"pamphlets" poems
Vote for him or vote for her,
Vote for anyone you like,
Use your vote don't lose your vote,
If you believe in all the hype,
The hype that's being pumped out,
By politicians by the score,
Posting posters and pamphlets,
On your window and through your door,
They're all after your vote,
A vote to get them a job,
Some are career politicians,
Some are just there to rob,
When the voting's over,
And their seats have been retained,
They just ignore the public,
Till it starts all over again.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
some greedy little bitter man has put together a picture-perfect person and out of pure laziness and malignant attempts at control he pays off a psychopath to make it happen but we’re just a little body, flesh and bones come between them and their paychecks so why not make it easier? they made a factory out of our garden and nothing grows in factories it’s manufactured, easy as one two three four five six, we’re all sitting on an assembly line waiting for some alcoholic man to shout at some pimply-faced twenty-something “FASTER! FASTER!” so it begins! press of a button, we’re created, step one: your parents were given the baby books, kids! infants, they’re all the same anyways. they’re not individuals yet, they haven’t been encoded so relax, parents. want them turn out like you? sure, do what your parents did, worked out well, eh? been occupying this factory your whole life, then? well anyways, step two: they spend less time with you because you’ve been in this world for three years so it’s time you get out on your own…. step three: they gotta YELL and scream and children aren’t supposed to touch things or say things or scrape their knees because that’s more work for the adults, and they work all day, just like they were programmed for, good little machines 'cause they forgot what it’s like to be a baby or an animal or a plant or a God but also the resentment, a child wants to live but how ridiculous? there’s no life in industry… all about the money baby step four: you buy your education because it builds your character because money says power but when did meaningless power equal respect? I don't know but they force you into reading the same old instruction pamphlets left in the break room at the plant for the past century or so and five: your turn to work for fourty years in this polluted place because it’s hard to break free from twenty-three years of moulding into a cookie cutter you never did fit, that’s why it hurts so much when they try to push you through, your muffin-top is sliced right off and you’re contorted to fit the view of perfect sugary sweetness but just to make sure you're ready they coat you with vanilla icing to cover up your imperfections, perfect, now step six, and this one is the doozy, and because you’re **** broke: go back to mom and dad’s and grab those baby books and again and again and again the cycle repeats and repeats and repeats….
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 9:03 PM UTC
While sitting at a café once
a boy of sorts went by.
His clothes were bright, he wore a suit
a purple, orange tie.
He looked around him while he walked
and then I caught his eye.
His hair was wild and fairly long,
his shoes were bright and new.
His face was lit up with a smile
and said “how do you do?”
He waved his hand, his giant hand,
the smile quite simply grew.
He walked on over, then he sat
down on the chair across
from me and all my company
a friend, his wife, my boss,
and handed me a brochure of
Learn how to play lacrosse.
“The name is Nathan Douglas Day
of age I am nineteen.
I have thick hair that gets quite gross
which then, I have to clean.
The knots that form, they almost dread.
You do know what I mean?
But hair is not all that I am
there’s skin and bones and thought,
but even then, that isn’t much
my weight is almost naught.
The mem’ry in my brain is small
which leaves much to be taught.
The people call me names to do
with where they know me from
like, Mugbo, or the wanderer,
or rang-rang, or Nathan,
or Nathan Douglas Day and some
don’t call me anyone.”
This speech of his, it left me shocked.
What kind of life was this,
to have more names than anyone
from this metropolis?
I was so puzzled and confused
there was something amiss.
I said “Okay…” and looked straight down
to where the pamphlet lay
and then began to read about
Lacrosse and how to play.
And Nathan snapped his fingers loud
and got a piece of cake.
A strawb’rry shake came next and then
a plate of biscuits came.
he offered them around and said
“they all taste much the same.”
We ate them all. He sat quite still.
I learned about the game.
My boss and friend were wondering,
who was this Nathan day,
this boy who came from nowhere and
sat down and seemed to stay?
They asked me with their eyes but I
did not know what to say.
Then Nathan started talking to
the wife of my good friend
he made her laugh and laugh and laugh
and laugh it didn’t end.
We all wanted to hear the joke
he wouldn’t say again.
“Lacrosse seems very difficult”
I said to stir the air.
“It is” he said “I played it once
but now, I would not dare”
I wondered then why he would hand
the pamphlets out with care.
I wondered maybe did he work
in trade from door to door.
I asked him this and his reply
it shocked me even more
“I do not hand them out” he said
“I found it on the floor.”
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 7:49 AM UTC
*keep folding your cool designs
they hold afloat all your dreams
waiting on that raft
to it all*
1.
how I marvel at your vigour to grab any sheet of paper
to create shapes to your fancy
your vision sees further-use in adverts and pamphlets
so creative and undaunted by the wide-ocean
windy-rains may come, whip away your lovely paper-boats
but you set forth fleet-footed in salt-spray
your eyes follow their route on bobbing-smiles
you watch their trail and scout over rocks
yes, they sink soon.. yet, you don't cry
how you run ruddy your cheeks -- oh, how you do inspire!
2.
I didn't mean to silence you
when you sang your song
it's just.. I had a headache
(but you know -- that is poor excuse!)
may the lilt in your voice carry so high
and I pray that grace be mine
when you speak your thoughts
3.
black wings with orange-beaks congregate on the shore
beauty untold when they all take flight
high up in the sky -- what a sight
a flock of blessings in the rain
flying over smiles on paper-boat
*with every flap, thunder rolls its power
and there's little place for lightning to hide
its splendour
it crashes smack-bang within
the silent-blubbering
of sightless-whales*
may dreams land sweetly
and yours..
come true
S T - on 2 march 2014
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
**** culture”
...
Even the phrase slices my tongue and cuts like a double-edged sword of double standards.
...
The same double standards that say that a girl who wears makeup is a ***** but says that if she doesn’t then she’s ugly.
...
The same double standards that say that if a girl wears a skirt then she’s desperate but if she wears jeans then she’s stiff.
...
Double standards that keep even the strongest girls asking “Who am I supposed to be?”
...
The double standard that require **** kits with pamphlets like pamphlets are gonna help us get better.
...
**** culture requires underwear for women with a lock on it, password and all! Buy one get one free, not of the underwear, but the rapists!
...
**** culture, the same one you see on the news and in the streets and schools and stores and malls and parks and sports and on the ******* sidewalks.
…
This next line is for the man in the beaten up red car who cat-called me when I was 15 while I was walking to my friends house last summer: No thanks, I don't want to “smile, little mama”
…
This line is to the sixth grade teacher in my old school district who was fired for sexually harassing and abusing his students: Who do you think you are to be putting your hands up shirts of 12 year old girls?
…
This next line is for the man on the news who said “Well she was wearing a skirt, so she was practically asking for it” Excuse me, sir, but that glass ceiling was made of glass it was just asking to be smashed, right?
...
The patriarchy shatters around their fragile masculinity and breaks into one thousand pieces before cutting the survivor’s wrists because no one ever believes them.
...
This is the stigma that is delivered upon the doorstep of **** culture’s house by the UPS worker named “Societal Pressures”. The package that no one wants to receive. It knocks at your door but you try to keep it locked.
...
“Knock knock?” “Who’s there?” **** joke” **** joke who?” **** joke who isn’t ******* funny”.
...
**** culture is the societal pressure that is put on us to be beautiful, not for ourselves, but for the man who sees us every morning.
...
**** culture is the demand to smile for the old man that we just passed on the street near the bakery but keeping our mouths shut when we have something to say.
...
**** culture is standing in front of the mirror everyday before school making sure that I can't be targeted for anything that I'm wearing. Looking at every seem, every angle, every button and zipper.
...
**** culture is how I (along with my friends) can't walk by a group of boys without pulling up our already uncomfortably high necklines and ducking our heads.
...
**** culture runs in the veins of every girl, woman, and man that is subject to society.
...
**** culture is the phrase I'm not supposed to say but I say anyway because I deserve to be heard.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 4:50 PM UTC
The loving puddle in the gutter off market street-- the one that fills with dirt and **** and damp newspaper, plastic soda cup, strange indecipherable Chinese pamphlets with bleeding characters. She smiles at the sun and renders its visions on her face, and with great tension attempts to demonstrate her willingness, her blushing consent to being totally subsumed by its whims. Of course she trembles at the diurnal stampede of feet, but is not afraid-- for she too speaks in eternity. She has evaporated before-- she has kissed the incessant sky over Marrakesh in the soft morning and dreams of the sparkling mountainsides in the night, when she is divided by callous rubber tires or cast below by competing distant rains. Yet she has always found her way back home; Nestled in the subtle indentation of road besides the brickway near Battery.
"Dewdrop, let me cleanse
in your brief
sweet waters . . .
These dark hands of life"
It was one of the waning days of winter, in the blurred haze of rains, when we left the coast and began our journey home. As she drove, I watched the pebbled streaks roll across the window into great vertical streams, to be cast off indistinct along the stationary road. Upon all our sides, Even the black-toothed mountain tops lost their grandiose summits into the fog. Off the road, next to the sagging remains of a gas station, a man sat beneath the naked fist of an old willow tree. He, with a teal umbrella, twirled the nylon circle so that the collecting sheen of water spun and spiraled centrifugal out into the bombarding camaraderie of fellow drops. The damp fields sat empty of life behind him, casting into evanescent black oceans of dirt. As we hurried past, I turned back-- and following him with my own watering eyes, I watched for as long as I could--until he too faded silently into the mist.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 3:27 AM UTC
She is a Goddess held upright
In the light.
Her face shines blossoming among the clouds.
The words she speaks are of lyrical proportion.
Her body is a temple of sheer devotion,
One whom I worship. Yearning to protect.
She shines her light upon me,
Revealing the inner working of her mind.
The hieroglyphics and pamphlets deciphered by gentle lips.
Shes not just another girl nor another woman.
Her crown is woven above her brow, easily mistaken as hair.
Her influence knows no bound.
Devouring every inch of my thought.
Her voice is infinite,
Her soul dances as a child knowing the beauty of outside.
She is a Goddess of love, one of infinite wisdom.
Her sighs are one with the wind.
Spreading throughout the whispers of her voice.
Filling my dreams with the lucidity of open eyes.
I close my eyes and see her standing there.
I smile, picturing her soul dance as freely as a child knowing the beauty of being outside.
If only she knew what I saw everytime I looked at her
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 4:07 AM UTC
A shadowy shop with
Shelves that bend and buckle
Under the weight of years.
The dust of the decade
Lies undisturbed
Volumes lined in motley ranks
Anthologies, albums and almanacks
Heaped in
Precarious stacks.
A few flaking pamphlets.
Dream-like sepia images
Dog-eared and damp
Bulge from mildewed and
Musty manilla.
Some are excited by
The acrid smell
Of old books.
Not sure that I am.
A bargain box or a treasure chest
Who cares.
Festered and forgotten
Between the yellowing pages of
A railway timetable
Lie someone's drawings.
Quite clever.
A little deranged, if you ask me.
Nice colours
But you wouldn't want them on your wall.
Jan 15, 2010
Jan 15, 2010 at 11:16 PM UTC
Loaded dice love affairs
with snake eyed girl, downstairs
on chance, is multiplying on chance:
roll, bet, blackout, squeeze and a dance
with the winner.
He’s tall, with a
casino shirt and a seven card suit.
Linked up to the left arm of him is
8 ball eyed girl. She potted her way ‘round the table,
blonde haired wisps of hair
occasionally covering her view.
And now snake eyes is no longer new.
She left with haste, a wind a scent following her tail,
back to her hotel room, complimentary towels, free shampoo.
**Check out the blog for poems and pamphlets>> http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com/
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
watching as my mother is dragged up the stairs
by her arms and hair
I get pushed down them for my efforts to try and stop him,
she is shouting screams into the wall -
they go into the bathroom ,
on the other side of the locked door, my blood runs cold.
next to me my siblings and aunt cry.
only screams and whimpers escape under the crack in the door
words of : “please stop”
“help”
“no - you are hurting me”
he said “ i just wanna talk to you” . then my memory stops until the police are inside the house
Question them both. My mother in the kitchen -
he is .. i don’t remember , it doesn’t matter....
i sit on the stairs that he painted white not that long ago , where my friends and i had stuck mirrors on each step , making the stairs look like they are floating.. kinda... i do not feel.
The cops stick around for less than 20 mins , arrest my step-dad.
As they take him away , i run upstairs watch from the window. It is a grey london day , they duck his head into the car and drive.
i do not feel.
the downstairs bathroom with stone + aqua tiles , collage of posters , family photos , newspaper clippings, postcards and play pamphlets become’s my hole in the wall for the next few hours. i cry. it is rain, matching the growing darkness outside.
i feel bad for letting the police take him away without saying anything.
i do not feel.
the shouting arguments
heard whilst i try to fall asleep , night
after night had been hiding the extent of unhappiness
of sadness expressed as anger in them both. At the time i could only smell fear
on their breath.
The next time there would be a yellow green bruise on her face and
screams at 4am.
11 year old me
has few memories of home.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
Self appointed prophet
Putting forth prayers and
Pamphlets as you tear
The room asunder --
No regard for mortals,
But you brush it off with
A smile so sweet, a touch
Of the arm and divine influence --
After all, it’s your duty
Hands raise in the air,
You plead us to join you,
To save our souls and
Get redemption in turn
For a half-hearted prayer
If searching souls and
Turning them pure is your
Mission, then dear Susan,
You need to face the mirror
To truly find God
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
Sheepishly held-down dental floss
guitar strings and cracked hands
like sink-side toothpaste.
Cuspid picks in a mint-scented, plastic bag beneath textbooks
and a zipper rusted like gingivitis.
A backstage house of pamphlets
slurred time like novocaine speech. Thirty-two people sat at coffee-stained tables talking about their routines between sips of créme de menthe cocktails and water.
Fluoride lyrics dripped from his mouth as people closed theirs.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
Mundane celebrations to mask our ever closing demise
Working 9 to 5s, never fully enjoying our limited lives
Never knowing which day will be our last
So we choose to slave away for a world
That we will never fully experience
In the hopes our successors will enjoy the fruits of our labor
But inevitably enjoy the same propaganda pamphlets that their parents once read
And slave for a world, that their successors might enjoy
All the while, the reapers scythe sharpens.
Sep 4, 2021
Sep 4, 2021 at 6:06 PM UTC
Someone left me a *** of marigolds
on my white porch floor
Afraid to pick them up
I left them near the door
The paper boy knocked them over
dirt spilled out on the wood
The mailman stepped in the dirt
and smeared it as he should
I righted the *** and saw it was dry
then left it in the afternoon sun
and the vermilion sky
Days went by and the preacher called
He asked about the plant
I shrugged my shoulders and took
his pamphlets fast
No one ever told me where those
marigolds came from
I assumed it was the devil
as he was the only one
Who knew I killed my husband
and I would go to jail
A trial would condemn me
they would hang me
by a nail
If you receive such a ***
know your time has come
Leave the marigolds where
they are to die
Giving you time to just go on.....
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 4:47 PM UTC
"BUG"
I saw a Bug Battle,
in the cracks of the street Blood and Struggle
Their plastic screams and cellophane curses were almost like yours and mine.
Until a brave one crawled to my ear,
and he told me of his trial in the street crack theater,
I grinned as if I cared, he smiled like he had the time
He said "in whose camp does your banner fly, and can I have you on my side?"
He loaded a Pistol while I replied:
I said: I'm anti-pro no shout catechist, so keep your pamphlets political activist,
You take your cause for lack of a purpose in life,
pursuit of happiness, "eudemonia" good spiritedness
you're living proof that ignorance aint bliss
Pray "Libira nos a malo!" and Free Tibet!
But you never prayed for the souls with affixed Bayonets;
so I wave like the man being shot from the cannon;
born on this chunk of warm rock hurling through nothing;
who only on the front of spirit can fight;
Storm the Bastille of desperate life;
and dance in the street every night till the day I die.
The Bug Replied:
Know All, Know all, in the dialog to win,
two grants are a Franklyn one Lincoln's just a fin?
Posit value for this bug since you're so well balanced,
gaining perspective from the outermost valence;
you never killed what you eat and confuse "labor with action,"
but you think you're to evolved to fight for my faction;
We're currency baby as we live and breed,
BASTILLE for you ATTICA for me!
better get in the frae my anti anti teacher
before it ***** you along with every other fighting creature;
I'm going back to me cell where I breathe a little freer;
but let me give a final though like I'm Jerry Springer:
If happiness is purpose than you can call my purpose love,
to survive I fight the Battle and to me you're the bug.
Thunderstruck, I sat on the curb,
realizing I could be a "social surd;"
then I saw my small confessor get killed in a raid;
I would have stomped out his assassin if I wasn't so afraid;
instead I rose to my feet, and walked straight home,
locked myself in, and wrote out this song,
I think of the bug while I'm dancing in the street,
every time my neighbor throughs a sneaker at me;
I feel his wrestles spirit longing to fight,
while I'm drinking and singing in the middle of the night,
than it hits me:
The bug was right
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
antique grit
he screamed at her in the passenger
seat
slammed the doors
four wheel drive
four fist punches
floral bruises
blooming on skin
color like milk bottles when they're shaken
in white gloved hands,
buttons on wrists.
church pamphlets
printed with jesus love
the man in the jeep screamed
through his lungs
and religion was scheduled on his sundays;
but today wasn't holy
and abuse looked nice on her oil painted skin
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
It’s a free country, whose prices are skyrocketing,
skyrocketing with the number of secrets.
Pick up pamphlets proclaiming promises,
but look how the fine print demands your liberty.
Everything is written in the same language,
the exchange rate for a few dollars.
Pieces of paper riddled with numbers, dollars
burn through pockets, leaving scars with pain skyrocketing.
The poor and huddled masses all speak the language,
exchanging on the black market fragments of skeleton secrets.
Torch in one hand, book in the other, let’s ask Lady Liberty
why the cobblestone was pressed with broken promises.
Collect the torn shreds of scattered paper promises,
recycle, dye, reprint, now you have dollars.
Hear the cracks ring through the bell of liberty,
sending a sound shockwave skyrocketing,
blowing the dust off old, forgotten boxes stuffed with secrets,
lies that became incorporated. We all cry in the same language.
A father speaks to his daughter in the language
of soccer games and zoo trips. Shattered promises,
fill the gaps between their hearts, fueled by secrets.
Problems he tries to fix by handing her a few dollars.
His excuses keep coming and her frustration is skyrocketing.
She desires greener pastures, to run away with liberty.
In Korean it’s jayu. In Russian it’s svoboda. Liberty
translates to the same message in every language.
Liberté, the distance between oceans is skyrocketing
as worn hands struggle holding glass promises.
La libertad! Paper sons are born spending hard earned dollars,
confusing pesos with dollars, their lies with their secrets.
The walls are willing to whisper your secrets,
silence can be exchanged for handfuls of liberty.
A binding contract, you’ll get paid with dollars.
The ultimate truth: it’s the universal language.
Homes are built on a foundation of hollow promises,
with no door to escape, and the scaffolding is skyrocketing.
Freiheit! Voices skyrocket into one language,
tearing holes in liberty where promises lied,
it all costs something. Dollars buy secrets. Dollars hide secrets.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
Honey was my favourite word
because it was so many things
it was a noun
an adjective
It was your lover
is she on your lips
on your tongue?
Honey flowed through mouths
or into them
it was nourishment
and God promised the Israelites honey in paradise
so it was my favourite word
and God gave me words as my honey
so I took it and made paradise
where honey flowed through streams as
words flew from my mouth
and my daddy called me
honey
so I stuck my words to pages
and passed out my paradise like religious pamphlets
because writing was my religion and I wanted to spread it
like honey on toast
so the world could taste the nourishment of words
and be satisfied
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
I inherit the tome of your life nearly complete.
The first pages well-worn and traveled by your daughters,
Now yellowing and stiffening before the onslaught of grandchildren.
The middle is clean and organized,
The pages laid out in the brick of a self-built home,
The words of 'wife' and 'child' recorded with care and detail.
As the chapters progress, your handwriting turns.
Tidy inscriptions widen and loop, and mastery becomes primitive.
In the mire of your later stories I am lost, as - it seems - you are.
It is hard to discern the fact from the fiction,
The present moments from the conjured memories.
In the final pages, there is a remarkable renaissance.
You shed the child's scrawl and the dimwit's jargon,
And the master stands before us once more.
You write of pain, of struggle, of fear,
And the pages crack and fall out.
Closing the book and adding it to the shelf,
Your story is not yet ended.
All around are novels of lives,
And they take from yours their inspiration.
There are four novels of daughters, and four of their husbands
Twelve of grandchildren, six of their spouses
Thirteen of great grandchildren, and three to be delivered.
There are books of neighbors, books of friends,
Pamphlets of patrons, and journals of soldiers.
Each a part of your story, each a part of the library
Each magnificent, and each unique.
And in the center, care-worn and complete,
Is you, grandfather.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
fingertips trace the
splintered podium.
clear my throat,
once,
twice.
"We shoulduh' seen this coming."
great opener.
**"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.
Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.
Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.
Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,
and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.
We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.
We all got divorced.
We all got into politics.
Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.
Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.
We shoulduh' seen this coming.
But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.
The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.
Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."**
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.
they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.
**"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.
Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.
Get stoked for the funeral pyre."**
all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.
no one even got a chance to applaud.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
wise men hack through tea leaves. pitch their sermons underhanded.
then wander off. they walk divided. as one. seeking;
they merge into a path, more ocean than open road.
a Stillness, of no roman craft, but deeply engineered;
there
they gather to
disperse pamphlets,
more
steam creased and yea thick
than Answers.
they flock to a star made of Not Orchids, with brittle bones.
they sew bubbles to the souls of their feat
of Reason.
they peter pander
to the crocodiles, ticking in The River.
and salt their crumbs of wisdom
with their
tears.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
The doomsday preacher has a lot to say
about what’s going on in the world today.
He quotes the scriptures with a loud voice
so as to point out that we all have a choice.
He addresses his words to those ***** passing by
which is usually at times with such a piercing cry.
Some of the people stop and listen there for a while
wondering if what is spoken may not be full of guile.
The words that he speaks talk of fire and brimstone
coming down on us all unless we repent and atone
from the things we all do which are against the law
and accumulate sin barring us from heaven’s door.
He stands there alone in the street as if one transfixed
though the message loudly preached is not ever mixed,
and handing out certain pamphlets of the printed word
for any who care to read later what they haven’t heard.
Rarely does he pause at all during the time of speaking
but continues on for the sake of any lost souls reaping.
Like one long ago who was seen crying in the wilderness
preaching of those things that require God’s forgiveness.
_______________________________________
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
there were dandelions on the grass
dear girl, the smell of an Alcatraz flower is fresh on my linen
but sometimes I look back
and wonder if this city wears a too thick a coat
while it struts pantless over the sidewalks of
Macarther Park
there is liturgy mumbled, a woman waving her hands in the air–
Sunday school prayers being learned in Spanish
tri-folded pamphlets on the floor
and gum over the pavement blackened by the cooperative march
of immigrant workers speaking in all tongues and carrying
on their backs, the tower of babel while halted at a red light
heavy cargo trucks speeding down Alameda Street
wearing down the road and the patience of drivers
tents multiplied, and R.V's lining the streets
the old buildings being torn down and neighboring apartments getting face-lifts
"beautification"
costs
more than headshots–
more than a rhinoplasty–
more than the real estate of DTLA–
when you see two kids come out of a tent with their school backpacks on
–you begin to grasp the price
Is this what Keats meant: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever "
even while destitute
the neon pink on their bags seemed like another gift of spring
and their perseverance the paragon of a psalm of life
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 11:07 PM UTC
***** sock law
states satisfaction is not done
there are things still to be done
like the commodities of sanity
that bathe every street
as Leo Szilard street--avoid the police, avoid the police.
Her fake fur coat
cleaves the words against her lover off
from the veranda stench.
"You're never angry with me."
standing in Moscow
passing out pamphlets
about Communism.
"Everything I want
and I
couldn't be unhappier."
Sudans pass by, catchy music plays, and the waitress is late
with our order.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Fiery free moments
Are coming for me
They took us to London
Then New York City
As clear as the gel pens
You had while you lived in the sticks
Along with Slip'n'Slide
All the boys you played with
Always paid for your tricks
When the bizarre ill-willing troche
Trap men in their snares, and everywhere
it seems everyone's begin to stare.
Into my eyes (As a tug boat and its bride)
My dad's corduroy ties (In the closet upstairs in the basement)
You wouldn't dare, would you? You wouldn't dare
I embraced the tide that took away our guts
our stuff
when enoughs enough
enoughs enough
So carry around your game in handwritten pamphlets
While you delve into the reasons you didn't want them laminated
When I spoke to Commander Owens ("Let's say the town didn't go wild")
But rather you and I I
Left too long perhaps another time
Remember, Remember
Recital time's at noon
The pianists' laminate cut off the last bar and he's starting in 2(2)
The priest asked Justin if he'd come in earlier too
Venomously he cast aside the bride and groom
So we played Slip'n'Slide for the wedding party in our living room
Dancers start on the left then double-back with the left inside
Turn their bodies, dip their hips, restart and double-back to the right
But before the wedding party, she proposed to him with his favorite song
In the San Francisco Airport arrivals, when he turned the stereo on
Parked at curbside pickup laid down and started Slip and Sliding.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 6:26 AM UTC