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Jordan Hudson Jul 30
Let's go talk in a drop top
Let's go talk in a drop top
Low on cash auction bought
Making no stacks but I thought
I was rich yea but I'm not
I said I was rich I was caught
In a basic place
Shopping at Walmart on certain days
Cash in the hand
A few bucks
Stashing change
Outa luck
All I got
Yea I gotta bank
Yea no K
Two digit aye
Let's go talk in a drop top
Let's go talk in a drop top
Big bucks
Later on
No luck
Maybe not
Let's go talk in a drop top
Let's go talk in a drop top
Drop top bottom to the top
Rolling around town
Rolls or Rari
Let's go talk in a drop top
Exhaust go pop
Exhaust go boom
Watch this Lambo zoom
Which room
Hotel stay
Skrrt stay
Skrrt stay
Dream in the day
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2018
Alexander of Macedonia this time
won’t U-turn from the might Gangaridai.
At the bubbling edge in the Indian subcontinent,
one would dare, taking his last plunge,
believing it here the proverbial Well of Life!

Yet Al Khwarizmi will discover the algebra,
drawing from ‘nothing,’ purely untouchable:
The Zero from the Indian pole.
Not a digit, not a number on its own, yet it’s all.
Every number jumps up in the zero loophole!
Then the whole number bows down into decimals,
escalating the hunts of the 1.618 golden ratios.

Plough through at your own pace
for the uncharted water, for ab-e-hayath.
Sip in a drop of elixir in this secured zone.
Sylhet is in the core, is written in stone.

What do these mean? I too wonder
down the line, I was intrigued by the Arab
and Indian tectonic plates’ slow dance.
Both rolled out, hugging each other
Then the Makkan soil lying at the heart of earth
gets exposed, with Sylhet’s soil it pairs up!
360 Sufi dynamos, mathematically a perfect circle,
find the match giving a perfect heads up
laid on the nine yard show the whole box of wax,
simply inking the vivo jump on the storylines.

What’s under the tectonic-rug at the bottom of the earth?
Shush softly, whisper—the heavens might hear it out!
Hold on to the least bit, it could be all one wants.
The earth, the ocean, all started with a drop of water!
Let alone any well, which way did this original matter,
the first, primeval drop of water stream down
Has this alleyway been exposed here, or in Paradise?
Then how can we say we don't have a secret for Paradise?
Sylhet is regarded as the spiritual capital of Bangladesh.
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2018
I was on the way to pick her up,
was just about to cross a slippery *****
on the front yard of my in-laws’ home.
Forget how long it took me to cross,
Huh, I had to solve a riddle.
A Moon pops up halfway through,
right in my way, it just won’t move.

I said I don’t need any horoscope,
already married, I am not a groom!
She goes, I too don’t fancy fussing about.
The riddle I got is only an easy-peasy one.
Just tell me your W duo—Where and When
did you take your first breath?
I laugh, isn't it the mum who can tell best,
who saw it first when I was born
but I can't go back and ask her,
she won’t show up
unless I return home, picking her up.

I said to the moon, o dear,
never did I say you got a scar,
that a spot on your face is cute, fair,
is only a cool shadow of one’s
deep-rooted fine lock of hair!

I then ran to the expert scientist.
He said it’s all vibrating but knows not
where the heck, if ever the spin might stop.
Again I ran to knock on the Sufi’s door.
He seemed to know why I went there,
And said in a deep voice, “as far as I know,
you don’t have a sister-in-law!”

Again the moon asks, in a heavy tone
“Tell me the truth,” before it's too long,
I said you’re in my way,
“I am not asking for an acre of moon.
Spare me a digit gap if you could.”

Unlike how the lands on earth, she tells,
keep changing the hands,
owning the ultimate plot is still one’s dream.
But no space is left unmeasured in space.
You miss by a hairbreadth, no matter how tiny,
and you might as well miss it by the eternity.

So zero space can I spare says the moon
This is it, the dead end, no more room to move.
Still, even a closed circle can’t be close,
the smallest atom is not the smallest to be closed.
The constant spin inside it constantly finds
ever more space to move on, because the root
pi is cracked open, spills out a new decimal,
though none can pinpoint, in this finest loophole
the sky can sway and earth finds a mouth to jingle!
Future is more digital. In the last stanza, a complicated dilemma solves for me. Since the subject matter is that there is one perfect circle though it's vividly complex to discover. The Motion continues even from the ultimate end of the tiniest particle. Because the closed circle is somehow open for something. But this subtlest opening angle is transcended cannot be located. Just as the never ending pi decimals denote its enduring open range without projecting a pattern is a juxtaposed example.

Juxtaposition conveys a lot of meanings in natural science. For instance, the inverse of phi golden ratio 1.618 is 0.618 they are same but utterly two different Numbers. I find it as a sign that the closed circle also can open without actually opening to the mass.
Crow Mar 15
professor Burke and professor Lee
two mathematicians who could not agree

loudly voiced their differences at half past noon
having daily lunch at the Greasy Spoon

the subject on the fateful day was Pi
and they could not see eye to eye

a disagreement on the thousandth digit
had Burke turn red and caused Lee to fidget

said Burke “No you are off by one!”
spat Lee “Your math is poorly done!”

Burke shouted, “Lee, you have gone too far!”
reached toward the counter for a candy jar

but his hand instead encountered pie
a hideous gleam sprang to his eye

he flung the pie with all his might
hit Lee full face, eyes wide with fright

but Lee recovered and found more pies
Boston Creme took Burke between the eyes

apple, custard, lemon, berry
pecan, pumpkin, key lime, cherry

pies of every kind were thrown
plates' radius squared remained unknown

the police arrived to break up the fray
took the two meringued men away

many hours later in the quiet cell
with pie for ink and tempers quelled

the two stood looking at the wall
upon which lay their equation scrawled

said Burke, with both their faces long
“Well, what do you know. We both were wrong.”
In honor of Pi Day. With gratitude to Mr. Laurel and Mr. Hardy.
astrid Feb 8
I lay down
your creamy expanse
unto the marble surface,
as if milk made love with
the stars in the galaxies.

I write you out
as pleasant simmer
of pulverized charcoal
and bloated glycerine.

I splatter and spread
fine dusts of Carica
in temperate motion
to touch the sleek edges
of the vanilla branches
on your person.

I hold and dip
my feathery digit
amongst rose water
to grasp the flowers
that frames your face,
like light morganites
that hail from the west.

I cast you off
as the blue sea engulfs
the life from the waters
where life swims with
stable beginnings
and whirlwinds of stories.

I finish you
by letting molten pearls
lither your dark onyx orbs,
surrounded by your lakes of gelatinous almond,
like shooting comets
finding rest on land,
as lightning's faint and close
but never quite touch.

I made you
with intrinsic detail and rawness
to give you the life
that you may never have.
may these words show its own form of art.

090219; 07:29 --- revison due to incompleteness from original file

I'm very good with numbers; Always been inside my brain
They freely shift and move about; Allowed to dance and play
However, one equation baffles and confuses me
That one plus one will equal two; This is not what I see

It's people who must be confused; Wrong value they give "one"
Because the single integer alone can't have much fun
It's only with another "one" first one will come to life
With purpose, reason, starts to smile; Now feeling satisfied

The presence of the second one gives first one happiness
When one is standing all alone life has not much to give
Can not survive a vacuum; It is dark and empty space
No digit there to interact; One's value just a waste

Some people disagree with me; Say one is fine alone
And doesn't need another one for value to be shown
I don't completely disagree but my experience
That I feel most fulfilled with life when I receive and give

The elegance of the exchange; Where miracles exist
Life's greatest gift is that of love but with it there's one twist
How it takes two to tango; Love is not a solo dance
To give another all your heart is taking a big chance

But can't compare reward to risk; The blissful ecstasy
Cause "one" is more like just a half but with love it's complete
Written: October 24, 2018

All rights reserved.
[Iambic Heptameter format]
don’t leave me!
(the leaving is in the writing)

she whispers in his ear,
after they’ve climbed into bed,
their tiring bodies both embraced,
soft sunken into, by, a familiar mattress,
after a sophisticates city night out seeing stars,
stars, human and astral,
city lights dusk heightened the vocal sparking,
singers singing songs of love from
radio days long ago

don’t leave me

she intones, a prayerful demand,
equally a command and a begging behest,
puzzling what prompted this pressed request,
spoken with urgency born in her breast

don’t leave me
drifting off and into his thin place,
but tugged back by this cri du coeur,
unsponsored and unwarranted,
nothing recalled that justly provoked,
a statement topping of anguish and fear

don’t leave me
he repeats in a rising questioning inflecting
puzzling riddling unbefitting a mellow-toning sleepy ingredient,
whatever do you mean, I leave you only
to dream, to purify, refresh and deep rest reset,
and return come morning with new poems,
what angst comes to stir this asking,
delaying my adventure to nightly restoration?

don’t leave me
repeated and repeated, dressed in urgency,
for I see the little things,
the wavering walk, the slowing of the thinking,
the walls, black n’ blue, whining about your into bumping,
the instant eagerness with which your body accepts
your voyage to dream places where
one goes and gone and must go unaccompanied,
some who are chosen and some who choose, not to return

don’t leave me
for the signs are ample, a certain weariness
dresses your face and crowns thy graying mane,
the slight labored breathing from steps once
bounded and leapt, the seeing and the hearing,
each slightly weakening, two orchestral instruments,
together off key and lessened in their triumphal vigor,
these words of mine, a royal guard,
keep them in your dreams

don’t leave me
minor missteps in the elongated negated of dying gracefully,
my tuning forks are sensitized,
and any slowing motion
both visible and hearable, and filed under inevitable

I will not leave you tonight,
my body warming as per usual,
your cold feet intruders indicate it’s you have left
for your own nightly visitors, occasional terrors,
you’ve woken me from my allotted sleep hours,
many poems now retrieving and in need of scribing,
while the fingertip digit flys across the digital keyboard,

I am more alive than I have ever been;
the leaving is in the writing,
each poem a steppingstone,

but the poems come fast and furious,
sometimes two at a time, the muses are bemused,
the prognosis is for thousands more and warn:

do not wear out your olive oil anointed forefinger,
the lubricated pointer of the way, wherein is contained

through that index
your body of works in the
“yet to arrive, yet untaxed filling station,”,
must be seen to fruition,
for it is only then that,
only love poetry
is ready for long lasting
eternal realization

5:36am 12th April, two thousand nineteen
graceunderfire Oct 2018
here I am,
still holding onto you,
just like I did when I was fourteen.

here I am,
re-reading all I've wrote:
    "February 7th 2015, Tuesday,
    "March 5th 2015, Thursday, 9am"
    "May 20th 2015, Wednesday,
    "May 22nd 2015, Fri... May 28th
     2015, Thurs... May 29th, June 1st.."

It's been three whole years,
we're coming to the fourth,
your ten digit number,
is still at the tip of my fingers.
             Why is it so hard to move on?
             We weren't even together.
             We didn't even have a song;
             Weren't even friends for that

I guess at that moment I was just so happy,
I lost track of all of the who, what, when, how and whys.
I got lost between sweet words and care,
Then when it all just ended

         But I guess that's how we love
         We don't think, we just love,
         We just care, we just give.
         That alone is so beautiful.
         That alone makes us smile.

          But you see, if it takes a turn,
          And you realise far too late,
          That you have given all of you,
          Now you have nothing left for
          You know that you're broken,
          But still, you tell yourself it's
Michael John Nov 2018

i can see the join
i was mentally dis jointed
my mind had stopped
(but not a full stop..)

really i found a beginning
when it all began..
i considered my hand
long and long and..


saw the gaps between
or what might be..
(well we all realize parallel
realities-heaven and hell-)

i thought that an odd place
gathered rainbows for tears
seemed like a fair trade
in my crib laid


and a hex was hexed
and what occurred next
(solid lack of any syntax
who would credit that..)

not me..sleep little one
you can always pass on
within a curling digit
that that answers it..
Been stressed all day.
Hadn't realised I typed in the wrong digit in my new email address.
Thought I lost you guys
And all my poetry.
Years of hard work and posting probably enough poems to make a few books
Still can't retrieve my old email but hey I still got you all .and all of my poems what more could I ask for .
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
Wait is the word
sensed, is, perhaps, the better way to say
wait is the thought

the sign, signal initial init,
to wit,

you, you wit this by your wittiness, as you
you could crawl from the cave

Imagine it were you, bred and fed in dark,
flicker lit shadows on the rocks

name them, name these things you see in
flicker lit shadows on the rocks

Send the hunters now to find them, gift them
fire to see their way,
good light,
gluck, gut gluck

Between the rivers of Babylon, we wept
not for the city, but
for the peace.

Words with out, out with words,
mean meant words, anger, hate

what thought is this in this word hate,
evil, in a word.
taste and see, sweet. Venge again,
love it, love it love it

safe, senseless, sleep. Wait.

Waiting is, suffer it to be so.
waiting brings no pain,
waiting is watching

Time is spent
deceipitic deception revere

the be guiled named the beguiler
hell is imagined

Satan, the Great Shatan, the deceiver,
the poets who prospered
while lying

and adding lies to the canon included
in the fruit of the tree of knowledge

The unconscienced demi-urge, oh Jah,
in a word
hmmmm in Polynesian POV

Imaginary hells work, why then,
should no trials imagining
heaven work as well?

The old man at the back, raises one digit,
he bids us wait, and
slowly rises

full height, he is not bent with care,
flicted with spotty doubt nor
wavering aim.

You, also know,
Christ had no mythology.

you know that. You know that.
you know
absolute knowledge

you trust that's known, right.
you trust that's known right.

No, you don't.
I do.

You must wait to prove me wrong.
watch and see.
All these are trials, samples in Costco, take some home and bake them or eat them raw one after another, as free as you dare careless to be, tru res
SJG Sep 5
We could throw those gooseberrys down where they belong:
The gooseberry ditch.

Lido, come down from your balcony. Are those your shoes?
Don't forget to fold your fallen gown.
Death waits for you at the bottom of the tower: don't be late.
Do your remember the film where the guy jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge?
I think it was real, but they run out of reel, so the man sort of still floats between the bridge and the bay,
And the rock scallops and the cold dead wind and the security 18 digit locked doors of the secret apartments
Of downhill and backwater old new Manhattan.

History class? History class?
Listen, buddy, history, one day, eventually, after all is said and done,
Will tell how a human invented a wheel, then instantly perfected combustion engineering, then
instantly fashioned a car from the auto-line around the wheel and a perfected combustion engine (after instantly inventing and perfecting and mass-marketing the autoline).
History will then tell, in the end, that a human then instantly jumped into their instant automobile wagon,
And then accelerated to speeds which were then inconceivably fast,
But which by relative modern standards, are quite conceivably slow.
And then a human drove at such inconceivably (quite conceivably) quickening and innovative speeds,
That they were no longer able to pay attention to the road that they had managed to build while driving,
And were no longer able to perceive oncoming hazards that often appear on roads,
Such as jars of jam and mops and deer and swans,
And it was more than a matter of time before a jar of jam or a mop or a deer or a swan
Would happen to be on a human's new road and also in the incoming vicinity of a human's new fast car;
Before the two would inevitably collide,
And a human flew right through the history glass.

Where's my bon mirage?
Where's my sweet thing with the sweet strings?
How many ladders does one have to kick down before death takes the hint and stops calling from the bottom of the tower?

(I used to be terrified of small and big things,
But I have since learnt to project confidence into my real self,
And now big things and small things make me furious. Like a man.)

I can't feel the front cortex of my brain or beautify or attempt to rhyme anything with anything and I do not have the will necessary to make good things grow from grit and trash.

Nobody really knows anything. They do their best but the world carries on by itself, left for dead to the darkest weather cycles, rising tides, and fascism creep.

Where's my sweet thing? I've been mortified by everything. The spirit is like stone and the dreams I dream are memories of you.

******* Microsoft. ******* gulls frequenting my mother's loft. The spark of energy that threw us on the street, the ringing of the bells for each hour couples meet. The ringing of the bells for any hour in which some expired family member is put into the ground or made to face fire or to have their ashes thrown around their favourite parking lot or riot square or dumped into the ****** sea.

I'm not trying to love you. It is only what I do. I'd fall for you anytime. Honestly.

Dying in the autumn time. Dying for a drop of the last ray of sunlight. Dying because I'm old. Dying because I'm cold. How did things get so inconceivably slow?

I wash my hair. I iron my clothes.

It's all semantics really. Right or wrong. Good or bad. Solitary or close.

I gave my best years to that coast.

This is how two disappear:

Hey Bambs, how you're doing? No-one's seen you lately.
They'd bet if things have gone anywhere, they haven't gone greatly.
Did you get any rest while taking some time off for yourself?
Did you place that little dream high on that shelf?
Your room is untidy and your fire's free of irons.
You try to go to bed, but the street by your house is alive with ambulance sirens.
Did you ever get that growth on your right temple checked out?
Did you ever message that girl when you felt things going south?
Are birds still in your chest? Does your heart ever rest? Us?
We're doing fine. The world's threaded through our wheel and the wheel's turning all the time.
We're as shocked as you at the money being made as our hometowns slowly ebb away.
Do they know what they're doing? Do they even care?
This fresh batch of Edwardians with their smartphones and 1920s hair.

Hey Bambi, quit whatever you're doing.
We're already in the ***, there's no use stewing.
This is how two disappear, weirdly on wings, lighter than air,
Like two poor angels rising above the broken ferris wheel at the broke county fair.

Why stick around for a love that isn't there?
In my dreams I vividly imagine
Dipping you in a vat of hydrofluoric acid Popping your air bubbles
Rising up in masses
Smiling as you choke and scream
And your body turns to molasses
Whispering sweet things
While witnessing your pitiful reactions

Wait, no
Scratch that I've got a better plan of action That does justice considering
All of your previous unsuccessful tactics
It may involve anthrax, although
You may not be worth the extra taxes
When all I'm looking for
Is to properly rupture your synapses

That's right, too much trouble
So instead I'll use arsenic to compensate
With a dosage that's double
Lie you down and strip you bare
And tie you to the back platform
By your long black hair

Green eyes wide open
With a speculum for your mouth
So that anything you're rejecting
Isn't allowed to come out
And don't worry about restraints
I made a point to crucify you
To your cross made of 2x8 planks

Meanwhile you've been nullified
Lying there listless
I'll look you straight in the eyes
So you know there's no forgiveness

Open up wide
Because here comes the Apache train
I have to admit while you're asphyxiating
I begin fixing to gladly salivate

Is it no surprise
I want to watch the light leave your eyes While you sit and you writhe
Struggle, and finally die!?

Don't look so mortified
I just divulged your ****** scene
So now that I'm satisfied
We can proceed to clean
The mess you've made is putrid
and obscene I can't believe
Just how excessively you could bleed

But that's why I draped the floor
With sheets
And for the the spots beyond their reach We've got Oxy-clean
Hydrogen peroxide and Clorox bleach

Besides before I take you for a ride
We have to dismember your appendages
So no one can be the wiser to identify
Any percentages of finger, digit or thumb
So half of you will have to remain
In the barrel drum
It's all fun and games
Until this slaps me in the face
When someone finds an "innocent victim" Then reports their interpretation
of the case

See, I don't just want you dead,
I want you erased without a trace
So that the stories and allegories ahead
Will not leave my good name defaced

Switch from my peripheral
To my rear view mirror
While we demonstrate less viscerally
That under water you'll also disappear
I'll make you cement shoes
For your descent through the waters
Of Gods and sea monsters
By Neptune's sons and daughters

Then once the sacrifice is made
I can forget you
Without a doubt I am resentful
But I'd like to leave behind
Part of my life that's so dreadful
Resuming my usual resistance
With little to do on my mental
Now that I have subdued your existence

I'm eating lentils
This poem is dedicated
Michael John Nov 2
i notice if there was a constant
it was you-
you blamed me for your
that was quite a recurring
all  through the confusion
and excess
you were sure of nothing
but this
had you died then
and there
on your lips
a raised digit
from the dead
it was my fault
not the pills or
the *****
not your taste
in pain
not your father
or mother
i was in error
not any
not even your
god forsaken
it was me
to the small hours
and on
number one
and why
when all
every other
was fine..
well i don´t know
but you do
there is something wrong
with you(me)
there is something
with me..
“never lament casually”

Leonard Cohen

the serious are plenty burdensome,
so if the flight delayed, or the device batteries,
moments away from recognizing that
0% is still a viable digit with a special meaning,
these, none deserving of deploring the human condition

but the weight of leaving her in cold Montreal,
while old promises made, demand a presence in L.A.,
freezey veins, icy cracking inspiration attempts in vain,
all the unrecognizable for crying out loud verses on a
cocktail napkin scribbled, watching ink letters wet melting

your wants simplest, fireplace warmth snap cackling
pop love songs verses for her, the sheets of her dark skin,
silken on your tongue, the wetness of her Oh’s,
left a connect-the-dots map from your nose to toes,
but her fingertip markers, now a thousand miles away,
busy throwing up to the sky, hands filled with leaves of
crisp falling colors assortment, only the colorless no’s left

they play a tune you wrote years ago on the lounge speakers,
modified, wordless, so it’s innocuous, background harmless,
this axes paper cuts on your private places where the songs get
birthed, and now your whole package is tonnage measurable,
the lamentations serious, serious constellations, etching a new song


“for the relearning is the crown jew-el,
that jesters rob from their kingly masters,
pride in love is the fall season preceding
Canadian winters, always thinking
you know better, be better at keeping warm,
this time which is the next time

you cannot learn from love,
cause it’s twice, two times,
never the same,
past lessons ain’t no prologue,
the body is maybe in the wafers,
sometimes vanilla,
sometimes chocolate

and the epilogue is
100% of the  poem~songs
that I loved writing
and hate remembering

ogdiddynash Jul 13
a thousand poems stronger
by the Son of Ogden
(1 ~ 30)

majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes, scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in 1000 radium-tipped projectiles of
serious humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you few itinerant followers
brave enough to follow me into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
in no particular disorders
a thousand times

he named me after him
he named me after him,
his best ditty ever,
my inheritance,
a laughing brook of
guppy royalties,
that keep our Labrador
reasonably well fed poetically

and of course his name

his name,
which was not so much inherited,
as deposited, X-mark-the-son

they ask,
no, they declarative announce
as fact,
answered even as asking,
tho their voices rising
in a pretend-questioning format,
are you as good as he was?

Oh no, of course not,
I'm merely the son,
He was the father,
between us now
the celestial
Holy Ghost of Rhyme

platitudes and attitudes
she said
“to find good love,
be receptive never deceptive,
always ever, never never.”

I listened, warming, warning her,
“rhyming is the sophistry of those who cannot decide.”

I drove away, in just my pajama top,
(my bottoms at the crime scene)
lest she ****** macabre me like in an Agatha.

I foresaw a drama developing of her
hanging me by my pj bottoms,
knotted two by too
tightly trite leggings
drawn to prevent the rhyming of my breathing,
each pant to peeve me into panting,
one named
moon and the other,

so I decided what the heck,
I’ll go first
for literature’s sake

a thousand poems stronger,
an exercise in 15 minute segments,
18 hours daily, easy peasy,
I’ll have my thousand in a mere
13.8888888888888 days, then
what the heck am I do with those now
superfluous 6 hour wastrels?


chernobyl on peoples mind.
mine too, pretty clear, humanity intent
on destroying itself.

good to know!
I can put off my
my perpetual idea of getting even by suicide,
waiting now until my very last moment,
cause I won’t be cheated
out of course
god and his central committee
of what they have being planning for me,
all my life

which movie do you want to see Saturday night,

Yesterday or Spiderman?

“Spiderman I’ve seen Yesterday”
you saw Spiderman yesterday
without me?
we’re done!
don’t ever text me again!

(parentheses and commas, can keep you together,
get it?
that’s why they call it PUNK’d-you-nat-shun)

the jew in you,
you long suspected,
or long lamented, the absence of this moniker
applicable directly to your sorry ***,
after all who doesn’t want to be among the
ch-ch-chosen peeps?

this blessing in disguise, it’s very special
to be hated by almost,

the great equalizer,
highlighting your choicest features
race, gender, etc. etc.,
but like the song said,
though somebody may hate unlucky you,
everybody, no exceptions,
hates the jews.

everyone knows the jews own the banks.
everybody hates the banks
who leave you on hold,
leaving you, wondering why, they won’t give you back
at the ATM, the good money you lent them,
so you must be minimum 10%
shrewish (shhhh-jewish) or
whaat! why?

yup, your deposit is a liability on their books,
so you too are a moneylender, congrats!
welcome to the club,
the club of being a liability

we jews travel the world,
chased out from almost everywhere,
so we invented the around-world-cruise,
and the world gave us steerage class
to remember our place.

ask americans why they prefer kosher hebrew national frankfurters
for July fourth cookouts and they will reply they are extra clean,
possibly even a little blessed by the rabbin-ate,
and everybody knows
the jews got all the luck,
so don’t forget the mustard and the
pickled relish,
which rhymes with you know what, 
kosher hot dogs,
love that jewish treat, a digestive hellish,
and proof positive that hot dogs
make america great again

the hours
she has spent trying to ascertain which,
is she wearing,

is it black or navy,

leave her amazingly distraught;
she stands in bare bulb jaundiced glory undecided,
locked in her not-a-walk-in closet,
till I’m called to catch and release her,
asking me what do I think.

brought her my old school tie,
Joseph-striped of many colors,
only for comparison purposes.

as far as I know,
she’s still hanging there,
right where I left her,
throughly undecided

since seven ate eight,
one cannot expect much
too much return on my in-vestments,
given the hole in my accounting

five, six, nine
is most unsatisfying,
like brunch.

brunch? neither breakfast or supper,
assuredly not lunch,
pointedly ridiculous
if you don’t know what time it is
by the meal’s nomenclature

nothing sensible rhymes with
except for crupper and scupper,
both of which like brunch,
leave me confused and
wholey unsatisfied
as I’m clueless
as to what each one means,
just like

by the way,
do have the time?

Dylan sings to his blue eyed son.
I have two sons, now grown men,
cannot recall the color
of their eyes anymore.

one put seventeen stitches in my skull,
has no interest in my seeing his handiwork,
ok by me, cause he might make some addition &
improvements to my face.

the other, deems himself a failure,
or perhaps just me, guilty,
so he hates me for it,
ergo, ip so facto, he too,
cannot look me straight in my eye.

I have selected my own memory of their
insightful eyeful rightful colorations,
from their visionary visitations in my
unhappy dreams.

one yellow, the other red,
which just now realization dawns,
just happens to be the colors of mine own,
as the song says,
they grew up to be just like me

loved many women in my daytime life,
still, not enough, to satisfy my needs.
that is why god created the Cohen’s holy dark,
so we can be alone when we
fill out the list I deny keeping,
and only they can see me,
& vice versa, so apropos,
nobody else.

Romance is great,
when it is wordless and silent,
no interrupt-us when writing many
imaginary imagery love poem
with ambidextrous hands!

I know you think round about poem number 100,
I’ll curse myself for this sisyphusian self-assigned task.
so far not, as the ideas for poem notions come so fast
I must write them down less they escape my entrapment.
just recall cannot
what this one was to be about...mmm...

dug a well in the front yard, to be natural and free
fearful of governmental pipes and taxation that grows
under their watchful eye
of all things they controls, that grows and grows,
more, poisonous and Flinty.

next to the well pump,
built a still to harvest
my own liquor, raw and strong,
just like me,
intending to be
a tax-free man, drunk as a skunk,
and dependent on no one.

but I am a puzzled person.

Their adjacencies,
the still and the well,
made a deal in hell,
means they engaged in shameful *******,
and all I can brew is
dis’d-stilled water.

there are so many types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,” that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a “watch” pocket,
a cowboy designation for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.

who ya kidding.

anyway, a second naming more to my liking:

seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.

so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.

I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain, but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
jingling jangling movement

Just don’t you dare ask me what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men are indeed as dumb
as women think they are;

show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all!

the weather idiot predicted rain and thunderstorms.
planned extensively a day of inside activities, that are time sensitive.
Yes, of course, the sun is shining causing the ladies to question,
my witticisms, my type “A” personnalité, and worse, mocking my
key bulge (see above) as signal sign of my
increasing decreasing procreative masculinity,
due to lead and metallic poisoning.

**** those blonde gorgeous weather persons,
never forget, look out the window!
trust but verify

my father was a pretty perfect guy,
beloved by most and especially children.
He was a ‘gallant’ of european extraction,
who tipped his homburg and greeted everyone by name,
forgetting none and who was related to whom,
or their distant cousins in Kansas City,
with whom he stayed when he was a
traveling salesman,
in 1933.

My only complaint, was and remains,
he never went with me
to Yankee Stadium,
saw the emerald green diamond miracle
in the Bronx,
as he,
small businessman, worked six days a week,
and had no time for juvenile nonsense.

Otherwise, he was perfect.

when the kids were young,
invested in fancy luggage
cause we needed vacations
to get away from them.

These luggages,
had them roll to the number combination numbers locks
which was where technology
was back in the nineteen eighties,
when I was a young husband and father,
using the year of their birth
as a four digit code

of course, I programmed them both incorrectly,
and they, who can’t remember anything good
I’ve ever done for them,
remind every time they come to see me,
which is pretty much never.

asked what I desire for breakfast,
replied scones and crumpets from the
good ole U. of K. with a cups of celebratory
invisible tea (tee-hee)

she did not even bother to snort in an elegant
derisory manner,
just walked away,
just turned on her high heeled sneakers,
(a very worthy sight),
saying grilled cheese sandwiches,
it is then,

No need to ask me which cheese,
she experientially knowledgeable in my acculturation,
one will be ameddican, the other swiss, unless
smoked mozzarella is in the larder,
(who has a larder anymore?),
as I am in matters of cheese,
a transgender, formerly bisexual,
but still a questionable
questioning globalist

some men do yoga.
all men do ***.
women prefer,

never mind,
you know how this ends.


man cave(s) versus she-sheds.

A man I know, finished his basement,
a skilled builder, he built it himself and
installed the masculine perquisites items,
recliner and pool table, etc.

When asked how he was enjoying his privy isle
he replied, it’s ok,
but haven’t been down there much lately,
seeing as the pool table is used primarily
for folding laundry, and the recliner
reserved for her unmentionables.

he has
shed his man-cave secondarily
to she,
that rules, the empire,
now it’s
her she-shed,
he cried openly to me,
another man cave-less bro

coffee and me and more coffee,
a twining combination made genetically.

no tea for two,
even if it were a lovely twin-ing with milk,
no, my cup of joe, a holy relic,
for holy cherishing.

then they told me about tea thimbles,
their purpose nigh, I know not,
but mightily infuriated,
that they, the tea people
had armament and we bean counters had none.

took a stirring spoon to the tool shed,
cut the spoon in half, then shaved to a pointy edge.
no longer can I stir my hot beverage to
comfort the downtrodden,
poets with zero inspiration,

but who cares,
I am now armed to the
or more precisely,
in my gum’s teeth
for that is where  
my pointy thing
decided to make its point,
and poetically,
injure me

twentee one.
if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost at-last,
you, like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion,
at my cursed
naming ceremony

but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;
that’s why they say,
“**** good thing
you don’t get
to pick your parents

twentee two.
every painting in the house is
modestly crooked due to the twinning effects of
vibrations and moonfull spoonfuls of gravity,
causing the tensile strength of the wires to
pensile slowly surrender to point downwards.
It occurs, perhaps
it’s me that’s crooked, but that’s just plainly
croissant crazy, like writing a thousand poems
in one 14 days long sitting. nah, not me...

twentee three.
I am the dishwasher man.
a responsible handyman needs good tools,
given pots and pans to scrub with burnt black stains,
not of mine making, even more infuriating,
of twenty ++ years of Duration
(definitely deserving of a capital D)

went to the supermarket seeking vision,
guidance and a variety of choices,
for a product specific,
not Made in China,
lest we purposely allow ourselves to be poisoned,
so purchased a Scotch-Brite *** scrubbing brush
of hecho mexicano origin

Now I stare at the Amazon screen,
undecided how many replacement brush heads I should acquire,
the cheapest unit price is for a box of 1000,
which no smart store of repute would ever carry,
(cause you would never come back)
@nd which if I actually use up, 1000, it means
I’ll be scrubbing pots from on high.

but my awe for genius wisdom is further esteemed,
as they say of it,
it makes you buy mostly what you don’t need,
“each according to his own stupidity.”

we re-plant hydrangeas annually
which our ravenous tick carrying, **** deer,
munch contentedly,
under our window,
when we are sleeping.

In the last ten years,
today, I saw my first solitary flowering accidental.
as I’m in poem mode, it occurs to me that
the first line is incorrect;
for the sake of brevity,
it should read we retentives,

we re-plant hydrangeas

ah pasta!
the quality of good writing is always strained,
salted and drained, the experience of all
your five senses, together in concert, straining,
each rivulet of spaghetti strands stands
indivisible, under god, calorically sinning individually,
defying forking unification,
each recalling the where, the what, or the when,
but not

ah, the how.
matters this know-now,
the how came calling,
the resurrection of inspiration,
the gene sequence of past steppes,
always the first to go

the how of life
grows spoiled, fuzzy first,
because a human assembled
the how,
but allowed time to deconstruct itself-himself,
the tomato sauce bolognese inspirational stains
exist to remind us
to remain perfect forever

poetica est enim propter cibum

poetry is what you eat

The P Propensity
this benighted dishwasher,
is familiar with the P Propensity Theorem,
as he invented it

the need to solve for the need to P,
while undertaking the great dishwashing,
is mathematically soluble:

N, the number of ***** dishes
                    D%, the variable percentage of how *****,
           (necessitating pre-scrubbing, or not,)
                                M, the meal, breakfast lunch or supper,
(a modifier of N)
Ba2, bladder age squared)

if N(D%) {M_}
                              [where M1 is breakfast, M2 is lunch etc.]

is >1,

then it is too late,
better get
an adult diaper

you write of dismembered leaves,
pains too sweet,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
quiet rain, droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
tastes that burn eyelids colored
blood stained mustard yellow,
the gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,


dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other
and other Olsonian beauties,
non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why


people love my poems
especially the ones they never readeth.
fulfilling, like the goop of the witch of Gweneth,
costly to the point of losing their inside sanity,
but they sell like hot cakes,
so complaining is just me poetic feigning,
my deep appreciation for you shelling out 9.99
for poems no publisher would ever

a tool for useful fools
who tongue words to poems.


words to a dizzy dancing,
hopelessly hoping, harlequin hovering lover,
tonguing lyrics
like the way I tongue women;
which upon further reflection
alliteration is not a bad idea

a single alliterative
love poem
with multiple
endings & possibilities

the ***** thirty.
here I pause,
cause I read Mao.

for Jennifer Beetz  -
“Such a list-  I'm exhausted just reading it.
You must have lots of pockets.”

hell yes, I do!

no man-bag for me baby.
the older I get, the more
stuff becomes the usual,
human carrying
sad necessities.

got me one of them vests,
that the photographers employ
when going on safari.

so many bulging pockets,
the TSA people pat me
up and down, more than once,
and once more when I’m boarding
just to be sure no one pocket goes
untouched and check if I’m excited

don’t expect a full list of what
I’m carrying, suffice to say
it could be embarrassing
to my no doggedy dignity (dig-no-ity).

you may someday come to notice
that life’s baggage is cumulative,
you think, get free of the crap,
but the crap says, nah, sticking to ya.

and one mo’ thing...

all them **** poems
need pocket courage and a
Macbethian sticking place
the end for now
Graff1980 May 22
This memory
is a younger
version of me,
distorted by
time and distance
to be played out
in a dream.

I follow
flitting footprints
that represent
some previous sentiment
of playful movement.

Then sit silently
on a sandy beach
watching a world
that never was
and never will be

Little rubber rafts
float lazily
as children laugh
and splash playfully.

I run roughly
then stop
to wiggle each digit
feeling the wet grit
and grinning.
as the sand sifts
softly through
my tiny toesies.

A boombox plays
a song I cannot
make out,
as if
it is
just filler
for some
tv scene
in my dream.

This reverie
is like a prized parcel,
or a delicious morsel
of some recipe
that incorporates
the best past parts of me
into its fine aged flavoring.

I awake
a slight tinge
of sorrow
sliding down
my face
for that lost place.
Encompassed in volume, solid and fluid and gas
Eyes in morass, looking glass into hazel candy blinks
Links of steel bending, breaking, jet fuel problems
Went off as a kid to solve them, just figured out what type of animal I am
Trying to give a **** to blank faces and pocket change
Long range, ten digit grid, you think you're so well hid, until you get touched
Bunched up around your neck, bent over hugging rags
Carry your life story in a bag, plastic and fresh and new
Waiting for time to catch on up with you

— The End —