"disuse" poems
I was just an obsession to you
A hobby, a toy
That you could play with one day
exploit all of its wonders
see what it could give to you
And the next day just casually toss in a shadowy attic
To be forgotten
To be found far in the future
Old, and dusty
Not broken, just dark from disuse
and abandonment
This is what you thought of me
This is how you treated me
Like a novelty, a child's toy
I can't believe I fell for your casual ways
The way you made me feel special
But I was never special
I was just another brief obsession of yours
A curiosity
I drew your attention, piqued your interest
But now you've found a new toy to play with
And I'm left here collecting dust
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC
Crave the entire world.
Hedging bets is a disuse.
Leave nothing to chance.
Throw everything at the moon.
Burn among the fallen stars.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
It's a new dawn as the sun kiss the grounds
where wet dew penetrates the green grass
fresh happenings opens like a lotus flower
giving some purity from the murkiest pond
Ohh gentle wind of this pristine winter
embrace me in the song of the unborn day
let the disuse be the productivity that I long
let the grieve be the rebirth of new hope
Ohh gentle warmth of the sun ray stroke
shine the light and guide me in the day
let the vision of my happiness unfold
let the rocky cliffs clear to never return
Ohh gentle rain from above the clouds
wash the stained fuelled thoughts today
let the pride of life don the paradise
let the joy of life exorcise the yesterdays
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
They kept her in the attic with the rest of the nonsense
An improvised pen and paper of fingernails and floorboards.
Cracked windows rusted shut from years of disuse
Chapped lips pinched shut from years of neglect.
Broken mirrors on the floor from outbursts no one heard
Shattered eyes blinking hollowly because no one was listening.
Patterns traced on dust covered windows letting bars of light shine through
Therapeutic
Sunlight outlining shadows that shouldn't be there, dust mites that should.
Daisy; the name she gave herself after forgetting her original.
Daisy; what she'd call herself should she ever get out.
Withered; what she became.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
I am a writer, yet often the little daily goal box to "write something" remains unchecked.
I am a photographer, but my camera has dust on it and my uploading sites are sparsely filled.
I am an academic, yet for the most part I find myself only studying what is given to me while the material I've collected remains halfway read.
I am a reader, but I keep rereading the same books and they don't get opened every night.
I am a loner, but I have those I love and those who love me.
I am quiet, but I must speak 80,000 words a day.
I am a horse owner, but the leather of my saddle creaks and groans with disuse.
I am a fan, but episodes are left unwatched.
I am young, but I do not have much energy.
I am in love, but I do not get to see her but once every few months.
I am in a long distance relationship, but I'm not much good at setting up Skype dates or leaving her messages on Facebook.
I am a performer, but I have not touched a stage in over a year.
I am a gamer, but I only play one game.
I am a dork, but I smoke cigarettes and drink black coffee.
I am a nerd, but I was never much into comics and I do not wear glasses.
I am mentally ill, but I talk to therapists as though I am upbeat and I am not behind on my schoolwork.
I am a musician, but I cannot play an instrument though I've tried many times.
I am a blogger, but I've let many die and I do not network well.
I am of the computer generation, but I could not explain how a computer works.
I am a daughter, but for many years I hated my parents.
I am a sister, but I have to remind myself to speak to my siblings.
I am a friend, but I prefer to keep to myself and I don't always have the right thing to say.
I am American, but I don't know much about politics and I don't like apple pie.
I am a vegetarian, but I have to eat fish sometimes.
I am gay, but I don't know exactly how to explain so that other people who have questions understand.
I am a student, but sometimes I don't feel like I'm much good at "critical thinking."
I am sad, but I smile.
I am an optimist, but I am cynical sometimes.
I am guarded, but I spill myself.
I am myself, but I don't know who I am.
I am not much good at being the things I am.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
*I was dreaming of you kissing me just softly between my eyes
and of children chasing a lamb around the silence of a grave.* – Alex Hoshor
I comb one hand with the other. beside me my son moves his jaw front to back, his chin massaging the ridge in the skull of our new puppy. we are snug in a velvet chair. my groomed right hand was last week reset by an accidental flash of fire and to look at it now makes one think of snakes veining then leaving the earth.
I fear I may soon have to field the proffered inquiries of angels lobbying for a pet heaven. I fear that fear is just something we say.
the dust on my daughter’s dollhouse worries me. disuse worries me. these small shoes on step at the dollhouse door.
it is the simplest thought that it could’ve been my boy, my girl, at flame. but enough that sleep of late seems cat nap to its greater insomnia.
awake, a mob of naked children some saying excuse me move gently past or leap the car or belly under. I walk from it slowly as if I am pregnant or as if in front of me one is pregnant. I lose my foot on the discarded handle of an axe and lose my way thinking it is the found arm of a puppet. I know I am bare because suddenly there is sand in my toes and the pregnant women are here to sunbathe. it’s the gas can tells me turn back.
how long have we been friends? the length of my belt, bed of copper or garden, removed with my left hand and laid.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:45 AM UTC
You look at a person
A stranger, a loved one, a partner
And you think;
How can one person be so beautiful?
Inside and out you see an aura of unimaginable beauty
A friendly face
An intoxicating laugh
A smile that makes you smile without even realizing it
And then you look at yourself
You hate the way you smile, all crooked and mouthy
The way your cheeks are too pudgy
Your glasses too big for your face
Your voice too soft to break through the chatter of others
But you
You are a lion whose voice is booming thunder
With claws that can tear through the veil
The one you’ve kept yourself shrouded in for too long
You should be proud
Proud of your wild and unruly mane
Proud of your scars earned from battles with many others
Not to mention the battles you wage on yourself
You could move mountains and uproot trees if you tried
But you don’t
You look at yourself
Your cheeks too pudgy
Glasses too big
Voice kept under lock and key
Vocal chords dusty with disuse
Your heart is so big and so beautiful
You see so much in everyone else
But can’t bear to see anything in yourself
You are a wild flower sprouting through the cracks in the sidewalk
You could move mountains and uproot trees if you tried
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
This body’s falling apart.
My bones are separating at the joints, pressing into my flesh, coming through.
My ribcage is cracking open sending splintering shards through my veins,
revealing a heart beating out of time.
Speeding up,
sending my blood racing through my body, down to my toes, up to my head.
Slowing down,
letting its beats reverberate through my hollow abdomen.
My eyes float in my skull
scanning, trying to find something to focus on, sending blank images back to my brain.
My lungs are dragging air down into them,
forcing it back up.
They expand and shrink,
compress and release.
I've forgotten the sound of my voice,
surprised as it stumbles out over the arid landscape of my tongue;
it is weak and damaged from disuse.
The space in between my bones is filled with what could have been—the fragmented fantasies desperately pieced together.
My muscles are dry, tight, and useless.
I am full of could have beens.
Brimming with retrospect.
My skin is stretched tight,
holding back every memory of every moment wasted—forgotten only to be remembered and regretted. My limbs are too heavy for me to support.
I am dragged down by them.
I am made immobile.
I am the sum of all these parts,
and it is not enough.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
My heart condemned to a cell
became so shrunken by disuse
All my lovely things
shoved to a corner
near a radiator
for its rhythm, right, and heat
Crushed by all the useless rules
reigned down from The Above
proclaiming—
"Certainty!"
of “what should be.”
My heart was never made for such a small space
But now—
atrophied and bowed by fear
prison garb seems comfortable
I don't think too much of hope or love in here
Too wary and too tired
to defend the right or wrong of it—or me
The sentence: so much more than I could bear:
“Life of Loneliness
no parole"
It’s good I didn’t hear the words
I would’ve died of grief
But all those years—
I served!
____
I wipe my eyes on the reprieve
Spent some time—
on my release
in cold gusts by the shore
where there’s room-- so finally
to breathe
Lifted my eyes into
the risk of clouds
the withered sun
If wind and sorrow
share the tears
that have returned
I figure...
so can we...
...share love
in a large room
knocking down guilt’s darkest walls
where souls make jails to keep from getting free
...Let them find each other there
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 5:24 AM UTC
Icy tangs are all the early morning, budding its flower
The young mother born into the sonata of her own being
That seems so foreign to thick sheltered blood,
My adult notch in this Exquisite Rotation.
Humid skies are as spy glasses to the truth
So says the colossus with our sun for an eye;
She steps out of the illusion beautifully blue
Robed in silks of celestial gold;
The skin hangs taught over the most beautiful
Pair of collarbones you’ve ever seen
The pass of your previous life comes in sublime waves
Of crashing aether and all the souls flee with irreclaimable mirth
Before popping in the atmosphere like spit and wishes
And everyday is the day of rest, a pondering
Of avant-gardens where a savior once walked.
He and his church left the path of the geese
For, he hears not, the pass of prayer on their lips.
But, I do not blame them: their mouths are full
With the sky’s drawstrings, reinvigorated from their disuse,
They’ve no time for the good word.
My family of geese fly for the astral bodies’ abode above
Where the casual speak of poets, philosophers can be hears
Talking about their *** lives, talking about themselves
No longer galvanized by their own recreations.
And as I go to place this thing in the place of pain
Warm rushes in the shifting life-force, the green of
Exuberant joy hits our hydrophobic throats
And we exhale, watching it roll back as the geese fly overhead
With no mind or reason why.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
you place me on your shelf
right next to all the rest,
a commodity priced according
to which and whom are best.
you shove me to the back
so others may not see
the person who would sit
and reclaim you piece by piece.
I am a bitterness unwavered by the winds
I am an ice storm unstoppable in its onslaught
I am a tornado festering on the countryside
You are a man made up of
turned shoulders and lowered eyes,
a man who would much rather store things
than to see them in use.
Your fingers may peruse
the cylinders of my being,
it may be graced by
the loveliness of your cold touch.
However it is fleeting,
and I grow cold from disuse.
I am the item on your shelf
I am the mirror casually ignored
I am the gramophone screaming its discordant hymn
I am the void rearing its sickening maw,
waiting and watching for my prey
to wander helplessly into my gaping esophagus
I am the bat wing, leathery and clinging
to the cartilage of the world.
I am the item on the shelf,
high above the world,
looking down onto the ants
who scurry and shimmy to try to ascend.
They will not ascend
because God didn't make ants in order to fly.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
As I write upon these stale yellow pages
With a pen ravaged with disuse
I am on a search
A search for knowledge
For feelings
For emotions
For life
For something
I search with condemned desperation
For something I hid with utter care and precision
As well mistrust lust and hatred
The last time I embraced in its tantalising embrace
Ages ago when my heart and soul were still void of knowledge and corruption
I loved as a mother loves her only child
I embraced it as the moon is embraced by the velvet clouds
Yet I hated it as the neglected son hates his father
It gave me so much
Love
Peace
Freedom
Clarity
Trust
Yet took from me eo much
Lovr
Peace
Freedom
Clarity
Trust
Even though it tormented and destroyed my soul
I long and yearn for it
I still search for it
Even after my shattered soul
Even after my condemned destiny
Even after my destroyed dreams
Even after my grotesque life
Even after it all
Even after............... me
I search
With condemned desperation
I search
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Sitting in the circle of confession,
i am unmoved, at inaction,
only minorly involved in the
process of others, an observer
of them and processing me.
God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things
i cannot change,
(people, places, things)
i am quiet and respectful, knowing
that for some this is all they have,
that i am fortunate,
that we never flirted with disaster,
we openly courted it.
the courage to change the things i can,
(me)
i hear the voices in the distance,
but i can't connect, my mind
wanders, thinking about prehistoric
jewelry in museum cases, broken
pottery shards unearthed with
great effort from ancient graves.
Were these items symbols of broken
promises? A ring: till death do
us part...a vase: i will carry the
water for you...an arrowhead:
i will protect you. These things
hold a value that words
cannot ever truly convey.
i don't really understand how it works,
the promises i broke were the ones
i made to myself first, all the
others were incidental and yet
so equally destructive...
my track marks have faded with
disuse, but everything that it was
and i wasn't are now forever
tattooed under my skin, something
that is always only mine to
observe and behold, something
terrible and yet darkly beautiful.
and the wisdom to know the difference.
i empathize with the lost, but
i do not share.
They would understand, but as
they learn more
i comprehend less,
and i know where that road leads.
So i remember when i should
be listening, and i will keep
what i have earned.
Just for today.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
You spoke kind words,
a blissful reprieve from the silence and stagnation.
Warm words,
too few to count,
too subtle to embrace,
Yet the sun was shining
through two small
too small windows
And my heart was racing
too fast to slow then,
too warm to freeze still.
I felt the tremors,
choked on dry air.
I felt the shockwave pump blood
through rusty veins worn tired from disuse.
My eyes mirrored yours
hypnotized and ignorant of the change in motion.
The sun was shining
but the light was in your stare
So innocent and intrigued.
So unlike mine.
I couldn't bear the contact.
Struggling and stuttering,
my silence will save you.
You'll keep what I lack
Embrace what I've lost
Receive brief surrender
By your eyes' blind kindness.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 4:53 PM UTC
Saint Tropez is a summer town.
Smaller than it ought to be, really.
Like when you realize the French quarter,
in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long.
In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez.
A turquoise bike leans haggard against a stone pine,
and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash.
Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise.
The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture
and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu.
Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse.
You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs.
Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy,
like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"?
Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real.
You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme,
lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas
are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store,
where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.”
But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass.
You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable
to remember her lines - lines that would make it real,
invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell.
The Saint Tropez of summer.
Feb 23, 2024
Feb 23, 2024 at 2:14 PM UTC
Tiptoe with me through roads of mottled rainbows
We’ll build a city of coffee cream clouds and crystallized light
Our sticky shadows can stumble jump rope with fizzling stars
And our light will tang in the air with peace
Every streecorner will have an off-key symphony
Played with tongues broken from laughter
Raise your arms to catch the words that’ve ballooned into the stratosphere
I’ll tangle my fingers in your palm to lift you higher
You’ll collect liquid moon in a sandcastle bucket
Drips of silver catching in your spidersilk hair
I’ll pour it down all outside the doily mold
It’ll twist down to earth in fractured motion
Trust me, I never knew how to fly
Only to fall, and to fall with broken hands
Jump with me and skate down a sunset
Dorothy ain’t got nothin’ on this kind of color
I’m blinder than an arsonist with night vision goggles
But only ‘cause I see with my heart instead of reflections of light
Life is opaque when your soul is an old one
Though I’m still getting drunk on the learning wine
Take a rose and ***** a finger on a petal
The softest feelings always have the sharpest bite
The devil’s left the details to hammer her way up to heaven
She’ll shatter kaleidoscope bullets into mosaics of sin
Love is the game that all the best dreamers play
I think up slow nonsense that fills my lungs with longing
Bright towns are always blurrier than the grey
And my brush is shaky from absent disuse
So bring me home (my home is you)
Build love from the broken rubble souls
Sing for our voices reaching higher than the sun
As my hair links with yours in the summer breeze
Frozen bubbles can chime on every door
Our bare feet will press into wet desert clay
Smiles will be painted pure and golden
And all the colors will fill our footprints as we walk away in joy.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
We are no birds.
We are prisoners kept away from light.
We are not as sharp but are blurred.
We are storms that only destroy sight.
We are finished.
We lie in the deep ends of nowhere.
We all are blemished.
We all waver.
We all are a disuse to life.
We just get pulled deeper into our mistakes.
We all have stories like mine.
We all just are an ache.
But whatever we are, we still are until it's the end.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
for those nights when i shattered at my wrists
looking up at apathetic skies
blinding sunshine moonshine
stars matching the layout of
the cones in my pupils
i remember the tears pooling at the corners of my eyes
as i looked down and up
clutching my wrist
digging my nails into deeper impressions and
grooves left by knives past
biting the inside of my cheek hard enough
and the days when i used my hair
to hide my eyes
and dodged around people
unable to bear
with putting on a face
strong face happy face getting-through-life faces
those days
i felt barely human
for those days
i remember impressions left on my feet and my hands
as i stared holes into them
through the blur of tears on my eyes
i felt the clench of my heart and my stomach
and i remember digging my nails into my guts
trying to hold myself together
and the struggle of remaining upright
trying to not crumple into a ball
into as tight a space i could manage
under tables beds metal frames
left dusty with spider webs and mis-
disuse over ages of forgetting
for reasons better known to those others
for those days
when i could barely look into someone's eyes
and acknowledge myself as a person
or a human or a thing or a creature
and i felt like a whisp on the
shadows and springs of death and blankness
those days
when all i felt was the grave the tombstone
of my body
as i carted it around
the world and the whole world
leaned in but i leaned out
i leaned out and
and my spine was not strong enough to carry this tombstone
but my shoulders were
so my shoulders hunched and my spine broke
and i carted it around anyway
those days when
everyone
came back in dreams and nightmares
of worlds falling apart
and people lying dead in ditches
people killing themselves in hidden roofs
where i had once resided
and i recalled a
a particular
peculiar impression
of orange smoky skies
with menacing black jets over my head and i thought
i thought
and i believed-
"This world has come to die"
and that wasn't even the scary part
the scary part was when i
i stood and opened my arms wide
laughed and said:
"i've been waiting"
i remember those nights
i remember those moments
and my stomach crumbles
my eyes cannot handle their weight anymore
my spine shatters
my shoulders overflow
my wrist shatters
and i
i look up at the blinding
sunshine moonshine
and i open my eyes wider
and laugh laugh laugh
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
My heart professes perpetuity, and was so faithful to, yet my mortality minds no frame nor memory of you.
This epidermis sheds and skins from disuse; need my heart evidence, might my chill-cracked palms be your proof?
The contours of your constitution, all known by their names, are perhaps now amended by the passage of passing age and days.
The sirens of your voice's sound, awaken me from my dreams; the symphonies of my soul's supplications, now so strange and foreign seem.
My heart professed perpetuity, and is so faithful to, so should this skeleton and its dependents devoice - mon Amour; my heart remains with you.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 6:23 PM UTC
my voice is spun glass,
as fragile as the wings of a butterfly taking it's first flight out of it's cocoon.
so long my voice has remained unused,
drowned out in the voices of others,
whisked away in the hurricane that is my thoughts.
my voice is weak and unfamiliar,
even to myself.
it's not as strong as the sea.
it can't sustain life, or drown it away.
the force of it alone is not crushing;
it is feather-light
the secret about poetry is that it changes things,
just as the ocean does.
when you hardly ever speak,
it can give you the power to transform your voice into something better.
a fragile voice,
frail with disuse,
becomes a force of it's own.
it becomes a gale.
i do not need a voice like the ocean.
i have a voice of my own.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
in a state of disuse
the old gold mine stood
as the cost of retrieving it
twas not financially viable
miners back in the days
of the gold rush
had abandoned
their panning sites
skeletons of gold cradles
lain by the creek edge
the flecks of gold
had become a dream
the grandest of illusions
with the advent
of modern mining techniques
the old mine had life giving oxygen
put back into it again
a company from Sydney
commenced quarrying
along the creek's ore vein
good quality gold
twas retrieved
a bounty of abundance
which shone so vividly
if the old miners
of yesterday
were around
to-day
they'd be quoting
these words
in a most affirming way...
thought nothing can bring back the hour of splendor
in the grass of glory in the flower
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
It's my soul wandering in wonders
In ****** and meander it utters
There is never a stop, the levelling
Unveiling like a chorus to another
In a world where I am in disuse
A time where my muse sings
Lovers come and pack up to leave
Wavered like an anthem in discord
A universe where faith itself is a disbelief
A relief of the contours and eventualities
The vision sighted that all is out of balance
Shaky like a chord reaching a crescendo
Rivers so strong that I can't wander through
A swim so strenuous and unfocused
On the tunnel there is a lighted bulb
Glowing like a fire bomb ready to explode
In street and houses where all are struggling
The hidden secrets and the wet pillows
Subtle things that we will never know or see
Lost like a crab unshaken in it's shell
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:18 AM UTC
(This is the second installment of a two part piece. Please read first Cut Apart.)
He takes up a needle
Threaded with a glimmering strand of surety
Pierces my pink flesh, tender,
already thrumming with awareness
Following my self-otomy,
I would not have thought
to feel any more pain
But there it is
Slight, though
And a relief each time
he pulls the wounds closed
I observe the first sutures,
calmed by his confidence
Puncture,
pull,
puncture--
He hands me the needle
I can't expect someone else to do all the healing
I pull the thread taut
We alternate for a while,
him piercing, me nipping
And then, before I pinch another hurt closed,
I reach in to extract the dead bits of my soul,
blackened with disuse
Refuse now,
no need to carry these within me
Pull
I am now devoted to my task
Bruises fading already
Some gashes will forever remain a softer pink testament
to true traumas
But no more concern if I will heal properly,
no thought of chronic infection
I have been forced to analyze my frayed heartstrings
Some scars I bear, but as I am stitched up
I become my own inoculation
My soul's surgeon
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
You are
My heart’s invader
An enabler
Of its desire to open up to you
Drawn to you magnetically
A living soul
Filled with passion and love
Animated
A spirit that is elevated.
This iron heart rusts
A corroded tool
Left in disuse, its owner played like a fool
Yet, somehow
The world isn’t such a terrible place
When I hold you in my arms
And gently caress your face.
I don’t know
Whether this insatiable need for your touch
Is sustainable
Whether or not
It’s a future that’s attainable;
I don’t know
Whether we will always be good for each other
All I do know
Is that I never want
To let you go.
This feeling was once foreign
A concept whose origin
Was swallowed by the sands of time;
An Alexandrian library’s worth of loss
An ancient civilisation’s ransacked ruins
Covered in moss.
Yet, somehow
To destiny I must bow
As I attempt to comprehend
This newfound emotion
Of wishing the hours would never end
When you are here.
I am now handing you
The keys to my heart’s kingdom;
This “falling” in love
This attachment
This instinctive need
To drink from your fountain
To greedily gorge myself in those moments
To relish your soul flowing through mine -
A chill goes through my spine
As I consider this…
The night
Doesn’t feel the same
When I don’t see you.
I don’t know what else to say -
I have been afraid of this day
For I don’t know how you feel
This is surreal
I find myself in a daze
Trying to fathom
How you get through the walls of ice
How you have me coming back like a vice
It hasn’t even been that long
Yet after being with you, my heart breaks out into song.
I am fearful of this day
Yet
I will never regret
Being real with you
This is who I am
This is how I feel about us
It is undeniable
The chemistry is indescribable
A surge of current
Polarises my insides
Every time
These two wayward souls meet
So, no more shuffling of feet
I am playing all my cards
Summoning the power of the ancient bards
To bring you this poem’s clime,
With one, last, hopeful rhyme
And the following words:
“I love you.”
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 3:25 AM UTC
Walking in a sloping district
Down an uneventful day,
A fossil rubber round, abandoned,
Found itself amidst our way.
Aha! And with some slight excitement
Set my friend upon the tire,
Upon its side he set the beast
Then rolling, gently let it fly
With just a touch; but balanced well
Despite disuse of many years,
It looked quite ready to revolve;
So natural it seemed to feel
That at this sudden turn of fate
An ancient, sleepy something stirred;
Remembrance of old spinning glories
Drove the hill-tire bottomward and
Building speed now every turn
More reckless, frantic than the last;
All just precaution soonly spurned
The rubber ring was flying fast.
In fact so fast, so far, so straight
Maneuvering the grade until
In happenstance it found a ramp
Some distance further down the hill;
A broken shard of tabletop
Astride some heaped-up garbage leaned,
Served duty fine to sky-ify
The rolling, racing, flighty fiend
And missile-make our eager hero;
Hero though no longer *after
Smashing some poor stranger’s glass*;
Fighting back our tumult
Quickly ran we for the summit,
Panting, bending at the top,
He turned to me, my friend and said:
Fuck…they usually stop
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 2:06 AM UTC