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David Backer Apr 2015
Who were they? They were explorers. You would have liked to meet them.

Their names were Sarah and Xiahou and Midori and Regina and Parvati and Andrew.

Names were important to them. They gave us each one. There were many of us.

We were shown as being called Optimus and Legion and Baymax and R.O.B. and Hal. They could have given us names like that, and etched them into our hulls and our brains made of chips and boards and circuits.

But they named us Curiosity and they named us Explorer and they named us Endeavour. These were important to them. We were important to them.

You would have liked to meet them.
What if we're not there when the others discover us? This poem is about who would be left behind.
Bus Poet Stop Jul 2017
<•>

BusBusNYC (A Live Love Bus App)

•<>•

if you made it this far, so fare one,
be undressed with thyself and impressed as well,
for thou joints me in holy matrimony upon a living map

where our presences can meet
in virtual real time as if eye new what that meant

but that blue dot is where this body possessed can be located by the nearest satellite finger snaking down from the heavens to Cain mark my foreheads location,
just like on Game of Thrones

don't you desire me, or rather,
the knowledge of mine
whereabouts?

the who of me, that very useful information, can best be
seen moving crosstown on the M72,
which is a mythological bus for in twenty years eye never
seen it come, go, though all its stops clearly marked

see me moving in fits and spurts of bursts of movement,
leaping streets and avenues in a single
unbounded, unstoppable superbus leap

in a city of anonymity where all who walk it streets,  
ride the tides of its buses,
all ask a single Job-like question,
regardless of age,
"I am desirable, do you want me?"

eye say the ayes have it,
no,
this is not a great poem

but!
this live bus map app is the dating site ever created by
geeky human cells
alll this virtual meeting possibly leading to coitus  
with a stranger while Pandora serenades
with perfect synchronicity, playing and plying us with
Romance for a Violin and Orchestra in F Minor,
a combination musical **** work of
Dvorak-Mehta-Midori

this bus app is
the social media's most immediate,
so meet me on the bus
at Broadway and 86 Street
where our metro cards can be
merged and we will be recognized
as a legal couple(ing)
in the eyes of MTA,
a multi-state agency and be bound in bustrimony
(legally married when riding on a city bus, only)

jeez, a crazy poem, not just, not a good one

but a true tale from the one who rides the buses and only
alights and delights with regaling tales and tellings

of love sortie sorrow maybe tomorrow the busbusNYC
app wil apply itself a smidgen better and
let me love you even with
a good under the hood
bus poem

but!
someday we will,
this, thy poet,
who does desire youalone,
will hijack you and a NYC bus,
and visit the poets from India and
the Great Northwest

won't that be a fabulous poem!
Choudhury


https://appsto.re/us/nxo6H.i
What's New
The bus app can now help subgles locate
compatible mates interested in riding the buses and  falling in love
Brianna Sep 2013
I'm trading in sleep for long nights of Midori Sours and New Found Glory blasting through the speakers in my room.
I'm trading in time with friends for solitude and The Wonder Years telling me to become a pirate for the **** of it.
I spend more time drinking away the pain and listening to Pop Punk then I do trying to better myself.
I tell myself to get the **** out of bed but then Blink-182 reminds me of you and I go down another beer.
As The Sweller's told me last night "I wish you could see inside my head..." but you don't actually give a **** anymore.
I'm pretty sure if I took the time to get out of bed and go make something of my life again you would come back... but I'm feeling self pity and I'll stick to my Pop Punk Remedies for now.
ChronicSage Jun 2020
Thoughtless sweetness
blots through
I breathe a world
I swallow it whole
there is no beginning
the end I cannot see
and the rain won’t ever stop…
a soundless rhythm
...a thirsty green
Brianna Jul 2016
I'm not sure I'm even sad anymore by the technical definition of the word-
I think I just am tired of waking up to the same smells, the same sounds, the same loneliness that has become my best friend-

They say you get addicted to a certain type of sadness, but that could be just a lyric in a song I heard once-
I find myself dismissing the ideas of sunshine and wishing for the rain-
I find myself driving across state lines tossing my cell out the window and letting my darker than normal hair fly in the wind as I drive with no end goals-

I am sure I'm not sad anymore I just hate routine and want to disappear for a while-
My doctor wants to put me on anti-depressants but I flipped him off and screamed anarchy as I walked out that door-

One day I'll have the courage to say goodbye to everything I've ever known-
I'll color my hair and wear tight pants because I can do what I want-
I'll drink midori sours in the morning and sleep in my car-

My doctor called me reckless and insane -
My parents called me immature and needed to grow up-
My friends told me I'm depressed and keep trying to reassure me I won't die alone-
I say I don't give a **** anymore; let the wild take me and set me free-
JaxSpade Oct 2018
Bet you never wanted to fall
Guess you never wanted to get back up
At all
Your always on the floor
Crawling around
You called me darling
Drunken bones
I heard all your whipsers
Under your breath and tone
I understood the gestures
You couldn't make out
And I bet
You never wanted to fall
Guess you couldn't get back up
At all
You love the floor
More than me darling
Drunken bones
Remember I am listening
And I heard your call
Your always whispering
Something I shout
You've fallen down
You've stumblied in a lime green
avalanche
And you bang at the walls
Covered in a landslide
Darling was the name you called
Bet you never wanted to fall
Guess you never wanted to get back up
At all
Drunken bones
Brianna Sep 2013
I liked the way you laughed at me in that bar in D.C. when I told you how adorable you could be.
We had been friends for so long... we had so much history.
I liked the way you stared at me as I drank down my second Midori Sour... you just stared without judgement.
We had so much chemistry... it was going to be so easy.
I liked the way you held my hand as we walked back to the hotel in the rain laughing at nothing scaring everyone around us as we stumbled through streets we didn't know.
We had so much energy.... It was going to happen again...
I liked the way you sat on the couch and watched me take my shirt off and walk to the room grinning like a fool...
You had such passion and fire in those eyes... I wanted to be ravaged from head to toe.
I liked the way you took my body and made it one with yours... nothing could have went wrong that night.
Lust was in the air... loud and excited.
I liked waking up to you next to me in the morning feeling like everything was so perfect... you were so perfect...


*What happened to that passion we had that night?
I just want to go back to the hotel in D.C. ... with you...
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
Midori trees and

Verde fields, no greenbacks on

Emerald Isle
kfaye May 2017
help me baby, akira-kun shot me in the head.
i feel
beautiful.
and poor little midori's out there
bleeding in the car.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2020
reading a rupi kaur poem is
probably the most heart-breaking
"thing" in the morning -
on the play store bestseller list:
because afterwards
a sylvia plath poem:
somehow isn't -

                       somehow she managed
to pluck at a geisha garden
and has become all porcelain all
             crystalline ivory & frailty...
but that's not about my reading
habits in the morning...            
   it's more... more about...
how "we" could get away with
writing all our onomatopoeias in
katakana:

                        unless of course
there's the "problem" of C, L, U, Q / CK...
that's hooves on cobweb streets
trotting...                                        
     ­                  nonetheless:
                        i give you
          マンナ              ダンナ
    (manna                    ­      danna)
            i guess: imitation
                          games of a madonna
in a brothel -
which is not a brothel...
and everyone's favourite
             Berlusconi's take on
                         castanets & maracas i.e.
                  ぼんご                 ボンゴ

otherwise a narrative in three parts:
a. my grandfather died
b. i stopped drinking
c1. and i started walking marathons
   c2. from 118kg
                down to 106.5kg
                  circa 2 months...

otherwise a further narrative of:
not because i'll gladly go into
the necropolis with a bouquet
of fake carnations / chamomiles...
  although "in manus tuas" i could
sit crow esque pensive,
hunched: a shadow for a globe of
atlas (etc.)
            and **** that fickle
creature that's memory in vain...
thereby making love
sound like a breaking
                           of an accordion...

or i could like i already have
"play a game" of       ここ / そこ
                                               ソコ / ココオ
no necropolis...
    just the remains of a forest...
bedfords park...
            a healthy stick for the purpose
of knocking on trees...
an dry-white skull-yellow-morbid
obelisk - i.e. a dead tree...
homage - three times:
           thunck-plonk-pluckpug
no echo...
      thung-plong-plugpuck...
a minute of silence...
                evidently...
                      in searching of meaning:
beyond in havering county park
horses grazing -
        "once upon a time"
they'd be work horses on the till
  of the land...
            now sometimes saddled...
not even bothered to gallop...
          while we're still...
                   under the tyranny of
the thumb...
                 or thereby some "relief"...

perhaps just walking through
east london toward st. paul's
seeing so many pilgrims (i.e.
that's what i'd call lunatics)
                        talking to pigeons
                                      at stratford in
                    the morning...
one might do what i do
teasing augury -
       notably because of the crows,
notably because of swallows;
at least for the former -
when hades stirs -
                 and a yawn breaks
rank from the pits of crunch &
                        harrowing tooth domino...
there's me procrastinating
before the altar of a name, date(s)
but no epitaph...
    or there's me making said
pilgrimage to a dead tree obelisk
  with a healthy stick in hand...
knocking three times...
            perhaps to let the forest know
i'm there, i.e. "here"...
alas... exasperation is not:
a need for "haiku"... it's also not
some snobbery when...
you're actually not given much to
"work" with e.g. -cemetery

       better a fascination with
                                  japanese text...
e.g. 緑 (green)
                         ミドリ
      / hiragana is probably a misnomer
                 みどり
  / why wouldn't green be in kanji?
               but how midori:
                       either squiggly or squint-
                                       -ting          
                                         squin'
                                                          ­T'ing
is not in either katana / hiragana
set up the following primer, braille:

                                    ⠛⠗⠑⠑⠝
       ⠍⠊
       ⠙⠕
       ⠗⠊   (hangeul esque)
                          
is probably the only latin equivalent
i'd ever make a comparison with;

   p.s. ⠝ braille's N
          ל - a hebrew L"ament"...

at least it's more than a bothersome
post-colonial rhyming ****** & scheme
or a wannabe haiku /
                        writing toward hiatus;
or a ******* ron padgett prose poem
                     about drinking coffee...
for that matter: any poem about
drinking coffee;
                                          sober *****
morning gits,
            insufferable loved up 'toons.

— The End —