"normative" poems
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
You are like economics,
Your addictive touch, my unlimited want.
Forget our chemistry, physics & genetics,
But you, I just can't!
Ne'er scarce in relation to my demand,
You know my every mood & curve.
You alone, can my heart command,
As market prices shift & swerve.
I am normative, you positive,
Opposites attract? Tis true!
Our every action, cumulative,
Together, the perfect graph we drew.
Your utility, I cannot question,
You chipped away my unstable equilibrium.
Your every approach, devoid of confusion,
Insurance of our love, requires no premium.
Though our needs are ever recurring,
Our time, brief and limited.
Memories created are never-ending,
Opportunity cost for you? Never hinted.
You are the good, worst, better & best,
Most importantly, you are never a test!!
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am
she
asks me good naturedly
which to wish me - a happy this or that
and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising
hot ****
rueful smile and unruly reply
a solid out loud Ha!
neither either or he writes and so believes
for I am a god loving man,
whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed
that I may call
Sam I Am
and the answer to your question is
why not
for most quests and questions can be well-answered
why not!
my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue
all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self
but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria
and thus whose to say
his rightful name, is not
Sam I Am
my choice and the big D
(a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre)
has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of
low volume taciturn tacit acceptance
so wish me a u happy
anything you want-to-call-it-day
don’t matter. but know this u were there
when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger,
when this Sam-Approved-Appeared
poem was born and Sam blessed it with a
hot ****
she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I
prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my
nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly
“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
Eventually all water drains to the sea,
and so to the body's waters drain to its urinary bladder.
But the bladder,
unlike the sea,
must be drained every few hours,
call it a normative ****** rhythm,
taken for granted, as it should be, by the functionally normal,
but the spine paralyzed
must be catherized
four, five six times a day.
**** breaks through an inserted tube,
to which I can personally report,
the ***** prefers piercing
then being pierced.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
the cardiologist, in passing, remarks, or perhaps,
“re-marks” my ECG test, casually revealing
that every fifteen or twenty or so of my regularly scheduled
hearts beats, an extra one sneaks it, which appears
unlike all the rest of those normative little hillocks
pointing skyward, ^ ^ ^ V ^ ^ ^ ^
yep that one,
sneaky ****** slips in, pointing downwards
like a class clown always disrupting classroom’s good order…
Doc reassures it don’t mean a thing
if you got that extra swing,
and our friendly informing internet reassures:
“The idea of your heartbeat going rogue may sound alarming.
But in most cases, an ectopic beat is a harmless condition.
It's also a common one”
but yet I am intrinsically intrigued,
oh yeah, that’s an intentional funny double entendre,
but methinks that explains
so much of my irregular, irreverent poetry scribbling,
particularly because this bratty beat be best addressed directly as:
“You Little Rogue!”
a highly scientific term,
taught in medical schools by non-poets,
but needy for definitions that the layman
can love and keep in their
heart shaped hands…
Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 8:17 AM UTC
I wonder where your wonder went--
why you stashed away your wonderment?
for sake of posture pride and pallor
ironic, yes for all the hours
of studying "normative" culture--
of faults and flaws and freedom ruptured
bashing against consumerism
driven
lives
*Your stuff's not as cool as mine
Poor things!
how blind! What empty lives!
Why can't they see the alternative side?
But wait--that's mine! My idea--I divined!
Great spirit told me not to sell half price
and things I buy--of course they're mine
But free trade, bought and paid for
I'm down with the indigenous cause,
I'm no capitalist ***** . . .
But oh my, those pants are nice
and that skirt's lovely, too, I'd love to wear it twice
wait--
Why dothey have those
I'm more hip than them, more
open minded, I'm
Mother Earth's best friend.
or **** at least more hip.
More hotter,
smile and nod, peace and love, yoga **** on my journey I'm farther.
See there! Don't look in my eyes, but
at my size 2 thighs
in this brand new outfit
haters despise . . .*
I guess I'm wondering where your love is,
I digress from my rant, just show me
where the shelf is
that holds your origin story,
lost child,
eyes wide,
mind blown by lights and shiny bits and
new friends' smile and--
BASS vibrating your spine.
Where's the love that widened your mind?
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
The following statements of truth were brought to you
Not through, but circumnavigating fated parameters
Of insane, yet normative, largely uninformative
Mechanisms that formally give birth to ********
And instead, strategically splicing said bounds with
Ideal variables derived from the courageously quixotic,
Unrobotic, and outraged agents of, and for, capital Real:
The train of corporate reasoning derails so fast
To follow is to snap the head backward,
Far past angles within measures of pleasurable fit
And open gates to deluging tangled circular
Failures of logic that trick and co-opt the proletariat.
We are Present-Ambassadors with broken flux-capacitors
Demonstrating a consistent tendency toward error
In efforts to obtain diplomatic access to a future where
The same reemerging deficits do not manifest unfixed.
One of said deficits may include all positive freedoms.
For the record, it shall be noted that civil society
Currently arrives implicitly to find it compliantly fine
To promote systems of labor designed to illicit behaviors
That will eventually undermine the actors of exhaustive work
And make benefactors of those complicit in crime.
As case studies of this paradoxical paradigm, we observe
Nations signing trade agreements aligned with
Selling more of the goods whose extractions have
Cataclysmic exactions upon locals contracted not to resist.
Those who take issue with this are directed to appellate institutions.
The projected scarcity of over-consumed poisons causes fear
Which leads to faster hoarding and more ex(t/p)ensive death.
Thus, most human behaviors presently inflate pricing, popularity,
And rapidity associated with committing system-wide suicide.
As shackle-some power consolidation bends toward a transnational peak
I hereby slide-tackle these forwarded trends, seeking goals of the rational.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
a stumble, a tongue slip,
a body in bed facing away,
an unintended provocation
commences a collaboration
just another unrequited disaster,
marks me as a lowly private
in the disarmed ranks of
mutilated souls composing,
while decomposing,
sad love poems,
as if the world
needed another...
a turn away needs a turn to,
a cul-de-sac rejection
needs a turnabout,
a traffic circle pointless,
with one exit only,
road signed,
"exit to a collaboration of provocation"
thanks and thanks
a day together normative,
now marked by a
stinger singed in the early morn.
a physical no thanks,
her passing lane left turn signal
engaged
me too passing into this,
a disgorged rejection that
is to become this realized collaboration.
*only I wrote it and you
did not
read it
just provoked its creation,
our sad collaboration*
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
The Process
There is the notion, the urging.
The first spilling, the self-congratulatory
Commencement ceremony for
The process.
Then there is the first short-pause,
a quick-freeze hibernation. Then,
The bubbling,
The querying, the special fear,
What have I started?
Where is it taking me,
Am I properly undressed for doing
T he process?
A new vocabulary,
an arm extended, but distended,
Words are all angled puzzled,
Capable of unity, but first,
Unshaped but swollen,
By the process.
Hatching, head-aching,
words arrive rushed, but disordered,
Confused by the process.
*{The exception has it own character.
One kingly, run-on sentence birthed,
After silent labor, a full poem, fully dilated,
A shocking head of hair, full developed,
So fast does "it" fall onto the paper
The obstetrician arrives too late
To process.}*
The exception, exceptional.
The normal, normative.
Twenty four hours of labor,
False starts, much screaming,
Painful joys, hardly seamless,
This process.
Distractions the enemy,
Compulsion the master,
As you choreograph the work,
In loving servitude to
The process.
You the doctor, insert probes,
Looking for the tumors, the out of ordinary,
For normal flesh is not of interest as part of
The process.
Finally, you do exhale,
With unique the pleasure, of the longest sweetest
Female ******
The breathing less labored,
Tho whole, sensing a diminish-meant to convey
That completion is the end of part of you,
The near-end of the continuum, lessened but continuing
The process.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
I suppose you feel threatened
huh, Amerika?
It must hurt you,
pain you deeply,
I care not to live
by these
Idiotic
Heteronormative
Cis-normative
Sexist
Anti-feminist
Racist
(or should I say Rakkkist)
Xenophobic
Homophobic
Doesn’t want to to deal with AIDS crisis
Abilist
Capitalistic
Fascist
Doesn't give a **** about the poor or needy
Supports **** Culture
All Lives Matter except trans women, women, people of color AND Black Lives,
Electing Donald Trump
society.
I hope your founding fathers
Choke themselves with the noose they made,
in their respective graves.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
Why waste your time talking, are you insane?
You're pushing real buttons when you could play.
Offer me a gun,
Offer me a blade,
Offer me an answer
Cemented firmly in old ways
Or I will crush you in insults with the language you would use to say,
"Expand"
Only one solution to such a simple problem.
Get what is rightly yours or just defeat or justly save.
Offer me the newest
best displayed gun
with the best gimmick
and I'll offer you several days
but once I hear the pleas with common language and you choose to say,
"Expand"
I have no choice but to crush you into the dirt from whence you came!
So say it. Say what you will. I need to use this answer I obtain.
There are those whose ideas work to change the normative horror
but they're working beyond the confines and outside exposure
necessary to ever, ever, realistically begin the revolution leading
to the evolution necessary for our medium to truly newly thrive
and sure it will survive, you're right about that, but I myself
would like to see a future where when given ultimate control
of a problematic situation, I'm not standing on a platform
made of mechanics that come from a singular origin and only
give me a killswitch, saying, "In which way would you like
to end more lives", and though it's a nice enough reprieve
don't get me wrong, I'd rather have an expansive platform
to stand on where I might be given a multitude of options
that may possibly end in my choosing not to become a
soldier.
Get back.
Rescue.
Retrieve.
Destroy.
Revenge.
Are we lost to the tropes which provide the most money for instant growth
that knowingly keep us from ever, ever truly growing and expanding?
Will this be forever the list we're left to roam?
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
My third attempt to commemorate Joel Frye.
News arrived Mid-May, found me far from home,
found me shock-gasping in a hotel room,
on the wrong coast,
though he sort-of-warned-warned,
about a month earlier, I misunderstood his subsequent
silence, thus it caught me unawares, unprepared,
and strangely grasping for proper comprehension
and the right words, that usually come so quickly,
even too easy~quick, when one’s emotions are
running fast, like a springtime Northwest mountain stream
Imagine a conversation of nine year’s duration,
one of a number forged in the iron-y of poetry,
a most
genteel art.
I found his words above in a comment on a poem (1)
of mine, writ in 2015; the subject, so apropos, to be
ever gentle to thy words.
Our dialogue and mutual admiration lives on and survives,
for bonds forged ex-the world of poetry, but more so,
in real deeds and deals and realized poems come true.
We never met.
Not unusual for an on-line community, where the social, literate
media can foster a closeness surpassing the normative
standard need of the physical,
which nonetheless the absence of that touch is now
deep regretted.
But Joel do not be concerned!
Your words will live with others, as per your desire.
This my promise, this my premise:
A debt of brotherhood that will be,
must be, paid in full.
So let’s begin…shall we…
~~~~
Joel Frye Sep 2015
Friends
Some for a reason,
some for a season; even
lifetimes come and go.
All things are transitory. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
<>
(1j
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1425812/oh-poet-be-ever-gentle-to-thy-words/
Jun 27, 2023
Jun 27, 2023 at 8:10 AM UTC
Time is ageless,
sadly most just can't look past what we're not.
I loved how my great-grandma said "I'm ninety-two years young,"
when all the young ones would fret that she was so near the end.
She spent all of her time so far ahead of her time,
loving what time she had instead of staring down the second hand.
I want to live in a world where counting up is the normative,
where age is the cumulative of positives, not a death march.
We need to lose the mentality of counting down our mortality
while making life a banality, 'cause every day here is a treasure.
When clocks are kept on shelves
instead of burned in our minds,
no time is spent counting down.
It's only spent living.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
*dreams in colors that don't exist,
and 'mares re dear sir, deadlines missed,
wrestle~arrest poet,
instant awake
in the wee time,
pouring liquidity,
fluids and words,
puddling, stinking,
coming,
from the
always dangerous,
always interesting temple inner inside,
sanctimonious no more sanctum*
this particular sleep,
shortened, irretrievable,
bookmarked "closed,"
chapters,
hours too soon,
this rest business,
arrested
filed in an ugly
grey metal file cabinet,
in an unfinished manila prison
with your other unimportant poems
*the dark room universe
populated by
hints, shadows, voices,
waiting, welcoming,
mirrors on the walls
unified in one voice
deep, obtuse,
demanding recognition
"hither hither come"*
forced march
to a visitation,
to the the parition,
of your reflection,
clearest ever seen,
in the black pitch,
uncovered by guise, feathers
the clothes of normative pretenses,
the man-made borderlines of
preservation falsehoods
*seen your own semblance,
parts rearranged,
uncanny,
the mirrors are screaming:
shameful lovely,
this, our artistry,
your apparition,
now accurate,
reflecting your under-
lying
condition,
at last,
an accurate portrayal,
of your inaccuracies*
do you find yourself attractive?
this new balance,
the unregulated pieces
of you
before your dissembling,
discerning,
dissecting eyes?
*feeling the valence,
an introduction,
a physical magnetism
any attraction
any resemblance
to the semblance
that writes
this s.o.s.?*
answer us thus,
do you up
and like yourself
unvarnished,
grunge, swag,
truth trammeled,
don't you want to kiss yourself
goodbye,
or better yet,
fare thee hell?
*go ahead,
ask yourself now,
that one question
that prevents conception,
from your inception,
what is it that
makes you exceptional?*
don't you realize,
everything about you
ends in a question mark?
*how dare you write poetry?
you are the false poet,
you live on the division
tween artifice and self-deception,
this, your only precept,
and now that you are
clarified,
answer this,
knowing you know
nothing
but artifice,*
how dare you write poetry?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
We are your neighbors, we are your friends.
We hide in the cracks in your hetero-normative society.
We do not need your representation,
we do not crave your voice.
Thank you, we have our own.
Ours is a voice you simply won't listen to,
but we can fight our own battles.
We live in the underground subculture you pushed us into,
and now we're ready to resurface.
We're coming up fast and we're coming up strong,
and no, we won't be quiet about it.
We won't conform to fit into the hetero-normative
graves you've already dug for us.
Don't ask who the "man" is in the relationship.
We're complex and complicated, and no, we won't give that up
just so you can have a "gay best friend."
Your stereotypes can't hurt us anymore.
At the end of our "limp wrists" are clenched fists,
and baby, we're aiming to make your nose bleed.
Don't try to stand for us, stand with us.
Raise your voices with ours, do not
rise above us to save us.
We don't need your salvation and
we don't need your approval.
If you're trying to speak for us,
you can keep your "same love" to yourself.
You can call us the new wave beat generation,
due to the fact that we're sick of being beaten down by your ********
We'll beat the institutionalized hatred you've been beating us with.
Warning: you may experience some slight discomfort.
After a while, they tell you that it's expected.
At least, that's what they tell us.
They tell us that it's easier to hide who you are and
who you love than to express that love.
And when we do express that love
they tell us we should've just kept
it in the closet where it came from.
Either that or we're supposed to allow you to
make our love so small that it could fit in your palm of your hand.
Go on, say, *** a gay couple, they're like, SOOO cute!" We dare you.
We've got Kerouac on the backs of our hands
and generations of pain building from the backs of our hearts.
Don't push us to the back of your mind,
because we'll build until you burst.
Just like we're bursting with rage;
an age old pain caused by your ignorance.
But we're ready to end it, end the violence we inflict on ourselves
because our sexuality makes you uncomfortable.
And we can't have that, now can we.
You? Uncomfortable?
Please, allow us to sacrifice our human dignity,
so you don't have to be uncomfortable.
Because, let us tell you, it is so comfortable to not have equal opportunities as you!
Yes, we still love you.
We are your friends, we are your neighbors.
We still call our mothers to complain about our jobs.
But this **** has got to stop.
And now we leave the choice to you:
either help us or get the hell out of our way,
because we're burning this system to the ground,
whether you like it or not.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Blessedly, funerals,
don't have to go to too many,
though went to one
just this day,
for our next door country neighbor,
the nicest dour-looking,
rascally dearest man
The Catholic church full,
the hymns lovely,
the priest spoke
simple and beautiful,
about the paschal lamb
and the
Judeo-Christian Heritage
and
Life Everlasting,
an interesting concept,
that I had long forgot about
Must have conjured up
three minimum ideas
for poems,
not even including
this reportage
maybe I will write some,
tho the normative jelly of
Manhattan bus shaking
mine own recipe for inspiration,
when combined with
my peanut buttered
sheltered island by the Great Peconic Bay,
both, will be my swirled
inspiration everlasting
Can't write about
moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies,
the way I write is
just the way I think
writ out loud
so to the essay at hand,
funeral of a man,
mine all planned,
the invites ready,
awaiting the correct postage stamp
of a future time and place
the date, more or less sketched,
the poems, selected, notated
for whoever shows,
pick a read,
win a free trip to the cemetery
and maybe one back to his "parlor"
where food, drink and bon mots are
vous parlez'd and his spirit,
now a parolee, will be watching
smiling, for funerals are camaraderie,
so longs and fare-thee-wells,
and the hands of friends embracing,
celebrations in their own way,
and a time to tell stories of what
treasures they have left you,
silver linings of a life well writ,
and tho someday,
they'll be time-tarnished,
even half forgot,
the stories and the love poems
are the seeds of life everlasting
Passover/Easter
March 2014
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
When the entire world is safe
normative in all its realms
immersion blinds those within
to realities that are hazardous
when speech is weaponized
blunt to the bearer of the words
a mere game to win or lose
losers must be found to play.
This imbalance hides from sight
for those in power’s seat
they care to maintain a place
with conservative as their motif
when dialogue flows one way
fears are not the same
it’s about power sought for self
endangering those on the fringe.
The slight becomes ego’s wound
asking for harsh recourse
dogma states all the rules
tenets prodding actions on
the hydra with a thousand heads
the crowd is the bully’s friend
sent to suppress a minority
unable to resist in the same.
War becomes their sole career
gains are notches on the belt
blood is the satisfaction
taken on the edge of talk
when the entire world is safe
except for the victims sought
immersion blinds those within
to the crimes they celebrate.
2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170704.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 11:42 AM UTC
Mud, mud, mud
Can't cha get enuff?
Nup, tuft.
Alleviate normative
Chairtime penalties
Helper Scalper!
Oh, I drew the crucifix!
I must cruise for a fix
and machinate my auto-licks.
Guitars all bent from rotten trips
into acid bath houses of Babylon!
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
there's an awful emptiness
in relatable content
when hundreds of people all
experience the same
loneliness and pain
but no one can do anything
about it, so instead they just
laugh, a fake laugh, and say
"yeah, I know how you feel!"
as if commiserating will somehow
ease the pain when someone dies
or something in your heart goes askew
but if every awful experience is common then the norm is misery
which is not a norm I'm willing to accept
or maybe relatable is an adjective
for anything relevant to the human experience
in which case, every moment, every feeling, every instance
is relatable and therefore dreadfully unoriginal
so-- I propose we change the meaning of the word itself
allow it to become more, a warning to break free
a protest to rise up against
the normative and to seek the original
to become inspired and to connect with others
in unique and meaningful ways
join me in reclaiming what is relatable and instead
seeking what is new
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
flux.
a word whose very sound connotes its meaning, a sloshing state of change
a liquid moment,
for we solids,
of bone and flesh,
though
we may be islands of stolidity,
entrenched, focused, organized,
when the surround sounds
of change are all about
you too are
fluxed
the serenity of splendid isolation
is not an impervious shell,
close eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth
these liquid times we abode,
inescapable from the roller coaster of
crashing storms of our
environment
try as I might,
cannot recede into a
white sealed envelipe,
cannot secede from
the froth of current events,
in the age of no distances,
and the rotational revolution of
but one lever,
a single beating wing
can disrupt the
the supply and communication
channels of our normative existential machinations
let me retreat unto my poetry trance,
but that choice
is currently unavailable
be wary of the calm of routine,
we live in a time of
the olympics of change,
and we cannot walk
on water,
nor tread forever
flux.
the liquidity curse of our
ever curving intersections
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 11:57 PM UTC
always throw caution to the wind
for a life well lived, for I did not, and lived a life well-lied
always throw caution to the wind
our life in this realm is short-lived, no bigger than
the size and brevity of our divine sparks existence
always throw caution to the wind
long winters and short summers recalled on paper,
have you not realized that mere gods worship immortal men,
our gloried markers, our stories, our ephemeral skin - forever
always throw caution to the wind
jump in after it, the winds course is a buffeting, head knock heading,
breeze, gust, gale and storm, a recovery chance of chances, a tourney
where the thrill of the unpredictable toss is not a simple head or tails,
but a slot machine of innumerable outcomes randomly optimized
always throw caution to the wind
the life irregular is the normative, the outcomes always positive,
this is the only thought that should ever provoke -
be wild but not crazy, think clearly and dare define safety
on your own terms, your own odds calculating, sew your own net,,
pick your wind and as a parent, always dress appropriately
for I am still crazy after all these years
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 3:30 PM UTC
My loyalties ought to be elsewhere
Not self-respect.
Twenty-ought years
Of listening, performing
Commands in my ears
Atop the most prominent point
Of a circle.
Do I speak up and proclaim my wants,
As they have, as they do
Whose execution is one’s normative due?
Do I risk monstrosity
That grotesque
Of passivity turned active?
O, people hate the biting mirror.
Architecture worn and rubble
Precludes the fate of so headstrong nations:
A people, all leaders,
Would swallow and spite
Litter the flowers with bones
And plight.
Great structures built with power
Are levied ‘gainst the weak
For plurality would cancel it out;
It’s not imperative
Bodies of power to push for us all,
The lion’s share.
It’s more an empty cadence, mere practice
To tickle emotions
And prove, ultimately, the infallibility
Of tenets of strength and structure:
The passive are submissive
As they should.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
Let me be the one who walks through open doors
Life showing remnants of days ignored.
Stubbing the candle in search
of normative light.
So that scented tables guide the way,
into frolicking lands where harps should play.
When these creatures take my hand
Finally all is complete.
Valleys sink and mountains rise
shifting between separate pairs of eyes.
Taking me to where is, should be.
Forlorn, for being in the now.
Take stock staggers the rocks
into shapes forming the cinder blocks.
Perhaps the mundane
can in some ways beautiful.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC
Morning is a trigger to activate the awakening normative
Prior to such a tradition was endorsing the night of sedative
Temptation pressures me to remain with the sleep of comfort
But day is none other than a truce between light and alert
Leave the bed I must and forward to the room of ****** nurture
The kitchen is the place to cope past the room filled with furniture
Upon the counter I shall set my coffee to rest with the breeze
Bacon is part of the morning nurture I shall extract from the freeze
Inside the toaster shall be two bread slices facing the slow roast
Alongside the swine's flesh shreds are eggs from the chicken host
Products of meat shall cook upon the range until come the full stop
This morning meal shall I consume when done its use on the countertop
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
we go hungry
go sordid
drugging ourselves with lack of sleep
slow blinking
fast talkers
go dancing
spin circles
sweat out
but don't completely lose our
nerve
nerves
spit on the ground
it's a shande, a shame
drinking our coffee black
like momma did
we don't like it anyhow
tension click clacking up our spines
staring wide eyed at the world
three am's spouse
faithful as anyone
**** failing us
closing opening
staking out cafes for the company
pretending to wait for friends
ordering small pastries
portioning them out slowly
they don't even taste that good
sour stomaches
lip biters
failing to locate
sights for sore eyes
only finding sites for the healthy
the normative
the well at heart
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC