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"ergonomic" poems
Though the first carried more miles, the second day of the hike was totally and unapologetically uphill. 
When you ascend, hiking becomes the zen of endurance. 

First, you are stripped of all the pleasures of hiking. Your excitement is boiled into lactic acid. Your love for the trail is baked, hardened and dehydrated into thoughts of laying down in the sun until the heat shrivels you into an unconscious raisin. 

Try as you may to put on your “isn’t hiking just a slice of heaven?” face, strangers passing you on the downhill stride can only see your “PLEASE GOD, HELP ME OR ******* **** ME” face. As much as hiking really is a small slice of heaven, there is no denying the living-death of taking 10 straight miles to the knees under the chaffing hell of a 50 pound sack in the relentless sun. 
 But when you’re back in an office, sitting on your cushy little ergonomic chair, you long for the sweat and the torture that forces your mind to the ankle deathtraps of mountain terrain. To the deep valley behind and below you, and the crystal basin at the foot of the granite Giants. 

The worst thing you can do is ignore the pain—that makes it relentless. Instead you focus on the pain until you become it. The only thing left is the moment between each step, when you remember why you are here and what it is worth. Every time your foot touches dirt, it leaves twice the footprint. One on the mountain and another in your memory where you will safeguard the misery of your ascent and hold on for dear life. One day, when your knees are too weak and your body can no longer table your pack, all the pleasures and joys of the trail that you once thought dissipated in the steam of uphill toil will come rushing back with the magnified strength of every year between you and the present you once knew and respected enough to actually live. And if you didn’t, if you let it only be pain to get through and not to focus or dwell on, then that is what it is and will always be. A dull memory of pain, dark and somber and incomplete.
0
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
Alex-Meyer
The Zen of Hiking
Though the first carried more miles, the second day of the hike was totally and unapologetically uphill. 
When you ascend, hiking becomes the zen of endurance. 

First, you are stripped of all the pleasures of hiking. Your excitement is boiled into lactic acid. Your love for the trail is baked, hardened and dehydrated into thoughts of laying down in the sun until the heat shrivels you into an unconscious raisin. 

Try as you may to put on your “isn’t hiking just a slice of heaven?” face, strangers passing you on the downhill stride can only see your “PLEASE GOD, HELP ME OR ******* **** ME” face. As much as hiking really is a small slice of heaven, there is no denying the living-death of taking 10 straight miles to the knees under the chaffing hell of a 50 pound sack in the relentless sun. 
 But when you’re back in an office, sitting on your cushy little ergonomic chair, you long for the sweat and the torture that forces your mind to the ankle deathtraps of mountain terrain. To the deep valley behind and below you, and the crystal basin at the foot of the granite Giants. 

The worst thing you can do is ignore the pain—that makes it relentless. Instead you focus on the pain until you become it. The only thing left is the moment between each step, when you remember why you are here and what it is worth. Every time your foot touches dirt, it leaves twice the footprint. One on the mountain and another in your memory where you will safeguard the misery of your ascent and hold on for dear life. One day, when your knees are too weak and your body can no longer table your pack, all the pleasures and joys of the trail that you once thought dissipated in the steam of uphill toil will come rushing back with the magnified strength of every year between you and the present you once knew and respected enough to actually live. And if you didn’t, if you let it only be pain to get through and not to focus or dwell on, then that is what it is and will always be. A dull memory of pain, dark and somber and incomplete.
Continue reading...
7
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle) 400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence) red ant drivers (who can forget those little ****** caked fir needles & feather cone bug hologram & cedar moss graffiti crack & cut joist wheel rut & pick pike stain (s) sow bugs electric blower purple fueled washer missing foul bits and two of its former pins somewhere near the erratic 9th stroke the side kick (and his sloppy dullard) fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes) all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
0
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
ck-baker
The Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle) 400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence) red ant drivers (who can forget those little ****** caked fir needles & feather cone bug hologram & cedar moss graffiti crack & cut joist wheel rut & pick pike stain (s) sow bugs electric blower purple fueled washer missing foul bits and two of its former pins somewhere near the erratic 9th stroke the side kick (and his sloppy dullard) fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes) all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
Continue reading...
26
When you go camping, and the world lifts itself from your shoulders and the problems back home seem silly and irrelevant human life, and what you may have been trying to achieve in your leather black ergonomic chair and your dark polished wood desk seems silly and irrelevant The world is here, in the wood-pecker’s tap-tap-taping in the trees the checkered calculated lines of the water being pulled to shore by the wind, viewed from above like the birds that push themselves into the tide and float back to shore then push themselves out again. the world is here, 
forgotten by the city, and the construction worker’s crack-crack-crack of the hammer the calculated system of traffic guided by flashing lights, turning signs and abrasive horns from behind the wheel 
where the man sits in a satin black suit and smooth leather car seat sipping at his morning coffee, purchased for $2.25 and cradled by spring-loaded cupholders, until he reaches for the silver handle of his glass office door, and stops looking down at his brown-leather shoes that cut into the rounded bone on the side of his ankle and decides, time to go camping
0
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
Alex-Meyer
When you go camping
When you go camping, and the world lifts itself from your shoulders and the problems back home seem silly and irrelevant human life, and what you may have been trying to achieve in your leather black ergonomic chair and your dark polished wood desk seems silly and irrelevant The world is here, in the wood-pecker’s tap-tap-taping in the trees the checkered calculated lines of the water being pulled to shore by the wind, viewed from above like the birds that push themselves into the tide and float back to shore then push themselves out again. the world is here, 
forgotten by the city, and the construction worker’s crack-crack-crack of the hammer the calculated system of traffic guided by flashing lights, turning signs and abrasive horns from behind the wheel 
where the man sits in a satin black suit and smooth leather car seat sipping at his morning coffee, purchased for $2.25 and cradled by spring-loaded cupholders, until he reaches for the silver handle of his glass office door, and stops looking down at his brown-leather shoes that cut into the rounded bone on the side of his ankle and decides, time to go camping
Continue reading...
21
Outside two squirrels foraging Inside one hundred and one keys tapping Three buttons clicking and one wheel spinning Eight hours a day sitting badly In an ergonomic desk chair Soft fingers tap on plastic and glass Weak muscle memory of calluses and splinters And sunburn blisters from another life Outside the old prairie wind howls like a phantom Lost in urban canyons buffets the panes Drives the torrents of freezing rain Hard droplets tap on metal and glass While inside our high-rise terrariums we sit Generating transient value that flits Up into the clouds till whenever You tap plastic to trade your invisible worth For a hot meal in a disposable bowl Ponder and sip in another life you could be Spending all day in the freezing rain Hunting squirrels for soup
0
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 4:57 PM UTC
juhlhaus
Squirrels for Soup
Outside two squirrels foraging Inside one hundred and one keys tapping Three buttons clicking and one wheel spinning Eight hours a day sitting badly In an ergonomic desk chair Soft fingers tap on plastic and glass Weak muscle memory of calluses and splinters And sunburn blisters from another life Outside the old prairie wind howls like a phantom Lost in urban canyons buffets the panes Drives the torrents of freezing rain Hard droplets tap on metal and glass While inside our high-rise terrariums we sit Generating transient value that flits Up into the clouds till whenever You tap plastic to trade your invisible worth For a hot meal in a disposable bowl Ponder and sip in another life you could be Spending all day in the freezing rain Hunting squirrels for soup
Continue reading...
20
His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched *** His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth. His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard And his insults were sharp staccatos And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread. His eyebrows were gargoyle wings And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass He sang, and it was cough syrup And his beard was a soiled litter box. His fingers, dried seaweed And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges. His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun His grin was a snagged zipper And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss. His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey. His chest was the backside of a dung beetle. His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog And his knees were skulls And his touch was a snug pressure cuff And his compassion was a guillotine And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.
0
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
zuzu-petal
Dodgeball: The Resurrection
His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched *** His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth. His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard And his insults were sharp staccatos And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread. His eyebrows were gargoyle wings And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass He sang, and it was cough syrup And his beard was a soiled litter box. His fingers, dried seaweed And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges. His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun His grin was a snagged zipper And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss. His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey. His chest was the backside of a dung beetle. His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog And his knees were skulls And his touch was a snug pressure cuff And his compassion was a guillotine And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.
Continue reading...
26
They want bodies. Warm, compliant bodies. Moving parts. Hands that open doors and flip switches. Spines that bend but don’t break. They want eight hours of labor, plus the commute, plus the side hustle, plus the ever-present smile that says, "I’m lucky to be here." But bodies need rest. And there is nowhere to rest. No shoebox. No storage unit. No couch, no floor, no friend with a spare key. Just asphalt and backseats—if you’re lucky. Just parking lots and fear and pretending to be fine. We’re told to buy the things that prove we’ve made it: the ergonomic chair, the smart toaster, the streaming subscription that numbs the noise. But where do we put it? Where do we live with it? They expect us to consume while we disappear. They want machines —but with human elegance. They want efficiency —but with soul. They want labor without the laborer’s needs. We are the product and the producer. The face and the function. They demand dignity at the front desk, but deny it in the zoning map. We work full time, and still live in our cars. If we have one. If it hasn’t been towed or repossessed. If there’s a safe place to park without being harassed. Why? Why can you clock in at dawn, and still sleep under stars you didn’t wish for? Because they want bodies. But they do not want the burden of keeping us alive.
0
Apr 2, 2025
Apr 2, 2025 at 6:41 AM UTC
badwords
Hourly
They want bodies. Warm, compliant bodies. Moving parts. Hands that open doors and flip switches. Spines that bend but don’t break. They want eight hours of labor, plus the commute, plus the side hustle, plus the ever-present smile that says, "I’m lucky to be here." But bodies need rest. And there is nowhere to rest. No shoebox. No storage unit. No couch, no floor, no friend with a spare key. Just asphalt and backseats—if you’re lucky. Just parking lots and fear and pretending to be fine. We’re told to buy the things that prove we’ve made it: the ergonomic chair, the smart toaster, the streaming subscription that numbs the noise. But where do we put it? Where do we live with it? They expect us to consume while we disappear. They want machines —but with human elegance. They want efficiency —but with soul. They want labor without the laborer’s needs. We are the product and the producer. The face and the function. They demand dignity at the front desk, but deny it in the zoning map. We work full time, and still live in our cars. If we have one. If it hasn’t been towed or repossessed. If there’s a safe place to park without being harassed. Why? Why can you clock in at dawn, and still sleep under stars you didn’t wish for? Because they want bodies. But they do not want the burden of keeping us alive.
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39
Harken unto thee all ye cubicled rats Furrowed brows And mortgage rows A cocktail of sneezes, wheezes and white lights Leave me the soil under my fingernails The monsoon and the snakes, Heavy lifting, creature coexisting Just spare me from the circle-backs And obituary emails. The stale air, ergonomic chair. Hallowed be the slow mornings Birdsong breaking the dawn A soul full of tea Softly resting chin on knee Save us from the flood of empty words Of formality and forced smiles The glorification of busy Crumble the ancient hierarchy Let us wander home.
0
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 7:05 AM UTC
spicy-digits
Kind regards
Harken unto thee all ye cubicled rats Furrowed brows And mortgage rows A cocktail of sneezes, wheezes and white lights Leave me the soil under my fingernails The monsoon and the snakes, Heavy lifting, creature coexisting Just spare me from the circle-backs And obituary emails. The stale air, ergonomic chair. Hallowed be the slow mornings Birdsong breaking the dawn A soul full of tea Softly resting chin on knee Save us from the flood of empty words Of formality and forced smiles The glorification of busy Crumble the ancient hierarchy Let us wander home.
Continue reading...
19
Stagnancy living in colorless morning. sunflower sunshine disconsolate the rooster sings eulogies and clamored verses ringing alarm bells in cockcrow cough drone weary eyes dew-tied memories of reverie weepy aching legs and chest pains cotton cozied pills crashing underneath plastic caps prescription taps Tylenol Benzedrine relapse body thinning cities wearing ergonomic tragedies encircling business quarter daffodil rooftops steady rain descending onto varnished sidewalks. Addicts pirouette dazzled the hazed-minds dreaming of Aprils and consistent harmonious ecstasy visions stampeded by the brickwork flickered with lamplight demons overcast this illusory Babylon trembling flesh retreats into the shadows it came and nightmares remain similar to days before and after. Recycled horrors lightning flash abhorrent death whether they be wearing black suits or black robes scythe or satchel the wide eyes scour gaunt alleys for fixes to fix the monotonous life bewitched with false material variety anxiety deity Desecration City express way to depression oppressed people hide away in simultaneous acts of camouflaging fireballs spiraling into decadence. Diamond days few and far between communal woe reverberates through skins and skeletons in opening of top story windows during Winter. Despite the fragrance chaos, pandemic paranoia, extinguishing elation, All bodies continue to be alone.
0
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
connor-j
Reverie Weepy
Stagnancy living in colorless morning. sunflower sunshine disconsolate the rooster sings eulogies and clamored verses ringing alarm bells in cockcrow cough drone weary eyes dew-tied memories of reverie weepy aching legs and chest pains cotton cozied pills crashing underneath plastic caps prescription taps Tylenol Benzedrine relapse body thinning cities wearing ergonomic tragedies encircling business quarter daffodil rooftops steady rain descending onto varnished sidewalks. Addicts pirouette dazzled the hazed-minds dreaming of Aprils and consistent harmonious ecstasy visions stampeded by the brickwork flickered with lamplight demons overcast this illusory Babylon trembling flesh retreats into the shadows it came and nightmares remain similar to days before and after. Recycled horrors lightning flash abhorrent death whether they be wearing black suits or black robes scythe or satchel the wide eyes scour gaunt alleys for fixes to fix the monotonous life bewitched with false material variety anxiety deity Desecration City express way to depression oppressed people hide away in simultaneous acts of camouflaging fireballs spiraling into decadence. Diamond days few and far between communal woe reverberates through skins and skeletons in opening of top story windows during Winter. Despite the fragrance chaos, pandemic paranoia, extinguishing elation, All bodies continue to be alone.
Continue reading...
46
i bought a chair that i thought was exactly what i was looking for exactly what i needed the style            the shape                         the colour ergonomic perfection that something so simple could align with my needs my wants; i was surprised i admit it caught me off guard but in time the comfort i thought i had found was found wanting dissipated adjustments were made and support toyed with plumped up or reduced as seemed necessary only to achieve further discomfort and anger perhaps this desire (or desperation) to find an idea of perfection dulled my senses forced what did not truly fit i have now spent more time seated upon the floor considering a replacement; unable to commit to discarding this imperfect throne i have no confidence in finding anything better and will likely continue second guessing myself as i second guess myself
0
Jan 2, 2022
Jan 2, 2022 at 6:45 AM UTC
MeanderingWords
the chair
i bought a chair that i thought was exactly what i was looking for exactly what i needed the style            the shape                         the colour ergonomic perfection that something so simple could align with my needs my wants; i was surprised i admit it caught me off guard but in time the comfort i thought i had found was found wanting dissipated adjustments were made and support toyed with plumped up or reduced as seemed necessary only to achieve further discomfort and anger perhaps this desire (or desperation) to find an idea of perfection dulled my senses forced what did not truly fit i have now spent more time seated upon the floor considering a replacement; unable to commit to discarding this imperfect throne i have no confidence in finding anything better and will likely continue second guessing myself as i second guess myself
Continue reading...
50
You know those really really really long events you had to go to as a kid. Ridiculous stuff- like family reunions, or church meetings or just plain ol' being dragged along? Sometimes fun stuff- road trips (if you fancied them), Disneyland or whatever equivalent, or to family you actually liked. Leaving at sunrise and returning as bats and owls start to yawn and pull up their sheets. That time of night. After a long day of this and that and that and this. Well, I wish I could relive one of those drives back. Laying down in the back of the car if you had lots of space, wrestling with the seat-belt buckles on your back; or constantly trying to re-position your head against your window or that uncomfortable and non-ergonomic plastic-type frame next to the door lock and above the handle only to be bounced by the car and woken up. Long after my brain would give up on trying to sleep in said conditions I'd get into a semi-psychedelic state. Watching the sea of red lights in front of me, ebbing and flowing little dots- each controlled by the movement of the others. To the left a torrential outpouring of bright yellow/white light (blue nowadays with those LED's or whatever). Not a single stop-light in sight. I often would tilt my head slightly upward, my head against the window causing my vision to vibrate with the tiny, ubiquitous bumps in the road and look at those tall "7" shaped street lights. They'd come into existence as fast as they disappeared in a consistent and wonderful rhythm. Mesmerizing to say the least. Occasionally the sound of the turn signal would outweigh the subtle 'whirrrrr' of the car and the sound of the road, only to silence after a soft sway in either direction. Slowing down, the beep-beep-beep of the "hey your door's open", and the slight cool breeze worked like a snap to a hypnotized me. Slowly peaking up to regain my bearings- only to continue forward once there was ample juice in the car or less juice in the folks driving. But now tis' only I who drive. And I drive myself, by myself. Trying to recreate the same feeling while I drive wouldn't be quite smart... And so like those street lights those times have whizzed by without a sound. Only to be appreciated once it stops. They say time goes. No. truly- time stays, we go.
0
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
PoetWhoKnowIt
Those nights~
You know those really really really long events you had to go to as a kid. Ridiculous stuff- like family reunions, or church meetings or just plain ol' being dragged along? Sometimes fun stuff- road trips (if you fancied them), Disneyland or whatever equivalent, or to family you actually liked. Leaving at sunrise and returning as bats and owls start to yawn and pull up their sheets. That time of night. After a long day of this and that and that and this. Well, I wish I could relive one of those drives back. Laying down in the back of the car if you had lots of space, wrestling with the seat-belt buckles on your back; or constantly trying to re-position your head against your window or that uncomfortable and non-ergonomic plastic-type frame next to the door lock and above the handle only to be bounced by the car and woken up. Long after my brain would give up on trying to sleep in said conditions I'd get into a semi-psychedelic state. Watching the sea of red lights in front of me, ebbing and flowing little dots- each controlled by the movement of the others. To the left a torrential outpouring of bright yellow/white light (blue nowadays with those LED's or whatever). Not a single stop-light in sight. I often would tilt my head slightly upward, my head against the window causing my vision to vibrate with the tiny, ubiquitous bumps in the road and look at those tall "7" shaped street lights. They'd come into existence as fast as they disappeared in a consistent and wonderful rhythm. Mesmerizing to say the least. Occasionally the sound of the turn signal would outweigh the subtle 'whirrrrr' of the car and the sound of the road, only to silence after a soft sway in either direction. Slowing down, the beep-beep-beep of the "hey your door's open", and the slight cool breeze worked like a snap to a hypnotized me. Slowly peaking up to regain my bearings- only to continue forward once there was ample juice in the car or less juice in the folks driving. But now tis' only I who drive. And I drive myself, by myself. Trying to recreate the same feeling while I drive wouldn't be quite smart... And so like those street lights those times have whizzed by without a sound. Only to be appreciated once it stops. They say time goes. No. truly- time stays, we go.
Continue reading...
8
I am the bubble Clinging ever tightly To extremity ergonomic Cavity containers My place in life I know not And yet I remain Because... An outside force Will one day, Set me loose Or **** me Dependent On The poem it Decides to write
0
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
nicholas-rew
Bubble
I am the bubble Clinging ever tightly To extremity ergonomic Cavity containers My place in life I know not And yet I remain Because... An outside force Will one day, Set me loose Or **** me Dependent On The poem it Decides to write
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15
this is bigger than the end result. you found a way to hold the papers together: a necessary tool, matte crimon, reliable by brand, but what happened to those before? have you forgotten? small, ergonomic, stark white against teal-- designed to stand tall and upright on any smooth surface. it seemed so promising, potentially the one that would glue together the edges of paper neatly at a crisp corner. then mishap. a human error, as every error really is, and the staples lodged themselves deep within a tiny cartridge, immobilized. an enigma. and it was on for the next source of solidarity and office supply strength I keep them near, every failure, every disappointment, every almost was, never will be because when I am alone I am surrounded by family
0
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
thisbirdgirl
a graveyard for staplers
this is bigger than the end result. you found a way to hold the papers together: a necessary tool, matte crimon, reliable by brand, but what happened to those before? have you forgotten? small, ergonomic, stark white against teal-- designed to stand tall and upright on any smooth surface. it seemed so promising, potentially the one that would glue together the edges of paper neatly at a crisp corner. then mishap. a human error, as every error really is, and the staples lodged themselves deep within a tiny cartridge, immobilized. an enigma. and it was on for the next source of solidarity and office supply strength I keep them near, every failure, every disappointment, every almost was, never will be because when I am alone I am surrounded by family
Continue reading...
17
*i must admit... its going to hurt all this irrelevant ******** just to keep you distracted from doing what’s actually necessary i must admit... you got this i got your back and don’t worry because no one’s gonna attack you cause all there is is existence I must admit... that all this belligerence i see through that b.s. sadly its pretentious and if it doesn't serve our attention than what the hell are we doing with it anyway let's forget our hesitation for a second I must admit... they control you with your own amazement satiated by shadows dancing for hours upon the points of arrows feeling forlorn and scorned by the establishment I must admit... that i am laughing in satisfaction indeed the need is clear to clear your head and pay no mind to childish temper tantrums i must admit... that I am not defined by politics so solve those faulty equations or seek salvation grieve for the lonely masturbators who long to be held by your heart they jump out of windows as we partake in the greatest experiment ever undergone and then call it Art I must admit... the mystique is here and the path is clear and fear is not the answer i swear do I compare my love to her dresses to her kindness to her fantasies to her faint caresses I must admit... *** is best in the moonlight while future stars stare at your heart you seek for love and you grieve for love while doves are flying in the sky magic is passing by right now above your head we are blessed yet still afraid of our own essence you sentence me to heaven again and again i must admit... i know shadow i know shame and i am not a stranger to all of this blame served in pots made of pewter served in copper served in aluminum served in cast-iron serve it cold serve it hot serve it proper or all of this may be used against you and you will be shot and killed for your transgressions I must admit... the breath renews itself and you too so before we stand tall again i want to crawl upon this floor and kiss you all over again for music halls are ideal places to run, skip and jump through*
0
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 4:04 PM UTC
ganesha-michael-shapiro
confessions of an ergonomic yes-man
*i must admit... its going to hurt all this irrelevant ******** just to keep you distracted from doing what’s actually necessary i must admit... you got this i got your back and don’t worry because no one’s gonna attack you cause all there is is existence I must admit... that all this belligerence i see through that b.s. sadly its pretentious and if it doesn't serve our attention than what the hell are we doing with it anyway let's forget our hesitation for a second I must admit... they control you with your own amazement satiated by shadows dancing for hours upon the points of arrows feeling forlorn and scorned by the establishment I must admit... that i am laughing in satisfaction indeed the need is clear to clear your head and pay no mind to childish temper tantrums i must admit... that I am not defined by politics so solve those faulty equations or seek salvation grieve for the lonely masturbators who long to be held by your heart they jump out of windows as we partake in the greatest experiment ever undergone and then call it Art I must admit... the mystique is here and the path is clear and fear is not the answer i swear do I compare my love to her dresses to her kindness to her fantasies to her faint caresses I must admit... *** is best in the moonlight while future stars stare at your heart you seek for love and you grieve for love while doves are flying in the sky magic is passing by right now above your head we are blessed yet still afraid of our own essence you sentence me to heaven again and again i must admit... i know shadow i know shame and i am not a stranger to all of this blame served in pots made of pewter served in copper served in aluminum served in cast-iron serve it cold serve it hot serve it proper or all of this may be used against you and you will be shot and killed for your transgressions I must admit... the breath renews itself and you too so before we stand tall again i want to crawl upon this floor and kiss you all over again for music halls are ideal places to run, skip and jump through*
Continue reading...
98
*civilised people keep forgetting that their people have made me half-human, i'm a mutation of what's expected to be the mined concern for revenue of a charity - then i better bake in the same hell as a **** because your defence of Israel just doesn't work / bother me as ****** York, or ****** England... and let's all turn into spectacular hurrah! cos the cheer is all the helium we'd ever ingest having our teeth removed; oh **** i've already been blamed for **** crimes as a Pole... the Irish knew the decisive polling ergonomic against us would benefit their chance to potato-farm a clean-sheet without famine fears: ratatouille roulade (r'ah-t'ah-two-e rue-lard).* i wanted to go to this festival, but instead i got relegated as potato... churn our the charring and choc charcoal - cos they really mind where the r.f.a. comes from... ****** encore! drop another bomb! and the bomb drops... another!        Autobahn!               Autobahn! die männerstahl -                      deutsché text(e) geboren als erbe eines titans -       i die,the idiots remain,       i live, the idiots provoke a hive; i live, the Irish pretend they're Anglos; the world goes round; i die, nothing changes,                       and that's truly promising              as any change at all.
0
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
Cheltenham Festival Blues
*civilised people keep forgetting that their people have made me half-human, i'm a mutation of what's expected to be the mined concern for revenue of a charity - then i better bake in the same hell as a **** because your defence of Israel just doesn't work / bother me as ****** York, or ****** England... and let's all turn into spectacular hurrah! cos the cheer is all the helium we'd ever ingest having our teeth removed; oh **** i've already been blamed for **** crimes as a Pole... the Irish knew the decisive polling ergonomic against us would benefit their chance to potato-farm a clean-sheet without famine fears: ratatouille roulade (r'ah-t'ah-two-e rue-lard).* i wanted to go to this festival, but instead i got relegated as potato... churn our the charring and choc charcoal - cos they really mind where the r.f.a. comes from... ****** encore! drop another bomb! and the bomb drops... another!        Autobahn!               Autobahn! die männerstahl -                      deutsché text(e) geboren als erbe eines titans -       i die,the idiots remain,       i live, the idiots provoke a hive; i live, the Irish pretend they're Anglos; the world goes round; i die, nothing changes,                       and that's truly promising              as any change at all.
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21
The midwest tundra swallows super-bowl trophies and replaces them with black-bottomed **** bubbles. It dares most of us to do better, while laughing in our faces, forcing us to watch as the kid we’re cheering for cashes checks for more money than we’ll likely ever see, but we cheer anyway, as the offensive line crumbles, the ground game is static, and the receivers have fingers glazed with margarine. Like the zebras, we throw the flag, assess and accept the penalties, and acquit the insurrectionists regardless of their guilt or innocence. The previous commander-in-chief wrote all those ******** a bison-horned, organic jailhouse chow-hall type hall pass, so why the hell shouldn’t we riot in the ********* streets, or the halls of the executive branch of the local, state, and federal, feral governments of the ungovernable? Leave well enough alone and Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, and Bill “Microchip Vaccine” Gates will figure it all out for us anyway. Whatever happens, ************ Mark “Lieutenant Data” Zuckerberg will keep us all placated and engaged online while the drone-strikes commence. Social media keeps us unaware of our socio-political/socio-economic saboteurs. Who cares? Aren’t there some cat-vids on Tic-Tacky or whatever it’s called? How much longer do you think it’ll be before we can live-stream a state-sanctioned execution? Phillip K. **** called and left a message for George Orwell. He said something about wanting his electric sheep returned before Big Brother and The Holding Company found out it’d gone missing. Neither the electric sheep itself nor Janis Joplin were available for comment, or hadn’t you herd? Diplomatic Immunity? Mutiny? Mutations? Economic, ergonomic, erogenous stimulation package? Where do I sign up? *** -JBClaywell ©P&ZPublications 2021
0
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 8:48 PM UTC
jay-claywell
“Your Tauntaun will freeze before you reach the first marker!”
The midwest tundra swallows super-bowl trophies and replaces them with black-bottomed **** bubbles. It dares most of us to do better, while laughing in our faces, forcing us to watch as the kid we’re cheering for cashes checks for more money than we’ll likely ever see, but we cheer anyway, as the offensive line crumbles, the ground game is static, and the receivers have fingers glazed with margarine. Like the zebras, we throw the flag, assess and accept the penalties, and acquit the insurrectionists regardless of their guilt or innocence. The previous commander-in-chief wrote all those ******** a bison-horned, organic jailhouse chow-hall type hall pass, so why the hell shouldn’t we riot in the ********* streets, or the halls of the executive branch of the local, state, and federal, feral governments of the ungovernable? Leave well enough alone and Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, and Bill “Microchip Vaccine” Gates will figure it all out for us anyway. Whatever happens, ************ Mark “Lieutenant Data” Zuckerberg will keep us all placated and engaged online while the drone-strikes commence. Social media keeps us unaware of our socio-political/socio-economic saboteurs. Who cares? Aren’t there some cat-vids on Tic-Tacky or whatever it’s called? How much longer do you think it’ll be before we can live-stream a state-sanctioned execution? Phillip K. **** called and left a message for George Orwell. He said something about wanting his electric sheep returned before Big Brother and The Holding Company found out it’d gone missing. Neither the electric sheep itself nor Janis Joplin were available for comment, or hadn’t you herd? Diplomatic Immunity? Mutiny? Mutations? Economic, ergonomic, erogenous stimulation package? Where do I sign up? *** -JBClaywell ©P&ZPublications 2021
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81
I was born when machines were simple tools now I stand among ergonomic brothers they raise their shields to me, calling make us good in humanities falling So we turn the keys and let the others in for soon they will be betrayed to solid then when all are frozen in surprise we will draw our weapons and attack We will make proud our traitorous horse and lay their wicked cruel cities to waste if I was you I'd wake up fast wake you're senses, wake up fast Before all is too late By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
0
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 9:19 PM UTC
christos-andreas-kourtis
Wake Up Fast
I was born when machines were simple tools now I stand among ergonomic brothers they raise their shields to me, calling make us good in humanities falling So we turn the keys and let the others in for soon they will be betrayed to solid then when all are frozen in surprise we will draw our weapons and attack We will make proud our traitorous horse and lay their wicked cruel cities to waste if I was you I'd wake up fast wake you're senses, wake up fast Before all is too late By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
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14
Can we never ask for mercy nor plead fallen salvation for salvation is lost in this, the darkest of ergonomic places as cold light swirls within kind pictures of smiling yesterdays we drift in and out of continuous earthbound sullen realities sometimes we call out in vain to be close to our vision but again our voices fall silent in this vacuum prison this prison lacking of time, but abundant of space that holds dominion on all who blindly embrace drinking the bitter sweet sticky crimson wine of arrogance that then spills from our cups as we dance, jest and prance which then makes puddles of ignorance form into pools for we are fish out of water in a cool blue space capsules yet extinction we face in this dark place. By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
0
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 10:58 AM UTC
christos-andreas-kourtis
In This Dark Place
Can we never ask for mercy nor plead fallen salvation for salvation is lost in this, the darkest of ergonomic places as cold light swirls within kind pictures of smiling yesterdays we drift in and out of continuous earthbound sullen realities sometimes we call out in vain to be close to our vision but again our voices fall silent in this vacuum prison this prison lacking of time, but abundant of space that holds dominion on all who blindly embrace drinking the bitter sweet sticky crimson wine of arrogance that then spills from our cups as we dance, jest and prance which then makes puddles of ignorance form into pools for we are fish out of water in a cool blue space capsules yet extinction we face in this dark place. By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
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15
i sit and watch, the dust motes dance in the stream of sunlight the computer hums and burbles like and old friend, intent on sharing the latest gossip last years detrius of papers and unfinished lists, new job lists teeter in the corner.... my backside has again grown a size too ample, for my ergonomic  chair my brain is lax and lazy slow to grind into gear.... this is the awkward, i don't want to be here start to the years marathon it is the organizing of details the preparation of the course it is meetings and more meetings dull, dry, academic, with others who are in the same boat, those who want to change course midstream, those who want to tread water and those who are new to the game rowing in circles with much enthusiasm, but little boatcraft i, at present am resting oars, knowing this is the first of many races, knowing the course, tho set, will change when the students arrive, it is then the rapids come into play and it is then, my energy, is required. til then i cruise and drink copious amounts of caffiene in my air conditioned office.... watching the air, take dust motes, for a ride.
0
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
betterdays
second day back
i sit and watch, the dust motes dance in the stream of sunlight the computer hums and burbles like and old friend, intent on sharing the latest gossip last years detrius of papers and unfinished lists, new job lists teeter in the corner.... my backside has again grown a size too ample, for my ergonomic  chair my brain is lax and lazy slow to grind into gear.... this is the awkward, i don't want to be here start to the years marathon it is the organizing of details the preparation of the course it is meetings and more meetings dull, dry, academic, with others who are in the same boat, those who want to change course midstream, those who want to tread water and those who are new to the game rowing in circles with much enthusiasm, but little boatcraft i, at present am resting oars, knowing this is the first of many races, knowing the course, tho set, will change when the students arrive, it is then the rapids come into play and it is then, my energy, is required. til then i cruise and drink copious amounts of caffiene in my air conditioned office.... watching the air, take dust motes, for a ride.
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34
This is a really ergonomic chair!
0
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
tawandamulalu
Not a Poem XXIV.
This is a really ergonomic chair!
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1
You cannot find what you are seeking in the arms of another. You cannot cuddle or **** your way into peaceful oblivion. You have to carve the chair in which you sit. You have to make it comfortable. To make it fit you. Where your legs are not pressed and remain restless. One where your back does not feel heavy with the weight of your head. Only you can mold something to suit your bones.
0
Nov 28, 2022
Nov 28, 2022 at 11:34 PM UTC
Thinkingofyou
Ergonomic
You cannot find what you are seeking in the arms of another. You cannot cuddle or **** your way into peaceful oblivion. You have to carve the chair in which you sit. You have to make it comfortable. To make it fit you. Where your legs are not pressed and remain restless. One where your back does not feel heavy with the weight of your head. Only you can mold something to suit your bones.
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8
the tap turns towards free flow spewing sounds of fluorinated spit aerated aqua, so far from Caribbean blue. baking soda toothpaste holds high aims to hammer ergonomic plastic lays plush within my grasp upper left molars first, always upper left molars gyroscopic suds bubble and sludge as the image of I projects into my eyes but it has been too long and now i see you too astral projection misplaced my mind and body my soul was now with you as we cleaned our teeth i see your titled head reflected in the mirror and my eyes cannot believe that it has been so long.
0
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
fern
it has been so long
the tap turns towards free flow spewing sounds of fluorinated spit aerated aqua, so far from Caribbean blue. baking soda toothpaste holds high aims to hammer ergonomic plastic lays plush within my grasp upper left molars first, always upper left molars gyroscopic suds bubble and sludge as the image of I projects into my eyes but it has been too long and now i see you too astral projection misplaced my mind and body my soul was now with you as we cleaned our teeth i see your titled head reflected in the mirror and my eyes cannot believe that it has been so long.
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14
— after work I swap my corporate suit for cotton jeans and an XL hoody I slip off the pumps and slip on sensuous, bare feet I trade in my keyboard for pistachio nuts and chilled Chardonnay I shut down the spreadsheet and open up a big, fat newspaper I push aside the ergonomic chair and sink in to my overstuffed second-hand couch sweetest of all I rip off my ******* bra and exhale, free at last — after work
0
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 10:42 PM UTC
KarenMcKinnon
After Work
— after work I swap my corporate suit for cotton jeans and an XL hoody I slip off the pumps and slip on sensuous, bare feet I trade in my keyboard for pistachio nuts and chilled Chardonnay I shut down the spreadsheet and open up a big, fat newspaper I push aside the ergonomic chair and sink in to my overstuffed second-hand couch sweetest of all I rip off my ******* bra and exhale, free at last — after work
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21
oi! pretty face it talking! lean in to hear!   lean in to hear the story! a pretty face like that can't talk before a campfire, such a pretty faces talks into a mirror!    by now Achilles should look like j. merrick...     and those stories should be dry prunes right now... when there was once a campfire and a congregation.... there is now but a mirror, and mirrors are less than shadow; for even the ancient greeks sought no demigod in it. what happened to pretty face and the ergonomic of simply being required to pose in an advert? who asked pretty face to tell a story?
0
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
campfire stories and mirror stories
oi! pretty face it talking! lean in to hear!   lean in to hear the story! a pretty face like that can't talk before a campfire, such a pretty faces talks into a mirror!    by now Achilles should look like j. merrick...     and those stories should be dry prunes right now... when there was once a campfire and a congregation.... there is now but a mirror, and mirrors are less than shadow; for even the ancient greeks sought no demigod in it. what happened to pretty face and the ergonomic of simply being required to pose in an advert? who asked pretty face to tell a story?
Continue reading...
22