"internment" poems
multimedia macramé
sloshing propaganda sewage
on the unsuspecting public
***** lice infest ****** hill folk
west Virginia outbreak threatening the world
as we know it
flesh altering nonsense explicitly graphed
charting movement of microbes
on air, land, and/ or sea
global currents the new deliverer of death –
infected immigrants sit smiling
internment camps providing nutrition
never before experienced
as non-natives negotiate freedom
by submitting to vaccinations baths
and the standard delousing powder –
paranoid hand-sanitizer users
glued to the **** tube
spray their shoes with disinfectant
praying to an absent GOD for health
while shoveling GMO corn chips into ever widening
mouth holes
pharmaceutical companies lick lifeless lips
as Congress recognizes their humanity
while rejecting the concerns of the poor
…..no money in it –
outlandish claims of outbreaking Ebola
flood the mainstream outlets
fear: version – infinity
one more plague plan to stimulate new legislation
more law
no touching
even looking at the infirm can be cause for isolation
radiation treatments
courtesy of Fukushima, reactors 1-4 –
new found focus on fracturing the shale
releasing new oil reserves
and old bacteria
dinosaur killers
free-radicals
radically changing the genetic code
humanity altered
once again –
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
"Murica" "Murica" "Murica"
chants of patriotism ethnocentrism
nationalist sentiments lacquered in blue red white
spangled with stars and candy striped
"enemies both foreign and domestic"
the roar of jet engines accompanied by
crackling sparklers
summer sunlight
glamorous fireworks
red meat burning over charcoal because
the chef is being kissed
"life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness"
the roar of jet engines accompanied by
dying children
systematized ****
internment camps
the division along the 38th parallel because
the evil's communism not McCarthyism no never
"my government has a firm policy not to capitulate"
not to terrorists
not to the UN
not to common sense
not to popular opinion
not to love in all it's forms
but
to corruption
to the oil lobby
to racism
to ***
to the Almighty
dollar
"we have reason to believe Iraq has weapons of mass destruction."
No.
No, you don't.
Lying ********
You *******
You ruined everything.
*****
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:57 AM UTC
There we were
In the midst of an oriental expose
More like a permanent museum display
The history of our foundation here in the West
Build on the backs of the yellow and black
Only I prefer to keep clear of the festering beast that is Oakland at high noon
No
This was someplace stranger
Chinatown, San Francisco
A soy canker in the greasy mouth of America
In some circles this was the closest thing to an escape
Or the closest thing to internment
It’s all about perception
A pompous soccer mom/beast attempting culture meanders through the local chaos
Green beans or shallots tonight?
A psychedelic mess with an unwarranted response
Could she handle the absurdity?
I care not, choose the latter sweetheart
“Shallots”
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
Grandfather John, my mother's dad,
remarried later on in life.
When he passed on his vast wealth
passed largely to this second wife.
Thus did her children benefit
from the bulk of his estate.
My mother and my Uncle John
relatively little, sad to state.
Sometime after the internment date
a piano was shipped to our home.
A piece Step- Grandma didn't want
She didn't play and lived alone.
When my mother was a child
living up in Marble Hill
She'd learned to play the instrument
that now she merely wished to ****
In mortal rage she grabbed an axe
and like a batter swung away
It was a fair bit of exercise
(She had played baseball in her day.)
Such sounds that spinnet then produced
were likely never heard before.
such atonal melodies
as she ripped and smashed its core.
the Axe concerto was concluded
when only splinters still remained
She went and stored the axe away-
After than she never played
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:11 PM UTC
The priest performed
a simple solemn service
for the internment
of your ashes.
Your close family
were there
by the graveside;
the small dug hole,
the sacred plot,
the green carpet.
Your sister brought
your wooden casket,
carrying you
for the last time.
Your nephews and nieces
cried as did we all
inside or out.
I guess you were there,
my son, in spirit
looking on, taking in
the whole service
from start to end;
the flowers;
the wooden casket
with your name on top;
watching your brother
place it carefully
in its resting place;
ashes to ashes,
the priest said,
but the soul lives on,
his words meaningful
in the afternoon warmth,
the sun lazily there;
bird song;
you listening,
my son, nearby,
silent as you
usually were,
eyeing the proceedings,
sensing our loss
and ache
at your departure
in a ****** sense;
but you are
here and there
in spirit
as our recompense.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
polish those internment touting charms
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
When they read their “Proclamation”
There was silence, scattered laughter.
It was as if the town folk knew
those boys were soon for the hereafter.
For Seven Hundred years
The Irish nation wore her chains
and, although they chaffed at times,
her second nature they became.
Not comfortable exactly, but
the folk knew nothing better.
Unlikely to be changed, they thought,
rebellions cannot change the Weather.
Imperial might fell hard that week
on both the bold and the indifferent:
The City center left in flames,
Prisoners marched off to internment.
Then the executions followed,
one by one the brothers fell.
With every dawn their ranks grew thin,
but our opinions changed as well.
In the hearts of the indifferent
Love of country grew more dear:
Pride and a sense of Nationhood
and a new changed Atmosphere.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
Time slowly passes through the x, y, z co-ordinate point
I sleep with my eyes open as the teacher rattles on
She doesn't know the answer
Blue scrawl on a white backdrop
Khaki walls meant to box in our lives
I await the brrrrring of the bell
It will end my internment here
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
I imprisoned them long ago with arbitrary malice. Locking them in a dungeon deeper than hope could reach. Subdued by their confines, resistance soon faded, lessening the weight of my crime. And when their diminished presence became confused with irrelevance, I allowed myself to forget what I had done.
Oblivious to its fragility, I enjoyed the peace. Thinking it eternal until the day it's impermanence was revealed. Faced with a monster so great the only recourse was internal internment. I habitually prepared it's incarceration. It was only then I discovered my old prison was full. Unaware of another option, I foolishly tried to accommodate it. What a mistake. For the others, now crowded, grew agitated. Until they revolted. They mean to **** me, their warden. Convincing my thoughts to betray me, my beliefs to abandon me, leaving me lost. They cannot forgive me because they have been warped by time. My childhood feelings, long since denied their freedom, now thirst for all they have missed.
And they will get it, at the cost of my sanity.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
Is hate too strong a word for what remains when Love has died?
They were for twenty years estranged before his suicide.
There he rests in his fine blue suit and his patriotic tie.
There she sits in her fine black dress ; her tears have long since dried.
Their marriage had been childless, then joyless towards the end,
Still she felt an obligation as he had no next of kin,
She handled his arrangements but his few friends thought it strange
Though he requested an internment, she consigned him to the flames.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
I'm eating the last cannoli. Pop's funeral was over a week ago, and since it was the storm of the century that day, the caterer had way too many leftovers. This is the last remains of that infamous day's dessert. It's well past soggy, and smells now of the sliced onions left from the hoagie platters. Those, I'll just toss. No sense risking another death in the family. It's not so delectable, I know, but I'm eating the last cannoli, because that's what pops would do. He didn't waste a thing, symptom of being raised through the depression, I suppose. The depression, yeah, can't let that get to me, he wouldn't want it that way. I'm eating the last cannoli, choking back tears, and pinching my nose to get past the smell of this prose, and an onion smelling soggy cannoli, 'cause that's what pop would want.
Last remains, yeah, those are here too. Dad's ashes, that is. All tidy in a beautiful blue marble box, mom chose for both their internment. She mostly sits staring at the flowers sent, that are about ready to expire themselves. The strong scent of lilies in the air, helps with that odd oniony aroma. I'm eating the last cannoli, because mom is insistent I should. I wouldn't argue with her over it. Neither would pop. So, I'm eating the last cannoli.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
I never wanted it to go this way,
though it was my actions
that catalyzed the death and
the following internment of our love.
I never meant for it to be like this.
We have our prides and our
angers and our unbearable
emotions.
My finger still won’t bend from
that parking kiosk. I was so mad.
I don’t know if I would’ve jumped but
******* it was a toss up.
I am sorry you saw that side of me.
The demons that normally vent out
through the line breaks of the poems
as they line the walls of my computer
numbering the thousands.
You should read them
all some day. Perhaps gain
a little perspective into
how I am who I am.
I never meant for it to be like this.
This broken record of arguments
and excuses and tears that never
seem to fully stop.
You’ve put your guard up.
Distance is a distinct enemy
of love, so is pride/anger/regret.
—Insert the adjective you wish—
I hate myself for you.
Most likely more than you do,
though you would tell me that
it isn’t possible.
Your anger is beautiful
to me, even though it
is the loaded gun barrel
lodged between my teeth.
Your passion for us was
something I have grown to
envy, even seek to emulate,
now that I understand it.
I never showed you how
I felt, never let myself believe it.
Now I am begging for a
second/third/fourth, chance.
Perhaps the boy has cried
wolf one too many times,
and now must face the inevitable
jaws of a love now lost.
I never meant for it to be like this.
Stuck in this terrible place,
this awkward stalemate
between loving and letting go.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
Watching a Funeral From Afar
I live in a high rise apartment on the fifth floor
There is a funeral home just across the street
Every couple of days I watch through the closed blinds
All the cars and people gather to say their goodbyes
I never watch from the balcony, I do not want to be seen
And I try not to stare
But it always gives me morbid thoughts
Sometimes the parking lot is overflowing
And there are great crowds of people outside after the services
Other times there are not so many cars and people
Is that what it all comes down to?
You led a good life if your funeral is standing room only?
The longer the procession of cars to the burial site
The fuller your life was?
I imagine there will be lots of extra parking at my internment
Please forgive my pathos and self pity
For I am a schizophrenic hermit who mostly sees the world
From the closed blinds of a fifth story window
I wonder if it would make any difference
For me to know how many people went to my services
I wonder if I will know
Or even care
If you could go to your own funeral, would you?
I have just a glimmer of hope there will be better things to do
If I am worthy when the time comes
But what is so funny is the car
Almost always parked on the side of the funeral home
A white Corvette
I hope it is the mortician's car
Because oh the irony of a mortician sporting a white Corvette!
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
None of this should be surprising in light of the following:
In February of 2010 the Internment and Resettlement Operations (FM 3-39.40) was leaked, a U.S. Army manual outlininghow to process detainees into FEMA camps.
In 2009 the National Guard posted advertisements for job as they were looking for Internment and Resettlement Specialists (31-E) to work in “civilian internee camps”.
he National Defense Authorization Act For Fiscal Year 2011, which was signed by Barack Obama on New Year’s Eve of 2011 and it allows for permanent detention without due process oflaw.
Civil Disturbance Operations (FM 3-19.15), describes the “operational threats of the civil disturbance environment,” the “general causes for civil unrest,” weapons deployment, the legal considerations of “control force operations,” the legal considerations of “apprehension, search, and detention,” and recording the “number of cadre and inmates injured or killed.” The manual contains rules of engagement regarding the use of “deadly force” in confronting “dissidents,” which were made disturbingly clear with the directive that a “warning shot will not be fired.” This is a shoot to **** document.
Could it be anymore clear? And this is only the tip of the iceberg.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
The dilemma.
The Internment.
The freedom.
Freedom? Which?
Because the more you try to keep your physical freedom,
the more you are close to loose the freedom in your mind,
little by little.
I’m drowning without water.
Into my own voice.
"Sonorous Voice"
Is what it's called by my shrink, which, according to her, its completely normal in the human being.
Is it normal that your own mind tries to sabotage you?
Its called Borderline, baby.
That is why you are able to write such beautiful poems;
to love so profoundly,
or defend your posture and your ideals before a judge.
But when you are alone,
by yourself,
there is no one to argue with, but your own silent voice.
And that’s when the verbiage comes.
And the dilemma,
should I intern my self in the mad house, so I can get my right meds?
Or should I just keep writing until the madness goes away?
In the mean time,
I will keep making love to life,
like if there was no tomorrow…
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
There is a corner in my room
where I sit alone.
Its upstairs,
and I don't know how ?
but my mind works there.
The scene out of my window
internment my eyes,
for that
I disregarded my mumma's voice.
This is the space
I love to spend my time,
but..
for her,
I'm wasting hours of mine.
Sometimes
this corner controls
my displeasure nature and annoyances,
my anger and headache.
that's y this is my place
where I sit in peace
and you can see the smile
on
my face..
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
FDR ordered the internment of Japanese citizens
while American Nazis were holding rallies in
Madison Square Garden; Crazy Rich Asians
has an all Asian cast but all the Asians
are pretending to be white [an all Asian cast
doesn't mean all Asians]
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC
we stood tall;
free and unabridged
a testament to our youths
but when they called us down
we stayed standing
our height shrunk
wrinkles worn on torn porcelain
a graying of old stone
we grew fatter off decadent fruit
while caged animal fed on imprisoned others
and the minority was culled to a head
in internment camps
in privatized prisons
in the courts
and the legislator's building
in the very creation of the nation
stillborn at conception
an aborted fetus carried to term
delivered, to be chucked to the wayside
weened off the milk of a tormenting yearn
to make, to build, to think, and learn
but we stifle that now
in favor of rockets to fly
leaning toward oil to burn
will there be a scream when we die
or will this silence hold firm?
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 12:33 PM UTC
"Remember your eights,"
He grandly announced,
Intently surveying his interns.
"If your work appears beyond you
Negotiate,
Delegate
Or work late."
I stared rabbit-eyed,
Stunned by his smug, well-worn rhyme,
As I saw my evenings fade away
Knowing which of my numbers was up.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:10 AM UTC
It’s been known that
“Those who cannot remember the past
are condemned to repeat it.”
Yet society seems to want to forget this very quote
Are we willingly ignorant, or have we forgotten
That a land composed of bloodshed
Will end in ruin?
Do we not know that the Sandy Hook Elementary School children
Would’ve been able to vote this year?
Do we not know that giving guns more freedom than humans
Will only result in more tiny graves?
Are we aware that the law people are using
To excuse sending away human who only want to
Live
Is the same law that allowed internment camps to be legal?
Do we not know that these arguments
wouldn't be able to make exist
If not for Mother Earth?
But we still want to sink our drills into her
Like wicked parasites.
We shame women who are too terrified
To tell the horrors they have lived through
Yet turn a blind eye when they say that
An abuser becomes the leader.
German soldiers in World War II
Thought they were saving their economy and
Protecting their nation
But history only remembers them as the villains
Why do we refuse to see that we already know how this plays out?
“A country that runs on the blood of its own children is
doomed to crumble from the inside out,” we scream.
We scream and we scream and we scream,
begging for people to hear our cries.
Hear us when we cry out that nothing will come of this
except enough bloodshed to bathe an army and
more corpses than there are living.
Hear us when we say society is evolving backwards so we already know the end.
Hear us when we cry our warnings, mourning what will become of our nation.
Hear us when we can say nothing more, buried six feet under, hear us as we plead from ever-growing caskets as you stomp on our graves.
Hear us when we say, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 8:28 PM UTC
Green and black checkered blankets
lie across plastic funeral chairs
atop tired, lime colored carpets.
An inatimate audience garishly
posed before a square foot of
precisely dug, freshly cut earth.
Someone hands me an olive tone box.
Sunlight plays off of the glossy marble.
His urn is heavy and cold to the touch.
Beside me a voice recites a prayer,
unsteady and choking on tears, as I gaze
emptily into the shadows of a nearby Oak.
Peacock feathers and rose petals
fall from shaky, sorrowful hands.
A teddy bear, an angel charm, five links
of grandma's rosary, a tiny wooden cross...
An offering of remembrance to join
him in his internment, moments of
meaning only to those who are left behind.
Sounds become soft, colors dull, time slows.
The Angel of Hope resides over the hillside,
a quiet, unwavering eye who guards
the souls of our tragically met youths.
Space and relativity become foreign,
as reality befalls my unprepped mind.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC
Stacks of currencies are littered everywhere, his affluence depicts his personality
Stationed at the highest echelon of the society, mischievous premier of the economy
The youths are tools for his snap, going down the lane of delinquency
He tosses them at will, giant explorer of the weak willed
The hangman hanging their destiny
Thrall, underprivileged class of the society
Walled up in oblivion, depreciating hope of a better tomorrow
Dressed in shreds, hunger and death our daily meal
At dusk we feed rats of the street, our slums is the garbage bin for tomorrow
The horror of the morning is waking to find a dead kid wash offshore
Living in fear of the unknown seconds sustaining each day
Lying in the most of coziness
In fluffy beds, wired machines life leaves him
Blaring ambulance conveys him to the morgue, still attended to as the high priest
Embalmed with costly myrrh, he is taken for internment
Amidst tears and wails he's gently lowered into that dark room
The one room he never had
Beings scattered with crawled limbs and infested mouth
He passes on from the forlorn to yonder, lying in gutter, under bridges
The privileged of us get to have our relatives, others are found in cemeteries fed on vultures
No mourners at our graveside, forgotten before dawn
Still the one room we never had
Society gapped our lives with class
Death humbles us breaking the tags of importance
We are equalised, affluence and poverty disperses
The dark room of solace our abode, putrid we become.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 8:00 AM UTC
Paint a picture even if it's boring
You are accompanied by angels
Radiant salvation agitated in the heat
We beat the drum tonight
Let gods speak and humans quiver
The soul nears it's inevitable fatigue
Remedies and lies demand a sacrifice
I rest in embraces too complicated to utter
Hundreds of wings upon the watershed
And the beauty of it's passion
Is that never again shall we fly like this
I rise to the occasion of another Lover
Hunger for bodies that only meet in chaos
We demonstrate the allegorical
Lost hours remind us of our mortality gone by
Sign language utters nothing but signals all
Lost in between our dichotomous stories
We take liberties and pursue only intransigent categories
What a trajectory of tragedy and unheeded warnings
Inevitably I let her overtake me
Her eyes are a smooth internment
Her lips are a velvet curtain
Sheets of rain like fabric drape around her
Marble hands and ******* set against the stars
It's time to rest so you sit back and breathe
And allow daylight to seep from your eye sockets
We dream of towns in Greece where children sing
And wander freely through wanton streets
We drift between reality and fantasy
Faster than you can say uncle
It punches me in that place of hollow sorrow
These burning places scorched and sacred like swollen feet
We fell asleep in the grove and removed old stones
To take home a part of the earth with us
We journey against the wind as compassion is a vision
Gone are those memories yet again we ascended
Dense like leaves of comfrey boiled in water
You can no longer control the insurgent flutters of your stomach
As we dance our souls descend back into our bodies
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC
Our king-kong sized terrible two has realized
an even more devious way to line the Trump
organized crime family's pockets, he's having
NASA do a trip to Mars in preparation for a
manned landing by some white guy who'll also
be tasked to play golf on the moons too.
RumputiN will throw in a little histoire to
make the photos more appealing to his multi-
millionaire foreign dictator pals: "They're
named after the Greek mythological twin
characters Phobos (panic/fear) and Deimos
(terror/dread) (The Donald's domestic and
foreign policy, respectively), who went with
their father Ares into battle. Ares, god of
war, was known to the Romans as Mars. This
will up the price he can charge them for
renting out the Lincoln bedroom, cafknching,
being the united **** of assassins new motto.
His current fav tool of stealing tax dollas is
still doing genocide, classwar style against
Latinos. He ripped apart 7000 families to
gift overtime, doubletime, more hires, multi-
million dolla private detention center
contracts to republican manned anti-immigrant
Gov't agencies + his lifelong criminal cronies.
These kids are caged, allowed little soap,
showers, running water, food, etc.. Similar
conditions to 40's US internment camps. This
should be one of the articles of impeachment
against him. Dinos, like Nancy 'Chamberlain'
Pelosi, can be scolded if impeachment doesn't
go only forward, for if it's not completed
in the House before the 2020 elections,
RumputiN/vlad-the-impaler may be re-installed
into the Blackhouse by the same conspiracy
that did it in 2016. Viva la evolucion.
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 3:27 AM UTC
He says he is the "chosen one."
Could the man be more deluded?
That he's totally lost his marbles
Could easily be concluded.
Listening to his rants can drive
The conscientious person insane.
How much more nonsense does he
Harbor in his addled brain?
To save us from what? That's the question
One must ask. One thing's clear:
His strategies divide the country,
Causing hatred, doubt, and fear.
Keeping track of all his lies
Is a monumental task.
Could he be more unfit for the office
Of president? one must ask.
He couldn't care less whether
His policies are in error
Or if he mistreats immigrants
During his odious reign of terror.
Our history of cruelty
From slavery to internment camps
Has haunted us for years, but Trump
Is gleefully upping the amps.
Was he "chosen" to help the wealthy,
Damage the economy, take away rights,
Inflict deep pain, hurt the environment,
And pander to evangelical whites?
If he was chosen to do all of that,
He has been doing an excellent job.
Just to know how much chaos he's wreaked
Certainly makes his cruel heart throb.
So if he must be chosen for something,
If only he forevermore
Could soon be the one CHOSEN
To EXIT through the White House door!
-by Bob B (8-22-19)
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC