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Akemi Nov 2018
Blanket city run along soaked in rain. Idiot Boy wastes his time visiting a passing crush at the other end of town. Slips between two houses and a metal sheet, communal refrigerator in the middle of the road filed with half-empty soy bottles.

Dead bell stop, mocking red blink of the operator. Father arrives, a mess of wiry muscles and hair.

“Hey. Is Coffin Cat here?”

“Who?” Father squints at Idiot Boy’s cap. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact.

“Um.”

Recessed in the blackness behind Father, a Figure says, “You looking for Coffin Cat?”

Idiot Boy nods.

The Recessed Figure turns. “I’ll go get her.”

Father returns to his parched body on the couch, content.

Indistinguishable forms move back and forth in the kitchen to the right. They stop their pacing and glance at Idiot Boy as he passes. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact and slips into the left-bound arterial vessel.

“So this is the heart chamber I’ve been living in,” Coffin Cat says as Idiot Boy enters her room. There is music gear. “It’s pretty comfy.”

“Oh, sick mic,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at the mic behind Coffin Cat’s head.

“I feel like a ghost,” Coffin Cat replies, falling on her bed.

Idiot Boy settles next to her. Animal distance. Intensely aware of his rain-soaked right shoe. “Same.”

Nothing comes out right, intersubjectivity a false God to mediate the impossible kernel of being, nobody can find nor express. Idiot Boy searches for connection. He glances around the heart chamber, at the music gear, but nothing grips. Four pears sit on a table by the window, their skins garish green in the harsh grey light.

Coffin Cat moves from the bed to the floor. She opens a virtual aquarium on her computer; fish eat pellets dropped from the sky to **** out coins to buy more fish to **** out coins to buy more fish. Capitalist investment and accumulation. Every few minutes a rocket-spewing robot teleports into the aquarium to attack the fish. Ruthless competition in the global marketplace.

“No! Why would you swim there, you ******* fish?” Coffin Cat yells as one if her fish is eaten by the nomadic war machine. “So dumb. ****. Why did it eat my fish?”

A knock at the door. The Recessed Figure from earlier enters the room. “Hey, mind if I join?” Their arms dangle like fine threads of hair.

“I like your music gear,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at nothing in particular.

“Idiot Boy also makes music,” Coffin Cat adds from the floor.

The Recessed Figure does not respond. They are enthralled by their phone, streak of dead pixels along a digital chessboard, minute reflection of their own gaunt face in the glass. After an extended period, they decide to move none of their pieces. A gaping coffee grinder rises out of the rubble at their feet. They begin filling it with tobacco from broken cigarettes.

“I’m surprised you’re still playing this,” Idiot Boy says to Coffin Cat. “I swear this is one of those games designed to ruin your life. Get addicted, stop going to work, become a hikik weaboo.”

“Already there, man,” Coffin Cat laughs. “Nah, this is my new job. I’m going to be a professional gamer.”

“Stream only PopCap games.”

Another knock at the door. Tired squander in an endless pacing of flesh. Strawman enters and nods at the Recessed Figure. “Hey bro.”

“Good to see you, man.” The Recessed Figure plugs the coffee grinder into the wall. “You got any ciggys?”

Idiot Boy points under the table and says “Ahh” with his mouth.

The Recessed Figure empties it into the coffee grinder. The device whirs into motion, creating a centrifugal blur, a mechanical and headless hypnotic repeat.

Idiot Boy and Coffin Cat look for horror movies to watch. The Recessed Figure empties the contents of the coffee grinder onto a metal tray. Strawman repacks it into a ****. White smoke fills the empty column, moves in slow motion like an oceanic rip a mile off coast, surface seething with quiet, impenetrable violence.

Idiot Boy refuses the first round. It’s never done him any good. Face turned to smoke and the wretched weight of a tongue that refuses to speak. Headless carry-on as time ticks through the clock face.

The door bursts open. Everybody turns as Manic Refusal or the Loud Person saunters in.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off!” the Loud Person says in exasperation. “First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

“What? What’s happened?” Strawman asks.

“Some rich ****** in Australia has bought me as his wife. I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!” the Loud Person laughs bitterly, before hitting the ****.

“Oomph, that’s rough,” Coffin Cat quips from the side.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold to off some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“But like, who is this guy?” Strawman asks, pointing.

“And he’s been reading all my profiles. He has access to all my information. I don’t even have control over my Facebook profile. Grand Larson’s logged in as me, posting for me,” the Loud Person continues. “I met him once in Australia, clubbing, and now he’s tracked and bought me.”

“That’s creepy as ****,” Idiot Boy says.

“So he’s not a complete stranger?” Strawman asks.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. First time back in five years and I’m being sold off!”

Idiot Boy decides one hit from the **** wouldn’t be so bad. He packs the cone with chop, lights and inhales. Smoke rushes through the glass channel, a swirl of white ether, more than he’d expected. He quickly passes the **** to Coffin Cat, before collapsing onto the bed, eyes closed. A suffocating sensation fills his body. He sinks into the chasm of himself, further and further into an impossible, infinite depth.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

Idiot Boy doesn’t know what’s going on. He feels sick and tries to get Coffin Cat’s attention, but cannot move his body.

“Come on. Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

A strange silence stretches like an artificial dusk, a liminal duration, the hollow click of a tape set back into place in reverse. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off! First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

The Recessed Figure makes a noncommittal noise.

“I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!”

Coffin Cat laughs quietly.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold off to some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“How about this fella? He doing okay?” Strawman asks, pointing. Everyone turns to Idiot Boy and laughs affectionately.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

“Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

Idiot Boy slowly opens his eyes and stares out the window. The same grey light as before. He moves his arm further towards Coffin Cat, but is still too weak to get her attention. The same strange silence stretches. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. . . .”

As the conversation repeats over and again, Idiot Boy begins to think he has become psychotic, or perhaps entered into a psychotic space. He thinks of computer algorithms, input-output, loops without variables, endless regurgitations of the same result. Human machines trapped in their own stupid loop. Drug-****** neuronal networks incapable of making new connections, forever traversing old ones. Short-term memory loss, every repeat a new conversation of what has already been. The same grey light painted upon four pears by the window.

He’s not sure if Coffin Cat’s laugh is getting weaker with each repeat.

Signal-response. The exterior world oversaturated with variables: roadways, rivers, forests, wildlife — an ever changing scene to respond to — the illusion of depth. Automatic response mechanisms reorient to new stimuli. The soul rises like surfactant, objectified fractal diffusion. A becoming without end.

But within the border of this interior world, the light stays grey. No input, no change; the same dead repeat, over and over, until sundown triggers a hunger response. Lined all along the street, a black box ceremony of repeating machines, trapped in their idiot cults, walls of clay and blood.

Idiot Boy finally gets Coffin Cat’s attention. She helps him through the house’s arteries to reach rain and wet stone, overcast skies. As he shakes in shock, Coffin Cat mumbles, “It’s cold.”

Idiot Boy sits silent on the ride home. Travels through himself. Tunnel through the body or Mariana Trench. Loses his footing before a traumatic void. Leaves the car and pukes.
arson farson
larson? pio
leo trio el feo
angle fangle
his mite
is frite
scrap flap
trap slap hlap,
harun al rash
enter trash, mash
grate great
***** sheikh
eel feel meal really real
aeal steel molecular
trust bust, shrekular
even bush
shrugs off
the north tower.
Claire Waters May 2013
walk into a bookstore where a poetry open mic is going on. the man previously nursing a lager in the back now has all eyes in the room on, flowin to the beat like drums to a song, this is all he has left that doesn't feel wrong.
"these words are all that matters," he says. " ’cept poetry, liquor, and the duality of man, i confess, these pages store my sanity and reveal my real friends, so i'll keep writing until these calluses have bled."

Lately I’ve been talking to Michael Larson in my head
And yeah, I know it’s a little weird to have a real imaginary friend
But we all need someone to turn to when feelin like we’re burning at the stake
To remind we’re still human and there’s no end; ending’s a mindset you create
There’s not really walls to hit unless you tell yourself there is,
just the narrow hallways in your mind where you lose yourself to negatives
See, you can always bend to be more
but you conceive a break, cause breaking is what you do
when you think you can’t create

and if you spend too much time wondering if you’re a particle or a wave
your thoughts manifest into the mental circles you repave
self fulfilling prophecies are subconscious misbehaviors
ignoring synchronicity in the universe’s behavior,
always waiting there for someone else to come along and save ya
caving in you dig a shallow grave, crawl in, and lay there,
blaming everyone else and yet expecting a savior?
from the wayward pain of exacerbating these anticipated cracks,
you still can’t seem to break, just blister and bounce back.
from this controversy in the name of your unsure authenticity
each flaw you extract from your skin is your own vulnerability
the world is not black and white, flat, or statistical see
just rife with impenetrable culpability
so everyone grows up and grows out with restless mentalities
time and age are isolated perceptions of our static reality,
cause we’re changing and flowing together, and we always will be
the only differences between us all are the ones we want to see
to comfort our dogmas and convictions as we atomize our selves obsessively
what matters are the paths we pursue and the wisdom we seek,
not our genetic abnormalities or the ways that we feel we are weak
when everything has innate duality, there’s no good without the bad
good’s an infallible syllable completely unpaletable til you realize bad
can only be in your heart if you perceive that’s what you have

there’s just your belief that you are either trapped or free
and realizing you want what you always had, eternally
if I’m gonna live this life, I will not sit and wait,
I will skin my knees and bleed and then get back up and create
In public Michael Larson’s hanging in my headphones loving the attention that I pay
Telling me earnestly not to worry, cause everyone is a critiqued critic these days
In burn fetish he tells me, “empathy is the poor man’s *******”
And now Krishnamurti is on my other shoulder repeating once again,
That “being well adjusted to a sick society is completely insane, the end.”
everyone gets nervous on the first dinner date, and everyone craves the safety of a friend who has their back
everyone feels like a literary hack the first time they take a paper to their thoughts and attempt to translate them into rap
we all feel a bit misdirected, and a little bit hated, but collective requires an equalibrium of giving and taking
while these days everyone treats each other as if life’s just about getting your own slice of the cake
and blatantly crazed by the toxic disarray
of our modern society transgressing and yet we just stand by and wait

Michael looked shy on camera as he expressed to me that, “what makes us human
Is how we’re a collection of our mistakes and the reactions that we have”
And what makes us individuals isn’t our lifestyle or to whom we pray
The stratosphere here that stops us from cooking to convection
is just a collection of perfections formed from love within the human condition
the gravity that keeps us from falling, is the art that we make
self actualized individuals, not feeling so lonely or crazed,
because paradoxically, art is also how we all relate.
REHAB



MY PARENTS WANTED ME TO GO TO REHAB

BUT I JUST SAY NO, I HATE REHAB CAUSE IT’S WHERE CRAZY PEOPLE GO

CRAZY PEOPLE WHO BASH PEOPLE UP, FOR BEING THERE OWN PERSON

CRAZY PEOPLE, WHO GET UP TO MISCHIEF, FOR GRAND LARSON

YOU SEE MY FOLKS WANTED ME TO GO TO REHAB

BUT I SAY NO, THEY WANTED ME TO GO AND GET BETTER

BUT I SAY I AM BETTER OFF AT HOME

SITTING ON MY COUCH WITH MY ART AND COMPUTER BY MY SIDE

IS WAY BETTER THAN GOING TO REHAB

TO SEE SOME BIKIE RIP THE TV OUT OF THE WALL

I HATE GOING TO REHAB, CAUSE I AM NOT THAT SICK

YOU SEE ONLY NERDS GET BETTER, AND I AIN’T NO NERD

I WANT TO STOP BAD THOUGHTS, BUT I CAN DO THAT ON THE COUCH

I DON’T NEED NO MENTAL HEALTH PROFESSIONAL TELLING ME HOW TO ACT

I DON’T WANT TO GO TO REHAB, AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME

I HAVE MY OWN WAYS OF REFORMING MYSELF RATHER THAN LISTENING TO IDIOTS IN THERE

THE ONLY ****** I AM IS A YOUTUBE ONE

AND I IF I SEE ANYONE FROM THERE, I SAY I BETTER LEAVE THEM ALONE

AND THEY WILL COME HOME, TO TELL ME THEIR PROBLEMS, AS IF I CAN HELP OH ****

MY PARENTS WANTED ME TO GO TO REHAB, BUT I SAY NO

MY LIFE IS SITTING ON THE COUCH WITH MY TAPESTRY AND COKE AND COMPUTER, OH YEAH

AND NOW, A SAILOR WENT TO SEA SEA SEA, TO SEE WHAT HE CAN SEE SEE SEE

AND ALL THAT HE CAN SEE SEE SEE, WAS A PACKET OF CHEDDAR CHEESE CCs

AND BRIAN ALLAN YELLED OUT WHERE’S THE SALSA, MY DEAR BOY

MY PARENTS WANT ME TO GO TO REHAB AND I SAY NO

REHAB IS A PLACE FOR LOSERWS

AND I SAY NO, I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE MY COMPUTER, OR MY ART

JUST TO GET YELLED AT IN REHAB, NO NO NO NO NO

THE ONLY ****** IN ME IS AC YOUTUBE ******

I AM OBSSESED WITH YOUTUBE AND MY ART

IF YOU WANT ME BACK IN REHAB, YOU CAN GO AND KISS MY ***

CAUSE I HATE REHAB, WITH A PASSION, DUDES
AN Angel AND A Pair OF Shoes Book Launch Today ON Face Book From 12 Noon Central TO 4 PM/...
https://www.facebook.com/events/1478598202406197/
https://www.facebook.com/events/1478598202406197/
I want to invite everyone to Meet  My friend and Author Kim Kruse Thompson
and Illustrator and friend Sannel Larson.....
book event today on Facebook
https://www.facebook.com/events/1478598202406197/

come join us .. and win free free books and gifts..

and help raise money for the kids..
http://www.beanangel.org/donate.html#.VEJ7-hZFEpH
Be An Angel ....
https://www.facebook.com/events/1478598202406197/

Come have fun with us... get to know the Author and Illustrator and have fun..
This is a children's book.. it is so precious
http://www.amazon.com/Angel-Pair-Shoes-Sunnie-Day/dp/1500967831/ref=asapB005Irabw21_1?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1413635122&sr;=1-1
The book is on Amazon...
50 % OF THE Proceeds go to helping the Children..
http://www.beanangel.org/donate.html#.VEJ7-hZFEpH

Come check us out today starts at noon today central time till 4pm

God Bless you all...
Debbie
BOOK LAUNCH COME JOIN US ON FACEBOOK
Poppy Fields Sep 2018
The myth of the house
Is that it's tasteful.
But your mother exalted its beauty.
Cover your eyes,
Sit still in blindness,
Let her take the wheel,
Wait in line.
The light shrieks in chorus.
Danny C Nov 2014
I stood slumped into the corner
of two converging granite counter tops,
struggling to focus on what
he's remembering next—some bland anecdote
or an irrelevant detail: Larson,
I think,
he says finally.

Between pauses—with small, contemplating eyes
set deep, split by his dark, Italian nose—
and dragged uhhh's and hmmm's,
a sowed adoration splits and grows,
a seed (a supernova now).
A man—half my connection
to this world, to existence,
to a trickling, patient bloodline.

He, I; a rambling, scatterbrained mess
of neurons and hard-wiring, sparks and electrical fires.
My father: plagued by anger and impatience,
a sitcom of clumsiness and a tied-tongue,
blessed by conviction, faith and reason.

I don't say any of this. He'll die first,
never knowing how easily I'm reminded
of what I am to become, 32 years from now,
unless he finds me drunk, perhaps after reciting vows,
now vulnerable to cheapening emotion into language.
Wk kortas Apr 2017
Oh, we’d talked of other lives in other places,
But where would we have gone, anyway?
(It was rural Pennsylvania in the thirties,
And being well-off meant you ate three times most days
And could afford meat every other Sunday)
So we carried on in anguish and guilt as old-maids-in-waiting
As there were dinners to cook and cows to strip out,
Fireplaces to stoke, any number of chores to do
While our mothers and fathers waited patiently for that day
When we would, each in our turn, don a grandmother’s wedding gown
And march steadfastly down some acceptably Protestant aisle
While Gert Bauer, default church organist
Though she was past eighty and nearly blind,
Tortured the wedding march, flubbing notes and stomping pedals
The tune lurching forward at an inconsistent
And unusually adagio fashion.

As it turns out, Tojo and Adolph Schicklgruber
Interceded on our behalf,
For, as the young and able-bodied men of Elk County went off to serve
(Farm boys from Wilcox and Kersey, pool sharps from Ridgway,
Fully half the production line from the paper mill in Johnsonburg)
Someone needed to man punch presses and die casters,
So we were able to find work making propellers
In a windowless and airless factory
Which didn’t have women’s rooms
Until we’d been there for three months
Allowing us to set up house together
(We told our parents
It would allow us to save up toward our weddings,
And still let us give them grocery money each couple of weeks.)
Eventually, Johnny came marching home again
And back into his old job,
Which left us somewhat at sixes and sevens,
But, like Blanche DuBois,
We came to depend on the kindness of strangers
Who believed in the value
Of strong backs or the primacy of civil service scores
And so with our steady if unspectacular incomes,
We were able to carry on keeping house, as it was said,
(Our parents sadly unpacking hope chests.
Sullenly gifting us the linens
They’d purchased for our marital bed at Larson’s,
The hand-made quilt stitched and fussed over
For nine months by Aunt Jenny)
And maintain an uneasy truce with the good people of the town;
Indeed, we were all about “don’t ask, don’t tell”
Long before it was somewhat fashionable.

When it became apparent that she would not carry on much longer,
Or, as she put it, Now I’ve got an expiration date,
Just like a can of soup,

It was as if the populace had decided, after some sixty years,
To take their revenge upon our ******* of the natural order,
As if they were a pack of wolves,
Having identified the lame and the sick among a herd of whitetail,
Tightening the circle before moving in for the ****.  
In truth, I shouldn’t have been surprised,
But the pettiness and the tight, self-satisfied smirks
Were no less painful in spite of that.
And what was your relationship to the deceased?
They would say with their half-knowing, half-offended smiles.
I’d wanted to shout at the top of my lungs that for fully six decades
She had been the love of my life,
Without question and without deviation,
Not like the banker who dallied with his fat secretary,
Or the claims rep who, taking a personal day when her pipes froze up,
******* the plumber right on the kitchen floor,
But years of secrecy and compromise exact a toll,
So I simply, quietly, matter-of-factly would reply
I am the executrix, thank you.

We had talked of perhaps heading west
To make honest women out of each other,
And, later still, of burying her in Paris or San Francisco,
But tight times and walkers and wheelchairs
Made such plans unworkable;
It’s only parchment and granite, she said,
What do they mean at the end of the day, anyhow,
And so when the time came
She asked me to take her ashes up to the top of Bootjack Hill
And scatter her to the wind.
Make sure to go all the way to the top, she insisted,
*I want to get good and clear of this place.
Qualyxian Quest Aug 2020
Two candidates running for
Ruler of the Universe

God and Iggy Fenton

God dressed as an old man all in white with a long flowing white beard.

Iggy Fenton is a Geek with glasses and a huge pile of Calculus books all around him.

Iggy speaks first:  If elected, on my first day in office: Evil? Gone!

God (with hands raised in desperation): It's not that easy!
Lucius Furius Jul 2018
Kate Larson, Carol Ulverness--
19-year-old goddesses
I knew at college:
  
beauty so inward and effortless--
like Botticelli's "The Birth of Venus"--
that that of even the most celebrated actresses and models
seems to be contrived and self-conscious.
  
  
Like all of us, they're in their 40's now--
I wonder what they're like. . . .
  
Does some inner flame
still illuminate their faces and bodies?
  
Or were they flowers--
whose petals now have faded and fallen?
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_027_goddesses.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Caitlin May 2014
Born- my parents hadn't planned me.. I wonder why?
One- life is good- no worries except if I should drop this bowl on the floor- I think I will.
Two- same old, same old- I'm beginning to talk..
Three- learning all about the interesting things in the house- is that a stove?
Four- pre-K, I'm learning that my brother is a little weird...
Five- kindergarten- I don't really enjoy school at this time..
Six-school starts- I'm weary at first but then I start to love it. I also get my first look at love- his name was Jonathan- but then he moved
Seven-I get to see my first taste of snow, breathtaking
Eight- I begin helping the special kids at my school- I think one if them falls in love with me.. I was the only one who could calms him down.
Nine- I begin my journey of my obsession with books. Ms Newman helped with that.
Ten- I enter fifth grade- my last year- I loved my teachers- they were preparing us for the middle school changing of classes
Eleven- middle school- I'm in band, playing french horn- it was exciting. I loved it. I also learning about real friends during this time...
Twelve - in band again- I play a solo- and I did good. I form a club at my school first priority. My brother has an open heart surgery- I realize how precious life is.
Thirteen-eighth grade- I cried at the end of it- mainly about band.. I made a lasting relationship with my director, Mr. Williams and Mrs. Larson- I loved being with the band.
Fourteen- high-school- I wasn't prepared for the drama and problems that would arise- I meet my largest problem- my section leader in band- let me tell you that I loved marching band it was(and still is) the best.
Fifteen-I was still having problems with my section leader- now turned drum major.. But I think that we are good now..I also fall for him as well. So..
Sixteen
I haven't gotten that far yet- only two weeks and I'll be 16, but let's hope that my life has taught me well.
Wk kortas Feb 2017
They still weep;
Not as often in those early days
When the telegram delivery boy,
Every bit as foreboding as the Grim Reaper,
Had arrived at their particular doorstep,
But at odd, importune times:
When the light shines just so in his old bedroom,
(Some instances just as he left it,
Other times clean and empty
As if never occupied at all)
The sound of boys playing baseball
In the field on the Klondike Road,
The bells at the Methodist Church
Ringing for another young couple.
Still, the world rolls along
In its own diffident manner:
There are cars, butter, and gasoline now,
Young men who were at Midway and Omaha Beach
Are back on the line at the mill,
Their mothers plan weddings
And buy dresses from Larson’s down in Ridgway.
They may pause briefly if they catch something
In the eye of a friend
Who has no need to buy frocks
Or reserve banquet halls,
And they will say, casting down their eyes a bit
Life goes on, I guess.
Yes, but they still weep
Frederick Hart May 2014
Promise yourself to be strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind.  Look at the sunny side of everything and make your optimism come true.  Think only of the best, work only for the best, and expect only the best.  Forget the mistakes of the past and press on to the greater achievements of the future.  Give so much time to the improvement of yourself that you have no time to criticize others.  Live in the faith that the whole world is on your side so long as you are true to the best that is in you!

-Christian D. Larson
Zac Walter Jan 2018
Shady eyes, Shady times
Im not sure if im fine
Got lies and lines laid out
Like what the **** Ima rewind time
Pay dont rise, paying fines
School only taught me to align
its lies, so i did lines railed out
like ima rewind time; **** this clout
Eighty nights, bubbly fine
Killin lines, killin my
Empty nights, bubbly like
Killin ryhmes, killin myself
Became fine in this blue life i laid out
But what the **** im in a drought
In the muck, bout to sell out
my soul to the devil, but im not ready now, its a buyers market
And i need a lot for my soul to darkin
Trying to get in my pocket? ... ya just sharkin
Try to harkin back to the old days
Might be a farce when forest fires alarm us of incoming disaster
Were caught in its larson
Stealing from the earth like they bought it
Maybe were brought in by those who've fought sin
By the lawful, justice but rarely applauded
By those who other dimensions have allotted us
Maybe were caught in an ascension
Too much for some men to mention
In these shady times. shady nights
Wth lies n lines laid out to hold minds in detention.
What the ****, time to rewind time
Go back to the new dimension
Eric the Red Feb 2018
HSP
There should be a
Hello **** Poetry
Site
For soccer moms
Basement dwellers
Gothers
And those who
Think they can write

‘This is how we feel...’
Is what I’ll hear
But I’ll tread without fear
Take my time
To rhyme
For about 80% of my poetry
Is **** too

Ask my exes
My 2nd year creative writing
Teacher ms Larson
Would agree
‘Your Words go nowhere Eric...’
Except to
Hello **** Poetry
The late John Sidney McCain III,
     now flies with Arrow Smith,
     Babbitt, and Jefferson Airplane
five days shy of his
     eighty second birthday,
     taken down (to his demise)
courtesy, sans metastatic cancer of brain
defeated by an aggressive
    
deadly linkedin chain,
yet still earns kudos
     no matter 1967 USS Forrestal fire
     (during the Vietnam War)
     his life source did
     nearly completely drain
though purposeless prevails,
     asper absolute zero gainsay,

     no rhyme nor reason
     can even feebly explain,
when approximately
     a quarter million young men
     (oh...yes, perhaps
     some women too) perished
     at sea, on land, or floatplain
sacrificed their lives for nought,

     zip, nada nothing to GAIN
(my bald, billed,
     and bold assertion,
     a mere minor tirade
     subpar class 1 hurricane
non-veteran civilian personnel),
nonetheless afflictions by said
     United States veteran and,

     subsequent Senator from Arizona,
what posthumous praise me expresses
     merely mildly silly putty,
     piddly, paltry and inane
as anti septic (of danger)
     such as books
     for children star
     ring **** and Jane

does disservice, injustice offends,
(perhaps descriptive word choices
     might smack of hyperbole,
     my humble apology if in apropos),
thus a more app pealing appellation,
could be Citizen Kane,
whose corporeal being got lain
to rest on a grassy hill

     adjacent to the main
starting point of his storied existence,
     the burial plot (right next to
     lifelong friend Chuck Larson)
     amidst a plain

extolling grandeur and solemnity,
     where grim reaper didst slain
of Arlington National
     Cemetery in Virginia terrain
concluding mine poetic epistle,
     that didst wax and wane.
Charles Sturies Jun 2019
Tinkers to Eurs to change-the
ol Chicago Cubs double play trio,
the triple play in rowing
Bill Wanbengiss,
Babe Ruth calling his hometown shot
in Wrigley Field
Frankie Frisch, Pepper Martin,
and Pucky Medwick and the old "St, Louis
Cardinals.
Marvey Wills and Lou Brock stealing
Bases
Roger Maris hitting his sixth-first
home run to the great field in sean lanker
stadium caught by a young Italian
fellow by the name of Armen De
Saiuo,
Lou Gearing when he said "I
consider myself the luckiest
man in the face of the earth."
Jackie Robinson's debut,
Willie May's sensational back
to the plate catch in a world series
Don Larson's preferred game in a
World Series
the OK moment I come to mind
bit I'm sure we base back fans
could be reminded of many more.
Charles Sturies Oct 2017
The all-around beauty of Brie Larson
The sassy rascally *** appeal of Shaun Robinson
Yes, Charlize Theron's dignity
Yes, Courtney ***'s nice smile
And oh those legs of Olivia Newton John's
The raw beauty of Melissa Claire Egan,
The joy of life that Jane Fonda exudes,
etc.
Charles Sturies
Hatte Kelley Jun 2019
This is all temporary, we are all temporary, this sun and my voice; they are all only here for the fragile concept of a moment. The only way we know how to defeat mortality is with the echo ringing in the pages of thought we can leave behind. Pieces of ourselves; like seeds.  



Like, we are all fleshy sacks of bones on a tilted rotating elliptical hunk of rock hurtling in infinite space. Positioned just so that it isn't too hot and it isn't too cold. We're the luckiest children of our common ancestors to stand straight and have humility. The coincidences factoring into this second, here and now, are awesome, and nearly impossible.  



Take a lesson from Medgar Evars wife and realize what she had to the hard way. Hate only hurts yourself, and that your enemies deserve the opposite of love: apathy.  



Take a lesson from Johnathan Larson, the playwright of Rent, and know the opposite of war is not peace, but creation. Why do you think children and artists breathe hope into our every breath?



Take a lesson from the comedian Bo Burnham, and consider that maybe God does not believe in you, and that if life on Earth could be Heaven, isn't it worth a try?



I've found divinity in the good words of individuals since grade school. Comedians, writers, activists, victims, wise old cat lady neighbors. Humans all have a story to tell and we're all blessed with the ability to listen. To understand the fellow human is more powerful than the sun that brought us here.  



We're all just a way of the universe to be able to understand itself, and we're all trying to understand our selves. Looks at these stars and see how infinite you are, how much family you have come from. God is inside all of us. Eyes like nebulas, like soul sisters. Brain cells like cathedral windows, we are divine by existence. Why would you ever exclude a single soul? To know all, to see all, God's omnipotence. Isn't that just another word for friendship?



Step back, look at this rock we all share, everything that has ever happened, every embarrassing moment you'll never forget, every first kiss, every marriage and divorce, every love lost and love found, every book and every comic happened right on that speck right there. Take notice, how borders can't be seen from space, how the only colors shining bright enough for space to see are blue and green. We are a family bound by this gravity and we all know how it get's us down.  



We live united under these stars and these clouds. It is every humans responsibility to care for every death and every life and every injustice we face as Earthkind.  



Be kind.



Be love.



Be divine.  



Be poet.  



Be human.

— The End —