"monetizing" poems
Are there strategies to displace binge eating
with binge doing?
Wouldn't it be swell to get $ for binge coding?
something like:
poem.each do |word|
money = word.compose(your.wordstream)
end
More efficient monetizing of your thoughts.
More efficient cars and buses.
Correlarry: more paved roads, driveways and concrete surfaces,
therefore, more runoff pollution.
It's not the end game
yet, but a vast,
complicated middle game
with closed centers
and deep positional
Play.
Will our grandmasters make
a mistake real-time playing?
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
I love cheap money
I love giving it away
cheap money is
that which you give
to the the brave ones....
not much of a poem
cheap
because it is the least expensive
way to justify your own existence
and better someone else's
someday I will write
actually share,
the poem long dusted on the bottom
of the pile entitled,
Just Money
a long tale of how I learned
the value of monetizing
happiness
but let us ask where shelter,
shelter is in the human embrace,
like I said,
not much of a poem,
more a good look
in the mirror
and the shelter of liking
what you see
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
Time waits for no man or woman.
My mortality is ticking faster than I can fathom.
The population is sinking deeper into mindless souls.
Why can't I walk while breathing air filled with free particles.
Too many prices slapped on every arm.
We walk as zombies...don't you see the harm.
Every soul is born as an artist.
Some how through the years we forgot our canvas.
Shadow has fallen on innocent shoulders.
Monetizing currency while it remains a myth
Can you hear that rumbling thunder.
Bewildering truths were always hidden and buried six feet under.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
The sweet sweet pain
Is a luxury still
In this world so vain
Will you stand still?
To feel the cut
Deep in the flesh
Taste the blood so hot
So metallic and zest
Will you let it slip?
The blade in your hand?
Will you have death’s grip,
Cut your life like flowing sand?
Will you still be happy?
If you have all but burnt up
Will you ever sing to me?
The Art of Giving Up
So that one day
When I will stand still
And my world in disarray
For the pain I want to ****
So that we may join together
In a place of bliss and comfort
In a place full of sweet laughter
In a place...
Just in a place...
Where we won’t let ourselves falter
Where we stood forth
And never our lives not matter
For I am but a human
Born of the world of lies
Of pretentious showmen
Where law of nature he denies
For we are all but humans
Born of greed and lust
Everyone a monetizing businessman
Indeed we lost our faith and trust
In humanity we all but despaired
The kindness we lost in the waves
Can it not be repaired?
The hearts we blackened, we foolish slaves
Yet we still sing
And our heart still pain bring
For we are but kings
In a kingdom of broken things
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
I
4:30 A.M.
The Moon shines directly into my eyes as I sit,
prosaic and calm,
It some 238,900 miles away and they say
3.8 centimeters farther from Earth than
this time last year.
I read of a plan to monetize the Moon.
Monetize the Moon?
The Moon must have read the same
article and thought,
Enough of this Moon/June
tune/loon business.
I’m finding myself a nice uninhabited planet
to lighten, to orbit, to influence.
Monetizing is not in my Moon Contract.
So long, Sucker Earthlings!
II
Cosmic Matters
The early morning moon is cloud-smudged,
exhausted from a week of heat,
can’t pull itself together to make a tight circle.
Really, though, some galactic giant gyring from orb to orb
could have step-stoned the moon - on its way to Mars,
perhaps -
and discombobulated the moon’s defined
roundness
and now, its pale, borrowed, low-karat shine
is disheveled and bleary.
This leaves me with two questions:
Will it be cooler today?
How did the cosmic giant miss Earth…or did it?
III
Missing Moon
Is it the June Gloom’s shroud
that hides your early morning glory
or is it not that time in your cycle,
for your cold elegant light is unseen
and my morning writing is not illuminated by you
but by a small bulb controlled with a switch.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 9:26 AM UTC
Everything is momentary to a monumental failure;
Monetizing the currency to a means of life
All in the means of life being momentaneous of one’s strife
And it honestly takes a lot of strife, to inspire my own self
To continue on to write — some days, it feels like it’s all coming
To be my very last moment, of forcing myself to inspire
Someone; anyone willing to connect through the wire
Building fences around the ideas we all seem to like:
We all like to be heard; as countless failures to listen
We all like to be anchors of advice; less the ones to gain wisdom
We all like the appeal of more life; dead cold to life’s experiences
We all like the good cards we’re dealt; but would prefer the odds
Of ourselves being the one’s quietly dealing it
We all like the idea of a superhero; something that supersedes faith
We all like the hope of us being connected by love; but what’s
A wicked heart, if it doesn’t sometimes love to hate
Everything we try to do, everything forced into my eyes
Shows me everything we want to do, is often just a waste.
Jul 25, 2024
Jul 25, 2024 at 10:44 PM UTC