"litigate" poems
Deflate Gate
By: Tom Brady
When it comes to football
it’s all about the ball
it’s got nothing to do with skill
or giving our fans a thrill
When I cozy up behind the hiker
and give the call to begin the game
he snaps the ball into my hands
as the crowd screams from the stands
Then I make my famous moves
to the left, maybe right, maybe back
either to pass the ball or, to
hand it off to a running back
Where the ball goes, nobody knows
just me – in my moment of glory
whether the ball is soft or hard
I can’t be bothered or give a worry
Seems strange to me about the air
inside the ball – being such a big crime
they check the pressure when we start
why not each quarter, or, during half time
Whether a ball is soft or hard at game’s end
no difference to me or any team mate
we’re here to play our best on game day
not to deflate ***** or litigate
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
She egresses from a pool of blue and straight into the colorless, Californian dregs of summer.
Each passing plane reminding her how stuck she is.
The question remains whether some people are doomed to just survive, a yearning for freedom following them around, until they learn to numb themselves to such aspirations.
Faraway trains pass by.
The sound in their whistles knowing the events she will litigate with herself for years to come until it empties the contents of her soul.
Mar 16, 2023
Mar 16, 2023 at 9:29 AM UTC
-I've got bored of words.
-You tergiversate... Small world.What this bouquet of flowers is doing in the intermediate?It's a date?
-Ah... such prolixity... More champagne?
-What's the point?
-My aim? Mmm... to try to oscullate you.
-... What?... Such profane elixir do you desire?
-It'll be more than tasty.It's alleged...
-But, don't you distinguish the mayhem's reflection below?
-Your solicitude.. Ah!... What a nice champagne.Hmm... Cake? By the other way or not there's nothing at the ceiling.
-You've perused my protocol... A small slice, please.
-A kiss a skirmish.Palatable as this recipe... Well... apart from an armageddon...
-Stop pushing on boy.
-I already vanquished the inception, you know...
-Catastrophe is your trophy, but I disavow your apocalypse.
-I was expecting something more digestible.How's the alcohol?
-Standstill...
-Hm!... As everything surrounding us.
-Ahhh... No... They just don't move.. don't have gravity...
-Funny waiter... Hovering waiter.Did you emend your canon?
-Champagne and desserts will not litigate your anticipation.You know.How strange is...
-The room? No... Is normal for it to circle upside down.
-A hug?
-In this desert? With all those people?
-They are frozen, and... before I veto, quivering in a hurt heart.
-Blown sand... popped champagne... Oh, I didn't notice the light fixture's embroidery.
-The sun's in the bottom.Look up... Its obumbration is into the typhoon.
-Standstill, nothing's synchronized...
-Is your tranquility dissipated? gone?...
-No.If isn't yours.
-I just still want that hug.
-Hmmm... I forgot you're a cold person...
-And you a hot girl... Irony...
-You'll melt...
-I'm apt to it...
Then an aurora flash
And splashing glass
Accompanied by springing sparks
Shattered bass walls
Begetting noctilucent dark and dusk
A hurricane, breathing the sun
Just dust to dust
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
Replicate
Castigate
Litigate
You tell lies
Then we vote
Still you win
We’re sullen
Ripped apart
Suspended
Tacit rage
Complacent
Acceptance
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
From racing dreamscapes,
Swirled with glitz and feathers,
Dizzying patchwork recollections,
Stitched with designer chemicals,
That deepened the hue of our smiles,
Stylishly arranged,
Like so many accents,
Around the wrought-iron geometry,
Of your home,
To perfect cappuccino mornings,
The lazy creeping brightness,
Of the city as it woke,
On a plane where time,
Was still of tangible essence.
From your rooftop we watched,
Eating scones.
There was an easy,
Any-time-of-day-ness,
To the laugh lines in your face.
Blue hair spiked with glitter,
Wiggly wool socks peeking,
From your flannel pj's,
That relic of a leather coat,
As orange-brown-tan,
As my memories of the seventies.
Shades thrown over that peacock grin,
So that your mouth was as cool as I longed to be.
There was July,
That designer suit,
Myself a mess of crushed velvet,
On the couch,
Cutting lines with your passport.
Sniff and a jingling of keys,
Then off with your briefcase,
To litigate the conflicts of industry.
Not without a wry smile,
Shot over your shoulder,
Too boyish to possibly be contrived,
The reflection in your wire-rimmed specs,
A girl,
much like myself,
We're she not so starry-eyed,
And swooning drunk on your vapor.
You were the essential amalgamation,
Of youth and worldliness,
Lacking only romance.
A marvel how passion
Seemed to ebb and break all around,
Yet never touching you,
Or never touching me through you.
Versed in the ways of inurement,
And whimsy,
I have not been blind until now.
This precedent came on wings,
Neon swift but insidious,
Like the venom in your sting,
Which has leaked into the cavities off my brain,
And there like alginate congealed,
Stamping me with your impression.
Thought is now a slide show exhibit,
Of our days and nights,
Each frame individually,
Carbon printed with your seal.
This is a mockery,
Of the years that I've conquered,
Of the woman I've become ,
Still you remain,
A cover boy,
Posing as the marble etched ideal,
For the centerfold of my very soul.
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
How do I find her?
How shall I bind her, where the bars are not most important.
How shall I make our fortress, out of mortar? Or sticks?
How do I get her? I haven't met her, yet cringe on the search..
Maby a letter, this soul in UPS, packaged, sealed, hurt..
Maby become in spirit form to take her every view?
A clown I will searching for such one! Where art thou? The waves? The moon? The sun? What , tis this is not fun! Sneaky one you!!
Bags of rubies,an old time mule I've traveled many deserts,
For this brains overworked, no pay to be nostalgia, indulgent memorabilia!
Where's the one with the old Victorian dress, where flowers plan her guests, at the inviting all one all come wedding? I'm feeling damped and sweaty...
Where's her hair to waddle me as a child, where babies can roam a hundred miles, and still not get lost!!! For what's the cost? Oh man at the lovers gate!
No luminous mire to litigate, just blind head scratching and debate to whence I got lost! Rows of moss sell lies, and memorizing theory!!
Lucid I want to find one, as two children in the reciprocal playground, no rancor, no diverting of splurting in drone like manner!!
Just a simple banner I hold high reading......
Mi amour' gate # 9
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC
Frederick Trump°--we know of him.
What about his son Fred--
The father of Donald J,
Whose reputation is now widespread?
Fred started out fairly young
Building houses and apartments in Queens.
Later forming a company,
He soon became a man of means.
In 1927 Fred
Attended a parade on Memorial Day--
One that just happened to have been
Organized by the KKK.
Police arrested Fred, for they
Had told him to leave; instead he stayed.
Was he an innocent bystander
Or a participant at the parade?
1954 proved
That controversies weren't disappearing.
Fred was investigated
For wartime profiteering.
Later tenant Woody Guthrie
Accused him of stirring up racial hate.
(The Trump family always seems
To have something to litigate.)
In 1973 Fred
And son Donald faced accusations
Of unfair treatment of blacks--in short,
Of civil rights violations.
So bad blood between the Trumps
And the DOJ has a history.
Thus, Donald J's attack
On the justice system is not a mystery.
Both sides claimed victory,
But father and son hated the fact
That they were told to acquaint themselves
With the current Fair Housing Act.
(Funny, but we can see a pattern
In watching the president's evolution.
He also has difficulty
Understanding the Constitution.)
Fred suffered from Alzheimer's
The final years of his life. What's scary
Is the possibility
That maybe it's hereditary!
When looking at grandpa, dad, and son,
Very few would disagree
How they bring to life the saying:
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
-by Bob B (2-6-18)
°Born Friedrich
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
Take a long, lurking look,
let the lush locks last through your lungs,
little and lumpy you'll lie as you lay,
you'll say limply lets love today.
Your lisp looms loadly and through your lips lava flows,
lighting low the last lingering, laughing pose.
You are the large lady of the lake, or the lady of the large lake,
the label lacks legal life, so little does it convey.
lift lightly the level of liberty allowed,
lend luck to the litigate link or the literal crowd.
Your laziness and lustful desire for more,
launches like leeches your obsession to lore,
my liquid lady belittles my league,
be it later or latter I must ask you to leave.
leave my life, my longing my light,
let the lead list you left lift me higher,
allow the lead I gave you bring a everLasting pyre.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC