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Gathering into the hatchway
I push my breath from rest
in the clouds and adventures
into the city with my sister
who would rather walk and breathe
and push her body out and away
from convention and comfort
while I try to make up excuses
to use the car.

She stops to notice the police
trying to corral unruly homeless
while I seek refuge on a grassy *****
with a few of my elders enjoying the sun.

I know the city and the commerce
that has gashed through soil
of this once quiet prairie
to construct one steel obelisk
after another
making art and poetry sad afterthoughts.

Now it is time
for me to move my creaky bones
into a day yet to aborn
beyond my bed,
to wash myself in the infinite seed of creation
splashed upon me
with each dawn.
SøułSurvivør Jul 2015
... on the other side  :P

Money don't grow any greener
The mean streets are getting meaner

Come and get me pretty please
When you find some grow on trees!

Wake up! Smell the Dunkin Donuts!
We're in the Twilight Zone
like robots...

Every cloud is silver lined
Even one that's in your mind

And when you find
fate's shut the door
You'll find a hatchway...

... in the floor!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/16/2015
Inspired by Wolf Spirit's
"stop and smell the what?"

and a nod to Erma Bombeck
"The grass is always greener
over the septic tank"

---
PJ Poesy Dec 2015
I remember a lot, though there are compartments of this upper story storage house with bolted doors. There have been hours, even days spent picking at combination locks, soft clicks of medulla oblongata. From within, such malodor,  bleeds ooze and ****. Constant mopping of icky memory's seepage, trickling from underneath hatchway is unending, so I often walk away. Knowing what lies behind vaulted chambers of grey matter is indeed the greyest matter, as nothing is quite so black or white.
Sometimes there is no silver lining, just the mush of grey matter.
sam i yam not,
     nor will this 'lo bot go away
cuz, every coordinate in cyber space allows,
     enables and provides
     an opportunity to bray,

and thence get access
     to each excel lent power full point
     one among the beguiling bajillion,
thus this ming boggling concept proffers

     (even the generic mom and pop hacker
     tubby in her/his element field gloating
     as if they won
     the Irish Sweepstakes that day

despite neither could claim
     direct lineage, sans Emerald Eire
  analogous to Celtic temptress,
     whose grand geography

     beckons toward entranceway,
where sensory, levity,
     and ecstasy punctuate foray
boot that diverges one hundred

      and eighty degrees asper gateway
onrush of spam enters electronic hatchway
spilling forth like
     offal horrific bilge interlay

sloshing violently, revoltingly,
     and nauseatingly, witnessing a jay
bird donning mask (yule hating)
     beak coming contrivance fashioned keyway.

force full brainstorm to firewall
     to place on indefinite layaway
inundation of spam midway
between now and eternity,

     essentially noway
no more, and if necessary
     hermetically seal myself
     stationing a pal in drone willingly overpay!
egg hot pot Nov 29
i went to a temple
and i fell sick right on the hatchway

god doesn't exist
i say out loud in the temple
with monks listening

my hands grew cold
my chest was on fire
nose as stuffed as a freshly rolled cigar
eyes watery

if god exists why doesn't he help me
he must not exist
i ponder

the next day
i wake up warm and nice
with a blanket
given to me by a stranger
a monk
a believer
a human
a god?

— The End —