"moxie" poems
Puissant piquant and predatory
And observant from afar
He looks down on your slumber
Like a door that's left ajar
Plying with his manly vice
A reckless male visage
A rogue of masculine device
Seeks entrance to your mind
He saunters with a swagger
A macho savvy moxie
To personify virility's incarnate
His dream zone's metier
He sifts your ****** entourage
In search of sprawls recumbence
To tantalize climactic fervor
With lambent photic scenes
Grasping at your revelries
He spies the wanton lust
With swanky strut appealing
Your primal urge to sate
He leaves undone resistance
With innate resilience seized
The lavish wayward implications
Of unrequited livid deeds
Like passion's lurid lecheries
An insatiable torrid sooth
You wrestle with his adamance
Your carnal ecstasies revealed
You pounce on his exsertion
You splay your agile form
wriggling like a supple nymph
You accept his blatant storm
You writhe in your abandon
In a euphoric supplication
His machismo ****** enveloping
Your wildest latent needs
With no regrets or reticence
you awaken from this dream
To find yourself alone again
Like it had never been
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
Rows of starched green and yellow paisley feather stalks
Marching in ordered lines along the road to 57 Eldon Way
Hot dogs and char burgers charge the air with yesterday's homecoming
Buds of moxie memories tipping long ears to big blue
Listening to the chickadees vocal pecking at kernels from the past
Morsels fall to the dirt signal life again for those willing to root
Pulled magpies to lines spy intimate joy-scattered seed below
Promising fortunes creased by hourglasses settled sand
White washed porches with rose printed borders
Nestle a "his and her" swing vantage over familiar fields
Imagined better-time scenes from selfie soaked movies
More real than all the forgotten stones ever stepped upon
Sweet tea sugar fills tall glasses of yarn spun dreams
Glory red and navy rippling a windy beat
To the clang of their steal pole clasp
Dance
Swing with them and recall a time of slower horizons
Of richer baskets
Of brighter springs
Of longer summers
Take a dip in the swimming hole
Naked, together, and happy
© 2019 MJL
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
In long lasting fortitude is the fight of the astute.
A lot of effort is made towards the war of the moral.
And a race towards life is the route.
Preparing the endless fit of strength of all.
There is he who is choosing his fate.
Working hard despite all opposers’ bait.
There is he who is choosing life.
Working hard despite all opposers’ strife.
Lost in the dirt, seeking out of the ruse.
Forced towards the light, brighter and rife.
No letting up despite the refuse.
Clean is the proud, and happy, the player of the flute.
A rite of passage for all is the praise of the immortal.
War is the only dispute
Death is not fatal.
The renegade does not enter the gate.
He is stuck outside the city, and left without state.
The renegade does not know his wife.
He is stuck at heart and can’t even play a fife.
In the dirt he is and is with a lot of abuse.
He cannot escape the knife.
Cut, cutting up despite the accuse.
Reality is but the face of cute.
Subjected to falsified doctrine and the immoral.
It is callous and as rotten fruit.
Moxie exists with everyone no matter how small.
Can the one who is happy learn to hate?
Only he or she can solve this debate.
Finally the long absent sky above the Alewife.
Can’t say that I have seen such teeming wildlife...
Swimming in a sea of its Muse.
The lowly continue their sighs
But I do proudly diffuse.
.This plight of mine is hard to toot.
Exemplified by my emphasis on the astral.
With which I dress in an armoured suit.
So my enemies do not mute my oral.
and the skies do tell in high rate,
How esteemed they are on time and ne’er late.
But giving ever virtuous despite
All those dead or dying, without prospect of afterlife.
It is their way to choose:
The dark abyss of guise,
(or) The gentle river of blue
For now I do keep silent, But still I commute,
With those of higher propositions and goal,
So I do instill thyself a deeper root.
In the waterbed truly formal.
Those who truth ‘I do navigate’
and those of lies ‘I do alienate’
At a loss O’ man or mesmerize,
Work harder on thoughts than just plagiarize.
The foes of old are still and sleuth
I show them love and they in lies are baptized
Tradition is there with purpose, don’t misuse.
I see to it the wise stay wise,
For better they will strategize.
And the unwise, wisdom they will pursue.
Giving them their much needed paradise.
And the lost I will use.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
outside of the spirited delirium
of our quaint sabotage
and with all the moxie of a tick,
nestled in steel wool -
head down in the futility. beyond -
the aspirations of
a snowflake in an open
wound.
love
is the riddle of
our days
every
Night.
and we swallow
with our eyes
no moon.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
Crude-fashioned like grandma's cookies
from Gold member's lips are best put down,
kisses that are mighty sound
ignored like day and assigned as ignorance.
Although the beggar dreams of the Old Design,
pangs of the new stupidity can’t subdue
a crown (of thorns perhaps, or stick and stones).
But protest words?
that are abound...
That cool dominion summons
but a few to service. Effective prose will act
and do no less
upon the herds as great solutions.
Moxie can isolate the owner's
my way or the highway, let's be friends
mentality with a beyond itself right-of-place.
Vote against this bruising insanity.
Just in case.
Debbie Brooks 2014
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
The Falcon cawwwww.
The Mountain mawwwwww.
The Wind woooooooo.
The Cow moooooooo.
The Baby Zoo.
The Snake hisssssssssss.
The Bat misssssssssss.
The Couple kissssssssssss.
With All of This.
Moxie.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
Hie Yamaha Wegman ****** voyager, voted vonage valuable, unrepentant TIME Magazine subscriber. Spotify sportsman Snapchat smartly. Sleuth slenderman silences Shutterfly schvitzing. Saxby sassy Santander sais sage rues rudimentary router rotorooter.
Royale Rococco rigged remarkably regular referee reefers red reddit reeder recuperating. Reconnaissance recluse really rabid. QVC quotient quoting, quo quoi quivering quite quirky. Quisling quipped. Quintuplets quintessentially quiet. Quids Quicken questions.
Quartermaster qualified quaint quaffing quadrilateral Pythons. Pyrex pylons put purdy purposeful puny punsters punching. Pumpkin pumice publicized prudential protean pros properly pronouncing prolific prodigies.
Proletariats professors' problematic. Pro privileges prioritized. Principle primates prevaricate. Preppy pregnant, praying prattler possibly Porgie. Poseidon pooping poodle ponders poppycock. Plum? Polite poison pods ply pitiful pinterest.
Pinhead Pillsbury pillager Pi. Pigskin pierce petsmart pests permanently. Perdition percolates peppered PennState pedigreed PearlJam Patagonian. Pastor pastes passion passably. Papas' paginated orbitz okayed. Nutty node needs money.
Next netzero nee naugahyde. Nattering nationwide nabob Moxie Molly McGee. Monosodium livingsocial joyus je kickstarter. Identityguard Huffington GMO. Gluten Glutamate footloose fancy free footlocker. Fingerhut fetishistic fabrication Cingular.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
Mine is barbed with honey covered tips
imploring bees to visit frequently
A laugh you can see
Made completely of cotton candy
Eyes that shine green in the morning
like the meeting place for social frogs
on a moss covered pond
It is tall, taller than most
handsome, but not dark
no, it is full of light
bursting into comets
burning off to uncharted planets
It dances in the rain out of spite
not for the rain, but for haters of rain
The Universe signs rain checks
over to it in cash
It wears moxie on its sleeve
needing no reprieve
from anything
Standing naked at the North Pole
begging for more snow
and when it sleeps
it dreams in black and white
so it smiles bigger when it wakes up
There are no obstacles
just road construction with one lane open
and it speeds in that lane
It doesn't measure in inches or feet
it measures in happiness
always picking sweet over un-sweet
when drinking tea
It is a wonder
it chooses to live inside me
with everything human
hanging from me like a windless kite
but man, when it takes the wheel
there's no describing the energy I feel
It's a diving catch in the big game “crazy”
I'm a paper airplane with an engine
that never wants to land
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 4:45 PM UTC
Swanky sauntering swagger of a sashay. Verve’s chutzpah, moxie savvy's panache, dexterously agile acuity. Articulate coordinated excellence and prowess’s talented exceptional. Objectified manifest's eidetic prospectus's invertible investiture's infinite possibilities perpetrate incorporeity ideology's perfectible ontology!
Intrepid intuitive intrigue, mystical magical multifariously versatile nefarious nemesis. Malfeasance evocative tout, execrating eventuation evocative expletives, executant tour de force entelechy's apotheosis. Ne plus ultra irrefragable opulence, erudite illuminism numinous piquant poignancy. Dynamic livid lurid vagile puissance. Lucid orotund sonorous fecund resilience.
Eloquent exuberance felicitous transcendent epiphany. Nuance tactile audacious preternatural metaphysical clairvoyant imperative. Augur quantum ominous avant-garde profundity, virulent vivid indomitably indefatigable cogent fatidic, quintessential deft. Celerity innovative veracious metamorphic, adroit nimble avid austere.
Fulgurous astute atman clever crafty rapacious sagacious. Effulgent zealous fastuous temerity machismo enunciation diction, imperative repartee. Exserted protuberance educement proclivities succinctly ostentatious. Ardent arduous inductive adamant incursion ostensible hornswoggling swashbuckler!
Aug 14, 2020
Aug 14, 2020 at 2:55 AM UTC
My right hand
-the dominate hand
-the right hand; correct.
Has been the wrong hand.
I am cutting it off,
severing the nerves.
For it has failed me,and failed to be
the proletariat hand,
the hand with moxie and avidity,
leaving me with no more ideas,and I am growing myself a new one.
And though I shall be
with out mobility
for just a bit of time,
the new hand will be worth it.
New
and born with everlasting vigor at the zenith.
...For it will have:
the grip of a king
the prowess of a master artisan
and the dexterity of a seamstress.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 6:36 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
Today, I do not die
for in our time we have seen too many taken
Waken in me are their souls
Today, I will not die
for Frank, for Russell, for Betty June
too soon, too soon, my friends
Pay attention, I cannot cry
for Jeffrey, for Paul, my first kiss named Ray
They, who left amidst it all
Would not wish me to shed a tear
Be here, be here and know their names
James, and Donny and Danny, the twins
Great possibilities gone forever
We, hardened more as each dropped off
check off each name and know
Nelson and Dean, Tony and Roy
Arturo, whose own survival story was cut short
Stuart, who never had his proper farewell
Toned down tears may well up
Still, do not give up for they watch us now
How could they be forgotten?
For Trashina with her unbridled moxie
for John whose brilliance matched how foxy
a paradox, never understood
Whoever you've known
Whoever you've loved, give undying respect
as wrecked were their lives for ours to survive
Out-and-out trials they saw
Shall have my most undying respect
My undying respect for them all
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 7:01 PM UTC
Half way up the hills
and eclectic group gather
at a narrow bar.
Leather jackets
occupy seats
by the door.
We sit
for a cigarette length of time
(cigarette length of time =
1 x 10 minutes
+ ≥ 10 minutes before
and/or after cigarette)
and walk
the dimly lit corridor
to the bar.
We sit
at a table for two
against a wall.
The band plays fiercely.
I've seen them before.
Their moxie
always brings
a rowdy crowd.
Behind them
apple crates
cling to the wall,
housing quirky decor.
Books, globes and vintage cameras.
A projector casts
lollipop swirls
and a singing silhouette.
Drink specials:
tequila mockingbird
I spoke to a Serbian girl I know.
She always wears glitter
and hazy eyes.
The more questions
I ask her
the longer I can listen
to her accent.
We spoke about the age old
nature vs nurture enigma,
and the life long impact
of a child's first six years.
She asked me
about my art.
It seems
that's all anyone
knows me for.
Outside, again, we sit.
For 5 x cigarette length of time.
Around me
people talk...
and talk.....
talk....
ta...
l...
k.
I'm sober.
Too **** sober.
My daydreams are broken
by a man.
He's bubbly and smiles a lot.
I like bubbly, smiley strangers.
We exchange stories
of our current lives.
He's a graphic designer,
and tells me
I should merge my art
and writing
into film,
and gifts me a flashlight.
I like quirky, bubbly, smiley strangers.
I'm left to retreat
back into my own thoughts.
It's less lonely in there.
I sort through memories,
recite lyrics,
observe the people around me
and watch them closely.
Their body language,
the way they bring
their glass to their mouth
and blow their smoke.
People interest me most
doing nothing in particular.
But I miss something,
and I can't quite pinpoint what.
I'm sober.
Too.
****
Sober.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 5:40 AM UTC
Ode to My Hero (Me)
to be sung by Donald Trump
with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan's
H.M.S Pinafore
As a callow youth I served a term
as Senior VP of my Daddy's firm
His moxie and his money so suited me
that now I am the ruler of the Trump fam'ly
When asked a question, my Golden Rule
is to bluster loud and flaunt my cool,
And this evasion so well suits me
that I've become the master of chicanery.
With legal suits, I've made so free
that all my smitten lenders bow down to me
For I pay my lawyers so liberally
that I never lose a dollar on a bankruptcy.
If now and then my luck runs out
I've buckets of money from my TV route,
And since my ******* up name is Gold
the money keeps a 'comin from the young and old.
For my great fame they pay and pay
and their paltry savings they fling away
on Trump U studies they're sure to find, will empty their wallets, not fill their mind.
So listen and learn from my Trumpery
and join white men who hate Hillary
They holler hosannas for their hero DonT, though for Trump adulation they can't beat me!
My heads not troubled by policy woes
'cause I learn all I want at beauty shows
I've put up very well with my three wives,
my yachts & my mansions & my gambling dives.
I've exalted myself unsparingly
and tossed off little lies with impunity
Let fey foes fault me as vain & mean,
their rightful envy leaves me quite serene.
With my big mouth and red regal head
I've clobbered all my rivals until they bled
With frank contempt I dissed Jeb B
bashed Carson & Kasich and Ted's lady.
There's hardly a Republican left to fight
and, in wimpy Dems, I inspire fright
while fearful folks seek my mighty arm
to shield them all from ISIS harm.
Now I've come to the end of this very fine Ode
to march with pride on the Presidential Road
For my boundless bluster's so elevated me
that now I am the ruler of the GOP.
If another Trump you aspire to be,
you must never, never fret about decency.
Just stiff the losers and brag like me,
and you may be the Grand Old Party's nominee.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
Was there anyone leaner
Than Anthony ******
Whose cyber texting
Grew meaner and meaner
Whose face was angular
Like the blades of a knife
Whose sole defender
Was his forlorn wife
Better he peddle
His platform and schnoz
On the sweet gentle folk
Of the land we call Oz
With no caricaturists
Or bold paparazzi
To ruin his days
Or his dwindling moxie
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
I am from grease,
From Valvoline and mineral oil
I am from green grass surrounded by dead trees
(Heady, damp, somehow always smelling of jasmine and mint)
I am from lilies,
Tempered and beautiful in her rage
I am from perseverance and moxie
From Lyons and Rob
I’m from the never cries and please no secrets
From death is imminent and shrill screams of my name
I’m from losing my faith to an illness, it that stole more than an ***** from me
I’m from chocolate turtles and Smarties, from pixie stick dusk wafting up my nose
From the ghost of my mother in the kitchen cooking, to her ghost that envelopes my soul
The colors cut and healed beneath her skin that I caress carefully,
The ink faded on her wrist as she succumbs to lividity
My grandmother holding her picture as she weeps quietly,
Her voice dichotic in my ears as I watch videos on a screen
Those photos, her headstone, grounding me deeply into my grief, like a needle piercing cracked jewels into my mind
Jan 26, 2020
Jan 26, 2020 at 6:54 PM UTC
I meant for you to think about it
on the next train-ride home
how I would have said it
if I illustrated how remedies
for a lonely Tuesday evening
come in the way you wake
the little hairs in my ear
through transmission towers and
soft-breathed cues.
but my moxie doesn't come
in a big enough wrench, so I remain
wherever (if ever) I operate
in the mechanics behind your smile,
at least cherishing the reassurance
in seeing that you get to know
the best parts about your happiest days
(because it was long overdue.)
and as I do, I mean to
so that you could see
within the inarticulate man
that where I adore you,
I instead let your feet
take you as you please,
knowing better than I let up
that I meant to say I don't really
have any plans for the summer,
but I'd rather be sitting on your stoop when
June rolls along and my feet are
twenty-two years exhausted,
and my heart another year swollen
from hearing how you say my name
and keeping it a secret between me
and my fear that it is not
how you intend to say it.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
Moxie after a short nap,
crescive energy from the
Cream-sugared taste; Java
A-plenty.
Another minute to
Waste; for this life's
Not long enough.
A coy wouldst be nice,
For tis I am human,
A convive with
Scented candles,
Bare feet; none
Shoes nor sandal.
I seekest contemning
Not more doubts and
In tears to be oceans
For swimming; but
Like a newborn, I
Want to be rocked
In one's arm's, and
Fingertips touching,
Two separate souls
Connecting, as mine
Legs cross with one,
Side to side; arm to
Arms. Mine hand
Over ones hips,
Tightly squeezing.
Lips bitten a bit
For kiss, a gentle
Bleeding, two-
Hearts beating,
Becoming one
Flesh, ones head
Resting upon this
Ancient chest. To
Kiss one's forehead,
And sayest (hey mine
Queen), wakie wakie
Mine love, tis the morn,
I made thee breakfast-
Toast with butter, jelly,
Eggs with cheese on
On top; hot coffee.
Id stroke ones hair
Mine fingers caress
One's scalp and head.
I'll just stop before I
Keep going, these art
Just wantings kept un-
Said. I think I'll just go
Back to bed. I think I'll
Get lost in mine head.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
I recently went back to AJ’s
and bought two Charleston Chews,
a bottle of Moxie,
and a pack of Werther’s Originals.
You and I used to split our money
to buy that stuff, every time, the same thing.
Now, I’m sitting in the cemetery
by myself, in front of the faded
plastic flowers that we left for the
dead baby.
Miss Mary Mack echoes in my head, and
I take another sip of Moxie.
The wet copy of Charlotte’s Web is still stuck
to the floor of our clubhouse.
Nobody has been inside for five years.
All the sweat from that summer
drowned at the bottom of the mill pond,
along with our fish hooks.
Leeches stuck to our feet.
We hid in your crumbling house,
barely standing, we wrote our names
on the walls and read each other
Goosebumps.
I grew up with art and literacy.
You grew up with tubes in your stomach,
unstable families, the inability to shake off
the sadness.
A backup supply in your pocket,
in case of emergencies.
In and out, back and forth,
Sleeping bags and clammy
hospital sheets.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
outside of your bubble
the race runs at light speed
but you rejected this species
for the color they bleed
i tried to recruit you
thought you had the moxie
been in deep space too long
outcast by proxy
i asked you to touch down
Become one with fear
but your angle was flawed
came apart in the stratosphere
just wanted to be loved
you said it yourself
forever velveteen
alone on the shelf
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
multi directional flux
between minds eyes
and source form energy
bridged synergy
constant visceral graze
the throat sacral route
monochrome skim
internal skin
unidentified yet discerned
subterranean tremor
cataclysmic shimmer
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
My longest moonlight, pack your things and leave.
All my memories have been shoved into an evanescent dream.
So fly on like a zephyr,
fly on please.
The moxie, the eccentricities,
the lovely retreats.
The embraces, the symphonies,
Take it all, please.
canvas sky, full of love.
may my body morph into a dove.
i need peace, i need steel.
i need to rid of all the feels.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
No matter just how many times I told her
She couldn’t seem to keep it in her head;
While everyone enjoys the circus,
I do not enjoy it in my bed.
I made it clear at the beginning
That I was a quiet kind of guy
Still she insisted on the drama
And I never found out why.
Roxie Moxie, Queen of my heart,
When did all this energy start?
Were you born in a hurricane
Never slowed down again?
You’re taking my Richter scale
Off of the charts.
Was she raised in a hippie commune or
Maybe some kind of traveling show?
Though I asked her many times
I will probably never know.
There had to be drinks and some food
By the bedside when we retired.
Though I begged not to drink coffee
It seemed she was always wired.
Roxie Moxie, Queen of my heart,
When did all this energy start?
Were you born in a hurricane
Never slowed down again?
You’re taking my Richter scale
Off of the charts.
She wanted to stay up late each evening
And then she’d sleep in way past noon.
Of course I was gone to work by then
So, we’d meet at the rise of the moon.
At first it was very exciting for me
To have this rigorous loving game.
So, I guess I brought it on myself
And I am the only one to blame.
Roxie Moxie, Queen of my heart,
When did all this energy start?
Were you born in a hurricane
Never slowed down again?
You’re taking my Richter scale
Off of the charts.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC