My concern
Is how misleading, it is when reading
Cuz even a beautiful sun can burn

Telling sometimes ****** things in turn
Happen without any reason
Sometimes good people die & do You know why?cuz if not wed be heevens    

Even more so. Than we are so even
My Sad poems can bring you joy
As much as happy ones, do when a gay teen grows up, & no longer a boy

And faces the pressures of coming out, he can choose this, what is charmin' ya
Or continue to feel safer In ur fantasy
Poem of a closet ..... But Narnia

Doesn't exist. So I leave him this,
Along With the lost, emotional kids
To let em know every scar life gives
Is a trophy, earned, and the life we live

Is Not always rainbows, hugs, kiss
But that's why it's beautiful when it is
& every word stands in this
For every cut on angry teens wrist

To symbolize, he's not not alone.
Or That shes all she needs to be
And I'm sorry to the rest, but this ....
Is rainbows and butterflies to me ...

With work in my past, I sit at a bar,
kissing the whiskey date in my right hand.
A man, as fatigued as me, takes his place
ten paces to my left—the corner seat.

A box is slipped from his jacket pocket,
which contained the well packed words of many lives.
The luckiest one was pulled from its cubical
by a weathered, unsteady hand’s fingers.

Praising his release from prison, with anticipation building.
The light in his face breathed life into him.
The tape—whose cogs turn forward—
plays the cigarette’s song; the cursive words spill out.

Audibly visible, I watched the smoke intrigued.
“Finally, a break from my daily building—
the one who confines my colleagues and me—
now, I can breathe a breath of relief.

“We spend each day waiting to die
never knowing peace, for we know our fates already.
We work each day praying for release,
but family comes first—it’s for them I work.

“We’re always being told we’re unique individuals—
yet we remain clones, individually wrapped.
Seen only as commodities by those who rule.
An invisible hand selects the slaves that be.

A breeze cuts him off, I wait.

“At least my servitude comes to an end,
so soak up what you can, while you can.
I may seem infinitesimal to the likes of you,
but you see your self in me, it’s true.

“I’m you in a minutes long microcosm.
You and I will never know true freedom
because all we’ve ever known has been prisondom.
The only liberties we know are delusions of solitary thought.

“When we’re released from our shackles—
that brief moment before passing—
they say we suffer a blissful ‘death rattle,’
but I say ‘nay, we don’t display disdain for that peaceful sigh.’”

Then, snuffed out in an instant,
the tape recorder ceased its spinning.
I stared waiting to hear more of the smoke’s wisdom;
however, he hadn’t had time for even a “Goodbye, and enjoy life.”

Shadows grow long as the day begins its end to this
beautiful summer day, which had shown the
colors of morning at 5:30 am.

Orange and yellow so brilliant, it just seems annoying
now  as we drive towards it on our
way to work each day.

No trace of that orange and yellow, just overwhelming
brightness as the day begins to play.

Light reflects from windshield to windshield, building
to building. Mirages appear on the road ahead, of
ponds and puddles as we navigate the swells in
the road as these obstacles appear.

As cars rush by, blue, yellow, red and green,
streaks of flattened color create the morning’s end.

A spectrum of color moves throughout the day as we
see glints of magic from our cubical through a
window across a walkway.

We sit and wonder, with one leg on our desk as we peer
through the window in awe.

As the day’s end begins, in the opposite direction we
drive, the colors are sharp and pure
gold, green, blue and white,
fade to black and the beginning of night.


http://www.charlesdennis.netne.net

© 2009 Charles Dennis

Admit your defeat
relinquish your will and depart from the weapons you held against me
no amending
no treaty or a political stunt to get you back in office or my cubical
I'd rather commit career suicide
but, you've lost
and I will accept your resignation except you expect a pardon
that is *******,
yet hilarious
your building is up for sale in my life
and compared to your surrender is air:
Unbreakable

I don't want to
talk
to her
because these things shouldn't be a problem
how do I tell a girl who
literally whispers
about mental illness that she gives me
anxiety
every time I go back to the room and I don't know if she will be there or not
I'm not
afraid
to talk but I'm afraid of confrontation
I
try
to talk to you in the easiest way
by sending a text
and you don't reply

we are living in the same cubical sized
space
so we're gonna need to talk
and you're gonna need to speak up

Thank you for telling me my garbage can
full of paper
was getting molding
because you're trying to find an excuse for being sick
Thank you for never making your bed and
leaving your own two bags of garbage on the floor
Thank you for talking to your mom about me but not talking to me about me
Thank you for asking me about my schedule for next semester to make sure we aren't taking the same classes
but never telling me what you're taking
Thank you, actually thank you, for no longer locking the door when I go to shower
but not actually thank you for not making sure the door is locked before we fall asleep

It's not that I hate you
I just can no longer live with you

O.K corrals and swaying lunch tray doors.
Bucking shoots made with thick concrete floors.
Overrun cow pens like stacked cubical dens.
Government controlled farms filled with pen pal friends.

something of cubical glaciers
rolling on sugar and water

we ride our big shiny ship
we have our big shiny hats

suddenly life happens
--we have lift off

Houston we have a problem
with gashes in time--

oh dear, we've hit
feelings of chilly winters

cold, cold, cold, cold
four seasons shot

by this icy slate
by this killer lack of hue

o, this world I
have grown to hate

I am a ball
pushed by a blizzard

in some direction
I don't know

so I sink into
this poor world of snow

slur your words,
as bottles pile onto bottles,
and the dreams you love,
have come to haunt me,
glowing orb,
orbiting around you,
keeping you away from the storm,
that pours from your mother's eyes,
about how her two lovers have died,
Her wailing drowned out,
over the buzzing beating plastic world,
created by by gones gone by,
of the greatest generation,
who died to produce,
the cubical living room,
we use to be gods,
on our virtual battle ground,
where we now stand,
face to face,
I stand with solidarity,
with your mother's loss,
climb into the life raft,
before the storm gets you,
and you drown in your flood gates,
that have rotten with filth,
you freely dump into your mind

-


i can just imagine how things would
end up, me being a little more than
hesitant to even consider vocalizing
myself "Live" to dozens of listeners

—me—

starting out on a platform in some school
gymnasium just a short million miles away
from the safety of my writing cubical deep
inside a worm hole underneath my domicile

im sure that a few in the crowd will wonder
what this thing is doing there, my thin, shaky
form walking erratically to center stage with a
tablet in one hand and a cup of water in the other—

well, it could be *****..

the microphone will be way too big for
what little i have to say, commencing
with an unsteady vocal that many will find
indistinguishable from man or woman,

the rhythm should get better after the first
of several stanzas, but i will have already
spotted the ombudsman standing near the
emergency exit listening in—

just as i feared,

and as our eyes meet, his expectation
of structure and rigidity will boil me
down to the hardwood floor, reducing
me to the basic size of a Cornish hen,

spun lengthwise upon his rotisserie,
roasting away as a smoldering torso
from his slow hand-cranked rotations

over the campfire which he will light his
cigarettes from, leaving me choking
from the smoke of his evaluations
as i drip into the cinders and
evaporate along with most
of my self ~esteem..

i realize that he'll just be some ghost
that has haunted my every attempt
at simple boldness,

but i know he is gonna be right there
if i ever climb up to laser like stares
and the wide-open ~hears~ of
kindred poets and curious ears,

an easy fellow to pick out—

he will be the one
holding my neck
in his hands...


s jones
2008-2020


.

I am as hard as a diamond,
my edges are cut sharp into cubical quartz.
I harden and I process; you can strike me against a rock
and I will not shatter.
I don't shine like a diamond, I'm as dull as an old razor blade;
the remnants of sharpness are there
but who wants to shave with an old razor blade.

My dandelion hair flows with the breeze,
and the salty sweat from my head
makes the fragrance drift
like tentacles into the air.

I sit in corners and sift my brain,
searching for gold that is not there,
but constantly thinking and thinking and thinking;
I go crazy and turn into liquid,
I am the ocean turning and the high tide crashing into the shore.
I drift until I'm calm,
until I'm a rainbow fish in the sea,
swimming under sail boats and sea gulls
and wrinkled fishermen upset with their love lives.

My hands are question marks,
punctuation that I cannot answer, I cannot understand.
My toes curl and I cringe as I remember who I am,
the person that cannot be saved
or brought in with a lasso around my neck.

I am a half-finished metaphor and your deja vu,
you must be a sorcerer if you can make me love
like the old-fashioned movie screen.
My voice is raspy from the attempts at screaming my own name
in order to hear something,
to feel something in this empty cavity of a body.

I will dye my hair aquamarine and magenta
and all the colors with the fancy names,
before I make up my mind to understand anyone else.
I will fold myself in like a thousand paper cranes,
and paper cranes do not fly.
I will write on the walls of my insides that I do not need anyone,
until my brain memorizes my own handwriting.

*(a.m.c.)

Sounds of the morning dove
Outside my window
Heard just briefly before
Gear shifting cars
Drown out the softness of
The new day
Sounds of the northern geese
Returning from winter’s lairs
Heard just briefly before
Electronic emails erase
The joy of a change in
The new season
In the cubical forest
Taping on keys
Humming of machines
The constant moment

everyone, at one point,
has considered themselves
to be a waste of space.

but has one ever thought
this world to be the
waste of space?

all the time
spent in classrooms or
possibly even a tiny cubical
with the only person
in this whole world
who you just can't stand to be around.

all of the hours wasted
on pointless **** that could
have been used
exploring
writing
creating who you want to be.

so what are we in the end of it all?
nothing.

The interesting parts of shape and form
Are limited when formed
Cheap, uniform, and cubical,
Reflecting the soulless brutality
Of intent—
Intelligent design means nothing more
Forcing the liquid inside
To take the shape of its container—
Through years of pressure from the
Despot’s thumb
And his authoritarian chemistry:
A nigh-universal refinement process,
All organic matter has been given a place
Within the industrial model
As fuel for the world’s future engines.
Pools of precious hyrdocarbons
Sit at the foot of the despot’s ego
Prone, as we, the colorless
Mass, have seen, to volatility,
And coats the world in floods of the stuff
When threatened; he, too, has placed
Himself within a cube, bound its constitution
With paper and ink as a good-will gesture
To move the mechanized world’s pistons
With concentrated, explosive hatred,
Designed to inspire and harvest death
The world over.

I can’t wait till I grow up;
We say while we are still in school.
Sick of sitting in classes;
Until we can’t feel our arses.
Going on school trips;
Looking for homework tips.
Preparing for the ‘real world’;
Misunderstanding that word we heard.
I can’t wait till I grow up;
Or that’s what we think.

I can’t wait till I am working;
We say while we are in university.
Sick of sitting in lectures;
Learning of new textures.
Going on drug trips;
Grabbing a girls hips.
Preparing for tests;
Getting barely enough rest.
I can’t wait till I’m working;
Or that’s what we think.

I can’t wait till I’m retired;
We say while we are working.
Sick of sitting in a cubical;
Dating that girl who is beautiful.
Going on business trips;
Missing the feel of her lips.
Preparing for five o’clock;
So we get stuck in traffic lock.
I can’t wait till I’m retired;
Or that’s what we think.

I wish I was young again;
We say when we retire.
Sick of sitting alone;
Unable to throw a dog a bone.
Going on hospital trips;
Getting put on another drip.
Preparing for the worst;
The day that family bubble bursts.
I wish I was young again;
We say at the end.

Sometimes it is good
to meet unknown persons
They don't have
prejudices n unsaid reasons
Whether it is a bus terminal
o r a hotel cubical
there will always be natural feelings
New scene and depth in eyes
New dimensions to imaginary dreams
New energy to slow beating hearts
New thoughts to drudgery minds
May be it does not result in love
but certainly prepares land for love
When it passes so long lonely
go for an unscheduled meet
with someone unknown and
realise a fresh air to breathe
this will give a moment of ease.

Uu