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ray Jun 2014
when we were younger,
he paid me two dimes and a slinky to kiss him on the lips,
but he doesn't know I would have done it for just the slinky.
P Pax Sep 2012
This poem has no greater or deeper meaning,
You'll find no revelation worth even dimes,
No great personal thought or investment,
(Unless you think it needs one. I don't)
But that I quite love dried mangoes
Then, jotting this like scribbles,
I know they won't last long
It seems quite scary...
All shrinking out.
Fade away.
And now
Gone.
JJ Hutton Sep 2012
On the west side of Starlite Dr.,
just inside of Kingfisher -- before the welcome sign,
stood a Wal-Mart.

Underneath dim lot lamps,
dry oil caked the cracked pavement.
Crickets hopped over cricket corpses.
Two employees took turns lighting new cigarettes
with the still-hot embers of old cigarettes.
There were six sedans, two pickups, and three semi-trucks
outside the store.

2 a.m.
Parked car.
I noticed an effulgent memorial on the fringe.
Subject unclear from a distance,
but statue certain;
gleam of bronze certain.
Followed the black chain-framed path
to a lemon brick-backed display:

Sam Walton
Hometown Kingfisher

And there you stood, Sam.
With a bobble of a bronze head,
gorilla arms, and some charcoal
canine frozen mid-pant to your side--
Beams of light shining into your carved eyes,
yellowed grass at your feet.

And I wonder,
Did you feel cruel?
Beginning as a Five and Dime,
then turning into the great killer of Five and Dimes.
Sitting at a table telling all your friends, they could watch you eat.

Too forward, too soon.
You being dead and all.

To be fair, I've got that ambition too, Sam.
The kind that leaves you lonely.
The kind that leaves you in the back booth of a diner.
The kind that makes the dunces conspire.
Yeah, there are very few differences between you and me.

Those being
I'm not a cartoon statue,
crickets aren't crawling on my face,
big-bellied tourists don't pose and snap photos at my place,
I'm mortal, and you're the other one.

Looked around.
Stood in front of you.
Stared in the direction your obsidian eyes stared.

You overlooked the traffic.
And though Target gets all the hot, middle-aged women
and fiery college kids,
you get the pleasure of watching real folks leave.
The tobacco chewers,
the moms of six,
the grease monkeys,
the third grade teachers;
the grandparents
all simmer and meld by traffic stop.

It seems fitting for you, Sam.
Watching over us,
your consumers.
Matt Bay Lea Jan 2014
Holding the wall up, and feeling alone
You pick up the receiver, but hear dial tones
And suddenly stronger, you dial the phone

Unwrapping the number crumpled on your desk
You swim in uncertainty, but pray for the best
Cause things always turn around, you'll bounce back I guess

Ask if they're still hiring part time
You request dollar bills, but you only make dimes
As if living your life is such an awful crime

Brag to the waitress, you survived another day
As you throw your old poems into the ash tray
Hopefully your dreams will thaw out by May

But being a Winter, you feel more alone
You stick to the wall, and your skin becomes stone
Cause the Walls will not stand, if you decide to leave home
Criticism is encouraged
Margot Apr 2019
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill

So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.

The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.

When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.  

A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach  
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.

Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.

After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees

Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.

They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.

Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
This poem I dedicated to a local theater actor Julian. During one of his plays I thought of this fictional plot. Thank you for reading!
The Empty Chapter
By Zak Whittington

The grey face
The empty chapter
The blank page
The dusty pen beside
-----

Between heartbeats lurks a sad silence
Whose footfalls fall on deaf ears
A beast of pain and shallow fears
He slinks, silent
Soft as the grave to which he will drag you
Cover your eyes
Avert your mind
Cross yourself
Count to three
The monster is here
Between shaking fingers peek and see
A glimpse of profound irony
The Mirror
A horrifying glimpse of Your Self
Alone on a barren world

Desolation

Between lives lies silence
Empty quotes hang stupidly over empty heads
Drying to dust
Turn up the music

Frustration

Shake the shoulder
Strike the hand
Bite the Shepherd
**** the Man
Burn the Book
Ride the Snake
Find the phony
Shoot the fake
Grab the apple
Waste the day
Take the staff
and lead the way

Isolation

With your arms around me
My shoulders have grown cold
Despite the hands on them
The Mirror shows
The Mirror knows
There are no hands

There are no hands in this wasteland
Just me and the rocks
With my heart beneath them

Elation

The Monster awoke before dawn
He put his boots on
He took a mask from his bed-stand
And he tried it on

Hang on quick gimme that mirror my lipstick slipped.
My smile wasn't quite on right.

Watch me dance
Watch me writhe and crawl
Watch me smile through it all
Watch this cheerful, painted grin
As I try to hold it all in
Waiting for the worms to win
I'll never have to lie again
Beneath thin skin,
Flesh rots.

I do a good impression of myself.

Starvation

Fat cat
Big man, pig
Mean one, green one
What do you hope to find?
Love, ***, drugs, joy
Home, cars, health, wealth, life
Cling, clang, fake pain with a tin in hand
Lovey-dove flowers and a Hallmark card
Satisfaction
Exhilaration
Jubilation
The second tree from the corner?
Squinting, with hands awash
Of pennies, nickels, dimes
Buy the way
Buy the light
The rich lead the blind
Kick the bucket
Sell the farm
Leave the world behind
(oh is that the time?)

The diamonds fall from stiff fat hands
Like petals from a rose
Or leaves from a clover
(three leaves? or four?)
Shuffle
Four queens
Three queens
Two queens shine
Two jacks
One jack
One-eyed
Blind
One heart, two heart
Three hearts, four?
As if I even knew anymore

Exaltation

Hot-shot soul man
What a sham you are
Far sight, foresight
Big hats, flashlight
The Family* has it all
Mad man, fake plan
Look down at your shoes
Torn suit
Worn boots
You've got no soles

*The Family:
Forgive me Father for I have sinned
I have watched Brother Jack ******* with the Man
And without a thought of why, I jumped right in
I saw Uncle Sam in bed with the pigs
I have forsaken my kindred
I have held fornication with the Computer and the iPod
I have sold my body for acceptance
I have ******* my neighbor
I have cheated on my wife
And now I love Big Brother too

I have driven the Big Truck
I have ridden the snake
To the edge of the lake
In the heart of the jungle.

When life gives you apples
Make lemonade

Annihilation

Roll out the tanks, boys,
Grab the big guns
We gonna have ourselves
A bit of fun
Spot the *****, sight the Jew
Squeeze off a shot and watch him run

Men run, blood runs
Red dirt drinks it all
In this wasteland
The dogs of war howl misery
Black blood, white blood
The crows aren't biased

Twinkle, twinkle crescent star
How I wonder what you are
White man died red
Saddamite, *******
Surprise the pawn
And now he's dead
Like the top-heavy King
With his massive head
And his high fortress
And his heavy crown
To ashes, to ashes
We all fall down.

But it's all fixed with a quick grin
A hand shake and a blank stare
Then you go back to your corner
And they remember they don't care

Reconciliation

(I do a good impression of myself)

Taketh thy hand up
Rip off thy mask
Do not stop at the skin
For it is shallow and flakey
and comes off quite nice
Don't mind the flesh now
Get to the bones
Dig past the maggots and flies
Until there's nothing left,
Then release your soul with bright knives

...

The world is quiet again
At the eleventh hour
When men are dust
We sit and wait
For the bells to toll

---
The fractured chapter
The soiled page
The broken pen
The jet-black sea
Sprays of darkness on ivory
Splashes of shallow imagery
And dried-up drops of creativity
and with so much left to write

Simplicity is killing me.
Inspired by:
The End by The Doors
Normal by Porcupine Tree
The Hollow Men by TS Eliot
The Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
Pigs by Pink Floyd
Sheep by Pink Floyd
Waiting for the Worms by Pink Floyd
The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
Animal Farm by George Orwell
1984 by George Orwell
The Second Tree From the Corner by EB White
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
The Gunslinger by Stephen King
Grant Horst Feb 2015
It's all part of a bigger problem, namely the dollar sign
Our wealth we're given is merely determined by our blood line

The rich sit mighty high in the sky and dine
While the lessers scour for nickels and dimes

They spend all day wondering which car to drive
While we wonder if we have enough food to survive

They crack wise about their expensive wine
While we sit and buff our dishes that can't shine

We all dream of conquering the wall too steep to climb
while the affluent boot steps on those not of their kin

To clean the grime of the needy takes more time
They think an innocent gesture amounts to a crime

They're convinced we brought this on ourselves
and give more to themselves to stack on tall shelves

Unfortunately the wealthy control the people's power
Our greatest empires built by the common man's hours

Yet they are treasured the simple man's eye
The glitz and glamour are merely an illusion, an ally.

No matter how many thick gold bricks,
I am not falling for their dubious tricks

I wish to rid our society from the shackles of the dollar
But the commas add up and debt restrains like a collar

Until we can all break free from corporate's tight chain
They'll stay to drain the remains from our withered veins
Money is power. Money makes the world go around. Those who have it control what happens to our future.
Sjr1000 Dec 2014
Pay your quarters
pay your dimes
you're paying for laundromat time
slowly spinning
forgotten
by
Einstein's Theory of Relativity.

Minutes become hours
and
there are still too many hours to go.

Any math class
intense gas
organized religion
waiting for the tow truck,
the bus
in
the pouring frozen rain.

Sitting in the E.R.
with a cut finger
waiting waiting waiting.

Sitting in the hospital room
with an elderly distant relative
you hardly know,
their funeral too.

At the grandparents house
with endless repeats of Judge Judy
on the t.v.
t.v. droning monotoning on and on and on.

Any work day
perpetually two thirty or three,
in meetings with presentations
with more presentations to go,
you're trying to be productive,
but all you know
is
laundromat time
slowly spinning.

Any night of insomnia,
betrayals endless loops,
anxiety rolling through,
following you from one cigarette to another
three o'clock
four o'clock
four-twenty.

Home movies of endless barbeques
I know meaningful to you.

Pictures of people's
cats and dogs
a hundred more to go.

Eight and a half months pregnant,
kiddie soccer on a Sunday morning at 7:30,
the middle school brass band
Friday night at nine,
yes, that's me
passed out and snoring,
laundromat time
a warm blanket
has
put me under.

Anybody else's endless fascinations
say
pictures of weather,
laundromat time sets in
as the
eye lids flutter
narcolepsy sets in with all of this clutter.

So the next time
you're standing in line
and the woman in front is telling
the clerk
every detail you never wanted to know
you'll think about these poor lines
and remember
you're spinning in laundromat time
forgotten by Einstein.

In fact these poor lines
must be feeling that way too
I am going to do you a favor
and
get back to you later.
A laundromat in the USA is where you go to do laundry if you don't have a washer/dryer at home. Time slows down, it's a known fact.
Polished off the filler rods
now lifes got me dreaming
soley about the silver lining
the spooning of the woman on the moon
Keep mapping the schematic, the big move
heading straight to the oil soaked cash
Ready again to make the great dash
This time I'll save my dimes
for those unavoidable hard times
I'll pile it under my matress
a secrete stash thats all mine
Work my *** to the bone
by welding up a storm
Sitting all leathered up
on my light weaver throne
To meditate and consentrate
on 13 times the suns bright
Keep the eyes focused and fixate
count to ten when the mechanics frustrate
Troubleshoot the lines of life
fix the issue then
collect the lute.
KZ Sep 2014
A roar,
That's what it was.
A cry,
That's what it was.
It was these times
Where the demons redeemed their dimes.
Oh.
Those innocent dimes.
Each unique in their own way.
But it was their life that was taken away.
**To pay.
A price,
They never needed to pay.
I can go on forever at how it was unfair. But I'm not going to.
My heart remains for those grieving .
To everyone.
~
Be thankful for the life you are given.
Because within a minute.
Second.
Hour it can go.
~Khizara
- Oct 2013
its so hard to believe
that I am alive
to hold on
and to smile
when I feel so small
I wish sometimes
I could have it all
but that would be too much
too much of a good thing
life is meant for
a bit of suffering
so we are grateful
for everything
that we own

we take for granted
the paths of stone
that we walk on
we complain about
the dimes in
our pockets
how they are
not dollars

we talk about
how we wear
no real gold
only silver
or platinum
or colored
gem stones

we feel so poor
but let's face it
as long as
we're wealthy
in health
nothing else
should matter

be grateful for the air
that you breathe
be grateful for the love
you have received
be grateful for the people
who are in your life
be grateful for
the small things
that make you smile

be grateful for...your heartbeat.
© Natali Veronica 2013.
CH Gorrie Jul 2012
Tear down the clouds, kindle the summer sun
Let the bright, flooding clarity come
Displace the darkened world’s gloom
Let all the liars speak too soon

Make the wise men start to shave
Give voice to bodies in mass graves
Shatter insecurity, staring from its mirror
Pack away the things we most fear

Spark bonfires in every child’s heart
Teach them love, the most delicate art
Show all the CEOs what emotions are
Build great ladders to hug the stars

Put bows round each headstone
Free the debtors, forget their loans
Free every convict of insignificant crime
Fill the public fountains with a hundred thousand dimes

Make all the mourners dress in white lace
Let the summer sun shine from every face
Remove the cobwebs from the sad boys’ rooms
Steal the black thread from the weavers’ looms

Watch all nightfall melt away
Into a celestial menagerie
Stark prison of the heart
Let beauty’s peaceful riot start
Ange Paye Apr 2012
And there comes a time when the boys will stop flipping gold
As though it were dimes, pennies or quarters
When the men would step in and ****** the gold away and say
"Son, thou shalt not play with such value as though it be worthless"
Then perhaps the gold may be saved, swiftly put in the pockets of men
In exchange of some quarters, pennies and dimes to some boys.
Sean Fitzpatrick Dec 2013
Dimes times, dimes times
A little better off than Lennie's pennies
Grimes threw thymes, fines
For thin lines
Into the giving ***,

Crime slimes, crime slimes
Poorer than peeling off ***** pauper
Wines and dines, limes
For fat kinds,
Into the waiting rot

Mines mine, mines mine
Sames the games we've all been playing
Shines sharp pines, rhein
Same all the time,
Unto the wading well
.
The going gets tough in my mind.
Dedicated to those who love to laugh and rhyme.
Love you. ~:o)
JC Lucas Aug 2015
If I had back every dime I've ever frittered away foolishly,
I'd be rich
for a day.
Krison Nov 2018
Lsd
I would so give a ****,
I'd give you all my time.
I'd give of you my pocket,
quarters, nickles, dimes.

I'd tell you that I care.
Ideas and conversations.

So we can,
but split our hairs.
Ours is but imagine.

But it really doesn't matter
No one really cares.

For you can, but tell a truth.

Or lie with purple die.

A drug that made me
See the truth.

The rot upon the rye.

They can call.
Come now,
Be us,
The rust of sicophants .

With love of self
Such self romance.

For philistines don't cry.
Jonathan Firmin Jun 2013
We're losing soul,
We're losing touch,
We lose ourselves,
We lose too much.

We're losing ground,
We're losing earth,
We're losing joy
We're losing mirth

We're losing friends
and losing time,
We're losing lives,
but gaining dimes.

We're losing friend,
You know it's true
I'll tell you whats the cost
We're losing me and losing you
But friend we haven't lost.
andrea Jun 2015
You make me feel at times
like a putrid scent that lingers
or the fistful of unwanted dimes
jangled in between your linty fingers

But I guess you keep me in your pocket anyway
June 8th
Death-throws Apr 2015
im skipping through the day,
flying away like fairy dust and dripping gold like a caramel bar
grinning ear to ear like a Cheshire cat
because most everyone is mad here
and im not altogether here myself
3 parts infected  2 parts sane and 7 parts mad
my heads on a spring like a bobble necked pin
not here !they scream not here!
so my mind leaves,
truances my classes skipping through feilds of poppies and clovers
where all the rainbows end
my Conscience  can hide from the lies my eyes tell
so ive lost it 12 pence at a time,
rounded down to dimes,
raving lunitics prance here, in the halls of my brain
10:16 like its 420 again
why yes? why no
Looking at the times the way these dimes
Droppin' like flies as time goes by thinkin' why?
They living up to a ** status tryna to be the baddest
But forget that you beautiful the way your are
a shining star that's going dim
Tryna impress them ?
But they ain't seeing yo who do believe in?
Me or next man
Setting the masterplan at hand got ****
She fell to the design that was planned
Insecurities rushing cuffin'
to a disease
Invisible melodies stringing her menality
Wake up and stop following these fakes in society
Cuz they don't care about thee
just another bill ya need to seal and ****
These fakes tryna make fame off of a fake name
Only to end up ashamed


Now the next girl was giving her self to the world
Eyes glistening like a pearl yo it makes me wanna earl
She was lusting each scene for the cream and it seems
She can't break away from the siblings
Aphrodisiac beings
spiritually killing
Her soul outta control to many energies swarming a hole
Thoughts dug deeper than an abyss soon to kiss
A gravesite from having to many one nights
Momentarily she's feels good from.the morning wood
And if I could
Change her views but she stuck in her ways
So I guess the pain is there to stay floating away
Me I'm on cloud nine tryna place my self in unison to the sun
an unbecome a fallin' one

Little lost women lookin' for men
To take in can't amend
Their problems but we all got problems
Can't resolve 'em only evolve 'em above the rim
Word to birdie lookin' for the enemies frenzy
See the past I peeped the scenery since the age of three
a golden taste of the coke and Hennessy
Gave me a second chance to glance into the 9th D
A Time traveler wisdom unraveler I'm the savior
Resurrected from death in the form of a fetus
Baby girl wipe ya tears no need to fear
And compare against these buccaneers
Most close their ears so they can't hear
Ya sighs ...bawlin' no stallin'
let's rise
above all of those fallin'..now say...
We
Zachary Oct 2014
gotta head full of mischief
legs on the move
time left due
as we come watch you
pass through town
spend past us
im trying to hear feet
the sound on your phone
too loud
because we speak
reality,
whats present but your too proud
love is ignorance
you were hoping
id say bliss somewhere in this next sentence
only because it is what is coincidence
with other times youve had since
like our currency nickle dimes to cents
things youve heard before just make more sense
******* raicest
ebola killed the first
nurse then dispersed
other mother ******* worst
idea airplane burst
taking month to curse
our ****** curse
human
over population
thirst
you guys see the news caster who said something about creatures?
Martin Narrod Dec 2014
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.

The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.

Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with  Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.

Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ******* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.
E Apr 2013
All of my nights were spent submerged in cool bliss
Anticipating the mornings waking up to you
Eyes as leaves opening towards gleaming rays
Entangled vines in white sheets
Feeling the rise and fall of your chest on my back
As gentle wind would sway pastel grass
Basking in the light filtering through the blinds of your window
Knowing you are the essence of summer
Basking in your glory and blinded by perfection
Knowing you are the essence of my being
Feigned attempts of sleep only to be awakened by the
Sweet serendipity of lips that cannot compare to
Velveteen petals immersed in the succulent taste of nectar
The brush of your lips on mine awakens an
Eternal seed that has blossomed
As the petals unfurl, I find myself becoming whole again
In the crevices of my shattered heart, flora grows
As do dandelions in the cracks of sidewalks
Fauna overpowers my concrete heart and the
Hollow core transforms into a bountiful garden
Evident to even the blind but it was the beholder,
Possessing eyes that reflected like polished silverware,
Who lacked the true vision to see the wonder
Unfolding before her shining dimes
Arcassin B Jun 2015
By Arcassin Burnham


I'm gonna create a flame,
That burns a hole in my brain,
Intensely Decaying in my mind,
My mind,
I shouldn't feel a shame,
Not anything to gain,
I just really lost track of time,
Of time,
Defying the uniqueness of my name,
Identity with a frame,
Steady with all the dropping of dimes,
Dropping dimes,
With all the feelings that came,
Slowing turning into a phase,
Imagined it all in my mind,
In my mind.
See The LTE EP
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
I’d jump at the chance to ride shotgun
on Henry’s medicine wagon
rolling from city to village
hawking 'Stickin’ Salve' and 'Oil of Gladness'.

We’d ride into Elmira’s County Fair
and set up over by the lake.
I’d fix old Diamond a pail of oats
and draw her a bucket of water.
while great, great grandpa
squeezed on his Union coat
and arranged his potions on the shelves.

Henry’s voice would boom
across the water like a megaphone
and people would gather close -
lured in by the old codger's
hypnotic banter of miracle cures -
and perilous Civil War battles.
  
He’d swear on his mother’s lumbago
that 'Stickin’ Salve' works just as fine
as the lead and powder
he’d fired at Cedar Mountain.

The folks would shake with mirth
whenever he bellowed,
“I’m Henry Howard from Bunker Hill -
Never worked and never will."
Women would tug their husband's sleeves
and they’d bring me pennies and dimes.

After dusk we’d tally the coins
and latch down the wagon for the night
then sleep side by side on the grass
beneath the New England stars.

At sunrise I'd wipe his brow -
to ease him gently back
from the thunder of enemy shells
still firing in his restless sleep.

We'd cook up some bacon and biscuits,
hitch Diamond up to the wagon
then head south through the rolling hills
along the Tioga valley.
We’d breathe in the fresh country air
and tip our caps to the farmers.

If Henry would come to tap my shoulder
some promising morning in spring
and whisper "the wagon's hitched outside,"
I’d go in a Tioga minute.

*December,  2006
The story is fantasy but Henry was not.  He was my great, great grandfather and fought for the Union in the Civil War and really did have a medicine wagon.  My grandfather loved to tell stories about Henry. I am SOOO sorry I never met Henry which would have been really tough since he gave it up in 1899.  I am sure he had a great line of bull and I am doing my best to carry on the family tradition.
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2021
She likes toy soldiers with mustaches
and rolling camels from newspapers
(that way she has something to read when she smokes)

She likes spin the bottle at recycling centers
and starting arguments over produce
(she prefers steamed vegetables, you see)

She adores staycations in someone else's house
and dinner theatre for breakfast
(a little Hamlet and eggs)

She likes every other Tuesday
and clocks with only minute hands
(it's more her speed)

She likes hunting for change in penny arcades
and five & dimes
(but not dollar stores...go figure)

She likes soda crackers (but not soda)
She likes beer nuts (but not beer)
She likes wine cozies (well, you know the rest)
Rockefeller was a villain
back in the olden times
until he gave away all of
his pockets full of dimes.
A gentle kind old man frail,
caring, generous to a fault
sold his soul on newsreels
to an adoring sheep like cult.
Third Eye Candy Nov 2012
who you been, if you ain't been high ?
my nickles, your dimes. our dub chunks chucklin' in the standard pharmacy,
your loops, open. my loops-deloop.
are you positive
your Spaniard's larceny
will trickle the odd prime.
your canvas ravenous
in the sublime.
with THC ?
BILLYtheKidster Jul 2010
I often wondered what thoughts were running through his head
as he stared out the window chained to the floor by his bed
watching the gallows being built that would soon seal his fate.
Was he planning at that very moment his last great escape?
Did he know then that his hanging would never come to be?  
Did he know then that before nightfall once again he'd be free?
What ever his thoughts he was interrupted rudely
by Deputy Bob Ollinger, one of his guards while in custody.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again you'd **** me on the spot.
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. Show me what you've got.
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two,
because I'd love to be the one who gets to **** you.
I've got 16 silver dimes in each barrel of my shotgun.
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run.
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door?
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet ******* *****.
I'll **** you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet."
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet."
" Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut.
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?"
"Don't do it Bob," Bell said angrily, "or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure
for killing a man in cold blood who was chained helplessly to the floor.
It's time for the other prisoners to be escorted across the street to be fed.
The Kid's not going anywhere. He's chained to the floor by his bed.
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn.
Go and have yourself a beer and I'll stay here and guard the Kid until you return.
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack.
Before he left he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back."
No one can say for sure if the above dialog ever truly took place.
One thing's for sure. Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace.
They were arch enemies who fought against each other during the Lincoln County War.
Ollinger was in the posse that killed John Tunstall, Billy's employer, friend and mentor.
"I have to use the privy Bell," Billy said to the deputy.
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key.
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor.
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door.
Billy entered the outhouse closing the door behind him.
"Let's not take too long in there Kid," Bell said with a humorous grin.
While in the outhouse Billy managed to slip one of his hands out of his handcuff.
"You fall in there Kid," Bell laughed, "You've been in there long enough."
"I'm coming out now Bell," Billy said opening the door.
"Sorry I took so long Bell. I must have ate something bad for sure."
Deputy Bell then escorted Billy back to the jail cell.
Once inside, Billy spun around and smacked hard Deputy James Bell.
Bell lost his balance, dropped his rifle and was momentarily stunned.
"Hands Up Bell!," the Kid yelled. In his hand was a gun.
"Please don't do it Bell," Billy pleaded, but Bell tried to run.
The Kid had no choice but to do what had to be done.
He shot and killed Bell, then went for Ollinger's shotgun.
The Kid never found pleasure in killing, but Ollinger was indeed the exception.
Knowing that Ollinger heard the gunfire, Billy stood by the window
and waited for Ollinger to appear in the street down below.
One senior named Godfrey saw Bell fall dead down the stairs.
The moment probably gave Godfrey a few more grey hairs.
Ollinger ran out into the street as Godfrey screamed, "The Kid's killed Bell!"
Ollinger looked up into both barrels of his own shotgun and whispered,
"Now he's killed me as well."
"Hello Bob!," Billy called out with a song in his heart just prior to blowing Bob Ollinger apart.
He blasted both barrels into Ollinger's chest and face.
Pieces of old Bob lay scattered all over the place.
Billy smashed his shotgun in two, threw it at him but missed.
"You'll never rifle me again," he screamed, "you *******!"
On the balcony he addressed the crowd whose jaws hung agape.
"I don't want to hurt anyone, but I'll **** anybody who tries to prevent my escape."
In the office he found a sledge hammer and smashed the chains of his leg irons free.
He told Godfrey to fetch him a fast horse immediately.
As he walked down the stairs, he came upon Bell's lifeless body
and many eye witnesses admit
that The Kid looked upon him and said most remorsefully,
"I'm sorry I killed you Bell, but couldn't help it."
As Billy mounted the horse the chains of his leg irons startled the beast.
The horse reared up and threw Billy down onto the street.
He was at this point his most vulnerable laying down on the ground.
The crowd could have overtaken him easily, but none made a move or a sound.
Once again Billy mounted the horse and fled with the sound of his leg iron chains ringing.
Many say that as he rode out of Lincoln County that they heard the Kid singing.
Billy had escaped danger so many other times in his past,
but this was his greatest escape ever. It would also be his last.
the Egyptians of ancient times
worked in the sun for few dimes

they slavishly carted square blocks
to ***** temples and pyramid docks  

as the sun streamed down
upon their heads
the workers in stone
wanted their sun god dead

they offered orisons
to Ra telling him he'd gone too far
by sending forth an over abundance
of hot solar bars

so the laborers of ancient Egypt
took refuge from Ra's heat
in the pharaoh's cool crypt
Sophia Chang Jul 2016
There goes the clock

Counting down the minutes
you have left to spend
Counting down the time
you wasted on your dimes

Now it comes back to haunt you
*Tick tock, tick tock
{17.07.16}
I remember a story, it starts at fourteen.
I had a crooked back and low self esteem.
I was afraid I was gonna end up in a ditch somewhere.

I had to devise myself a plan
of which direction to go if **** hit the fan
and I knew my mother wanted a prodigy child

So I figured I could sing or get really smart,
but my voice would crack and my mind was dark,
so I decided, in this crazy world,
that I could rob graves.

So I left home when I was sixteen
my boredom peaked and my senses keened
I grew with a morbid fascination with the dead

It started out
me figuring that
they wouldn’t miss their dimes, their shoes or their hats
I tramped on the dusty trail with an evil eye

As I ended up along the borderline
I met another young man who had gone insane.
He just got back from the war.
Like he said: “I’ve seen some things.”

So we rode together for quite a while
in the dust on the trail for a thousand miles
until one night, we came upon an unmarked grave.

My partner fumbled around in his pockets
evading worms and maggots from his sockets.
He turned around and looked at me with his crazy smile

It turned out what he found was a letter
and with this smile he said: “The dead have it better.”
So i reached out to grab it while the stench arose.

He handed it to me and on front and back
I read about this lonely, old, sad sack
who, being sick of life, ended up hanging himself.

This really put things into perspective for me
for the attention me and my partner was giving, you see,
was often more than these people received in life.

But one windy day the law caught on our path
and with a holstered gun me and my partner had
we stopped by a local tavern to wet our throats.

The law had converged in the front door
my partner flinched before I could do more.
And before I knew it he had bolted down for the gun.

Before I could say another word
he dropped to the floor and his fingers curled.
He rattled and faded away while I was restrained.

As I was lying on my stomach on the ground
I looked over and I heard a sound
It was my partner whispering his final words.

“The dead have it better.”
Andrew Rueter Jul 2017
This country's being privatized
By politicians using private eyes
Manipulating through public lies
And their hate filled cries
The question becomes a stark why
We ask the dark unwise
Driving us to laced dimes
Or writing ****** rhymes
Love is the answer I surmise
Nobody else buys
Emotions have no value in the marketplace
Unless you're of a certain race
That reminds them of themself
Then they're more likely to share their wealth

We need more than paper *****
To tear down these paper walls
The order becomes too tall
When we apply an objective concept (currency)
To a subjective principle (value)
Our ideas of value get tangled
Our empathy is mangled
Our discourse becomes angled
Discussions turn to wrangles
And cats are bred Bengal
As our domestic lives
Never left the jungle
But there's always a rumble
Regimes always tumble
Humanity continues to stumble
Earth's health starts to fumble
Molesting the planet like a creepy uncle
Until we see our follies unfold
Then will we be so bold
To say we can do it on our own?
madison curran Apr 2017
There are parts of me I have yet to become acquaintances with,
Flesh,
I have never stroked with my fingertips
Like the sinner does when he's lonely and makes the Holy Bible his lover.
A bible that only sees the light when his world is crimson, going down in flames.
I can feel the presence of opaque shadows lingering in my head,
The fog is still too thick to see the edges of his face,
But the smell of whiskey still brings me to my knees
Like the sinner who sees scarlet flames every time he looks at his palms.
He reserves his Sundays for prayer.
My reality is seven-thousand ghosts chanting the same sermon against the walls of my anatomy, begging God for truth.
Pressing against every curve, sending shivers up my spine because it strikes a harp I've heard before.
White wallpaper, silent whispers, a ripe peach.
The clock on the wall strikes one-twenty-seven, the moon cries for help.
The sinner has just come home.
Whiskey entangled sentences, blurry vision, loose hands.
In the shadows, his palms reach for change in the fountain of youth.
After all these years, I'm still picking up the dimes he dropped on the sidewalks of my life.
I see orange in stranger's irises,
My surroundings become dark, humid spring days whenever I smell whiskey.

I wonder if he used it to set flames to my anatomy.
I don't know how to extinguish all of this smoke, but I can't see straight, I'm choking on all of the memories faded into the monochromatic sky.
I wonder if there's a prayer in the bible that paints my face across the canvas of his mind.
I'm still picking up the glass fragments of this shattered life.
Cutting my hands while putting the mirror back together.
Trying to see into myself, into the sad caramel eyes staring back at me.
Thick smoke, crimson flames, shadows dancing.
Ghosts screaming, blurry vision, dimes scattered across the floor.
I fear for the day all these faded sins become friends of mine.

— The End —