"hosed" poems
My baby moves in jumps and flutters inside me,
like the barn swallows that make nests
of dirt and twigs outside the restaurant.
Yesterday they disappeared
and I learned that a maintenance man came and hosed them down.
Tragic, he said.
But necessary.
Too much bird ****
When I got pregnant
it felt like waking up at the top of a roller coaster.
And then an engagement.
Somehow
this is how my life is going
and somehow it does not feel like cliche.
Ask as many what-ifs as you want
but there is just a single trajectory.
Even though you have to fall asleep one day
before waking in the next.
Moving through concentric circles and trying to find the center.
Biology is happening
in a part of me that I am still getting to know.
Kaleidoscoping.
She was once the size of a grape
but now I read she can blink her eyelids.
She is also not like the barn swallows.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 7:00 PM UTC
I'm Bailey.
I sometimes forget to recycle.
I'm from singing camels and trigonometry.
From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret,
piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs.
From salt.
I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk.
I'm all summer in a day.
I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am.
I'm your infinite playlist.
I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes
from high-heeled taps and Camelot
threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons.
I'm the fifth ninja turtle.
I live where you laugh so hard you cry.
I'm from carrots and ranch.
I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms.
I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages
from pixie dust and snapcracklepop
from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's.
I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex.
I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks
broken-down fences and peach salsa
the second you step onstage.
I'm from in between.
I'm Bailey.
I don't drive the speed limit.
And I'm from you.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:08 PM UTC
Every year it was brought down from the garage rafters. Green metal frame and
springs, green canvas with white fringe and a little green pillow. It was laid out, hosed
off and erected. Grandpa couldn't have done it without us grand kids. He said so. It
was placed in a spot of honor. Just a couple of feet from the picnic table and in a spot
that was always in the afternoon shade. A folding T.V. tray was placed next to it to
hold cold drinks and snacks. Within a few days, the grass under the frame would be
brown and dead. The grass at the sides of the hammock would just be plain gone.
Scuffed away by feet, as we kids sat on the edge and swayed side to side.
After mowing the lawn, washing the car, or doing any other chores needed, Grandpa
would go inside and put on his "Hammock clothes". This consisted of a pair of Bermuda
shorts and a ribbed tank style Tee. White socks and brown sandals completed the
outfit. Once dressed appropriately, he would head for the hammock. The first "sit" of
the summer season was always a bit touchy. One had to get use to the hang of it.
There he would stand, next to the hammock. Cold drink in his one hand, the T.V. tray
forgotten. His slightly bald head and stick thin legs already slightly sun burned. Slowly,
he would start to lower himself. Reaching back with his free hand to grab the edge of
the hammock.
Note** of course us kids, grandma and mom would all be spying out of the corner of
our eyes to watch this ritual.
Then came the "Grandpa Sit". Grandpa would rock slightly forward and back on his
feet. 1-2-3 and ....SIT! A few wobbles. A couple sloshes of his lemonade. All of us
yelling "Whooooaaaaaa". He would sit there on the edge of the hammock, holding
himself steady with one hand on the edge. His feet firmly planted on the grass and his
other hand holding his cold drink high aloft.
Now, the sandals needed to be taken off. One of us grand kids would run over and
help take them off. Tickling his feet as we did so.
So far, no damage to life or limb.
Ah, but he was not yet fully on the hammock yet.
Now came the "Swing and lie down" move.
Slowly, grandpa would reach behind himself and grasp the far edge of the canvas.
drink in his other hand still held aloft. O.K.....1-2-3...SWING the legs up and quickly lie
back. Let the hammock come to a stop.
Where's Grandpa?
On the ground on the other side of the hammock soaked in lemonade.
Summer was officially started!
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 11:02 AM UTC
Dangerous times nearing midnight. Every day opens with fresh blood or ink drying down our throats, "...and I Must Scream.", Harlan Ellison [1967]
Honeycombs of humanity sink into themselves and form a thick syrup they claim will cure our ailments, but still tastes like Third ***** nationalism. They burn our shelters and chant, "Home."
Resistance looks strange. People aren't choking on gag orders, they're going around the wall, but hundreds are behind bars for protest, or still getting killed on the streets, or getting hosed down in the cold for advocating clean water. They're putting bounties on antifascists.
We beat that ***** Richard Spencer, but we're yet to strike the one in the White House.
Rattlesnakes under our heels, we've grown into something fiercer.
Something deadlier.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Us living as we do upside down.
And the new word to have is revolution.
People don't even want to hear the preacher
spill or spiel because God's whole card has been thoroughly piqued.
And America is now blood and tears instead of milk and honey.
The youngsters who were programmed to continue
******* up woke up one night digging
Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys.
America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes.
The signs of Truth were tattooed across our open ended ******
We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal.
Two long centuries buried in the musty vault,
hosed down daily with a gagging perfume.
America was a ******* the illegitimate daughter of the mother country
whose legs were then spread around the world
and a ****** known as freedom, free doom.
Democracy, liberty, and justice were revolutionary code names
that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling
in the mother country's crotch
What does Webster say about soul?
All I want is a good home and a wife
and a children and some food to feed them every night.
After all is said and done build a new route to China if they'll have you.
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 9:40 PM UTC
[Justin Vernon - Bon Iver: Sample From "Woods"]
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
I‘m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
[Hook 1 x2]
I’m lost in the world, I’m down on my mind
I’m new in the city, and I’m down for the night
Down for the night
Said she’s down for the night
[Kanye West - Verse 1]
You're my devil, you're my angel
You're my heaven, you're my hell
You're my now, you're my forever
You're my freedom, you're my jail
You're my lies, you're my truth
You're my war, you're my truce
You're my questions, you're my proof
You're my stress and you're my masseuse
Mamasaymamasamamakusa
Lost in this plastic life
Let's break out of this fake *** party
Turn this in to a classic night
If we die in each others arms we still get laid in our afterlife
If we die in each others arms we still get laid, yeah
[Hook 2]
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
(Run from the lights, run from the night)
I’m building a still to slow down the time
(Run for your life, Down for the night...)
I’m lost in the world, I’m down on my mind
I’m new in the city, and I’m down for the night
Down for the night
Said she’s down for the night
(Run from the lights, run from the night)
[Bridge]
Who will survive in America
Who will survive in America
Who will survive in America
[Hook]
[Gil-Scott Heron]
Us living as we do upside down. And the new word to have is revolution
People don’t even want to hear the preacher spill or spiel
Because God’s whole card has been thoroughly piqued
And America is now blood and tears Instead of milk and honey
The youngsters who were programmed To continue ******* up
Woke up one night digging Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys
America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes
The signs of Truth were tattooed across our often entered ******
We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal. Two long centuries buried In the musty vault, hosed down daily with a gagging perfume
America was a ******* the illegitimate daughter of the mother country
Whose legs were then spread around the world and a ****** known as freedom, free doom. Democracy, liberty, and justice
Were revolutionary code names that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling in the mother country’s crotch
What does Webster say about soul?
All I want is a good home and a wife
And a children and some food to feed them every night
After all is said and done build a new route to China if they’ll have you
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
I've been given a challenge
A duel of sorts you'll see
Not over the love of a women
But over the love of poetry
Both starting off standing back to back
Walking twenty paces like gentlemen
I slowly turn, only to learn
The true power of Carl's pen
As I lay on the ground, poetic heart bleeding
It all flashes before my eyes
That is when it is I see
I've lead a typically boring life
From childhood to adulthood
Flashing by at supersonic speed
No need to slow down the reel
Not much to see that interesting
But then it all starts to sputter
Slowing to a normal pace
Stopping at the best day of my life
Which just happens to be yesterday
I woke up just like every other morning
Hosed off out front like I always do
Of course all my neighbors were out there watching
They can't seem to get enough of me in the ****
I got the paper from off of the driveway
(Still in the **** mind you)
I was already out in the sun with my moon a shinning
What else was I supposed to do
On the front page I saw the winning numbers
My treasure staring back at me
Whooping and hollering through the neighborhood
I'd just won the lottery! Maybe I should throw on some jeans...
I went straight to Tallahassee
To pick up my multi million dollar check
Spend it like there's no tomorrow
Till there is none of it left
I bought boats and planes and automobiles
Had a babe on all four arms (I even bought extra arms)
Then flash forward to today
Where it is I bought the farm
So alas my life's movie stops
To where it is I am now
Having taken up this challenge
Laying on the cold damp ground
Yes, I finally had the chance
To put my typically boring life behind
Snuffed out by the Master's pen
Left with no rhyme and dying
Thanks Carl...
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
I've always been nervous
not loud enough to say how I really
feel about this or that. OCD about strange
things like sugar packets and cups on the table
and gradients of tea. I could stand up for other
people but never for me. Always been quiet about
the things that matter and the things tattooed on
my heart like that bird on your arm. The things that
speak to me in the middle of the night like knocks on a
door, Knock, Knock. Wake up at three am because God
is yelling at me, but I can't tell any of YOU that because
of the bitterness locked in your chest and there's bitterness
locked in mine. For all this anxiety that I feel up in front of
this crowd, You all make me want to not say things out loud
Because as much as any one of you say you accept all things
you have never once accepted me. And I'm slapping pavement
with bare hands in the middle of the night, red callouses from
holding on too tight, begging for a way in when I'm only ever
gonna be left out because you've water-hosed me from your bathroom
tile like old chunks of grout. I've always been too nervous to say how
I really feel, because my God scares people away.
So here I am too afraid to look off this piece of paper because my voice has never been
above a whisper, and I'm too afraid to see any of you up close and personal,
a shake that no public speaking class could ever fix, because these tremors
are more like heart quakes, and all your demons are hitting my st-stutter
buttons, who ever said you weren't terrifying was a freaking liar
you
are.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
A man died outside a bank
His death shattered windows
Stripped leaves from trees
Blood and meat
Hosed off the street
Pink froth went down a grate
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
I don’t want to live in a universe where cats are considered liquids— They’re bad enough as they are.
So some idiot decided that cats fit the definition of a liquid—
“a substance that flows freely but is of constant volume”.
Obviously the dictionary is wrong, wrong, WRONG.
I shall spend the rest of my dotage developing a definition that will not accept cats as liquids.
Perhaps “A freely flowing substance of constant volume that doesn’t meow.”— Perhaps not.
But wait, cats don’t fit the definition after all. They don’t stay the same size, especially when frightened or wet.
I bet that idiot spends all his time watching cat videos and has never hosed down fighting cats in his backyard.
Dotage saved for more important stuff :
Continue study of Schrodinger’s aversion to cats, look for hidden messages in Emily Dickenson poems recited backwards, master fake outrage.
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 3:58 PM UTC
The day breaks and the morning comes alive
The down and outs leave their luxurious trappings
The shop doorways are hosed down
The rush hour rushes by
Shop girls display tomorrow's must haves
Perfume lingers over the first hit of coffee
Gossip travels at high speed
Numb minding work begins
Old lady fidgets with new generation card
The war was easier she sighs
Kids try to sell you tomorrows version of yesterday's wheel
No catch up it seems in the technological world
Only the race to the bottom
Traders popping uppers invent the ten day week
Live for today, dollar tomorrow
Gold and sharp suits can’t hide the body crumbling
Clinics battery charge the fading hopefuls
New lease of life, the temporary meltdown
One born every minute
Evening drinks ***** the day from hell
Home time sets tomorrow's doom alarm
The night people emerge
Shop doorway heaters blowing, provide luxury
Last weeks paper catches his eye
He immediately goes to stocks and shares
Things are looking great
Just as he predicted
The twenty four year old drifts off to sleep, smiling thoughts of yesteryear
Those were the days
Those were the days.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
Look stranger.
I have been through more **** than an elephant's stable boy.
My **** stinks up rooms sometimes, and so many are polite to ignore the smell.
I appreciate that.
One time I ate the wrong stuff, and my **** got fired across a crowd, ruining everyone's night.
They hosed me down with diarrhoea, which I carry around too.
They had the right though. I don't blame them.
I went back to that place a year a later, and the **** smell came off me. They were really polite.
I appreciated that.
So stranger.
Please tell me if the **** I've been through gets spat on your plate.
Tell me if I'm making you uncomfortable with the smell.
And thank you for being polite.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 1:13 AM UTC
The sound of open water
Driven evil in your mind,
Backward of reasons
Given to Children and wildfowl,
Explaining Pacific Theatre
And its lack of stage direction,
Hosed down Holy Cities
In buckets of **** and Holy Water,
Made Holy Hell and Holy Romans
Wholly Unacceptable.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 7:07 AM UTC
I'll write. All the time.
In notebooks.
Remember those?
But POETRY is tough.
Guess I prefer prose.
And yet, here I am,
waiting to be hosed.
Just like that bunny, I followed my nose.
AND HE RACED AND HE TRIED
AND HE WON BY GOD!!!
But the cereal market aint so easily awed.
The big wigs decided that
"Trix are for kids"
And relinquished the trophy from the bunny rabbit.
A child I was, it was so long ago.
BUT EVEN THEN I HAD THE SENSE TO KNOW
that the person (or rabbit) who had worked through and through was
entitled the prize, a world anew...
entitled the prize, just as foretold...
But ********* Trix Rabbit,
YOU DESERVED THE GOLD.
You worked, you trained, you made yourself speedy!
You were poor, You were needy.
ONE DAY it will pass to a daughter so strong
while the brook runs deep and the dark vines wind long.
Another chance! It's what is deserved!
The players were cheaters, the judges absurd.
Injustice for all,
absorbed into my tiny child's brain
when the rabbit lost the race
and I felt his pain.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
She walks through the noisy street
every day of the hot summer months.
She sees colorful kites flying overhead,
over the tops of roofs, coconut trees,
over the clotheslines, garbed in undergarments,
tattered shirts and poorly-sewn trousers.
She waits for playmates to come and
ask her to play tag, to waddle in the canals,
***** and smelly. The scent sticks even after
a week of being scrubbed and hosed down.
She climbs mango trees, steals the fruits and
with a mischievous smile, throws them
to her favorite playmate, waiting under the tree.
She loves long talks with her favorite playmate.
Sometimes, they would go to the park,
loiter around and walk hand in hand, just talking.
And sometimes, they like to play tag until dusk.
She adores this special playmate and considers him
her best friend in the whole, wide world.
She always looks forward to just sitting around
with him while he shows her cool card tricks,
holds her close, makes her feel like a princess--
his special, beloved and worshiped princess
Her world slows down; her mind falls silent;
her heart calms in his presence as he
shows her the universe, the simple things
city life denied her, the comforting silence
her buzzing soul is just coming to know.
She admires her beloved playmate, who, for her,
is the wisest, the cleverest spirit on the planet,
who shows her that it's possible to remain
a child forever, to keep the heart
of a young soul for all eternity, to see
the world in verses and poems, in stories and songs.
She weaves wonderful tales with her precious playmate,
stories full of fantasy and love, brimming with glory
and success, abound with heroism and dreams.
They will always be together, she and her playmate,
she vows. through summers and storms, through months
and years, through pain and pleasure, they will be together.
The summer later vanishes; the skyscrapers have become
too tall for kites to reach, the host of cars too noisy
to hear her playmates call. The world is just too fast
to remain a child forever. But there is one special
part of summer, one call she would always hear
above the din of cars and the loud ticking of clocks.
Her favorite playmate calls from the depths of her soul,
reminding her that she could always choose to be
a child forever, a child in her mind, in her spirit, in her heart.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC
At the break of dawn
the curtains are drawn
The doors are closed
The sidewalks hosed
The sun breaks the clouds
The music is loud
And the clowns wake up again
Put on their masks
to join the masquerade
Their pain begins to fade
When they hide
And quietly slide,
through the day
The jokers fallen
from the deck
The angels have fallen again
This world is never perfect
Not even in the end
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 7:28 AM UTC
I went home today, straight after work
Because your curtains were closed
And although I didn't struggle with the quirk
Of thinking "But maybe..." (not really), hosed
Down with sobriety, I wondered at the darkness,
The loneliness, the determination (nose to grindstone,
Nose to grindstone), and with less than sharpness
I went home, nearly straight after work, and left you alone
And I left memories of another girl somewhere -
Possibly in your curtains - but you wouldn't care
To know that I no longer think, "I couldn't look him in the face" -
I now ask if I will be able to look at myself, in no one's place.
Jan 13, 2024
Jan 13, 2024 at 1:48 PM UTC
This happened to Malcolm
My sister Hadley hosed green stuff off the ***
When she squirted my ear I ****** the neck rope. Her skin was hurt so
The horse folded back her lips and bit my thigh with brown yellow teeth.
I was thirteen. I locked myself in the bathroom.
I felt ***** as a smug prayer for running. Mom said,
“Come back out. Don’t get left behind.” My dad had run away.
I splashed my face cold and put on my jeans. I hustled out. Not for my mother.
Scottie was a Brock University girl from PEI who cut and doctored hooves and skin
And shod horses and filed their teeth. You could smell teeth filings and Stockholm tar
And when I went back to the head she held my face
A long time in her hands and said I knew you were a straight arrow.
That might have scared my mom.
That was the first time I ever did it with anyone.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
Brother my brother you are deceived
Love cannot come out of hate
The underground movement you speak of is worthless for God's sake, if you don't fight with love.
We are in a battle not of white or black for the attack you see is spiritual.
Hatred is sin, distrust has no color. Love is the solution my brother. Reexamine your facts and come back to me with a different book to sale. Actually never mind. I already bought the one I need. I heed the words that were written in the story.
It talks about people once enslaved, yes ****** and gory.
But in the sands of Egypt, a leader was saved by the want to be killers daughter in the wading water. What a juxtaposition.
Has your position changed?
The leader of the movement was saved by the person you would hate. The movement was birthed by love. And that only comes from above
So I love you my brother but I can't buy your book. It costs too much to come this far. The water hosed walkers vs. street rioters. I can't buy your book. Not for five dollars or three
But please listen to me. Love is the solution. And it was not free.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
Non descript hedge rows sculpted into
ornamental animal via botanical artist
wielding pruning shears and chain saw
carved, limned and sculpted with wrist
wrought voila uber prestidigitatiously
head turning botanical picturesque Sun
kist animals at an exhibition transformed
miraculously via Te Deum divine fist ***
ping, whence realistic fauna burst alive
with an explosion of colorful twist and
shout of foliage, where scalloped super
flu us detritus manna for naturalist de
cid Jew us detritus capacious carpet boar
animation punk chew waiting groundswell
Liszt ghost would arise from the grave to pro
deuce magnum opus without a beat missed
such shrubbery mimicking the likeness, sans
glistening fleshy sin yew, and gist about ready
to become bone a fide (green behind the ears)
thriving vox populist, per species and genus
wrought thrashing into birth as delicate crafts
man promised to imbue life, liberty and pursuit
of happiness whittling away leavings, thus did
exist the nascent then omnipresent visible entity
emerging from cocoon an herbalist meta morph
hosed from imagination of skilled, practiced and
mentalist conniver viz extracting the initially
obscure blessed beast, where with august magic
wielding tools of this specialty vis a vis bringing
breathing manifest destiny ala Pinocchio (trans
formed from wood to flesh), whereby finest
dexterous chiseling blistering hands baffle on
lookers as coterie of topiary harvest breaths mind
bogglingly astoundingly authentic rooted ready
to frolic in the grass menagerie a gamesome group
of linkedin live progeny, the MichelAngelo of
dirtiest canvass, an earthen tabula rasa of sorts
where application threshing re: electric cool laid
ahs hid test brings out chlorophyll doppelganger
green hued key luster.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
Brake lights , running a red light , pair of white lights , the reflection in Gods eyes , beaming across the blacktop , shattered glass fell from a crepuscular blue morning sky , now covering the parkway , North and South ! Critical victims lie beside the deceased in makeshift triage , birds fly in at treetop level , gather en masse ! Sirens wail , blue , red , yellow flashing lights send them on their way ! Blackbirds gather at behest of Satan , monitor heavenly host walking amongst them ! The certain sign of Angels in our presence , blessing the wounded , gathering the chosen ! Morning fog burns from West to East , sunbeam reflects off of a hosed down street . Glass , metal , plastic and rubber now burnt offerings upon a mechanical pyre , a monument to inattentive diving , speed in battle with common sense . Reason , atonement in a car crash , chalk outlines , photographs . Yaw marks , brake lights and eye witnesses , security cameras from nearby shops that pan across the intersection ? A twenty second piece on the evening news !
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
*Pitch black nights , conniving 'Beast of Imagination' inch forward
with each lightning strike
The splatter of a thunderous shower takes command
over every sound in the house , all it's occupants
roused from midnight dreams , war rages overhead ,
the dog and cat jump under the bed
Our driveway is hosed and the roof scrubbed clean ,
the Peach trees are wind dusted and the pig pen made tidy and neat
The tomatoes are fertilized , the Squash brought back to life ,
our porch thermometer is thankfully on the downward spiral and the
Cicadas joyfully return on the hour with the Canary moonlight* ....
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
Listen as they howl
With the sirens
And at the sky
Screeching
Bleeding
Yearning
And burning
All for the blood red moon
Like a prayer to God
Like a cry for mama
Listen as they weep
And pine
And ache in relentless agony
All for hope
For some kind of sign
A chill in the night
Or a smile from a star
Watch as they turn themselves
Inside out
In grief and shame
Dirtiness so deep
Even their souls must be hosed down
Watch as they crumble
And become so small
That they are now the earth
A patch of dirt for us to walk over
And smush down with our feet
Like they were never there at all
The souls of the ******
The sleepless coyotes
And the hounds of hell
Wail for me
And beg to take me down
Past the river banks
And deeper than the sea
To a no man’s land
And the place which carries no name.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
Don't look at what this arrow is pointing to ------> I told you not to look
Or this one ---------------------------------------> You have disobeyed a doctah
Or this one ---------------------------------> You're supposed to do what I say
Or this one ----------> Now you shall die from a disease on a random day
Look at what this arrow is pointing to -----------> I'm smarterer than you
But not this one --------> To save your own life, you must now (gunshot)
Or this one ---------> Follow my Hello Poetry account and like this poem
Look at what this one is pointing to --> Don't worry about that gunshot
And this one -----------------------------------> I'll be fine, 'cause I'm a doctah
If this poem confuses you, good. You have obeyed the doctah and shall live a long, happy life. If this poem makes sense to you, you have disobeyed a doctah, and you're hosed (unless you're a doctah yourself).
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
Loved to tell a joke , loved his Winston's , a pack always visible in a white dress shirt , cigarette in the corner of his mouth . Right eye quivered left eye open ,. seen him drunk once , alcohol on his breath every day , morning and afternoon ,. medals and commendations , not worth a cheeseburger at McDonalds , delivered the living , hauled back the dead , hosed chariot , back again , Purple Hearts and Silver Stars , another day at the office and Saigon bars ..A defeated man , No , a product of the sixties , American warrior with all its ambiguity , loved his comrades but cursed the ' system ' , face would palsy , voice growing deeper then silent , physically residing in Conley , emotionally in battle , at ease Major Jobe !
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC