"ninety" poems
Pick yourself up and dust off your shoulders
because you're a soldier and have no time to rest.
You can't escape this life because you sold your soul for this
and in the next year, you'll be buried right under your feet, six feet deep.
Will it be your hell?
Tied up alone surrounded by nothing but chains
for years and years.
Calling out to empty shadows and swallowing dust over these times.
Will it be your heaven?
In the summer of ninety-six
with the night lite up with fireworks on the fourth.
Chasing the sparks because you're a child again.
Pick your feet up and march to the drums of your family.
You promised to always protect your family
and this is all you know to do.
Giving up your life for your brother's
is what you were trained to do.
Your heart is weak but warm.
But you will not be needing it for long.
You find peace in the night
but always keep a candle lit,
to keep an eye on your brother
because he is all there is.
Things can't be rewritten or reversed.
You've just got a confused mind
and acted out of grief.
But you're always able to rewind to the night
a bullet took your brother.
These lifeforms made a deal for you, that they knew you'd take.
They could care less about your feelings.
They could **** without warning,
but you trust them with your brother's life on this one.
So now you stand a man with a deal to die
but it's all worth it because now your brother can live.
Selling your life so he can have his back was the best birthday present
you could give.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
I remember the rains that day,
A shower of hate that won’t go away,
The day seven of the year ninety four,
When pain suddenly opened the door,
And nothing was ever going to be the same anymore,
With machetes and guns they marched,
Aiming for our limbs to detach,
Sworn they did that no INYENZI would escape their grasp,
They swore that all would experience their wrath,
Genocide it was called but the truth not told,
The rains struck hard smell of rotting flesh,
Cries from a distance heard but ignored,
No one would even dare talk or whisper,
**** the cockroaches was the message from the speaker,
It was the rainy season the beginning of a massacre,
Women and children are alienated from their land,
Refugees in camps away from their land,
The African holocaust had began in Rwanda,
It took a while for the world to ponder,
The ones who had the power to stop it kept quiet,
They gave neither reason nor excuse for their silence,
They waited until we all lost our patience,
It was the rains in Rwanda the day of mourning,
It was the season to prepare for farming,
But I can bet the world saw it coming,
But none gave a **** from the beginning,
And so began the killing,
Brothers and sisters turned enemy,
Neighbors turned into strangers,
**** ****** mutilation humiliation torture,
Tribal hatred fueled by the west,
When will Africa come to rest?
And understand that we are one race,
One love one place one earth,
Let’s have love and peace,
BY ISSAI
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC
The shopping channel calls to me
It wakes me up at night
To sell me things I do not need
Nor would buy, if I was right
But apparently, there's something wrong
My brain should be re-wired
I only purchase things on here
When I am really over-tired
I have a room specifically
For things bought on TV
I've ginsu knives and shredding blades
And juicers!!!...ninety three!!
For some reason the kitchen things
Just seem to catch my eye
Especially at three a.m.
That's the time I need to buy
I've magic bullets by the score
Processors, I don't need
But, if I ever put them all to use...
An army I could feed
I've got socks for diabetics
Things to make your ******* stand out
I've got exercise machines galore
I've got three things that help gout!
My credit card's at the limit
I know the numbers off by heart
The post man knows me by my name
I even have my own **** cart
To deliver all my purchases
They just load it and deliver
It almost comes here by itself
It's enough to make one shiver
I don't know how it started
I think the countdown clock...ah, yes
I thought it meant the game was ending
I phoned in and bought a dress!!!
I've got jewellery by Joan Rivers
George Foreman grills...they fill my den
I've got perfumes for the women
And lots of things that make you men!
My wife cannot contain me
She's sent me off to get some aid
But, if they sell it on the telly
I'll buy it sure as getting laid
I've bedazzled all my clothing
I eat dried fruit and jerky too
I get Christmas cards from Ronco
I'm a shopping ****** through and through
Each month we have a garage sale
I sell off some of what I've bought
But, then I go and buy it back again
Without a second thought
My friends have all but left me
I rarely go out of the house
I just sit here and go shopping
I don't even see my spouse
Set it and Forget it
That's a phrase I love to say
But wait, there's more...is another one
That helps me through the day
I used the last one on my wife
One night while having ***
She told me "Set it and Forget It"
I'm off to dreamland Tex!!
My shopping's an addiction
One I hope to beat some day
But now, the operator says...
I have to get my card and pay!
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
To be human
is to be broken.
Shattered by life,
misunderstood.
We all have hopes
we don't dare name.
We all have dreams
we don't dare share.
Ninety-nine percent
we don't understand
our own selves.
And so often
we hide behind shells.
To be human
is to be broken.
So stand up tall
broken and all.
Be broken.
Accept it.
And accept others,
beautifully broken,
just as you.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth's Garage
Is on the corner facing west, and there,
Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.
Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps-
Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,
Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.
One's nostrils are two S's, and his eyes
An E and O. And one is squat, without
A head at all-more of a football type.
Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
He was good: in fact, the best. In '46
He bucketed three hundred ninety points,
A county record still. The ball loved Flick.
I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.
He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
But most of us remember anyway.
His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.
Off work, he hangs around Mae's Luncheonette.
Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.
Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods
Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
8.4k
Ben Kowalewicz (spoken): Hi, my name is Ben Kowalewicz and this is Billy Talent.
Well I tripped, I fell down naked
I drank from a cup of lead
I hugged a skunk, it peed on me
Yesterday I joined Scientology
Steal a Camaro, then **** Jack Sparrow
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
Jump in a dump truck, smell **** and get stuck
I cannot read, I cannot read
**** on computers, then drink some pewter
Die sanity, die sanity
Marry a cheapskate, gain ninety pounds weight
I'm really dumb, I'm really dumb
I'm stupid, it's my fault, so daft
I like to play in the garbage shaft
The best sport is Parkour, **** straight
I arrive at work five hours late
Drink a deep fryer, eat some barbed wire
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
Sleep in a fireplace, burn your entire face
I cannot read, I cannot read
Cinnamon challenge, go on a chalk binge
Die sanity, Die sanity
Bike into traffic, pose pornographic
I'm a ******* I'm a *******
I ate some poo!
I'm stupid, it's my fault
Try
I'm stupid, it's my fault
Lie
This bad song don't make sense
Pie
Get a Prince Albert, snake blood for dessert now?
Drink some Everclear, cut off your own ear now?
Go back in time to, forties as a Jew
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
Do *** and rip off your right knee
I cannot read, I cannot read
Find the KKK, put on some blackface
Die sanity, die sanity
Locate a pervert, then take off your shirt
I am a twit, I am a twit
I am a twit, I am a twit
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
I am a twit, I am a twit
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
Lone leatherback cruises up from the deep, pausing on the fragile reef
to feast ancient eyes upon the show, a bright parade laid out below
butterfly couples paired for life, graceful angels in black and white stripe
brilliant clowns and their toxic lovers, a plodding gang of giant groupers
puffers bob like comic balloons, humble gobies on every menu
beaked parrotfish grinding the coral down, in the ears a constant sound
cowfish blowing puckered kisses, sea stars catching fishy wishes
white-tipped, hammerhead, tiger sharks, triggerfish mean bite worse than their bark
untamed unicorns too wild to ride, dogfish snapping, biting alongside
coral trout color-shifting fools, attracting ladies in dull-hued schools
**** headed wrasse rumbling through, thick lips mumbling go get a room
sea horses nod in labyrinth caves, razor-toothed eels lying in wait
if tentacled embrace should be your fate, nudibranchs will light the way
to a place of bliss, none of this can exist, without the builders
coral and algae bewildered, the ways of man egotistical
rising ocean temperatures, carbon emissions, and el Niño
victim of abundant greed, say goodbye to the Great Barrier Reef
so massive is this magical place, one can see it from outer space
astronauts witness its demise, ninety-percent barren, bleached bone white.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
I used to think in numbers.
1: There’s one of me. Alone. Plus
4: my family. Still 1, but 5, or
4 plus 1; that’s me, alone.
I used to think in numbers.
36: That’s weeks of school;
That’s weeks of math class,
math class, calculator;
Father, Son, and Calculator.
Trinity: the holy three, the three, the
3 times 36: that’s 108.
I used to think in numbers.
Math class, algebra, room 108.
I hate, I hate, I love, I hate,
I hate the way they look at me.
They look at me like man at dog,
like planet hogs,
throw books at me like cannons cogged
at ninety-minute intervals at cinder walls
until I fault and cringe and fall, and fall
like London Bridge and crash, and fall like
Blown-out glass gone back to class. I pass the
tests and cash regrets like rent checks
bounced across the bridge that they knocked down.
Because I used to think in numbers, yeah,
but now?
Well, sure. Abrasions hurt.
And yeah, we all want friends.
But at least equations work
and keep their balance on both ends.
So I will rock this scatter-plot of
social contract to its peak until
my hands are red meat.
I am no dead beat;
I hold the world record for blood lost
to a summer camp spread sheet.
But then,
but then somewhere along that number line,
a 6 stared down its stage fright when just
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 days before the show,
I met a girl who barred my better judgment
like a cage fight,
and thank God she did,
because for once, I put away the calculator,
and I listened to her voice,
and it sounded like…
well, it sounded like it sounded.
And for once, I sat and wrote about the things
that can’t be counted.
I surrendered to the cage fight,
and I fell into a deep hole.
And to be honest,
I don’t miss spreadsheet summers,
‘cause it’s easier to keep cool.
I used to think in numbers,
yeah,
but now I think in people.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
They’ll be rockin’ in Heaven
Down St. Peter’s Gate Way.
Chuck Berry passed over,
But he still can play.
True King of Rock,
He’ll live for evermore.
And he’ll keep duck walking,
Along that golden shore.
His guitar keeps twanging,
Wah wah tlang tang tang.
Ya want a Showman?
Chuck’s still yer man.
He died at ninety.
It was very sad.
But now he’s up there,
I’m sure that God is glad.
He’ll love that Rock N Roll Music,
Chuck’s sense of humour too.
A touch of Devil also,
When he sings the blues.
So all you Saints and Angels,
You better move and hurry,
For they all want to dance with
That amazing Chuck Berry.
Paul Butters
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 6:10 AM UTC
Why in Baste Eyes my Form checks expect
Yet cast my Security for his Expense
Which, I suppose, that Report I prefect
Was a File un-welcomed for my Good Sense
Though, I assure, was all to contribute
For his Sweets added to his Nationed Chest
That, to chillax, take Tidbits absolute
And brisk the New Day for his Talent's Best
Now this, resolved to wax Slime and Conflict
Thus put my Loyalty to Terms reset
More fruitful, more pruned, from Pride's Tome inflict
Then this Orrery - strike Rocks to Sky's bet.
In turn perhaps recover from this Fling
On Muted Clouds do those Falcons still Sing.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
What happens when we all live to one-hundred?
I am expecting more wrinkles than I have now,
A year before, at ninety-nine.
I've lived for so long,
Death shall I make it past that hundred mile mark?
I feel so tired in these days of Fall,
I'm wilted, I think, like untended petunias,
Like leaves scalding in the midday sun.
My wife is long gone,
My wife I loved and made love to,
Well past the age of fifty,
She died at sixty-one,
I sit remembering,
My time alone.
This horde of trees reflect exactly how I feel,
This decaying oak,
The willow tree caving in,
The bent, broken sycamore tree,
It's branches growing towards earth,
Weighed down, like me with heavy sins.
Butterflies flew now, the kind rare to winter,
Like old people having their slow, careful version of ***
You might not want to watch it,
You who are young,
You who are convinced,
That when it comes to old age, an exception will be made.
But they still want to do it,
Weird love is better than no love at all.
-Firefly
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
Tell me, Extended Mum, please, tell me now
That Final Instruction I must Obey
Whether Left or Right, whose Decision bow
Will leash the Harness of my Wilding Fray
What Science or Faith could explain this Cause
Given this Great Gap by Geography
Culture and Taste - alone such Values pause
Make alien with Enduring Blasphemy
Of such Tragedy the Comfort House bells,
That Door engraved: "Un-Welcome those Un-Known."
The Answer - to Solve which Society sells
And serve Gold-Friendship with True Facts beknown.
Still, that Tradition of Solitude aspect
Should never be Knived; Must always Respect.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
"Poet Boy"
I met this kid... that kept his writings hid. Since a small boy, he kept his artwork hid. No one ever knew all the writings he did.
That night we met, That night I'll never forget. I was under the moonlight feeling sad... He must of sensed that I was feeling insanely mad. Him a kid; me an adult, Before I could
question as to why
a boy his age was out that late, without a word he raised his shirt revealing the artwork he always kept hid,
His blue eyes matched mine tear after tear,
He must of knew the secret I did bear,
So without hesitation,
I raised my sleeve's
to reveal my scarred skin of poetry.
I know this may sound strange but that night both of our live's suddenly began to change,
We haven't crossed paths since,
But we share something of a 6th sense,
He's happy now
and
shares his artwork
in museums of famous names,
As for me, I'm old at the age of ninety-three
and
my poetry resides in books of famous names.
#PoetBoywrittenbyme@VenjencieArnoldon04_04_2018. # https://www.yourquote.in/jenciearnold
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 5:38 AM UTC
meanwhile,
the Big Fat Yellow Bootay
was getting right tired of
waiting for the election to end.
so,
she set off down the highway
going ninety five...
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY!" she cried
as she gunned the engine and
threw herself in gear.
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY! MOTHER *******
twice she cried,
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY! MOTHER *******
this second time
for extra good luck
with the unfolding election.
cool Fall breeze caressed
her yellow metal,
her big fat yellow bootay,
a glorious day to
be out on a drive!
well, except where she had
come from.
beep beep
beep beep
always driving her
beep beep beeping insane!
it shore nuf was quiet
out this way!
she turned the shiny
silver dial to turn on the
radio.
'gonna have to get me
some better speakers
one day soon.' she thought
to her big fat bus self.
and what came out blasting?
"That's Alright Mama,"
by who else?
but the King!
Elvis!
Elvis has left the building
and now,
Elvis is ON THE BUS!
she didn't quite know all
of the words,
but what the ****
she sure could sing!
As the big fat bus
with the big fat bootay
was driving along,
singing joyfully,
she glanced in the rear
view mirrow and what
did she see?
why the ghost of Elvis himself
was sitting right there
right in the back of the bus.
He starts strumming on his
own guitar and singing,
'that's alright mama.."
so she turned off the
radio to listen
to the ghost of
the King,
Elvis,
himself,
singing in the back
of her big fat yellow bootay!
she also watched him eating
a lot of food
in the back of the bus,
her bus.
his ghostly figure
seemed to
fluctuate between fat Elvis,
and skinny Elvis,
like a seesaw.
by and by
says he,
(not the really fat one
but not the really skinny one
neither.)
'I need a pit stop.'
says the King
so the big fat bus,
with the big fat yellow bootay,
asks,
asks she,
'you wanna stop at the next
stop & go,
or
the next
fizz & wizz,
or
my fav if you really
need a constitutional,
the stop & plop?'
at this particular junction in time
this ghostly King,
was in the shape
of Fat Elvis
but very cooly outfitted,
bellbottoms and rhine stones
or were those all diamonds?
note to self,
the big fat bus
squirreled away,
check on that.
are those real or not?
more mulha is always
good
and this just might
be mana from heaven
in the form of Elvis the KING
himself
and maybe just one
of those diamonds
will fall out and
get lost in me.'
mighty strange happenings
going on around here in this
big fat bus
with the big fat yellow bootay.
' the stop and plop little mama,' elvis replied
with that
ohhhh,
soooooo,
divine Elvis drawl
and that darling little
thing he did with his mouth,
but was doing now
as he was sitting there in the
back of HER big fat bus
with HER big fat yellow bootay!
OH MY,
it really is a
HOKEY POKEY day! she sighed.....
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
Here at Kinkos
We have a saying, “copies of copies”
You are trained to always ask for a source file
The digital file of the picture the camera took
The negatives of digital cameras
You see because when you print a picture from that file it’s the best it will ever be
Every detail captured in that moment stored in bits and bytes ready
If you make a copy of that picture it will never be as good
And if you make a copy of that copy it’ll be even worse
And if you were to make a copy of the hundredth copy of the ninety ninth copy you might not even recognize the image
Whether it’s a speck of dust on the scanner
Or a crease in the print out
Sun stains from prolonged exposure to the elements
Or simply from time
Copies never look as good as the original
Even if you try and protect them
And even if you were to magically protect that photo from any external forces
The next copy still won’t be the same quality
A scanner can never pick up every detail from the print on the glass
Copies of copies are never the same
Sometimes the printer is calibrated different
Sometimes it’s a heavy magenta day
Sometimes it’s a saturated cyan day
Maybe you touched her face when you handed it over
And now every copy has a feint of your thumb print above her eyebrow
You had him taped to your rearview mirror for a whole year
And now every copy you make has a glare where the tape used to be
It blocks out his heart shaped hands he was making you from the bus window
Folded in your wallet and now all the copies have white spaces where her face was
I mean where the creases were
I’ve heard that when you remember something you are simply remembering the last time you remembered it
Memories of memories
So that after you’ve remembered her a thousand times you’ve forgotten all the details you forgot to remember the time before
So that the more you remember something, the faster you’ll forget
Maybe that’s why we forget exes faster than family
Maybe that’s why we forget the great parts of high school before the painful ones
I remember that you had red hair, that your eyes were kind, that your hands fit my cheek
I remember that you were bad at pool and that it felt like love, and if it wasn’t you’re the only one that knew it
And now I’m wondering after all these years what I’m forgetting to remember
What I forgot to remember last time
What did I forget this time
What won’t I remember next time
Memories of memories
Like copies of copies
Fading over time
If I never wanted to forget the best moments of my life
Should I never remember them
Is the fastest way to forget the bad ones
To remember them often
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
it's not about
ninety-nine cent cards
from the dollar store,
or milk chocolate
in the shape of a heart
it's not about
feeling bad for yourself
because you're single
or going out
to an expensive dinner
it's not about
how many bouquets
or "happy valentine's day"
text messages you receive
love is beautiful,
it is forbearing and selfless,
it is not bitter or rude,
it is modest and humble
so even if you think today
was created by hallmark
to sell more cards
why not show love
to someone
you care about?
or even to
a complete stranger
you don't have to have
a boyfriend or girlfriend
or husband or wife
or "significant other"
to celebrate today
because everyday
is a wonderful day
to love someone
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
sometimes when i am trapped inside my own mind
and feel like i’m drowning in the taste of air,
suddenly i am eight years old years,
bobbing up and down in my wimpy life jacket
my legs unsupported
and there is still a chip on my shoulder
a mile wide.
sometimes i am still the five year old who balled her eyes out
when her parents accidentally forgot and were late
picking her up from preschool,
sometimes i am still sixteen years old and in love with you
sometimes i am a person i never thought i’d manage to grow into,
sometimes i am a person i’ve yet to become.
i am juxtaposition of a thousand different versions of myself.
i am equally the eight year old girl still afraid of the water
as i am the almost-adult you so naively believed to be fearless,
my self-assurance a really good halloween costume.
i am a newborn at the same time
as i am frail ninety year old grandmother.
i am brave and i am terrified
and i am naive and i am jaded
and i am clean and i am ruined;
i am a blank slate and i have been scribbled all over,
my skin is smooth and untouched
my skin has laughter lines and stretch marks.
i am the creator and i am the destroyer,
i am everything and
nothing at all.
i am the ocean
and i am the desert.
my lungs are failing as i’m breathing fine,
and i can see the end and the beginning in equal clarity.
sometimes i’m too old for my skin,
weary like i’ve lived a thousand lives already
and sometimes i am four years old with
my knees hugged to my chest.
sometimes we are two and sometimes we are twenty,
sometimes we were nine and sometimes we are ninety.
we are young and dumb and reckless at the same time
as we are old and wise and careful.
sometimes my father is still a gap-toothed five year old
and my mother is still a tired old woman
with shaking hands,
and my brother is still an angry teenager with a bad hair cut.
we are existing simultaneously
and growing up is just getting really good at pretending
that you’ve got your **** all figured out
when you still feel like a lonely middle-schooler
without a date to the mixer,
alone in the middle to gymnasium floor.
but that’s the thing, isn’t it?
when you are cut open, when you are bleeding,
when you have gaping holes in your nervous system
your flesh heals over
it scars, brand new.
we are bleeding and we we are healed,
we are ******* up
and we are doing just fine.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
Ice cream ninety nine
I know you make my lips taste fine
I need a big one mister
give me your large ice cream, ninety nine
We hear you coming
with lame tunes, Mmm pretty shifty
but we love to see you here
in our slum of a f>>king city
Yet Ice cream man
your sauce is tasty
and the blood you put on
makes kid's like us factory
Come back ice cream man
just one more ninety nine
come on ice cream man
let us bleed you dry again
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka Neonsolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 6:03 AM UTC
I grew up in South Auckland, Takanini
the only Pakeha in the caravan park,
I learnt how to be tall, smart and skinny
how to raise the end of my sentences in an arc.
At school, we were told words held power;
but for teachers words were flowers,
and my friend Cruz had two brothers
Harley and Davidson - they belonged to Black Power,
their fists tattooed with something like “Smother”.
But there was never violence on our street, gang was family;
I usually never felt more at home around Bourbon,
loud Reggae, bags of **** and men so manly
they’d cry over love, and I wouldn’t get a word in.
Though my Father votes National and thinks Michael Laws is right
so moves us to Dunedin where it’s ninety percent white.
I stopped reading Lenin and picked up Rousseau
became a vegetarian, thought it was so cool you know,
even wrote a blog that discussed rise from below.
But I’ll never know below again
until I’m drunk in an old shed at 3am on a school night
singing along to Bob Marley in Maori,
sunk deep into the mattress propped against the Harley,
the one you and I would cruise on until dawn together
as police took to the streets in riot gear -
we’d get lost in the country and learn to smother
our thoughts in starlight then stagger over,
listen in to the darkness,
and just slowly breathe
the crisp, cool air of the kiwi tundra.
They say New Zealand has two flags,
but in the country, when you’re blazed
on the benefit, ****** on the disdain
for positive discrimination, you can pick out
all the small bright koru unfurling in the stars.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
Now that you're older
It's not about hair,
Consider the here and now;
There's no fooling with the passage of time,
Birthdays now greeted with whimpers and whines.
If you stay out til quarter to nine
You've missed your Red Rose pour.
Should we commit you,
Or simply omit you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
....................................................
We're getting older too,
But if the truth be told,
Never as old as you.
Now you can't frolic,
Or party til two,
You aches and pains own you.
Scan your body daily for foreign lumps,
By mid-afternoon you still haven't dumped.
Bladder in turmoil,
Kidneys are weak,
I could mention more:
All your joints creaking,
I think that's you leaking,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Always depend upon your diaper to conceal and not reveal
What you drank and ate.
We'll leave that with you.
And carry ID, Jake,
You'll forget you're you.
Make use of posties,
And Mary-Jo too,
What's old may now seem new;
Indicate precisely what you'll do and say,
Memory's surely slipping away.
You're still an alpha, thanks to ******
Don't expect much more.
Should we just boot you,
Or simply just shoot you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Seventy-four's at the door.
A thousand weeks til eighty-four.
At ninety-four get ten more....
In good health.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC
It's not OCD
I'm just anal-rententive.
There are two
coffee urns
in my office kitchenette.
Each urn has
a spot to place your mug
beneath the spigot.
Each of these spots has
a circular insert
of gridded plastic
to mark the mug-placement area
and allow spilled coffee to flow through
so this spot
doesn't become
just a puddle of coffee
soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs.
Each of these inserts has
three indentations:
one on each side
at nine and three o'clock
small, arcing parabolas
like reversed parentheses
there to allow someone to
get their fingers into the
coffee mug spot
and under the insert
to remove it
and, presumably
clean it
and then another indentation
more like a groove
or a notch
much smaller, thinner, and deeper
at the top
that fits perfectly with
a matching
small plastic protuberance
jutting from the coffee mug spot
where the insert goes.
In an almost ****** fashion
this protuberance fits into
this last indentation
this notch
this groove
to secure the insert in place.
For some reason
I've never known
perhaps laziness
perhaps inattentiveness
more likely simple
couldn't-care-less-ness
this insert never seems to be
placed into the mug spot
properly.
It is always placed sideways
rotated a quarter-turn
so that the larger indentations
on the side
meant as finger holes
are placed top-to-bottom
noon and six
the small plastic protuberance at the top
being swallowed whole
by the too-large indentation
and its mate
the groove
meant to hold the plastic piece
so tightly
is left alone
to one side
empty
and useless.
This has always bothered me.
Bothered me more than I would like to admit.
It's such a simple little thing to get right
it would take almost no effort at all
and yet, day-after-day
someone
I don't know who
whoever is in charge of these things
insists
on doing it wrong.
And I cannot abide it.
So, day-after-day
when I go to get my morning coffee
I fix it
I twist the insert ninety-degrees
and secure it in the correct position.
Lately
I have noticed something.
Sometimes
when I go to get my coffee
one of the inserts
will already be
fixed.
Someone else has seen
what I have seen
and felt the same
had the same response
took the same corrective action.
This feels like winning something.
I don't know what
but it definitely smells like Victory.
And Conspiracy.
And it makes me happy.
Happier than I'd like to admit.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
With that, my Parapets should find Content
Knowing you and all Involved will migrate
But only sever out those Post-Chains sent
Will I be Enlightened from this Debate
I should go first, seeing this Program, I,
The Valleyed Entrepreneur once invest
For special - Hearts which ferrimost go by
And boost this Capital for all your Best
Only a matter when my eyes Break Lens
Which, for once, these Songs never did Exist
Since configured to Sportive Water's sense
Those Borrowed Drums whose Beat will now resist.
With my lips pursed, to the top of my mane
I Thank you once again, Beauty's Maiden Name.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:29 AM UTC
Dawn
light just seeping
through slatted blinds
robins begin
their morning song
at full-blast volume
I am awake, listening
hoping you made it
through the wilderness
and are sitting on the deck
with your morning coffee
listening to robins too
or loons calling on the lake
watching the sun rise
you said you wanted
to be lying naked
next to the woman
you love
when you're ninety
I hope to be the one
in your arms
perhaps completely deaf
to the robin's cacophony
and a little
worse for wear
but still loving
each other
just the same.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
The Catholic church
endorsed the world today
for a dollar ninety nine.
-Announcement-
Every iPhone owner!
sinner, saint or stoner!
Come now have your sins forgiven!
forgiven if you spill your guts,
if you just confess,
then watch technology do the rest.
Absolution for you and me!
Send your sins across the sea!
your sins will fly up through the sky
encrypted on waves to reach the almighty,
the Vatican! the Pope!
A man of God appointed by the church
yet is he any different than you and me?
We know he sins the same as us,
the book of Romans says its so,*
and do you really think his tall hat
and flowing dress can make him
any more chosen than us?
Can he really hold back lust?
Will he not eventually turn to dust
Just like the rest of us?
is he really any different than us?
How ironic he receives a royalty from
a symbol of the fallen world,
The Apple
computer company,
payment for our absolution…
...So the world fell
by the fruit of a tree
and now expects to be
redeemed the same way.
The truth is not in a man.
the truth is not in the Apple.
The truth is not in the white smoke rising
from the stacks on Sistine Chapel.
The truth cannot be dried up.
The truth cannot be cured.
the truth is not the Pope's to smoke,
To believe it is absurd.
If you want to know the truth,
the truth is in the blood.
The blood covers everything.
Including what is written here.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:54 AM UTC