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"custodian" poems
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond. I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre and said to my wife A gun in every home. Those devils would think twice before razing the village and seizing the boys. A well-regulated militia. The local militia the most interesting moment in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,       fights) and a **** sexless love story. Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the       community, the young from the janjaweed. The crop from the **** Limited scope and defensive posture but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)       side by side. Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain. Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture. Great music. Cuba, Africa. The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat       of violence No saxophones in the band. The saxophone! Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the       Congo! When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry for non-violent acts. This quiet neighborhood, July, undergirded by violence, force. That's a given-- any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that. Without just violence Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited, negligible (but not non-existent)?                                                        Regarding King the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon federal force to counter the South's violence. No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be       overwhelmed by southern violence. Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic. Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the       British. Or did he? 1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi     restrained but could release which the British feared, and 2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that     allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint     was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as     emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and     valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture). What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with       community as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession. Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the       common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with       otherwise neutral, private acts. The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is       forgoing deadly force. But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence, in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune       violence. Hence, a gun in every home.
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Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
A Gun in Every Home
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond. I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre and said to my wife A gun in every home. Those devils would think twice before razing the village and seizing the boys. A well-regulated militia. The local militia the most interesting moment in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,       fights) and a **** sexless love story. Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the       community, the young from the janjaweed. The crop from the **** Limited scope and defensive posture but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)       side by side. Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain. Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture. Great music. Cuba, Africa. The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat       of violence No saxophones in the band. The saxophone! Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the       Congo! When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry for non-violent acts. This quiet neighborhood, July, undergirded by violence, force. That's a given-- any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that. Without just violence Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited, negligible (but not non-existent)?                                                        Regarding King the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon federal force to counter the South's violence. No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be       overwhelmed by southern violence. Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic. Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the       British. Or did he? 1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi     restrained but could release which the British feared, and 2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that     allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint     was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as     emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and     valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture). What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with       community as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession. Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the       common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with       otherwise neutral, private acts. The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is       forgoing deadly force. But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence, in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune       violence. Hence, a gun in every home.
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58
Oh, my Father in Heaven Guarding me from all perils and trials   And sets my heart free of all clutter For you, my songs of praise, I reserve All my life, I shall sing Without fail, in bloom or gloom On every unfolding day Through months and years Till death and beyond Let my songs sail across the skies And with the chorus of the heavenly band, unite Oh, the benevolent Lord of all creation Custodian of all wealth Contriver of birth and death The Master Crafts man Everything is your handiwork. The lofty mounts Veiled in misty snow The verdant dales Lush and still The fathomless deep Where mysteries peep All the flowers That bloom and wither All things Bright and beautiful Everything, above and below In all, Let me behold thy grace And sing Thee praise! Oh! Redeemer of Mankind Guide me through the dark Guard my steps where dangers lurk Hold my hand And never loosen your grip Make me face the light Illumine me with wisdom serene And fill me with love divine; So that you be glorified Here, on Earth And in Heaven be!
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Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 7:12 AM UTC
Sing Praise unto the Lord
i'm living on a solitary prayer vandalized my ego to make it rare with teeth stained with lies i've told and promises lost in the cold i tussle and taser to hide my lovers and all that i am - a mess or tastemaker sprinkling tersely on my mercy seat will make my season go complete? i pull the labrys & the throttle artefact-sprites in uranium soil declaring my truth atop of the flagpole i'm the custodian of haute culture a flotilla of judgment riding skyhigh like dido's love-lachrymose down demise they say "better rethink your useless vendetta" but first we'd better get out of their siberia where the masses doubt the angry fix "ignore the (g/h)aze above the pyramid if we only couldn't have any more locked in dominican ****** wards
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Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
custodian of haute culture
Avian slave beneath arrays of decay Beneath the will to move on She is so rusted and gone Afar from quintessence crossed Into the realm of the lost Slipped into the clutch of the maw Of madness it’s savage Where the judge is the jury Executioners laugh at the magnanimous Everything stripped from the flesh Nothing left to see but a dejected show in the throes of wreckage Because these lost prophets sit upon a stolen perch looking down on a fallen goddess A desecrated figure devoid of any promise The primary custodian of a land forever conquered A society gripped in the chokehold of despair Perpetual attunement to ruin consumes a flock of sheep in the leviathan’s lair And the pretty little songbird Torn asunder by each verse Learns that from her inception She never was a free bird
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Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
Freebird
Four girls sit cross-legged On cold pitted concrete It’s always cold here Their rear-ends frozen Bare ankles growing sore Pouring over textbooks Finishing today’s homework or Tomorrow’s. Hope there’s no pop quiz. They nod In unison I didn’t study Neither did I The other two stare At their books nonplussed Their papers scattered, a ruler and a pen Out of the library and into the cold arrives The fifth She looks about and sees A grey curl A long head A heavy tail It’s soft, someone thought, as she saw the raised leg Which came down fierce like lightning, A defiant, queerly polished white saddle-shoe One of two strange shoes That looked like no one else’s but why? Flattened the entirety into the cold, cold concrete The meteorite that destroyed a species of one. Conjoined twins, now dead There’s no way we can repair it Can’t even peel it away The custodian will have to scrap it off with a blade and wash it down We laughed All but one.
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Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 12:23 AM UTC
Junior High School Ceramic Assault
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled… Out ****** spot! Out, I say! I must regress to becoming the white blanket. I must know nothing but God. A simple cloth. A towelette. Rags! Rags! Rags! … …. …God? …Hello? …Is it too late to become …plain?
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Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
"The Fall of the Watchers"
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled… Out ****** spot! Out, I say! I must regress to becoming the white blanket. I must know nothing but God. A simple cloth. A towelette. Rags! Rags! Rags! … …. …God? …Hello? …Is it too late to become …plain?
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15
I know not from whence my inspirations cometh I believe I was chosen from the time of my birth. Alone and undisturbed, I have strange visitation Embellished with beautiful stories delivered via imagination Even the mental drought known as writer's block Goes away the very moment the spirits knock. Thanks to my late Queen mother who told me stories And tales of our ancestor's conquest of adversities. I am the last of the great Grios from my tribe. The spirits will always be my source of inspiration and guide. I come alive at night when the entire world sleep, That's when the best ideas and loose words creep. These words I process as part of my solemn obligation. As custodian of Ancient history and its dissemination. Call me a poet because of spoken word and great poetry In actuality, I'm the last Grio sent to write our ancient oral history. IvanBrooksPoetry©️
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Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 7:31 PM UTC
The Last Grio
Since we met in this life we’ve been so together The trees and the sky will tell you, just ask them Since, frankly and completely as one Searching our souls, discovering each other and ourselves Loving, living and learning with no effort at all Moulding our life to divine goals, elements exploring Each day we grow, smoothing our rituals and tasks Simple, small, understated and beautiful Yet enormous, devastating and wonderful I’ve never been clearer in mind nor more ordered Serious or intended, structured yet mesmerised and dreamy Child-like pleasures our little hearts Honestly, knowing you has given an exclusive season of patience A crown of peace with measures of muted resonance My emotion and behaviour jangle with excitement Gaining speed and velocity as our developing love fertilises everything we do If any part of me was withheld or absent it was without cognisance or most importantly intent I was always here totally, loving you with an undivided heart Building our future and having the truest most delightful life Such destiny within two earthly beings, such kismet But no..earth is not from where we sprung No logic or contract by human standards but from cosmos and celestial forces Stardust, moonbeams, sunlight and energy Our future is viridian, cobalt, alizarin, ultramarine, carmine... Colours drawn from a bow of happiness with arrows of true love Thudding into our hearts every single moment Rainbows of kindly sparkly crystals reflecting each tiny emotion Willow tree flexibility, cool streams of pure clear water whisper in our ears Look to your soul and to the memories of our short time together Begin to believe that life is so very good ,so treasured like us Darling Jan my complete lover The wife I’ve always had, true soul provider, custodian of my heart Clearer in the transformation from Jan and Max to a ‘whole’ inseparable By anyone or anything for all time and eternity.. Even better knowing that as always Now even more.....I’m all yours
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Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 12:22 PM UTC
All Yours
Since we met in this life we’ve been so together The trees and the sky will tell you, just ask them Since, frankly and completely as one Searching our souls, discovering each other and ourselves Loving, living and learning with no effort at all Moulding our life to divine goals, elements exploring Each day we grow, smoothing our rituals and tasks Simple, small, understated and beautiful Yet enormous, devastating and wonderful I’ve never been clearer in mind nor more ordered Serious or intended, structured yet mesmerised and dreamy Child-like pleasures our little hearts Honestly, knowing you has given an exclusive season of patience A crown of peace with measures of muted resonance My emotion and behaviour jangle with excitement Gaining speed and velocity as our developing love fertilises everything we do If any part of me was withheld or absent it was without cognisance or most importantly intent I was always here totally, loving you with an undivided heart Building our future and having the truest most delightful life Such destiny within two earthly beings, such kismet But no..earth is not from where we sprung No logic or contract by human standards but from cosmos and celestial forces Stardust, moonbeams, sunlight and energy Our future is viridian, cobalt, alizarin, ultramarine, carmine... Colours drawn from a bow of happiness with arrows of true love Thudding into our hearts every single moment Rainbows of kindly sparkly crystals reflecting each tiny emotion Willow tree flexibility, cool streams of pure clear water whisper in our ears Look to your soul and to the memories of our short time together Begin to believe that life is so very good ,so treasured like us Darling Jan my complete lover The wife I’ve always had, true soul provider, custodian of my heart Clearer in the transformation from Jan and Max to a ‘whole’ inseparable By anyone or anything for all time and eternity.. Even better knowing that as always Now even more.....I’m all yours
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36
It's 4:40 in the morning and I am at work. I'm a custodian. My whole night revolves around the clock, drifting from one bathroom to the next. Of course I do more than that. But it's all such a bore. I was done with everything for the night an hour ago, but I can't leave until 6. So, I will make myself look busy. I have no **** at home so I'll probably stay up the rest of the day, watching YouTube videos since sleep will not be in the cards for me. One more shift later and then I'll be free for the weekend. Free to pay my bills, maybe get groceries, buy some **** and binge watch The Office on Netflix for the second time. And then start all over again next week.
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Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 4:49 AM UTC
Janitor
it's so beautiful ******** it's a heartless ***** that luminates the dark sky as dreamers lie to themselves romanticizing and influencing young everywhere to love dream and hope alike, when it stalks upon the sun. despite all this, the red on your white pants makes humiliation sound a lot better than the repulsion of a custodian finding a used **** pad, soaked in red clogging up the toilet. dear. it's a ****** that flaunts upon it's charms while lingers in the blue sky staring up at the sun. the red in the sun, burns eyes so that the neurons in the optic nerve die and somehow gives you a miraculous squint but it's far more better than the repulsion of the custodian finding "lady" napkins clogging the toilet hole. dear. someone's always got to be a custodian don't they?
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Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
The Moon's a Creep and Custodians
Millions of years of existence Earth carries layers of history Abundant and bountiful They thrived during their peak Happiness and coexistence Turned to rambunctious ambitions Valiant hearts turned violent Severing the ties of humanity Colored the layers of history in red Tyrants and traitors marred the existence Of the beautiful fabric of mankind Stained fate, never to recover Sometimes nature turned foe Obliterating life from this Earth History is the silent custodian Testimony to the many facets of humanity We bring our downfall Mired in controversies and revenge Saga of shameful acts and own dereliction Sifting through the layers of history It’s not for the faint-hearted to endure The rough tales of disasters and annihilation Millions of years and many more thereafter At the crossroads of humanity History is waiting to add many more layers To the annals of its testimony
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Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
Existence and History
Elizabeth; Of immensely esteemed birth. Highly respected in life, but more respected in death. Having a crown that ceased to decay for many decades long. A queen of kings, but still a wife, custodian of traditions strong. She that saw historic anniversaries, She that saw millennial discoveries, She that transcends previous monarchies in length of days and pivotal reign. Queen of a realm of historic gains, where the sun never sets on their plains. All to Westminster their griefs convey to our departed who countless smiles gave. And for your funeral would many for death crave.
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Dec 12, 2022
Dec 12, 2022 at 3:09 PM UTC
Queen Elizabeth II 1926-2022
Mr. Custodian, why must you be so? You're my caretaker, for what? I do not know For I am six feet under, safe and secure The worms are my friends, darkness I endure Amongst the dirt and dust, I am protected Though on that grim day, my light has ended Mr. Custodian, I am safer than you Inside my casket from what men of life do You polish my headstone, for that I thank It won't weather or crumble, but what of that tank? Though I have passed, I feel the plight of men Mr. Custodian, take the hole next to me, God Send.
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Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
Mr. Custodian
La princesa está triste... ¿Qué tendrá la princesa? Los suspiros se escapan de su boca de fresa, que ha perdido la risa, que ha perdido el color. La princesa está pálida en su silla de oro, está mudo el teclado de su clave sonoro, y en un vaso, olvidada, se desmaya una flor.El jardín puebla el triunfo de los pavos reales. Parlanchina, la dueña dice cosas banales, y vestido de rojo piruetea el bufón. La princesa no ríe, la princesa no siente; la princesa persigue por el cielo de Oriente la libélula vaga de una vaga ilusión.¿Piensa, acaso, en el príncipe de Golconda o de China, o en el que ha detenido su carroza argentina para ver de sus ojos la dulzura de luz? ¿O en el rey de las islas de las rosas fragantes, o en el que es soberano de los claros diamantes, o en el dueño orgulloso de las perlas de Ormuz?¡Ay!, la pobre princesa de la boca de rosa quiere ser golondrina, quiere ser mariposa, tener alas ligeras, bajo el cielo volar; ir al sol por la escala luminosa de un rayo, saludar a los lirios con los versos de mayo o perderse en el viento sobre el trueno del mar.Ya no quiere el palacio, ni la rueca de plata, ni el halcón encantado, ni el bufón escarlata, ni los cisnes unánimes en el lago de azur. Y están tristes las flores por la flor de la corte, los jazmines de Oriente, los nelumbos del Norte, de Occidente las dalias y las rosas del Sur.¡Pobrecita princesa  de los ojos azules! Está presa en sus oros, está presa en sus tules, en la jaula de mármol del palacio real; el palacio soberbio que vigilan los guardas, que custodian cien negros con sus cien alabardas, un lebrel que no duerme y un dragón colosal.¡Oh, quién fuera hipsipila que dejó la crisálida! (La princesa está triste, la princesa está pálida) ¡Oh visión adorada de oro, rosa y marfil! ¡Quién volara a la tierra donde un príncipe existe, -la princesa está pálida, la princesa está triste-, más brillante que el alba, más hermoso que abril!-«Calla, calla, princesa -dice el hada madrina-; en caballo, con alas, hacia acá se encamina, en el cinto la espada y en la mano el azor, el feliz caballero que te adora sin verte, y que llega de lejos, vencedor de la Muerte, a encenderte los labios con un beso de amor».
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1.7k
Sonatina
La princesa está triste... ¿Qué tendrá la princesa? Los suspiros se escapan de su boca de fresa, que ha perdido la risa, que ha perdido el color. La princesa está pálida en su silla de oro, está mudo el teclado de su clave sonoro, y en un vaso, olvidada, se desmaya una flor.El jardín puebla el triunfo de los pavos reales. Parlanchina, la dueña dice cosas banales, y vestido de rojo piruetea el bufón. La princesa no ríe, la princesa no siente; la princesa persigue por el cielo de Oriente la libélula vaga de una vaga ilusión.¿Piensa, acaso, en el príncipe de Golconda o de China, o en el que ha detenido su carroza argentina para ver de sus ojos la dulzura de luz? ¿O en el rey de las islas de las rosas fragantes, o en el que es soberano de los claros diamantes, o en el dueño orgulloso de las perlas de Ormuz?¡Ay!, la pobre princesa de la boca de rosa quiere ser golondrina, quiere ser mariposa, tener alas ligeras, bajo el cielo volar; ir al sol por la escala luminosa de un rayo, saludar a los lirios con los versos de mayo o perderse en el viento sobre el trueno del mar.Ya no quiere el palacio, ni la rueca de plata, ni el halcón encantado, ni el bufón escarlata, ni los cisnes unánimes en el lago de azur. Y están tristes las flores por la flor de la corte, los jazmines de Oriente, los nelumbos del Norte, de Occidente las dalias y las rosas del Sur.¡Pobrecita princesa  de los ojos azules! Está presa en sus oros, está presa en sus tules, en la jaula de mármol del palacio real; el palacio soberbio que vigilan los guardas, que custodian cien negros con sus cien alabardas, un lebrel que no duerme y un dragón colosal.¡Oh, quién fuera hipsipila que dejó la crisálida! (La princesa está triste, la princesa está pálida) ¡Oh visión adorada de oro, rosa y marfil! ¡Quién volara a la tierra donde un príncipe existe, -la princesa está pálida, la princesa está triste-, más brillante que el alba, más hermoso que abril!-«Calla, calla, princesa -dice el hada madrina-; en caballo, con alas, hacia acá se encamina, en el cinto la espada y en la mano el azor, el feliz caballero que te adora sin verte, y que llega de lejos, vencedor de la Muerte, a encenderte los labios con un beso de amor».
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41
The body of a woman's neutral fineness embraces the chords of my steel guitar; laughing about all the points that I've been chasing after. Or just running away- no more for today. Christ, you slipped but lied too many times before, and while you plunge your wrists into your knives, I thought we had a second chance. But that was before, you throw sticks and stones and store your anger in the three fingers of the drink that clinks against our first date when I bought you a 25¢ ring. It was a children's vending machine, that brought me three years of happy things. I don't want to be fake with you anymore. So go and find your Milky Way. I'm staying dumb, Britni I'm in trouble. All the stakes are different when you are chasing yesterday's killing. And even the sound of the gunshots don't overcome the voice of the human tongue, in violence and war and all that's abhorred, even the smallest vesper or prayer a whisper of three little words can always be heard, even the faintest whisper can always be heard, as long as the voice that says it is honest and pure. I was too tight to drive with your hands over my eyes, even in Inverness valley and South Santa Cruz, the wheelbarrow of berries I brought home for supper, ingested in each little bite we cut in half, was the best of the worst time that we ever had. And always we were. In love. In parking lots, playgrounds, at concerts, on airplanes, in bedrooms, custodian closets, laundry mats, and carrying our nap sacks, while we attempted to sleep and hide all night in the Shedd Aquarium. I just should have known better, it'd wouldn't be easy, with you I'm always wrestling sharks with a mirror, your pink sugar perfume from the chains on my wrists tied up across the room. While you didn't trust me I was always at home. Trust isn't love unless it's enough, unless it's enough to quit drugs. It's symptoms are the same as that of great madnesses.
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Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
Talking to Me, Talking to You
The body of a woman's neutral fineness embraces the chords of my steel guitar; laughing about all the points that I've been chasing after. Or just running away- no more for today. Christ, you slipped but lied too many times before, and while you plunge your wrists into your knives, I thought we had a second chance. But that was before, you throw sticks and stones and store your anger in the three fingers of the drink that clinks against our first date when I bought you a 25¢ ring. It was a children's vending machine, that brought me three years of happy things. I don't want to be fake with you anymore. So go and find your Milky Way. I'm staying dumb, Britni I'm in trouble. All the stakes are different when you are chasing yesterday's killing. And even the sound of the gunshots don't overcome the voice of the human tongue, in violence and war and all that's abhorred, even the smallest vesper or prayer a whisper of three little words can always be heard, even the faintest whisper can always be heard, as long as the voice that says it is honest and pure. I was too tight to drive with your hands over my eyes, even in Inverness valley and South Santa Cruz, the wheelbarrow of berries I brought home for supper, ingested in each little bite we cut in half, was the best of the worst time that we ever had. And always we were. In love. In parking lots, playgrounds, at concerts, on airplanes, in bedrooms, custodian closets, laundry mats, and carrying our nap sacks, while we attempted to sleep and hide all night in the Shedd Aquarium. I just should have known better, it'd wouldn't be easy, with you I'm always wrestling sharks with a mirror, your pink sugar perfume from the chains on my wrists tied up across the room. While you didn't trust me I was always at home. Trust isn't love unless it's enough, unless it's enough to quit drugs. It's symptoms are the same as that of great madnesses.
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4
It's about 2:30 in the morning there you stand a janitor weilding your gigantic paintbrush in a full jumpsuit and a bald cap. Nobody's around. The mophead slaps the ground you dance with it Swirling it all across the checkered tile with such grace and such beauty! Soak Swash Squeeze Repeat. What magnificent art Such extraordinary masterpieces being created night after night across this marble floor! Why, Michaelangelo would be turning in his grave! A shame though, That the paint is clear and it dries away in about 15-20 minutes and no one will ever see or know the greatest art ever created by you, the unknown custodian, the master of sanitations, the mop artist.
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Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
The Mop Artist
She still had tears in her eyes Her eldest son, Max, just passed He had an overdose on July 5th This woman held in real pain I don't doubt her for a second She is old, burnt, mad Her madness is pure, pure madness She tells me her stories And I sit there, hungover Looking into those tearey eyes She elaborates her stories Wou her motion as she sweeps "He chased me yesterday! It was real, I knew it Even if it didn't happen, it was real The man loves under the budge that Connects one building to another I think she said she might have scared him Maybe he thought she was real too "I ran into the street screaming!!" I'm at the edge of my seat. The police have her **** "Historical" she says, well of course Wouldn't you be too if you got chased The man under the bridge The second floor custodian I was all too real
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Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
Stories from a storyteller
wild night videos for the dark web 3 Atlean men and a girl she got it by a mob of Moroccan **** rockets and will pine for the rest of her days screaming to the hells in a reimagined language the regression to Lilith **** ********* the world when hell touched paradise ***** and man handled shot by shot mouth to ****** to **** split and folded tooth and nail to drive the ****** tides of the world ***** monsters like T Rex force a ritual infliction butter meat of dreams pain sensually reworked into pleasure blister-hot and oh so sweet married to a paradox like feeling bad about feeling good give me your ankles ***** an unveiled immediacy right off the bat i got just the girl confiding in me so ready to die like an Aztec princess to be the star like a peacock in an engorged circus blizzard of jealous snakes strangled fanged and spewed a swansong exhibition in blood-soaked ponytails a bobbing head and choke throat ***** picnic table with mayonnaise wounds mediating power in a psychoanalytic fetish death is not death but performative submission her body ransacked in tooth marks and red tipped ******* steaming eraser head pulses a **** soaked chicken on a plate eradicating reality are you gonna eat that? pass the *** collapses time lust   custodian of human archeology **** piñata bearing gifts of squirty pork gasms ******** and cuchifritos corpus of ****** horror as liberation crosses-temporality and breaks the vessel of time oow Nefertiti where are you a tongue up the *** sniffs Prada's Candy Perfume **** blinking licks up there where havoc lives in **** **** farm country
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Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 2:28 PM UTC
Private Video
wild night videos for the dark web 3 Atlean men and a girl she got it by a mob of Moroccan **** rockets and will pine for the rest of her days screaming to the hells in a reimagined language the regression to Lilith **** ********* the world when hell touched paradise ***** and man handled shot by shot mouth to ****** to **** split and folded tooth and nail to drive the ****** tides of the world ***** monsters like T Rex force a ritual infliction butter meat of dreams pain sensually reworked into pleasure blister-hot and oh so sweet married to a paradox like feeling bad about feeling good give me your ankles ***** an unveiled immediacy right off the bat i got just the girl confiding in me so ready to die like an Aztec princess to be the star like a peacock in an engorged circus blizzard of jealous snakes strangled fanged and spewed a swansong exhibition in blood-soaked ponytails a bobbing head and choke throat ***** picnic table with mayonnaise wounds mediating power in a psychoanalytic fetish death is not death but performative submission her body ransacked in tooth marks and red tipped ******* steaming eraser head pulses a **** soaked chicken on a plate eradicating reality are you gonna eat that? pass the *** collapses time lust   custodian of human archeology **** piñata bearing gifts of squirty pork gasms ******** and cuchifritos corpus of ****** horror as liberation crosses-temporality and breaks the vessel of time oow Nefertiti where are you a tongue up the *** sniffs Prada's Candy Perfume **** blinking licks up there where havoc lives in **** **** farm country
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I know not from whence my inspirations cometh. I believe I was chosen from the time of my birth. Alone and undisturbed, I have strange visitation, Embellished with beautiful stories delivered via imagination. Even the mental drought known as writer's block, Goes away the very moment the spirits knocks. Thanks to my late Queen mother who told me stories, And tales of our ancestor's conquest of adversities. I am the last of the great Grios from my tribe. The spirits will always be my source of inspiration and guide. I come alive at night when the entire world sleeps, That's when the best ideas and loose words creep. These words I process as part of my solemn obligation. As custodian of Ancient history and its dissemination. Call me a poet because of spoken word and great poetry In actuality, I'm the last Grio sent to write our ancient oral history. IvanBrooksPoetry©️
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Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
The Last Grio
I am walking in a haunted land full of voices. Too many voices and not enough faces to claim them. I am disturbed by so many shadows. No sun to make them. Not even a moon to erase them. I am drowning in waters full of corpses. Each one pulling me down into the darkness. Trapped in a well of raging night, joy has lost all meaning here. Claw marks on these walls of stone, sign my fate away…
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May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
For My Custodian
*Poetry gives the magic back to words and makes words flesh again as it was in the beginning till our quantum-leap thoughts spurred on by incantatory rhythms often like latterday Gregorian chants materialize into the dancing silhouettes of solid but surrealistic forms in fantastic hues thus the poet is the custodian of creation from nothing*
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Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
Giving the Magic Back to Words (Inspired by the Poetry of Emily Burns)
The moors seduced The Sahara Desert Mountains Mastered the Mediterranean Sea Keepers of the flame Custodian of Egyptian knowledge Their horses made of moonlight The world shall never be the same
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Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
Keepers of The Flame
They knew him well, knew he cared, Attention and sweets, he would share. "Thunder and Lightning" a girl, a boy, One brought worry, the other joy. He's gone now, went down to rest, He did his job, passed the test. Treat all the same, no matter what, Love all the same, no matter what.
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Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 9:48 AM UTC
The Old Custodian
smudges on the glass   were wiped away each night by a mute custodian who found a biography in each set of prints he made disappear with clean cloth and vinegar he could tell which ones were made by children, dragged there with promise of ice cream, later oh, the young lovers' prints   were unmistakable--eager tracks being led to more and more promising carats and the thin marks left by the frail made him wonder, if this would be their last precious purchase: a reckoning; a remorse the cases held diamonds, rubies, by the score, but the silent sentinel   saw only the surface that was his world, one of transparency, and fickle reflections he reluctantly erased these fingered tales the marks life left anon and anon, for he knew it was his duty to wipe the slate clean to allow resurrection, renewed vision of a bejeweled world, just below his sight
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Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 2:41 PM UTC
the glass cases at Schwarz's