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Ugo Apr 2012
Dedicated to stillborn fetuses, 99 cent Malt Liquor and Existentialism
1.
Nymphomaniac tree huggers
And overweight bisexual vegetarians
Swallowing phentermine poison to stay fit.

2.
Funky fresh *******  
throwing pigs at St. Augustine’s pear tree
and frolicking abortions over Moloch’s philoprogenitiveness,

3.
While sipping barbecue sauce dipped in Lipton tea,
dancing around adhesive bonfires
reciting memories of holocaust, the Kristallnacht nights
and beautiful words suffered by ancestors lost.

4.
Inhale chicken noodle soup, with a side of Lithium,
And prance to Literacy class to combat envisionment
With free association conceptual constructions,

5.
Computerized like Prometheus’ fire burning through SmartBoards
In classrooms where the poison of heterosexual history
Is fed to boys in skirts cursed by Adam’s apple,

6.
Baptized by social norms and locked away in hopeless closets
According to the Tautology of Leviticus…
until they cut their breath by the vein of soteriology;

7.
Misunderstanding of God’s words
Covets the innocent to early graves
In biblical paratactic irony…like God betting Satan for a Job.

8.
Rub fried chicken oil on Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ skin
and soil his white pride with ***** flavor,
for revenge  On the Properties of Things

9.
and howl out in glory of victory
over totes of  lickerish piper methysticum blunts
that beg the conundrum,
'What is the origin of this world?'
'Ether,' he replied.
But it is not ether!
Nor Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
It is Dada. Dada. Dada!
  10.
For this is a record of the life stories of the greatest minds and geniuses of your generation,
written in boys and girls
who mimicked Basquiat’s genius and tagged bathroom walls with abstract philosophies like “Love is a prime number” and “ the weight of Duncan McDougall’s soul can only be found on the 15th of October”
who drank vampirish gulps of Vicodin while consoling themselves with aphorisms such as: “don’t rue the misses, you don’t need a Mrs. when you’re elevated by chemical kisses”
11.
Who stood naked in mirrors, weeping, for they were a mystery to themselves, but a great talent and soon to be legend to some.
Who lit cannabis in loneliness and waltzed naked with their ghosts, fantasizing about ****** tomatoes and Corpus Christi Mexican Jazz.
Who composed psychedelic anthems from dreams that were lost in ghettoes where virginities were lost for loaves of bread, for the hunger of bread.
12.
Who wrote suicide notes on a toilet seat, contemplating the texture of Marshall Mathers’ favorite underwear and whether the color green was an invention of **** Germany.
Who used to love their lovers in darkness and colored the streets of Manhattan with rainbows on June 24, 2011 to mark the date lady liberty finally bought a new pair of glasses.
13.
Who lost musical talents to a Wine-house and ended up in a whine-house where lobotomy was subsequently prescribed by the milligram.
Who indulged in pharmaceutical vices and when asked why replied simply, every recursively enumerable set is Diophantine.
Who diagnosed themselves with “start ****-itis” and self medicated by eating Fifinellas at the stroke of each midnight.
Who rubbed paraprosdokians on their skin and occupied Wall Street in search of a new euphemism for being American.
Who poured Alkalizer on a dead moose and kicked it while feasting on the divine question, “why does Rice play Texas?”
14.
who got bored with conventional relationships and bought the Origin of the World on street corners from vixens nicknamed “Jezebel” and climaxed atop of them screaming  “I’m in Babylon, the great Mother of ******!”
Who attempted suicides upon suicides upon suicides, in Oakland, until they were shipped away to private catholic universities in Rhode Island, where the history of Colossus was being taught.
15.
who serenaded love interests with four letter curse words at open bars where Kubla Khan was read and Tartars kings were licked all over like holy communion *****.
Who drove home with the spirits of wine and crashed on telephone poles where their obituaries were written in their prime, leaving their mothers weeping and calling congress to reconsider Prohibition.
16.
Who mixed Redbull with Propofol and drank the juxtaposition galore only to be woken up the next morning dead in their sleep.
Who tattooed rat poison packages with goodwill messages such as “****** divided by Water =6th day of creation” or “Seroquel + Brett Favre = St. Patrick”,
who went speedballing with Basquiat during autoscopy and woke up wondering the cost of Nautilus in Albuquerque.
17.
who took 33 hallelujah 1800 tequila jello shots and daydreamed about laying on Mithras’ grave, yelling, beetlejuice, beetlejuice…beetlejuice.
who found the truths of the Bible invalid by the miscalculation of Pi in 1 Kings 7, verse 3, and mailed death on anthrax letters to Reagan in protest.
18.
who sat empty bellied at breakfast tables wondering the temperature of satellites at Lagrangian points,  only to soon catch fire in their tongues and speak Labyrinth soliloquies that ended in
19.
Zion,
Where Google knows every answer.
In Zion
Where the youth, tomorrow’s future, quote a ***** named Hova better than they can quote Jehovah.
In Zion
Where *******’s art was used as weapon during the Cold war.
20.
In Zion
Where sartorial geniuses where no pants,
In Zion
Where David Kato Kisule is the secret hero of these words, for he was taken at a time
In Zion
Where we were supposed to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

21.
In Zion,
Where the youth bear the scarlet letter X for they are a problem to tradition and hold no definition for the future, for they have discovered
In Zion
That the origin of this world is in their living eyes, and not in the dictionary of their ancestors who lived
In Zion
when the epitome of the literature of life ended in Revelation of Amen and Shantih shantih shantih;
this is a record of the greatest minds and geniuses there ever was, written
in Zion
where the meaninglessness and nothingness of Dada reigns, and the trinity of life now lives in the Subject, subjective and subjectivity.
http://www.amazon.com/OLAF-Nothing-Above-Fiction-ebook/dp/B009XZ9OVY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid;=1353822133&sr;=8-1&keywords;=olaf+last+king+of+nothing
Jonny Angel Sep 2014
Chastity wore pretty tiny flowers
in her spiraling dreads,
a fragrance of patchouli
wafted from her lithe form,
she was genuine spirit.
Her sister Divinity
loved summer dresses
and had even tighter dreads,
butterflies twirled
around her regal head.
They were the coolest sisters
on Mother Earth
& every time
they visited a forest,
they practiced
a wonderful habit.
They'd sing & chant
& dance & hug
aspens & pines,
chestnuts & sumacs,
hickorys & walnuts,
cherries & birches.
No joke, they even
hugged mighty oaks.
Nitin Raikar Sep 2020
Shade giving Sentinels
Custodians of the environment
Infusing oxygenated life
Extending canopies of bliss!

A fine interplay of synthesising solar photons
Food factories to the plant
Self sustainable gifts from the Almighty God!

Bemoan Human apathy
Fragile relations with humankind
Exponential signs of human induced Ecocide!

Oh Humankind!
Oh Humankind!
Wake up to a Nature’s clarion call
Embrace Mother Earths Sentinels

Tree Huggers of the World
Unite in Unison and Eco harmony
Save Trees!
Save Trees!
Cherish God’s Nature
Permeate Environmental Euphony
Demolish reckless Infrastructural Cacophony !!!

Biospherically Yours Forever 🙏🏻

@Nitin Raikar
Styles Aug 2014
My rages
Tearing pages
Going Cray
Ripping pages
My flow
Changing phases
Amazes
On stages
Front row
Front pages
Your rapping, verbally attacking
Any Enemy slacking
Riff Raff'em
Taking charge
Like a captain
Ice challenge
Chilling living lavish
Way Above average
About to fix me a samwich
Let us with cabbage
Went H.A.M.
Over some beef
Got bread
Hand some  cheese
Hate spam
Love trees
Cool breeze
In Belize
Blowing Lush Kush
In blush trees
Across seas
They love me
See a tree huggers bush
Land and strip; No leaves
I'm cooler than an oldies, in his ******
Eating Coco puffs watching ice-t
In a wife-tee, drinking iced ice-t.
Spiking spike, while playing Exite Bike on an old PC
Laughing so hard
I *** ***
I wish you
Could see me
On HD with an HD
With At&T;
Getting my P.H.D.
Figure it out
Too late
Quarter past three
Then they
Passed me
Dave Gledhill Apr 2014
Hudson, Hicks, Vasquez,
Android crew on board. Ripley -
Didn't like cornbread.

Last survivor, Newt.
Evacuation cancelled.
You're just a grunt.

'Yeah, Bishop should go'
Sulaco dropship inbound,
Huggers roam freely.

One final rescue,
Push through the god-**** airlock.
Escape. Fade to black.
Jack Apr 2014
~

Sad Existence


It is a sad existence, that of a poet
with flowery phrases and disguised meanings
Tossing out happy faces like quarters
splashing in a wishing well with no bottom

Painting heartstrings in an amber shade of gold
lingering silver linings losing their crease
in frayed bottomed hip huggers
that are long out of style

Swishing fragrant melodies on starch white paper
collecting lines in neat rows and margin’d desires
lips fluttering and eyelashes batting
well below the league's average

Whispering notions of sheer delight,
tantalizing rapid pulses pushing blood
through narrow corridors finding
locked garden entrances in chained Jasmine

Dreaming dreams that only a dreamer could dream
all the while knowing that when they awaken
pen in hand, ink at the ready
these dreams shall never come true

It is a sad existence, that of a poet…who believes their own dreams
Michael Marchese Mar 2017
We have risen from dirt
To be stewards of earth
To account for all life
Free of value or worth

Evergreen in our growth
To divine suns of truth
Chlorophylling our minds
With a fountain of youth

Still losing ourselves
In an arboreality
Nurturing seeds
Of an elementality  

One of sequoias
Who weep with the willows
And make their leafbeds
Out of solid rock pillows

So spill your coal ash
In our wildest streams
You can't stop the flow
Of our lucid sea dreams

Repainting the blue
Iridescent with reefs
Transcending horizons
Of vision's motifs

Where Shamu think tanks
Dive deeper than whales
Exploring the depths
Of serpent shale scales

Who drill to our cores
As we quake with the force
Of Pompeiian eruptions
And wars of resource
Jake Spacey Dec 2012
i've got an iron plate
covered in a definitely liquid fate
behind a spherical unlocked gate
popped open to peek not too late
to see the life that awaits

i've got a trigger happy brain
a kid who complains
an old man who does not remember his name
a star with no fame
honestly lame claims

i've got a bed made of rocks
rooms with walls that talk
premonitions and assumptions that stalk,
gawk, walk and smock
the fantasy ship that never returns home to dock

i've got pairs of no color
foundational pillars that shudder
magnets that reject one another
though positive the father, mother or brother
no force could make them huggers

i've got a memory of the future
and vacant sheets that still stir
lonely animals that still pur
on the backs of women as fine fur
not ever damning the fact they could not also skin her

i've got a bomb with no fuse
useless skillful attributes
an unreachable noose
somewhere near that train with no caboose
a newspaper that never bore news

i've got an inner psychotic earthquake
erupting, held together with paper weights
silent clocks melting against time and space
warped beyond conceivable replace
and a pace set for waste producing smells of unimaginable distaste

i've got millions of appointments
pimples and hemorrhoids needing ointments
osteoporosis making a spine bent
an empty bank due to money lent
an obsession over time never spent

i've got a dangerous urge
to lick a dish for the surge
that stripped the bull of its courage
cracked knees creating pains that gurge
pleading relief from the thaumaturge

i've got a cat with ferocity
only defeated by that curiosity
covered in gems to disguise its true atrocity
that wished it could refer to itself anonymously
but sporting a name that claimed it was descriptive of me

i've got a handful of severity
motions that want sincerity
an over cast of side effects promising what i could be
eyes dialed in, foggy and stripped of clarity
in the mirror its no longer human that i see
some of it has meaning, some of it is word play and practice, relief via rhyme
Brent Kincaid Apr 2016
Bell bottom hip huggers
And my Frankenstein shoes
That had stack soles and heels
That I could only barely use.
A crop-top sleeveless tee shirt
With a superman emblem on it
And diamond ring on my hand.
In case I might have to pawn it.

Because we were picketing
Downtown at the City Hall
And at some police stations.
It was the seventies after all.
Our parents raised us to acquiesce
It was their America they protected.
And it was just exactly this blindness
That we, en masse, all rejected.

We failed to understand them
The generations that came before
That prized prejudice and bias
And celebrated sending us to war.
We felt there was another way
To go about sweeping social change.
We saw beating and fire hosing
As nefarious and more than strange.

We got beaten ourselves and jailed
For just pointing injustice out to them
And watched our sit-ins and love-ins
Turned into scenes of ****** mayhem.
We heard them call us all criminals,
Long haired ******* was a favored taunt.
It seems we were entitled to our opinions
As long as we didn’t chose to flaunt.

It felt so very much like **** Germany
Including storm troopers and jack boots
And the local politicians were obviously
At least agreeing if not in cahoots
With the police in their fear of rebellion
And protecting their good paying jobs.
So, they beat us and vilified the students
Calling them ***** communists, and slobs.

And, yes, some of us were getting high
Back in our homes and apartments.
Sometimes it seemed the only way
We could deal with the estrangement
Between what our country said it was
And what it turned out it really was.
It was hard to realize our land wasn’t free
And there was no social Santa Claus.
SG Holter Jul 2015
I believe that every tree; every swallow;
Every breath of clean air that I draw

Accepts the love I feel towards it,
And responds in my everyday life,

The way any "god" would. 
Thank you for your love. This is for you.

That smile from a stranger; that money
I found, that favourite song of mine on

The radio, was a hug from the trees
(**** human-huggers) of my

Home farm dirt road
Alley, where I walked today

Asking myself how at home a man
Can feel, kissing it all with my eyes.

My everyday life...
That insignificant, poor place

Where my every amazing treasure lies
Unhidden.
shut down the gubmint
it ain't workin no more
no end to tax and spend
libs gonna make us all po

shut down the gubmint
don't matter nun no how
unessential personnel
will enjoy a day off now

the gubmint don't funkshun
the gubmint is no good
the gubmint should go away
we'll manage our own hoods

everyone grab yer shotgun
fill the bathtub with water
firemen and cops on furlough
perps we'll give no quarter

the skools we can do widout
common cents is all we need
only teacher unions will be angry
publik skoolin just a liberal creed

won't mail the SS checks
financing lifestyles of idle poor
dis socializm needs stoppin
kick the commies out the door

national parks should be solded
only tree huggers will care
Koch Bros will snap em up
cut trees, strip mine, run job fairs

as long as the Army
keeps bombin the Tallyban
we be safe from Evil Doers
its all in God's good plan

so shut down the gubmint
its time to slash and burn
Teabaggers to the rescue
Obamanation gotta learn

You Tube Music Video:
PO PO Shut Us Down!

Led Zeppelin
When the Levee Breaks


Oakland
4/5/11
jbm
onlylovepoetry Dec 2019
An Optimist’s Guide to Falling in Love With a Woman


have a very minor fender ******, you’ll never get a persons digits any easier, consider it a bonus first date, a stress test interview, when humans on their worst/best behavior, their true nature revealed and tough exteriors melt when gallantly take full responsibility, details to be discussed over dinner

risks: she’ll  will never ever let you drive her, even after, no...never ever after, the issue is closed, ‘twas your fault and is non-discussable

critique her order standing behind her at McDonald’s. blowback assured! charm resistance and openness will be tested, but you claim pure concern for her well being, even after offering to pay  a dollar for every calorie ingested if she only switches to a plant-based burger

risks: hamburger grease soul staining, no love stain stick remover handy and everybody knows mixed marriages really never work tween bronco busting cowgirls and city tree huggers

you take a spill, nose in the phone crossing street, she lifts you up with wonder woman strength and gentility, you sputter with half-feigned indignation for you’ve embarrassedly first sight-fallen in love, all your words and everything else is failing and flailing as she tends to the cut, drives you to her office where she stitches you up, while cracking jokes that are truly funny

risks: she is a Dallas Cowboy fan, or worse, someone else got there first, and you need life long therapy

she’s in seat 10C, Miami to NYC, pretending very poorly to not be reading this very story-poem you’re creating, but doing so VERY poorly because she is editing, making suggestions, punching you in the arm excitedly, asking if you want to share a cab home, for she reveals that she too, secretly dips the quill in ink and needs an expert opinion, yours for sure since you’re SO good looking too!

risks: the weather diverts the plane to Baltimore where you live together happily after-ever, cause you’re both tired of life in cities with 3-13 perennial losing NFL teams and it is exquisitely equidistant from your annoying relatives
and ex’s





Baltimore Washington International Airport
4:29 pm Dec. 2nd
Leslie Philibert Sep 2016
my little round sleepers with
lots of coats on, mud huggers
with a tribal bottom,

perfectly lined up at the
bus stop of spring, soft under
the cold loam, a miracle

despite the hidden banality
of numbers, time for tea as
I wait in a cooling garden
Anais Vionet Apr 2023
slang..
updogged = when you chip in to keep a conversation trend going
fit = gorgeous
buje = unexplainable glamor
football minute = a minute, that with time-outs, lasts a half an hour.
crute = cute but cringy
women's-rights = a really funny joke

In the subscribed course of science - and eventually medicine - night hours seem multiplied by the rough enforcement of study, but this tale is not about that, fair reader.

It’s about a reception, last Friday night. It hardly matters what it was for, there are so many. This one was first class - so please, have some decorum ladies. Our cast is Lisa, Leong, Sunny and I (4 roommates). We stay clumped together, on nights out, like conjoined quadruplets because there’s safety in numbers.

There were about sixty people there, mostly students. Lisa and I had gotten invitations, Leong and Sunny are our plus-ones. After making the rounds, doing our meeting and greeting due diligence, we’d captured one corner of a long table and began enjoying some actual drink-drinks. We’re usually studying, trying to prove ourselves like rats in a maze, so we go a little crazy when they let us out and about.

Is it me, or are free drinks just better than other flavors? There was a long line of ‘Tom Collins-ses,’ on the bar which one could freely walk up and take. I think they’re made with lemon juice, sprite, gin and the tears of fallen angels.

These were quite good, each featuring both a lemon slice AND a cherry. Like I said, first class. We were taking turns getting them, two of us going up, each returning with 2 drinks. That way we didn’t look like 4 hookers hanging on the bar like horses at a trough (decorum).

Socials, receptions, fundraisers - whatever - can be social minefields. Even in how you greet people. Do you shake hands? I’d heard that shakes were out due to COVID, but if so, they’re back now. Some people were even huggers - your professor initiates a hug and you just want to avoid head-butting him. Monday morning though, you better hand in that paper, girlie.

At one point (I was mothering my third Collins), Sunny said, “Meeting people is awkward,”
“Being out in the world is awkward,” I updogged.
“Not for Lisa,” Leong said, and everyone sniggered.
“Why not ME?” Lisa said, looking up from her phone.
“Because you’re fit,” Sunny said, “everywhere you go, it’s like ‘Goodfellas,’” she mimics various, waving people, “Hi Lisa, or Hey Lisa," and “Yo Lisa!” with the point & nod.
We all chuckled again, but Lisa said, “It’s not true.”

Alas, it is true. I’ve come to rely on Lisa’s buje. Places seem livelier, less daunting and more welcoming when she’s there. She draws all the attention - I might as well be her beaded handbag and I’m fine with that. In unfamiliar situations, she’s a shield, handling the initial introductions and handing people off to me, like a track-and-field sprinter passing the baton. Without Lisa, in new situations I’m quiet. Quiet doesn’t mean shy - that’s a false assumption, I’m a natural watcher.

I’m skipping the mingling and speechifying - the boring stuff. Apparently, it’s all about us, we need to make a plan and do more, about everything. Interestingly, of the 8 organizers (the adults) five had literary first names. There was a Jude, a Tess, an Ophelia, a Clarissa and a Cordelia. Granted, they’re all fictional characters, but why name a kid after a protagonist who came to a tragic end - to seem well read?

As Leong and Sunny returned with our fifth round, Sunny pronounced “Tom Collins for President!” and we all raised our glasses. Just then Leong’s phone whooped with a text. It took her football minute to fish the contraption out of her itty-bitty disco-clutch, and then she fumbled it to the floor like an oiled baby.

It was a crute moment that, at first, struck us like women's-rights - but it had a sobering effect too. We agreed, in the silence of exchanged glances, that perhaps we were having too much fun, and we soon made our usual quiet and dignified exit.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Contraption “a device or gadget.”
Jack Feb 2014
It is a sad existence, that of a poet
with flowery phrases and disguised meanings
Tossing out happy faces like quarters
splashing in a wishing well with no bottom

Painting heartstrings an amber shade of gold
lingering silver linings losing their crease
in frayed bottomed hip huggers
that are long out of style

Swishing fragrant melodies on starch white paper
collecting lines in neat rows and margin’d desires
lips fluttering and eyelashes batting
well below the leagues average

Whispering notions of sheer delight,
tantalizing rapid pulses pushing blood
through narrow corridors finding
locked garden entrances in chained Jasmine

Dreaming dreams that only a dreamer could dream
all the while knowing that when they awaken
pen in hand, ink at the ready
these dreams shall never come true

It is a sad existence, that of a poet…who believes their dreams
Kate Lion Jan 2013
let's show the children what it is to brush our teeth and wear deodorant
halt the habits that made my fingerprints as flat as Nebraska and illegible as kindergarten drawings
own up to the grown up that started creeping out our fingernails when we realized our souls were too big for these bodies and our love wasn't a Velcro heart that could detach from a sleeve as easily as all of those parasites wanted us to believe
.we were trees. -and i was a match-
but i couldn't tell if we were huggers or lovers, could never decide if your kisses were breath mints or frost bite
i knew what i wanted you to be
i would always pretend to be a dragon in the winter, smoke escaping my nose with every exhale
but once we grew up i realized that hot air means nothing
if you never find the fire
They built us towns,
a place for cannibals and clowns,
for chuggers,muggers and tree huggers,
junkies,flunkies and we became
performing monkeys.

Along the red brick,
between the Kellogs cornflakes,
on council house estates, where dreams are
killed at birth and the milk of humankind is soured and hard to find,
the thick end,dog end,dead end day begins,
spliff smoke curls into malevolence and grins,  the
sugar brown goes down a treat as bags are sought and
bought behind the houses on dirt street.

Wake each day to find another way to waste it all
the clock invents a time and we in time will fall,have fell,
have scrambled up and found it was much better down below and
so we go back down,spliffs and brown below the scratchings
of the town above.

What I love the most is when the Mayor of this shitville hosts a party for some fat slob,who comes from down along some south coast town,who hasn't got a clue as to who we are,
and he rattles on and on until I think someone should drop a bomb on him.
Chances here are very slim
the people thin
hope is thinner still.
I wonder if and when or will it change and could it be much worse,I wonder which witch placed a curse on us and why.

When we die from overdose, being underdone and done out of any hint of fun,the sun will still shine in the sky
the estate continuing to grate upon the nerves
the monkeys still performing getting ****** upon the morning,laughing 'til there is no more,
the empty box of Kellogs by
the open door.
PJ Poesy May 2017
Things chronicled in shalestone fossils
or superannuated tree rings
can only be read by convinced decipherers.
Disciples of scientific wedges,
the geologist, the dendrologist,
are playwrights of elapsed and extinct
note taking on modern note making gadgets.
Habits only experts in probing
can manage. To convince a tree hugger
that his data, is more evolved upon
a digital device rather than paper,
provides no comfort for fossil record-keeping
stone huggers worried about a valley
of eroding silicon.

I, for one, cannot be concerned for either.
As for a more feasible digital implant
to be splintered under my skin,
to keep track of my where-abouts
is now achievable. I may want one
for my dog or child, but do I want one
for myself?

Will I have a choice?
PerfectTruths Nov 2014
We worry about our thoughts,
The way we talk, the way we walk.
We are too easily embarrassed by the little "fails" we make each day.
When he only thinks they are funny, creating a lighter way,
to look at things, on the brighter side, you feel a little better,
about yourself, your flaw, all written in a love letter.
I like to write, it shared my emotions, Using metaphors,
and other figurative devices, techniques that are used as emotional cures.
You ever wonder if what you're saying is right,
or things you bring up, might give the poor boy a fright.
When really, he didn't say anything to bring that thought across,
just you assuming, by his ok, so you toss,
you toss your heart out to him even more, convinced you're a ******.
He LOVES you, you want to deny it, you don't feel you deserved to be love. R.I.L... not a typo.
R.I.L , rest in love, for in love you are truly never rested enough, insatiable hunger and thirst for more,
either to give or receive, you want to make sure he's sure, that you're sure.
but surely one day, it shall rest, for true love, is behind the blinds, hidden in a corner, beware,
beware of the emotional damaged, the psychotics, the stalkers, the late night talkers, the clingers, the criers, the touchy, the huggers, the takers, the jealous, the moody, the miserable, the laughers, the lifetime movie watchers, the imaginations, the achy ones, the ones with the weird fetish.
For behind the wet paint sign, if you choose to ignore a warning,
you most likely will slip and fall, fall in love.
It is not something you can comprehend so quickly, but takes time to digest,
through our heart and pumped out again, by one of those weird symptoms mentioned above.
Well all you got to do is relax, truly sleep, kick back and relax,
let the mind sore and let your inner chi ride roller-coasters,
let it come back, lets wake up and sing,
shrugs her shoulder it's girl thing.
Geno Cattouse Mar 2014
Got stripes.
       Got scars.
            Got callouses.

                        Took licks
  
Got trauma.
Got.............drama.
Got skills......& still. Getting tested by
By pencil necks in droopy pants...or tight nut huggers.
Still trying to read and play pretty.

I still got all my canines ...jaw lock is tenacious. Can be hard or gracious.
Best of both worlds.
                       You can
Play at your own risk.
Where once there was unbridled hope and fearless confidence of mind and body, the burdens of physical affliction and debt have rendered me a withering, arthritic shell of my true potential. Framed by diplomas, a stacked, 4-tiered wooden bookshelf and a collage of vintage family photographs, I soothe my malaise of profound underachievement by spinning words into cryptic verses and esoteric pontifications on an array of topics, old and new. One rush of inspiration yields a collection of free verse poetry for the virtual world. Another, an op-ed on the fallacy of US capitalism. And yet another, a series of jazz-album-cover-inspired digital art crafted in Photoshop with bold color schemes, a super long shot for the coveted “t-shirt design-of-the-year” award.

Not one to point fingers or play the victim card, I fancy myself a driven, principled creative dabbler with an internal locus of control; an it’s-up-to-me attitude and approach to life; an itinerant entrepreneur with a string of failed ventures and a diverse set of underutilized capabilities. But time and circumstance, more specifically a once-in-a-century pandemic, moves those most at-risk, to contemplate their mortality, perhaps even their epitaphs. You stare a bit longer at your reflection in the mirror or listen more intently to the lyrics of Bill Wither’s “Lean on Me” and blackbirds chirping in the trees or savor the aroma of your favorite dish simmering on the stove top, as if today could be the day before your last. Your senses heighten in anticipation of the grand finale and you take a prescient lap around the finite wonders of your world.

Stricken by cabin fever, I sought relief in the outdoors and took a long walk yesterday along the winding streets of my subdivision, to observe those aforementioned finite wonders of my world. Having recently watched a video clip sent to me on WhatsApp about the various modes of COVID-19 transmission, I covered the lower half of my face with a red, green and yellow Guyanese flag bandanna, just in case those lighter, bio-aerosol particles of death were floating around in the air, as described. For a sobering moment, I wondered whether the sight of a black man with a bandanna would terrify any of my mostly white neighbors in the Deep South – I live in the rural suburbs of Georgia about 60 miles south of Midtown Atlanta.

Sadly, no other demographic, particularly those of the Caucasian persuasion, would ever have such concerns. But this is 21st century America. This is Henry County, Georgia. Not much has changed vis-à-vis blacks, in the hearts of many white folks whose ancestors owned plantations and slaves; whose names can be seen on street signs across the county’s landscape – McGarity, Jackson and Buchanan. One of my neighbors even has a confederate flag flying high from his roof top. This is Trump country folks. A brother can’t be too careful or paranoid in these here parts.

My walk was uneventful. A few nice white people waved at me as we passed each other – maybe I was being too paranoid about them. Hmmm….

After an hour or so of fresh air, me and my creaky knees returned to the crib. Like many Americans (not all), I am listening to and observing the CDC’s guidelines and recommendations to stay at home, wash my hands, wear a mask or bandanna when outdoors and observe the physical distancing boundaries of 6 to 13 feet.

These are indeed trying times. Times to adjust and reflect and find ways to stay motivated and engaged and inspired. It’s even more challenging for people like me, a few months shy of 60, with an auto-immune condition and a weak ticker. Times to get tested if you can. To remove uncertainty from the isolation equation and eyes of loved ones. The scariest thing about this novel COVID19 virus is its asymptomatic mode of transmission. Untested, everyone is potentially an infected carrier. Rachel Maddow stated on her MSNBC show last night that less than a million tests have actually been done in this nation of over 300 million people. That’s scary too.

So will we ever go back to the way things were in 2019?

Are our days as huggers, dappers, kissers and hand-shakers over?

Are physical distancing, working remotely, and wearing masks and gloves our new norms for the near future?

Who knows. One thing’s for sure: if you are reading this lament, YOU ARE ALIVE!
Over 134, 000 lives worldwide were cut short by this deadly virus…and counting. That’s a whole lot of humans in a short span of time. This is indeed WAR my friends. There will be a time to worry about those all-consuming material things again. But until then, let’s all focus on STAYING ALIVE!

Especially those of us who’ve had a few skirmishes with the Grim Reaper.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

By Pablo (James G. Paul Sr.)

Blog: https://jpcreates.wordpress.com/2020/04/16/a-quarantined-brothers-lament/
Portfolio: www.jamesgpaulsr.com
Musings of a quarantined creative dabbler with creaky knees.
sparkjams Mar 2019
Crepes and duck tape on my shining shoe horn
truck loads parched throats and a dead end waiting to be born
that's the wrong way to describe my simple truth boring into your skull
keep excusing yourself from the ******* table
you know very well with whom I speak

well you don't seem to blind yourself as much as possible
you always jump the gun and shoot that eagle before it flutters about randomly
why you spawn us and then craft our likings to your coarse beer hat reminds me
I never liked you

special friends and epic tales remove us from the picture
we were there when it happened but it hardly affects our disproportionate attitude
mark our territory? Like a jackrabbit
we don't bother to mess with surround sound we prefer the little speaker that broke last year
yeah we'll keep it
messes with our heads a little bit
logic defies us

denial of acceptance brings us to our third distorted and roaring point
don't eat the tree-huggers when they feed you a moldy sock
that's not what you are wearing its a balloon hammer
tsk tsk tsk. We need a life support since we are too weak to groove
love is like a blind and deaf cat ear on our chinbeard. walk it around and realize
it'll hop when it submits
eventually. Well not anymore I guess.

keep pets for safe keeping never know when they might bite our neck
tender soullessness doesn't really jive on my where-with-all
that's a nice phrase when you use it for desecration
don't talk to me like that Johnny I'm your step-son
a gifted child wears his crown like a blacksmith
a little pity never wore us out before
but it's happening twice over and twice removed

you grind us like carpal tunnel syndrome
peace out we'll leave if you love us so much
teach us how to bury our dead
we usually lick the hairs and eat the raw bone
that's the good part, right?

I don't know about learning
never necessary and always a chore
you, the same? How pleasant
we can agree to never acknowledge the real fairytale
that couldn't make a lot more sense than our deliberate actions
this is taking longer than we intended
and it feels like that flame going out again
you make me sick
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Fiaura

My ex-husband, his name is Gary
I still have his last name; never say it publicly
I’m publicized in the furry community yearly
Now working side by side with talented murk suited dancers
Because I’m honestly addicted to their hip huggers

Their suit-stuffs stays
The people leave them as strays
I’ve been given too much to even array!

Gary lived in the same house I had to leave
One day, I followed a dancer to the place my heart grieves
The outside the same, the inside a total change
The question is do I stay and heal or do I leave and deal.
Now they wear ball-huggers
They used to bust a sag
See, this is exactly what happens
When too many moms start to nag
Butch Decatoria May 2021
GLACIERS (acrostic)

Going Green all year round
Leads to strikes, tree-huggers who loudly shout,
As road raging Cadillac runneth them over.
Cold winter melts as fishermen over plunder.
In our human chapters of hubristic excuses,
Earth fracked, death by corporate Amusement.
Races all face mother nature storming in,
Slow still drowns with the Hare--better learn how to swim.
Madeline Hothem Oct 2020
I am from wine connoisseurs
With a self proclaimed french je ne sais quoi
A father of politics
A mother of cooking
With my sister and I in between
Sister of art
House of Victoria
Downtown is our place
Hipster is our face
The cat with swag holds us all together
With a woods as our backyard, and summertime gardens with scary insect farms
Saturday mornings with the sweet smell of pancakes and syrup
We may not be huggers but advice does suffice
Now as I go day to day I remember this saying that my mom always does say “You can’t change people, only yourself.”
This reminds me that I'm not the only one sitting on that self

Old fashion Texas man and women
Each with many hats and cans
Cans of beans and jars of pickling foods
Grammy frosted the world with fervor and quilts
Pap-Pap is a man of his own
Busy bee carving out time only to fly
Been around the block a few times just to give me these rhymes
Woodworker by trade who knows the difference between workmanship and ****
Summer days full of tunes of ice cream trucks and Pap-Pap down the drive
Only to arrive with delectable treats of frozen desserts
To teach a life lesson that sticks to the curb
“Don’t say I never did anything for ya.” as he strolls away to go work
Baking up bread and squash too
My grandparents are my favorite people this is true
All american cuties this is what they are

My Bumpa and My grandma are very sweet yet far
They live in Michigan not just four steps away
Yet they are still in my heart and there to stay
Bumpa is a hugger and kisser too they both are whenever they see you
Grandma is a chatty cathy always with something to say
This is why she always brightens my day
Bumpa builds everything and cooks delicious food
He works very hard and is always smiling through and through
As a retired car designer he has a great knowledge for cars
He used to work at Ford building seats and much more
This is my Bumpa ,and my Grandma too I love to go visit them for there love is so true

Many places is where they belong
All organized in different songs
Smiles and laughs and sad times too
We document in pictures
With writing few
A picture is a thousand words so what more could you say
Some is in my mind but those are for another day
My family is who I am it is who I’m going to be
I smile when I think of them because I know its just me
Butch Decatoria Nov 2020
Going Green all the year round

Leads to strikes from tree-huggers wound

As road raging Cadillac runneth them over.

Cold winter melts as fishermen over plunder.

In our human chapters of hubristic excuses,

Earth fracked, death by corporate Amusement.

Races all face mother nature storming in,

Slow still drowns with the Hare… better learn how to swim.
Revised

— The End —