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"forecasts" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Paradoxical Tendencies
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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47
Umuulan nanaman Wala na ata tong katapusan, Pero baka katulad lang ng pagmamahal mo na akala ko walang hanggan, Yun pala ay matatapos din naman. May mga bagay talaga sa mundong hindi tayo sigurado, Tulad ng weather forecasts sa tv at radyo. May mga bagay na ayaw mo na atang malaman ang totoo. Katulad na lang ng "minahal mo nga ba talaga ako?" Ang dilim na ng langit, Unti-unti ka ng binabalot ng sakit, Mga alaala ay nagiging mapait, Buti na lang sinasabayan ka ng langit. Sobrang lakas na ng ulan, Wala na akong makita sa daan, Kung saan ako pupunta ay hindi ko na alam kung saan, Tila ba'y naghihintay na lang ako ng hangganan.
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Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
Ulan
Underneath a silhouette of stars We confer futuristic forecasts your skin blends with the ivory outline of the constellation that envelopes our bodies. Heard was the echo of such an ever so pleasant sound ‘twas the rustling of sheets to the rhythm of the rain
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May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
Zodiac Tableau
By accepting the terms of this agreement, you represent and warrant that you have the capacity to love. Any similarity to a previous love is circumstantial; this love is not affiliated with other loves. We assume no responsibility for for the shortcomings of prior loves; we do, however, assume all responsibility for any loss, error, or communication failure incurred while in possession of this love. It is, after all, love. Love is available as is; no specific results are promised. If you are at all unhappy, you are encouraged to return love. If you find love to be damaged or defective, well, it's love. Slight imperfections are to be expected, and add to the character of love. Love may occasionally send you poems, letters, or declarations of its continuance. If you wish to opt out of this correspondence, you may cancel your account at any time. The service may be temporarily unavailable from time to time; this may be due to maintenance, or periods of reflection. It in no way implies or forecasts termination of love, unless specifically stated so. By accepting this agreement, you agree not to abuse love by acting in a manner inconsistent with the provisions listed above. (please say yes)
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Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
I have read and agreed to the terms of service
Today, I am beginning Only to end. This body has blossomed in a field of green; Has bled shades of red; Stared at a horizon ablaze with yellow; And now, this body will face The bluest of skies. Whether my skies are clear or Consumed with droplets of rain, I will always end up seeing Nothing but blue. Nothing but 10 shades of blue, Until I see another sun set Until a palette of colours are Painted on the horizon Until stars are forced to form constellations Until a beginning of A new morning. But one day, my new mornings Will not consist of The bluest of skies. There may be a hint of pink, a touch of purple, or a sliver of orange. And that's okay. Because weather forecasts were not meant To only be clear blue skies and Colours were not meant to have Only one shade. Blue possesses a fading beauty Now unappealing But never forgotten It is THE last set of my own primary colours - green, red, and yellow. Once I set down this Familiar brush dipped in blue paint, I will start anew with a Fresh set of colours. A clean canvas once again. Today, I am ending Only to begin.
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Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
Blue Could Be the Warmest Color But It Isn't
Five bedroom house, in estate BMW, best of late Cocktail wife, with breast inflate Kids at play, on playmate Mr. Jones, my best mate Repossession of cars, on that date A victim of my ego, I’ve become Before dawn, on treadmill I run Contracts, forecasts, reports my day begun Sorry, I’ll be late, for supper *** At home, after the sun I promise, tomorrow, we’ll play my son A victim of my ambition, I’ve become Almost all, my hair turned grey Its ulcers, that’s what the doctor say My secretary, she led me astray For another drink, I will stay Tonight alone, in my house I lay A victim of myself, I’ve become
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Dec 29, 2009
Dec 29, 2009 at 8:47 PM UTC
THE PERFECT LIFE
IT WAS SOME SORT OF DREAM and for a second time in my life I worked at a McDonald's but this time it was a McDonald's out of a Philip K. **** novel.. a hoveryvibe with this strange baby-blue tint to the walls that sat so quaint and silent reminding the subconscious of aliens or restaurants at the end of the universe... there was a long cyborg tube that spiraled into crafted spritz almost made to look broken and being one of the strangest parts of the dream. working at a McDonald's again made me physically ill and I could taste ***** in my mouth but for some reason it felt like only moments before I had been quietly lying next to a male lover (co-worker with a Colgate smile that tipped his lips to haunt me) and as I leaned in to kiss him, stomach swelling with the lovers melancholic ecstasy, he began to fade, his lips presings softly to mine collision shape-to-one-another as he vomited a little with no loss to his Colgate beauty (I thought him dying or skipping a day of high-school?) fading away slooowwwllyyy to be replaced by that cyborg tube with me standing above it spitting that same kind of spit which forecasts a violent throw-up from the bottom of a wretch gut. I could see the little spritz made to look broken becoming spider-webbed with my saliva until finally the ***** propelled itself from my throat and I collapsed to the ground somehow still looking in only to awake to my alarm clock - - - wheel around in bed to hear music.
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Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
bleeding spritzer
!all men are fair weathermen! if what they predict and promised don’t happen quick, a thunderstorm of oops and aahs, follows asap. quick move on to making more forecasts with a higher degree of confidence that either way, may be you need not wonder a withering whether, or not, if they’ll come true always end your broadcast with the I Love You (You Know Who) with a wink and no names cause safe is the fair weather always accurate now I know that it can rain oil from heaven, promises that come pre-broken; summers predestined to end and the fall prepares us for bittersweet cold alone and the oil rain just smokes but does not warm
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Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
all men are fair weathermen
Punxsutawney Phil You're so furry And adorable But your forecasts Are deplorable Thirty-nine percent true That makes you a fraud But cute eyes have you Therefore a god Early spring you say Yet snow and low temps Flourish today So conflicted By this contrast Indoors now restricted Godhog is Devine at last Tomorrow swimming No matter the mortal's forecast You say the sun is brimming The masses praise Nearly naked in the snow Why the wintery haze No shadow, it is so Now we stand Swimsuits adorned Frozen faces Countenances Forlorn Faithful in our belief In you and yours In fur and sharp teeth Buds and flowers restore Trees and life anew What could go wrong A groundhog we pray to In Phil we trust What's wrong with us?
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Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
Phil
Thu. Aug 11 2022 7:16 AM ~ for Julia and Joanne~ good neighbors <> a renewable habit apparently, again, a first poem of the day (FPOTD), comes early, this old practice, me-bedded and mugged, with music ear installed drowning the noises of television blah, iPad rests on left leg, left hand pointer finger ejects capsules of letters, charmed into existence by the Barber adagio. the Weather Channel forecasts morning-rain and my window to trample and shuffle this deteriorating body rapid closes, and the sun, weak, in concession speech, begs pardon, throws off a few miscellaneous rays by way of apology, fooling no one, except for the hopeful, itinerant poets, & the bunnies-neath-the deck. know now you understand the poems entitlement, as is my wont, you’ve been invited inside, sharing eyes and senses, you journey today from a vantage no one else possesses, just you and me. Later, we will drive to the Parrish Museum, studying modern painters, each will inquire, a poem for me please, I nod sure, perhaps? promise little, deliver less, is this your best? A travelogue of the mundane, the little things, that do not stir your heart, smile tears, and make you think wish I was there, or this, being just too-me-boring? The brain growls, no one making them read this perfunctoriness, nonetheless, you apologize, pardon the no-angst trivia of daily life. like the acid reflux bile, swallowed and returned to whence it came. before it invades, tarnishes the peace of our surroundings and the pleasure of your company, as I read your writings, *worth so much, filled with so much angry pain, I want to easy-soften the everything, if this missive, takes you-nearer, to the calmer~closer, this poem, you transform it from perfunctory, to just, simply* perfect. 8:18 AM Shelter Island
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Aug 11, 2022
Aug 11, 2022 at 8:37 AM UTC
A Perfunctory Morning Poem
Thu. Aug 11 2022 7:16 AM ~ for Julia and Joanne~ good neighbors <> a renewable habit apparently, again, a first poem of the day (FPOTD), comes early, this old practice, me-bedded and mugged, with music ear installed drowning the noises of television blah, iPad rests on left leg, left hand pointer finger ejects capsules of letters, charmed into existence by the Barber adagio. the Weather Channel forecasts morning-rain and my window to trample and shuffle this deteriorating body rapid closes, and the sun, weak, in concession speech, begs pardon, throws off a few miscellaneous rays by way of apology, fooling no one, except for the hopeful, itinerant poets, & the bunnies-neath-the deck. know now you understand the poems entitlement, as is my wont, you’ve been invited inside, sharing eyes and senses, you journey today from a vantage no one else possesses, just you and me. Later, we will drive to the Parrish Museum, studying modern painters, each will inquire, a poem for me please, I nod sure, perhaps? promise little, deliver less, is this your best? A travelogue of the mundane, the little things, that do not stir your heart, smile tears, and make you think wish I was there, or this, being just too-me-boring? The brain growls, no one making them read this perfunctoriness, nonetheless, you apologize, pardon the no-angst trivia of daily life. like the acid reflux bile, swallowed and returned to whence it came. before it invades, tarnishes the peace of our surroundings and the pleasure of your company, as I read your writings, *worth so much, filled with so much angry pain, I want to easy-soften the everything, if this missive, takes you-nearer, to the calmer~closer, this poem, you transform it from perfunctory, to just, simply* perfect. 8:18 AM Shelter Island
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36
My neighbor and I still hang out our wash, (I, each Thursday, taking my chances. She, according to weather forecasts, I think, or maybe by what she feels in her bones). We laugh at StarTribune's report of some suburban bans against clotheslines. We wonder out loud whose tomatoes will first turn red, and whether cucumbers will make it at all; this year, it's been too cool and dry for normal progress to the fall. Tenacious dandelions, spread as stars across green-earth skies, drive in spike-like roots, take hold of earth, and won't let go. Kids squeeze bunches of stems in tight fists that will open only to release the buttery bouquet to Mom who hurries to put them in water, in a crystal vase, wondering how soon she might mourn both flower and child. While hanging bright, white unmentionables (some somewhat tattered) on our clothesline, I, unembarrassed, remember my mother: with one clothespin held in her mouth and half a dozen more in her apron pocket, (thus needing not to walk over and over again the east-west path to the back door where full supply of pins hangs on the **** she does her woman's task with flair, spacing each garment so as not to block the sun or air. You'd think she'd held some tool to calculate where the sheet would best allow the breeze to circulate or where to place each pillow case and sock, so each would recognize and meet their mates! And I know she theorized regarding how to hang those socks, always with the toe pointed upward, so as not to show, when dried and worn, a crease or ever-so-slight evidence of the pin's pressure displayed for all to see on the exposed ankle, as if that might be a matter worthy of shame.
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Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
Upon Hanging out the Wash
My neighbor and I still hang out our wash, (I, each Thursday, taking my chances. She, according to weather forecasts, I think, or maybe by what she feels in her bones). We laugh at StarTribune's report of some suburban bans against clotheslines. We wonder out loud whose tomatoes will first turn red, and whether cucumbers will make it at all; this year, it's been too cool and dry for normal progress to the fall. Tenacious dandelions, spread as stars across green-earth skies, drive in spike-like roots, take hold of earth, and won't let go. Kids squeeze bunches of stems in tight fists that will open only to release the buttery bouquet to Mom who hurries to put them in water, in a crystal vase, wondering how soon she might mourn both flower and child. While hanging bright, white unmentionables (some somewhat tattered) on our clothesline, I, unembarrassed, remember my mother: with one clothespin held in her mouth and half a dozen more in her apron pocket, (thus needing not to walk over and over again the east-west path to the back door where full supply of pins hangs on the **** she does her woman's task with flair, spacing each garment so as not to block the sun or air. You'd think she'd held some tool to calculate where the sheet would best allow the breeze to circulate or where to place each pillow case and sock, so each would recognize and meet their mates! And I know she theorized regarding how to hang those socks, always with the toe pointed upward, so as not to show, when dried and worn, a crease or ever-so-slight evidence of the pin's pressure displayed for all to see on the exposed ankle, as if that might be a matter worthy of shame.
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36
Watching as they sink Wreckage after the Storm of the middle-aged Oblivious to their own remedies They saw the forecasts Were warned of dangers Still foolhardily pressed on Told n'one of their endeavors Clouds crowding Wary winds People perishing Sorrowful seas Boat bullied into submission No force like water Tearing and wearing The hopeless down into Shells of what they once were Suddenly aware of aftermath Learning  of their strife before the wreck They were warned Yet, still the knowledge Curdles the assumptions of family and friends Fomenting separation At the breaking of the storm The aftermath a single clue To middle-aged unhappiness
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Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
Hurricane
one of the first times we talked there was a thunderstorm going on at your end, all the way on the other side of the world (or so it seemed). perhaps i should've taken it as a warning of sorts -- that i would become enthralled by you, just as i am by thunderstorms, and that you, the storm itself, would wreak beautiful havoc upon all that i was and change me forever. i was oblivious: unknowing of the fact that soon i would be in the eye of the storm -- a ship being beaten down by your catastrophic flashes of blinding lightning and the roaring waves you would leave behind. perhaps i should've taken it as a warning of sorts. but i didn't. i was blinded by the serenity that so often comes before chaos. the calm before the storm, if you will. but like i said, i am enthralled by thunderstorms, so maybe that is why, even after the calm ended, i still loved every second of our twisted downpour and didn't so much mind the empty hull i'd become. my darling -- you were the storm and i was the ship that slowly burned with every strike of lightning. (a.m.)
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Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
sometimes the weather forecasts lie
It’s been raining for 22 days straight and I couldn’t tell you why the evergreens weep like they do but if you must, the skies ravens are bellowing what they’ve witnessed in a song we will never understand and will endlessly hear. Feathered armor protects the branches that starkly plead for handfuls of the sponge-clouds above. Why don’t we listen to the warning calls of the floods coming from God’s eyes? The sticky moss resting on the north side of the rusty hemlocks will tell you, the record is 55 days since they’ve seen the sun---a dialect less penetrating than the all-too-inviting cries that echo the woodlands. Whispers of the breeze flowing through the trees are not enough to overcome this tempest that is steeping slowly and surely the habit of nature will wash its face clean of any inadequacies.  Now, if you told me it rained here over half the year, I’d believe you. Not just because it’s the Pacific Northwest, but because I’ve witnessed the consistency of the pure quietude, of the circling crows that count every beat and divide every lap. Their dependable vantage forecasts any storm.
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Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
Nature's Prayer
Holbein paints us together. Fortune teller, Truth ****** gifted beyond his young age. So; let us listen to his forecasts even if to do so is Folly. What does the crystal ball see?
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Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 7:40 PM UTC
You and Me
the meteorologists predictions have been off key their weather forecasts are proving to be faulty yesterday they said rain would come in the eve but none came to wet the back landing eaves the direction of the wind they got wrong last week it blew in from the south and was rather bleak they need to check their wind vanes regularly for a wind from that direction is so chilly they've got modern technology at their finger tips so you'd think with forward forecasts they'd make no slips but alas meteorologists seem not to care whether the weather is inclement or fair instead of relying on their dodgy forecasts one ducks outside to observe clouds and wind blasts   a more accurate picture can be seen by one watching the unfolding weather scene they've predicted sunny skies for this afternoon with much anticipation we'll look for its boon we'll be well astounded if that be the case so often the meteorologists get the weather misplaced
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Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
The Meteorologists
We never cracked the mysteries of Pittsburgh, and Baltimore bled out inconveniently before our eyes, another nervous snitch knifed outside the corner convenience store in broad daylight. Salt Lake City was too pure, too white, theocracy carved into a wafer of snow. We grew tired of watching Los Angeles pleasure itself in the sun like a **** star, interminably tan and vacuous. And Chicago was too ******* cold. So we settled here, where streets turn the soles of our shoes to palimpsests where every apartment elevator offers a wall of infinite buttons where grocery stores stock their shelves with bottles and bottles of octopus ink where neighbors open their curtains and stand shimmering in moonlight where weather mixes with nostalgia, creating immutable, poetic forecasts where water tastes like redemption and the skyline rises like a chorus, so much taller than the cities we inhabited when we were alive.
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Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
One City After Another
Went to the doc. Told me I was on my way to Dying Way faster than I should be. *Laughed. Doc, you been telling me that for Five years And my poetry is only getting better.* He says, Ya think? Look at you, You live in a watery place, Talking to god about sports, Ripping off O.Henry, Solving equations On the direction of the Bubbles you blow into the skies, Recording your innermost In public bathrooms, Ever ask yourself, Is that normal? *Laughed. Every now and then, I take them pills You gave me. They come in orange cylinders, 30 at a clip, Supplied my druggist dealer. I figure for every pill, Another day, another poem. But I won't stick myself no more. Got enough people- things Sticking me daily. Why should I help themselves along?* You right, doc snorted. You've lived this long, What ya got to show for it? Then why do you come Bothering me, Annoying me. You think I like Spending 90 minutes With you? You think I spend 90 minutes of mine On every poet That comes thru My swinging doors? *Well I like how, doc, You write down everything I tell you, so when the archaeologists And the alchemists Come a-digging, Looking for the facts of figures, In your files, They will find the gritty story Of a New Yorker, Who saw poems in sidewalk cracks, Street signs, young hearts and smiles, Even you white starch coat, Your stern disapproving face, gets utilized, but got stop someday, Wouldn't be fair If I used up more than my Fare-thee-well share Of words.* The doc, He didn't laugh, Nah, don't buy it, Gotta be a reason Better than that Why you keep on Bothering me, Ignoring me, Hastening your mortality? *Doc, done my time, Sentence served, Now I'm just coasting, Waiting for the day, When I get summoned.* *Looking for a new view, Looking down on the young ones, Staring down, at them struggling, For the exact right word, To place just so on their computer Screens/screams, I can be the rustling noise In their ear, They call inspiration.* **That will be Part II, That is what I will do, When your forecasts Come true. So what me worry, I got jobs done and to do, And I can do 'em well Just about anywhere, But I visit you, cause you, Are a righteous one, Cause you care.** And I will be watching you too. 5:38am
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Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
Laughed.
Went to the doc. Told me I was on my way to Dying Way faster than I should be. *Laughed. Doc, you been telling me that for Five years And my poetry is only getting better.* He says, Ya think? Look at you, You live in a watery place, Talking to god about sports, Ripping off O.Henry, Solving equations On the direction of the Bubbles you blow into the skies, Recording your innermost In public bathrooms, Ever ask yourself, Is that normal? *Laughed. Every now and then, I take them pills You gave me. They come in orange cylinders, 30 at a clip, Supplied my druggist dealer. I figure for every pill, Another day, another poem. But I won't stick myself no more. Got enough people- things Sticking me daily. Why should I help themselves along?* You right, doc snorted. You've lived this long, What ya got to show for it? Then why do you come Bothering me, Annoying me. You think I like Spending 90 minutes With you? You think I spend 90 minutes of mine On every poet That comes thru My swinging doors? *Well I like how, doc, You write down everything I tell you, so when the archaeologists And the alchemists Come a-digging, Looking for the facts of figures, In your files, They will find the gritty story Of a New Yorker, Who saw poems in sidewalk cracks, Street signs, young hearts and smiles, Even you white starch coat, Your stern disapproving face, gets utilized, but got stop someday, Wouldn't be fair If I used up more than my Fare-thee-well share Of words.* The doc, He didn't laugh, Nah, don't buy it, Gotta be a reason Better than that Why you keep on Bothering me, Ignoring me, Hastening your mortality? *Doc, done my time, Sentence served, Now I'm just coasting, Waiting for the day, When I get summoned.* *Looking for a new view, Looking down on the young ones, Staring down, at them struggling, For the exact right word, To place just so on their computer Screens/screams, I can be the rustling noise In their ear, They call inspiration.* **That will be Part II, That is what I will do, When your forecasts Come true. So what me worry, I got jobs done and to do, And I can do 'em well Just about anywhere, But I visit you, cause you, Are a righteous one, Cause you care.** And I will be watching you too. 5:38am
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102
. *What ever happened to fairy tale endings When did the sun bring the cold winter chill Why are kind gesturers an act of  pretending How did our heartbeats become ever still Where is the joy that we found ourselves sharing Happiness falling on much darker days Meadows of flowers now weeds never caring Blue skies are hidden behind sorrowed haze Dreams slowly scattered on desolate oceans Washed up on shore as the sandcastles die Tossed overboard with the weakest emotions Salt coated tears the horizon does cry Once perfect mornings now afternoon weary Gazing on edges cut sharp by the storm Forecasts are sent in a poem that’s dreary Standing afraid as the thunderclouds form Hiding our eyes behind last April’s fashion No cotton fabric for sale on the rack Finding that drab is our lone source of passion Marked down for clearance way out in the back When did we give up on promises pending Taking a place after push comes to shove What ever happened to fairy tale endings What ever happened to forever love*
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May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
Fairy Tale Endings?
Executive- My powers are absolute, thus I am totalitarian. The legislature and judiciary are each subservient to my whims. I pass my bills with attendant compliance, and interpret my own terms as the law. I shut the doors of compassion, I am very deeply elusive. I give no room at all to dissent. I get bloated with the treasures of the nation. In a leap year's tenure I bulldoze my way back to my incumbent status. And when four multiplies two, I impose a minion to cover my ills. Legislature- To obnoxious decrees I give my consent. I inflate yearly forecasts to become opulent. I am gratified for the cabinet servants' affirmation. I always my selfish treaties ratify. I am undoubtedly slavish to executive excesses. I seek the redress of constituents' grievances to enlarge my pocket's size. And above all else, I am largely rubber stamp. Judiciary- My evasive justice is yours' to reap if you are a top notch, whilst I withdraw the distributive and restorative from insolvents. I base my interpretations on business interests, and make laws for the interests of a cabal. Equity and rights are only in my constitution stated. But in reality they are no more than abstract twins. The sacred laws of our national prospectus I serve as a weak custodian of, and weaker still in the face of political heavyweights. But with all the lofty responsibilities I am reverently saddled with, I can do nothing more than empower bigwigs because I am weak, and they are powerful.
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Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 5:29 PM UTC
Symptoms of Nigeria's Governing Arms
There is a cottage by a disused well, And in it lives a strange and haggard crone, Knock on her door and she will give a tell Of future moments yet to you unknown. No crystal ***** or scattered runic tiles, No divinations of the palm or flame, Her forecasts lie in bodies she defiles, The practice of the necromancer's game.
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Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
Rhiannon The Mystic
I want to journey to a place, that’s unknown and unfamiliar; He’ll stop the sense of déjà vu and nothing can be familiar. I’d love to get that sensation, to live without pointing fingers; when surrounded by holy peace, I can know His Presence lingers. Within this blessed serenity, I’ll find His joy without worries; Life slows to a Godly pace where I’m being, not in a hurry… to escape His magnificence! Imagine streets without violence, whereby music fills the air and sirens are replaced by silence. There will be no more funerals, but continued celebrations of Life and God’s enduring Truth; we’ll praise- Christ for His Salvation, The Holy Ghost for His comfort and the Love of The Great I Am. Finally, we’ll witness first hand, grown lions lying down with lambs. Happiness will be realized under Heaven’s bright atmosphere; all pain and suffering is gone, since our eternal God is here! No weather forecasts are needed when perfection is everywhere; joyful songs of praise fill our ears, as we rest in His lasting care! . . . Author notes Inspired by: 1 Cor 2:9; John 14:27; Phil 4:6-7; Isa 11:1-6 Learn more about me and my poetry at: http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
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Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Poem: Happiness Will Be Realized
Perseverance, when trying to be passive, is like jello. Submission to jello is some place for circumstances. Strong jello is found in a yoga class. The active yogi has a response to the difficult events of the yoga class. Global achievers eat jello just like the rest of us. We are victims of their model. They spout dire forecasts, as if they were desirable, like jello or yoga. There's always room for yoga and jello.
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Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 7:16 PM UTC
Yoga And Jello
wormwood visions the nibiru hype train prepares to leave the station once again taking the prepper squad and doomer crew out to look again at the vastness of space – april forecasts 200 mile per hour straight line winds 2016 the year of destruction same as 2012 or Y2K or the bicentennial the age old crisis of an incoming body ready to destroy humanity for the umpteenth time – 6000 to 8000 biblical years of existence 150,000 year old cave art made by co-magnum breeding with Neanderthal looking to heavens at the rogue planet or failed dwarf star – another checking of the packs another inventory of the ammunition one more sideways glance into the southern skies seeking validation and maybe a little more warning than what the powers that be will give the population at large – probably nothing will happen the odds are this is just a story like the devil or Santa Claus just a way to control those foolish or unsettled enough to buy in most likely this year will pass without a celestial event designed to alter mankind push us to the next evolutionary jump force us to become a single people working to survive the electric and magnetized universe –
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Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
planet X 2016