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Huck: a perfect example
Of the effect bio-mechanical
Protocols have on the human mind,
Saludos, amigo!
“Hats Off to Larry!”

DEL SHANNON- " HATS OFF TO LARRY " (W/LYRICS ...
▶ 2:03 www.youtube.com/watch?v=nXpJVmxHXc8 Nov 7, 2009 - Uploaded by rwells47 LYRICS: “Once I had a pretty girl, Her name it doesn't matter; She went away with another guy-- Now he won't...”

(That’s right, another commercial ad right in the middle of a freaking poem. $Ka-ching, Ka-ching!$)

Or, “That's Some Bad Hat Harry.”
“Ever notice at the end of shows there are those cards that fill the screen with names of bizarre production companies, sometimes animated and sometimes with sound (“That’s some bad hat, Harry.”)? Those are called vanity cards. When writer/creators form their own production company (and they all do) they’re entitled to a vanity card.”
Case in point?
Forgive my self-promotion but
The sheer freaking brilliance of
The character that is HUCK,
Simply overwhelms me
Now, there’s a secretive dude.
It took us 5 freaking seasons to
Get his real freaking name.
Diego Muñoz:
What else don’t we
Know about you, Huck?
Huck, you perfectly twisted,
Psychotic, psychopath
I’ve grown so fond of.
Of course, you have always
Been acting a part,
Playing a role,
To wit: Guillermo Diaz.
You’ve come a long way,
A very long way, from Jersey,
Memo.
Kagami Nov 2013
Silent crackle, tingle,
The smell of a sticky must. Floating dust in
An abandoned attic, where the rats roam and the dead skeleton of a fish
Still lies in an empty bowl of moldy rocks and plastic plants.
Yet, despite the emptiness, a girl curls up in the corner, black
Running down her face as she weeps for the things she longs for most.
She looks out the *****, broken window at the cloudy sky and imagines it
Blue. The brightest of skies with only few hints of cirrus.
A blanket on the ground and the man she loves, nothing else in sight.
The expanse of green in her head is contrasted to the rotting floorboards she lays
On, dreaming. The steady beat of Boy in Static thrumming through her headset
As she struggles not to scream and jump, finishing the job on the window
From troubled teens years before. The sound reminds her of VHS tapes,
Press rewind, take a turn and start over. But she can't, when something has changed.
The boy she knew, looking down with his hood not up, but covering his face, shielding
Himself from her. She knew he had a ***** in his head, but she just looked away. He never answered anything she asked. He was unable.
But her heart still dropped, she smiled her best. An amazing actress, fooling everyone, makeup allergy keeping her eyes dry. She just read Huck Finn as though nothing was wrong.
Now she sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry, but her mind kept wandering to that attic.

She was there again. Blankly staring at her star charm anklet. A simple blue ribbon.
And the throbbing of her heartbeat through that one spot on her thumb,
That pressure point that hurts more than anything. But one thing could be worse.
Being left. Just like the broken rocking horse in the corner and the baby's cradle
Lined with blue silk that was shoved into a box. That baby is probably dead. Just like all
Of the others who lived there, burned by the fire. Goose flesh raises, prickly
Hairs on her legs from a week of no shaving. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Bleed.
Change the song. Bleed Like Me. Perfect. She draws on the peeling walls, two hundred
Years of wallpaper and lead paint, chalk barely leaving a mark. She sketches a masterpiece.
A child that she wishes she could have. Impossibly too young, but still...
A daughter she could raise better than her mother raised her. A chance to do something right.
More than the mechanic life she has lead, empty and useless.
Confused and pathetic. Like the broken grandfather clock that ticks backwards.
Three, two, one.
Ding-****, ****-ding. Grandfather never taught me anything. He was not a wise man.
He was a fool. Knew too much and too little, no room to know what was right.
She let another raindrop escape and suddenly it began to pour. Lightning crashes as a glass
Slipper collides with the picture drawn of her dream. Thunder as she releases a
Bloodcurdling scream. "Why!?"
Why her? The pain in her back is unbearable. She slouches too much, and her eyes burn.
She is not Cinderella; her ball gown does not glitter.
Piano is her least favorite instrument, but it somehow gets to her. Small hammers
Striking her heart strings, low notes reminding her of his voice and the soft, feminine
Voices radiating, remind her of when she was young... Immortal. She has aged since then.
Too quickly. Her entire life has been a masquerade ball. Unskilled idiots dancing
Around her and stepping on her toes. Shouldering her in the stomach,
Breaking her ribs. Beats of music guide her skilled toes, swerve around falling raindrops that
Her own eyes emit. And she crashes through the floor of that dismal attic. Broken free,
But she is still trapped. The walls are charred down here.

But the walls are not painted black. They were once a mint color, green and cheerful, healthy.
Until a psychopath lit a match.
"I didn't mean to do it." It was all in her head. The house.
She set it aflame.

She sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry. It isn't worth it to stare. Nothing will change.
She is still just a girl in a glass box, being stared at and judged. Trapped and ridiculed because her eyes bleed and bless the onlookers with bad luck. It's amazing the things
That people don't know. Drifting deeper into a pit of endless darkness. A candle won't
Live down here. No oxygen to let it breathe. But one lit self portrait hangs in the air.
Years ago, drawn in pencil. Symbolic, it wants to be erased. To die.
And the ******* the page is wearing a mask. The girl in the parchment is me.
Medium length hair and a tear painted, permanent. A Parasite. Capitalized for its meaning.

A demon is running through me, singeing
My tissues, blisters on the insides of my bones. Swelled up, show through
My skin. Waves on a shore. But I am not a beach. A ***** maybe...
Still, I hate it. The hate killed whatever flowers I had left planted in my mind.
Tainted me with the horrible visions of a tear streaked face of paper mâché.
She was the one in the attic. Her whole persona
Wilted and ashen, grey. A silent movie might mask it; the hurt, I mean.
The grey lines on the screen hiding the bags under her eyes and the redness of her nose,
Get rid of the twinkling shards of glass frozen on her cheek from crying in the dead of winter.
Slip up once, and everything goes to hell. Well, I must have slipped years before I was born.
Few smiles are left on this dismal timeline. And I shall use them wisely. But, for now,
I think I will just weep, sleep forever and hope that you don't give up on me and pull the plug.
I am still here somewhere, just dormant. Please wake me up. Get me out of this charred cabin,
This glass box. Pull me out of my warped sense of everything, teach me again what
Love feels like. I have forgotten amidst everything that I have felt and remembered.
There is no more room for things to be learned. Only for things to be repaired.
I will give you a hammer. Come inside and fix me; that ***** in your head couldn't have taken your knowledge away. You are the only one that knows.

Use this never ending lightning and bring your bride to life.
Mike Essig Jul 2015
Huck Finn is dead.

Some say

he died alone
in an apartment in Tulsa
during a Swamp People
marathon
body discovered
three days later
after neighborly complaints,
face somewhat gnawed
by his trusty cat.

Some say

he died in Montana,
struck mute by space,
rigid with terror,
dreaming of The River,
beside a trout stream,
eaten by a jealous grizzly
with a taste
for southern cuisine
and fame.

Some say

he died in Arizona
rattlesnake struck
and shrieking
beneath
a pellucid sky
seeking
to glean current events
and unlikely meanings
from ancient petroglyphs.

It does not matter
where or how;

only that

Huck Finn is dead,

and with him
the lights of the territories
gone black.

  ~mce
Rudolph Musngi Jun 2014
Up and down, left and right, salt and pepper
black and white, twist and shout, pen and paper
North and south, pork and beans, chips and dip
*** and coke, q and u, paper and clip

Bacon and eggs, back and forth, biscuits and teas
Remote and TV, a pod with two peas
Yin and Yang, hand and glove, bread and butter,
hand and foot, mac and cheese, land and water

Abott and Costello, Tom and Jerry
Ron and Hermione, Harry and Ginny
Mutt and Jeff, Jack and Jill, Holmes and Watson
Jobs and Wozniak, Delilah and Samson

Tom and Huck, J and K, Tarzan and Jane
Frodo and Sam, Clark Kent and Lois Lane
Batman and Robin, Romeo and Juliet
Hansel and Gretel, Browning and Barret

There are many things that go together
But nothing will ever be as clever
Nothing will ever be as perfect, too
than my favorite pair called me and you.
http://rudolphmusngi.com/things-that-go-together/
Hannah Nov 2015
Mom loves the huckleberries
Picks ‘em up in the mountains,
Says it’s her therapy.
Swear she can sniff ‘em out like a bear,
Got a snouzer on her or something—
Always knows where they are hidden
But she says,
“Dad guides me.”
Always thought that was funny,
But he loved those hucks
Almost as much as his kids.

Maybe that’s why she goes up there…
To say hi,
Hang out with Dad,
Pick some berries,
******* about life,
Tell him his girls are doing just fine.

Huck heaven is what we say
When we find a good patch.
Can sit in there for hours…
Mom loves it.
Love this about mom.
Mom my rock.
Don Bouchard Jan 2012
I remember reading
Martin Luther King, Jr's
Letter from Birmingham Jail
Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom
Mark Twain's Huck Finn
DuBois' Souls of Black Folk
For the first time

The words of Chief Joseph
Sitting Bull
Tecumseh
James Welch
and Alexie Sherman
And others of indigenous kind
Linger like arrows in my mind.

Of course, there's
Gilgamesh's forlorn quest for Enkidu;
Osiris, Amun, Ra, and Seth,
Homer's Illiad and Odyssey,
And Virgil's Roman treatment -
(For whom the gods destroy
We all must learn bereavement).

I remember reading
Milton's Paradises (lost and found)
And Dante's Infernal quest for Heaven
Through the bowels of Hell with Virgil's spritely guide
And up the Devil's staircase with Beatrice by his side.
John's Revelation of Times' End;
And LaHaye's money-making Left Behind
Apocalypses here to chill my mind.

I have surveyed Dead Presidents
Washington,
Jefferson,
Lincoln
Both Roosevelts, Ted and Frank,
And Reagan
And smatterings of others...
Then hopped the bookish pond to read
Sir Winston and some others,
Not the least of whom is Gandhi G,
Taught by the Queen to free his brothers.

I have studied
Moses
Job
David
Ruth
Esther
Isaiah
Jeremiah
The Disciples
Paul
and James
(Ironically,
Though Jesus is the "Word"
He never penned one).

British poets's thoughts,
Tale tellers long-dead
Have found their way
Into my head:
Beowulf and Chaucer
Old moral plays
Shelley and Keats
Cavalier Poets
Scott and Brownings
Burns and (not) Allen
Spenser and Shakespeare
Dylan and Tolkien
Lewis and Auden
And so many more
That I leave on the floor

Western Americana I have loved
Hemingway and Steinbeck, all worth the time,
Mari Sandoz' Old Jules, and
Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth,
Keroac went on the road, while
Joseph Kinsey Howard showed us the West
Lewis & Clark in journals scribed
Their journey west and back again

I can't forget psychology
And so I will digress
Or Sigmund's accusation stays
That I have but suppressed:
Ellis, Freud, and Eric Berne,
Pavlov, Skinner, Thorndike, Watson,
Wundt, and Wm James, Piaget and Chomsky
Then Vygotsky and Bandura put a social spin
on cognitive psychology, and Everybody's in.
Diverging and Converging, psychic students, all
Could never make transaction
'Til Rogers tried to make some peace
But Ellis wouldn't have 'im.

And then, of course,
The lighter stuff,
The popcorn of the mind:
Clancy, Rankin, Carole Keene
L'Amour and Will James
Stephen King and Poe,
Cruz Smith and Leon Uris,
Grisham, Deaver, Cornwall,
Asimov, Bradbury and Herbert,
Carroll and Baum...
Written Words change us.... I use the term "poem" as Louise Rosenblatt did, namely, a poem is the creation each reader makes to describe the connection between the Text and his or her own life experience, opinion, knowledge, beliefs, feelings, etc. Those "poems" affect and change us in our wanderings on this earth. I am, indeed, changed by the texts I have read and continue to read....
In haphazard fashion, I am starting a collection of writers who give me an understanding of the world's color and shape. This is just the beginning.... If readers have suggestions or reminders, I will add the ones I have read....
Snapshot memories of are past
having so much fun with the hope that it would last
To my best friend Nan,
a beacon of light to a hurting world in need of love

To the truest friend I ever had
those memories by the stonewall
Started playing together as friends
She had blue eyes & long blonde hair

I had brown eyes and brown hair
roller skating on the sidewalk with the attached rollers with a key
Went down by the brook to catch poly wags
we both went to the same school

Having sleep overs was a blast
a secret passage to get to her father's soda shop
Taking ice cream and delicious candy
everything nice and dandy with Nancy

Yours was are youth to be captured with a precious smile
Cape cod trips when Nan would drive
going to a trip to Provincetown
watching the folks dive for money

Big ships coming to dock
the men would get the money in their mouths
The island we used to go
in a row boat along the beach

Looking for young boys and we found them
went to dances at the Bristol Boys Club
Doing the latest dance craze the Huck Buck
Boys wearing pegged pants and girls wore skirts

To cherish those lasting memories of a time ago
getting married
Nan had three children
Ann had six

To raise and cherish the family united in love
Today we are in are eighties
both with medical issues
Yet remained best friend's after all these years
aerial ladder truck, amok, amuck, awestruck, bad luck, black buck, black duck, bruck, buc, buck, by luck, canuck, chuck, cluck, cold duck, collet chuck, cruck, dabbling duck, delivery truck, diving duck, donald duck, druck, duc, duck, duk, dumbstruck, dump truck, dumptruck, fire truck, fish duck, fishbach, fluck, fslic, garbage truck, garden truck, get stuck, give ****, gluck, good luck, grucche, guck, hand truck, hockey puck, huck, hucke, icing the puck, ill luck, kachuck, kluck, kruck, kruk, kuc, kuck, kuk, ladder truck, lake duck, lame duck, laundry truck, luck, lucke, luk, mandarin duck, megabuck, moonstruck, mruk, muck, musk duck, naugatuck, nuque, panel truck, pickup truck, pluck, potluck, puck, queer duck, raybuck, roebuck, ruck, ruddy duck, schmuck, schtik, schuch, schuck, sculk, sea duck, shmuck, shuck, sitting duck, smuck, snuck, sound truck, starbuck, starstruck, struck, stuck, stucke, suc, ****, suk, summer duck, thunderstruck, trailer truck, truck, tuck, tuque, unstuck, vhsic, wild duck, wnuk, wood duck, woodchuck, wruck, young buck,chuck-a-luck, yuck, yuk, zuck, zuk
Don Bouchard Jan 2016
I remember reading
Martin Luther King, Jr's
Letter from Birmingham Jail
Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom
Mark Twain's Huck Finn
DuBois' Souls of Black Folk,
Adichie's The Thing Around Your Neck,
Sherman Alexie's Part-time Indian tale....
For the first time

The words of Chief Joseph
Sitting Bull
Tecumseh
James Welch
and Alexie Sherman
And others of indigenous kind
Linger like arrows in my mind.

Of course, there's
Gilgamesh's forlorn quest for Enkidu;
Osiris, Amun, Ra, and Seth,
Homer's  Illiad and  Odyssey,
And Virgil's Roman treatment -
(For whom the gods destroy
We all must learn bereavement).

I remember reading
Milton's Paradises (lost and found)
And Dante's Infernal quest for Heaven
Through the bowels of Hell with Virgil's spritely guide
And up the Devil's staircase with Beatrice by his side.
John's Revelation of Times' End;
And LaHaye's money-making Left Behind,
Collin's Hunger Games and Dashner's Maze Running
Apocalypses enough to chill my mind.

I have surveyed Dead Presidents
Washington,
Jefferson,
Lincoln
Both Roosevelts, Ted and Frank,
And Reagan
And smatterings of others...
Then hopped the bookish pond to read
Sir Winston and some others,
Not the least of whom is Gandhi G,
Taught by the Queen to free his brothers.

I have studied
Moses
Job
David
Ruth
Esther
Isaiah
Jeremiah
The Disciples
Paul
and James
(Ironically,
Since Jesus is the "Word,"
Through men He penned).

British poets's thoughts,
Tale tellers long-dead
Have found their way
Into my head:
Beowulf and Chaucer
Old moral plays
Shelley and Keats
Cavalier Poets
Scott and Brownings
Burns and (not) Allen
Spenser and Shakespeare
Dylan and Tolkien
Lewis and Auden
And so many more
That I leave on the floor

Western Americana I have loved
Hemingway and Steinbeck, all worth the time,
Mari Sandoz' Old Jules, and
Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth,
Keroac went on the road, while
Joseph Kinsey Howard showed us the West
Lewis & Clark in journals scribed
Their journey west and back again

I can't forget psychology
And so I will digress
Or Sigmund's accusation stays
That I have but suppressed:
Ellis, Freud, and Eric Berne,
Pavlov, Skinner, Thorndike, Watson,
Wundt, and Wm James, Piaget and Chomsky
Then Vygotsky and Bandura put a social spin
on cognitive psychology, and Everybody's in.
Diverging and Converging, psychic students, all
Could never make transaction
'Til Rogers tried to make some peace
But Ellis wouldn't have 'im.

And then, of course,
The lighter stuff,
The popcorn of the mind:
Clancy, Rankin, Carole Keene
L'Amour  and Will James
Stephen King and Poe,
Cruz Smith and Leon Uris,
Grisham, Deaver, Cornwall,
Asimov, Bradbury and Herbert,
Carroll and Baum...

The list goes on and on, and will, I'm sure, expand beyond capacity.
Work in progress.... Thanks to Soul Survivor for catching my glitch about Jesus.... Since all Scripture is God-breathed, technically, Jesus is the author of Holy Scripture, and He inspired the text we know as the Bible.... Good catch!
Nico Reznick Mar 2016
I recently had the great privilege of editing Mike Essig's latest poetry collection, THE BIOLOGY OF STRANGENESS, and I'm honoured to have been entrusted with such fantastic material. Putting together a book like this is every poetry geek's dream.

It's a beautifully textured assortment of poems, earthy yet lyrical, narrated by a voice that's uniquely grained with experience. There are pieces that will make you smile, think, wince; there are pieces that hit you in the gut out of nowhere; there are pieces that welcome you into them like old, worn-in shoes; there are pieces you will remember late some night when you're by yourself, and remembering them will make you feel less alone.

This collection of poetry makes you look at the banal and the everyday afresh; it finds magic and mystery in the mundane, and even Hawaiian shirts are poem-worthy when Mike Essig's writing about them.

The Kindle version is already available through Amazon.

A paperback edition is due out next month, and I can't wait to have a copy of this book on my shelf as well as on my e-reader.

Mike's previous poetry books, Never Forgotten and Huck Finn Is Dead are also available through Amazon and are excellent.  

From his author profile on B Star Kitty Press:

"Mike Essig is a veteran of Vietnam and a retired English teacher. He’s also been recruited by the muse as a poet, like he hadn’t already been through enough."

Sample poems, links to sales pages and more info can be found at the B Star Kitty Press website.  www(dot)bstarkittypress(dot)com.

Please do support this very talented indie author.
LD Goodwin Jan 2013
Beulah went to Memphis, just to see where the king was laid.
Bought herself a ticket, first time she’d ever been on a plane.
She sashayed down to Graceland, closest she’d ever been to the king.
Every gaudy jumpsuit, jet planes, and all those diamond rings.
What you gonna do, now that you’re king is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, lick your wounds and feed your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, feelin’ just like ol’ Tom and Huck.
All 5 foot and sassy, struttin’ like a Peabody duck.
She’ll be in "Blue Hawaii", long before the crack of noon.

Right where he shot his TV, in that jungle room.
What you gonna do, now that you’re king is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, feed your mind and lose your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, didn’t see where the King was slain.
All caught up in Vegas, she didn’t hear His sad refrain.
She was takin’ care of business, while the Angels sang, “We Shall Overcome.”
Didn’t hear the message, dazzled by the pandemonium.
What you gonna do, now that their King is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, rest your mind and feed your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, just to see where the king was laid.
Poor ol’ girl, he rocked her world, and then he went away.
Destin, FL 1992
Wade Redfearn Feb 2010
she spoke to me, on the daffodil sweetness of the pasture
while the grasses, waving, muttered their moist message on the wind
of rot, and renewal,
(but hold your lips, be still for an explosion of intimacy, for a moment)

'Are those a constellation?' she asks.
"The Pleiades."
'You don't know that.'

she doesn't care where the car begins, exhaling gently, to stop
and she commends its forward motion
(the keening love of a sodium light
and forgetfulness in every bone of my body)
I love the thrum of it, below my feet,
murmuring vibrato in the pedals.

They have a Huck Finn cave display at Disneyworld. In Adventure Island, or somewhere, or one of us, deep in the vastness of spines and fingers.

Its fiberglass walls are a portrait of America -
the glean of dew a reflection of that spirit
that drove us over the borders, the rivers, to Oregon,
so we could love under a naked moon,
and renounce our lives of glee, and security
for the bright unsettled plantation of the starless fields.

'You don't know a constellation from a cloud of dandelion seeds.'

But oh, my relentless pioneer love, I do - I know a constellation
is made of stars, and rough determination, and I know that,
love is a today thing, and we are yesterday people
that pain is tomorrow, and we will always be children of the dusk preceding
destined, dear, to find our love receding

Are you prepared, or will the wilderness this time swallow you?
Just ask me.
Geno Cattouse Oct 2013
The speckled puffer fish was a greedy scavenger
a greedy thing with no agenda but to grab the hook
I used to hate to touch them.******* eyes staring
Huge gopher teeth bare and sharp.

I was Huck Fin Carribean
Bare foot and rural as heck
Dirt ring around my neck
The dusty roads
humid.

The sweltering heat and the river would meet us
in the mangrove Forrest as we walked the
Picado road to river's edge.
A cranky dory sat tied of
for our convenience with a paddle or two.

We pushed of and fought the tide
to get us safe to the other side.
Aunt Doris would stand with'
arm akimbo a cigarette burning
between index and middle
a tiny smile stayed put.

The  Muttruce , as we named it
Flourished because no one would eat it
so the river teemed with catfish and puffy.
we did not eat catfish either some cultural bias. Lucky cat
but that bias died when the market for him found Belize.
Scary little blacked eyed buck toothed *******.

Dont know if they are on someones menu now.
They seemed a bit scarce last time i fished.
high priced export on the orient express I guess.

Price of popularity is no privacy
eaten to extinction.

Head up , eyes open
mouth closed.
Tom Gunn Jul 2012
You pass the flume. You pass the time.
Waiting in line, Reading signs by flickering light
Cozy and vaguely threatening
You may get wet!
A clatter, screams,
a flash out of the corner of your eye
like southern lightning (with no big thunder) down into the bottomless abyss.

Based on a movie (not available in the gift shop)-- a retelling by whites
of a story written down by whites
told by black
slaves born South

You're a brare, like Rabbit
Prey to Brare Fox
Under the darkness you pass under dim lights that take you back to a time that was, but never way,
Logs that were never trees
Moving through the canal like a slave, sluicing through the swirling sluice
Prettygoodsureasyerborn Prettygoodsureasyerborn

No interaction here in the dark outside-inside
Nobody borne dry, bone dry, unbloodied
By water or unclaimed by the canal full of logs which were never trees
Moving like a slave on display for white birds who, smiling blinking singing, extend
their white wings to show you off to their cartoon friends—a conversation
which you can never be in on
though they look at you.

And then you dip into dark and doom
Quivering rabbit children cower
--clatter, flash, scream--
You begin to suspect your time is coming
And your log, now defying gravity, leaves you without doubt

So, you're trying to find your lauighin place. If only you could. We've
got your laughin place right here.

The mouth opens wide for you
A mouth with briar teeth
A flash like southern lightning
And big thunder fills your ears

Zippadee-do-dah, Zippadee-ay
Your pain will stick to you like wet clothes as you float, swim in the clear swirls
and back into the dark where there's light and singing alligators.
Zippadee-do-dah, Zippadee-ay
They look at you with mechanically blinking eyes
that cannot see you, another guest—another stand-in
for Braer Rabbit, a character who looks nothing like you but who sings
for you and speaks for you.
Zippadee-do-dah, Zippadee-ay
His voice is high and cloying with a Huck Finn twang and a Shirley Temple cry.
He's relaxing at home and you are wet and he is warm in home's golden light.
Yet he speaks for you, sings for you, but he does not see you.
A cast member made of person who has no lines to speak will pull you from your log.
You will laugh as puddles form at your feet and as you find your
photo—your moment of unbridled, child's
horror now passed, past

You'll pass the flume on your way home—clatter, flash, scream--
You're dripping, drying, the salt of the day now washed away
But there's brine in your sensible shoes, squishing between your insensible toes
And making your feet heavy as you leave.
Braer Rabbit is home and cares not for your troubles.
Zippadee-do-dah, Zippadee-Ay
Magic words, shrill, laughing tragic words
You will remember when you look at your souvenir photo
And smile.
This is part of a cycle in progress of poems inspired by Disneyland.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Quantify

We will ease into this twisted or rebellious look at what experts say is the top trend
For 2012 this quantifying was first done in ancient abbeys but they did it on the front end you were
Told how long to meditate, pray, copy older manuscripts but now technology is going to do it at the end
And it is called the quantified self a top magazine that writes about these things says there are already
Three big hitters geared and going already their data bases are going to record practically every human
Action then it will give you a read out numerically where you can strategies a perfect day even the writer
Knows how much he wrote last year how much the better writers wrote and with less words they
Received better results on hits or they will tell you how many steps how many calories they have a
Sleep machine that will use Doppler radar and it will tell you when you’re in deep sleep track your sleep
Cycle show when it is best to get up yes it has all positives cut down on wasted expenditure of energy
Come out ahead for the day in less time but it will mean you have to be self driven I never respond well
To the whip I don’t care who’s holding it and if they have sleep machines not far behind will be intimacy
Meters all of a sudden the geeks and nerds will be gods the woman turns on the **** his eyes light up
Like a plane ready to taxi and his bow tie will start to twirl like a propeller but listen to two regular guys
Man I can’t take it I use to beg like a dog now she smiles real big then she takes the only key turns the
Lousy thing on turns the **** to the slowest point you can’t even ride a bike at that speed you just fall
Over you think you have it bad my wife almost twist the **** off I feel like a greyhound at the track but
I’m the only one in the pack that knows the rabbit isn’t real who wants to chase a sock on mechanized
Rod you go twenty five it goes twenty six well you know who is going to have a career resurgence Kirk
Douglass all of this whooped up speed nonsense all he will have to do on screen is ride down the street
Top down doing ten miles an hour hey Kirk you’re my hero the one per centers will scream what’s with
That ole **** the new rebel will be the day dreamer standing idle watching a cloud pass slowly over head
I can just see all the animals going bald from the stress some jack rabbit wanting them to eat faster sleep
Less forget the flees one guy said he tried to shoot himself but the ammo is so out dated and slow he
Kept missing his head Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn will not only be classics but new best sellers and all a
Painter will to paint is a bare foot kid with a straw hat and a fishing pole they will sell like hot cakes to
Frazzled out over achievers we had a New Yorker move into our Midwestern town and take a job at the local
Factory that’s the way it will be he looked like he was on video tape being fast forwarded and we were
On regular speed and when he talked it was like the old LP records when you put it on the wrong speed
He was talking a mile a minute and sounded like Alvin the chipmunk where we were on the slow speed
And we fell in a vat of molasses turtles that talk my final word I miss the good old day
I'm raw my flow  consumes dextrose
Tell peta  I do the most
Loud sounds I'm out in the public
Friends with  Lions we close like cousins
I'm cooking ..in a gourmet kitchen
Chicken is my opposition
Sweet and sour
Predator I'm not a scavenger no coward
Blood falls I need a shower
Drip drop dew mornings
Don't sleep on me like comas
Consuming beats down to the bone
I sip the marrow for a bonus

I am clean like an infants first wash no rap sheet
Walking thru the market
Like shouldn't food be free
Didn't God give us the same control he gave Adam and eve
I am sorry my mind at times goes on a spree
A spree of thoughts
My brain is heavy plus it kicks bass drum
My thoughts run miles
I need pennies for my thoughts
Must be properly endowed

Watch what you eat fool check your food
Fool check your spoon
Food poison
Nasty now you vomiting fluids flowing a fountain
To that server you should have watched how you spoke
Face timing yourself
Seeing your mouth move
Saliva crashing into the coast of your tooth
Yuck images social products
Dislike that dislike you
Keep it true
Tom sawyer and Huck
Instafriends
On instagram
Madoff money instascam


The Poets Lounge go to www.youhavetolisten.com
Every Tuesday 6pm-8pm
Delta Swingline Feb 2018
1.  I want to be able to write a poem on a brick. And then huck that brick through my enemy's window and drop to the floor laughing because the brick was not only a physical metaphor, but it was also a poem that literally broke windows.

2. What if I wrote a poem on a leaf? Watching photosynthesis weave its way around ink and make sun its life source poetry. Word on nature, and art in word.

3. Oh, how about a haiku on a pillow? Like a short bedtime story for those up at 4am and down at 5pm, you need just a few more words to hug your dreams tight.

4. I'd really want to write a poem on a steak... And then put that steak on a grill and taste poetry that I wrote with a steak metaphor... Which is cool because it's a steak metaphor cooked on a steak that I'm eating which tastes like the steak metaphor I wrote on the steak...

Yes...

5. I'd like to write a poem on a helium balloon. Maybe sending up poems to the sky like weary prayers might make me feel hope again.

6. I wanna put a poem on a lock and key. Representing tragedy of a girl I knew. She kept her friendship with me under lock and key... Probably because when we went to France I gave her that lock and key and she didn't care.

7. I'd like to put a poem on the underside of the blinds hanging in my window. That way I'd have more of a reason to keep them down other than wanting to keep my room dark because I want to sleep longer.

8. I want to write a poem on an iPhone screen in permanent marker for no other reason than that I think it would be kinda funny.

9. I'd love to write a poem on a vinyl record. I hope some famous artist does that and get that thing preserved. But if they do end up doing that, I deserve all the credit.

10. How about a poem written on the inside of a sweater. Something so sacred, and so close to you. That it really does have to be hidden away?
This poem is to be typed on a computer.
jeffrey conyers Nov 2016
Strange, the one crying rigged election, is the one in office.
****! the numbers just don't add up.
What the huck?

With no political experiences and prone to head action.
The fools decided on less of the two evil.
Or maybe just decided the evilness of hate should be promoted?

He might not be a racist?
But used the fools that less educated and hunger to get in.

Somewhere, somehow the numbers of truth will emerged.
Rigged elections, always get investigated and point out the wrongs of injustice.

Brave talk about taking care of enemies of other countries only works until body bags build up.
Than it's a different story.

Surround yourself with idiots and you find fools using the head.
When the tail isn't aware of being used.

Like many prophets has predicted.
Time will tell just what mess we created?
Hudson Everett Mar 2013
you ever feel like we’re too connected?
like everything is so crowded and jammed up that we don’t notice each other
the little things, the stop to smell the roses moments pass us by
and we are rushing from here to there
to and fro
ants in an ant farm
squished unknowingly up against the glass

the sun glares down
like a hungry beast
we scurry into our holes and hideouts
communicating in ones and zeros
but always missing the point

we seek meaning and passion and excitement
but complain we have no courage
our lives move and move like rafts on the Mississippi
But I had better things to do than read Huck Finn

hours of mindless entertainment
and then no inspiration
endless desert of desperation and depression
hop from one city to the next
no end in sight

run from problems
hide from anything that could make life exponentially better
callous and fearless and crude
joking about life and death to cope with grief

take everything for granted
burn bridges, never let them see you cry
let the status quo control you
go to college, get a job
don’t be a burnout, dropout, failure

let them define happiness
and let them measure my success

overweight
sunburned
living in a garage
if that’s not success

I don’t know what is

the adolescent american dreaming of easy money

can’t even drive a car

I need glasses and new pants
bought running shoes
but I’m only running from my problems

bury my anger and depression
nervous laughing
crack a joke, as long as you don’t crack
you’re fine


talk about your goals
but only half-heartedly pursue them
like a cop who wants the donuts more than the punks he chases

I want a wife, a life, of happiness with kids and a house
a degree and income
talk about religion and philosophy
read books, but never bother to finish

inconsistent, and never complete
talk when you don’t know what you’re saying
never admit “I don’t know”

count your friends on one hand
but don’t let it know what the other hand’s doing
my mind has a mind of its own
I never bother to follow through
like a tree that is uprooted by the storm
struck with wanderlust I fly away
Ottar Apr 2015
Twain with his wit, to some, was an ear pain
Mark, a pen name, his words to heed, no disdain
Samuel Clemens, the humorist man was a gifted teller of story
Penned, Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, innocent boyhood glory.
Some call them limericks, but specifics make 'em Clerihew
CT Bailey Apr 2011
By nine, trucks old and new
line the street, spilling into the yard.
Jim Beam and George Dickel
lubricate the chord progression.  
Drinks go down, volume goes up.
I’ll be reading in the backroom
as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr.
When the last burning drop of homage
trickles down his chin,
he gyrates across the floor,
flat-top in hand, looking for Jim.
Some other picker takes his spot
by the fireplace and bellows
about a cheatin’ heart.  
One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn
from under the pale, bearded face
of a picker who stumbles into my room,
collapsing across the bed.
His dreams of Ryman Auditorium
go without interruption.
I slip to the floor,
settling down on the raft.
A slow, steady current carries
us downstream to another shaded
swimming hole.


© 2011 C.T. Bailey
James Gable May 2016
The weathervane slept high above with a lolling head.
Clouds were holidaying excessively in Spain.
Sun was lost in a haze after chain smoking cooling towers.
A lethargic wind, moseying low with cat-like whiskers,
I hear it complain “I’m tired” in child-like whispers.

My hands are sweat-sore with callouses
And salty enough to summon the call of gulls in numbers;
I find shade, imagining myself as a cartoon Huck Finn.
When I put dry grass between cracked lips and think of dustbowls
In a zoetrope of sun-stroke, I vanish through my buttonholes.

This is now where one would rise, wake or come to.
Nothing I recognise, else the world is enveloped in storms.
I strain my sight, blink repeatedly to force myself awake,
The angels are listening, I hear wheezing, see fingers in my dreams
Gripping tightly to milk thistle stars, bursting at the seams.

Amongst the angels, whispering too! Did the stars imprison you?
Free-spirit like mother, but I slept our childhood through
Sustained by knowledge gleaned from canteen floors—
My eyes feel somehow sharp, heavy, like spears more than eyes;
I thought I saw the weathervane spinning madly, unraveling the skies!

Nobody talks about the weather.
There is a good chance of wrought nerves.
This is a time of stillness and dwelling on doorsteps,
In doorways where death sits among us, resting his eyes,
An end to the ration that was harmless reminiscence
As memories go up in the heat like celluloid;
Now the stars are a steely prison
Heaven’s lustre is lost, missing.
Through the angels I have seen that this is a time of living -
Through our dreams I have seen that this is a time of living -
Outside the confinement of the Holocene.




*—I have dreamt of drowning...often. I always seem to wake up out and breath and feel I can taste the salt in my mouth but fear does not play any part in these dreams.
Part Seven of The Man Who Longed to be an Oyster (see collections)
What say you on the matter?

For,
To say the Pilgrims were not of the Americas,
Or thereby American,
Is False.

For,
To say the life force is not moving, pulsing,
Or thereby alive,
Is Wrong.

For,
To vocalize a sonnet as written,
And not vary tone or infliction from line to line,
Or to sing the Song of Madness.
But not feel the grimy groove,
Is flat out and most indescribably improper and in dire need of revision.

But to break off from the meter,
In travels that lead on out,
Progressing into a voyage of the vastly uncharted,

Is to paint a magnificent beauty,
Or write a tale with uncanny comparatives to a Huck.

And to forthwith stand from the bow of the vessel, not the stern, to say when they say, “Nay.”

From the start, on the breaking dawn of this episode, a new life seemed only natural to resurrect;
A chapter to rewrite that had too long needed a rewrite.
And so perceived and attempted it was.

Then, from the inner yearnings, came a need to profess what so vividly troubled.
But in unsure footings, the tongue could not confess.
But in undone attire, the feet would not uphold.
Repressed.
Halt!

The body comes to rest.
Lain upon the threshing block, to gather.
And preface a proclamation of the more just cause.
Ideals certain to be less casually fit than their predecessors’.
An ultimate theory of outlook.

Thus, this is my prelude, to the coming of age battle, and my constitution.
With most sincerity, this is what I proclaim.

The Right of Understanding.
—The act that in any case, every account and depiction of any story and thereby situation, should be heard, allotted, marked, and understood in full. It should stand, unbiased, before all, prior to any fore coming or hasty decision: the act of listening without interpretation by a lonely mind; of not intruding upon or giving up immoral ground in adherence to a person; of not spreading hell, nor involving the uninvolved in personal matters; of letting people share both the tangible and intangible, without hesitation, or living in fear being persecuted and/or misrepresented; and the understanding of every individual soul.—
The Right of Understanding.

The Right of Albatross.
—The act of grieving over loses, and accepting that things will not be the same. The act that time is so deathly important in revival that the absence of its constant equilibrium will cause damage; of stability in the face of fear, whatever that may be, or the fear that is eminent and sure to catch us all in its foot snares; of compassion to the suffering and those who have lost it all but continue to rise again and prove the statistics, kept and known only by the creator, wrong; and of being unsettled in the grey areas. For no one soul can truly ever make it alone.—
The Right of Albatross.

The Right of Acerbity.
—The act of saying what’s on your mind, no matter how pugnacious or acrid it may come out to be. The act of bluntness in dealings, without further discretion, but only after retched hate has built and anger tormented past its due date; of civility towards others in the postmortem; of biting your tongue until absolutely necessary, and only through well founded intent, however deluded the intent may be to ascertain such conclusive foundation, and of arrogance in expression and language for the betterment of others. The act of ripping out the orthodox for a radical reckoning of souls.—
The Right of Acerbity.

The Right of Escape.
—The act of fleeing tragic misunderstandings, for the sake of saving face, and to make great hast. The act of thinking contrary to the proof, setting a pricey wage on your personal beliefs, dissolving unknown barriers and outward influence, and claiming your stake; of being alone to the mind in hopes of evaporating the exorbitant data; of basking in the glory that swift feet have brought; of turning the corner, and establishing new peace of mind to comfort the once boxed in soul.—
The Right of Escape.

The Right of Pursuit.
—The act of allowance to a pursuit in anything, with the freedom of beliefs, and articulation. The knowledge and acceptance that not all pursuits end, nor will they ever on the intended terms. End may or may not be reached, but the communion of trial, even if failed, is all that is needed. No hatred should come of a man’s choice in their personal pursuit; merely the acknowledgment and appreciation.—
The Right of Pursuit.

The Right of Assertion.
—The act which is commonly referenced, and includes great similarity to, the speeches given on the basis of freedom, with the truth that prior most follow up to the same base rule. The acts that no tyrant or thereby abusive parent should, or has the right to, downsize or ignore the declared speech of his child. Nor should one be angered by the truth that so passively flows through their ears. The right to free a man’s mind without a show of emotions becoming of us; just the listening of and rock like appearance of the stern look upon agreement.—
The Right of Assertion.

The Right of Compliance.
—The idea that man-kind can fit in with man-kind; the ideal template that brother and sister is known and used universally, not just selectively, as a label of people; that an atheist can walk into a church of any religion and fit in among the plenty to find a new assurance and home; that no restrictions are made to shun or cross out those unwanted in group, club, education system, religious aspect, or government area in question; that all of man-kind fits in anywhere they so choose when they are there under the prefaced agreement of good and strong intent. After all, intent is nine-tenths of the law. Lastly, that people can never feel out of place or lost in life.—
The Right of Compliance.

The Right of Deception.
—The knowing that man-kind can easily be duped by the specious mind; that promises aren't always kept, and that some stories aren't always true. Often times, there even a change in maxim just when we all become accustom to order; the idea of flowing emotion from one betrayal subsequently falling and spilling into right into line: next in life; that man could plainly be trying to be grandiloquent and fascinate rather than honestly working to be even with other men; that imagination can take over, yet leave a trail of crumbs leading toward reality, and remain in such a constant comatose state until life seems to become better; the mere acknowledgment that the mind can fully overpower the body.—
The Right of Deception.

It was that long ago that we were invincible,
Or too long ago to remember the good ol’ days,
Or too long ago to remember how past, present, or future,

We would always be friends.

No rivals could break us,
No terror could render fear,
No mountain was too big to climb,

We would always be untenable.

Every time we thought that,
Every time we felt safe,
Every time we leaned closer,

We grew older,
Time set in,
Tearing us apart.

As we fell apart,
Thoughts got the better,
Days turned as years past,
And our minds now seem to confess,

So here we are,
Once more staggered in unity,
And for the last time linking arms,

To exalt a power high above our reign,
And sign the final treaty,
Forever binding our humble beginnings,
Before the long journey,
That will, in retrospect, be a mistake…

But at least they will know exactly what We have to say.
A Co-Written Piece with a very good friend and poet Adam Gresham on June 24th, 2009
David Nelson Jul 2013
The World of Make Believe

he was not a real doctor
but he played one on TV
in the world of make believe
you can be anything you see
you can be a poet
or a cowboy or a king
and with electronic tricks
you can pretend that you can sing
you can be stronger than an ox
and fly up in the sky
stand up on a old soap box
yell and scream and cry
you can be the judge of man
the protector of the world
a guy can be a pretty girl
with his hair so nicely curled
you can be the Queen of France
a mailman or a lawyer
you can pretend you know how to dance
or be Huck Finn or old Tom Sawyer
the mind is the only limit
because it is fantasy not real
in the world of make believe
anyone can make a deal

Gomer LePoet ...
you can be anyone you want to be :)
Jeherico C Aug 2011
If I were a writer
I’d actively seek
A mild patina
A mad mystique
I’d write about death
As something good
I’d sign my name
Edgar Allen Atwood

If I were a writer
There’d be Tom and Huck
A great big world
That didn’t give a ****
Bout the little guy
Floating down the main
And I’d call myself
Charley Dickens Twain

If I was a writer
I’d have a golden plume
I’d write about
That day of doom
I’d write about
Laughing at fear
And I’d call myself
Mordecai Shakespeare

If I was a writer
And I had a page
I’d write about
The good old days
‘Bout what I’d ‘ve done
On a day with you
And I’d sign my name
And I’d sign yours too
Ken Pepiton Jan 30
-----------------
These days during my hours alone,
which are plenty, verging on too much,

a superflous use of art intuited
on a thought experience, at speed,

faster fasting, dexamphetamine, ping.

Please deposit, 35 cents, correct change.

Times of dial pay phones with the eights
punched out, some times loads the coin return
from the previous call…

robbing from the rich was Robin Hood cool,
if you could keep from being caught,
Huck Finn was many an old school
exploiter of the frontier's fantasy childhood.

Liars prosper in a liars world.
This here, ain't such a world, this'n's grown
on up past a big ol' burl, took fifty years to form,

I kept it after the Oaks all got some adverse
conditions under civilized industrialized war
preventive chemical suppressants, speed
ding- mind
past
experience, gnost-algia
leave all that old right place pain, home pain,
if it had been as good a childhood, as kins claim
you can ask your lucky stars, or your messenger
face timing Jesus Christ's version of God,
who was experiencing carnal mind suffering so…
---------
I can be born believing my side won.
Who would go through life for thirty years,
and keep the threat of hell as your own fault?
Right, only through fear of death
can our minds be subject to *******.

Secrets start with historical unveilings, esoterica,
etcetera, and so on, says the King of Siam,
if you don't, please.
Sci-psy-psi why phi make French curls,
Plea divine ignorance, take a mind reportedly
let be in the Christ who knocked Saul into Paul,
on the road to the future we shape with our tales,

taken from the riches of the wicked, we get Iyobe
and Gilgamesh from ancient visions written plain
cuneiform, any local tongue, you speak we write,

totally secure, your self is currently swept away,
thinking this is all perfectly otherwise,
turned around and seen as though seen once
the other way,

time in mind outsped time in light's allusion x
zone, right, got my x key back, lost it yesterday.

So, this connects, like I'd planned it, but I didn't,

unless I am right about the state this mind
has experienced, while letting that mind,
from Romans, Google let this mind be,
in you, you'll be assisted intelligently,
- here you read it, as easily as me, being
led to prove, you are polimental, by luck,
too odd for chance alone, your mind
is split right for beauty, left for order,

order, in the court of you, be ready.
Give an answer, what good are you, really.

Realize utilizing all your mind's games
strategy to find the liar's paradise,

when America was Great.

The deals were out of this world,
due to the threat
of thermo-nukes, 'n' commies.

Boy's Life made us ready for the COBALT
bomb, before Sputnik sped up Barry Rudd's
ideas for Starlink, fed into the genes, of Elon's
dad, along
with a worthless self improvement -
selah, settle the real clock on us all, eh,
long now, ashes of intelligence legacy,
in the mindbending sabbath,
dark revitalizing soil, live,
we are all fructifying,
in our roots…
we are all ideas, urges
with god-like umph,
gotta almost demi-ugency, to run,
take the reins and drive this old pony home,

or look into his eyes, and see him know
where he is most happy to carry me,
god sped past my last doubt,
minds think faster than light,

the time is shrinking when my words
come cheap.

I am growing older in todays, one at the time,
and no body can do that through many more

common horizon stretching sneezes,
x  viral intention to concentrate on living honed
to my finest point, to pastlessness, ****. proof.
Live where liars feel unwelcome, and peace becomes fungible using free presses and Western Garden Book updates, season to season, new fertilizing knacks.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Watching Homer struggle
to explain how a god wounded by a mortal
cannot die but may thereafter live with minor pain

and the humor when that god
complains to Jove that His supervision of His daughter
is inadequate and His Love too unconditional

while Diomed (or Tydides)
wreaks havoc on the Trojans and Hector
gives it back (in kind)

anatomically correct descriptions
of spears piercing jawbones and groins
sons without fathers hunting and fishing thereafter

alone. Written
amazingly presciently!
as a metaphor for Vietnam (our war)

forgotten consensually
as this generation slips lazily away
to Hades (on Huck Finn's raft)

where the lights are always blue, gentian actually,
supper's served at 4 and former adversaries
pass the heavy hanging time playing pinochle (and pool).

We're selling the house to pay the taxes.
Pallas Athena wars among the men
from the axle of her chariot

and Venus is injured by Diomed,
standing in the field of battle where she never should have been,
in her adorable hand.

What has this to do with Solomon in jail.
Not the Jewish king, a black American male,
same thing.

Your children can be failed at school and marched to war.
You can be taxed and sent to gaol for the honor of it.
anyone lived in a pretty how town.

We have no obligation
to perform the Iliad or read poems and even Homer
considers Achilles effete (compared to Hector)

and Odysseus is wrong even when he's right.
Therefore, modern man explores
the mathematics of circles in coordinate planes and their tangents

(when) (once) (soon)
the secret of warp speed is discovered
expansion of the species will be limitless and permanent.
--with a line by e.e. cummings

www.ronnowpoetry.com
My love your hangover takes me to taste
I do know haunts me your being  chaste
Let me embrace you to take in hands waist
Please take my heart in your palm to paste

Your sweetest image till the time I am alive
Let be frank and straightforward to shrive
Let beauty to take my love in ***** to thrive
Be my heart and soul be in arms don't deprive

My beloved my sweetheart my life my luck
I love your fragrant flowers let me to pluck
Allow me to take your fruits in hand to ****
To test my hospitality please hug and huck

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Lots of bruises
Cuts and scrapes
Pound of flesh
Life will take
Healing anyway
Just to spit in trouble’s face
You wake up every day, and the world will say you hey.
They wanted you to quit, they wanted you to stop.
But don't give up.
Go and rise e the sun
Let you heartburn
Take new oaths, take w birth.
Go and fight to make your place on earth.
You'll see faces all around you.
But who will stand with you are very very few?
Go and fight, to take up your right.
Don't wait for your luck go ride in your huck.
No more violence.
Work in the silence, let success be your voice
Don't give them choice,
Hard work, a little more bit
But don't stop, Don't quit
idk Dec 2018
ˈhəkəlˌberē/
Noun

1. instead of lipstick drink in the blood and let it stain your skin. Don't tell anyone the purple hue of your lips isn't from face paint.

2. Run in the fields like you have never run before. Gentle, gentle. The brambles will scratch your skin.

3. Return with cuts and tears in your flesh and fill up chocolate domes with the crushed bodies. Lick your blood stained lips and sell your candies to tourists.
jeffrey robin Jun 2014
///  ;;;
        ///    •   |||
<>
\

They lynched Negroes here

Sailing down the river
With Huck & Jim

••

Counting the centuries

What do you see?

Butterfly!

••

Naked !

The naked girl !

The stream is bathed

••

Young warrior !

High mountain dominion

Little child in the shadows there
How could it not happen?
Olivia the Fixer.
Mellie, poor perpetually crapped-on Mellie,
Married to that ***** boy president, Fitz.
Fitzgerald Grant:  like his Dad
Having trouble keeping it in his pants,
Bent on a spectacular exit strategy
An escapade so outrageous that
Even the liberal media can't spin it.
And potential musical numbers?
Huck singing: "Happiness Is a Cordless Drill."
VP Sally: "My **** Husband."
Eli Pope: "It's Above Your Pay Grade, Babaloo!"
Jake: "I'll Take a Bullet & Your Mistress."
Abby: "Season Three Dark-Eyed *****"
David: "****** Again?"
Mellie: "First Lady, Last in Line."
Fitz: "I Dig Colored Chicks."
Olivia: "Making Jam in Vermont."
And lest we forget,
The real star of the show,
Cyrus: "**** Me, Lick Me, I'm the Chief of Staph."
Ken Pepiton Mar 2019
Sam Clemens had room to complain.

I'll givem that.
However,

lyin' in wait to confuse little boys,
that's cruel.
which is why I waited to say

I learned my meanderin' ways from Huck.
I never learnt a thing good fromnerabout that Sawyer kid.
I thought well o' Jim, and felt I knew
colors well, I knew
Uncle Tom well, when Jimmy *** portrayed him,
at the Ministrual Show
at the high school gym, where the Globetrotters play.

Mr. Clemens, had room to complain...

I can't say I know why nor how, but he lost
all he held dear,

he did,

after that some later
however,
he died in the presence of a loving daughter
who was first to read his dying words,

Give me my glasses, which he wrote while smiling.

That eased my boy's confusin', when I
made that smile worth a wait this long.

Wait'n'see.

(btw my grandma was born mar 6 1910. It comes up on a test)
I imagined this conversation with my grandson and, I meandered....
Jihad Donald Trump Style
The glory of America, now heats up
with agitation poised to strike on the brink
sans legislation incites humiliation,
which goads desecration as fete accompli *****
in armor of Democratic rubric, constituting capitalistic
ethic, generic iconoclastic, and jingoistic logic,
nor budging an inch when mandating masses swallow his drink
what huff huck – this belligerent, dominant and
fervent hell raiser doth bungle in the jungle
decreeing tacit Mar shall law fast as a shutterfly eyewink
as his cosmic crotch grab doth put Venus under his sway
with his Mercury hill temperament
pitches the orbit of planet Earth tubby comb out of balance
infected by hiz anti Ju pit er damnations, excoriations, fulminations
Huzzah sing how **** derriere didst Sat urn simultaneously
crushing crucible as an Uranus
indiscriminately plop ping two hundred fifty pounds off flesh
dub ling down snapchatting and humming his favorite Neptune
that dost affect Pluto hoc crass sea
repeating a self coined motto – I yam all mighty, therefore no fink
simply commandeering the reins of control,
a one man military intelligence groupthink
hut triad and true dyed in the wool rip pug in ant guise zing rogue
rejoicing tuff fool, governing and hoodwink
Fake king the die hard fans of dictatorial, linkedin and monarchist ink
cube bus thriving on wielding indomitable aggression
practiced in the Art of the Deal incorporating an unanticipated jink
iron fist rule reigning down vis a vis
pro pens heave lee and prop hen city
flashing hiz seal of approval, which scribbled signature
doth not smooth monkey serve hay puzzling kink
boot his frenzy to bulldoze catastrophic, formulaic, and illogic
spells these United States of America twill become hell
in a hand basket worth repeating with nary a trace of the grit of link
kin, the sixteenth president
(whose ruggedly pioneering frontier existence)
found him steady and strong, plus soft hearted as pelt o’ mink
the epitomy of this forty fifth elected commander in mischief.
preface: prays of purse filled legal tender
this ****** NOT ******
   (hue coward know who eye mean)
   hie do attest

that poetry may not be best
to express whoosh to chest
*** a lee till bitta chump change
boot overpowering literary force 

   to pocket earning for a grange
(hmm...who knows maybe
   formerly owned by Jessica Lange 
thence might be within my financial range
even though this har chap 
   decades older than college student - iz that strange?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
GAINFUL EMPLOYMENT QUEST --- or
subtitled IN PRAYS OF LEGAL TENDER.

Let this dog gone prime mate ova simian sketch out 
   his general doggerel to free
unleashing a swiftly tale lord 
   of the flies - harried styled brush stroke of strengths
me retracted claws, which might find me 

   barking up the wrong tree arf find yarself
cat a tonic taking a nap - 
   in the land of doctor ah zee.

akin to a termite expending energy 
   thru wood to bore search sans income 
   an arduous slow book king chore thus,
   i spruce quest per 
   my non-conformist poetic je ne sais quois x cell lent 
   cover letter de jour 4u2 access and for me 

   to entertain as a minimum less or more
and then...whoosh
   into circular filing cabinet ye will store
this non-formal reap ply, 
   which email will take cyberspace tour.

Pixar could nada pay enough 
   for this trainer of apple chomping antz 
so i wonder if any chance 
   whisker of employment 
vis a vis thru this contrived virtual toy story 

   qua ratatouille poetic brew 
could materialize opening virtual community chest 
   into a likely monopoly winning chance 
such an idea generates me 

   to shrek out with excitement n contra dance 
just in case a glimmer of some prospect exists 
for this self anointed bard, who dislikes formality
presents a brief poo whet tick summation
   sans technical skills, he hopes to enhance 

p'raps earn enough moolah to see arc d'triumph, 
 Louvre, Paris France i offer
   the following poetic expression 
   for ye to take a glance 
and help this intuitive **** sapiens income
   to expand and en-hance, 

which byte size bit torrent humor 
   without use of strong arm, nor lance
   might cause ye to soil pants 
after misinterpreting mishmash 
   as some rave and rants 
  
part time con sit hard so positive stance 
   a subtle intent worth hiring, 
   2 sway au currant series electronic charge 
and ideally affect hypnotic trance.

betcha never red a poe sting like this faux 
   iambic pentameter electronic wire 
   from boyish looking blood muggle 
   father up in years (whose nonpareil courage 
   to face voldemort never does tire) 

and two grown girls 
   would consider him a worthy hire 
to rake in gobs of legal tender,
   satiating unquenchable hunger 
   hunger game of thrones,
   and thirst qua knowledge = powerful
for bits of computer know how to acquire.

this cover letter of sorts conveys
   teensy weensy, itty bitty 
byte size actual work experience 
   (this older mister rhyme stir 
   lives northwest of philadelphia city) 

kenye bull heave that,
   nonetheless, i hanker 
   (NOT  confused with HACKER)
   though disparate deeds offset
   by difference of third letter 
to employ computer and writing skills, 

   + rooted tid bits of moxie playing at nearby Roxy 
burrow, which prompts the following ditty 
express interest to apply mental tasks
   ala computer trouble shooting 
some may ascribe as nitty gritty 

on par with secret life of Walter Mitty 
whom destiny protected and took pity 
this merely meant to be silly 
   yet also attempted to be witty.

No matter how many miles by car 
(actual company might be within dead
   man walking distance) 
   opportunity not be considered to far 

using acumen huck cull interest 
   and technologically spar 
+ graphical user interface programs
   to get unstuck from virtual feathery tar.

Iambic pentameter might be faux pas
   not the traditional standard genre 
   for a cover letter 
i see no reason why 
   non-conformist modus operandi 
cannot serve as mode

   to communicate pursuit viz philologist technician 
   and paperback writer wannabe, 
   cuz i love each english language letter,
which honest to goodness confession 
   hopefully offers unique outlook re: 
   other respondents at least a bit better.

this pure breed mud half blood muggle prince 
born (whom most think me full o hogwash 
   to *** rid of hog wort) - yea 
truth seeker for employment reckons
   the following poetic way 

not necessarily follows formalities 
   to reply would readily say, 
yet why adhere to conformity, 
   which paradigm frowns on creativity 
atypical modus operandi to reply

   positive job offer i pray 
even if outcome per offering interest 
   turns out to be nay 
perhaps because where mien hometown 
   west of philadelphia lay
boot methinks tis cuz mine longish
   wavy hair follicles fifty shades of gray.

no employment vitae shows dearth 
hence decided to resort - thou add verse 
   to induce a byte size mirth 
of requisite (sought after) technical expertise,
   possessing attributes FitBit wool worth consideration --

   so just allow me to boast 
blithely riding iambic pentameter to coast 
given opportunity to eradicate
re: exorcise binary electronic bookworm 
   even Casper the friendly ghost 

n offer bytes of helpful information from pc host 
information technology position tacked on fence post 
with sought after salary goal fair n equitably per year 
would necessitate celebration 
   tete a tete vis a vis teetotaler toast.

So...without further ado, i slightly brag 
telling ability to conduct understand bit size crag
reckon obsolete intricacies such as dos 
    passé, and hardly requisite material,
   i learned to manage 
   common system utilities 
   such as scan disk and defrag 

installed and resolved dsl issues,
   performed scan-disk and troubleshooting glitches 
removal of dos files, installation 
   and/or removal of hardware 
uninstalling software, running registry sweeps 

attempting to remove bugs and errors
   causing machine to cough and gag, 
which invariably causes processes
   as downloading, sending, uploading, et cetera to lag
if chance smiles on consideration --
   a happy go lucky dog this tail will wag.

oh...by the way, i would accept a starting 
and/or negotiable salary as a starting wage 
in an effort to support this self proclaimed sage 
whose role can double up as a court jester, 
   Batman joker, or jimmy john page 

hopeful this poetic synopsis 
   offers favorable gauge 
in tandem enriching fount of knowledge
   More valuable at this advanced age.

y'all might think this reply balderdash and rot 
which may matter on par bo diddly squat 
no matter i herald from skid row royalty
   with salient strengths being prestigious Scott 
**** tuckus, butta Matthew Harris 

   does not smoke ***** 
   nor drink from a *** 
and a student he is not 
nor a gentleman quarterly kennedyesque fellow
   who would be called really hot 

yet moxie by proxy this poet of doth got 
and might elicit salient characteristics 
   similar to a humanoid heterosexual bot 
and, oh by the way, i lived in lower merion 
   for some years that = quite alot.

This from - a generic johnny 
   come lately jim crow chee 
can tackle the junkyard dawg, 
   while trump petting, swaggering, 
   rollicking with rod ham 
   pomp *** city but,

who **** house trained 
   and can use snout to play putt putt 
plus extricate moss elf from tread full rut.

this sub woofer snapper papa pooch, 
though scrawny and essentially 
   a generic mixed breed
   bowled with dennis the menace 
   plus jeff and mutt 

an older dog gone college alumni 
   of hard knocks
   relied on powder milk bone dog biscuits 
   to hone courage, and overcome shyness 
   (predominant among norwegian 
   bachelor farmers canine pets)

this diet of powdered raw bit, 
   weighed heavy in my gut 
thus, i conclude air rating whims 
   hoop ping this passes windy muster 
   and makes the cut
if nyat - dag nabbit rab but.

— The End —