"docking" poems
For Al, who left us
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)
_________________________________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, Long Island
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
It's time to enter a sleepless mind
The cogs and wheels spin and grind
I hear the whistles and the chimes
My head racing faster than a v8
Thoughts are larger than a U.S state
For my sleep I am ever so late
Clocks in my head, tick tocking
Side to side my head rocking
Chains pulling of the ship docking
Inside a war is going
Bullets and missiles a throwing
Explosions is all, lost for all knowing
Eternity lost in void of thought
Reminiscing on all I was taught
Consistent darkness you haunt
A sleepless mind is what I see
It is all I know how to be
So if don't you mind, come join me
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
It's a new day.
She's standing by her lighthouse.
Waiting for the day, her ship will arrive.
She had a ship docked her port once.
Oh, the memories they shared.
Oh, the places they traveled.
Oh, the love they had for one another.
But suddenly,
His ship sailed without her.
He docked at a new port,
Leaving her alone at her lighthouse.
She's stuck.
She still thinks of the Captain of the ship.
Wondering if he thinks of her as he sails the seas.
Wondering if they still have a fighting chance against the seas.
She's sees a ship coming closer to her lighthouse!
Could it be the ship that she gave everything for?
The ship that left her at her lighthouse?
The ship that has haunted her dreams?
The ship that broke her in more ways than one?
No, it's not...
It's a new ship that she hasn't seen before.
Who is this Captain?
He's docking at her port and staring at her.
He approaches her and smiles a friendly smile.
She's hesitant and slowly backs away.
Should she trust this new Captain that has entered her dock?
He could be like the last Captain that left her at the lighthouse.
Or he could be the Captain that takes her on a journey around the world.
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC
Robots know when to behave
1
Robot walks into the pub
and the arrogant human waiter says:
“Hey, we don’t serve robots”
But the robot smiles, and says:
“Sure – but you will, eventually”
Robots know when to be naughty
2
Robot each finds a seat
and the program sends up the heat
and the drama unfolds
She Robot:
Hello baby, you wanna touch my mouse,
don’t you? Sure, your lips say 0
but your titanium-bolt eyes say 1
He Robot:
Oh yeah, you sure get my drive hard
especially when you flash your software
O Baby, nice bolts - you wanna *****
Look, I touch your mouse, you touch my joystick
She Robot:
Look, you show me your source code
and I show you mine…oh, wow –
are those for real?
Or you got upgraded at Silicone Valley?
HeRobot:
Enough of chat, babe –
where can I crash on you tonight?
my docking station, or yours?
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 5:29 AM UTC
Seagull on rotting planks, bouy bells ding to fog and driftwood.
A culling fire exploits the docking shire.
Filled with chlorine shards, legs caught in the clap-traps.
Friar palms glisten,
Rage responds with frisson.
Clear view over water.
Feel your arms relax and slip onto your back while the culling fire attacks.
Bulbous deadening brain chimes
As the eyes slide down to your omission crimes.
Leave me alone in my despondent company.
Don't push the matter further let communication fail to nurture.
A warm breeze carries me
like a floating portrait towards unreal scented meats.
I'm here now, alone in the corner,
The greatest intimacy with the static patterns on the carpeted flooring. The king of this corner is the odor of plank seating and flowery detergent in this lonely corridor fluorescent light-bulb poles and old grain floorboards.
Now the returning shards of panic to uncelibate strangers drive me up, far, deep in my own ribcage to something wholly non-organic.
Time to clock-in, time to check out.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
It is docking it is tocking in the winter garden locking
over still and heavy knocking that defies the very dew.
We see storms and angels crumbling under load of dearest kindling and the fire and gases burning in the skies where clouds are churning and the snow, hail, sleet, and ices come to split the air in slices as it settles over houses, villages, shoes.
Waiting huddling drawing the blankets hot and heavy with a fear of powerful nature in the windy savory few.
Now we see and hear the howling like a wolf entangles scowling as she tries to say her fowl and angry message to the blew.
I am never quite so settled as when all around me crumbles and the anger of the desert makes the inner anger moot.
And the people seem to gather in their individual lathers but they all believe the madness that the storm will never pass. But pass it does and finding with the dawn a calm descending, yes, a calm that is so different that it seems to crush our ears. We are happy to look outward and even hear a skylark and to see the streaming sun rays flitter over piles of snow.
Ever angled up in heaven we almost see a dragon or a cannon that's protecting rampart walls.
And we know that we are safe here but it was such a battle that the scars are not quite healed.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.
2.8k
~
the smell of timbers,
aging in the sun and daily misting;
neath the shuffling sound,
footsteps of a man,
bucket filled with daily catchings,
the reeling in of memory’s castings,
of creosote's faint lifting,
drifting on the breezes;
of old tackle boxes,
of shrimp and lures;
the gatherings of hands,
ragged and weathered,
the collecting of years;
of hand-me-down hooks,
bobbers and sinkers,
the odd bits of dust,
gathered in corners,
pliers worn by use and rust,
save from drownings
grateful rainbows
one by one,
their too-short lives
extended with each
catch and release.
tired ropes wrapped
’round bent iron ties,
summer-time-baked...
cracked and dried,
by day's too old to count,
the numbers, the flutters,
since this heart began its bleeding,
it's journey beating,
floats of faded red and blue,
recall of a yesteryear
of a grandfather renewed;
the one-time, one-day
he and i walked
hand-in-hand
down a dusty road
to an old, wood fishing dock
on a grassy river bank;
dock and day long gone,
but love-scribed now,
deeply in this memory.
a day with rod and reel
when on a river long ago
a boy and a man,
an afternoon of fishing
to his heart listening.
a wistful day
of boyhood’s dreams
now in wishful haze;
forgotten midst
the growing years,
tumbling out in verse,
those smells, the sounds,
now reel out words
between the tears,
now catch-releasing,
a heart's docking...
and memory’s rebirth.
~
*post script.
funny, this memory thing... how we can be so not conscious of what lies ’neath its surface, but then is reclaimed in vivid, YouTube vision by the smallest sight, sound, or smell. with a childhood spent 8,000 miles and an ocean away from my home country, i have scarce few memories of my grandfather. today i am grateful to reclaim this one, a tearfully joyous recall of a six-year old's wonder-filled afternoon,
caught and released so long ago.*
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
docking on the fringe of a dry spot
the rain died in...
i set sail in solemn siroccos, fraught
with endive and lemons...
no chop. flat listing in the leaning theme
impervious to words lost
my ship dips in clean drink
and dark thought.
away, my anchor prods starboard
planks of salt wood...
clangs in a grog of lurching halt
raw ***** mauve tossed - and shriek blind.
a pennant of mock cause.
a scant curl of smoke, seized
in unseasonable Hypnos.
a whimsical Charybdis -
a thing i choke on.
i scoff
cough a terrible pen
my inkwell, topped off
with black pond,
quill qualms
of love's
dross.
the serenity of my tempest
and the skipping stone it cracked,
now, white sharks, prowling the yonder
of the nearby,
in debt to a far gone, yawning
rings,-
concentric to the naked eye, you clothe not.
lest the raiment be
the Emperor's
new lot.
A Stitch of Odyssey In Epic Fail...
to get more gone, but less lost
a journey of a single step
begins because... and
just because
you stop
stopping.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
If you are having trouble with your overall new iphone 4, there are many associated with in your own home i phone fix procedures you can consider. Even so, take into account that you can also find many i phone repair solutions you may want to should fully stay clear of, as these ways might cause additionally hurt along with emptiness the particular extended warranty. Thus, before you decide to chance a do-it-yourself iPhone fix, find the adhering to:
apple iphone Mend Accomplish
?Complete: Turn these devices down, after which back with. Restarting the actual apple iphone generally adjusts almost any downside to software program plus purposes. This is a quick solution, however normally probably the most worthwhile. This is the identical to along with computers, while reigniting your personal computer usually corrects numerous operation difficulties.
?Complete: Upgrade a apple iphone. If your hardware just isn't working correctly, it is usually due to the lack of a system upgrade. Link the particular iPhone on your docking personal computer, and after that insert apple itunes. If the bring up to date is accessible, select to download and install your upgrade in the mobile phone. When the revise possesses uploaded towards the cellphone, all problems needs to be remedied.
?Accomplish: Recharge the battery. Should the power is starting to wear lower, features for quite a few hardware and software could fall short, contributing to inadequate overall performance through the device. Asking battery modifies these complaints.
iphone 4 Restore Sports
Dress in jailbreak the cell phone. It sometimes does add additional overall performance and also modification features, issues voids the guarantee, if you decide to ought to switch the cellular phone, you will be required to get a brand new one, entirely.
Stay clear of examining the extender in any respect. After you break the close on the apple iphone, Apple inc and also the providers won't make gadget back again. It is advisable to you need to take the phone to your company or perhaps certified iPhone repair service service provider and have absolutely all of them think about the gadget very first, in advance of continuing.
Not surprisingly, that which you do to fix your current iPhone depends upon their guarantee and your expertise as a repairman. If you can't believe that it will be easy to complete the particular maintenance yourself, you ought to use a professional iphone 3gs repair shop service provider.
http://www.passwordmanagers.net/ Password Manager Windows
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
Eli tossed the ****** novel aside; a radical tale
of painters in the far future when paint itself
would be illegal; arms dealers, drug traffickers,
*** workers gathering in dark interstellar holes
bored into passing comets & orbiting meteors
docking illegally at satellite ports & unloading
chemicals frozen into place by the artists
who can never let their identities be known;
all colors on earth are registered & trade marked
by the Beast's Corporation & so Space Art is
highly sought & lucrative but lethal as it can
made to explode w/ enough energy & radiation
to leave a small planet barren for millions of years;
the Beast is reasonably worried as Space Art, or
Action Painting [after the ancient school] is wildly
popular & traded openly for billions of dollars;
the Beast may be able to keep everyone stupid
& greedy but Art liberates them into heights of
ecstasy & kindled wisdom; freedom of thought
the last frontier no one suspected & so abrogated
their intelligence & imagination to fembots
who pump their heads full of colorful action sequences;
the illegal paintings too stiff, just stand or lean
& look back at one w/out blinking
& the female-computer-network unable to bear the silence,
initiates automatic shut-down of itself; femportals
abandoned on stations where the painted images
projected on microcells to the clandestine buyers,
spread as an unseen mist through the various
artificial environments;
the distant star paint miners
smoking up a storm & using steam-powered
fembots
to mine for their oil & charcoal;
Eli putting on the kettle for tea,
thinks about the fembots in the novel & calling a **********
demands she not speak; the girl arriving naked in stockings
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
small irregular steps, like
a little kid top-toeing towards
a cookie jar, his jar
a lonely lady
buried in her latest ‘good read’
behind her now, his hands
eclipse light, ‘guess who’
**** you’ she moans. his fat ***
teeter-totters on the chairs face,
his eyes catch her shut book,
denoting a ****** title, laughing
he jokes about windmill dunking
it in the tableside wastebasket
scoffing as she claws at the book,
before 180 dunking it in her bag,
which resembles a shelter for some
petty, puny & pathetic dog
she bibble babbles blah blah,
his eyes entranced on her chest
hoping the slightest bump will
blast her ***** through her blouse
like an airbag. distracted
by bowels, he debates cutting
cheese. gas leaks through a forest
of *** hair. overpriced coffee odors
mask the lingering stench as it floats
like a boat through espresso &
cappuccino airways; docking
my attention to a tech boy blinded
by his desktop. to infatuated to notice
the pair of blushing blue eyes blessing him
from a corner table. an old man
at his starboard laughs as he clings to his cane
like it’s the decaying hand
of his deceased wife.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
I once knew a girl,
back when my posture was good,
we wore matching shirts,
jeans and shoes.
She kept her hair long,
to hide jealous shoulders.
All the loud voices
didn't have a thing to say.
They didn't resonate,
hammering on doors,
denting ear drums,
enunciating mispronunciations.
I played football in times square,
passing glances and stairs,
had rock climbing races
to higher elevations.
My badly tuned feet couldn't run,
ankle bones off key.
There's a saltwater film
frosting my eyelashes,
clinging to my tongue,
holding down my yells
to the quiet machines
that toss boiled eggs in the air.
Up to their knees
in the dark left behind by streetlights,
they rolled up their pants for wading.
They lingered in docking terminals,
standing still,
becoming dust collectors.
Somehow we're all just wanderers,
citing passages we herd
in front of us like mountain goats.
Ambling across empty intersections,
walking in handstand through cul de sacs,
picking up litter from busy streets.
Books for readers wear little letters,
use big words with four syllables.
They showed me how to fence with trains,
ride red wagons down hills,
win marmalade coated cricket matches.
I never judged the typos to be out of place
(I accepted the bits they forgot to erase)
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
Ive watched you weap
Bemoan in subtlety, without reason
Attempt to give light on an obsidian subject
Ive seen you bicker and cross swords
A struggle felt for miles
Have our confrontations meant nothing to you
Does venom foreshadow death
Ive seen you pass away
Day by day, its all the same
But am I the mad one?
Questioned by clans
When all I see is taunt discourse as if we're docking on long suppressed dreams
If it had been somewhere else, we'd hide a fixed eye to the occasion
Load the cartridge
Pull the trigger
Ignite cannons
**** the innocence
Have we lost our minds
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
we each have
our place to stand
a place always present
an aligned awareness
and sacred connection
joining dark to light..
discovery comes first
then remembering..
forgetting is easy
each place is hidden
alignment broken..
sensing ones place
intent brings focus
a movement we notice
shapes in motion..
surfaces rising
then returning to
rise again..
a torus in motion..
watch the jellyfsh
its pulsing survival..
the web also instructs
animations in
splendid variety
this sacred movement..
become the motion
discover your own..
experience then
a gentle rocking
inhale
centered and upward
to brilliant light..
exhale
light now filtered
shadow and pain
breathing
unending..
a docking station
now introduced..
awaits remembering
intention for use..
check the circuits
the cellular lights..
a new identity
now fully alive
ready connected and
now to fly...
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
it's 1619
& the boats are all docking, bodies pouring onto the land as freedom pours out to the sea
it's 1724
& the shackles are all rattling beneath the beaten but unbreakable who never gave up
it's 1864
& the abolitionists are all cheering, but lucky 13 never translated to equality
it's 1870
& the voters are all gathered, but the bleached out crowd still managed a loophole around the number 15
it's 1896
& the crows are all preaching. separate but equal, they say, like you can really separate equality
it's 1955
& the front bus seats are all taken, white hot anger sparking 381 days of determination
it's 1957
& the students are all shocked, the little rock needs a thousand Feds just to blend
it's 1963
& 200,000 people all have a dream,
gathering in unity for the 'greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of the nation'
it's 1965
& the voting booths are all open, the wealthy pallid mass finally forced to share their ballots
it's 2008
& the white reign is all done pouring, the flood is still flowing but at least people have the chance to try to swim before the drown
it's 2016
& the trumpets are all singing, waning out the songs of the last 400 years like we still haven't learned anything
and maybe we haven't,
maybe i've just been too
hopefully ignorant
to hear the paralyzing
sound of the TRUMPets
all along
maybe i'm searching for a tomorrow that doesn't exist
because the sound of the trumpets is thrusting us all back into yesterday
but i refuse to join in on the symphony
'this is the new sound just like the old sound, just like the noose wound over the new ground'
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 2:33 AM UTC
So this guy did a backflip
off this docking bay sort of thing
and it's like he's in slow motion
just turning slowly as bullets **** by him
and you look over and in one of the planes
is a duck with a cigar in his mouth
and pilot goggles on
and he's laughing
while he shoots bullets
at the man
who's just doing a backflip off the dock
and it's a really good backflip too
Oh, and the guy has a gun in his hand.
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 9:12 PM UTC
She's had nose bleeds,
Stumach aches,
Dizzy spells and shortness of
Breath these last weeks or so,
And worry is a vampire attached
To my neck like the
Opposite of an IV; draining
Me, leaving me
With more than one of the
Same ailments.
At 38, I'm on six different kinds
Of daily medication. **** this
Stitched-up heart, with
Its moving
Parts of metal.
At 24, she doubles that.
Every piece of good news has a
...but... nailed to it like
Vinnie the Poo's friend Donkey's
Tail,
And I wish I was the healthy man
She deserves. One strong enough
To carry her bucket loads of
Tears, her chestfuls of well-
Earned bitterness. But I
Tapped out and went home
For the weekend. Recharging in
Countryside silence and solitude.
This is my docking station.
Superman and the sun.
*“In the unlikely event of a sudden
loss of cabin pressure, oxygen
masks will drop down from the
panel above your head. Secure
your own mask before helping
others.”*
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
I made notes of docking posts
pointing out to murky reflections
of tourists that didn’t have time
for a souvenir mug or a picture
with a black trumpeter content with his brass,
and nothing else, blowing life into the seagull
sky, making the clouds pop and drop spray-
mist jazz, which accompanied his trumpet
with a gentle washboard scrape.
He beat his heel to the thousand pin-drops
of passerby earrings, crab sweatpant draw-
strings, and trawl nets dissolving into the sea.
Baltimore filled the margins
of a travel notebook alongside
pencil sketches of the Aquarium,
Prufrockian split claws
wrapped in algae bandages,
that homeless man weakly thumbing
through a pocket bible, the 32
cents wearing sea salt jackets,
and my cold girlfriend pulling on patron
sweaters in an art museum closet.
But it’s all a gimmick.
It’s $22 crab cakes
and paint-splatter-printed
sweatshirts that say New York
or D.C. or *Everything on a Disposable
Kodak Camera.*
Tired of the idea, I threw the page
over the edge, hoping to drown
it in green, but I never heard it hit
the water. I braced myself on a life
ring rack, leaned over,
and watched it settle into a natural
barge of dead leaves and orange peels
while sea foam circled
it like a bed skirt that’s only
noticed for the few seconds spent stripping
down before going to sleep
just to wake up to rain on the Royal Sonesta,
kids racing down the hall, the obligatory
alarm clock,
and the black trumpeter’s groove
four floors down.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
I desire to slip my feet into your cool waters
taste your salty skin on my tongue
I want you in a way that removes all my strength from me
I think you might be summertime
You're tall grass on the bottoms of my feet
You are a sonnet
You're a tall oak tree, branches tugging at my hair
You are a symphony
I long to touch your starry skies,
see the stars in your eyes
I kept a log of your summertime smiles
But there was also your summer rain
It fell from your eyes for miles
Nothing ever changed but me
I think you might be a boat
You were so good at driving away
You warned me that first night
when you snuck in through my bedroom window
I should have known better
I just should have known
I was just hoping, hanging onto every word
that fell from your satin lips
Hoping that you'd put out your anchor
Stay awhile at my docking station
But you sailed away again
into the midnight rain again
"Danger is my middle name"
you said
I believed it
I have to close my eyes so I can breathe again
Prayed to God I'd see you again
I haven't seen you yet.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
Once upon an Earth lit night,
On NASA Moon base two,
I chanced to spy a cute Brunette –
A space Cadet named Yu.
Her eyes were dark and beautiful
Deep as a lunar mare-
And, freed from bra and gravity-
were ******* beyond compare.
Love in Microgravity
Is a curious affair
She brought me to her snuggle tube
And she restrained me there.
She straddled on the launching pad
And docking was effected
And after a few awkward strokes
Our cadence was perfected.
The Moon Child that resulted
From our friendly first embrace
Forced Yu to have to shuttle back
to Earth from outer space.
It seems that Human embryos
Need gravity to grow.
Else their hearts would be too weak
Their reflexes too slow.
So, like Salmon, we go back
to where our mothers birthed.
Procreation’s problematic
beyond the bounds of Earth.
We named our daughter Luna
-Unoriginal, I know.
And now we’re out near Jupiter
getting busy on Io.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
su sussidio... oh oh.
cashier tarah talks, talks,
really talks, 6 hours east
to sri lanka, 12 hour flight, 15 hours
back, mother in law died,
sorry, yeah, something
got my boy out of the womb,
dubai was lost
as a terminal worth docking at,
too much shopping
too little insomnia...
but i just came in for my whiskey
and my coca-cola...
chubby cheek tarah hasn't
asked me what i do...
oh you know, i write poetry,
the stuff pop artists are famous for...
not actually doing...
i was never a serious gamer,
from tetris and su doku i progressed
to candy crush sagas... you know,
i didn't get the multiple-choice narrative
and the lost joystick freedom
of up down east west,
instead getting short snips of a story
unfold with a quick-drawn press button
action draw of the story unfold;
i wish gaming appealed to me
like the way advertising companies
got fooled by the way television works
these days: oops, paused five minutes
into the show, then skim eyed the adverts
past not even caring to be influenced
by consumerism propaganda...
i love it, i can finally watch t.v. and skip
the adverts!
thanks for the detergent and salt and pepper,
raw materials on the ready,
you improve your aesthetics elsewhere,
i'll drink my cheap whiskey with
cheap phosphoric barley tinged caramel
cola quicker than you can say the tongue tie:
eager ****** had the weakest liver
bone munching onomatopoeias of ribcage rattle.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
Desiring living matter, flaming jack monster
seized a witch from the floor by the gypsy hair,
winded and abstract; her genius was to know
the girl was stupid enough to know the pony
was the wrong *** by placing to lay knee ****
as a blonde origin give mama, a kiss so give
a sacred enough, noxious movement's pavilion
planet. Before speaking; Wide ghost Each
Among Translate web pages. If you do not need
the blood of the fingers, the fingers of the injury
in the bones can lead to an infinite kiss of light,
a garden of the gardens of fortune snares of the ancient.
the sight of the youth,
the rare ray skin, hath taken hold on yeh,
I caused it to rain,
according to the time of the motion
in the wailing of Skinny Girls before
the wide planet
spoke in front of the giant planet,
is walking, walking,
walking, walking, walking, from the yeah
the eve of the beloved to the stranger,
and art of the bar having brought the boats in;
Barbee goes to the docking in her pantyhose,
maybe fearing simply the dark,
the satellite company's form of the disease,
they thought with sweat that they should be;
I need your grandson.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC