"operas" poems
We could scale
snow capped mountains
or tiled rooftops
We could stroll
the halls of grand art galleries
or the city's graffiti stained alleys
We could sip
wine from elegant glass goblets
or instant coffee from chipped cups
We could watch
gala operas and musicals at the amphitheater
or puffy clouds as they float by in the sky
We could look
up to the vast galaxy and its starlight
or down to the metro's sleepless city lights
We could listen
to loud pulsing rhythms at a concert
or to the steady beats of each others hearts
We could go
and roam the world all day
or just stay in each others arms all night.
I can't care less
on what we could do.
Every moment would be
Fun,
Adventurous,
Exciting,
Marvelous
Grand, and
Breathtaking
As long as you are with me
and I am with you.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”
I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
A ***** couch rests in the living room,
Like an old green stump.
Worn from too many soap operas and football games
The pillows droop like tired eyelids.
The smell of exhaustion and grime clings to the well-worn skin
That itches if you get too close.
Dog hair is sprinkled across the cushions
Along with mysterious stains and crusty popcorn between seats.
It gobbles up change, remotes and secrets.
Far from a fairy-tale throne
It has as much romance as a sock.
But since the bedroom was off-limits,
It would have to do.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
*i once had a girl from poland over,
gave her the tourism of london,
a daughter of my mother's friend.*
i suffered sun stroke one day out
with her, blonde hair and all,
i was bound to feel the cold shivers,
went to a party with a school-friend
of mine and her...
i was left in a bed shivering,
he later said he didn't want to say it
but did, that they kissed...
like i didn't know the shorthand for
oral ***
now i'm drinking a beer, write
one poem weeping, another like this
one laughing prior, slapping myself in
the cheek...
two slaps to the face i didn't receive
from prostitutes **** your moral
relativism, you people only
know that theft and ****** and ****
are equal in the cauldron of einstein's
space-and-time, i accept physical
relativism, but i loath moral relativism,
it's like giving an umbrella to the man
under a champagne waterfall -
and an anorak to a man under a waterfall
of cow **** -
yep, slaps outside the brothel,
the kind women became knights' sparring partners
for the oath undertaken,
it was a practice among knights to get
a handkerchief to ease the sting later...
but when prostitutes don't slap you
for trying to sort your life in order to provide,
you sort of become two knights,
twin siamese, you slap yourself because
all that st. thomas gospel wisdom went into
sex-augmentation procedures and cheap
cancer victims with pill-for-pill profiteering...
leisurely ladies of societies made rich
by easy money, watching operas
but still preferring to notice what
their neighbours were wearing,
the peasant snobism who are more distracted
by what others wear rather than the music...
a herd of wilder-beasts could ease out more tears
at an opera than these "precious" ladies of the new
post-aristocratic society of easy money...
you drink beer, laugh, slap yourself silly on the cheeks
for more laughter... your brain
becomes a monkey in a cage gone mad
rather than turning docile...
so she came over and enjoyed my company,
spotted a fox in an alley to a surprise...
but then i got rudely told that oral *** was a kiss...
well **** me there's a cataphract -
let's ***** slap him silly so no byzantine philosopher
cared to exist.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:37 PM UTC
I'd rather keep running this imaginary marathon going
Because the pulse just keeps getting stronger
And i don't get this feeling often
So i'd rather keep up with you until the moments notice
Forget about the tropes that keep us on the rope
I gave the Television all the soap it wanted
Now it's running it's operas
And i'm running the marathon
For something
For something i'm unsure of
For someone?
Whatever it is, it's better than Keeping Up With The Kardashians.
TV rots your brain
I favor going against the grain
No offense guys
But keeping up in Marathons is much healthier
The water companies will thank you
Why should they not?
Thanks for not letting me rot
Whatever it is
Whoever you are
I'd keep up with you.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
In the wild
You are left to consider graffiti disasters
hatched from gypsy palates
Vanished in music through spiders
In a wilderness of orange viral light
Moths push from the lips of willow switch
Geishas who stargaze on
Matrimonial black powder
In our wilderness of birth the
Name of Fire is swallowed by moths
We are reborn in Geisha operas
Over the embers of burned invention
You sign the word for sand
In a lamplight hem
A voice skating chalk
Points over pearl
Its pitch wound in a white
Arched wax arm
Ticking the membrane
In her submerged bell
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC
vampiric ***** house
a fearful symmetry
of cleavers for something to love
***** addicted
pearly satin's copulate
a continent of curves
ovoid rectums and raw mouths
in a ritual of sadistic etiquette
drenching phallus tongued spit
like gales of flames
at a masochists invitation
for foot blooded kisses
and heated lopped breast
eager haunches thunder
in a malignant lust
********* utopias **** cyclops
spreading winkling's dribbling
night operas
in a red cathedral of flicker hives
squealing euphoria's hemic arcade
with greased ******* that break backs
fluting throats ***** chromatic fizz
and shrilling wombs flutter like bat wings pandemonium
in the museum of the moon
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
so we undressed
and I didn't finish
and you felt self-conscious
and refused to read to me
like you did the night before
so I didn't sleep
but you did
and your brow was a shelf
and I wiped it off
like I did the night before
so the morning would feel clean
yet I missed a spot
and you said no one loved like me
and that wasn't a good thing
like a songbird that was more showboat
so I'm sorry lukewarm newspapers
and two wine glasses
and too empty
and you bit my lower lip until blood was drawn
like a misery, like a static radio song
so I bit your lower lip until blood was drawn
but that wasn't an anchor
but that wasn't a tether
but that wasn't criminal
like the soap operas and the 51st shade of grey
so we undressed
and turned on the history channel
and it didn't go anywhere
and you said history was for the historians
like ********** was for lovers
so we dressed
and you were a child in my clothes
and I talked down to you
and you took one last drink of my cologne
like a closing hymn collapsing on a dime
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
I remember the days of raisin boxes and paperbacks,
when it felt like the worst thing in the world to be climbing barefoot up a mound of dirt in the rain because you wanted a friend.
I couldn’t watch movies, talk about cigarettes, or listen to operas,
but I was all right when I saw my mother pouring out my father’s bottles into the bushes.
I looked at the round tummy in the mirror and wondered if it was okay.
It wasn’t. I was eleven years old when I learned how to **** it in.
-
The first came in middle school. I had a dream that I kissed a boy while on an exercise machine.
It was real life when he took my hand in the backseat of his mother’s SUV. I closed my bedroom door and danced.
I still think of him when I hear that stupid song.
The second time, I was fourteen. I met a different boy who peeled away my skin as if he were unwrapping a Christmas present.
And the present? Just another pair of socks. Throw them in the drawer with the others. Shut it tight.
I’m still missing a lot of skin.
And then, there is you.
You know the story. Five, four, three, two, one, happy new year. I kissed you.
Remember when you noticed my wrists? Remember when you didn’t believe my excuses? Remember afterwards, when you pretended to forget all about it because you were scared, scared of the kinds of girls who hid secrets under their sleeves?
I went to all of your basketball games. I hate basketball. We watched movies that you projected onto your basement wall. Your attempts to disguise your impatience as admiration were poorly executed.
Maybe our first kiss shouldn’t have occurred in a count-down. It made everything else that happened feel that much more inevitable.
-
I take stock of myself. Three hearts, like an octopus, and too much blood. I am saving it, I am saving it for the person who offers me something other than the dusty space under the bed.
I never want to be like my mother, and there is a certain kind of power in this. The power of - of what, turning inward?
I am learning. I am learning to stop looking behind me in fear of pursuit. Let them come and let them drape me in meaningless velvet. I will not be deterred.
Look for me, up in the constellations. I am a passing comet; it’s impossible to predict if I am destined for destruction or for greatness.
I’ll wait at the sunset for the sound of your voice.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
You were born better than me for now
More prepared, your skin smoother, even,
Your black boots that look like
They’ve been licked by junkies
Your oil-eyes are able to divide the images
T.V. orange and a tangerine
One is not the other
When I will seep inside the hole in you head
I’ll pick and pull to get you
Really get you
Before your full mouth moves
I’ll nod and tell you
Quiet quiet, I know I know
I am an idiot, I run scared
I hide in cars, I cry at celebrity gossip
The red carpet is the ****** scene
Your tongue rolls the same way
Unrolls, let’s the stars fall out
Then rolls, let’s me disappear inside
I hate myself
I reach for better thing than the sky
I grab your hand in mine and I reach for
Toy monsters
For romances written by wine and fuck-buddies
For meaningless problems
For music carved in plastic
I let you unguide me, undo the zipper, unbreak my glasses, the ones that are tiny mirrors
But then you speak
And it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen
So
I make surgeries on myself like a night-doctor
I build a tree house in a pear tree that you can’t see
Yes, that’s me buried up to my head in your yard
Yes, that’s me telling strangers I am dying of sadness and lack of substance
Yes, that’s me trying to fit in your head
Yes, this is me setting myself on fire wearing nothing but your black boots
I win.
Keep ignoring me
I write better poetry (and we all know I hate poetry)
La. La. La. La.
The cursed and fated prince had prophesies, I’ve got soap operas
I’ve got night and nights of blank, blank, ****
I’ve got a freezer-burnt heart
And pictures of you drinking neon drinks
I’ve got the dichotomy and pungent mixture of art and **** of God found in the gutter
You’re drinking anti-freeze aren’t you?
That would mean so much if you were
Keep ignoring me
I’ll send you my hands when you’re done with them
They won’t work
But you can touch yourself with them
They will be gray
Paint them red
A red that can’t wash off.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 9:55 AM UTC
Ballads R-U the
nourishment
Like the Bella baby
greens
Tossing your salad like
The artwork deviant
Like the myriad
The musical chairs
Messages unique piece
Playing the brain organs
The new road of legions
Cerebellum moving
Perky pinks the possum
We move into a certain era
Intense Opera breathing, pacing, dreaming
More feeding the balance of love needing
Musical digestion
Heart rate inside
your movement shows
affection
All themes like soap operas
The nervous system musical brain
Gets damaged like the Asylum
So emotional heartbeat got more
rhythm
Your hums needing tums
The Lifes crises
But not feeling
accountable the brains works
Every function ballads of love
Inside your heart diction
Like the ballad-making
Your best transformation
Orchestrated hands to lead
The musical brain
Love letters arrive on the train
So tranquil love
physical momentarily
Has a certain quality
like the ballad of love
mutiny
We find in life its a long sip
The brain wave long neck
Giraffe hot cafe
We feel everyone's tragedy
Living so high
in the (Castle) the step up
Not giving up the highness the
majesty the brain depressed
But such a parody foods for
the soul no control eating binge
You want to dodge out
But you're the musical genius
Magical brain fast and furious
Is tricky to remember you have
The talent
To be Lucky*
Fill it with love and gravity
He's the laughing stock
of the comics
Like the simple life
He's the built-in love
a ballad with such structure
The popular form of poetry
Musical notes a blend
of symmetry
Chariots of fire the key to love
Whats truly above all we need is love
He takes your breath away
Reading into the
"Britannica"
Archie comics and Veronica
Historical moments Cleopatra
The ballads of culture
Songs we remember
I love September the day I was born
Ballads and songs
"My Girl"
"Stop Look Listen to your heart"
"Love is all around"
You came to the right place
Peace and love, please
stick around we love you
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 9:40 AM UTC
Looking out of the window;
a ribbon of duck-egg-blue sky,
fringed by the sun's late light,
is sandwiched by grey cumulus.
It frames Sycamore tree tops,
red tiled pyramids with their expectant aerials
pointing West, littering clean lines.
It is a mute view;
serried bins wait for the mornings collection,
cars sit dumb, curbed,
their daily commute completed.
Two starlings flit, silent,
and in the far distance a high contrail is picked out
in gold as a thread in blue silk.
For five years this view remains changeably the same;
unspoilt by the entropy of new perspectives.
This is the summer of un-broadcast malcontents,
pacified in Brazilian spectacle. Days simmer here and there.
Soap operas filter through,
made to massage the message
of consume and discard, of holidays and pistons.
And in the mornings, that never come,
we abandon the cars that cannot diverge
from work-honed routes,
taking to the air from Sycamores as Starlings.
June 2014
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
1. (photographs; kaleidoscopes)
I tried to capture you
in words, the way you were, the way
with each relentless second
you would never be again.
2. (words were not enough)
because
a) language is a frail medium
for the powerful; the overwhelming;
b) emotions are shifting, & imprecise.
3. (I tried, a thousand times, to say)
how I found in you the wonder I had always looked for;
always missed.
4. (we can choose how we react)
how rare and beautiful
it is — to me — that you exist.
5. (you)
your hurricane eyes
twilight smiles
shoulders
where
have you
been?
6. (define morning as a feeling, not a time of day)
what did you think about when you poured your coffee and did you feel relieved when you heard the sound of rain? what colour was the daylight; and does love ever happen to you, in the traffic of rush hour?
7. (I said)
“come on --
let me take you home”.
“I am here” she said “you are it”
8. (he asked me)
"have you ever been in love with someone you knew you couldn’t have?”
I’ve never been anything else.
9. (a single green light across the bay)
I will rearrange my life around your meaningless smiles —
when love is not returned to us,
we will never stop looking for it.
10. (holding on and letting go)
there is a space between breaths and heartbeats — an endless moment, the infinite, an entr’acte in the operas of unrequited love.
11. (simply because I found her irresistible)
and yet that’s what we do, isn’t it?
we hang onto hope —
in every hopelessly irrational way that we can.
12. (and so part of me is always a fool)
I will wait for you forever.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
This girl, old so and so
Has an affair with what's his face
Every one in town knows about
Except for what's her name
This guy from somewhere or another
Shows up after years lost at sea
Everyone is so surprised
Except for...you know who I mean
In the middle as my stomach grumbles
I go to the store for a snack
Three days later I turn back on the tube
They're at the very same spot they were when I left
This little blind boy with his seeing eye dog
Is in a hospital bed with issues
I loudly exclaim these **** allergies
And run back to the store for more tissue's
This mystery man goes down in flames
In a fiery plane crash
Wouldn't you know, as soap operas go
Two days later the guy is back
That's about all I've gotten out of the soaps
As this week draws to an end
But come Monday midday, what can I say
They'll start all over at the same place again
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
~I remember...
~For my two sisters
Future lovers
Are not knocking on my doors,
No line ups
Around the corner
Of my house;
The ladder to my window
Lies injured
On yellow
Lawn
Not nurtured,
Down bellow.
On the Queen Anne arm chair
Ashes of my
Fabulous years,
Wireless affairs,
No strings
Unattached
To my violin.
Sketches in the ****
Of lovers past
Are shivering,
Longing for my tapestries,
Trying, in vain, to hide
Under sad sepia.
Portraits, I promised
To paint
To Dorian Gray.
May still age
Given just a little
More time.
On the stage
I, Manon Lescaut, die,
Only sixteen -
Poor Knight De Grieux
Just another year,
please,
That I have not for sale
Anymore.
Pastels and aquarelles
Turned monochrome;
Chronos
Doesn't stop here
For a single moment -
Walks all over.
In the middle of my chaos
23/7
(What's an hour glass
Or more?),
Sleeps
Master Behemoth.
His fur coat
Once luxurious black
Has specks of grey,
One white whisker;
So are three of my hair.
Wise
Sybilla?
I don't think so.
It's not what
It used to be, my Master
Let's go out
To the open
Let's breathe,
Let's see new cats.
On the chopping block,
Let's lose our heads
Let's get lost.
Let's elope together
The weather
Should be
Just rainy-fine
For the Requiem,
For the funeral.
Tree Sisters gone
To the Cherry Orchard,
Uncle Vanya, again,
Left alone on the estate.
Seagull, before rain
Flies over my head
For the last time.
Author Notes
Two of my sisters are gone already.
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov's plays:
Three Sisters
Cherry Orchard
Uncle Vanya
Seagull
...To name just a few. Manon Lescaut by Abbe Prevost, two operas as well, one by Puccini, one by Esprit Auber. "A woman like Manon can have more than one lover." The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:07 PM UTC
I chewed through the streets to find you
up & down the avenues of hope
my burning heart raged with fire
when you were there
and you were all that I wanted,
all that I cared for
you brought out the potential in me
when others had shown me the grave
you released my creative freedoms
when others had me incarcerated
all others before you were mere
throwaways, a simple practice
leading up to you
but when the lust had dried up
and my yearn for your thighs
still watered,
I still cared for only you
its when you became the exact opposite
of everything you’ve ever shown me
that’s when the love became scarce:
I could not stand the sight of you
I could not fathom what you’ve become
I could not grasp what lurked behind those fiery eyes
we were once aggressive lovers of dark bedrooms
and now passive strangers on blue-grey streets
and when we cross each other’s paths,
you fidget with your knick knacks
and watch your soap operas
so, I must go
out into the cold
where it is winter
where it is always winter
where the harsh winds sting
and the frost bites as the snow storms
back where my heart still rages on
in the streets I used to chew
through.
Mar 6, 2025
Mar 6, 2025 at 7:42 AM UTC
I am not an ordinary person.
I am no genius,
no artist,
and barely a poet.
I have no great life's work,
no opera,
no magnum opus;
but I'm no ordinary person.
There are no great lovers
waiting for my arrival
at the docks,
or morning my departure
as the ship sets sail.
No major sporting events
with crowds of fans cheering
and booing my every
success and failure.
Nobody takes pictures
of me or gawks at my pose.
Nor does anyone ask
for my signature
on their favorite
piece of paper,
which happens to be
stained by the ink
of my own words.
No one praises me
for my work,
or thinks I'm the best
at what I do,
whatever it is I do.
But I'm no ordinary person.
I have no son or
daughter to look up to me.
Parties aren't thrown
for me, and I am not
on the top of anyone's list,
not even the **** list
my enemies make.
I don't dance very well,
and I'm not a good singer,
songwriter,
musician,
or composer.
I'll probably never
be on TV or
in the movies,
no that's not
gonna be me.
But my life's work
is its happiness,
my operas are
my own personal dramas,
and my magnum opus
is this life itself.
For I am like you
the extraordinary person.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 10:27 PM UTC
Kippers and toast for breakfast,
washed down by a fairtrade Ceylon,
eagerly anticipating the Christain Aid appeal
through my letter box.
Aware of others earthly disengage
their morning monotony flickers through their lounge,
consummate hypocrites watching the repeat soap operas,
the profundity of their silence radiates through to the adverts.
as they had a cause too,
until its auto recluse with the
outside world
the news slot borders on paranoia
a dent to exclusivity.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
paws pause on pavements -
a union fresh out of blackmail -
waste collectors
start sizzling
new trash - contemporary psychotic disorders are
goon makers -
purple heads on
blue bodies cause a skirmish -
you're happy
you're shameless
little piggies in a bay of meat -
fast track to coffee cup sleeves -
I believe in Mississauga
soap operas -
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
Astilleros De Veracruz
Independence street.
~~~~~~~
The summer sun went down on our love long ago
But in my heart I feel the same old after glow
A love so beautiful in every way
we let it slip away
I was too young to understand to ever know and comprehend.
You my Adam and me your Eve
owned our treasure,
buried in paradise by a stream;
all lost upon a hillside stump.
where the road bent in.
There I've read between the lines
your love was written not
in any shifting sand but in heart.
The Earth's sand doons account
for the measure of my sorrow
for our loss.
Recovering that memory chip saved
my life averting neverending
pain an upside down cross.
A love so beautiful a love so free
A love for you and me
And when I think of you I fall in love still again as every good man is taken.
A love so beautiful in every way.
Your love now transfers to my new love finding me adrift in that dream.
A love so beautiful it is written
In poem, and in song.
Seen in movies, operas
and lullaby's to heal hearts strong.
Stripping the mind of misery
and pain as lost is found.
A love so beautiful it's read sparkling
as diamonds in shifting sands.
A love so beautiful kept secret
in our cave of wonders for lovers
writing daily to one another
where magic and true love abounds.
A kind of love to everlast.
~~~~~~
By: Karijinbba
Approved by Rdd and
Michael Bolton in Hollyeood.
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 9:09 PM UTC
Through the masks and obscured within the lies, lays the truth unsaid in which all despise
Too much had been appraised, and much was fitfully un-right, so vastly dark within folded light
He was King, and she forever his Queen, still they hold each others hands, a thrilling vice in which they teamed
Their faces lit with withering sight, flightless eyes instead of cocky fulfilled and streaming plight
They tangoed to flooded phantom operas and darkly lit scenes, set with bloodset roses and heartfelt keys
Bowing inside the night they longfully romanced, ballerined on fruitless olden toes that would soon become cramped
Whispering together, they flee against the mournless sounds, that crept and prowled outside the bounds'
Deciding a long time ago to dance their lives away, to live within the fleeting joy and feel their heartbeats sway
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
If you think this might be about you, please, don't stop reading.
Though I might not know you yet I have probably encountered you before.
We probably avoided colliding but secretly we wanted to. Maybe you are one of the boys on the bus who, for a sixteenth of a second makes my heart pound and my fingertips go numb, hoping that you'd notice me.
I want you to play your tongue across the piano keys of my teeth.
I want us to sing the themes of Pucchini operas while we make rainy Sunday pancakes.
I want to walk with you through the vineyards of your homeland.
Let me take the weight of your world and put it somewhere beneath my shoulders,
for me to carry with me.
I will never use us in the past tense.
We will never look sad in photographs
and our airmail correspondances will be kept in floral boxes and hidden
for one of our daughters to discover.
Our love will be in the brushstrokes of Signac and Monet.
We will discover that the island of Hawaii
is like the excess emotions of the world
that have congealed out of the earth
to be comforted by the rocking waves.
The sunsets hearts of the people will welcome us.
On the black earth
they walk
their hands filled with sun bleached coral stones.
And they spell out messages and write out the names of the ones they love
so even God can read what's in their hearts.
And when the world takes you from me
which it undoubtably will
I will scatter your ashes in the places we have walked.
along the vineyard trails
and the mountain peaks
and in the deepest oceans we crossed for one another
I will let go of you
let you leave my hands on the winds that rush through Death Valley
while I drive along the same highway
that we carved together.
And I will return to the island of Hawaii
carrying white stones to write out your name
for God to read.
May 17, 2011
May 17, 2011 at 7:20 PM UTC
I’m so nice, I’m so nice
Poppin’ ‘bout life and poverty
Saluting freedom, then liberty
Barbering ‘bout broken homes
Police brutality and fake politics
Then, puttin’ one shoe, upon a petal stool
Next day, breakin’ da number one rule
Shakin’ da jewellery, just like a toff
Makin’ the op-po-sit-ion, just take it off
I’m killing them, I’m killing them
Soap operas, sports 24/7, real life reality
What has dat done, to da young ones mentality
Expect da government, to pay for their new home
Pupils wide open, but grammatically ****
Blaming Putin, instead of Democrats cockiness
While Trump and Republicans, are gettin’ on with business
Wake up USA, land of da free, but nothin’ without a fee
Be yourself, respect your elders, dats wat ya wanna be
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 4:52 AM UTC
take a vacation from ur vacation;
sit around in a silk robe; order a
masseuse & call a friendly dealer;
get a mani-pedi; smoking *** &
watching soap operas [I'm not in
right now - call me back Monday]
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 7:42 PM UTC