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WendyStarry Eyes Oct 2014
My kitchens clean
now I feel complete
I bet tonight
My dreams will be sweet
Grandma always said
"A woman's job is never done"
She was wise, indeed
At times it is pain
To ever feel all is complete, chores by the ton
Yet, it is always strengthens the heart to meet others needs
Feeling love from everyone
onlylovepoetry Apr 2018
zelle ma belle

(zelle is an interbank system for sending cash in an instant to someone else’s bank account)

sent her an unexpected $250,
at 4:00am, of course,
a check-plus for her life,
because she revel reviews her day at school,
as special person day, teaches them well, and
anointed, appointed unsolicited confirmation by them
“as part of our family”
how they crave her body, her touch, at scary movie parts,
her kitchens diner size menu,
her refusal to ever disappoint,
her candy drawer supreme,
her crayon color visions which they execute,
her zen sense of their moods,
and for me,
for calling them without hesitation
my grandchildren

indeed more here hers than mine
she asks me why the $$ and poet doesn’t lie
but thinks quick at 7:30 am while bed prone,
“you won Nana of the Day award”
the only (grandparent) on the floor with two kids in her lap,
for the magic show,
all the rest,
benched, chattingly adultry things


she thinks on it and says
“ok, I accept!”

p.s. also,  I have yet to inform her of the (my) elimination of a
crystal champagne flute while doing my manly cleanup  from Friday night lights dinner pink champagne celebrating  
le weekend’s arrival


olp
JB Claywell Sep 2018
Those final summer days,
insistent on making their
appearance at the
beginning of Fall;
the September tug-of-war
weather.

(Unrelenting)

Cold enough to turn
the heater on in the
morning,
letting the A/C run its shift
in the late afternoon
heat.

Letting the dog out,
she snorts, sniffs, and
bristles at the last of
the spring rabbits
grown to adults as
August recedes,
September steps to
the forefront.

We step back
into the shadowed
coolness of the darkened den.

The windows, with blinds drawn,
lights out,
no television flashing blue light,
dim into the recesses of our thoughts.

We, the dog and I,
ponder the final verses
of songs the cicada sing,
mullberry bushes,
picked clean;
the jam made in sun-dappled kitchens,
waiting for the lids of the jars
to ping,
the last of the refrigerator pickles,
the decision to switch
from beer to bourbon
as the air crisps;
and, the rabbits we
don’t see.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications 2018
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!

This has been poorly imagined I admit:
The sunny penthouse
Open to the breeze
which presses and sways
through the sliding glass doors

Upturned champagne bottles
set in buckets of melting ice
A crystalline view of the Pacific
Or dusky Vegas lights

Strewn silken sheets
A **** carpet you can grab on to
The myriad of variations under a rising Moon

Yet Leather and Ecstasy are no where to be seen.
And though I wasn’t thinking of Sardinia
or of the Amalfi
That is a great idea

ROMP
noun
1. a spell of rough, energetic play.
2. a farce.

Eventually
(An earth-sign cusp is slow no matter how much air)
Eventually
creeping into my mind’s eye
(Thank you Time)
was my dodging of the slow-moving bullet
Alas, the lumpy bed in Hollywood awaits
with serviceable sheets
Encased in variations on a theme of
brown everything
A soul death in faux wood paneling
Someone else’s earring on a
grubby carpet floor
that offers you
burns for your back that won’t heal so fast
if that’s what you want
There’s the opening of the door
on the purring refrigerator
to look at cold nothing
And think nothing
Cystitis is on its way
And yes,
Too much dust

Don’t get me wrong
I have no real issues with dust
I have stood
Alone in the semi darkness before
In such a living room
Staring at this luminous particulate
On album covers
and in the glare of backlit windows
Floating in a beam from
a ceramic thrift store table-lamp

I was on my way to find the bathroom
Where a pair of pink ******* lay
drying
in wait for
me

Bachelor dust
Is old
I can write my name with my finger
in that which rests
upon the turntable’s hinged cover
In case you don’t remember
What they call me

As I’ve said
I’ve got nothing against it
Ask the dust
Go ahead
Ask it
Resting quite comfortably
on the bookshelves
If there are bookshelves
As if it had
something to do.
I ask it why?

my invading molecules subdivide
and grow more comfortable

Dust?
Why do I smell the stench of
chaste virgins and ***?
The intoxicating odor of foxed letters from an epistolary exchange regarding:
One Fair Maiden and the Devilish Pursuits to  Compromise Her Virtue?
The Opinions and Observations of Fallen Fruit
Here: The woman and her only true
possession
And Here: The sticky absconder who smells of fish.
They meet.
She blinks.

The dust replies
It’s a simple plan:
The Dear Lady is to be led
Astray
by pretty words and unspoken indiscretions
her dowry in the end, useless
She’ll be banished to the counties
To be a governess
or the
Bored companion
of the only living relative who will
Admit her services
Unpaid in silver coins
He is Blind and his Cook has left
Dyspeptic
Disagreeable
Cheap
and Mean.

She is Ruined.
Perhaps she will escape
to Italy
and die
Alone
in the sunshine.

The dust tells me another story
The same century still
This time, a miscreant princeling
surrounded by Trifles
Picking up one bob and then another
Preoccupied by uselessness
Perhaps a strawberry
Perhaps more claret and his mistress’s left breast
Tonight will be the scullery maid
Who will lose more in the end
Than she could ever possibly imagine
Tossed out of the kitchens
to Providence.
God bless Her.

The dust tells me
It’s mercantile, my dear
It’s all transactional
But look at me
I’m here for a time but am easily
Agitated and
Airborne
Aeolian driven
Ever blossoming fugitive clouds of swirling devils
Interstellar Reflection Nebulae
As you can see
I’m never in one place
So I say keep it movin’.
Jack L Martin Aug 2018
I search for some decor
to pretty up my house
A headboard, some dead boards
or maybe a couch?

The said so to do it
on public TV
my kitchens not pretty
as pretty as can be

But what will the neighbors
think of my design?
they'll report to the magazine
that it's beautiful and sublime!

Some ship lap, some sconces
all wrapped in a bow
i will trend till tomorrow
then die all alone

Rip it all down
Says Chip and Joanna
They are more popular
Than Hanna Montanna

They live on a ranch
an take millions to make
a spectacular suprise
for a couple to take

We all laugh an cheer
at Chip's child like antics
Which makes great TV
as Joanna gets Frantic!

Do Chip and Joanna really
care about you?
As long as the station
gets ten million views

They tell us to fix it
even though it's not broken
go shop till you drop
and spend every token

Buy that cool sign
made from cheap yellow plastic
The richer get richer
but, our wall looks fantastic!

Do not give in
to the big corporate greed
there are sick, hungry people
and starving mouths to feed

so every cent spent
on the corporate wealth
helps the richer get richer
and we go to stealth

Wake up and see vanity
is causing distress
don't give in to pressure
of this corporate mess!
will19008 Jul 11
sun and demons pour into morning
as I exhale the embers of slumber
my heart's rusted boundaries
trembling, eagerly whispering,
confessing once again a sharp thirst
for the ***** taste of violence

buildings, sidewalks
kitchens, gardens
cigarettes and souls
glorious rage and innocent flesh;
this scarred logic of mine simply
wants to lash out, to harm
and it stinks of insanity

toast and a crisp suit: my disguise
imaginary fantasies, secret and angry
form in this melancholy, useless routine
something is missing— constantly —
but tomorrow may deal me
a more hopeful hand
Written for those I know whose anger about something--anything--is always held in.  They go home and kick the dog, metaphorically speaking, but it slowly wears them away...
Sam Bowden Mar 13
In a rush and dash,
you left the bustling and thoroughly coursed New York streets,
paved smooth by the administrators of your newly proclaimed home.
There I stood,
as I watched the Lyft carry you north,
as if on a cloud,
away from me.
And here, I find myself:
having left behind the sun and surf and sandy roads of my home,
which seemed so narrow but always felt a place rich with possibility.
Having left behind too, the parochial, working-class life of my forebearers, in search of something more.
In a city, foreign and yet familiar to us both,
we caught a glimpse of one another on a chilly night in November,
that sweet, sweet November.
Miles from the places we used to call home, Tehran, Bloomington, Boston, Philly... Nashville, Tampa, Chicago, New Brunswick,  
gone are the comforts of our mothers' kitchens and fathers' protection.
You, gracing the tiniest grain of sand with your presence as you carry your doctorates on your breast pocket,
and your mother's dreams in your hands...
Me, occupying the academy,
without rhyme or reason but ever searching for the latter.
Against the winter's breeze,
your tempest of black hair flows in the wind,
fluttering around your face like the Whirling Dervishes,
making me lost in the ecstasy of the Divine.
Clad in black,
and with no adornments nor jewels,
save the crimson lining your lips...
to my eye, your beauty has nowhere to hide.
And on that night, I breathed it in,
even as your mechanical chariot carried you away from me with deliberate haste.
A brisk wind caught my back, pulling me back to the pavement,
though as I strolled my mind drifted like dandelion seeds blown to the wind...
Back in Tehran, long faces wrapped in linen would grow despondent,
if only they knew my thoughts of you.
Sure as the pious, I knew:
a splendid love story began between us that night,
propelled by the tenor of laughter,
and the strike of piano keys,
and the belted lyrics of strangers sharing merriment well into the small hours.
My romanticized childish hopes swelled that night,
that a heart engulfed in a forlorn sea might make acquaintance with such a passionate soul...
As I strolled back to Harlem,
I couldn't shake the thought of your dancing silhouette next to me,
the feel of your hair around my fingers,
the warmth of your jean-clad leg pressed into mine,
the strength of your hand atop my thigh,
nor the magic of your smile which could spark the ire of miscreants
or calm the rumblings of a tumultuous sea.
Sure as the pious, I knew:
This was the beginning.
And only the beginning.
Suns rise and sink,
the moon melts and grows;
So too does our love.
Days and nights have since past,
ever spent caressing one another,
while the wheel of fate spins a web of love around us.
Tucked away in our cocoon, we are,
away from the eyes and envies of the world.
Resplendent in your timeless beauty, you are.
Know that the gentle kindness between us will never fade.
Know that the thought of catching your gaze,
even if only just once more, sustains me,
And it always will.
I have a healthy space
That I cultivate each day
We are all architects
Of our own time and place
We are infinite weavers
Of sublime ministries and arboretums
We are blooming leaves and plants
And the tiny fingers that grieve them
We are all Apollonians engaged in battle
With the heartless hedonists in our midst
But we're also dancing Dionysians
Who know that you already know
What's best for you to believe in
I am a firefly on your wall
And long before the fall
I held you tenderly
In my embrace
What a chase yet we never really escaped
Nor made it back from that place
So we attack ourselves in the kitchens
With faces full of ice cream
You laughed and said who is the victim now
I came close to closing the door
But instead i wrestled you to the floor
And cuddled you
In case you forgot
Just how [email protected]!#[email protected]! beautiful you are
We, the invisible reasons for your problems, blind ourselves to the
dismal inevitability that we will
suffocate because you refuse to stop
the pillaging of the future for the sake of your own ******* lineage being able to further itself and potentially give you a chance to again close your mind and scream as loud as you can when confronted with your own toxicity

We, the ones who humbly take the bludgeoning from your self-proclaimed pious hand, know these chains are only on your bleeding wrists and ankles.

We, the silent and the broken, know Santa Muerta by the nicknames she had in college and all accompanying wildness she brought in her wake.
We still will stroke your hair while you
throw your tantrums and wail about what is and isn't fair on your deathbeds.

We will burn the mattress and all while cheering you on on your flight into the night sky you ignored for a lifetime.

We, the servants of streaming digits and stewards of bottled stardust, will create stories about how it wasn't your fault and how you shouldn't be hated for bringing the world crashing into the excrement of wasted potential so our children know there was a choice to be made.

We, the overly polite pariahs pry laughs and love and lust and learning from looming catastrophe like Burroughs writing Naked Lunch with a glassy eyed stare that burned holes in the veil hiding the tide of partially coagulated blood and ******* that YOUR world preached as milk and honey.

We, the proof in the moldy pudding still finding time to rot, will burn tobacco fields in your honor just to dance while getting drunk on the breaths you'll never waste.

We, the lovers of questions and haters of creeds, let tears stream in the hope that they are not considered part of our body's 75 percent while fantasizing about your ghosts seeing them and the dehydration they may be in spite of and quiet your tired old yelling and shaking of fists at the clouds when overcome by the slight sadness that whispers "its too late" lovingly into your ear.

We, the lovers, the thieves, the reviled, the *******, the witches, the junkies, the ******, the reptiles and worms under the rocks society deems unusable and misshapen, will be the ones lifting the crowns off your corpses and throwing them high as graduates do when full of a hope only ever dashed by themselves.

We, the drooling monsters you vehemently deny anything besides the cramped closets or the space between bed and floor in childhood bedrooms, will be the Valkyries to descend onto the blood-choked battlefield you set aside for your souls to suffer on and offer you respite in the form of soggy bread and wildflower honey while  ravens and jackdaws bicker over the eyes and fingers of those that once showed us how to ride a bike or drunkenly beat us beneath our favorite trees or touched us in dark rooms in ways that would chase Love away from the shadow of our hearts until we finally climbed high enough to see it all as someone screaming of war and bravery while running from the sound of steel biting steal because their protectors talked so highly of honor and duty that it seemed as if it were God and Adam touching fingertips on the arched ceilings of youth. that, then was painted on the crumbling walls of abandoned houses they would secretly indulge on the forbidden fruit soaking pages of a faded **** magazines or up skirts of blushing  girls who put on their mother's prudishness until fingers pushed past
cotton and virtue alike to the warm center they both melted in.

We, the unsung and numb, walk in spirals while the complexity you rebuked as devil-born becomes the sigils of yet-to-be kingdoms bringing about golden age after golden age in the distant mists rolling over hills and valleys of memories of moments yet to coalesce into rigid experience.

We, the eyes weeping blood atop crumbling pyramids, have seen the walls you want to build in futures dissolved in the winds blowing dust over the dream-roads we skip down and how it resembles the one you built to keep your heart from breaking from the pressing mass of what you can't file away as noise or heresy or communist propaganda;
We drew throbbing ***** and dripping ***** on all the blueprints we came across and tucked them back into the secret compartments of wardrobes and roll-tops passed down through generations.

We, the keepers of the singing stones you traded for cheap concrete, will embrace the tiny souls you neglected out of ignorance to the existential snake oil pitch you broke every tooth biting down on all because the salesman reminded you of your drunk father or mother imposing their wills like you make shadow puppets dance on peeling wallpaper in the silence that ensued after they had passed out on creaky couches reeking of Lucky Strikes and spilled ***** while the shine of the staticky T.V. set covered them like the blanket no one ever put over their slumbering forms because of those infinite lists of excuses used to skirt the skirmishes of showing any kind compassion even if they alone were sole witness to it.

We, the pieces of self the deathbed "you" sent hurtling backwards through time to shine lights on the siege seething at the gates of what you stand for, are only holding those lanterns to show you that fleeing is futile and your death is just a hallway with a door that leads to the knowledge that life is not a cell to watch time morph into tally lines scratched into cold stone as if they were epitaphs for the seconds bet and lost at the roulette table crafted from any slave ship the ocean never swallowed.

We, the flames mimicking those dancing girls you longed to have squeal under the idea of your thrusting masculinity amidst the graffiti on the bathroom stalls in seedy dive-bars or the paupers playing prince you follow giggling with hope in hand like a bouquet of baby's breath and daisies for that one day they would stop and turn and smile so handsomely that your knees would shatter against one another and wedding chapels would bend down to tie tin cans to bumpers of beat up Buicks and Oldsmobiles your fathers give dowry and the crowd could watch "just married" poorly written in shaving cream on the back window grow small until it disappeared over the horizon.

We, the dreamers, are tired of sleeping and are in need of a old tree to swing from, to bury our dreams like beloved pets under, and watch as it lets its leaves fall to the hungry earth that is more patient then anyone closed eyed and humming ancient syllables beneath crooked branches could ever be.

All the trees you climbed and kicked and fell in love under have died from too many hearts around intials being carved into them or were used to make fascist pamphlets you yourself passed out at churchs mistaking the mask with bone structure or the river for the people it swept to sea.

We are laughing;
like a loving mother at her clumsiness on display in her cackling child and not like the crowds gazing at the sideshow stage as the curtains pull back and stage lights illuminating John Merrick's flesh and the intricate dissonance it lent to minds.
Minds that afforded only sips of bliss as monotonous stints on factory floors but were preached about like they were some heaven-sent golden cobblestones laid lovingly all the way
to the beach where Heimdall will one day sound his horn, one foot feeling the grit of the edge of the world and the other washed clean for the grave we will all step in.

So, all these words, all these images, all of it is intended to be a moon so all the stagnate tide pools that have forgotten their origin and the freedom they used to give form to lesser forms they forage forgetfulness from.

We, the ones beneath you on the climb to the summit of our collective potential, beg you to think of something beside yourself when taking a ****.

It is not just ******* in the wind if there isnt wind and we are right below you and dying of thirst.

It is not an inalienable right if someone else is deprived of the same.

It is not Heaven's gate if the brilliant gild has a melting point or if it remains latched to any soul's approach.

It is not "liberal *******" or a myth if whole flocks of birds fall from the sky or schools of fish wash up on beaches while people snap photographs for their feed.

It is not "god" if love dispels it like smoke hanging in the kitchens your great grandmother sat in and told you about a witch shapeshifting into dogs without heads to scare drunks stumbling home because she was a ******* racist.

It is not just food if someone's organs fail from starvation that even the worms and flies are free from.

You wave your banners and let your war-horns echo and you wear your ignorance as armor.

We, the eaters of life and death, will chisel a name into stone and pick your bones clean if you think we should march to the sounds of drums and trumpets just because you were stupid enough to think it was anything other than your masters convincing you to whip yourselves ****** because "at least God hath been kind enough to give you a purpose" or "he works in mysterious ways".

**** that.

Look at what it has brought out of the swirling sea of " all that could be" while you write the same song about how shiny and numerous the scales of the prize are.

We are not responsible for pillaging God's bounty.

We are the bounty and our emptiness and lack of foresight are in jeweled bowls at your feet, but in your hubris you believe it to be the slaves that come to wash the dirt from between your toes.

We are Death and She is the wet-nurse that will give us intimacy to fertilize our hearts by refusing us her breast but turning our heads to your silhouettes shambling off the edge of existence far off in the distance only a decade or less could be confused for.

[AS ONE VOICE WE SING/SANG/HOWL:
Lux amor potentia restituant propositum dei in terris.]

As if it were as easy as holding the hand of a dying tyrant afraid they cannot the luminous terminus while wearing your father's face as a mask to trick radiant angels or the contortions of gods reeking of struck matches by those trembling and their swirling black hearts closed to the breeze carrying leaves celebrating their liberation and caressing a cheek they were too ashamed to kiss when opportunity was their ally.

We shouldn't hate these piles of skulls all parroting the same axioms to those who only show up to add another or leave an empty bottle turned into a candle holder, wax dripped down the neck and froze before any trace of tallow could finally unite with the dirt it longs to become one with;
icicles hanging from the eaves of abandoned asylums.

This place was supposed to be alot of things but that is what lead THEM to drown in the sound of buzzing bees, birdsong, and abundance in all directions.

I suggest we stop trying to squeeze it into a shoebox we scribbled Promised Land on and just let it be the open armed paradise it inherently is.
Let it be the heart and home as well as the hostile territory because it is only ever that and what we wont find in any Oracle's Prophecy.

I'll end my rambling with a question and it's answer.

How do you turn a police station into a hospital and a schoolhouse?

Burn it to the ******* ground.
Ryan O'Leary Apr 1
If one were a cook, with a
sense of humour on Chefs
Table, the Netflix series and
was asked to concoct a broth
that would bring cheer to the
miserable masses in the queues
for a free hand out at the soup
kitchens of a disunited Kingdom,

What would you use as a base ?

           ™ Broxo Cubes!
Jude kyrie Jul 2018
My mother used to bake cookies with me when I was young
Intricate designs of colored icing that varied with the seasons.
They were always perfect and looked far to good to suffer the crime of eating.

For half a century I always baked cookies for the holidays
Whilst my children grew tall and independent with no apparent
Interest in baking

As the pale blue winter light falls into my kitchens I see myself
Cutting shapes and painting colors a silhouette on the shadows of the wall.

Placing the last cookie into a Christmas scene can I
Arive at the hospital and sit next to her in the ICU
I see her frailness the alarm in her eyes as she recognises me
But is yet unable to enunciate her thoughts.

Silence as loud as thunder fills the room the seams of the walls are stretched to their limits.
The outer limits beep of the monitor acknowleging her heartbeats
Counting down each one until the last.

I miss our intimacy in that long ago kitchen
And  the random thought enters my mind
I am her only child and she is my only mother.

The monitor rings an alarm a code blue
Signalling the end of her like the end of a football match.
I feel the loss of her like a razor blade cutting my flesh.

And as I leave her for the last time
There seems to be a a mortality in the measured unknown days ahead and the cans of cookies yet to be baked.
By mom
love
The Czech travel guide slumped in his chair, hair disheveled, eyes distracted, sipping a beer, then coffee at the Ostia Antica bar and bistro just past the tiny railway stop. He was tired, he said, of leading groups through the maze of Europe’s famous sights, explaining history, significance, value. His 42-member entourage would soon return from dissecting the massive ruins of the excavated Roman city — avenues, therma, fast-food kitchens, masks. We needed no guide to make our way along the brick-lined streets, stopping to stare at frescoes, mosaics, the sprawling theater. Ostia dwarfed Pompeii in size, if not drama. No contorted bodies, no brothels or sewers. Only a meticulously gridded urban sprawl. Headless sculptures heralded the humanity of history. Crumbling sarcophagi held water like broken baths. Few others like us tread the slick-stone path: The grimy chaos of Roma replaced by Ostia’s bucolic Pax. Its stone-masked ghosts, spent from wandering, embraced the resurrected statues in the stately museum. Peace in Apollonian beauty. New life springs from eroding stone. We needed no guide to show us where the tired spirit rests. Here, in the shadows of Ostia Antica, brick by brick, history was explained.
Prose poem.
Ostia Antica is a suburb of Rome, with Europe's largest excavated Roman city.
"Pax" means "peace.."Therma" are baths.
DancingEnt Jul 2018
In these days of
Feeling like we are wrong..
Wrong for having feelings
Emotions
We are told that we must always

BE HAPPY

Get a good job
Wife
Husband
Life
Kids
House
Car
Truck
And let's not forget all those toys we have to have in our kitchens, living rooms, and attached garages.
The latest game
The biggest TV
And anything that is the latest generation of Samsung or Apple

If you have all of these things, it is guaranteed: you will be happy.

But here is the FLAW.

You aren't happy because you dont have all of the things society says that you should have to be happy.
Once you get these things, society just replaces all of these things with new things.
Newer games
Bigger TV's
And of course!
The latest generation of anything Apple or Samsung
So what is the point of striving for all of these things when it is never going to be enough?
Something will always be better than what you have.

Unless you choose for it not to be.

You have the decision before you to be HAPPY.
Enjoy what you have.
The right game
The right TV
Apples in the fridge and *** is Samsung?

Once you stop worrying about being what society wants to be and be who you want to be

Isn't that happy?
Rantinnnggg
carminayasmin Aug 2018
A black is wading with my blood
it’s no longer red.


You’ve left me here to heal with wounds raw open.
Left me to love without showing me what it was
( remember I can only learn from demonstration)
And left me to cry without any more salt tears - because you drank the rest after dinner.

Now I spends days with a knife inbetween my sweet fingertips
searching for the blood, that you have left me without.

I search kitchens for a substance so overpowering
that it will strip my insides bare and wash them clean of your toxins that have spilled in places I can’t reach.

Then find me caved in this void
where I pull the trigger at my head (metaphorically)
countless times a day until my stupid thoughts leak out
and drip onto the puddles.
and all that turmoil inside pours down me,
showering me in your illnesses.

Lights are put out by the last exhales I breathe.
you winded my lungs out of use and now I sit in dark.

I’m barricaded in  deafened voices
which I do not hear over your
pounding silence.

Hands are worn numb
from ripping up pages which have your name imprinted on each line in fantasies.

Senses drunk from words you forced to run down my throat and my body is flooded by your lips and I find myself bent over,
vomiting the **** you fed me.

In bed I’m cradling myself to sleep in peices.
Don’t you dare let me see you
in a dream tonight.
April 6
A let go
Julian Apr 20
The inaugural bang swiveled with the vacant expressions of a muted feral crowd indignant about ethnic identity and swift in the recourse of tyrannical thugs pandering withered abuse

I solemnly abided in a chirpy itinerant glower against the exclusive system for stranding the disintegration of lyrical integrity for the Potemkin cheers of the culmination of too many jeers

Withered words for the abeyance of silence I incurred with wistful pleas for resurgent clarity beyond   sheepish fears

So I loitered in the evanescence of words..

Watching with alacrity as the strident ignorance of grafted wretchedness writhed its last mustered exsibilation at the sound of windbags bloviating beyond prodigal extravagance without a visible tweeted word

I measured my pause…..as I considered the heft of poignant exposures to a dismal serenade of miscegenated politics and garbled breaths of wheezy mendicants seeking participation in the trophy of smothered compliance

But I marveled simultaneously at the extinction of the shriveled crowds as they sized up the minutiae of wastrels glamorously inviting a frozen recapitulation of sorrows borrowed and wasted on minced platitudes that swindle still the votive confidence of regimented sympathy pretending empathy for soured hearts professedly defiant at their bereaved will

My pulse I clocked at 120 as I wondered where on earth the 140s and 150s have frittered their patience on with such brazen alacrity for the garish snarl of a sojourn into the ineffable effrontery of aureate mutiny against the tyrant of deaf spoon-fed indignation without the luxury of shared ignominy of memorable cadence for frippery in sparse blurbs registered in braille rather than brawn

Then I remembered my vociferous persnickety temperament and the curdled hatred of procrustean swan songs to an etiolating standard of ethical entanglement in aloof issues delivered with a decisive swoon too swift in earnestness to outfox with a quipped rebuff or a calculus of classical spoof

Then I wondered with a problematic but inherent prolixity…..
I too could adorn the adoring moon with a lyrical lampoon geared for a clockwork punchline or a winsome rebarbative tune….OR…. enchant with an incisive acerbic rant about how pasquinades outstay their welcome because of the clambered insistence of happenstance years ago in a blinkered mirror but never rehashed too soon

But where would affection heap its laurels if I dared to swindle the spotlight away from frisky poetasters who proved a renegade inspiration for fluttered triumph in a seaside tragedy only the crestfallen waves of pestilent Idiocracy could steal from my outstretched tenacity in verse and verve

Boom went a fulmination of hatred at my labored words! And then I swerved to avoid potholes of tenuous gainsay…. and other miscreants littering the world with misappropriated labels for laments belabored with publicity for displaced enmity distilled from a cauldron of mismatched ignorance….tethered to the vagrancy of gripe plucked at the ripe time for a twenty-dollar prize give or take a dime

But that dime separating 1990 from 2010 meant more than anything to a life littered with hallowed word crimes…. against the sanctimony of syncopation with cheap bleats too arrogant to be sheepish at the lavish indulgence of the marginalized wines…. brewed in a castle flickering on fiat worth rather than the simplicities of minutes of warbled time

So I currently warp minds with the proctor of a gamble too garish to finesse the quicksand of attrition but jaunty enough to bypass the limitations of a linear self-referential memorial about the circular nature of irony espoused by divorced rhymes

Now I stand ascendant….waiting for the retinues of retinas to absorb the wavy rigmarole of the serpentine pathways carved beneath the buzzwords of race and division and towards soldered unity with a human race beyond racism…. and a class divorced from socioeconomic crass division

Just then I arrived at serenity…. as I realized that the BAR exams that encage so many aspirant hearts are counterfeit in the court of the highest judiciary art that believes that insidious artifice is an embezzled venture of frolicsome guttersnipes wallowing in division can never revive a lifeless heart…. even if quick-witted credentialism rattles the slaves to vapid artforms that any humanism would never deem smart

Ditch the agitprop as a human frailty indentured to endure the curated disease without a cure to make the snollygosters in Washington ever so cocksure with their cockalorum disregard of the palatable consensus to make news real again….Finally for the fraternity of an enlightened human race in a benighted world of trendy fatuousness that infests the planet with the debauchery of glorified urchins jerking the levers with severed brevity to promote infectious foofaraw with cultural indemnity

I leave you with this

What is ornate complexity without the luxury of concerted beatific bliss that the parsecs that flummox your minds throb vehemently with cohesiveness in my internal design are not remiss

And remember the benighted standards of kitsch for the kitchens of penury bewitched don’t stand a chance against the overriding itch to vanquish mountains one after another to cross them off the list
MKF Jun 26
The smell of tulips will forever be
Inextricable from that of cheap *****,
And I'll never quite be able to enjoy the taste
Of jelly thumbprint cookies without
Tonguing the teeth you knocked out
The first time we made them.
And I've always preferred open kitchens
So I don't have to think about how many times
You broke the door to ours.
And while I wish we spoke more-
I still remember when mouths were fists,
And words broke bones.
And though I know its in the past,
I still see the glint in your eyes
When a bottle goes by.
Time has healed our wounds;
My adult teeth replaced the gaps,
And you always replaced the door the next day.
We laugh freely now, and the tulips still grow
In the garden on your balcony.
But I'd be lying if I told you
That I can't still see the scars,
Or that the fear doesn't still linger
In our silent moments.
That sleeping with a knife under my pillow
Didn't start when you were still tucking me in.
Some homes don't let go of things
And their floors become unclear
Behind their blinds
It's hard to find
But the reason's always fear

Closets full of little things
A sweet sentimental Salve
Various keys
To Memories
Rather re-lived than had

kitchens gathered up with things
As if clutched in jaws most grim
It's all about
Not running out
False anticipation

Bedrooms full of silent things
Like a promise never kept
The sheepless wool
That's ment to cull
The sight from dreams once dreamt
Home is where the heart is, but what if your heart is broken?

— The End —