"feeders" poems
the planets. the peaches.
pruned. picked. for the reaches.
the centuries. a second to the eternities.
you can have it. say laugh when. you hear the jazz note.
the voice of all that i spoke. the saxophone.
like dialing digits of truth. on the telephone.
come on. say one and two. up and down. the diversity in one single crown.
upon the ears of sound. it's the heart's listening device. toss it like rice.
at a wedding. human genes get paired up. and twisted.
so simple. it comes in flavors of licorice. red and black.
off and on. check the track. when the needle skips.
we find all these differences.
let me bring it back. for diversity.
zeroes and ones. spread the spectrum. across high and low frequencies.
it's so easy. let the record speak. can you stay on beat.
the principles of the high. the sincerity of the meek.
whatever lies between. is one or the other. blended across the centuries.
and all mothers. give birth to the last. man to the first.
follow that. discussion of high low.
mid ranges get blown. saxophone pace the flow. get pricked by the tweeters.
soul from the bass feeders. save the appetite. for the words that i write.
and then speak. you you. not me. splitting hairs. atoms. quarks. and light.
beams. like a smile. across a broad spectrum. either off. always on.
high low. then get gone.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
The Ocean is her home,
But she wishes to venture places Unknown,
Above her world, The Surface world
Bottom feeders have left her post modem bored,
She is convinced to Pursue "New",
Can you blame her for chasing Waterfalls,
Instead of sticking to the rivers that she is use to,
She fiends to be Free,
From the shackles of conformity
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
They call it a 'Class War"
They call it a "War of Liberation"
whilst its just another instance of white oppression
Childish, immature, mean and nasty underachievers
like the kid on the beach who kicks over others sandcastle
because they are better than the ******* castle he made
Like that that uncool dumb teen who scatters the board game
because he's now seen that he is losing and cannot win at all
like those ugly pimpled friends who would play gooseberry
and cock-blockers because they can't get nice dates of their own
like that bitter mad one who will spill ink over your white top
or new Trainers because he or she has old and ***** ones
They are all from the world of the sicko psychos and damaged
talent-less mean, envious, sad pathetic people going nowhere
If I can't make it, why should others do and be winners
They all graduate to the divisive politics of the ****** losers
Power is stopping progress and advancement because they are down
Power is bringing achievers and enterprise down they can's gain
Power is sabotaging all that is good because they are bad in all
Measly fetid minds they plot and conspire in gangrenous network
dolts, scums, unwashed losers and rejects of society, bottom feeders
Come join the Party, our specialty is chaos and disruption of winners
The pathetic jokes of the white West, losers in their own backyards
picks on an African who came from disadvantages to better them
better educated, more intelligent, cool and stylish in every way
pack full of potential, going places they can never go or reach
Our sick, mean spirited under-achievers, expert losers and scums
crawled on the war-path, riddled with envy, sick with jealousy
ruin his progress, oppose and disrupt a black man who doubles
efforts to achieve, what if losers try is given to them on a plate
What here is done for the greater good, what here is honorable
celebrated victories for psychos, racist underachievers I think not
peoples power? more sick, tormented, jealous n envious chicanery
anarchy jealousy, anarchy shame, anarchy racists, anarchy liars
One Single Black achiever demonstrates the inherent strength
and grace of our all our Ancestors against sick, persistent white oppression. That's the story here.
If its a fair war, why hide and go underground, why fight *****
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
How long the day,
Delivering letters to friends,
And cranky, bald dog feeders. Home
Is forward, past those poplars.
Always I’ve been in love with
Their almond scent, just as I catch
Past, dragging feet and who knows
How many heartfelt "Thank-you's".
Home is... where the wife is sitting.
She's not keen on laundry, but,
I’m an exception.
Always are my blue shirts blue,
She likes to make sure. Just in case I meet
With him; that carrion shaker,
Mr. Reaper.
“Hello.” I'd say, and tip my cap,
Along my silent nightly rounds;
Perhaps he'd humour me, if he could
See me. He's searching. For me? No.
That’s not right.
The lamps are thickest
In the dark, and that's just how
he likes it.
Even if I tip-toe, tip-toe, tip-toe around
Him, he'll still turn his hood toward me.
A courteous, creaking greeting.
That chill I get.
Matches only the fear
From losing fingers, as I push envelopes,
Catalogues, and restless dreams
Through many metal slats.
But even I, can't quite see,
When the sky turns milky-grey...
That perching, questioning hand
Placed gently on my shoulder;
Pushing down as I bend my back,
Kicking over milk-bottles, sometimes
accidentally. I shake it off.
Get to bed! I say to myself, mostly
Always, to myself.
Slap on some cream
And
Get to bed.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC
Bottom feeders flourish
When the economy's a bust
When bad times are the norm
And good times turn to dust
When neighborhoods go south it's sad
But a sign of their demise
Is when a bunch of pawn shops open up
Before your very eyes
When stores close down or move on out
After years in the same place
Their memory is a radar blip
They leave without a trace
But as fast as they lock up their doors
Another shop moves in
It's the local pawn shop dealer
He's a shark without a fin
Like dollar stores and boarded doors
The pawn shop shows the way
That business has moved on out
Or closed or moved away
They prey on peoples hardship
They broker deals without a care
They don't need to know your history
They just know that you're there
The street has three new pawn shops
Palaces of buy back stuff
It's bad when there is one around
But, three...well that's enough
One opened by the Jeweller
Two doors down across the street
Now he's buying up possessions
Of everyone he meets
Folks who purchased jewellery
From Old Cy at his old store
For each twenty of it's value
The pawn shop gives you four
Cy can't afford to buy back
He doesn't have much money left
And besides his store insurance
Doesn't cover much for theft
The people at the Pawn shops
Took jobs and live in town
They trained two counties over
They succeed when times are down
It's a sign of the recession
Downtown dies and fades away
And then the bottom feeders surface
Their the ones who're gonna stay
You can look in the shop windows
Know who bought what and from where
You know the candlesticks were bought at Cy's
And you know who bought them there
The guitar that hangs beside them
That was pawned by Emma Rose
She needed money for the bills
When the fresh fish plant had closed
There's a snapshot of the township
Sitting inside on their walls
They pawn shop is successful
While the economy still falls
You can see a piece and start to cry
For you know just why it's there
There's no one here to help them
There's no jobs and it's not fair
They open up each morning
While the nights dregs still sleep outside
They have done two hours business
Before lights on at Cy's
It's a sad and constant story
Of just what a town's become
But when asked if they've been in there
The inhabitants go "mumb"
They never seem to close up
The town's never make it back
While most places lose money
Pawn shops make it by the sack
The bluesman has some stuff there
The bartender has some too
Even though her bar's still going
She did what she had to do
The street, it is it's own world
Jewelly shops, banks and bars
But inside the local pawn shops
Are hidden all the scars.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 7:54 PM UTC
She hung simple things from the bare apple tree, things like mirrors, ribbons, bells and bird feeders, things to attract the robins and the finches. But then the crows came scaring the robins and finches away, this annoyed her, this drove her to the verge of insanity.
She had an idea though , a terrible one, but an idea. She decided to hang strips of bacon from the tree , bacon laced with poisons, all sorts of poisons , poisons for rats , for weeds , even the type fit for human consumption. Poisons to make them sick, poisons to make the ******** fall from the tree.But crows are much, more intelligent than the average human ,the crows watched the fat lady, observing her murderous ways.
But only the finches and the robins fed from the flesh that dangled from the naked apple tree , only the finches and robins fell to the ground, only the finches and the robins died a horrible dragged out death.This pushed her over the edge , now she just sits and squawks to her self day in and day out, hiding from the flock of crows.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
My head is reeling
What a feeling
Bass line pounding through my brain
Skull is cracking
Quite nerve racking
I need something to help dull the pain
Images horrific
Pressure is terrific
Listening to what the station plays
Eyes are burning
The world is turning
It's like it is the end of days
I need to spend some time relaxing
Getting my music back into my head
Listening to ABBA oldies
followed by David Gates and Bread
An afterword or two by Chapin
With The Carpenters along as well
Will help me clear my mind of what's there
And take away the images of hell
KHEL, hour of power
The station of the hour
Killing my braincells by the day
Hard Rock bottom feeders
Rotten Singers, silly bleeders
I don't know why I stay
Thrash and Metal
Brain won't settle
My head is almost set to burst
Glass and Glitter
Makes me twitter
I no longer think disco was the worst
I need to spend some time relaxing
Getting my music back into my head
Listening to ABBA oldies
followed by David Gates and Bread
An afterword or two by Chapin
With The Carpenters along as well
Will help me clear my mind of what's there
And take away the images of hell
Hey There DJ
That's what the kids say
I do it just to help to pay the bills
Super sonic
I need a tonic
To help me swallow down the pain pills
Every morning
Without warning
The pain begins in my head
Metal grating
Music hating
I guess I'll feel alright when I'm dead
I need to spend some time relaxing
Getting my music back into my head
Listening to ABBA oldies
followed by David Gates and Bread
An afterword or two by Chapin
With The Carpenters along as well
Will help me clear my mind of what's there
And take away the images of hell
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
In parlance of the street he's a dumpster-diver,
scavenger of non-losing wager or proposition tickets.
You'd see his fragile frame each night
walking the isles of the race and sports books,
a condor's aerial eye trained on the floor,
back visible only to casino surveillance cameras.
Seated atop a barstool at the back,
I watch him bend, examine and discard,
through the prism of my scotch glass.
Every food chain has its bottom-feeders,
he brings efficiency to the gambling ecosystem.
Likely not the life that you or I would chose,
but then he has no monthly credit card to pay.
Just now, I saw him straighten and smile,
a parlay ticket will pay for tonight's meal
with just enough left for a brown-bag.
He does not go uninvited to misfortune,
the streets tonight are lined with chance's down.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
Woke up to a nightmare
Where gravity disappeared
Scrambling around mid-air
Just to find no one's there
Bright florescent light
Hiding away midnight
It's just not the same
It doesn't feel right
All this pretending
Is bringing me nothing
All this anger
Is making me more empty
Scrambling around in mid-air
Just to find no one's there
Spending everyday
Breaking under pressure
Over digging countless holes
For some kind of treasure
Just to have someone
Fill them back up
Send me out again
And tell me I'm worthless
All this pretending
Is bringing me nothing
All this anger
Is making me more empty
Scrambling around mid-air
Just to find no one's there
And I don’t know where I’ll go
If this light bulb should break
Falling down into a deep darkness
That I’ve tried so hard to escape
The same darkness I have made
There are plenty of fish in the sea
But none like you
As the bottom feeders sank so low
We swam way up high
But we fell into a whirlpool
And I didn't take it right
Don't want any drugs
Don't want any alcohol
Just want you to know
I'm still here after all
Scrambling around mid-air
Just to find no one's there
https://spencercarlson.bandcamp.com/track/mid-air
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
Three striped cats daily demonstrate awakening:
a) BijaChen: startles by pounce onto bed or banging of sunlit window blinds;
b) BlueMonsoon: prefers annoying whining coordinated with scratching at blankets;
c) LadyFiona: chooses a prickly psychic stare into my sleeping consciousness to disrupt dreams. (she must have been a witch's cat).
Sleep you say?
Mr. Rooster, lover of Flathead Lake cherries,
rehearses a solo operetta while strutting sharp grey claws inches from the screen door.
Doze off?
Thirty small brown-red-yellow-speckled birds usurp seeds at the swinging feeders in frenzied unharmonious clatter,
While the low moan of iron hinged gate closes pale hay and tall horses into the corral.
Rest?
Urgently a growling lawn mower slashes green strands of life and delicate insects from their microcosms of Little Earth,
And calico barn cats dive from rafters onto feed sacks to devour the crunch of breakfast.
Lao Tzu speaks no sound, eyes watch
Two butterflies sweep though moist morning monsoon air.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
This is not atrocity
This is the basement
This is the sea receding like lips to reveal tooth-like shells
Amongst the bullet casings and corpses felled leaving the boats
This is the sand like an inverted moat around the
Kingdom at sea, and this is the Remainder.
Yet they remain jubilantly-
Is this what being jubilant means?
Chamomile anklets adorning a hanged child.
This is not atrocity,
Ignorance wielding pitchforks and fire.
Anger alight and hostility riled
This is not atrocity.
This is not far from this reality;
Remember this child-
And the mob piled like tinder on themselves
Convincing carrion feeders
And unimpeded breeders that
Halt the march of science that
This is not atrocity.
The certain hot song by which Earth is greeted
Has an immediately recognizable tune.
And
This is not atrocity;
It sounds more like ****** ******
But I can't hear it
And I have no fear anymore
I open my eyes to another routine killing, and I know-
This is atrocity-
But a necessary one.
It's hardly enough to stay alive
And as I and we strive for
Money and coffee and love,
I and we let
atrocity
enter us.
Climb into us like a hand does a glove,
or a puppet.
It is not nature;
Nor fate;
And one needn't be dead
to appreciate the ability to open the senses
and actually sense.
And this,
I am certain,
Is not an atrocity
May 21, 2010
May 21, 2010 at 8:30 PM UTC
With staggered steps it climbs to the canopy
there it will reside very patiently
near the blossoms of it's prey
from the morning till end of day
With tongue of elastic and sticky
outstretched hideous not pretty
it snaps at all that come to visit
unfortunate winged nectar feeders
It's bulbous eyes dart frantically from it's emerald frame
one to look at the blossom, the other the skies above
for as it waits for it's tasty prey
hawks do prey it's kind from above
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
This is how I deal with my **** I write it up just for you, my words are cursive for a purpose, it heals the pain I deal with inside. Honest opinions that make people mad, they say I ain't rad, I'm just a fad of ****** hip-hop. I say I am a favour to this industry, but you ****** ain't feeling me, so I keep my lyrics confined with my pride. Ironic syphilis dickwads filled & infused with hate for yah to feel, this is just the real, no need for props. Can't handle me, you can't accept me, but I don't care, i'm rare, not some sell out like black eyed pea's. ****** get mad when I say ***** but don't hate, natives were called ****** too, so I don't want to hear your **** about it. Work out with a wii fit, cheat when I do a spelling bee, lying about everything, trampling the rap game that's how I be. I used to try not swearing because it's just a easy cliche that fake rappers say, but **** it I need to get across my thoughts in a way for you peanut brains to truly understand my **** Is this the innocent kid we used to hear, no that kid died when introduced to this crude society, gentle giant becomes defiant to the ways of how we live. Hulking out against everything wrong, i'll wreck the way we see things, not caring for the feeling you have, make you cry tears that will clear your blind view of the issues we face. So hate me, go ahead, I don't care, in fact i'll come to hater club with you, hear everything you have to say and save it in my eternal thoughts like a external drive. You have no taste for real rap, you probably listen to low life bottom feeders like little wayne, that's not real rap that craps a disgrace.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
That was then, this is now
Who was where when what was how?
Hear them take their last breath as they're shot down
I scream
Floating in the gene pool, expecting the man who can walk on water to arrive
Sell outs and everyone who has had a bad week even though it's only Monday
Whippersnappers hang their heads in shame
I am one of twelve
So expendable
We live in gluttony
Lineleaders, math teachers, bottom-feeders have no idea
Watch them fall and be forced to crawl on their bellies
We laugh
Lewandowsky-Lutz dysplasia, getting back to your roots
Progeric clock-makers, lying dead on The Yellow Brick Road
Thin-skinned Transsexuals putting bricks in their purses
We live by eight
We die from our weight
And go unbloomed
-Tommy Johnson
Standing in a nuclear reactor somewhere in Chernobyl looking for the truth
It might be in my contaminated endoplasmic reticulum
I am a radiant
Doppler radar
Monopoly dollar
Singing in the shower, amateur hour
Projecting sour notes
Pouring out their hearts and souls, hear them
Trying
Moo-juice nectar, spilling off The Round Table
Blondes in red bracelets, Kabbalah saves them
Henry pays no tax, John Berryman's bats tell us
You are the lunatic
We are the two quarters of a half-wit
This whole thing is insane
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
You were already dead
by the time
I was planted in your soil.
Your story is one told to me
through grainy photographs.
Echoed whispers of
peripheral port cities.
Somewhere lovingly untouchable.
My home was once alive.
My stomach lurches
while picturing these
hollow streets,
once filled with laughter.
The harbour
bursting with smiles.
Each neighbour,
a family or friend,
usually both.
How I love this island!
The salted summer's breeze,
hand woven scarlet autumns.
Wild flowers dancing
atop cliff-sides,
free for us
to admire and absorb.
Absorb we did.
I swear my bones
are made of sea-glass.
How could they be
made of anything less?
In their stories,
you are a fairyland.
A cosmically unified olden wood,
dipped in Scotch
and swaddled in wool.
Yet your branches rot,
thinner and damper each year.
Soon the whispers
will be stale air.
No one will be left
to tell tales
of your beautiful youth.
Everything dies.
How I once wished to see
you in your prime.
Even in your postmortem existence,
you've given me
mud to stick my toes into.
I see you
melting into the sea.
I smell your flesh
being swallowed
by bottom feeders.
You are a wonder to me
all the same.
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 10:15 AM UTC
There's a place between society and the wild
Where aimless bodies are piled
We call it the Wastelands
All creatures die of old age
Or hunger inside this cage
The deer are never hit by cars
For they never travel that far
The Wastelands use fear
That's what keeps them here
The Wastelands are a scary place
It's horrifying how nothing happens
It becomes too much to face
So we hide under satin
To provide comfortable resting
And avoid Wastelands testing
The Wastelands are a barren environment
Solitary coyotes learn from the cacti
Who soak up meager moisture
And become prickly to protect it
Never knowing if nourishment was near
They grew prickly because of their fear
We inhabit the Wastelands
We're trapped here
Where the walls of the city
Seem to mirror
The walls of the wilderness
So it's here we build our nest
But surviving is a constant test
Because we have useless hands
Here in the Wastelands
Wastelands
Interaction
Is reaction
Create a faction
And never leave
Even if love cleaves
It lies behind ramparts of containment
And the fear of society's arraignment
Even if peace calls
It stays behind walls
Of trees hiding predators
That keep us embedded here
So we ***** barriers to protect us
From the barriers surrounding us
We find our connections through hatred
And build teams around it
We made foolish deals with Satan
This is what we're amounted
Scavengers from both worlds encroach the Wastelands
Journalists and artists mine our souls
Vultures mine our flesh like gold
Taking what they need and going home
Our rabid mouths begin to show foam
From the frustration of loss
But inactivity is our cross
While we watch carrion feeders
Carry on eating
Our friends
Until we turn and look away
Knowing that'll be us one day
Because in the Wastelands
Friends are just creatures who are near
There are no animals to hold dear
We're afraid to lend an ear
When Wastelands use fear
The Wastelands are hell
Dry river beds tell of a time
When the rain fell
But now we're plagued by drought
You can tell by looking at the trout
They flop on the ground
Wondering where to wander for water
The cacti remain still
It's the Wastelands will
In the Wastelands we wait to die
Although we really want to fly
We're just afraid of heights
Which impedes our sight
Where we can't view over our own barricades
It's fear that prohibits our ability to elevate
And we see that the order is too tall
Back into the Wastelands we fall
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
I look out the window
Into the yard
I see a fluffy Junco
Sitting comfortably on the fence
I see him look around
Then fly over to the feeders
I watch as he gets some seeds
Then goes back to the fence
He puffs back up
And then out of nowhere
A baby Junco
Crookedly and excited
Flies in
Sits next to his dad
And his dad feeds him
And then his dad is off again
To get more food
For his baby
Over the weeks
I watch the Goldfinches,
The Grosbeaks, the Finches,
The Doves, and
The Sparrows.
All gathering on the fence
With their families
To eat
And I am reminded
Of my family
Gathering around the dinner table
Everynight
Chattering, coming and going
But then I think
That those birds must have it far easier
Than we do
All they worry about is surviving
While we have discussions on
Politics, school, wars
Gossip, rumors, things of unimportance
That's when I think back
To my childhood dream
“I want to be a bird when I grow up”
Because they are worry free
Unlike me
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Season after season.
I've gazed upon you
through my window.
I've seen the snow hang low
upon your branches.
With white upon red berries.
I've watched the snow melt away
to reveal new buds,
opening,
ever so slowly,
to leaves so green.
In early Spring.
I've watched all the creatures
hop, climb, and fly among
your branches.
I've watched the birds taste
your blood-red berries.
I've seen songbirds...
Nuthatches,
finches, and chickadees.
Come to the feeders.
That hang from you.
I've seen the squirrels steal
seeds from the birds.
As their little paws unlatch
a little hook.
I've heard the birds sing among your
branches.
So sweetly.
I remember when the chickadees
built their nest in you,
and then watched their young fledge.
I remember the year the woodpecker
came knocking at your trunk's door.
As he drilled his beak into you.
And made a hole.
After that.
You were never the same anymore...
I watched your life slowly end.
Another year.
Another season.
More dead branches to be severed.
Fewer buds.
Fewer leaves.
As your story slowly drew to a close.
Yesterday,
they chopped down what was left of you.
But I will always remember you.
And I thank the Lord for the joy
of beholding your beauty.
Of watching your story.
You have blessed so many creatures.
Including me.
Farewell,
Beautiful Mountain Ash tree.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
Like the oak leaf hydrangea bud in May,
like the squirrels infest backyard bird feeders ,
and like the train whistle echoes in the hollow
rolling through white pines and serviceberry branches,
her trust, in the shape of soft smiles and morning kisses,
permeates his every breath .
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
A large **** slashed open its side.
A collision with a boat we all think.
Though no boat has claimed its ****
The wind whipped its scent through the crowd
a saltier tang than usual.
More concentrated; more direct.
Its chest heaved with the rhythm of the waves
as water poured into its lax mouth
expanding its chest
in a mockery of breath
before deflating again like a balloon spent.
Bites from opportunistic feeders
marred the solid gray-blue-white skin
with a pinkish hue
and gaping holes.
Its blood lingered in the dark green waves
a sandy-pink as it flowed with the current.
And people still swam in its wake!
Unperturbed by the dead still bleeding
or the funeral procession watching on
in a half-circle of grief and awe and humor too
as the largest of lives we don't normally see
lay dead on the beach.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 10:07 AM UTC
Blue symbolizes calmness
Blue symbolizes loyalty
though I know Monday Blues
could get to you
but oh prithee just hear me.
Have you seen where the birds flew?
To the sky filled with blue
those birds soar free.
Have you seen how mad and calm
the ocean could be?
With King Neptune as the king
and his water feeders
flow free with the seven seas.
Your eyes may not be blue,
your heart may have tiny dots of green,
But hear me,
Your soul is crystal clear,
Your hands dance in a way
I could never understand
Your head may still be empty
But as a whole,you're blue
and I still love you like;
I love the colour blue
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 6:36 AM UTC
Candy breath tastes like death
When it's all you've got anymore
To hide from cold iron faces.
Pitied love seems like stealing
When you're out of maladies
But you're still ******* on the traces.
So you find something smaller than you
To remove the context
Of what your feeders expect
You've stopped becoming *****
So you've got no potential to prove.
It's times like these that you find
That your life is on the line
But you don't seem to care.
A worm on the concrete has a bigger chance to survive
And you know by now that rain can't help
It just rolls off your shoulders.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
The smell of tires and overheated air hits us like confetti pieces as if we've just won the Superbowl.
This is how I choose to remember you.
This was the beginning to our "adventures", hours lost aimlessly wandering down aisles. The list mom wrote, neatly tucked away in the bottom of one of our pockets, whoever she deemed more responsible that day.
Our bellied laughs would bellow clear over the bird feeders, past the flannel lined jeans, and beyond the orange slice candies.
We taught ourselves a new language. One when spoken, always accompanied with a flimsy tongue. One when spoken to anyone but you was just babble.
In this place, we found life without a limit. One where dancing among the Harley Davison vests was acceptable. One where testing the army surplus metal helmets only seemed logical.
We found a place where you didn't have to grow up, time stopped.
For us, we found a place that created equals of us.
These memories, like words stored in dictionaries, are stored in the pages of my mind. On lonely days I visit them, flipping pages, finding your voice, your smile and your silly dance. They echo off the walls of my memories.
and when I open my mouth to echo back it sounds like this :
Fli
Flove
Flou
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 11:25 PM UTC
I used to need a submarine
to visit the dark depths of my soul
To where the bottom feeders feast
on the dead and feces from the shoal
A completely inhospitable, light-less,
savage, alien underworld
Where the spineless slimy sea cucumber
writhed, wriggled and curled.
Now I prefer to scuba dive my soul
or gaily use snorkel and flippers
Among a rich vivid abundance of life
Up and down the aqua big dippers
But I admit every now and then
at certain dark times of the year
I swim above that unforgiving trench
and can not hold back the tears
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:39 AM UTC