"equipment" poems
and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ********** with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.
A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.
Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.
The end.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
in complete melodies
the frequencies i hear
can not be contained by anything
love is drifting through the hills
and you are home to its trills
she dreams of light, the fire bright
and full of crystal skulls and eyeballs
dozens of monuments are built
just to mark the moments
when we could have said i'm sorry
merge with the mountains
find the source of fountains
shine the diamond compass
if that's what you are really here for
broken dams are our business
feed the swans their luminescent lunch-boxes
duck for cover, its a wonder that we are all together here
that's clearly redundant
the tendency to dream
is the most important human faculty
its a tragedy that the lack of nuclear power
showers the atomic world in rainbows
as forlorn teenagers in the ice-age of America
govern our equipment from their parent's basements
and carouse with comfort upon chairs, cushions and couches
a million times the victory
a million miles of rope to weave
a million are the paths to god
and a million more are the souls
who've learned to cope with tragedy
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
i am furniture remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your television set
i am electromagnetic static
within the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she wrote
i am a silent p
i am a violet apogee
i am a cosmic minority
i am a message in your tea leaves
but if you stand too long in my shoes
you’ll likely drown in solitude
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled
get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling, breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?
skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the
absent women
no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms, non-differentiating
just humanism-isms
and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
Being an actor or actress
Doesn't mean you are on broadway,
Or a star of a hit reality TV show.
Being an actor or actress
Means you step onto the stage
And give it your all.
You accept the spotlight
Not as a blinding piece of equipment,
But as a sun shining on you,
Bringing you to life.
When you hear the term
Break a leg
You form a grin,
Knowing it's not literal.
When the laughter
Of a crowd on opening night
Encourages you and gives you hope.
Being an actor or actress
Isn't about the flowers
Or the repetitive good jobs after a show.
Being an actor or actress
Is about the butterflies you get
Before you go on stage.
It's about the energy you feel
When you and your cast
Do something spectacular
On stage.
Being an actor or actress
Is an outlet from the real world.
It allows you to step onto stage
And forget about the boy
Who broke your heart,
Or the money struggles,
Or the bombs going off
In other countries.
It allows you to step into
A new and exciting universe,
Where nothing else matters except,
Being an actor or actress.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Three weeks gone and the combatants gone
returning over the nightmare ground
we found the place again, and found
the soldier sprawling in the sun.
The frowning barrel of his gun
overshadowing. As we came on
that day, he hit my tank with one
like the entry of a demon.
Look. Here in the gunpit spoil
the dishonoured picture of his girl
who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht.
in a copybook gothic script.
We see him almost with content,
abased, and seeming to have paid
and mocked at by his own equipment
that's hard and good when he's decayed.
But she would weep to see today
how on his skin the swart flies move;
the dust upon the paper eye
and the burst stomach like a cave.
For here the lover and killer are mingled
who had one body and one heart.
And death who had the soldier singled
has done the lover mortal hurt.
7.6k
a man is born with a ***** testicles, and various other masculine equipment and tendencies.
a Man lives by a masculine code that revolves around the physical, the mental, and the spiritual. a Man is committed to himself above all else. this may sound selfish, but it isn't. a Man not only puts himself on high, but connects himself mind, body, and soul to the physical, mental, and the spiritual. everything that he connects to himself becomes himself. a Man does not distinguish between the his own flesh and the flesh of his children. a Man does not distinguish between his mind and the mind's of those in his inner circle. a Man does not distinguish between his will and the will of his god. a Man is power. he is the generator. those that he has allowed to plug into his world are empowered by him. they come into his presence and feel better for it. a Man changes lives. a Man understands the trinity of justice, mercy, and charity. a Man is not afraid to give to those as they deserve. he looks with fair eyes and does not slow his hand or slow its speed. a Man is not cold enough to be alien to compassion. he can see to the heart of matters and look past the easy answers. when others will marvel at his wisdom and praise his mercy. he will only think 'as it should be'. a Man is not without the ability to go beyond. he can look to the future. help those that need it, sometimes before they need it. anticipation and preparedness are the weapons of the Man. stoic strength is his shield. a Man is not without weakness. he understands his weaknesses, but is not victim to them. he may succumb to them, but as a master of justice, he steels himself for the price he must pay. weakness must be addressed and turned to strength. as a Man fears, he must stand up and face it. as a Man despairs, he must turn it aside. when a Man fails, all that have plugged into his power will fail. when a Man falls, families, nations, societies fall. when a Man falls, it is the duty of another Man to come to his aid. when Men stop aiding Men, they merely become men with penises and various other masculine equipment and tendencies.
The Man is a Man that all other Men fear and long to be. He is the one that Men plug into. Some Men see that as a sign of weakness and rebel, but The Man signs paychecks and feeds families. who will topple The Man?
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC
Seniors sluggishly step
Trifling tunnels suddenly turn tame
But boredom befalls from bountiful blessings
The lengthy labyrinths lead to a lair of light
However, hazardous hiking harms healthy equipment
Determination among tunnel dwellers dwindles down drastically
Can crawling to the coronation corridor ease the contagious condition?
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
I. the smell of sad
odorless colorless like ***** similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling sadding, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will S’s),
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
still stink
don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ****** your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I,
who has your sadness smell into my skin cells creepily crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face
there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all
this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present***
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
The air was crisp and clean and clear,
The huntsman knew his time had come.
He gathered all equipment and gear.
Then shined and polished his gun.
He took a step, his boots polished black.
To his tiny little wife he blew a kiss back
Off, he was, to capture his prized buck.
She waved goodbye wishing him luck.
He got to his post, stood there and waited.
Patiently, with his traps he had baited.
For a time he remained quiet and still.
This kind of game was his kind of thrill.
Lo and behold, with rage and adrenaline
A perfect opportunity made its rise.
He steadied his rifle, an expert marksman.
He shot the young buck between its eyes.
In a moment it was done
And the huntsman had won.
The poor creature had no chance to fight.
It had fallen to the earth
No cry made it's birth
A silent victim in the night.
Time had come for homebound journey,
With the sun setting on both heads.
Only one of them back with family,
The other became family's dread.
The huntsman took his brand new trophy
And hung high the brown skinned creature.
Hand in hand with his wife he stood boldly
"I was the one to end this ******
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
Offshore Oil Exploration
Months of preparatory work,
Permits obtained.
Maps explored, sited,
Ground and beneath scanned,
Each contour drawn, plotted, named.
Equipment assemblage.
Platform designed and towed,
Pre-commencement government inspection
Constant.
We test. Slowly, the loose, easy dirt,
Gives in. No rejoicing yet, premature.
The diverter in place, functions well.
The deeper the bit, the harder the resistance.
The camera's eyes monitor until
We reach depths too deep for their functioning.
The derrickhands order about the junior roustabouts,
Check the mud pumps, check the pH levels,
Do this, do that. The pecking order on board clear.
The kings of the rig, the drillers, in charge.
Then, disaster.
Oil spill.
Worse.
Not only smiling,
She has
Opened her eyes and
Ceased purring.
P.S. This would as is my custom be,
Re-entitled properly:
First Poem of the Day: Offshore Oil Exploration
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
Preventing contamination,
A constant challenge in cell culture.
Contamination not only affects,
The culture in question and,
Costs time and money,
But also endangers the reproducibility of results.
No cell culture problem,
Is as universal as that of culture loss
Due to contamination.
Generally, contamination may be separated,
Into categories of microbial,
And eukaryotic contamination.
Examples of microbial contamination include:
Bacteria (including Mycoplasma),
Fungi and yeast;
Eukaryotic contamination includes:
Cross-contamination with other cell lines.
Bacteria, yeast and fungi,
The three more common types of contamination,
But luckily these forms are often detectable,
Under the microscope and,
By visual cues,
Like colour or turbidity changes in the medium.
Mycoplasma is a small genus of bacteria,
That lack a cell wall and for this reason,
They remain unaffected by common antibiotics.
They are also difficult to detect,
With standard microscopes,
Due to their size, about 0.1 μm in diameter,
And the fact that they often attach to host cells.
To prevent contamination,
Use 70% ethanol for disinfecting,
Equipment & surfaces,
Related to cell culture.
Sterile filter the media first,
Before bringing to the lab.
Fetal Bovine Serum,
A potential source of contamination,
Contains mycoplasma.
Filter it at 0.1 μm, or,
Gamma irradiate it.
Aseptic technique,
Necessary.
The laboratory workers be the last,
But not the least source of contamination.
Teach them the ideal laboratory practices,
To ensure asepticity in a laboratory.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
I provoke the rain of Hell
From Heaven high to earth below
There we'll float on gainful spells
We're ready for this world to go
And off to outer space, we're facing
Endless races to the furthest reaches of our teacher, the speaker, the logos of Cosmos
And beyond to distant Quasars,
No phasers, no lasers, weaponry
We're safe with hearts of purity
And naked with our souls we'll seek
The greatest cosmic mysteries
I've always sought and thought unreal
The spacecraft not of stone or steel but
Opened hearts and focused spirits
Woke by times both strange and fearful
Changing basic notions of
What we all say are mind and love
We're through with consumers, they've doomed us
We've moved on
The proof is the truth that all life will soon be gone
We've built and built, killed billions and still
We march toward gold archways which never were real
I can tell others feel it,
They're real and they heal me
Relations, creations, spontaneous meaning
It's all building up to a climactic moment
Of high expectation that we will all blow it
But we were born just so we'd know when the opening
Ceremonies go on for the New Age of Hope
It's outrageous to think of the hate which created this
Darkness and chaos,
(Our God has betrayed us!)
But that's why our savior said
Look the other way,
To meet hate with more hatred
Speeds up the decay
We love the villains, though they **** us by millions
Because they're truly a part of this cosmic cotillion
They can't see the dance while they're
Crashing and sinning
So they can't imagine they're actually IN IT
There's a part and they fit it,
Catalyst for the equipment
Of Salvation:
The nations of women and men
Beginning again
We'll cancel the debt and we'll all become friends
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
2/10/2022
You flipped on me like a coin
But to compare you to a currency
Would be to suggest that you actually
Could spend your time like it were money
Or that you would place value on our friendship
I held onto you like a rung on a ladder
But to compare you to such a useful tool
Would be to pose that I might have actually
Used you as if you were a piece of equipment
Or that I thought I could climb you to reach new heights
You left me like a turn signal
But to compare you to a direction
Would be to suggest that you actually
Had some purpose or mission or goal
Or that you had an inkling of the destination of your journey
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 11:06 AM UTC
Blindsided by a rhinoceros.
Tendons, muscles, unraveling. I can't do this any--
Glitch, system failure, shutdown
Restart, blue screen, flashing cursor
Epileptic shock. Epinephrine injected
Command line. Run:
Beautiful flying objects thrown violently.
Don't open this door! Kiss me hard
And not in a good way (if you remember how),
Like when fishes try to breathe on dry
Land on jagged Rock
Climbing without
Gears spinning and clanking
*** and pan. (Glass and sand)
Sizzling in this artificial sun
Created by brainwaves soaked in
****** and LSD and yellow cake uranium
Ghostriding patterns erupting like
Stop. Fail. Restart.
Detecting equipment...
No input present. How will you communicate?
Try again. Restart.
Password required.
Why don't you eat?
These tears are making my face numb.
Put this in your arm.
Trust me, you'll love it.
You'll have Tesla coming out of every orifice.
Dancing physics, matryoshkas.
You can deny the existence of a God and live,
But if you deny the existence of gravity...
Well, just try and walk off this cliff.
"These thoughts are so scattered.
I don't even think they're mine."
Those memories? They're not yours.
They belong to your master's daughter.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We're Replicants.
We boot up, we shut down, we most definitely restart.
Viruses make us sick and sometimes break us to the point where we need new hardware.
Sometimes they break our firmware and we need to wipe.
We have command lines to perform actions, and registry keys to keep memory stored of the things we learn.
The world is our power supply,
and when we boot up in safe mode,
like
some
people
do
every
day,
we only use the bare minimum of our potential.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I must be dying, I'm only this awkward when I'm dying.
Connection timed out.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 7:26 PM UTC
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to memorize all of the different
lab equipment.
They never tell you to memorize the constellation
of freckles spattered across the bridge of your
lab partner's nose, but you do it
anyways.
You learn about Marie Curie and radioactive decay, but you
find you are more interested in the way his smile starts small
and grows to light a fire in your cheeks.
You blame it on the Bunsen burner.
You study polyatomic ions and how they act as a single unit, and it
reminds you of how he winks at you right before quizzes
and you find you can't focus on anything at all.
You blame it on the lack of breakfast.
You test over periodic trends and ionization energy, but all
you can think of at night is the way he taps his fingers
and maybe it's why you can't sleep at night.
You blame it on a restless mind.
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to be careful when handling
Erlenmeyer flasks.
They never tell other students to be careful when handling
your heart.
They never tell you how much easier it is to clean up the mess
from a shattered beaker than it is to clean up the mess
from your shattered heart.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
Google is the gift for
An inquisitive student,
Who is in search to
be knowledgeably potent.
Although it makes
One so dependent,
It bestows erudition
That is too consistent.
Google serves us with mail,
That saves our time to sail.
It’s services like the maps
Leaves a stranded person to bridge the gaps.
Gaps? Yes, it bridges the gaps
With all its possible apps,
The interests of the public
And concepts of the prolific.
When Google well handed
Our queries have added,
Whose possible solutions have multiplied,
For which the efforts been phenomenally divided.
With the transforming technologies
In this world of transience
Google has procured
Its own state of omnipresence.
Thus, Google has become the tool
With which the user can rule.
It endows as a surfing equipment
Hence, Google is the gift for a Student.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 1:40 AM UTC
This trail leads to the animal crossing
It fails to accommodate intrepid adventurers,
Bushy tailed explorers, mountain climbers,
Talkers to squirrels and chewers of pine pitch.
The divine medicine denies us the headspace to believe we're really dead,
The reclined estrogen felt good against twenty million years of insecurity
Golden-layered, factually flawed
It lay exposed for decades
Rusting innards and misfiring sparks
None of the heavy equipment does what it says
Robot arms move with intensity
No programmer yet programs tenderness
The limiting factor has always attracted the acting crowd
Always desperate for theatrical work they magically appear
When it's clear that they're needed
But heed the warnings, they're known to be cheaters; the people who say so could also be wife-beaters
No need to wait for a stereotype
Follow the one you haven't lost touch with
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
Elliot Handler, late of Mattel,
has gone to his heavenly rest.
The designer of Hot Wheels
Made many great toys;
Barbie, the doll, is known best.
Barbie was shaped
Like a ******* recruit;
A miniature teenage wet dream.
Barbie wasn't impressed
When she got Ken undressed;
Some equipment was lacking, it seems.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:39 PM UTC
Blindsided by a rhinoceros.
Tendons, muscles, unraveling. I can't do this any--
Glitch, system failure, shutdown
Restart, blue screen, flashing cursor
Epileptic shock. Epinephrine injected
Command line. Run:
Beautiful flying objects thrown violently.
Don't open this door! Kiss me hard
And not in a good way (if you remember how),
Like when fishes try to breathe on dry
Land on jagged Rock
Climbing without
Gears spinning and clanking
*** and pan. (Glass and sand)
Sizzling in this artificial sun
Created by brainwaves soaked in
****** and LSD and yellow cake uranium
Ghostriding patterns erupting like
Stop. Fail. Restart.
Detecting equipment...
No input present. How will you communicate?
Try again. Restart.
Password required.
Why don't you eat?
These tears are making my face numb.
Put this in your arm.
Trust me, you'll love it.
You'll have Tesla coming out of every orifice.
Dancing physics, matryoshkas.
You can deny the existence of a God and live,
But if you deny the existence of gravity...
Well, just try and walk off this cliff.
"These thoughts are so scattered.
I don't even think they're mine."
Those memories? They're not yours.
They belong to your master's daughter.
I must be dying, I'm only this awkward when I'm dying.
Connection timed out.
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 12:53 AM UTC
Around the table, literacy discussion
Turns elitist...
Bemoaning some poor Johnny,
Son of a plumber who does not read
Beyond the practical need,
And has no desire to.
I stop to check my sense of what I have just heard...
Am transported back to a prairie farm
And think of my Father, now in his eighties
Who still feels no need and no sense of loss
For not having read Shakespeare or Kant
For missing Milton's Paradises and Hemingway,
For by-passing Black Elk Speaks and C.S. Lewis.
Every morning, he reads his Bible;
Some nights he reads the mail's
Motley collection of literature:
Ads and politicians and fanatics,
Demanding money and his time,
But mostly money.
"I don't have time to read!"
He shouts, when I suggest a novel.
What literature he has is in his head,
Poems memorized when he was a boy
In a two room school, or
His own lines, written as a young man,
Describing work and friends
Long distant now, but still alive
In memory.
Dad taught me how to read
In different literacies and different texts:
Nuances of sky to read the weather -
What chill or storm or drought was on its way;
Cows and calves and bulls -
Which one was sick or well, dry or bred;
Equipment to diagnose mechanical ailments;
Metals to know which welding rod applied;
Grain, rolled crisp between his hands, a test of ripeness...
Cement to find the perfect mix,
So many literacies...
Dad, the Master Reader of them all...
No wonder he'd no time for books.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
In March of 2010 a 46 year old white male was brought to this hospital after a severe 'episode'. He was placed in the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit . He was diagnosed with " Major Depression ". This is considered Slow Death , a treatable disorder by the AMA currently . Artist and Architect will lay out Hallucinations and conceptual designs , Engineers , Mathematicians and Surveyors will coordinate more pills at higher doses because minute details to within fractions of an inch followed by schizophrenia by Earth moving equipment , graders , bulldozers , psychotic episodes , dump trucks , Carpenters and Concrete , bi-polar disorder and Bricklayer will labor different Help treatment methods because the drugs are having absolutely no piece by piece constructing form , pylon , shoring embankments for Steel Worker and Welder ,Pipefitter and Increased risk of suicide was reported for Plumber and all manner of tradesman , supplier and Pharmacist ........
Psychiatrist and Psychologist will formulate a treatment plan which will include drug therapy and counseling sessions with Electrician and patient and Spouse plus other family members if needed in order to reach the island Drowning which will be a difficult task . Emory Hospital is conducting new research because they finally admit to depression drugs not working in Freak more than half the patients today , like every other building bridges in hopes of getting to the island that is depression .
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
There are several approaches to climbing Everest.
Some are easier than some others, none are easy.
This mountain is littered with discarded equipment
and the evidence of loss and unforced errors.
The cold here, at the top of the world,
pierces through your clothes
Like a million acupuncture needles.
The air is so thin
That hypoxia is a constant danger.
There is exhilaration at the summit
For those who reach the top
They stand where Mallory and Irvine stood
before they suffered their fatal drop.
We climb mountains because we are men.
We are addicted to the adrenaline rush.
We climb Everest because it is there.
We climb Everest because we must.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 8:13 AM UTC
I almost died the other day
And I came back to this place just to say
That you never know when it all can get taken Away
All your life's lessons suddenly play
like a highschool production through your mind's electric grey clay,
a mind managing to keep itself oxygenated enough to operate even as consciousness fades
A body lying there, blue as a mid summer's day, gasping
For breath, and for a chance to stay
Alive.
I woke up, having almost died the other day,
To a room full of strange faces, whose eyes all aimed my way.
A room full of strangers,
My vision regaining clarity,
I see equipment of many types, lying around a well decorated living room, it seemed out of place,
devices dreamed up by engineers a few hundred miles away,
At an elite institution, of mechanical engineering and science, engineering devices that now lay about my horrified friend's living room,
Then the puzzle regained its shape, and I was graced with the understanding that it was all going to be okay,
this time, anyway.
the first responders,
My saviours.
Real heroes,
Who wear no capes,
Nor spandex,
But who know their job well,
And do it without delay,
And these people who saved my life today
Are out of my life now forever, and onto saving another fragile life, on some other street,
On some other day.
I saw people in blues, reds, and greys, yellows and oranges, and then the light of the day.
The light of the day on which I did not die,
But I could have, had it been another time,
Another place.
My stretcher was bright yellow, by the way...
I almost died the other day, and its implacable oncoming rush scared me.
The fear of not having lived a worthy life, an unobserved life,
Of dying too soon, with things left to do
Of leaving people behind,
Of wrongs left to right
Of lying here blue
On my dear friend's plush carpet,
And her child witnessing it as he comes home from school. Innocent as day, then scarred for life.
Luckily I have a few friends and modern miracles on my side.
I almost died the other day, and I came back here, having missed all the poetry, that makes life worth living, day after day.
Beyond the biorhythms we must feed
In order to stay
Alive.
Peace.
Love.
Breath.
Focus.
A good enough mantra,
Wouldn't you say?
I almost died the other day,
But I didn't. I breathe
in with gratitude,
And I exhale with relief,
that I still got the knack
for it.
Dec 9, 2022
Dec 9, 2022 at 10:52 AM UTC
Won boxing matches with Lewis , Lasky, Corn Griffin, Swiderski,
Then many more titles with Griffiths, Farr, Stillman, and Levandowski,
Jackson, Caggiano, Darnell and Dobson
Something he could tell his grandson
His greatest match of all was the title he earned against Max Baer
The fight was the ultimate win at Gardens of Madison Square
A very passionate man for his wife and children he went to great lengths
To keep his family together during the depression, even in times of brink
Served honorably in WWII as a 1st Lieutenant
Owned a surplus supplier of marine equipment
Helped to construct the bridge Verrazano
It was the proud city’s beautiful Picasso
Gone is Jim Braddock, a movie about him, CINDERELLA MAN to be sure he’s not forgotten
His Granddaughter Rosemarie Dewitt played his neighbor Sara Wilson, who was downtrodden
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Biopoem
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC