"opted" poems
I would have taken the easy path
But that would leave no room for glory
I would have picked out a comfortable life
But that isn't God’s kind of story
I would have followed a prettier road
But missed the most beautiful way
I would have clung to familiar things
But lived out my days in the grey
I would have chosen what’s stable
But grown cold, apathetic and bored
I would have sought out earth’s riches
But lost all that in heaven is stored
I would have liked more successes
But not learned so quickly of grace
I would have seen myself praised more
But given up knowing God’s face
I would have tied all my loose ends
But not known it’s He Who brings peace
I would have wanted for happier times
But traded a joy that can’t cease
I would have opted for normal
But not tasted rare delicacies
I would have preferred a man’s love
But been robbed of Divine intimacy
He’s chosen for me the high road
More jagged, more narrow and steep
So now I must travel this difficult way
Ever knowing it leads to the deep
Now I must choose to cherish His path
And trust Him to walk with me there
Now I must hasten to take up my cross
The fellowship of His sufferings to share
For one day this life will be over
And all my afflictions will end
It is then I will see what all this is for
In my Bridegroom, my Savior, my Friend
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
At times I heard the songs of the giants
who opted to sing for a glass of wine!
Like Omar Khayyam would sing to the grove of vine,
while singing their lullabies they wouldn’t mind,
defying the bloomer stars in the moonlights
gladly treading on the black alleys of the night.
Didn't they budge, didn't they bend to pick up
a potion of the sea, billowing in the dark?
But they opted out, just for a glass of wine!
To paint a glimpse of that gorgeous Saqi
till now they shun, lending the sun a paintbrush,
‘cause "if only it was colourful enough,” yet the sun
paints the enduring shades of the blue yonder.
But they turned around—just for a glass of wine!
The moon hanging low over the ocean took a pause.
The earth weighed down so deep is brimful!
Every sunrise paints new, loves to shine on once more
That delved-deep earth vintage taste, cooled in age-old,
now close by the hands breathe in, full of warm south.
Yet they opted out—just for a glass of wine!
Even the time is speechless, ask me not but why.
Still keeps an ear bent on the wall of the leaning sky.
Nor those who pop out with an inside scoop are ever drunk.
Nor they leak out, it’s a sea off the sea or Abe-Hayath.
It ain’t that small, it is the deathless spring of elixir!
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
Found myself at a dental clinic...
He was the best there was.
Unorthodox and eccentric,
But to the specialised craft, he was boss.
Ran through the bits and bobs
Like any normally would.
The poking and prodding and the mandible X-rays.
Everything cold and clinical, so was the mood.
Strange was what happened next...
Specialist and I then stood facing each other.
He leaned close and pressed his palms against my rib cage.
Held them there over a few breaths before it was over.
Then a brief chat, small talk initiated by the man.
Bespectacled and exceedingly chatty, small in stature.
Talks of politics and odd human behaviours...
What started off as friendly turned into a heated banter.
I then realised that along with his decorated credentials,
Was his propensity to be condescending and arrogant.
Him being the best, I thought I could let it all slide,
But soon enough I opted out of being a willing participant.
Couldn't stand his abrasive cockiness!
I snapped out of being cordial and passive thought.
I wanted him to just stop talking!
I went, "Well, are you going to fix my teeth or not?!"
He was stunned momentarily...
I suppose he hadn't seen that coming.
Then his features softened to a blank
I could almost read the unspoken words he was conjuring.
With an exasperated sigh of resignation,
He uttered his next words swollen with regret
"There's no need...for you only have four years left."
It dawned upon me that my timer has been set.
And then I woke up...
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
So I turned 32 today.
Penniless birthday,
almost.
Howling rains
woke me up
and I fell back asleep.
And the cat respected my
birthday.
Did not claw my lips like
my usual feline alarm.
The birthday flowers
in the morning
were vivid.
My mother bought them,
deep red and
deep yellow.
I requested
for birthday lunch
my mother’s
home-cooked burgers
and fries sprinkled with
iodized salt.
And I filled myself up
with them hot and crispy
fries
and didn’t care if they
stayed inside my guts
until 2014.
I never really liked cake.
Opted for a dozen original glazed.
Heavenly donuts.
Two of them tumbled down
the escalators.
The first birthday flaw.
Like a bleep in the
grand scheme of
birthday things.
I brought them to a Greek
restaurant.
My mom and dad
and two sisters.
Not really hungry.
Just hungry
for a different taste.
The salad had candied
walnuts among the greens
and the reds.
Progressive Greece.
Then a classic lamb dish.
Classic Greece.
And the waiters
in stuffy white
bellowed a birthday
greeting, dropping the “h”
from my name.
Belted out a non-Grecian
birthday song.
No Grecian dance.
But they gave me
an ice cream treat.
Lighted a solitary
blue candle, which
balanced on the semi-liquid
hills of vanilla, caramel and
walnuts.
The small ice cream hills
illuminated by
the dancing
birthday light.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
So I heard once that there’s always
some gnarly looking carrot
in every bag of carrots
and you’re supposed make a wish on it
if you get it.
But I didn’t have a bag of veggies
I had a jar of Gumby and Poki
shaped gummies.
Finally the day came when there
were only two Gumbys left.
One was bent in half and
smashed together
and the other looked as all the rest had.
I pulled out the sad little gummy and
made a wish
like it was some ugly carrot.
I wished my crush would kiss me,
And giddily I walked to a coffee house
because I was hoping he would be there
even though I sternly told myself that
he had no reason to be there.
I found the coffee house closed and knew
my wish wasn’t happening that night.
I talked with a friend about my woes
and she confessed her heartache.
We smiled and laughed and died
just a little on the inside.
We had hoped that in college we wouldn’t
feel like middle school girls
with unrequited crushes.
The next day he dropped off a fish
(and this is no euphemism
or pretty poetry slang,
I opted to fish-sit while
he went home for break).
After he left, and
feeling more than silly
I took out the last Gumby
and pretended.
I pretended that it was every wish
on a boy I had made
since I realized boys weren’t
completely disgusting.
On my way to class
I held the little gummy in my
frozen, clenched fist
and wished
that’d he’d kiss me before he left.
I made it really specific
because every movie I’d ever seen
with genies in it had taught me that
specifics were key to avoiding
mishap and mayhem.
Obviously, it didn’t come true.
And I feel like I’m back in middle school,
wishing on ugly carrots and stars
that look suspiciously like airplanes.
Everyone has crushes,
and still more wishes.
Why I thought
at the age of nineteen
when the glamour of Disney-endings
and romantic-comedy plots
had tarnished to realism,
that a Gumby gummy prayer
would come true,
well I’m not entirely sure.
Maybe it’s no matter how old you are
there are always ugly carrots
and shooting stars
and fast airplanes
and romantic comedies
and gummies in the shape of
kids’ show characters.
Maybe no matter how disappointed I am
there will always be unrequited crushes
and genies for wishes
and God for prayers
and heaven forbid
hope.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
Her beauty shined from within
With her golden hair and fair skin
But she still wasn't enough for him back then.
Ugly duckling...
She was soon labeled
All of her peers, joined in
Chanting and ranting
Ugly duckling, ugly duckling
She bowed her head and cried again and again
Time passed
And people moved on
She found she was better off on her own.
Reunions come and gone
She opted to stay at home,
Til one day she realized
She had become a swan...
No longer would she sit at home...
All alone...
No more...No more
Opening her door
She found freedom to explore
And everyone swore...
Anna May...Was gorgeous...
More so than the "chosen ones"...
Back in the school days.
One day she come face to face with...
Juan...but he was to good for her back then...
She sat smiled and listened while he chat...
How did this come about...
Your gorgeous lips, pout...
Round thighs and hips...
She smiled and said...
I am who I have always been...
You just never saw my beauty from within...
Juan, gathered courage and asked her on a date...
She smiled and said...
To late...
This swan...already has a mate.
Epilogue... Never Judge a person from the outside...whats on the inside, is what really counts.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
Hell, isn't it?
Your insides yearning to flee.
Don't give me that look, you ****
You deluded yourself, not me.
Didn't I warn you?
Didn't I tell you to stop?
But you said you could handle it.
You said you'll never tap.
But why is this house now empty?
Where did the warmth go?
I told you it will never be easy.
But you opted to start the show.
Now you left me with nothing.
As you ran yourself to hide.
You just proved again what a fool I am.
For trusting you sublime.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
Stars in their abundance
goodness knows
how many thousands
tiptoed over my little alleyway
in the dark but I didn't lose in sleep.
Nor even to the moon
I didn't tell my dream.
Crackling the roaring light of heaven
over the mountain of the dawn
the master painter shows up
with its bursting colour plate.
The deeply contemplating day shines
out of the night, it gets caught
soaked in overflowing colour.
But I opted for a blank paper
not a colour copy of my dream.
I wrapped my eye in it with my pride.
Now treading blindfolded on your way
and over to you, I give
me, my eye and my dream!
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.
A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.
Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.
How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for slap-sticked power.
By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Doltish vulgarity among the begrimed-glitch and old-grown-boring Jive.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC
*to further my point, as an eager reader in
a catholic school, reading about
the gnostic heretics, wondering
with my theology tutor upon the question
asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics
influenced mohammad on the sly?
i mean, they too believed a phantom walked
among men, and a phantom was crucified?*
my confirmation didn't take place
in a cathedral, as was due course for all of
us in being schooled, by a bishop
in brentwood cathedral,
i opted out... my confirmation came
in a russian orthodox cathedral,
in st. petersburg, when i watched
people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm,
with the priest mumbling
toward a golden altar, as typical in
the tradition, buttocks towards the people
or as in the western tradition
reciting in latin, before the nationalists
came and spoke the gospel in each
designated tongue so people understood,
a bit like having your back turned
against the people - speaking in latin -
and when i sat i the church
to listen to the choir singing,
some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me
to stand up, and pay respect to the golden
altar... he told me to stand up!
what cheek... what barbarism... only
in russia... i had to stop being bewildered
by the beauty of song and listen to
a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of
gold... THEN i was confirmed...
donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving!
mind the fact that i've seen the greatest
degradation of mysticism take place...
the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along...
in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along,
the idiots reminded me of it...
you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname...
you're educated: confirmation name...
that takes four spaces of consideration...
so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils,
folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces
of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god...
but only in writing... first name, baptismal name,
confirmation name, surname...
a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing...
same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw...
but experience-wise... un-original to the ****
not even a clone... not able to experience major
historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself...
a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior
if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper...
clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible...
too many inter-actants along the way
can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone...
different mr. john smith... NEXT!
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
My heart is in utter confusion
My heart bleeds
Tiny razors ***** and torment and cut me and my heart bleeds
No one understands the extent of the damage caused by such a deep betrayal of trust
No one understands the feelings of shame and blame
No one understands the pain of the memories
No one understands reliving the past in the present
Except those who have been through this hell
Broken trust is like a crystal goblet shattered by a screeching high pitched discord
It can never be fixed
My heart bleeds again
And just when I thought I'd bleed out & my soul would die
Fate opted to show me another side
Dared me to learn to trust
Tempted me with small glimmers of hope
And, again, my heart bleeds
But not in pain or disappointments
Not in self-hatred and hopelessness
This time my heart bleeds with hope.
My heart is in utter confusion.
It bleeds.
Tiny razors ***** and torment and cut me and my heart bleeds.
No one really understands the extent of the damage caused by such a deep betrayal of trust.
No one really gets why you turn into an emotional gibbering mess trying to hold your sanity together with duct tape and super glue.
No one with the exception of those who have been through it themselves.
Trust broken is like a crystal glass shattered by a screeching high pitched discord.
It can never be fixed - best to just throw it away.
My heart bleeds again.
Just as I thought I'd bleed out, my soul would die, and I would become this empty shell of functioning learned reactions with no thought or feeling, something happened.
Fate opted to show me another side.
Dared me to learn to trust, teased me with small glimmers of hope.
So my heart bleeds for what I hope is the final time.
Not in pain or disappointments, or even self-loathing and rejection of the hearts purest feelings.
No, this time my heart bleeds with longing.
This may be my saving grace.
And yet I am scared to death that this may destroy me yet.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
windmills turn
slicing days
as prescribed
moving water
as they do
set troughs
can't complain
there is no point
cycles set in place
grids buckle
like we're
trapped
live chequered lives
without ourselves
on deck
though paths
with every step
trod blind
at close of day
did we not take
that road
for steering wheel
this hand
grabbed
let's harness Self
remove the screen
and see
in this precinct
or yonder place
we've opted for
we took a route
with outcome
flawed
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
Ahh-he-che'em ack-ahem. Sorry, let me clear my throat.
One day I set out galavanting, looking for a high.
I meandered to the ocean shore and set a lively stride.
My eyes were wet, my heart was light as I looked out at the splendor,
About that time I heard a rumble, a sudden yearning for a chicken tender.
I galloped to an eatery in hopes of a hearty meal,
But had a measly handful of coins, so I opted for a deal.
The only place I found tat would accept my sum of coins
For anything sufficient enough to satisfy my *****
Was a gritty place called Taco Bell, but it was my only choice.
The cashier was a voluptuous dame and my trousers became quite moist.
She said to me, "what will you have?", in a shockingly low-pitched voice.
I was taken aback for a moment, but stuttered, "a number six, I think".
"Comin' right up honey", he or she said with a wink.
I just smiled shyly and went to go fill up my drink.
My food was finally ready, but I was a bit wary,
I could't tell what was in my taco - squirrel, beef or canary.
My hunger pushed me through my fear and I finally took a bite,
Although skeptical at first, my taste buds did delight!
I had finally finished with my meal and was satisfied and full,
But down below my abdomen I felt a mighty pull.
I had no time I knew at once and dashed to find relief.
The single men's room was in sight, but who should be a thief?!
The cashier with the arousing bosoms had stolen my salvation...
As I stood there in that Taco Bell I felt a curious sensation.
When normally I could have held it, a complete bowel prostration.
While the **** was pouring out like a broken sink,
My mind started to wander and I couldn't help but think,
*If the women's room is out of order, I wonder which she/he has,
A set of both, a meat-locker or a **** and nads?*
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
To hell with maintaining a fire just so faces could be seen.
I danced on the embers extinguishing little stars and I scribbled in my notes and waited for that one girl to shut up about Twitter and Halloween costumes so I could hear—
the fog dragging its tongue up the valley.
Finally she began to realize the contest she was losing,
took the quiet advice of myself and the wind and went
to go tuck herself
into the tent,
into the safety of ceiling.
But,
you and I
opted to be
coyotes on the hillside.
I took the trail away from our sleeping counterparts,
and flayed you on the dirt where I stripped you of your fur,
howling to the fog and plowing valleys in your flesh,
your legs grew into roots, and wove length by longer length
‘round all the sturdy angles, the anchors of my hips
and you, oh you,
you would **** the marrow from my bone.
And when we lay out, raw and steaming
knees bleeding from the drainage ditch,
a gnawing fades out, falls to dreaming,
we, peeling off a well-known itch.
Then we play a game with satellites
Where bouncing mirrors reflect our minds
And laugh when the reflections never fit.
I gather up my skin, step one foot in and
stumble when the tightness traps my leg,
You pin up your ******* to please our sleeping guests
that wouldn’t take to anything irregular.
On the upward hike ten million lights, ten million lives
herded on the table of L.A.
A Serengeti of fire, a mass migration;
mammoths marching, tusks dipped in flame
Sitting around campfires once taught vocal apes to rhyme
but a million conversations
bleaches each the other white
and now a million electric campfires
bleaches L.A.’s lower sky.
And though I stomped out ours
the ash remains a scar
where we had nearly forgot
how to speak by choosing to not.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:22 AM UTC
I remember sitting
On the tiny porch
Of my dad’s home
Offended by the sun
That continued to sink and set
Without pausing to acknowledge
My dad’s passing.
Offended by the cars
That continued on the highway;
Callous indifference, it seemed to me.
Even the birds at their feeder
Greedily fed and failed to look up
To mark the loss of their benefactor.
I found myself
Silently demanding condolences
In every encounter.
Not for the sympathy,
Or worse, pity,
But for the acknowledgement
That he was here
And now he’s gone,
And something,
However infinitesimally small
In the scopeless universe,
Has changed.
I have two cousins.
The first called my dad
Every month.
His regular call came
During the last days.
The decline surprised him.
He took a deep breath
And asked for speakerphone
Near my dad.
He told my dad
How much my dad had
Influenced his life;
How as a child,
he anticipated a visit from my dad
Like kids stay up to see Santa;
How my dad made my cousin feel
Like he was the most important kid
In the wide world;
How my dad gave my cousin
The otherwise unavailable
Sustenance of heart
Young boys need;
How my cousin had strived to be
Like my dad
And how he hoped
His own children see in him
What he saw in my dad.
That was acknowledgement,
Profound acknowledgement.
My second cousin called
Shortly after the first.
He had heard
That my dad was dying.
He did not ask
To speak with my dad.
He wanted to tell me
To call him
As soon as memorial
Arrangements were made
So that he could purchase
Discounted airline tickets,
To include a subsequent visit
To his son who lives
In the southern part of the state.
My dad was still living.
That, too, acknowledged something,
And served to impel my pending decision.
So I opted for
A less conventional
Memorial ritual
That required neither
Plane tickets nor attendance
Nor a frozen smile reception.
I would not suffer
Insincere acknowledgement.
I am sure I scandalized
Many acquaintances of my dad
Who enjoyed the social conventions of
The anticipated gathering
If only to point out the deficiencies
Of the event and the host.
I am sure I offended
And frustrated
And embittered
One of my cousins.
The other cousin thought
My dad would have preferred
Sincerity
Over a pantomime.
I would suffer
The disfavor and distaste
Of the discontented
With no difficulty.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
Teaching by Example
can be rather difficult
in a World where people seem to refuse
to learn how to teach themselves,
let alone have the humility
to concede the very fact
that there has been opportunity
that they have opted to miss,
however consciously.
To learn
is up to One's self;
no one else can, let alone will, do it for you.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.
A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.
Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.
How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for high-brow, White-men polemics
By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Based-vulgarity amongst the begrimed-teeth-sucking and homegrown-Jive.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
Animistic, not reminiscent
or exotic but disgustingly ignorant
of the ******* space in the present
A poem that doesn’t have to do with emotion?
Who let him in the building, oh, the same ******* who put 85
Security cameras and the same ******* who believes
Visible shoulders will create testosterone molded boulders
In the crotches of every boy’s too low jeans
I haven’t thought schoolwork was important
Since I knew what passion meant, and I’m no different
Than any boy or girl around but I know I am not anything near lost or found
Pertaining to a missing student.
Do you ever consider the other option?
That contumacious behavior is nothing to fear
Because although the misunderstood is misunderstood
Think of who told you should
Now what if they opted for could?
Or will you settle for chopping the wood for your fireplace
settling for our settler’s stolen goods
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:54 AM UTC
On the banks of the Sentinel River
A man locals knew as ‘The Boss’
Worked the controls of the drawbridge
Directing the through-trains across
The boss man was cheerful and helpful
Always whistling or singing a song
His gaze was both twinkling and piercing
His handshake both friendly and strong
His daily routine at the river
Saw the bridge back and forth from the edge
So the ships could pass freely beside it
As he watched from his post on the ledge
And then when a train neared the river
He remotely connected the link
Exact in the duties he carried
Of protecting the train from the drink
On the banks of the Sentinel River
A man locals knew as ‘The Boss’
Worked the controls of the drawbridge
Directing the through-trains across
The boss man was cheerful and helpful
Always whistling or singing a song
His gaze was both twinkling and piercing
His handshake both friendly and strong
His daily routine at the river
Saw the bridge back and forth from the edge
So the ships could pass freely beside it
As he watched from his post on the ledge
And then when a train neared the river
He remotely connected the link
Exact in the duties he carried
Of protecting the train from the drink
He held onto that train-saving lever
With a ruthless and desperate hold
‘Father?’ he heard from the drawbridge
The blood in his veins running cold
‘Junior?’ he yelled through the downpour
‘You must run son, like never before!’
But the warning he shouted to save him
Was drowned out by the oncoming roar
To go rescue his son on the drawbridge
Would never leave time to get back
To re-lock in the hand-governed lever
To save those in the train on the track
But to barter a life of perfection
In exchange for this train full of fools
Was too much to expect of a father
It was heartless and mean; it was cruel!
But a train full of people would perish
If he opted the life of his son
Two hundred and forty-nine humans
As compared to the loss of just one!
He could picture his son by the window
Looking out at the lights of the train
May I go to the bridge to meet Father?
To walk him back home, in the rain.
His firstborn was gentle and thoughtful
Compliant no matter the task
Most eager and willing to please him
Obeying whatever was asked
He took one last second to ponder
But his conscience, it already knew
He held tight to that hand-governed lever
And let the Northwestern roll through
Not a soul on the train saw his body
As it fell to its watery grave
Not a soul on the train heard his father
Mourn the son that he’d wanted to save
If you can imagine this father
Then think of our Father above
And we fools here on earth that He rescued
Done all in the name of His love!
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
i used to buy astronaut candy
when i was twelve.
in case you're wondering what astronaut candy is,
it's gelatinous goo that you squeeze from a tube.
the particular brand that we always bought
had a special tube.
it was dome shaped on top
with a hole in its concave center.
the point was,
you squeezed the tube,
out comes the goo,
and you lick it off;
most of us just ****** it out.
three varieties:
blue raspberry,
orange,
and everyones favorite,
white cherry.
in hindsight,
i guess that explains why so many of my friends
turned out to be so
"fabulous".
maybe we should've opted for the candy cigarettes.
nah.
****** pleasuring a plastic tube:
so much more fun.
May 31, 2011
May 31, 2011 at 7:58 PM UTC
My ***** felt a feather heavier than iron
As I’d opted for anything other than rollover
Whilst puking up that, “nicer,” guy.
The drink’s a ghost. The scold’s a mixer,
Soured on the rocks, Shaken, not stirred,
Stirred, not shaken,
And without a sliver of, “he,” who’d opt
Accommodate or acquiesce.
Call it, “transcendence,” I guess?
Born a realization that this world’s,
“DOG-EAT-DOG,” or,
“GOD-EAT-GOD,” or,
“GOD-TEA-DOG,”
And should I not comprehend
This very simple reality,
I’d be a doormat unto my own grave.
So I fail, I’m frail, and all for one tail
Prior the act that’d ever invoke,
“Leave;” even atop the eve of beggary.
Resolute? I’d opt for the longer life, perhaps,
Not that I’d wanted to live to long anyway,
But I’d made a choice,
I’d arbitrated one cardinal direction – elliptical.
I’d acted, placated, satiated, intimidated,
Decimated, defecated, wiggled my right pinky
And culminated a prayer atop altars, “godless,”
To never knock upon that door again.
And so, but one question remains,
“Did I?”
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
We met at noon between picnic tables and humid Maryland heat.
Either you or the sun made me dizzy, as I talked and you nodded.
We were both distracted by the thought of air-conditioning.
We parted in August among mini-vans and goodbye kisses.
My eyes followed the license plate as you drove away, we agreed to sail catamarans the next chance we had.
We had both noted there was something in the water that summer, something purer than the water from the Chesapeake.
We rejoined in December under a Caribbean sun, not as humid as Maryland’s, surrounded by water purer than the Chesapeake.
There was still a buzz around us, like the air before a Maryland heat storm, to convince us the year of letters was not for naught.
We fell back to old habits on the Dutch side of Saint Martin.
We talked like the future was a choice and we had opted out.
We avoided words like regret and yesterday and repeated words like now, now, now and we spoke in hypotheticals.
We planned our house, or what it would be if we ever got boring enough to say words like tomorrow.
We stopped speaking in July after one thousand four hundred days of avoiding the next.
We should have known we were doomed to fail when “our song” was by Old ***** ******* and “our house” didn’t include a family room.
We should have known when our plans never involved the word tomorrow.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 10:22 PM UTC
lately all my illnesses have me feeling backed into corners,
i feel so trapped, weighed down by debt and regret
i have no escape; this is the way my life is doomed to play out
and oh how i wish this were all just some silly game gone too far because at least then it'd find its eventual end
but no mother is about to tell the children when enough is enough
to apologise
say "sorry"
for locking me in the closet,
for making me want to stay in bed and waste the days away,
for making me hate myself so much that i'm convinced my disorders are more sane than i am.
these children know no boundaries
and worst of all is that they're my own; i am incapable of disciplining them, of taking control—
there's a reason i never wanted kids in the first place,
their ***** little fingers plucking at my brain and soiling my house.
Depression is the oldest—i had him before i even realised he was mine
Anxiety was next, and suddenly i knew why people used the phrase "terrible two"
i found myself juggling twins without really knowing where they came from: Suicidalthoughts and Eatingdisorder
once, i nearly gave them all up
as well as hope, and dreams, and life in general—
being a single father is hard.
i managed to put one or two of them in time-out for a while but there's only so long you can leave a child alone before it becomes
abusive
i tried my best at sharing the responsibility once
let myself fall in love only to find that it's not just children that can be abused—adults can, too
when i left her, my children's behaviour became so severe i almost felt like they were the ones that were heartbroken
that girl made everything so much worse
sometimes i wonder if i'd have opted for abortion, had i known i was going to parent such savage diseases.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC
Tearing off
Imperialists' mantle
True to his name Fidel
He had lit
To the oppressed masses
And to those in the dark
An much-needed candle.
Weighing things from
Fraternity's angle
And the truth,
Fidel was not remiss
In dispatching own troops
In far off beyonds
To fortify for freedom
Mounted battle.
Considerate Fidel had taught
Innumerable orphans,
Whose combatant fathers lost.
Frowning up on
Amassing personal wealth,
He was building
The human power
Of the 3rd world like Ethiopia,
Among others,
In agriculture and health!
Stooping
To glittering things
While many leaders worried
To hanker for personal gain,
Fidel Castro,magnanimous,
Opted to assuage
The marginalized's pain.
For doing so
The shameless&bloodsucker;
Imperialists were trying
To **** him again and again.
Yes, Fidle was their bane!
Though Fidel is no more
His legacy we shall live to adore!//
Fiedel Castro was a true friend of Ethiopia!
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC