Hello
A gesture perceived as formless waves in the Web
Perhaps a luring trap to be caught
or a silent cry as print Scarcely Red
Maybe you
Reddit or Won't
As text is the voice of this generation

Quote

ILY My fam is so cute
#Hashbrowns @MyBFFFFs

Last looks of a father as he leaves
with a dry cleaned suit.
The last breakfast I ate with my family
Together. Rebuked.
Now it lays archived in the mind of i
A memory fragment less intact
than the Colossus of Rhodes
What's that? Let me Google that.

What will become of the crowd
The voices, in their plight are
"Like wow, Laughing Out Loud"
Like apathy is the new trend
Can we even say there is a greater purpose
of the time we Spend.

I like my potatoes
Any way they are cooked
Hashbrowns or French fries
Plain boiled and salted
Mash potatoes
Potato salad
With golden butter on top
Spicy wedges or chips
I'd even eat it without dip
Too much isn't good
But I give in to pleasure
The possibilities to have potatoes
Are just an endless measure

CONTENDING FOR THE FAITH
  Certain men, described by Jude,
  As ungodly filthy dreamers,
  Condemned unto judgment,
  Evil speakers and flesh defilers

  Have subtly and secretly made themselves
  A part of the Christian faith,
  Purposely undermining salvation
  with ungodly speeches against God’s Grace.

Who are these insolent filthy dreamers
Who speak evil against Dignities with
                              disdain?
“Woe unto them” says the Apostle Jude,
“Woe unto Balaam, Core and Cain.”

Representative are these three of
The self-righteous for salvation,
The self-seeking for prestige and power,
The worshipper of wealth and mammon.

These are spots, ugly, despicable spots
In your love feast celebrations.
With all boldness and fearlessness,
They join you without invitation.

These are the murmurers, the complainers,
The mockers, of the soon  return of Christ,
As prophesied by Jesus and the Apostles,
     that in the last days they would arise.

In view of such apostates as these,
Be praying in the Holy Ghost, Beloved,
And building yourselves up in the Spirit,
Be living daily in the sphere of God’s love.

Having compassion on the innocent deceived,
The sincere soul drawn into a damning lair;
And others, addicted to chains of sin,
With great caution, ****** from the fire.

This, then, is the message of God,
With compassion, caution and love,
Be ready always to contend for the faith,
For the glory and majesty of God above.
From Jerry Howarth's original Poetry
Hello & Poetry
Jerry Howarth   Poems  
Published147  Drafts54 Hidden16 Deleted3

ADJUST OR BUST

A GOOD DAY FOR BIKE RIDING

A GOOD DAY FOR RUNNING

A LESSON WELL LEARNED

A Man and His Religion

And Then There Is God

AND YE FATHERS

ANGELS, MINISTERING SPIRITS

An Old Testament Love Story

A PRAYER OF PRAISE

ARE THERE CONTRDICTIONS IN THE BIBLE?

Are You Certain?

ARE YOU GOD'S MAN?

" ARE YOU READY FOR 'FREDDY?' "

" ARE YOU READY FOR 'FREDDY?' " (DRAFT)

ARE YOU SELF-CENTERED OR CHRIST-CENTERED

As a Man Thinketh

Atheism, Agnosticism, Deism, Humanism

A TREE HOUSE

ATTENTION ALL FATHERS

BACK IN THE WHEEL CHAIR AGAIN

"But My God Shall Supply All Your Needs" 4:19

Butter Milk Boogie

Christ the Strength of My Life

CONTRASTS

COPD

DEALING WITH SET BACKS OF LIFE

Dear Lord, I'm Bored

DEATH COULD NOT HOLD HIM

Jerry Howarth Dec 2019
DOUBT NOT GOD'S FAITHFULNESS
FAITHFUL TO THE LORD
   The Bible tells of a man called Job,
Whose life was filled with great discord.
He lost all his family and fortune,
But through it all was faithful to the Lord.
            chorus
Faithful to the Lord, Faithful to the Lord,
My Brother and Sister, be faithful to the Lord!
Yes faithful to the Lord, faithful to the Lord,
Be like Job, be faithful to the Lord.

Have your friends all turned their backs upon you,
And left you walking all alone?
Just remember, God is always faithful,
and will love and keep you as his own.

To Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,
God's promise of faithfulness was given,
To Joshua, the Judges of Israel,
And to a man called Gideon.

Yes my friends, doubt not  God's faithfulness,
Read the long list of men and women
to whom God was faithful to supply of their needs.
Found in the book of Hebrews, chapter eleven.
From Jerry Howarth's Book of Orginal Poems

Written by
Jerry Howarth  Topeka, Ks.
      
24     3
1 comment

Esteem Others Better Than Y'self

EVOLUTION SAYS.........by G.E. Parson

FAITH OR FEAR

Faith -What is it?

Father Forgive

FEAR NOT TOMORROW

FIRE! FIRE!! FIRERRRR!!!!!!

Five Kings In A Cave

FRIENDS

God's Faithful Provision

Go Forth With Confidence

Going Up to Glory

GRAMPA BACK IN GRAMMA' KITCHEN

GRAMPA BOUGHT A NEW CAR

Grampa Cooking Hashbrowns

Grampa G.E. Parsons's Creed of Life

Grampa Parson's 4th of July experience

Grampa Sold His Garage

Grampa Took An Unplanned Train Ride

HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT OF....

Heaven Is Only A Prayer Away

Heavenly Blessings

He Lied About Her

I Don't Get Mad, I get Even

IF CLOUDS HAD EYES

IF YOU HAVE EXPERIENCED

If you need a little help just call on me

IF YOU'RE TOO BUSY TO PRAY IF

I'm a physically Challenged Man

I'm so Blessed

I SEE GOD

IT ONLY TAKES BELIEVING

Jerry can't sleep

Jerry's Breakfast Sandwich

JESUS IS COMING

JESUS THE ONLY WAY

JESUS=What He Means To Me

JOHN Q.PRISONER

JOSHUA AND CALEB

JOY, PEACE AND HAPPINES

Judges of Israel Cont.

JUST RAMBLING AND RYMING

Keep Your Spiritual Eyes On Jesus

Legally Dishonest

LESSONS FROM THE PRODICAL SON

LIFE IS A CONSTANT STRUGGLE

Livn'n To Glorify The Lord

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

MARANATHA

ME AND MY SUNSHINE

Jerry Howarth Jan 2016
More Poems of Faith
CONTENDING FOR THE FAITH
  Certain men, described by Jude,
  As ungodly filthy dreamers,
  Condemned unto judgment,
  Evil speakers and flesh defilers

  Have subtly and secretly made themselves
  A part of the Christian faith,
  Purposely undermining salvation
  with ungodly speeches against God’s Grace.

Who are these insolent filthy dreamers
Who speak evil against Dignities with
                              disdain?
“Woe unto them” says the Apostle Jude,
“Woe unto Balaam, Core and Cain.”

Representative are these three of
The self-righteous for salvation,
The self-seeking for prestige and power,
The worshipper of wealth and mammon.

These are spots, ugly, despicable spots
In your love feast celebrations.
With all boldness and fearlessness,
They join you without invitation.

These are the murmurers, the complainers,
The mockers, of the soon  return of Christ,
As prophesied by Jesus and the Apostles,
     that in the last days they would arise.

In view of such apostates as these,
Be praying in the Holy Ghost, Beloved,
And building yourselves up in the Spirit,
Be living daily in the sphere of God’s love.

Having compassion on the innocent deceived,
The sincere soul drawn into a damning lair;
And others, addicted to chains of sin,
With great caution, ****** from the fire.

This, then, is the message of God,
With compassion, caution and love,
Be ready always to contend for the faith,
For the glory and majesty of God above.
                                  -  by G. E. Parson
     06/272011

Written by
Jerry Howarth  Topeka, Ks.
      
703     Don Bouchard, Got Guanxi and 1 other
Don Bouchard

Don Bouchard  I see we are writing on similar themes. Jude is a book for our times.

0



1 reply

May 2017

MORE THEE, LESS OF ME

MURDERING BABIES

My First Airplane Ride

My Lost Toy Bear

MY SUNSHINE GAL

NO EXCUSES

NONE OF YOUR BIZWAX

ONE MAN'S TESTIMONY

Out Line for Devotions or Full sermon message

PLAY BALL !!

POEMS UPLIFTING

POSITIVE PRAGMATISM

PRAISE GOD I GOT SAVED !!

PRAISE GOD, JESUS CAME!

PRAISING GOD FOR AMERICA

Preaching On Facebook Live

PRESIDENTS DAY 2/19

RABBONI ! MASTER !

READ THE BIBLE !
Next page

            MORE POEMS OF FAITH

Hello & Poetry
Jerry Howarth   Poems  
Published147  Drafts54 Hidden16 Deleted3

ADJUST OR BUST

A GOOD DAY FOR BIKE RIDING

A GOOD DAY FOR RUNNING

A LESSON WELL LEARNED

A Man and His Religion

And Then There Is God

AND YE FATHERS

ANGELS, MINISTERING SPIRITS

An Old Testament Love Story

A PRAYER OF PRAISE

ARE THERE CONTRDICTIONS IN THE BIBLE?

Are You Certain?

ARE YOU GOD'S MAN?

" ARE YOU READY FOR 'FREDDY?' "

" ARE YOU READY FOR 'FREDDY?' " (DRAFT)

ARE YOU SELF-CENTERED OR CHRIST-CENTERED

As a Man Thinketh

Atheism, Agnosticism, Deism, Humanism

A TREE HOUSE

ATTENTION ALL FATHERS

BACK IN THE WHEEL CHAIR AGAIN

"But My God Shall Supply All Your Needs" 4:19

Butter Milk Boogie

Christ the Strength of My Life

CONTRASTS

COPD

DEALING WITH SET BACKS OF LIFE

Dear Lord, I'm Bored

DEATH COULD NOT HOLD HIM

Jerry Howarth Dec 2019
DOUBT NOT GOD'S FAITHFULNESS
FAITHFUL TO THE LORD
   The Bible tells of a man called Job,
Whose life was filled with great discord.
He lost all his family and fortune,
But through it all was faithful to the Lord.
            chorus
Faithful to the Lord, Faithful to the Lord,
My Brother and Sister, be faithful to the Lord!
Yes faithful to the Lord, faithful to the Lord,
Be like Job, be faithful to the Lord.

Have your friends all turned their backs upon you,
And left you walking all alone?
Just remember, God is always faithful,
and will love and keep you as his own.

To Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,
God's promise of faithfulness was given,
To Joshua, the Judges of Israel,
And to a man called Gideon.

Yes my friends, doubt not  God's faithfulness,
Read the long list of men and women
to whom God was faithful to supply of their needs.
Found in the book of Hebrews, chapter eleven.
From Jerry Howarth's Book of Orginal Poems

Written by
Jerry Howarth  Topeka, Ks.
      
24     3
1 comment

Esteem Others Better Than Y'self

EVOLUTION SAYS.........by G.E. Parson

FAITH OR FEAR

Faith -What is it?

Father Forgive

FEAR NOT TOMORROW

FIRE! FIRE!! FIRERRRR!!!!!!

Five Kings In A Cave

FRIENDS

God's Faithful Provision

Go Forth With Confidence

Going Up to Glory

GRAMPA BACK IN GRAMMA' KITCHEN

GRAMPA BOUGHT A NEW CAR

Grampa Cooking Hashbrowns

Grampa G.E. Parsons's Creed of Life

Grampa Parson's 4th of July experience

Grampa Sold His Garage

Grampa Took An Unplanned Train Ride

HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT OF....

Heaven Is Only A Prayer Away

Heavenly Blessings

He Lied About Her

I Don't Get Mad, I get Even

IF CLOUDS HAD EYES

IF YOU HAVE EXPERIENCED

If you need a little help just call on me

IF YOU'RE TOO BUSY TO PRAY IF

I'm a physically Challenged Man

I'm so Blessed

I SEE GOD

IT ONLY TAKES BELIEVING

Jerry can't sleep

Jerry's Breakfast Sandwich

JESUS IS COMING

JESUS THE ONLY WAY

JESUS=What He Means To Me

JOHN Q.PRISONER

JOSHUA AND CALEB

JOY, PEACE AND HAPPINES

Judges of Israel Cont.

JUST RAMBLING AND RYMING

Keep Your Spiritual Eyes On Jesus

Legally Dishonest

LESSONS FROM THE PRODICAL SON

LIFE IS A CONSTANT STRUGGLE

Livn'n To Glorify The Lord

MAKE YOUR CHOICE

MARANATHA

ME AND MY SUNSHINE

Jerry Howarth Jan 2016
More Poems of Faith
CONTENDING FOR THE FAITH
  Certain men, described by Jude,
  As ungodly filthy dreamers,
  Condemned unto judgment,
  Evil speakers and flesh defilers

  Have subtly and secretly made themselves
  A part of the Christian faith,
  Purposely undermining salvation
  with ungodly speeches against God’s Grace.

Who are these insolent filthy dreamers
Who speak evil against Dignities with
                              disdain?
“Woe unto them” says the Apostle Jude,
“Woe unto Balaam, Core and Cain.”

Representative are these three of
The self-righteous for salvation,
The self-seeking for prestige and power,
The worshipper of wealth and mammon.

These are spots, ugly, despicable spots
In your love feast celebrations.
With all boldness and fearlessness,
They join you without invitation.

These are the murmurers, the complainers,
The mockers, of the soon  return of Christ,
As prophesied by Jesus and the Apostles,
     that in the last days they would arise.

In view of such apostates as these,
Be praying in the Holy Ghost, Beloved,
And building yourselves up in the Spirit,
Be living daily in the sphere of God’s love.

Having compassion on the innocent deceived,
The sincere soul drawn into a damning lair;
And others, addicted to chains of sin,
With great caution, ****** from the fire.

This, then, is the message of God,
With compassion, caution and love,

deli meats and cheeses
i look past them at soft crinkling smiling faces


and i drink my java
warms up my hands and ******* and i sweat
in my coat


walking up and down the isles

I see trail mix
and sunchips

and sweet sweet sweets
the yummies

that i adore

chocolates
especially

dark chocolate cocoa orange cherry strawberry berry red brown

it's the sweetness and saltiness
of summer time ice cream

It's the cold crispness
of carrots and snap peas

It's the warmth and comfort
of big muffins and a plate of hashbrowns
at Perkin's
after a stressful morning



spice smells
of pad tai noodles


sourdough bread, fresh baked
crunch crunch on the outside
soft hot squish
inside
(save that part for me, i eat them separate
-you laugh)

how many times did we
laugh
about how you ate that bug
and we were never picky



cherries
all those cherries.





we ate nutella
on bread,

washed it down with cold organic orange juice
from a cafe neither of us had ever heard of

and tofu
tofu tofu

always cooked perfectly (we wondered how they do it)
(i still don't know)

chocolate, melting slowly

"you missed some."

-------just an excuse to kiss me.
i giggle


peanut m&m;'s

turn my tongue colors.

Watermelon at a potluck
wedding cake
cheesy potatoes
and an extra helping of bread
(we laughed so hard at the white bread, squished into a cube)

ruby red
made you wince

I drink it straight from the bottle
and smile

remembering every kiss
that tasted of grapefruit
in that tent

every kiss that tasted of salt
from the eggs?
or from the sweat on your lips

the sweat on your lips.

we kiss more
i smile into your lips
i remember that, especially

we never got sick of each other
nutella on everything, now.
especially on s'mores


i smile with every memory




i put my hands in pockets, the cold rushes to meet my face
in the ice cream aisle

i cool down as i graze
through the tubs or corn syrup and double churned triple churned
cream with extra fudge

sherbet

i chuckle to myself


memories memories
of sitting up high
with you,

sand on our toes
chocolate caramel fudge coffee
on our tongues

love

in our hearts


you remember.

the taste of that summer

“The curiosity of the city rings with the death deliverance of grieving mothers and drunk fathers and optimists who claim the world is made, of more than just those two people. This is the Republic and the gates are open for service. Comedians were once serious people like all the rest who were mocked and remained vigilant in the face of despair. Life and death are part of our lives, but not the entirety. Grave markers have no grace for that truth. Summing up our choices to dashes in metal or plastic. What about the singing in the shower? The embarrassing time we were caught ******* or with ****? The overall fear of death creeping over these moments. Where is the answer? I wish Philosophy had a wick, something tangible to grasp onto, but it is no different than alcohol or drugs. Even that is no different than the dash. It only sums up our existence in simplicity. Labels of any sort do no justice to the comedians, mothers, fathers, republics, cities, and or life. In short, this land is the Atlas-cyst.
I look up at the clouds and see the impression of silver cherubs sitting on  flying horses. If they were real, they'd stab the hearts out of lovers from their aluminum vessels.
We are kings and queens of too much.
How many people have died for something that was not the cause—martyrs labeled as abolitionists. But to the illiterate-pop culture they are the heroes. Zealous posters written by apathetic authors trying to call back to the glaciers till the chimes of apocalypse come. The sad songs are true. Pity is polio too sick to bend and too accustomed to power. More than anything it is the simple moments that make the best music."
I remember telling Kaitlyn all that after we had ***.
"Should I continue?" I asked.
"I guess. I do like listening to you." she said.
“Your name is a word, but I think it is a culture.”
“The dark is a force,” she said, “But it is a child  too.”

She was the first one that made me realize that romantic tendencies are as hollow as realistic ones.
She laughs and I laugh. We are slaves beyond truth and defiance.
I can almost hear the old people that were friends of my granddad saying, “Remember your path.”
A failed proverb. Now as my sneakers hit the black top at night I see a messy web in the gutter belonging to a black widow. Every town in America should have a street named after Leo Szilard, the idealist father of the atomic bomb. I wish the one I was walking down now was named after him, but instead it is named after Hemingway. Hemingway St.--
“Everything I want and I couldn't be happier.” Kaitlyn says as she rolls away from me. Almost in cinematic beauty.
Now Sedans pass by playing catchy music--reminding me of the same melody earlier in the day when we were on our date at a local pizza place. The waitress was late with our order and we were making fun of Communism and Southern women on verandas.
“Oh Charles, I don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies!” she impersonated.
I laugh, gather myself, and add, “frankly my dear, I don't give a ****!”
Our giggles and bursts of laughter spawned our waitress in record time.
Later in the night, a ***** sock is still on her door as I leave her apartment. There are things still to be done. We aren't married after all.
I hear sirens in the background, downtown and I laugh to myself.
“Avoid the police! Avoid the police!” I promise myself I'll tell her tomorrow.
As I cross the street and the stench of wet dog in the night becomes second nature to me I add a conclusion to the communist joke from earlier. Imagine nowadays walking around Moscow passing out pamphlets about Communism to Russian citizens. The punchline sets in as lame like a worn lobotomy—no one would get the joke or take it too seriously. It's one of the commodities of sanity.
“You're never angry with me and I like that about you.” I told her once our pizza was delivered to our table. That statement cleaved the conversation to a halt and all we did was eat for the rest of our date there. She is the perfect bride I may never marry—a wedding in a box. Other than that she brings  spinal traction in this rough world—I feel like a man.
3:55 am brings ego death from acid. Not a song for the kiddies, but it is a recycled song for the college kids down the street. Even though the closest college is two hundred miles away. I call Kaitlyn up, she too can't sleep.
“How many times can a woman scream after *******?” I ask.
She exhales heavy when she smiles. “As many as I can.”
I do the same when I smile.
I imagine it all again: “Being absent on death's radar for that one moment. Teenagers dream about it, preachers scold it, tv promotes it, children have no idea what it is.”
“You make it sound so bad. Like ****.”
“It's not bad. It's a faith in a white flag.” I say.
“Of surrender?”
“Yes.” I reply.

The next time I blink it's breakfast, over at her place.
“You have the most fantastic beard.”she says.
The compliment goes down good with eggs over-well, bacon still moist from grease, golden toast, sloppy grits, and hashbrowns flat like a sandwich. I need a cup of coffee to level out her perfume.

No one knows I'm unsure if I'm the one she wants. But I would want her, no breakfast, just her and her aroma steeping in my life till my body runs cold.

“I surrender.”
“What?” she asks.
A torn piece of white fabric lies on the table.


The wine still lingers in my throat an hour after New Year's. The burn creeping down my esophagus much slower than the glistening ball in New York on tv. I taste blood. I wonder if it will last the year. The white flag is now starboard. And there is an opera in my fingers.  That last sentence makes no sense.
I know I am a man with hairy feet, a bruised heart and young. As Ivy Compton-Burnett says, “Real life seems to have no plots.” But it does have star-crossed lovers stuffed in suitcases beside heels and breeches. Traveling along the serpentine east coast watching the world in anticipation. Death can wait. I wonder if the same two people can live in perpetual amazing-ness apart?
I don't know. I can't wait for the answer. I begin, end, and live my life around the words 'and' and 'more'.
She doesn't know I barely move from my bedroom.

the recycled song
that repeats in the throats of the lovers that came so many times
they were invisible on death's radar for just one night. Is it possible
                                                        ­                  for the same two people
                                                          ­                to live in that kind of
                  perpetual amazing-ness?

                  A white flag of surrender in the nose of scolding lips--her lips--those wonderful lies.
The best beard no one will forget. That last sentence makes no sense
                           without the breakfast it went down with. My eggs over well, the bacon still moist with grease, the toast over golden, the grits sloppy, the hashbrowns like a fried sandwich. I need a fantastic cup of coffee.                                                          ­              with her perfume. I'm not sure
                      if I am what she wants, but the alcohol in the
wine I had for                                                              ­            New Years still lingers in my throat.
                                                  
                                                I still feel the burn of loss in my esophagus. The white banner starboard,
blood in my teeth and an opera on my fingers--
what a beautiful world for this day to begin on                and this night to end on. I am a man
and                                                          ­               woman
My feet are hairy--my heart is bruised and young,               like crossed lovers in heels and breeches.

                             The faith of a white flag--a serpentine
                             coast in my suitcase. The world awaits,
                             death can wait--and thanks to Hemingway,
I begin, end, and live my life around the word
                                                            ­                       'and'.

Every day theres a different thought of you that skips through my mind in a floral pattern sundress with a smile so big Im pretty sure it couldnt go through a drive thru and I slip slowly  away  piece by piece, dripping away from the sound of music in my headphones and my now always filthy room, and the smell of **** and incense,
I slip back to days spent in a high school gym when my only thoughts were of when I would get to see you that day, or how you were feeling or what you were thinking about. I slip back to the first valentines day I knew you and you made me a mixtape which I wasnt aware of then but is apparently your thing. I slip back to the time when as we were leaving that same gym I accidentally said "I love you" and you just giggled and replied
"I love you too."
I slip back to days spent feeling sick at the thought that I couldnt have you in my life, I remember it eating at my insides and my stomach goin on strike, I remember taking money from my moms purse to buy **** because I thought it might help me be happy but it didnt and it still doesnt.
I slip back to days in hardware stores spent checking out kitchen sets just to **** time, and going to waffle house and not wanting to eat my hashbrowns.
I slip back to sitting in jimmy johns for the first time eating a sandwich I didnt care to try to taste but it didnt matter because you were right next to me eating your favorite food and you you were so ******* cute it made my sandwich better anyway. I also remember when they started putting way too much mayo on the sandwiches for you so you stopped going.
I slip back to nights spent in my bed trying my best to not be too forward, finally taking your que and learning your neck and discovering the weird things about how you sleep, I slip back to the warm feeling of my chest against your back as you slept and the way your chest rose and fell in such a way I couldnt stop watching, the way your hair shone in the green Christmas lights around my computer and I remember being so happy, so indescribably happy.

I slip back to telling you everything that came to mind and you genuinely caring, which honestly ****** me up cause if I do it to other people it seems like everything I say has no substance and irrelevant relevance.
I slip back to when I first realized I wasnt enough to make you happy. I thought about you when we were together, and you any time we were with someone else.  I thought about how other people made you laugh differently and how much I agreed with you when you tweeted about how you were too cute for me anyway, I slip back to wishing I knew what was wrong with me and why I wasnt able to make you happy, I slip back to realizing I was holding myself back because  I didnt want to lose you but I also slip back to thinking, "what am I losing?"
I slip back to you never wanting to give me a title and thats not something I get to decide,
I slip back to all the "its complicated"s and "im not really sure"s
I slip back to watching you become such a product of your environment, and watching you flirt with each and every one of our friends and staying silent because its not my right to say **** about the way you interact with people, I remember not being able to express how much your relationship with my cousin stressed me out because it wasn't my place to say who you could and couldn't be friends with and my emotions shouldn't effect that at all.
I slip back to the first time we knew it wouldn't work when I was sitting outside in your car with you crying my eyes out because Id never be in your passenger seat with my hands in your hair again, and how every silver car I saw would only make me think of you and how any time I hear a good song Ill want to send it to you and every time the sunset kisses my eyes ill want to take a picture for you because you'll probably miss it,
but I cant anymore.
because now I made a decision that ill stand by,
I made a decision that I honestly think was a good one for the both of us as we find someone who makes us truly happy, I feel deep down you know I wasnt making you happy but you were just comfortable with me, and invested.
your response to it all was
"glad were on the same page"
but I know your favorite thing to gather and hide is spite so Ill avoid contact with you for a while I guess. Ill watch you grow and hopefully grow as well. Ill learn to hold my peace and come to grips with my destiny which as I said since we first started texting is not in "Nowhere Louisiana", I hope you continue to blossom and find a bearded motorcycle riding man who can play instruments and make your heart sing more beautifully than you do.
every day a little memory of you skips through my mind and I feel your eyelids flutter on my cheek as your showed me what a butterfly kiss was,
every day a little memory of you slips from my mind as well.

We keep on cutting, edges off the blind parts of our hands.
Everyone you don't trust is getting, a little too close, and
Soon you'll be so loud that all of your fears come out.
Each ounce of you, that I packed into sandwich bags
And shoved down my throat, that now while you try
To back out, your bloodied olive-sized organs
Get jammed in my lungs and my ribs. You pretend
That your heart is a bouncy beach ball filled with helium,
But with even the practice you had at lying, I can smell
How new at this you are. Some part of me, childish still
I presume, brushes my fingers through your hair and
Over your ears, then touches this face stuck with splinters
That you've tried to use scissors to combat every thing
Making you feel differently about us now. Now.

Using the contraption from when we started out,
The Jaguar convertible with the top brought down,
Cruising up to San Fran when we thought the sun was out,
But we managed to make it the only Summer where it snowed downtown.
Even with the hummer, you were on my right, looking backwards out
Of your eyes. Glass crystals cut the corners of your mouth, looking back,
I centered my turn-ons by the bruises I bit into your calves.

The number of times I've let you rattle my cage,
******* up my brain. The slave wage you paid,
Main-stage, 'The Rage', for a hand-me-down
Chance to get laid.

****** and God, a forty-hour a week job,
Benchmark No. 1, 'The Saw.'

Tailored into the skins, needle pins and numbness
Attached to the dumbest excuses to run with.
For the ***, the anticipation was sinning enough,
That every once in a while I could afford to be turned off.

The next three days and Maisie,
Your teenage head went crazy,
Every ten minutes you paged me.
The price of admission, I wished,
Would've been the attention I'd give,
A cannibal habit, you kicked. I quit
Bothering you about what your *** size is.

After eight months, of which I said they were probably closer to nine,
Was the beginning of when I could convince you to drive yourself
Into my house. While the closet I could afford ensnared you,
I wore washed up Air Jordan's with skinny black Levi's,
You dyed your hair to gray before going blonde, it went to your hips
But you kept a ponytail or bob.

I'm remembering now, nearly every other day at age twenty-two,
Going to Clark's and ordering hashbrowns with green peppers on Sherman Avenue.
Every resistant bone in my body bothers me, I sit with the transistor between
My first finger and index, tuning the ****, while rehearsing violent seminars
Between you and I that resembled closely The Bay of Pigs. Your fingernails never
Had time to grow long enough to paint. You also never wanted to wear high heels.

This is the first chance without plastic lunch-bags in my throat, that I can chew up my food, without choking on olive pits that have been Getting stuck in my esophagus for the last thirteen years.

Don't hate me.
I know you saw me, you're sawing at me.
But when I see you, I say, "Marry me."
We only have seconds left,
Give me your shallow breaths,
I'll cup my hands and catch the water while you drink from me.
Drink from me, every flavor that you can grip between your teeth.
There are only seconds now, I'm counting 23.
Why won't you love me? Why won't you love me? Why won't you love me?
I choke. I ache. I scream.
Kristine.

3 seconds left.

I am from cat clocks with batteries long since run out but never fixed like so much else
that we don’t have time for,
from piles of miscellaneous things we didn’t know if we were allowed to throw away because
Mother had a tendency to keep everything on hand
(even if those objects were buried far beneath more objects).
I am from movie stacks taller than me with box sets of things like “The West Wing” and “Psych” and “Star Wars” and “Indiana Jones.”
I am from the big blue house on the corner with the red double doors that were recently replaced,
the house with a creepy, old feel during the late hours when the shadows fall in ominous shapes
and twists and turns that always confuse new guests.
I am from the two trees that grew along with my brother and sister but not with me as
we never planted mine because I have always been the different one,
and the grand old trees in the backyard that blocked an aerial view of our property
as well as we shield ourselves.

I’m from Tim Allen at Christmas
(but brother always skips the last two)
and faces that could have been carved from the same model.
From Ken and Hilarie and Judy and Howard and adopted sisters.
I’m from volleyball with a rope tied between the sibling trees during blackouts
where Mommy dominated because after all, she had her athletic days too.
(I think this may have been my favorite family memory)
I’m from spontaneous slurpee or desert runs with the siblings
(I remember being so proud once I could finally be the one to drive us),
and from binge watching shows as a family
(one summer, nights were spent watching “The West Wing” and balancing our dinner plates).
I’m from “Chronicles of Narnia” played on loop during long car rides.
I am from strolls in empty halls past wheelchairs smashed up against the walls.
I am from the transition from “parents” to “father and sister.”
I am from welcoming nieces and nephews into our “family” whom I have vowed to protect
because precious things often get broken.

I’m from “is your homework done?” and “don’t forget to feed the cats”
and memorized bible verses recited on Fridays
while wearing dresses because that’s how things were at private schools.
I’m from unspoken words and seething anger buried beneath the surface.
I’m from little Medford, Oregon hidden away in a valley
and faraway Norway and England whose roads I long to travel.
I am from scrambled eggs and hashbrowns when I got home late from practice
(I think that’s where my sleeping patterns first went wrong),
and begging Daddy to make pancakes or French toast because that is my comfort food.
From the lucky family members that have had the chance to travel and instilled a wanderlust deep in my soul
because they got to see France and Haiti and Air Force bases sprinkled in countries I wish I saw stamped on my passport
(if I had one).

I am from secrets and lies because I was never taught an alternative,
after all my grandfather doesn’t even know how to spell his daughter’s name.
I am from disbelief when no one from that side of the family showed to the funeral.
I am from broken relationships I am too scared to repair
because I never learned that taking chances was necessary to life.
From pictures mostly packed away somewhere unknown to me
like so much else.
I am from the unknown
(that is why plans have always been my comfort and I have never liked to hear “just go with it”).
I am from the fear of being alone because I learned far too early that no one is permanent or promised.
I am from a conditioned fear that taught me to be afraid of the nights because everything gets worse then.
I am from nights of contemplating “is it really worth it?”
I am from stress and anger turned into blood.
I am from hearts turned bitter.
I am from selflessness because don’t you know that everyone else is so much more important?
They have so much more to give and so many more smiles to smile.

I am from “it’s going to be okay”
(I hate that phrase now)
and “she didn’t abandon you.”
I am from strategically placed clothing
and tear-stained pillows
and perfected lies when they are needed.
I am from quiet sobs at night
and pencils thrown across the room.
I am from night drives where I am tempted to maybe find myself a place for a nice accident
(but then again, this family already has bad experiences with car accidents).
I am from looks of pity and the worried glances of friends.
I am from “no, I’m just tired” because I don’t know how to explain
an exhaustion that numbs your soul and wears out your body and restricts your heart.
I am from pill bottles hidden in my room because if I can’t fix myself,
maybe they can.
I am from a walk on the beach with a blade in my hands while my friends slept in the truck.
I am from a moonlight hike to a cliff that I should have jumped off of
(and if it was just a little higher, I think I would have)
because everyone would have had it easier without me.
I am from “I am so sorry”
to “I’ll try to be better”
and “you deserve more” when I fail to do so.

I am from all of this and more.

if i were the drinking kind
i'd fill my body with enough poison i might slip into a deep slumber and not wake until the pain disappeared
my poison of choice
is music
melodies strung and sung so sweetly my heart aches until it numbs
when tears slither their way out of my dry, cracking face i try to convince myself i'm just rehydrating the dead cells that mask my tired bones
pay no attention to the hysterical grin, the Gucci bags under my eyes, and the hair that's wearing Thin and Matted like designer names on B-list celebrities
every night i cut the ambien into pieces, working my way up from halfsies to wholesies so i don't have to listen to the conversations i have with the walls in my room
it all hurts so ******* much, you know?
you don't numb this kind of pain expecting it to go away
you listen to it and coddle it and sit back as it consumes you because **** it looked so innocent
at first
when 10 am finally comes
hashbrowns with too much salt, a mug of cold tea, and a couple Prozac can remedy even the worst of depression's hangovers

sleep tight

don't let the bedbugs bite.

-
-rgp

The alarm got us up before the sun fully awoke
we pulled our sleepy bodies out of bed
got on our grungies not even fixing coffee yet,
got our gear together in the pickup
and headed for the peninsula
where we hoped the sand bass would be schooling,
searching for some breakfast of worms or flashy things that looked to them like food.
If we were lucky we hooked a few which we would cook later
or save for the freezers back home.

When we got back to the campground
we’d comb our hair brush our teeth and head into town
for Pat’s Cafe who served the best biscuits, eggs, hashbrowns, and pancakes in the region
and if we were lucky Pat herself with her long black hair and **** lips
and substantial hips
would stop by and in her Texas twang and charm
she’d tell us about their farm
we’d speak of our wives
and some of the small details of our lives
and how we loved that large beautiful body
that sparkled and sang to us each spring
and how we savored dipping into Lake Whitney.

In late afternoon we would laze about the RV
discussing Theilhard and Jesus and Charlie
he’d speak of Bob Wills and we’d share
trying to make sense of the spirits there
and how they made us leap and soar.
We spoke in sync and explored
lines of novels, and fascinating texts
that made us eager to discover what was next
that would make us laugh or shed tears
of all those memorable years
we’d been brothers
afloat of the same waters
becoming men who hoped to make their mark
spark something good in the minds
of other seekers who also drank wines
fermented in corridors of learning
who had the same yearning
for knowledge and truth
embedded early and deeply in our youth.

Full ashtrays , lipstick stains on
white coffee cups
Hashbrowns and waffles , Dwight Yoakam
on the jukebox , waitresses calling orders ,
a lone cook 'in the zone' , the whole scene
becomes a country song
The patrons begrudgingly lip synch along* ...

one word is all
fifteen are too much
I would like to cause a trend
$twitter listen
hell I don't get hashbrowns and
prize tags all a glitter
and I don't ever trends
I wonder whys?
By the by the word is love.

Maple syrup, two pancakes and grossly made hashbrowns...
you forever have a place in this life as a friend,
and a place in my heart.
for without you,
I wouldnt be as strong as I am nor be as wise.
I wouldnt be spending 50 bucks a month for confidence nor going out for our dates? coffee breaks from the world

Chai milk tea, boba of some sort, and you...
you changed me for the better, y/n
this might have been made on the fly and im tired as hell
i wanted you to understand that,
this big ol heart of mine,
cares more than you can dream
and loves you more than you can imagine...

Today I had some breakfast leftovers:
Normally not, but I had friends around.

Old pals and lovers were in town for a concert.

So I asserted myself and my pad,
and allowed loads of hippies to flop down
on my poorly maintained hardwood floors.

I'm sure it would rile them up if they knew
that all my repairs were
made of petroleum and unsustainable glue.

But even still,
while peeling potatoes,
I imagined my hashbrowns,
my real spuds
forming tornadoes on all
the tent towns and dreamers,
and all that would seem to know peace but not hate.

Because ignoring what you don't want to hear
is only ignoring your fate.

At Irving and Sheridan, cabs, buses and cars bled with a scab of gray belch low in the gelid airs.  Above, a draught of light spilled out of the Redline, spilled lanky into the coffee of the night, filigree cream in the eye.  It was then that I saw her, strobed in amber as the train banged itself taut and fleeing.  I watched her decay, velvet down the platform stairs.  I stood gum on the sidewalk before ticked-out commands. Walk. Don't Walk. Walk. Stirring a light thick with the bitters of spent grease, she poured into the street and came toward me, longstriding.  It was then I saw her, tepid and far.  I no longer heard the flickering scrape of the El, nor did I smell the burnt hashbrowns of the New Crystal flickering day-old soup in neon and steam.  I heard only a vague exhausted wind, smelled only the lurid musk of Obsession and rot as she passed beyond the veil of my brim. It was there, at that moment, I walked Hopper for the first time. It was there, at Irving and Sheridan, I became an overcoat and a thin dime.

The dirt under my knuckles is that last leftover I have from
helping out with a wheelbarrow full of hashbrowns this morning.


I can't butcher a hog, but I hauled in the cases of Coke, and bread, and extra chairs, and also managed to scramble every egg we had on hand.

And then I pretended I didn't care after I tore through my backstock of bacon, afraid of making my aunties sick because they're thick to stay home one winter in their ******* lives.

I don't want anyone to die.

But I know that they do.

And I guarantee you the last thing you want to say when you get to heaven is that youre dead because you couldn't get enough of your ****** nephews disgusting Christmas stew.

If you walk down Farm-to-Market Street far enough, you get to the Paradise Cafe, the best place in Waller, Texas to have breakfast. "Howdy. How ya doin?" says an old man wearing jeans and a cowboy shirt you have to button up instead of the conventional way with a venerable, old cowboy hat on his head. "Have a seat," he says. There is an empty stool at the counter, so you sit down beside him. "Haven't seen you before," the wizened old man says. "Where ya from? "New York City," you reply. "New York City!" the old man exclaims. "The Big Apple! What brings ya to Waller?" "I'm walking across America," you say. "You're doing what?" the old man says incredulously. "I'm walking across America," you say again. "Well, I'll be ****! I never done that." the old man says. The waitress, a pretty, young woman wearing a pigtail, says, "What can I getch ya?" " "I'll start with a cup of coffee, black." "I'll be right back," she says. "I'm 71. Got born here in Waller, quit high school, started working on a cattle ranch. Spent my whole life on that ranch. Never got married. Now the government is paying me so I can stay alive," he says. "Come in here every morning to have breakfast. Ain't she a beauty!" he says, referring to the waitress. "Sweet as she is pretty," he adds. Sally--the old man told you her name--comes back with a cup of steaming black coffee. "What would you like to eat?" she asks. "I'd like two eggs sunny-side up with a double order of hashbrowns, two sausage patties, and whole wheat toast, butter, but no jelly." "I'll get it. More coffee? "Yes, please." "Waller ain't fancy, but good people live here," the old man says. "But about 20 years ago, somebody robbed the bank. Nobody ever caught him." In a short time, Sally brings you your breakfast. It is good. When you finish eating, you pay your bill and leave five dollars on the counter for Sally. "It was nice meeting you," you say to the old man. "Likewise, I reckon," he replies." "You have a good rest of your walk across America, ya hear," the old man says. "Thanks. I think I will. Here, take this," and gives the old man a twenty. "And keep the change. Thanks for being so nice to a stranger." Then you get up and walk out of the Paradise Cafe to continue your journey.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

I’ll have the usual
Eggs
Sunny side up,
Crispy hashbrowns,
One sausage one bacon.
I like the variety.
And pancakes
Hold
The
Butter.
Thank You.

I want to watch the usual.
Which usual?
I don’t know.
Perhaps our usual thriller,
Maybe even our usual comedy.
But i think today
I want the usual drama series.
The one that always
Makes me cry.
I’ll grab the popcorn.

Let’s go to our usual spot
The one in the meadow
Where the grass is the greenest
And the trees give the perfect shade.
The one where we lay our blanket
And eat sandwiches.
Mayonnaise and ham,
Your favorite.

Well, the usual
Feeling of guilt
And failure.
I feel the usual
Negative emotions.
The feeling of worthlessness
And that i
Am a failure in life.
That i’m such a burden
To those who care.
And the feeling that if
i died
Everyone’s life would be
Better.
Yes Doctor,
i’ll take the usual medication.

It’s just the usual,
That i’m spoiled
And a brat.
The usual insult of
How i’m so useless
And how horrible i am.
The usual comment of
My stupidity
And how i
Am such a horrible daughter.
So don’t worry
It’s just the usual.

The Usual
Feeling,
My chest
Tightening,
My hands
Shaking.
The usual
Tears,
Sobs,
And cries.
The usual
Pain
And thoughts.
The usual idea
Of blades
And suicide.

We ate thanksgiving
dinner
in a tiny
diner
hashbrowns and scrambled
eggs,
we weren't following
tradition
but I'm grateful
for
any meal I
share
with someone like
you.

I'm not going to figure it all out
Grateful today for rest
Grateful for my new place
Not now put to test

Eggs and hashbrowns for breakfast
Toast with a bit of jelly
Yes, I remember Happy Days
Arthur Fonzarelli!

My days drift on and lonely
But phone calls from my boys
Motorcycle taxis in Bangkok
Memories? Nitnoy.

              y un pequito joy

Pancakes
Waffels
French toast
Eggs, bacon, and more

Orange joice
Apple juice
Coffee
Hot chocolate for cold mornings

Hashbrowns
Potato cakes
And more

Pop tarts
Doughnuts
Cinommin eolls

All this is good
But
The best part of breakfast
Is sharing it

With some one like you