"outfitted" poems
meanwhile,
the Big Fat Yellow Bootay
was getting right tired of
waiting for the election to end.
so,
she set off down the highway
going ninety five...
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY!" she cried
as she gunned the engine and
threw herself in gear.
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY! MOTHER *******
twice she cried,
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY! MOTHER *******
this second time
for extra good luck
with the unfolding election.
cool Fall breeze caressed
her yellow metal,
her big fat yellow bootay,
a glorious day to
be out on a drive!
well, except where she had
come from.
beep beep
beep beep
always driving her
beep beep beeping insane!
it shore nuf was quiet
out this way!
she turned the shiny
silver dial to turn on the
radio.
'gonna have to get me
some better speakers
one day soon.' she thought
to her big fat bus self.
and what came out blasting?
"That's Alright Mama,"
by who else?
but the King!
Elvis!
Elvis has left the building
and now,
Elvis is ON THE BUS!
she didn't quite know all
of the words,
but what the ****
she sure could sing!
As the big fat bus
with the big fat bootay
was driving along,
singing joyfully,
she glanced in the rear
view mirrow and what
did she see?
why the ghost of Elvis himself
was sitting right there
right in the back of the bus.
He starts strumming on his
own guitar and singing,
'that's alright mama.."
so she turned off the
radio to listen
to the ghost of
the King,
Elvis,
himself,
singing in the back
of her big fat yellow bootay!
she also watched him eating
a lot of food
in the back of the bus,
her bus.
his ghostly figure
seemed to
fluctuate between fat Elvis,
and skinny Elvis,
like a seesaw.
by and by
says he,
(not the really fat one
but not the really skinny one
neither.)
'I need a pit stop.'
says the King
so the big fat bus,
with the big fat yellow bootay,
asks,
asks she,
'you wanna stop at the next
stop & go,
or
the next
fizz & wizz,
or
my fav if you really
need a constitutional,
the stop & plop?'
at this particular junction in time
this ghostly King,
was in the shape
of Fat Elvis
but very cooly outfitted,
bellbottoms and rhine stones
or were those all diamonds?
note to self,
the big fat bus
squirreled away,
check on that.
are those real or not?
more mulha is always
good
and this just might
be mana from heaven
in the form of Elvis the KING
himself
and maybe just one
of those diamonds
will fall out and
get lost in me.'
mighty strange happenings
going on around here in this
big fat bus
with the big fat yellow bootay.
' the stop and plop little mama,' elvis replied
with that
ohhhh,
soooooo,
divine Elvis drawl
and that darling little
thing he did with his mouth,
but was doing now
as he was sitting there in the
back of HER big fat bus
with HER big fat yellow bootay!
OH MY,
it really is a
HOKEY POKEY day! she sighed.....
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
Zebra-striped cushion covers on soft-white chairs,
cream topped calorie delights, inviting -
this patisserie in Nairobi:
"you're welcome" the smartly outfitted
African girl spoke in flawlessly accented English
as I pore over the menu - a posh girl
dressed in haute denim and a sleeved top
walks in and spoke French in pouted lips
as she found her corner spot, reading;
an Asian couple walk in, wife in hijab
and baby in tow, as the man sneers at me and
answers 'assalamu alaikum' on phone
as I ponder on identity when
the French matron in Yoga tops walks in
saying namaste to me, and calls out for Henry -
her outfitted and bespectacled pomeranian
oh don't we all want to be someone else
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
Single life is sweet
And a lover’s life is a dream
But then there is that
Space in between
That doesn’t seem real
At all.
It’s the fall
From cloud nine
To the loneliest limbo.
It’s watching sparkling sugar coated single earthlings
Below show off their uncommitted free spirited
Confectioner outfitted
Figures and naked fingers
Bubblegum ***** call blazers
And frosted fickle flaked fedoras
Suiting each been-there-done-that suitor
In runway Yong Wild and
Free
And then you see
Above
Airy fairy angels in love
Wearing pale peachy perfection
And creamy chiffon
Adorned in pearly promises
Baby’s breath and fresh roses
French kisses and rubbing noses
And of course
The stupid
Valentine’s Day cards.
But you are far
Away from either world
You are a girl
In silent confinement
Trapped
On Cloud Five nothingness
Like a time bomb
A volatile child
Ready to explode
At any moment
So kept
In icy isolation
So that no one
Could hear the cries
Of your eruption.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Kicking pine cones , hands in pockets with my favorite scarf on ..
Outfitted like a business man with something important to decide ,
a lawyer testing a juries intellect , like an important subversive agent with a clandestine government ...
Walking the fence line , dressed to save the world someday , my flashy duds turning heads , yet their only clothes , and clothes never did make the man so they say !
Fancy leather gloves , gold cuff links , cashmere sweater with well planned schemes ..
Upscale hero with a prominent address , four star restaurants , high end assets ..
Caviar and red wine , penthouse vista .. Fancy cigars and first class tickets ..
I'm still Cocoa Cola , cheese and crackers , homemade biscuits ..
Forever overalls , laying hens and sour mash whiskey ..
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
I outfitted my worn-out clothes
Then in the far mirror, I see myself
I look behind the old me
Look pass the masked he wears,
Staring…
After what seems like a few seconds,
I finally asked him;
“Have I neglected you?”
He didn’t answer…
A single tear fell in his left eye
And then I understood…
*“I am sorry, I let you stay behind
masked for too long
muffled you for quite some time.
We all know society is cruel place to be.
We need to be strong and I needed to be stronger.
It was for our sake.
But then it was just me being a coward
- afraid to faced reality.
Now look at us, we’re both crying for the decisions
we’ve made long ago. It was not your fault,
I’m to blame with all of this crap.
I made you do it, I convinced you with my
Fears. And I am truly sorry for that.”*
I break down into sobs. He simply hugs me, not saying anything.
Then he fades away.
I dried away the tears I shed
And found something,
a feeling I never knew he give.
I found forgiveness.
I was able to forgive myself
From the things I did.
To stay past the past mistake,
To face the new kinda old me…
Then I realized;
It is important to forgive yourself
To be able to move forward.
written 09/27/2014
© Pax
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
Cosplay Human
the art or practice of wearing costumes to portray characters from fiction, especially from manga, animation, and science fiction; a skit featuring these costumed characters
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
this cosplay of human we so oft effect,
movie projection of shaped variations,
semi-firm but mostly pliant,
bone not-so-hard-as-we-believe,
draped in skins of tissue pre-perforated,
we are forms that can last a century,
yet shrivel back to fetus in days,
for lack of simple water...
think human and know simultaneous,
billions of earth persona and
billions of cells in each
*by for of -
the people,*
each masked, each outfitted
in uniforms of differentiating gaps
more alike, all unique,
masses of differences of constructs same,
this cosplay is a preeminent miracle...
all of us
nakedly similar,
all naturally defiant of time,
all defeated by time, naturally...
this skit we play routinely,
costumed in a manner similar,
yet different, to distinguish ourselves,
and mark as group members
pretending to
vive la différence!
what import all this, pretty words
that tell us what we know instinctively?
just this...
I see you
perhaps you see me
changing my costume
not by choice,
still do not wear a
masque
my cells my words,
no cosplay,
my humanity on parade,
my file open to inspection
dare you visit the beginning,
when passion drove me,
the early version,
when I was not circumspect,
and my poems
were passion plays,
verifiable truths
and cosplay was not
part of my vocabulary
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
you never liked me
i was your second choice
i was your insanity
outfitted in black
bleak rain drops caress my face
but i mistake them for tears
i mistake them for feelings of
regret
remorse
sadness
filling me up, i'm about to burst
so please just say it
out loud
you cheated
on
me
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 2:25 AM UTC
Bullets littered the black pavement. Each clip for each man. Groups who did not see eye to eye, has made this once respectable street a storm of misunderstanding. A worn car outfitted for the mission at hand skid to a stop. The ruthness confrontation waged forward, caught a a brutal stalemate. The men and guns forced a futile attempt to charge in. Soon the streets became littered with the organs of loyalty. Only hours later, the winds whipered stories of total loss for all. Mill and Main was left with decomposition, and a car. Rusting over time.
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
“She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.” ~Proverbs 31:26
Born upon dry desert winds
To a welcoming place of the Lord
Her tongue corrects those with sin
Her heart exudes the Holy Word
A quiet peace follows her home
And graces her as she’s out and about
She lives by the truth that she’s never alone
Never is there a moment of doubt.
Girls will be girls, but no excuse is permitted
For her, the standard is highly taught
Grace is given and mercy outfitted
Biblical rules of gold are wrought.
Eager and young, filled with joy to the brim
The woman of God holds a gathering
Candles light their vigil in the dim
Sister in Christ, yet wisely mothering
She is humbly quiet, and yet she is strong
A guide and example to mirror the Savior
Sincerity permeating, saturating each song
Love and obedience encouraging her behavior
Some cannot hope to navigate
The waves and currents that sway the young
Blessed are those who have someone to demonstrate
Even more blessed: the one by whom it is done
She rides in Elijah’s chariot,
Traveling far from here
Staff and cloak for those who’ll carry it
Left only for those who hold her dear
Adventure awaits, full of precious life
Each day filled with Christ’s communion
Many will miss this noble wife
But meeting is certain in Heaven’s Reunion!
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
she has eyes like ice
and a mohawk the shade
of bubblegum
she's an artist
and a misfit
outfitted in
ethereal attire
the flows off her
alabaster skin
like wisps of shadow
or tuffs of smoke
she chews on her lower
lip when she thinks you
aren't looking and has
a nervous habit of
biting her nails
the polish is chipped
and cracked in some
places and sorely
needs a new coat
at first glance you
might think her fragile
but the subtle smirk
that tugs at either side
of her mouth belies a
quiet confidence
a take-no-prisoners
sensibility
a fuck-it-all
attitude
not grounded in apathy
but nurtured in non-compliance
her lack of conformity is more
than some youthful
stage of defiance
she is disobedient and
everyone says they're afraid of her
that she scares them senseless
but i kissed her once and
we stayed friends after
i think she knows me better
than i know myself
she stands in the corner
of seedy concert halls as
cigarettes leave a haze above
the heads of pre-teens and
old metal-heads nurse their
alcoholic beverages
everyone pretends she is
somewhere—or even
someone—else
but not me
we stand together
sometimes we hold hands
and i catch her smiling
out of the corner of my eye
from time to time
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
A thousand grasshoppers hop
from blade of grass to blade of grass
in the overgrown countryside
Playing a melodious melody for me
concealed somewhere in the grassland
Chirp, whistle, thrash
From early morning
to the dark of night
The sun’s born in the east
but we watch it die in the west
The spider weaves her web
a silky complex blueprint
that only the imagination of nature can manufacture
Like the spider's design stenciled from one place to another
Everyone is abundantly outfitted in life to be extraordinary
The cicadas hibernate for seventeen years
before emerging from earth
before emerging from split shells
dug into the bark on forest pine
Imagine their terrible twos
spent locked inside the ground
Angst-ridden and ready to greet
and eat the world
in buzzing clouds
blocking out the sky
Earwigs are born from locust husks
I've seen it with my own eyes
Crawling down from a tree
with seeds of sea urchins
falling and littering the ground
The sunlight never reaches the bottom of the ocean
Only the glimmering light of the angular fish
Luring prey into a mouth of awaiting ********** teeth
The effects of nature can be profound
If one only listens to the sound
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 10:41 AM UTC
You and I,
We could entertain ourselves
With a single word,
A moment in the valley,
With only the stars as our witness,
A shot of our favorite bourbon,
Or even just the sound of the trees whispering-
Outfitted with only the nakedness of this life
Hands held, lips touching, just our breath.
We could have everything and more.
You’ll just never know it,
Until you open your eyes.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
There is the ancient story of a shepherd boy
whose king outfitted him with armor
to ready him for the challenges of the day
and the boy could not walk
so he threw off the armor
picked up his sling
and tended his father’s flock
with peace and joy freely erupting in song.
My armor is not wealth or wit
I cannot make myself fit
into the current conventions and hype
trying to conform to the normal type
stops up the energies that yearn to flow
freely and gleefully and urge me to go
to the dawn, darkness, clouds and sun
to wrap myself in words that run
like sparkling streams
and windswept dreams.
Poetry is my armor for each day
where worries and problem allay
where I search my feelings and mind
for the word elixir loosening knots that bind.
This armor does not weigh me down
but frees me to my triggering town
where I find and create the poet me
and the landscape of my soul’s poetry.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 8:45 AM UTC
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Relate Articles:
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
.1. when I said I had a odd sum of days clean
she said "I count on your days the way a catholic counts on rosary beads"
but I'm no saint and I'm destined to let you down again
2. when I have nightmares it's just my dad crying over my dead body
and she wonders why I never call when I never know what to say
3. I started skipping my meds again because I got sick of feeling normal
now I'm starting to see my dead mother every time I look in the mirror
4. I think my point is life is becoming a very morbid place to be
and I think about killing myself every time I wake up
but what if the last time I hugged my dad was dripping from the shower that he wrenched me from and outfitted in steel hand cuffs
what if I never hear her say she loves me again
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
We never really changed did we?
We're still just children, the term adult is only a title paid in lifespan.
There's no real requirement, it took less effort moving forward then it did standing still,
Like there was no real reason I needed to try, life would push me off the cliff on my own, it outfitted me with a piece of yarn and told me to jump.
Like that would save me, I wasn't given a chance.
Maybe if my family cared more about education and less about alcohol- or if anxiety didn't riddle my lungs each and every time I opened my ******* mouth- but no, I'm stuck as a mangled corpse used as a warning to rich brats with close family
'Don't be like her, go to college, have kids, die with a family to repeat the cycle'
How many would truly want that if they hadn't been told since exiting the womb that it is their one goal.
We could have philosophers, travelers, those who are pure of heart and thinking.
Instead we pumped them full of lies, sent them off and hoped for a rerun;
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 5:34 AM UTC
wana make a devils brew
maybe you already have
its easy
just want something with all your heart
and never get it despite every effort
have you suffered an accumulation of insults and deprivations
is it not like eating barbed wire and rocks
a chewed claw
that lacerates the pallet
and tears the throat
as it goes down
loves corpse
the burial of the unrequited
a devil is dragged to life out of that grave
its every impulse retribution
if you don't kiss me
ill bite you
if you don't love me
ill hate you
if you don't caress me
ill beat you
if you don't **** me
ill **** you
if you think me ugly
ill disfigure you
if you intimidate me
ill darken your soul with fear
if you ignore me
ill stalk you
if you take from me that which i have not given
i will grow teeth
like cleavers a glitter
and eat all your dreams
if you enslave me
i will strip you of freedoms privilege
if you look at me sideways
i will curse your soul
with a blink-less evil eye
he is here on earth by gods decree
hurled down
to this head stone of a planet
this mud ball coffin
to kick the guile and ignorance out of us
force our evolution
all this submerged
underneath our civility
and good manners
if you want to see it
look at your own reflection
and make a face of horrors
roll your eyes wide widdershins
disapproving
are you not ghastly
the sin is not the skin
it is the limits of mind
we live in a world of devils fighting devils
each shrunken creature
thinking themselves godly
ridding war chariots
outfitted
with square wheels
and appalling blood stained hooks
is that not the history of the world
is Satan not a deity
an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth
GODS GIFT!
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
they were no more than little green plastic soldiers
outfitted with rifles and ammo belt
as a child they were set up as to be in battle
the foe was unknown
it was just how we played
what fun it was to pretend army
the cold war was waging
the threat of missiles
Russian missiles so close to our own shores
being launched from Cuba brought fear
we were still young and didn't really understand the danger
we continued to play army
marching with sticks we pretended were rifles
ready to take cover in the shelters we made in the vacant field
we were still having our fun
playing army
now grown up
many of my generation sit in congress
they still have their toy soldiers
they're no longer green
the weapons no longer resemble the rifles of our youth
and the toys they play with
are no longer plastic
they continue to put them to battle in other lands
they are still having fun
playing army
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
easier said than done. run the rain into my mouth, radio bugs, emits light, like heaven or a dashboard. nobody knows the white dismal, the slim stem calling metal frugal. every flower that seeds, every allergy season i wear the map to your place inside my cheek. it sounds like a mad hornet, like radio talk shows. more like talk showz. outfitted in taffeta, sequined up road rage with a pretty caliber, frosted lips. fuzzy with static, water levels are topic, as are flying ants, time travel. my big brother is a warning of parallels. slimy suit, slick hair; the gunshot is a warning with flair.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
Sometimes
I wish for a smaller heart,
single chambered,
with no excess capacity,
efficiently run, solitary,
tailored for one, outfitted perfectly,
with no room for give,
nothing wasted, unforgiving.
Sometimes
I wish for lower mileage,
less wear and tear,
a more careful owner,
not given over to road trips
to the beach,
to late night romance,
like in the movies.
Sometimes
preloved is prone to hurt.
Sometimes
I wish for less capacity
for love.
Sep 30, 2023
Sep 30, 2023 at 7:16 AM UTC
I found your old copy of
the Good, the Bad and the Ugly
while looking for The
Never Ending Story last night,
and for the first time ever,
I cried at the sight of a young
Clint Eastwood outfitted in
Southern drag, his
handsome face now dustied
beneath my fingertips,
wishing that you'd pat
a spot next to you on my bed and say,
*come on babe, give him a shot.
It's Clint Eastwood!*
This time I'd say yes, put the DvD in
and we'd lie together watching
the Good the Bad and the Ugly
all come and then leaves us.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 6:36 AM UTC
Beginning the movement, catches my eye amidst dead leaves in perplexing folly yet imagined many times before; in between reality and fantastical imagery conjured from a contemplative journey. Awake!
Riding beside the troupe blowing and skimming with a twirl of gaiety and precision, colorful pinwheels taunting beneath a synchronized sequence bequeathed with unknown passage and certain conclusion.
The wind becomes a partner that carries them like a beige velvet flying carpet, dancing to a silent orchestra intention; meandering to a landing pattern meant to rejuvenate yet another design.
They have no destination which is odd. Somehow they are both aware of the vaporous soup filled with magnificent color and lines and nary a thought about where to go; it musn’t be plied for satisfaction.
The mirth of it all! Acting as if there was control over their trip and showing off in a bodacious manner, the pile snaked and flicked its lightening colored tongue along the gray bespeckled pavement. Reciprocation came while the observant outfitted a seat on a similar trolly, arriving by the far sea of imagination.
We are twisted together and unfurled in a maniacal gavotte of sensuous interpretation, transporting us along a path of wafting field grass and bubble-wrapped white pillows of cloud; static except edgeless.
How can this be? We believed we set on foot for arrival only to chuckle later that we have never manifested an anchor of adhesion; understanding that we are perpetual and stirred with a never-ending abundance of transcendence.
Not farther away, not closer to anticipation. Centered in a profusion of ideas and symbiotic embrace; we are wrapped in cavernous layers of gradient billowing fabric that becomes what we see behind our closed eyes. It is never the same…
Once considered turbulence we now know is a replete carriage of weightless feathering, delivering dreams with unexpected alacrity and reassurance.
Now that theatrical scene before me has relevance and authenticity unto itself and my own participation. My attention has been captured and granted free access whenever desired.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
I. The Boy With The Cuckoo Clock Heart
Born with a frozen heart,
abandoned in
Edinburgh.
One kind physician
laid her hands upon him,
in a bit of medicinal salvation,
by placing a cuckoo clock
inside his chest.
Now an orphan,
among peculiar friends:
tear-filled flasks,
eggs containing memories,
and a man with a musical spine.
There's but one catch
for this boy:
his heart is fragile,
he must never, ever
fall in love.
Existence is undoubted.
But without this one emotion,
can he really live?
Love is a bitter token.
II. The Girl With Glass Feet
"It was a humid night,
later to become a hated night."
Upon an island sound,
feet first, she is slowing turning
into glass.
By sheer happenstance,
she meets a shy boy
who lives there
with an extreme fear
of being touched.
As she slowly disappears,
she untethers herself
from self-pity,
by teaching the boy the value
of interaction.
Inchmeal, he begins to reach out
and feels everything
she has lost to the night.
Love is a bitter token.
III. The Snow Child
"November was here."
A married couple,
in Alaskan remote,
suffering from one great sadness:
no child of their own
and unable to talk of it.
He's buried by
the weight of the outer ice,
she's crumbling
from inner despair.
And so on a rare
friendly day trek,
they built a child out of snow,
outfitted with mittens and scarf.
A day later it is gone,
remembered only in absentia,
yet there appears
a beautifully arrayed
creature of winter,
a little, lissome girl in the woods,
hunting with the red fox.
In wishing to understand
these encounters,
the couple come to love the child
as their very own daughter.
Yet will she ever accept them
as they do her?
Or see them
merely as snowdrops?
Figurines frosted over by
the harsh landscape
they each wander?
Love is a bitter token.
Jun 9, 2020
Jun 9, 2020 at 8:24 PM UTC
I recollect the whole thing as clearly as if I had awoke with the sun,
Dispensing with any alarm, fully awake and engaged.
I am on a gurney being wheeled slowly down a hospital hallway
(For it is clear to that workaday hustle and bustle
Is no longer of concern to me)
Which is all silence,
Save for the squeak and bump of my carriage’s wheels
As it crosses from tile to tile,
And the sheet which covers me is seemingly made of gauze,
For I can, as I pass by one to the next,
See clearly inside each of the rooms,
The tableaus being what you might expect in such a place:
A young man and small child
Fluttering about a mother and her newborn,
A middle-aged woman reading aloud
(But softly, almost mechanically)
To an ancient and clearly unheeding man,
Another woman, aged and frail to the point of being insubstantial,
Dabbing at her eyes with a frayed, damp tissue,
Exiting a room as an orderly closes the blinds.
At this point the scenes become incongruous, almost surreal,
As if another director has suddenly assumed control of the film;
There is a room where a Marlowe-esque priest,
All harlequin-outfitted and codpiece-clad,
Bumbles drunkenly about the room,
Banging his censer against the walls as he speaks in tongues.
But just as suddenly the settings become gentle, pastoral:
In one room there are no walls at all,
Only a quiet valley with dirt roads and small streams
And the sound, disembodied but palpable and oddly familiar,
Of bells tolling faintly and melodiously in the distance,
While in the next there is nothing save
A young woman with angels bending over her.
At this point, I have clearly reached my final destination,
And I expect to find a chilly and spartan space,
Harshly lit and sparsely furnished with metallic chairs and tables,
So I am caught unawares for what awaits through the doors:
Light, just light making everything below it a toy world.
The dream abruptly ends, as they are wont to do,
But it seems I found it oddly comforting,
And it is that which makes me so apprehensive.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 10:33 AM UTC