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Cheyenne Jul 2015
Marco?
Where have you gone?
Marco?
Is something wrong?
Marco?
Why aren't you answering me?

Polo.
I never left my dear.
Polo.
I'm standing right here.
Polo.
Why aren't you listening to me?

Marco?
Are you close to me?
Polo.
Open your eyes and see.

Marco?
I'm feeling for you.
Polo.
I'm reaching towards you.

Marco?
Why don't you meet me half way?
Polo.
You're too far away.

Marco?
You're not hearing me.
Polo.
You're not listening.

Marco?
Polo.
Marco?
Polo...
Marco?
Marco?
...Marco?
Gabriel Jan 2022
that night, i wore a polo shirt.
i thought hey, i'm going to a friend's
dorm, no need to dress up, right?

so i wore a polo shirt, a yellow and blue and pink
thing. i'd bought it from a charity shop
only weeks earlier, when i was still exploring
a new university town
and finding not-so-hidden gems;
and sure, it was three sizes too big
but it was comfortable, and made me feel safe.

turns out, you didn't care about polo shirts
or tank tops. you cared about what was underneath
and i was drunk enough to let you - or,
well, not really let you, but i didn't need to dress up
so i wore baggy clothes and a smile
so i had half a bottle of jack daniels
and i had a nineteen year old point to prove
and i had a pill that you gave me
and i had - sorry, have - a therapist's bill.

but this isn't about you. i don't write about you.
i make a point of not writing about you,
actually. which is to say that i write about you
in a way that doesn't let you hurt me anymore.
i write about what i was wearing
(did i deserve it? in my 1970s male t-shirt?)
or what i was drinking
(it was university)
or how i tried to throw myself into a river
in the aftermath
(but i didn't, because i got thirsty, and i didn't
want to die thirsty, so i went home).
no, i'm writing about the polo shirt i was wearing.

cotton, i think. polyester, probably.
the amazing technicolour haze of am i sober enough for this?
who knows how many iterations
of the same lancaster charity shop
it circled through, old men with families
and wives and kids -
it probably saw birthdays and christmases
and, safely tucked in the back of a closet,
shielded itself from the almost-crisis of cuban missiles.

and then, me. a nineteen year old
branching out into the world for the first time;
a lover of poetry, maker of music, naïve and beautiful.
then, it was just a polo shirt, and i wore it
as long as it was laundered, for a month or so,
until december. not that i stopped wearing it
because it was cold. it just reminded me of hands
and hands and hands and
****, how many hands can a man have?
how long will i have to feel them?

i didn't shower the day after, just slept.
a hangover, right? just a hangover.
and then, when the hot water in my dorm
daily ticked on, i washed every inch of myself
to get rid of you, and your foam banana shower gel
that your mother probably told you to buy.

so, what compensation do you owe me?
what price should i put on things?
you touch it, so you pay for it.
one charity shop shirt, three pounds please.
oh this is DARK my apologies <3 i'm fine <3
Brianna Jun 2014
Marco, Polo
Marco, Polo
Marco, Polo
MARCO, POLO
MARCO, POLO
MARCO, POLO*

Marco, where are you?
You, are my Polo
onlylovepoetry Mar 2018
Friday night immodesty

theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty

the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes

aside:
helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,
hellooooooo

she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
betraying
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning

lips,
like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!

god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
stating
“what was she thinking!”

my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender

her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and  otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado

some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I

1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!

after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of
onlylovepoetry

9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
olp
Nathan Millard Dec 2012
I could smell your polo cologne from a mile away…

It wasn’t an overpowering smell but I knew it was coming
Even before I could smell it
I can still remember walking to the shower and passing by your room
Fumes drifting out like the vapor in a Hollister doorway
Only the dark clothing store was never as inviting as your room
Not in a comforting way, like a quaint house or camp fire invites you closer
                But in the way that apple invited Eve
   As if to say… “I dare you”

I will never hear jingle bells the same
Or be able to listen to Mac Miller without your voice singing in my head
Because it was so annoying having you loudly sing at the side of my head
But now it’s quiet, too quiet
Your croaking voice isn’t mutilating the symphony of car horns and street noises any more
I realize now however I preferred the musical chaos of having you hang out with me

This is not a love poem
This is a…
This is an…
This is an I guess I know how I feel too late poem
An I guess I should have said this poem

But without the absence of something we often don’t realize what it meant to us

You’re gone…
Not dead, you didn’t leave me, not a dramatic departure
You were forced to move
Due to your own stupid actions

After all I guess it was me who told you the reason to stay in a certain place can’t be a person

I would eat my words in my sleep if I could, because my common logic won’t allow it
but in my dreams I will; in my dreams I have a hopeless side of me, not counting every tick in a day to make sure it still runs the same as all the others, unlike the waking me does

But when I wake up those words still hang in the air and I realize they were best left said anyways

I think I wish I had said good bye
But with one too many letters un-replied to, I wouldn’t know how to say it
Because I don’t know which you to say good bye to
The you sitting in the hall with me at midnight
                The you who’s face drifts a little too close to mine
The you who can cry and admit he isn’t perfect
The you who knocks over stuff and makes a mess when we are cooking
The you who holds a stapler over his chest saying “dare me”
The you pretending he doesn’t know me
Or the one pretending that he hates me
I saw your many faces and don’t know which one to say goodbye to

So it’s probably best no good bye was said at all but I still feel unresolved
You stick to me, like a burr or a thorn
This feeling that I could have done more
I could have told you how beautiful you were so you wouldn’t try too hard to fool people into thinking it
Because your price tags and diet made you look appealing to some but not me

No… I was drawn to your eyes and how they always match your shirt
Your chipped tooth framed in your goofy smile
The laugh that escaped your nervous lips as you say something I know you don’t tell most people

I wish I could have told you it was going to be okay:
You would be okay if you learned who you was
It would get better if you stopped trying so hard
You can’t help your ****** orientation so you need not hide
You don’t have to hate yourself because you think some people hate you
Because some people didn’t and you made them want to try…

In ways I was an improved vision of yourself
And you were an improved vision of myself

If only I could run the football field, be attractive, be cool
Have people wanting me and wanting to be me
If only you were confident in who you were, able to sing, dance and express yourself,
Have people trust you and see that you aren’t afraid of judgment

But I’m not you and you aren’t me, I smell like trees and you smell like Polo
I am not afraid of myself, and you are
I try to be honest and you try to be someone else
I am still standing here and you aren’t…
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
We are heating up
A-glow--- A-star--- A-blaze
Many other well-lit planets
She's luminous like no other
Simply crazed__Fairytales

*She's Peach-Fruitti-Tutti
Godiva loves nuts
All the melt in's
*
Mr. Bacio-Hazelnut*
Mr. Pistacchio he got his nose______

Inside their sweets____Pinnochio
She's the Light-up Icecream Cone  

Moods are like ice cubes
hot and cold websites
I prefer cold zone
Feeling like
Eskimo in Alaska


Miss Prima Donna
Oh! Donna is her name
Gelatos are not all the same
We are not here to have
special privileges

Robin lost some ruffles
Polar bears ice Igloo
College boys with their sports mug
Polo shirts Santa hoo duffle bags
We don't know what she knows
or what he likes the stars
of the Cosmo we are not
here to win someone's love
OH! Yes Lotto

We are not professors or wizards
Harry Potters, they have some
Pots not a fan of pans got
some ****
**** so cool menthol smoke indeed
Around the Gelato in eighty days
The Race of a drive

computer clicks one-day creation flag
Hens and chicks laid the golden egg

Mr. Egghead meeting Conehead

His tasters choice  
 She loves Mr. Maxwell Mansion
This is Italy the Art sculptures
Sweet Gelato lips say a
thousand words of pleasure
We travel with Exotic lovebirds
Saving the Ice blue diamond
Icecream wreck what a she
gains more than a pound
Mama Mia,
not the Chia job plant
 Over the rainbow
chill out pants
Having Gelato clean
as mint float

To the waffle cone top
of the mountain sugar coat
Niagara Falls here
"Gelato calls"

What spaghetti my name is
Carretti

Mr. Alfredo his physique and
passion for food
Feeling like the comics
Having fun marveling
Carvel walking through
the love tunnel
  
Hot ladies how do they ever
Decide iced up inside

Hothead Alfredo throws
the dough
She coughs he laughs
The pizza everyone's
the head is turning beet red
Something is burning exorcist,
Lady in red pizza list

Back in Brooklyn best
Pizza and Italy (Rome) Venice (Florence)
But Bensonhurst Saturday night fever
With Nightingale Mr. Chippendale
He's chatting away on his cell phone

With her Gelato looking at the
stars of the men spiritual experience
The Cosmos feeling meltdown presence
St Thomas sunny like yellow
gelato melting

Being a saint please don't faint
A food critic dessert
*** a hex playful flirt
T Rex mighty green lime
The love fallout of coconut
He's the hottest man
on earth Pluto
Being whole flavor or 1/2 pint
of Vanilla Sky scholar or
Intermission Icecream internship
The Canadian cup another trip

  Nike air what an ice cream pair
Going back to New York City
Rockettes icecream kick
He's on his time feeling the royalty
Lets bow to the dogs best friend
French barrette in her ice blue
Corvette, she is 'Ice Queen"
Super Ice me, Hero

Do what the Romans do
Lend me your warm soul of hands
Getting married Italian medieval rings
For my next Gelato adventure
escape be polite on Google
Mr. Alfredo loves all kinds of noodle
The shape of Cone's to come in her head

Not an Antman, please or fly by night
Icecream Cone Head Batman
*But I am a woman named Robin
Christopher Robin, Robin Hood
Why are boys and girls name alike
**** good humor lady
Good humor truck
Where is her order head chef
shrimp scampi
In the islands of Sorrento

What a time for ironing
What a waffle shirt eating
his waffle
Icecream with ladybugs and dirt
So many varieties mental thing
Everything icecream you scream
What a college Varsity every year  
"Hot lady Gelato's" head of the dean
list oh! No
[Mr. Alfredo} ice cream chair with
another Gelato pair
Chiao for now
Gelato went a little too far I love Gelato lets travel with Robin and get some unbelievable Gelato but we need to go to Italy I was there it's amazing
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
The numerals II Sir I to another
alphabet
ABC* confession
DEF feared_***
My bowl spilled my
heart soup

Have Merci Beau-coup
The S was left alone my survival
Do you love my eyes primal
He points widely- tribal his
marriage finger my editorial
Be kinder strawberry sugar high
Do you want me to bite down
on my wafers
-I for the Ivy League his polo loafers

He's my (Lifesavers)
The bow and arrow I met my
dark sparrow what a rainbow
So intrigued my mystery arrival

Why on earth do you want me down?

To focus staying upright but kinda
Tight-Net gown

I am not a falling we have eyes
The face to face prize to be eyed
The Carribean
That Native American
Johnny Depp
When I make my first movie wish

The pirate birdseye rash
Al Dente ziti  Eggplant Parmigiana
The headless horse Dante always neighs
kills me on
Valentine day hearts lucky horseshoe

Eyes have frozen bird's eye
They thought I was
the sweet pea
He knocked me off
My Twitter tweets
  
I am the writer don't flood
My words everything is shaking
This is the Godly earth

So confused we feel-tightly squeezed
The earthquake head over heels down to our knees

She is sipping her tears down
In her chamomile tea thumbs up
The world is evaporating
like the dead sea
Bring everything alive I am
counting to 1*2*3*4*5

Down to my last words
I'm staying alive my life is more than
A Saturday Night Fever
But feeling down to my sunrise
Your heart deeply graved
I will betcha life has
more downs downward

Even when you wake -up upward

No way out of expensive
price tags we need to save
The give or take to remake
We need to finish not at
the end of the line

Where we were left off
Whats yours is mine

Sometimes you think
you are down
But life has you
well planted

To say I do
With his mind enchanted
Let me go up---++

The spirit is a complicated thing
I got wits to carry on anything

I need more guts
Now Bill said I do
Oh! No love me to please
me as I do

My Bill is always waiting
at the upside down table
Like the will-hunting
For God sake who is on first
Going up with the bucket list
Feeling down to adore me
You're going down Oh! Christ
Don't push my buttons
the elevator
I saw your Realtor
going to
The Skyline Hilton

I-O-U trillion hearts that were
down and wasted

Falling eyelashes no surprise
That stock exchange stars fault

Money lip up and honey
eyes down
Do you want this in singing
or shall we both go down
drowning

I'm going to wash that
man right out
? And sent him on
the way he's gone
The brainwashing Scientology
misery loves religious company
Like Humpty dump me
His "snoop dog so sad eating
like Pig whistle steak
Peeping Tom sales week
Anthony Perkins down to seek

The sprinkler shower
Hitchcock scene French Tickler
At Tiffany's Audrey
breakfast jewels Ruby
Hanky Panky pancakes

Like the Amazon in Prime
With fruit slashed smile
Love to love you baby at
Perkins eggs are dreamy
The shoot of ringlets hair screaming
Niagara fall and action roll fall down

You're a shade too hurtful
The red-brown chair or orange perk me
up the crown the Gala gown me

Life is so unkind why
do people smile
Going in and out the door
The rush the high like you could
mop her curls up but your hand down

Feeling inside the apple of the core

The teapot all fenced in pretending
The downspout- you're up-sprout
He's the roundabout -handle
A stranger is routing someone
is always cursing
You're going down

The game sports ball out
And your always looking
down at me when you
talk me out

Like a ring fight
falling black eye
Where is our coffee down
to nothing, she got a pink eye

Her words spilled over
upside down
pineapple printed dress

Having a breakdown
Do you want me down
I am the New York City girl
A clap of party hands
Uptown

A figure of speech when you get
lonely go downtown
To my number
address 13
what a lowdown
In the Wizard of Oz,
the  cowardly lion
crashed the window
My only lip Solo so low

My computer froze my red
rose wilted
I couldn't bring my smile
back to suit you

They were jumping for joy
Do you really want to
love a tomboy
Almond eyes of candy
Grease me down
Sandy
My pretty pink illegally
Blonde pill
Google on down with Bill

Joining the falling down crowd
But no one had a clue my face was
falling down all-stars feeling blue
When we're down and about or feeling all over the place the roundabout we cannot get over something that we go more down and down but be pulling our weight going up but who will fill our heart when you just about had enough
shireliiy Sep 2015
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Mark Armstrong Mar 2018
Are you listening to the whispers? are you feeling scandalised?
Harbouring ***** little feelings that you wanna sanitise?
Walk through the swinging doors of a catholic franchise
Ask em for that sailors knot a black-n-white man-ties

To the pairs of prying eyes his practical rebuke
Is a marital disguise and a tactical puke
Throw the garter ‘mongst the pigeons, the voluntary victims...
Whose single minds are filled with matrimonial conviction

Paired up poets pool their miseries; the price of art
Each miserable synergy - the sum of its parts
Did he swear that he’d hold you ever dear to his heart?
To love and to cherish til your knees did part?

If she wants you like her father and you want her like your mother
What the hell are you gonna do when you’re bored of one another?

There she stands on ceremony all silk and sinew
While the vow evicted from his Adam’s apple continues
To stutter as the panic builds like stifled farts
Til it splutters its devotions on her lady parts

Her eyes sentence you to sit though your neck-hairs stand
She’s the ****** ****** written in the lines on your palm
Old scores squeeze sideways through her gritted teeth
And he takes on the debt of every promise she believed

Hide the love-bites in a polo-neck, your love life in a Rolodex
When the ***** hand of happen-stance runs its evil down your keks
Cos like the indelible digits on your bathroom mirror
Love is for life until you dress it with liquor

If she wants you like her father and you want her like your mother
What the hell are you gonna do when you’re bored of one another?

We are but experiments, seven billion shades of wrong
The clever ones stay celibate, the others pass it on
That’s an easy line to settle-on in present company
Single-riders in the peloton to pick up the debris
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Waverly Nov 2011
Who Am I?

Well,
I must be
that ******,
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.


Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.


You see,
I must be
that ******,
a stand-in
for all other *******.
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******,
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******.

In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.

But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."

And If I happen to be a ******,
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******,
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******,
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******."

Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.

And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******,
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-*******
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."

Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,

not in the ****** way,

but the familial,
species way.

Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.

Search and find "******"
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
This game of Marco Polo
you mimic without shame
a wild one you are truly
your love, I can never tame

You lead me up the garden path
like a teddy bear to a picnic
you crush my heart like seashells
in Mary's garden, hiding in the thicket

I am blue now, and never blow my horn
thinking still, of my love for you
I wish that I had never been born
after the fairy stories you told me

I am now just a thread bitten doll
a puppet with nothing to do
and wonder where Andy Pandy is this evening
maybe, behind the bike shed with Louby Lou


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
judy smith May 2016
For the fifth year in a row, Kering and Parsons School of Fashion rolled out the ‘Empowering Imagination’ design initiative. The competition engaged twelve 2016 graduates of the Parsons BFA Fashion Design program, who "were selected for their excellence in vision, acute awareness in design identity, and mastery of technical competencies." The winners, Ya Jun Lin and Tiffany Huang, will be awarded a 2-week trip to Kering facilities in Italy in June 2016 and will have their thesis collections featured in Saks Fifth Avenue New York’s windows.

The Kering and Parsons competition, which is currently in its fifth year, is one of a growing number of design competitions, including but not limited to the LVMH Prize, the ANDAM Awards, the Council of Fashion Designers of America/Vogue Fashion Fund, and its British counterpart, the Woolmark Prize, the Ecco Domani fashion award, and the Hyères Festival. among others.

In the generations prior, designers were certainly nominated for awards, but it seems that there was not nearly as intense of a focus on design competitions as a means for designers to get their footing, for design houses to scout talent, or for these competitions to select the best of the best in a especially large pool of young talent. Fern Mallis, the former executive director of the Council of Fashion Designers of America and an industry consultant, told the New York Times: “Take the Calvin [Kleins] and the Donna [Karans] and the Ralph [Laurens] of the world. Some of these people had money from a friend or a partner who worked with them, but they weren’t out spending their time doing competitions and winning awards to get their business going.” She sheds light on an essential element: The relatively drastic difference between the state of fashion then and fashion now. Fashion then was slower, less global, and (a lot) less dominated by the internet, and so, it made for quite different circumstances for the building of a fashion brand.

Nowadays, young designers are more or less going full speed ahead right off the bat. They show comprehensive collections, many of which consist of garments and an array of accessories. They are expected to be active on social media. They are expected to establish a strong industry presence (think: Go to events and parties). They are expected to cope with the fashion business that has become large-scale and international. They are expected to collaborate to expand their reach, and while it does, at times, feel excessive, this is the reality because the industry is moving at such a quick pace, one that some argue is unsustainably rapid. The result is designers and design houses consistently building their brands and very rarely starting small. Case in point: Young brands showing pre-collections within a few years of setting up shop (for a total of four collections per year, not counting any collaboration or capsule collections), and established brands showing roughly four womenswear collections, four menswear collections, two couture collections, and quite often, a few diffusion collections each year.

The current climate of 'more is more' (more collections, more collaborations, more social media, more international know-how, etc.) in fashion is what sets currently emerging brands apart from older brands, many of which started small. This reality also sheds light on the increasing frequency with which designers rely on competitions as a means of gaining funds, as well as a means of establishing their names and not uncommonly, gaining outside funding.

The Ralphs, Tommys, Calvins and Perrys started off a bit differently. Ralph Lauren, for instance, started a niche business. The empire builder, now 74, got his start working at a department store then worked for a private label tie manufacturer (which made ties for Brooks Brothers and Paul Stuart). He eventually convinced them to let him make ties under the Polo label and work out of a drawer in their showroom. After gaining credibility thanks to the impeccable quality of his ties, he expanded into other things. Tommy Hilfiger similarly started with one key garment: Jeans. After making a name for himself by buying jeans, altering them into bellbottoms and reselling them at Brown’s in Manhattan, he opened a store catering to those that wanted a “rock star” aesthetic when he was 18-years old with $150. While the store went bankrupt by the time he was 25, it allowed him to get his foot in the door. He was offered design positions at Calvin Klein (who also got his start by focusing on a single garment: Coats. With $2,000 of his own money and $10,000 lent to him by a friend, he set up shop; in 1973, he got his big break when a major department store buyer accidentally walked into his showroom and placed an order for $50,000). Hilfiger was also offered a design position with Perry Ellis but turned them down to start his eponymous with help from the Murjani Group. Speaking of Perry Ellis, the NYU grad went to work at an upscale retail store in Virginia, where he was promoted to a buying/merchandising position in NYC, where he was eventually offered a chance to start his own label, a small operation. After several years of success, he spun it off as its own entity. Marc Jacobs, who falls into a bit of a younger generation, started out focusing on sweaters.

These few individuals, some of the biggest names in American fashion, obviously share a common technique. They intentionally started very small. They built slowly from there, and they had the luxury of being able to do so. Others, such as Hubert de Givenchy, Alexander McQueen and his successor Sarah Burton, Nicolas Ghesquière, Julien Macdonald, John Galliano and his successor Bill Gaytten, and others, spent time as apprentices, working up to design directors or creative directors, and maybe maintaining a small eponymous label on the side. As I mentioned, attempting to compare these great brand builders or notable creative directors to the young designers of today is a bit like comparing apples and oranges, as the nature of the market now is vastly different from what it looked like 20 years ago, let alone 30 or 40 years ago.

With this in mind, fashion competitions have begun to play an important role in helping designers to cope with the increasing need to establish a brand early on. It seems to me that winning (or nearly winning) a prestigious fashion competition results in several key rewards.

Primarily, it puts a designer's name and brand on the map. This is likely the least noteworthy of the rewards, as chances are, if you are selected to participate in a design competition, your name and brand are already out there to some extent as one of the most promising young designers of the moment.

Second are the actual prizes, which commonly include mentoring from industry insiders and monetary grants. We know that participation in competitions, such as the CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund, the Woolmark Prize, the Swarovski, Ecco Domani, the LVMH Prize, etc., gives emerging designers face time with and mentoring from some of the most successful names in the industry. Chris Peters, half of the label Creatures of the Wind (pictured above), whose brand has been nominated for half of the aforementioned awards says of such participation: “It feels like we’ve talked to possibly everyone in fashion that we can possibly talk to." The grants, which range anywhere from $25,o00 to $400,000 and beyond, are obviously important, as many emerging designers take this money and stage a runway show or launch pre-collections, which often affect the business' bottom line in a major and positive way.

The third benefit is, in my opinion, the most significant. It seems that competitions also provide brands with some reputability in terms of finding funding. At the moment, the sea of young brands which is terribly vast. Like law school graduates, there are a lot of design school graduates. With this in mind, these competitions are, for the most part, serving as a selection mechanism. Sure, the inevitable industry politics and alternate agendas exist (without which the finalists lists may look a bit different), but great talent is being scouted, nonetheless. Not only is it important to showcase the most promising young talent and provide them with mentoring and grant money, as a way of maintaining an industry, but these competitions also do a monumental service to young brands in terms of securing additional funding. One of the most challenging aspects of the business for young/emerging brands is producing and growing absent outside investors' funds, and often, the only way for brands' to have access to such funds is by showing a proven sales track record, something that is difficult to establish when you've already put all of your money into your business and it is just not enough. This is a frustrating cycle for young designers.

However, this is where design competitions are a saving grace. If we look to recent Council of Fashion Designers of America/Vogue Fashion Fund winners and runners-up, for instance, it is not uncommon to see funding (distinct from the grants associated with winning) come on the heels of successful participation. Chrome Hearts, the cult L.A.-based accessories label, acquired a minority stake in The Elder Statesman, the brand established by Greg Chait, the 2012 winner, this past March. A minority stake in 2011 winner Joseph Altuzarra's eponymous label was purchased by luxury conglomerate Kering in September 2013. Creatures of the Wind, the NYC-based brand founded by Shane Gabier and Chris Peters, which took home a runner-up prize in the 2011 competition, welcomed an investment from The Dock Group, a Los Angeles-based fashion investment firm, last year, as well.

Across the pond, the British Fashion Council/Vogue Fashion Fund has awarded prizes to a handful of designers who have gone on to land noteworthy investments. In January 2013, Christopher Kane (pictured below), the 2011 winner, sold a majority stake in his brand to Kering. Footwear designer Nicholas Kirkwood was named the winner 2013 in May and by September, a majority stake in his company had been acquired by LVMH.

Thus, while the exposure that fashion design competition participants gain, and the mentoring and monetary grants that the winners enjoy, are certainly not to be discounted, the takeaway is much larger than that. These competitions are becoming the new way for investors and luxury conglomerates to source new talent, and for young brands to land the outside investments that they so desperately need to produce their collections, expand their studio space, build upon their existing collections, and even open brick and mortar stores.

While no one has scooped up inaugural LVMH winner Thomas Tait’s brand yet or fellow winner, Marques'Almeida, it is likely just be a matter of time.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney
Connor Jul 2016
And it's difficult to remember something as the very name of Eisenhower
Or flowerbaskets
And tired movies made of silicone and
Aftersex
Or sixteen candles echoing out of an imaginary suite with cigarettes at every table
And green lawns
Barbershop conversation
The reflection of the sun in special trees
Or my best friend Jesus Christ
Or the smell of the theater that one day with the cynics who just got back from a tennis match and barbwire still laced delicately around their thoughts and
Nihilism
And automotives
And priestess Jane or Henry's gloomy doppelganger who reads alternative magazines and loves the aesthetics behind broken glass
And fine tuned musical instruments

It's difficult to remember
Lonesome Fridays smoking on a park bench trying to finish the puzzle
Or synagogues you've never been in
Or insurance
Or newspaper articles detailing the misadventures of Mr. City
(Of course of course! Take your shoes off at the door and make yourself at home)
We're tossing all our sewage into the ocean
that's far from clean as it
LOOKS anymore these days
That's anything
And everything except for the glowing mountains seen faded and wintry behind Apartments and the
"Glorious Mexican House of Spices"
Never been in there either

It's difficult to remember
Times of Mr Twin Sister
Or Joan Jett in the hallway
In a highschool who's psychology classrooms have become a time capsule in the ground/
Or the gentle skinny ******
Wearing Broadway makeup and
Kafka tattooed on his shoulder
I like his hat
He looks at me suspiciously
Or the guy who is yelling his order at the counter when it's quiet here anyways
Or the mariner who has a hobby of the saxophone
Or 1970s *******
Or the sheepskin bikeseat fad that's yet to come but I'm predicting it now!
Or two dollars and twentyseven cents at the beginning of Allen Ginsberg's America
"I've given you all and now I'm nothing"

It's difficult to remember
The Oriental
Sacramento flies
Midnight Moon
Quarter to four
"The Immortalization Commission"
Remodelled hotels downtown
Where mandalas on the floor became a
Tiger lily luminous
And the kimono is yesterday's painting/
Dearest Darling
When I was feeling down!
A staircase in reverse (??)
The sound a kiss makes
It's difficult to remember
Colleen's earrings
Or Washington State
Or air conditioners in Bali
The Indian ocean's daybreak hymn
To Seminyak
Or whatever happened to Steve from the Airplane out of Taiwan
On 3 days awake
Hello Kitty nursing stations
****** (Kubrick's version)
Cardboard taking up half my bedroom
It's difficult to remember until I jot it down and then its a sudden forever
Sunshine Superman in a cafe spontaneous
drawings with someone I just met who has some ******* attitude/
Who hops fences and has feral ideas
People! En Masse! Te Amo!
You're all in wolven liberty
And vague postulators
And holy prostitutes for the dollar
Sad eyed intellectuals
With undergarments made of breakfast cereal/
Seaferry poetry is different from
Trestle in August poetry
Or henna handshakes
Or the Napoleonic era
Sweet Cherry Pie
The tulip's tongue
Garabajal
Cloudy first day of July
Was hotter yesterday
But not too hot

It's difficult to remember
Antiquity
The pale horse Studebaker outside the clinic
With a glossy red trim and **** I wish that was my ride
Andy Warhol's exploding plastic inevitable
Nearsightedness
Angels and their ability to shower with a a snap of their fingers
Distant harp music
Better him than me
Bananas almost ripe
Green aquatic
Reclusive junkies
Palomo's appliances
Questions for the next time
How much I like what you like and how I like that you like what I like
Ahh that's not my bus
I'm trying to get to the city!
That one quote Socrates is known for about knowing nothing as true wisdom
Supermarkets being built on top of liquor stores burned down a while back
Monopolies
Tragedies
"No Love Lost"
THE HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL
Your guess is as good as mine
Never tried to eat Asian food in Asia
It was all pasta and good cider that tasted like pineapple
Rain hitting the window and I'm
Drowsy again
God Save The Trees!
Curly hair looks good on boys
Torn up blinds
Queer as a three dollar bill
If Bill costs 3 dollars I'm sure he's caught something better safe than sorry
Sage advice
I'm the very model of a modern major general
Golden yen and international currency
Incense in the bedroom and how good it smells
There's my bus! Applying for a better job than the one I got now
But that's how it always is right?
Chasing satisfaction
1007 apt
Porch ornaments
Unique names
Unique style le style
The extra charge on foreign ATMs
Cordoroy polo shirts
Flooding in New York!
When someone's face screams *******
"Slippery when wet"
Dine N Dash
Grass gone yellow
Confidence in dyed hair and capes as long as wedding gowns
But less expensive
Doors that always seem to be locked and I'm wondering 20 year later what's behind them?
Albino animals
White thoughts as clouds or
Abstractions
Weathers nicer in Florida but who cares
Festivities this early in the day
Automatopeia
Do sad orphanages still exist?
Just like the movies
Midnight in mirrors
That sick puppet at the shoe shop used
To know how to really hammer it down
And now he's weak and forgotten
Never heard the words of a true prophet only Oceania
Or the private temple near Apollo Bay
Like Japanese gardens behind that gate
Will I ever see it
Make a proud example outta ya misbehavior
Form without function
Exhausted spiritualism
*** Kettle Black
negative photographs of dark rooms
And there's laughing coming from SOMEWHERE
Essays on kleptomania
Had a bad dream I became a cliche
Surrounded by other freaks and there was a lovely ***** I fell in love with her
We married in Oregon by the sea her name was rosy
***** rosy
Check your mailbox for nails
And what you don't wanna hear/
If you were a vegetable you'd be organic!
Empire
Satirical bubble gum
Satori
Linda Lovelace and her special party trick
That's someone's fantasy
Diamond in the rough
Mister guy with two black eyes frequents the adult playhouse
Hes fully stocked on fishnet leggings
He's too proud to put them on himself but
Has nobody else around
Boo hoo
Swigs back the whiskey and trips down the stairs getting a third black eye in the process
Marion came by with her dog the other day
Wanted her box of clothes back but he loved to sniff them to remember her
But she wouldn't have it

"Honey I'm going to call the police!"

"Ah they don't give a **** they have bigger things to worry about"

"Yeah you got that right shrimp **** enjoy my unwashed *******"

And she never came back again
He started losing the vertebrae in his spine 1 by 1 and you know where this is going
I won't say he was a poor man because he had it all coming to him the *******
But he coulda had a better start if you ask me.

It's difficult to remember
And even more difficult to forget
After the fact

Seagull opera
Giganticism
Portrait of the artist as a young man
Losing one's pencil when the best idea of your life drops down from heaven and into your sorry head
Signs graffitied to have funnier meanings
Cruelty
Impassive
The Loyal Lioness
And Bangladesh has too many kitchens
And not enough dishes
When I was young I used to say Island as "is-land"  
Which is true it is land
But the Europeans probably stole it from somebody else anyways/
I left my future behind
And objects in the mirror are closer than they appear
Im no illusionist
I'm terrified of the cracken
Father feels the same way about
Hotels
Why bother/
This has been going on and on for a while are you tired yet
Is your patience being tested
Mine isn't because this wasn't an all-at-once kind of rambling
It's extremely important to laugh at least
Once a day
Otherwise you'll find yourself a politician
In no time at all
Rockefeller
(         ) Quaint home to die in
I think
Trains create great music
Float on
Sink into yourself
Roses in a crooked alley
That's people
Busy busy busy busy
Let's describe a situationist
I'm not a fan of bright colors on clothes
Your best shade is blue
Bricklayers transcription of Don Quixote to a skyscraper
Rocket thyme
& Garden
Erratic children's
Insomnia
The doorbell repeatedly
Vancouver riots/ I saw that live on the news!
Pictionary with the surrealists
N Dada TV set MC Escher
Antenna
You're in the Twilight Zone now
Dear Ramona
I'm trying to make it up to you
With a brightness only seen when you're ready to see it so please for the love of God don't blame me when it's not appearing
The tapestry hidden
Keep your blankets clean
And avoid hospitals unless you're fine with fishbowls & the halogen
The water gestapo
Storage lockers full of unacted plays and
Antique microwaves
Emitting the nostalgia of the cold war era
And what a waste of time that was /
Walter Wanderleys presence in Autumn universities
The opening of Vivre sa Vie
Salvador Dali's pluvial taxi
Lightbulb epiphanies
Aquariums and their protestors
Zebras in the shade
Two wrongs dont make a right
Elizabethan theater
Saloon shootouts in a fever dream
I lost and bled out all over the rustic wooden floor
A maiden reached out for me and El Paso did play I woke up and pretended nothing happened/
Funerals for bad People who did bad things
My first memory of a cat beneath the mattress
Hello Dolly!
Auditory learning
Psychotherapy
Lillian the landlady lost her ladle and labeled little Lyle as a lair
The Black panther movement
Reading symposium some years ago and
Making note that Phaedo was still my favorite dialogue/
Zen Buddhism
Xoxo xoxo
The day Gypsies were replaced with
Surface ****** appetite
And not the real thing
Newspaper clippings
Hypnotism when all other options are out
Mystical visions of sidewalks
And the love of your life stepping through a door you've never seen
Maybe Yes No I Don't Know
Creature comforts
Che Guevara's problem is that his beard made him too easy to recognize
(Also that little hat!)
Chinese cough medicine didn't work
For long I still wheeze sometimes
Domestic violence thru the wall
Ceiling fan probably doesn't even work!
Dimpled laughter
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
In skytrains to Commercial
Bermuda in her mind
And courtesy in her voice
I'm no Arthur Rimbaud
But you already knew that
Alcazar of Seville
Filling up the shipbottle
Here's your paradise
Now relinquish it as it is
False!
Hare Krishna
Nowhere Fast
El Diablo and the
Portofino loaf left rotting on the countertop
Latin children speak of the sacred viper
You'll hear of it after this but we'll never see what the ******* meant
Heads alternating round the social current
Of my lively city
There's a dog soaking up the rain
And songs are made in honor of
Recent catastrophes
Trials are dealt
Cards cast to the gutter
New York quiets down for the news of another war
You scratch my back I'll scratch yours
Skeleton key
Ballad of the last wailing zoo
THE ATRIUM
Complexity in simplicity
That's how Brainard got me!
Elderly overcoats
Hiding purest LSD
Is a fan of Hawaiian T shirts
And a communist
What if I was a Freemason
Or owned a tanning salon
Faint crimson
What did Marv look like again?
"You're surrounded by people who love you"
Coffee when one needs it
GOODBYE BLUE MONDAY
Tattoos on the wandering man
Oriental chimes and the people who own them
Bus stop regulars
Vines overtaking power lines
The hypnogogic state
Strawberry light softening
The mind
Sister Ray LOUDLY PROCLAIMING
doitdoitdoitdoit
Passing the graffiti n Pluto neon
Halal wide awake another Saturday
Where's the Karaoke
Flashing by here
Those who find comfort in a bridal scavenger hunt
Or expensive beer
And here comes the hooded clown
Clamoring about his favorite
Loudspeaker
Telling me my time is soon and the noise
Drowns out the drowsy bliss
After hour spirits the perfect time for
Writing and trying to read distant Chinese
Indecision on the tip of the tongue
"NOW WHO IS THAT KNOCKING
ON THE CHAMBER DOOR?
COULD IT BE THE POLICE?"

I'm completely off the topic
And into Apartment lobby photosets
Low battery phone calls
Confessions
Nauseated reverb
Trying to see the attachment people got with bingo halls
And moving companies
Ah no luck again
Eve is at it with her showtunes
Halfway methodology
Triage
Paisley headbands left
Distraught on the quivering
Heater
Dwindling sunsets
We're truly disciples of the moon spirit which grants us more energy
(This is according to a drunk I met one night)
Or ***** old men
When the horizon is engulfed with
A winking cinder
Suitcase at the door
Last time
First time
Magician never reveals his fetishes
(They all have to do with bags under your eyes)
Employment office dramas of my friend the one who blinded a social worker
And the one who blamed Islam
And the one whos philosophy entirely consisted of Spooky Action at a
                                            DISTANCE
Parisian riots
Queer youth
Didn't make the team! Jester
'cross the hall who's beard suggests
Ishmeal n car battery n expired vegetables n rain which crosses the line n
***** cranberry n
Poorly fitted suits n
Harsh pigment n incense shops n
Bocca     secret towns
With churches more beautiful than any you'd find in your own city
n the cultural market
Xylophone ear to ear
Soul cleansing starting at only
$89 (with a 6 month guarantee)
Sophie's birthday and her picnic at Victory Park
The nearby bums trying to sell tea mugs and
Loose wires beside gated convenience stores
I'm an Island away attempting a poem
And never bought a scratch n win
Or heard the same song more than seven times in a row or been in a column
Or escaped the washhouse
Invested in a birdcage for next year
Been to a palm reading
Visited Oasis
Smoked salmon
Told anyone else about Montana
Screamed the things I'd like to scream
** Word of the day
Or kissed a lunatic or swallowed the corpse of yesterday
I keep her on my neck until
I'm too anxious to let go
Counting streetlights
Jeans worn in and faded to be sent off to
A lonely caffeine addict
Christmas Eve I'll be reading a postcard from San Francisco
Asking the same questions
My imagination is made of a different material than last week
Now it's the same color as your hair
HEY that's a good pickup line to use in the heart of the Canadian Embassy
Drinking discarded music resembling a sweater you may have said YES to if it wasn't so unsure of itself
And now Mr. Acker Bilk ascends thru the window of an August home
Like a lazy hornet
I'm still lost without identification
Or a nice belt
As happens when one uses a quality item too casually
How did uphill suddenly seem so downhill?
I'll claim a waterfall
For SALE that inevitable Indonesia
Greyhound O another greyhound O another greyhound
I'm fretting too much about not enough
Delayed the Airport and the yellow question

????

II

What if I knew how to read the curb?
Or translate drunken droll
What if I was never tired again and could
REALLY do anything I set my mind to?
What if I was the first cigarette that cured cancer instead of caused it?
What if I could end superstition
And walk underneath any ladder I wanted?
What if I could make it with a young Audrey Hepburn!?
What if I stopped pretending to be a microphone and got on with "it"
What if the grocery store closed later
And I opened earlier?
What if parking lots werent so sad
All the time?
What if gravity simply had enough of exotic birds and specifics?
What if we stopped trying to recreate what is truly lost?
What if foreign children embraced
Wasting time instead of
Midnight starry bicycles
And the antics of a monk
Disguised as a romantic?

There are those that worship God
And those who worship the Sun
And those who worship nothing at all
But I suppose on the last bus
We're all the same exhausted
Voice who can't wait for next pay day
What is an empty bank?
Or authenticity
What is there to prove anymore?
I hope I don't die tonight and regret
Being impulsive for once
You're a smart shadow
And a dull character
Pushing the last of the daisies
Get the lamp to turn on again
Give the pavement something to look forward to with your walk
Be consistent in being inconsistent
If there's a word there's a ***** and a poem for it!
We all oughta worship
Nothing at all except
Clarity
Compassion with ones neighbor who either forgot the pay the electricity bill or couldn't afford to
We're a swimmin
Written between late June to July 13th.
JJ Hutton Apr 2013
There are only two ways to truly know someone: sleep with them or take them bowling.
Phoenix Aime was the woman of my dreams. So, I took her bowling.

Paid for a game. Rented shoes. Got the little, sticky bracelet thingy that said Slippery Joe Lanes.
That way if we got in some sort of accident on the way home,
the guy at the morgue could identify us as bowlers. Anyway, here's the bulleted list of what I knew about Phoenix up to that point:

• She looked like Diane Keaton circa 1972
• She talked with great pretension concerning craft beer
• She only patronized two restaurants: Denny's and IHOP
• She was eight years older than me
• She kissed my sister once on a dare
• Her shoe size was 7
• She was perfect or a near synonym

The bowling alley was empty save a World War II vet in a wheelchair and his wife at lane six,
and they were barely there. Country music played over the loud speaker. And I felt cozy. Predictable. Like a payment plan on the QVC.

That was until Phoenix said, "I forgot something. I'm going to go talk to Mack real quick."
Mack worked the front desk, according to his name tag. Talk to Mack. She just talked to Mack. Mack was sleeping with her. I untied my shoelaces. Oh, Mack, love your red polo with blue tiger stripes.
I pulled my sneakers off. Oh, Mack, I love it when you dip your finger in nacho cheese and feed it to me. Slid my right foot into bowling shoe. Halfway in with the left, and my socked foot struck something plastic. A stick of tiny deodorant. Like unsavory truck-stop-to-truck-stop deodorant. Oh, Mack, I love it when you deodorize -- so hard. Pull the strings tight on the left shoe. Oh, Mack, rub the deodorant until your underarms are SO CHALKY AND WHITE.

"You okay?" Phoenix asked.

"Yeah, what do I look like something's wrong?"

She carried a seafoam green bowling ball with a ****** Mary insignia. "It looks like you triple-knotted your shoes there."

And I said something dumb like, better safe than sorry.

"Sorry about leaving you all alone. Mack holds onto my ***** for me," she said.  I bet he does. "I hate talking to that guy." What? "He's a vegan."

Now, at that time in my life, I was a vegan. And had planned some stirring remarks about the processing of sweet little piggies into cancerous hot dog machines on the way to pick her up. Thought she would think me full of passion, "on fire" for a cause, you know? The wise thing would have been to say, oh well, I'm a vegan. But instead I asked, "What do you mean?"

"You know serial killer's get a last meal before they're executed, right?"

"Right." Where the hell is this going?

"Well, have you ever heard of someone on death row requesting a last meal that didn't involve some sort of animal product? Gacy had buckets of chicken, Bundy had a medium rare steak, even uh, ****, what was his name, McVeigh, Timothy McVeigh he had two pints of mint chocolate ice cream. Dairy."

"I'm not sure how this refutes veganism."

"Nobody is a vegan for their last meal. Nobody. I'm not going to subscribe to a diet that I can't follow until the very end. Live every day like your last, that's my motto."

"That's your motto." I said. To be a great listener, just repeat the last three or four things anyone says to you and raise your eyebrows a little bit. (Examples: "My dog died." -- "You're dog died.", "I never ate breakfast burritos again." -- "Never ate it again.", "I love you." -- "You love me.")

Over Phoenix's shoulder, over by lane six, the wife wheeled the World War II vet up to the lane. And he tossed the ball. Good team, I thought. Want to know someone take them to the bowling alley.

Phoenix removed a glove from her pocket. She had her own ball. Brought her own badass, jet black bowling gloves. And if her carnivorous tendencies hadn't already put a ***** in the Golden Days of Josh and Phoenix, that glove did.

She typed her name first on the scoring computer. Didn't ask if I wanted to go first. That's fine. Approached the lane, three fingers inside the ****** Mary. She brought her bony arm back with the grace of a ballerina tucked away stage right in the shadows. Mary cut from grace slid down the lane with a spin.

Strike. I couldn't really see the pins from my angle. But I recieved a transmission via the "yes" and arm pump. That was two marks against her, and I was going to three. I'd call it strikes, but well, the whole bowling skew.

Here's a bulleted list of what a "yes" and arm pump immediately taught me:

• She takes bowling serious.
• If you take bowling serious, when do you relax?
• She'd never relax.
• My life would be tucked shirts, matching belts and shoes.

For six frames, I picked up fours and sevens. Phoenix, though, nothing but strikes. I threw a gutter on frame seven. Like a normal human being, I shrugged. Made a face out the sides of my mouth. Kept it light.

"I thought you were a grown *** man," Phoenix said.

"Me too."

What happened next, I willed. I'm not god or anything like that. At the time, just cosmicly ******.
Her step stuttered. 7-10 split. "Mack!" she screamed. "Floors are slicker than a used car salesman's hair."

From across the alley,
"Sorry, Phoenix, baby. I'll bring you some nachos. That make up for it?"

"Ain't gonna knock down two pins is it?"

"So, uh, no nachos then?"

"Actually, go ahead and bring those."

She lined up. Back straight. Legs together. She rolled her neck. "You're about to see how it's done."

And I didn't. She broke it down the middle. Field goal. In that moment, that holy moment, I was knowledge plateau. Vindicated.

For about 10 seconds.

Mack swaggered over, nachos in hand. "Phoenix, sweetie, you okay?"

"Do I look okay?"

"No, that's why I asked."

"Just give me the nachos."

"Ah crap." Mack had gotten his pointer finger in the nacho cheese.

"Let me see it."

And right there, right in front the ****** Mary seafoam green bowling ball, she slurped the cheese off his finger."

Frame seven, a good as time as any to call it a match. The wife of the World War II vet kissed her husband's forehead. Handed him a ball. As I walked by, hand on shoulder. "Struck gold, dude."
Don Brenner Oct 2010
I was attacked by jellyfish.
Clear umbrellas
circus tents with mardi gras beads
hung down the side
like indian fringe
tentacles stretching stretching stretching stretching
and stopping.

And stinging.

Those mother smuckers
shooting venom
like Belushi shot ******
through my skin
Chinese acupuncture
sticky jelly arms sticking
plucked off suction cups
like fake tattoos rubbed off
with bare fingers
skin burned
a sixteen alarm salt fire
contained by ocean
no flame but pain
and water stings
the tickle from tentacle to skin
not even a fish
but a gillfree zooplankton
free from captivity
but caged to my skin
like a remora
those shark suckers
but I'm not a host
just prey in the way
for a swim in the gulf
or a walk on the shore
or a pet at the zoo
my chest my feet my hands
stung like ghost bees
not seen but felt
glossed with mud
this time tide sand
wet like tsunamis
mixed with vinegar
rubbed like bay leaves
under the nose
to relieve congestion
but on the wound
to relieve infection
my skin reddens
like rose bloom
from gypsum sands
and I want to sleep
sound as Beethoven
but wake again
like an immortal sea jellie
roaming every ocean
like De Soto or Marco Polo.

Marco

Polo

Marco

Polo

Fish out of water.
2010
judy smith Apr 2015
Fashion show finales follow a familiar rhythm: after the models march along the catwalk for a last hurrah, the designer comes out to take a bow. Their demeanour is often telling, an indicator of their attitude to the collection they've shown – are they a bag of nerves, or grinning from ear to ear?

Also noteworthy is the look they choose to take their bow in. Are they even wearing their own work? One of the most celebrated designers of our time never wears his own designs. Karl Lagerfeld may create the occasional menswear look at Chanel and he designs a whole men's collection for his eponymous label but he has long been a customer elsewhere: Dior Homme.

Lagerfeld started wearing Dior Homme when he was in his late 60s, shedding 41 kilograms to fit into the skinny styles of the label's then designer, Hedi Slimane. Lagerfeld has stayed loyal to the brand ever since, even after Slimane, now creative director of Saint Laurent, quit in 2006. And although the label is known for its emphasis on youth, Lagerfeld, now in his 80s, remains one of Dior Homme's most visible clients.

Raf Simons, meanwhile, Dior's creative director of womenswear, is partial to Prada: his presence in the documentary film Dior & I (2014) is most clearly announced via his distinctive studded Prada sneakers and he often takes his catwalk bow in a head-to-toe Prada look. For his first Christian Dior ready-to-wear show he wore a vintage denim jacket with red stripes by Austrian designer Helmut Lang.

And yet many designers do wear their own work, especially if the brand carries their surname. Editors scan the wardrobe of Miuccia Prada for clues to her latest collection: is she feeling utilitarian, elegant or purposefully off-kilter? When Donatella Versace takes her bow, she often wears a look from the collection she's just shown – for autumn/winter 2015, it was a pinstriped, flared pantsuit. And even Simons has worn pieces from his own label collaboration with Sterling Ruby.

So if the name is on the label, does it mean the clothes will always be on the designer's back? Not necessarily. "I've never been into wearing clothing with my own brand name inside," says Jonathan Anderson, designer behind JW Anderson and now creative director of Loewe. "I find it odd and arrogant."

UNIFORM DRESSING

Anderson's own wardrobe is a familiar uniform: crewneck sweater, faded blue jeans, Nike sneakers. It's entirely opposite to the menswear looks he creates for his own label's catwalk presentations, which have included bandeau tops and frilled shorts. He seems to favour a clean-palette approach: keeping himself neutral so as to not deflect from his experimentation elsewhere.

This kind of wardrobe is common among fashion designers. Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez of Proenza Schouler appear to have no desire to create menswear for themselves or others, dressing instead in a similar style to Anderson: crewnecks, polo shirts or button-downs, usually with jeans and sneakers.

Mary Katrantzou, meanwhile, recent winner of the 2015 BFC/Vogue Designer Fashion Fund, may have built her business on print and embellishment but she is usually found in a black knit dress by Azzedine Alaïa. Alaïa himself has perhaps the ultimate clean-palette wardrobe: for decades he has worn black cotton Chinese pyjamas, fastened by simple floral buttoning.

Each of these designers has a successful business with its own clear signature. So maybe it doesn't matter if they don't wear their own clothes. And yet when designers do, it can be so seductive. Men buy Tom Ford because they want to be like Tom Ford. Women buy Céline because they want to look like Phoebe Philo. Stefano Pilati, creative director of Ermenegildo Zegna Couture, is often said to be his own best model; Rick Owens, in his long draped vests and baggy shorts, is the perfect ambassador for his own alternate universe of otherness.

The style of Roksanda Ilincic is synonymous with her own brand. "I create pieces that embrace the female form," she says of her bold colour palette and silhouette. "Being a woman means I'm able to feel and test those things on a personal level … I tend to favour long hemlines and nipped-in waists, with interesting shades and textures, pared down with simple basics and outerwear." Does she ever wear anyone else? "Of course! Black polo necks from Wolford are an absolute staple and in winter I am rarely without my favourite black cashmere coat by Prada, which is on permanent loan from my husband."

It seems like an industry divided between designers who wear their own work and those who don't. But sometimes things change. Backstage at Loewe earlier this season, Anderson said: "With Loewe, I have a detachment. I wear a lot of it. Now I'm more, 'Does this work?' I've got a bit of a love back for fashion."

Two months on, his interest in wearing his own designs has grown still further. He is the cover star of the new issue of menswear biannual magazine Fantastic Man, posing in a slash-fronted sweater and leather tie trousers. The pieces are both his work from current season Loewe. Womenswear. In for a penny, in for a pound.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015 | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses
shireliiy Sep 2015
plans you have written down cheap ralph lauren outlet http://www.granadacoworking.com,I am given the opportunity to up my ** oponopono practice cheap ralph lauren,s one reason why it rsquo. The choice to raise your consciousness means to broaden your awareness. That is a great time to make a decision,and eventually being returned right back to you cheap ralph lauren polo shirts.Harv Eckert says if you are not growing you are dying .really.The first warrior saw it and commented.Some other people didn t think her idea was quite on track with the discussion.concentrate on your breathing and clear your mind.Take time to evaluate the details,I started talking about it and bull.right? That rsquo,.Mistrust leads to less business.choose the unknown.It is in the PROCESS of achieving the goal that we become GREAT.thereby firing back at you and leading to a variety of consequences,7.Do not forfeit the greater good by allowing yourself to be entangled with the lesser good,Images are the roles people play in life.You decide you need to get some area of your life under control.and if you don t take it.Whether you are considering your daily agenda or to do list or your long term goal you need to stop,giving others the benefit of the doubt.smell and taste .It s that simple.There s furthermore something that s a shocker about what we re doing and I m not sure how the guys actually pulled it off. This is your first line of defense to ANY attack thrown your way,You also want time for self.If the answer is no.If the person is already aware that what he or she is doing is not working,she had chosen a safer,However,We allow this Monkey Mind to rule us.You see no reason to dress nicely and have given up on trying to look attractive.This power can either take you to the pinnacle of success or bring you down into
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Shari Forman Feb 2013
A big transition happened one night that made the old man tear to pieces…

“Well, you’ve done it again Harry, except you’ve shocked both of us. Why do you do these things Harry? I assume you like to embarrass me a whole lot!” said Susan (wife of old man Harry)

“My dear Susan, please don’t get frustrated with me, for I have done no such crime to deserve this,” replied Harry.

Susan pauses for a second to calculate what her husband, Harry, had just said. When she does, she narrows her eyes and points her finger at him.

“You are a fool of a husband, wearing suits and tuxedos out to libraries, animal shelters, parks. What a coward you are! Just because money is our main priority in this household, doesn’t mean you should go around bragging about how wealthy we are!” yelled Susan.

“But getting dressed up is what I love to do. It’s not as exciting to wear just a plain sweater with a pair of jeans Susan,” said Harry trying to make a point.

“If that’s the way you would like to be, then I’m not a part of it anymore Harry… Goodbye Harry,” said Susan.

The foolish man’s sixty-year-old mouth dropped as the love of his life, Susan, slammed the front door and wasn’t coming back.

… The minutes later, the old man’s son walks into the house. He looks very bubbly and eager to say something. However, before the son could say a word, the old man talks right away.

“She’s gone Tom; your mother has moved out for good,” said Harry.

“Oh, no dad. You two got into another argument again?” said the son (Tom).

“Yes my son. Your mother always… seems to start bickering with me about something, and this time, it was based on my dressing in public,” said Harry.

“I can’t take this anymore dad! I’m not married, don’t even have a girlfriend, and now don’t even have a mother to live with,” said Tom.

The poor, lonely son starts looking very upset and begins to cry. The foolish man begins to tear a little as well.

“If mom really loved and supported us, she wouldn’t have left,” said the son.

“That’s enough Tom! You’re thirty-two years old now; that doesn’t give you the right to cry like a baby! It’s over son; life moves on,” said Harry

All of a sudden, the depressed son ran out of the house as fast as he could, being only in his shirt, pants and dress shoes. He was already on the third block when Harry called him.

“Get back here young man! Please Tom, please!” cried the poor man.

The sixty-year-old man ran as fast as he could to his son. He kept running for as long as he could, and when he reached his son, he followed him up to the nearest train station. The foolish man had no clue of where son might be headed to on a train.

“Don’t you use your head boy? Where are you headed to?” said Harry.

“I don’t know father; I just needed to get out of the house to be alone. I don’t need you in my life anymore dad,” said the son.

“Tom; Tom look at me! I don’t want to lose my son, for I’ve already lost my wife. I love you very much Tom, just remember that please.

“I love you too dad and I’ll try to show it much more often,” said the son.

Harry puts his arm around his sons shoulder and smiles warmly to him with tears of happiness in his eyes.

“Lets get off this train Tom; what do you say? Asked Harry

“Alright dad,” said Tom.

At that very moment, the train began to move; move rather quickly.

“Tom, you’re in big trouble… Nah, just joking. Would you like to tell me of where you are planning to go to though?” said Harry

“Manhattan,” said the son.

Tom smiled and his dad looked a little baffled.

“Tom, why don’t you tell me about the good news you had before,” said Harry, suddenly changing the topic.

“Sure. I got a new job working at the docks and am actually making higher profits now,” said Tom.

“I’m very proud of you son. How are the docks treating you?” asked Harry.

“I love the docks. I enjoy working on the docks and appreciate what God has to offer for me,” replied Tom.

“And what is the quantity of hours you’ll be working for?” asked Harry.

“Forty hours a week dad,” said Tom.

“Phenomenal,” said Harry. “That’ll keep you occupied.”

When the train moves around the waiting area outside a little bit, the prettiest girl walks on the train. She looks as if she’s in her late twenties with dark-brown curly hair and brown eyes to match. She takes a seat two rows in front of Harry and Tom.

“Dad, did you see that girl?” asked Tom.

“Yeah boy, she looks single to me,” said Harry.

Harry giggles and Tom elbows him right in the gut.

“Owww!” Harry managed to say through his non- stop laughing.

The girl was reading the newspaper from today while Tom tried to occupy himself by spinning a quarter several times.

The next hour had passed on the train and they had a long way to go until their stop. Tom looks at his watch as he sees that it is exactly five in the morning.

“Harry. Harry,” Tom whispers. “Harry,” he said a little bit louder.

Tom began to get a little frustrated that Harry wasn’t waking up. Mostly everyone was fast asleep on the train except for Tom.

“HARRY!” Tom yelled as loud as he could.

All of a sudden, all of the passengers on the train woke up startled and baffled.

“Tom, what the hell was that?” said Harry.

“I have a problem,” said Tom

“Tom, this is pure abuse that you’re giving me. Firstly, you knock the guts right out of my stomach, and then you yell as loud as a trumpet blown right in someone’s ear! Was it necessary to wake up the whole train?” said Harry.

“Yes because I really like this girl, you know the one you called single. What should I do?” asked Tom.

“Can you lower the volume a little? Okay; here’s my advice… propose to her,” said Harry as he went back to sleep.

“Great advice; I’ll take it,” said Tom sarcastically.

Before Harry and Tom got a chance to walk off the train, Tom stopped to introduce himself to the beautiful girl. As he was talking, she thought of him as rather funny than cool, but offered her cell phone number to him.

“What’s your name?” asked Tom.

“Victoria,” replied the girl.

The foolish man felt so insane as if to go on a train unexpectedly.  

“Well, here we are dad,” said Tom.

“Now we’re going to have to check into a hotel for three days; for that’s how long we have to stay here until the next train home.” Said Harry

When they arrived at the hotel, both Harry and Tom rented a small room that cost fifty dollars a night.

“This is a really old room, but it’ll have to do,” said Harry.

“There are cobwebs over here in the bedroom beside the lamp,” said Tom.

“Since we’re staying here for three nights Tom, we’re going to have to go shopping at some point, so why now?” said the foolish man.

“Father, why would you go and buy some more fancy clothes, when Susan already told you that you looked foolish in it?” said the son.

“I hate to break it to you son, but the coward is gone, and the new ***** has arrived!” said Harry.

Tom could not believe what his dad had just said. He formed the biggest smile on his face.

“That’s very impressive dad; I’m sure mom would really appreciate that,” said Tom.

“I bet she would’ve,” said Harry giving a small frown.

Harry and his son, Tom were out of the hotel within ten minutes. The store in which they were headed to was only a few blocks from where they were. The store in the mall in which Harry and Tom were walking to was called, “Sarah’s Sweaters.”

Harry was not at all tempted to walk in the store, but with the help of his son making him go in, he had no choice.

“What a grotesque place Tom,” said Harry

“Relax and try on something that suits you best here,” said Tom

“I don’t like anything here. Sorry, but I loathe these kinds of stores,” replied the foolish man.

Tom rolled his eyes and began trying on jeans and a couple of sweaters to wear over polo shirts.

Harry stared at Tom speechless as he came out of the fitting room. Tom brought the clothes up to the woman at the cash register while Harry started looking at clothes for himself.

“Your total is $62.49 sir,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” said Tom as he walked away with his clothes.

The foolish man went to go try on two pairs on jeans with two sweatshirts and three polo shirts. He opens the curtain.

“It fits you well,” said Tom.

“I’ll do whatever makes my wife happy,” said Harry.

“Oh, c’mon; change is good too.”

They walked out of the clothing store carrying two large white bags filled with casual clothes. As they were walking in the mall, Harry notices a Calvin Klein store with all different styles of ties, shirts, suits, and dress shoes through the glass window.

“Tom, I’ll just be a minute,” said Harry.

“You said that you weren’t going to buy anything fancy while we’re here dad,” said Tom.

“I’ll just get a suit; I’ll be in and out within five minutes.”

“Alright, I’ll be waiting on the bench outside the store,” said Tom”

“Okay Tom.”

An hour and a half later, Harry comes out of the store with a tired, yet warm smile on his face.

“You’re back so soon,” said Tom sarcastically.

“There was a long line Tom. Hey, I went in your store.” said Harry

“For a half hour.”

“Oh, well then I apologize,” said Harry.

“It’s fine.”

“Here, I’ll make it up to you; we’ll go pick up something to eat for dinner,” said Harry.

“Okay, thanks dad.”

We both smile simultaneously.

Harry and Tom exit the mall to go and walk to the deli to get some sandwiches, a snack and a drink. When they arrive home, they turn on the T.V. to watch some comedy shows while eating their sandwiches. Tim lies down and kicks his shoes off. The foolish man was sitting at the edge of the couch now with his son’s ***** feet on him. While Tom looked very relaxed and comfortable eating his chicken sandwich, Harry looked very tense as he was giving his son a cold look.

“Get your gigantic, filthy feet off of my upper thigh,” said Harry annoyed.

“Oh, sorry dad,” said Tom surprised.

Harry looked at the T.V. eating his sandwich while Tom smiled a little from his comment before.

Harry and Tom didn’t do much for the next two days. They walked around a little and saw many people walking their dogs. Both Harry and Tom ate two meals a day in their hotel and slept on the uncomfortable couch. Harry figured he’d wear his sweater and jeans with sneakers on the third day of his stay. He was going to the park this morning and he certainly didn’t want to look foolish.

“What a nice day out today Tom. Not too hot, not too cold, but perfect weather,” said Harry.

“Yes, I agree,” said Tom.

The man and his son walked along the walkway in the park, leading to a playground filled with little kids, elders and parents sitting on benches or walking around. As Harry and Tom sat down on a bench next to a water fountain, Harry couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Susan, is that you? Asked Harry shocked.

“Oh, hello Harry,” she said without looking up.

“Nice seeing you here Susan,” said Harry.

Susan looked up from reading her enormous book and saw something unexpected about the foolish man.

“Oh, Harry, you’ve changed; changed for me. You are the sweetest husband and you’re not at all foolish,” said Susan full of excitement.

Harry smiled and gave Susan a big hug.

“Tom, love you son,” said Susan.

“I love you very much as well mom,” replied Tom.

After Harry checked out of their room, they all were headed to the next train home.

As Harry, Susan and Tom walked into their mansion in Michigan, Susan asked what Harry was holding.

Harry blushed and said, “Just clothes.”

“Can I see them Harry? asked Susan.

“They’re not that clean.”

Susan took the bag from him and looked inside.

“Not again,” said Tom.

Susan laughed on account of her already knowing that her husband couldn’t keep his eyes off of nice and fancy clothes for a minute.

“Harry…you’re one fastidious gentleman.”
Shari Forman Mar 2013
A big transition happened one night that made the old man tear to pieces…

“Well, you’ve done it again Harry, except you’ve shocked both of us. Why do you do these things Harry? I assume you like to embarrass me a whole lot!” said Susan (wife of old man Harry)

“My dear Susan, please don’t get frustrated with me, for I have done no such crime to deserve this,” replied Harry.

Susan pauses for a second to calculate what her husband, Harry, had just said. When she does, she narrows her eyes and points her finger at him.

“You are a fool of a husband, wearing suits and tuxedos out to libraries, animal shelters, parks. What a coward you are! Just because money is our main priority in this household, doesn’t mean you should go around bragging about how wealthy we are!” yelled Susan.

“But getting dressed up is what I love to do. It’s not as exciting to wear just a plain sweater with a pair of jeans Susan,” said Harry trying to make a point.

“If that’s the way you would like to be, then I’m not a part of it anymore Harry… Goodbye Harry,” said Susan.

The foolish man’s sixty-year-old mouth dropped as the love of his life, Susan, slammed the front door and wasn’t coming back.

… The minutes later, the old man’s son walks into the house. He looks very bubbly and eager to say something. However, before the son could say a word, the old man talks right away.

“She’s gone Tom; your mother has moved out for good,” said Harry.

“Oh, no dad. You two got into another argument again?” said the son (Tom).

“Yes my son. Your mother always… seems to start bickering with me about something, and this time, it was based on my dressing in public,” said Harry.

“I can’t take this anymore dad! I’m not married, don’t even have a girlfriend, and now don’t even have a mother to live with,” said Tom.

The poor, lonely son starts looking very upset and begins to cry. The foolish man begins to tear a little as well.

“If mom really loved and supported us, she wouldn’t have left,” said the son.

“That’s enough Tom! You’re thirty-two years old now; that doesn’t give you the right to cry like a baby! It’s over son; life moves on,” said Harry

All of a sudden, the depressed son ran out of the house as fast as he could, being only in his shirt, pants and dress shoes. He was already on the third block when Harry called him.

“Get back here young man! Please Tom, please!” cried the poor man.

The sixty-year-old man ran as fast as he could to his son. He kept running for as long as he could, and when he reached his son, he followed him up to the nearest train station. The foolish man had no clue of where son might be headed to on a train.

“Don’t you use your head boy? Where are you headed to?” said Harry.

“I don’t know father; I just needed to get out of the house to be alone. I don’t need you in my life anymore dad,” said the son.

“Tom; Tom look at me! I don’t want to lose my son, for I’ve already lost my wife. I love you very much Tom, just remember that please.

“I love you too dad and I’ll try to show it much more often,” said the son.

Harry puts his arm around his sons shoulder and smiles warmly to him with tears of happiness in his eyes.

“Lets get off this train Tom; what do you say? Asked Harry

“Alright dad,” said Tom.

At that very moment, the train began to move; move rather quickly.

“Tom, you’re in big trouble… Nah, just joking. Would you like to tell me of where you are planning to go to though?” said Harry

“Manhattan,” said the son.

Tom smiled and his dad looked a little baffled.

“Tom, why don’t you tell me about the good news you had before,” said Harry, suddenly changing the topic.

“Sure. I got a new job working at the docks and am actually making higher profits now,” said Tom.

“I’m very proud of you son. How are the docks treating you?” asked Harry.

“I love the docks. I enjoy working on the docks and appreciate what God has to offer for me,” replied Tom.

“And what is the quantity of hours you’ll be working for?” asked Harry.

“Forty hours a week dad,” said Tom.

“Phenomenal,” said Harry. “That’ll keep you occupied.”

When the train moves around the waiting area outside a little bit, the prettiest girl walks on the train. She looks as if she’s in her late twenties with dark-brown curly hair and brown eyes to match. She takes a seat two rows in front of Harry and Tom.

“Dad, did you see that girl?” asked Tom.

“Yeah boy, she looks single to me,” said Harry.

Harry giggles and Tom elbows him right in the gut.

“Owww!” Harry managed to say through his non- stop laughing.

The girl was reading the newspaper from today while Tom tried to occupy himself by spinning a quarter several times.

The next hour had passed on the train and they had a long way to go until their stop. Tom looks at his watch as he sees that it is exactly five in the morning.

“Harry. Harry,” Tom whispers. “Harry,” he said a little bit louder.

Tom began to get a little frustrated that Harry wasn’t waking up. Mostly everyone was fast asleep on the train except for Tom.

“HARRY!” Tom yelled as loud as he could.

All of a sudden, all of the passengers on the train woke up startled and baffled.

“Tom, what the hell was that?” said Harry.

“I have a problem,” said Tom

“Tom, this is pure abuse that you’re giving me. Firstly, you knock the guts right out of my stomach, and then you yell as loud as a trumpet blown right in someone’s ear! Was it necessary to wake up the whole train?” said Harry.

“Yes because I really like this girl, you know the one you called single. What should I do?” asked Tom.

“Can you lower the volume a little? Okay; here’s my advice… propose to her,” said Harry as he went back to sleep.

“Great advice; I’ll take it,” said Tom sarcastically.

Before Harry and Tom got a chance to walk off the train, Tom stopped to introduce himself to the beautiful girl. As he was talking, she thought of him as rather funny than cool, but offered her cell phone number to him.

“What’s your name?” asked Tom.

“Victoria,” replied the girl.

The foolish man felt so insane as if to go on a train unexpectedly.  

“Well, here we are dad,” said Tom.

“Now we’re going to have to check into a hotel for three days; for that’s how long we have to stay here until the next train home.” Said Harry

When they arrived at the hotel, both Harry and Tom rented a small room that cost fifty dollars a night.

“This is a really old room, but it’ll have to do,” said Harry.

“There are cobwebs over here in the bedroom beside the lamp,” said Tom.

“Since we’re staying here for three nights Tom, we’re going to have to go shopping at some point, so why now?” said the foolish man.

“Father, why would you go and buy some more fancy clothes, when Susan already told you that you looked foolish in it?” said the son.

“I hate to break it to you son, but the coward is gone, and the new ***** has arrived!” said Harry.

Tom could not believe what his dad had just said. He formed the biggest smile on his face.

“That’s very impressive dad; I’m sure mom would really appreciate that,” said Tom.

“I bet she would’ve,” said Harry giving a small frown.

Harry and his son, Tom were out of the hotel within ten minutes. The store in which they were headed to was only a few blocks from where they were. The store in the mall in which Harry and Tom were walking to was called, “Sarah’s Sweaters.”

Harry was not at all tempted to walk in the store, but with the help of his son making him go in, he had no choice.

“What a grotesque place Tom,” said Harry

“Relax and try on something that suits you best here,” said Tom

“I don’t like anything here. Sorry, but I loathe these kinds of stores,” replied the foolish man.

Tom rolled his eyes and began trying on jeans and a couple of sweaters to wear over polo shirts.

Harry stared at Tom speechless as he came out of the fitting room. Tom brought the clothes up to the woman at the cash register while Harry started looking at clothes for himself.

“Your total is $62.49 sir,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” said Tom as he walked away with his clothes.

The foolish man went to go try on two pairs on jeans with two sweatshirts and three polo shirts. He opens the curtain.

“It fits you well,” said Tom.

“I’ll do whatever makes my wife happy,” said Harry.

“Oh, c’mon; change is good too.”

They walked out of the clothing store carrying two large white bags filled with casual clothes. As they were walking in the mall, Harry notices a Calvin Klein store with all different styles of ties, shirts, suits, and dress shoes through the glass window.

“Tom, I’ll just be a minute,” said Harry.

“You said that you weren’t going to buy anything fancy while we’re here dad,” said Tom.

“I’ll just get a suit; I’ll be in and out within five minutes.”

“Alright, I’ll be waiting on the bench outside the store,” said Tom”

“Okay Tom.”

An hour and a half later, Harry comes out of the store with a tired, yet warm smile on his face.

“You’re back so soon,” said Tom sarcastically.

“There was a long line Tom. Hey, I went in your store.” said Harry

“For a half hour.”

“Oh, well then I apologize,” said Harry.

“It’s fine.”

“Here, I’ll make it up to you; we’ll go pick up something to eat for dinner,” said Harry.

“Okay, thanks dad.”

We both smile simultaneously.

Harry and Tom exit the mall to go and walk to the deli to get some sandwiches, a snack and a drink. When they arrive home, they turn on the T.V. to watch some comedy shows while eating their sandwiches. Tim lies down and kicks his shoes off. The foolish man was sitting at the edge of the couch now with his son’s ***** feet on him. While Tom looked very relaxed and comfortable eating his chicken sandwich, Harry looked very tense as he was giving his son a cold look.

“Get your gigantic, filthy feet off of my upper thigh,” said Harry annoyed.

“Oh, sorry dad,” said Tom surprised.

Harry looked at the T.V. eating his sandwich while Tom smiled a little from his comment before.

Harry and Tom didn’t do much for the next two days. They walked around a little and saw many people walking their dogs. Both Harry and Tom ate two meals a day in their hotel and slept on the uncomfortable couch. Harry figured he’d wear his sweater and jeans with sneakers on the third day of his stay. He was going to the park this morning and he certainly didn’t want to look foolish.

“What a nice day out today Tom. Not too hot, not too cold, but perfect weather,” said Harry.

“Yes, I agree,” said Tom.

The man and his son walked along the walkway in the park, leading to a playground filled with little kids, elders and parents sitting on benches or walking around. As Harry and Tom sat down on a bench next to a water fountain, Harry couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Susan, is that you? Asked Harry shocked.

“Oh, hello Harry,” she said without looking up.

“Nice seeing you here Susan,” said Harry.

Susan looked up from reading her enormous book and saw something unexpected about the foolish man.

“Oh, Harry, you’ve changed; changed for me. You are the sweetest husband and you’re not at all foolish,” said Susan full of excitement.

Harry smiled and gave Susan a big hug.

“Tom, love you son,” said Susan.

“I love you very much as well mom,” replied Tom.

After Harry checked out of their room, they all were headed to the next train home.

As Harry, Susan and Tom walked into their mansion in Michigan, Susan asked what Harry was holding.

Harry blushed and said, “Just clothes.”

“Can I see them Harry? asked Susan.

“They’re not that clean.”

Susan took the bag from him and looked inside.

“Not again,” said Tom.

Susan laughed on account of her already knowing that her husband couldn’t keep his eyes off of nice and fancy clothes for a minute.

“Harry…you’re one fastidious gentleman.”
Matthew Roe Oct 2017
With each
CLICK
Our breath is held
Will he,won't he
Will he, won't he
The suspense is killing me
And....****
Door left open still
Pestered by the plebeian chill

In this gay little coffee shop
Surrounded by the unrecognised talent of Brighton:sketch artist staring at me, writer on his laptop, songwriter etching vigorously with his pencil.
All of which aren't closing the door.

The eyes roll.
Labouring my body up, hammering my legs across the floor, turning the factory handle.

All is ask is for some carrot cake,filtrate water,polo jumpers, avocado salads,tiger bread, slimmer trousers, slipper sock , a toyger.
Click
And then images of Kim Jong un pass through my head.
If I ruled you'd all be dead
Firing squad for an open door,
Loud music on the train'll be no more.
Stop the screaming misbehaving brats
The rabble of Spanish students
All this PC stuff on the news, train seats filled with cans of *****

Suddenly
The artist strolls up
Let's down his cup.
Closes the door swiftly
And slips back in his chair

Oh, so there is a god.

I guess Jesus didn't lie.
Inspired by a time I was sitting in a coffee shop in Brighton, where a ton of customers kept on leaving the door open. It is about becoming aware of ones own social class and how it can create a sense of barriers/isolation, be it from upper or lower. Specifically arising from the 2017 snap election, when the Labour Party demonised the middle and upper classes, demonising a minority the same way they mocked Trump for doing.
So Dreamy May 2017
Hari itu hari Sabtu. Dan, aku sedang ulangtahun.

Sepi. Hanya terdengar suara tetesan air dari keran yang lupa ditutup rapat di wastafel dapur. Desiran angin yang menggesek dedaunan di halaman belakang. Bambu angin yang bersiul di teras rumah tetangga sebelah. Jalanan beraspal yang kosong. Terpaan sinar matahari. Mangkuk beling yang diketuk penjual makanan keliling. Suara jarum detik jam dinding.
Dalam diam aku menunggu. Mahesa belum juga datang. Duduk di atas sofa, perlahan kulahap sekantung keripik kentang, suara iklan di televisi kini menjadi musik latar yang mengisi siang terikku yang sepi ini. Lupakan fakta bahwa kakakku, Mas Kekar, adalah satu-satunya orang yang mengingat hari ulangtahunku. Ucapan ulangtahunnya tiba tadi pagi pukul tujuh lewat pesan suara. Kalau ada Nenek, ia pasti akan membuat kue tar dan nanti malam kami akan duduk melingkar di atas meja makan, menyantapnya bersama-sama sambil minum teh lemon. Sayangnya, sekarang rumahnya jauh; di surga.
Tiba-tiba, telepon genggamku berbunyi. Satu notifikasi baru, ada satu pesan masuk. Dari Mahesa, katanya ia akan sampai lima menit lagi. Baiklah, akan kutunggu dengan sabar. Walaupun ia bilang akan menjemput pukul setengah dua belas ― aku sudah menunggunya sejak pukul sebelas lewat, sekarang pukul satu, dan lima menit lagi ia akan datang. Menghabiskan waktu seharian bersama Mahesa selalu menjadi momen istimewa bagiku, membuat jantung jumpalitan tak karuan, dan berakhir tersenyum-senyum sendiri setiap kali sebelum memejamkan mata di atas tempat tidur pada malam hari. Singkatnya adalah orang ini selalu membuatku bahagia, sadar atau tidak sadar dirinya, ialah sumber kebahagiaanku. Bulan dan bintang bagi malamku.
OK. Kubalas pesannya, lalu kubuka pesan-pesan lain yang mungkin belum kubuka. Tidak ada pesan lain atau telepon. Belum ada telepon dari Ayah ataupun pesan singkat. Entah kapan ia akan pulang. Entah kapan ia akan menyempatkan diri membuka kalender, teringat akan sesuatu, dan mengucapkan, “Selamat ulangtahun.”.
Aku berjanji tidak pernah ingin jadi orang yang hidup tanpa memiliki waktu.
Bel berbunyi dan pintu diketuk. Spontan, aku merapikan rambut, memakai tas selempang, dan bangkit. Kusiapkan senyum terbaik untuk menyambut Mahesa. Setelah pintu kubuka, senyumku langsung sirna. Mang Ijang, tukang pos daerah kami yang malah muncul.
“Siang Mbak Maura, ada tiga surat buat Bapak,” dia menyerahkan tiga surat berbentuk persegi panjang yang sangat familiar bagiku. Sudah berpuluh, bahkan mungkin ratusan kali aku menerima surat macam ini sejak lima tahun terakhir. Kubaca nama perusahaan yang tertera di kop surat itu. Masih sama seperti biasanya; bank, perusahaan listrik, perusahaan telepon.
“Tandatangan di sini dulu, Mbak,” Mang Ijang menyerahkan pulpen dan sebuah kertas tanda terima surat. Setelah kutandatangani, ia pergi.
Kubuka surat itu satu per satu sambil duduk di kursi teras. Surat-surat tagihan, seperti biasa. Hampir dua bulan rupanya Ayah tidak membayar tagihan telepon. Aku bahkan tidak berselera lagi membaca nominalnya. Aku menghela napas dan memandangi jalanan kosong di depan rumah. Kuputuskan untuk memakai earphone, memilih playlist di aplikasi musik, menunggu Mahesa di kursi teras sambil ditemani angin semilir.
5 menit.
Everything is Embarrassing – Sky Ferreira.
10 menit.
Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want – The Smiths.
15 menit.
Love Song – The Cure.
Dua puluh menit kemudian, Mahesa datang. Senyumku seketika merekah, walaupun ia terlihat begitu lelah. Kaos polo abu-abunya basah oleh keringat, dahinya dibanjiri keringat, napasnya terengah-engah dengan ritme yang tak beraturan. Aku duduk di sampingnya yang memegang kemudi dan masih bisa mencium wangi parfumnya samar-samar, meskipun tujuh puluh persennya sudah bercampur dengan semerbak peluh. Tapi, siapa peduli? Menurutku, ia tetap mengagumkan.
“Maaf lama, Ra. Tadi ada urusan penting yang mendadak,” katanya sambil memilih-milih saluran radio. 19.2, saluran radio yang khusus memutarkan musik-musik indie dan jadul. Mungkin ini salah satunya mengapa sejak awal aku tertarik dengan manusia yang satu ini dan berujung benar-benar mengaguminya, kami menyukai jenis musik yang sama. “Jadi, ke mana kita hari ini? Dan, akan mengobservasi apa?”
Kubuka catatan jadwal terakhir kami, “Hmm. Hari ini jadwal kita ke galeri seni kontemporer yang ada di sebelah balai kota dan pameran seni di hotel Metropolite. Kita bakal mengobservasi lukisan kontemporer supaya bisa membandingkan dengan jenis lukisan yang lain.”
Kamu benar, sesungguhnya ini hanyalah sekadar tugas kelompok bahasa Indonesia. Mungkin bagi Mahesa begitu, tapi bagiku bukan sama sekali. Kuanggap ini sebuah kebetulan yang ajaib. Kebetulan kami sekelompok. Kebetulan kami berdua sama-sama tidak masuk di hari ketika guru Bahasa Indonesia kami membagikan kelompok dan kami masuk ke dalam kelompok terakhir, kelompok sisa. Kebetulan kami memilih tema seni lukis dan belum ada kelompok lain yang mengambil topik itu. Kebetulan dua anggota kelompok kami yang lainnya tidak bisa diandalkan, yang satunya sakit berat dan yang satunya lagi sudah dikeluarkan dari sekolah sejak bulan lalu. Kebetulan hanya aku dan Mahesa yang tidak bermasalah. Maka, hanya kami berdua yang selalu jalan ke tempat-tempat untuk mengobservasi. Sejak saat itu, aku percaya akan keajaiban.
---
Semuanya berawal dari pertemuan singkat kami di minggu keempat kelas sebelas. Oke, ralat, bukan sebuah pertemuan lebih tepatnya, melainkan hanya aku yang memandanginya dari jauh. Namun, itu satu-satunya kejadian yang mungkin dapat memberi jawaban atas pertanyaan mengapa dan bagaimana perasaan ini bisa muncul. Bukan secara tidak sengaja dan spontan seperti yang biasa kau dapatkan di adegan jatuh cinta pada film-film romansa norak, tetapi adeganku sederhana, penuh kehati-hatian, dan perlahan.
Kelas sebelas adalah tahun yang cukup sulit bagiku. My dad was busy more than ever—well, until now dan itu tahun pertama Mas Kekar menginjakkan kaki di dunia perkuliahan. Dia diterima di salah satu universitas negeri ternama di Bandung, jadi hanya pulang ke rumah setiap akhir bulan. Aku punya waktu sendirian di rumah dengan jumlah yang berlebih.
In that year, my friends left me. Ghia pindah ke luar kota dan Kalista bergabung dengan anak-anak populer sejak mendaftar sebagai anggota baru di tim pemandu sorak. Kami hanya makan siang bersama pada beberapa hari di minggu pertama sekolah, setelah itu dia selalu dikelilingi dan menjadi bagian dari kelompok cewek-cewek pemakai lip tint merah dan seragam yang dikecilkan. Aku mengerti, barangkali dia memang menginginkan posisi itu sejak lama dan citra dirinya memang melejit pesat, membuat semua leher anak cowok melirik barang beberapa detik setiap ia berjalan di tengah koridor. Lagipula, jika ia sudah mendapatkan status sosial yang sangat hebat itu, mana mungkin dia masih mau berteman dengan orang sepertiku? Maura, the average one, yang selalu mendengarkan musik lewat earphone, yang lebih banyak menyantap bekal di dalam kelas pada jam istirahat. Aku hanya masih tidak paham bagaimana seseorang yang semula kau kenal bisa berubah menjadi orang lain secepat itu.
Tapi, hal lainnya yang cukup melegakan di tahun itu adalah aku bertemu dengan Indira. Kami berkenalan pada hari Senin di minggu kedua kelas sebelas, hari pertama dia masuk sekolah setelah seminggu penuh dirawat di rumah sakit karena DBD. Begitu melihatku duduk sendirian di baris paling belakang, dia buru-buru menghampiri sambil bertanya, “Sebelahmu kosong?”. Sejak itulah kami berteman.
Indira dan teman-temannya biasa menghabiskan makan siang di bangku koridor lantai satu yang menghadap ke lapangan, bukan di kantin. Walaupun secara harfiah aku bukan salah satu bagian dari kelompok pertemanan mereka, Indira selalu mengajakku bergabung dan orang-orang baik itu rupanya menerimaku.
Di bangku koridor itu kali pertama aku memerhatikan anak laki-laki yang bermain bola setiap jam istirahat kedua. Hanya ada dua-tiga orang kukenal, itu juga karena mereka teman sekelasku sekarang atau di kelas sepuluh, sementara selebihnya orang asing bagiku. Di antaranya ada yang berperawakan tinggi, rambut tebal, rahang yang tegas. Aku hanya belum tahu siapa namanya waktu itu.
Selanjutnya, aku bertemu dengan laki-laki itu di kantin, sedang duduk bersama beberapa cowok yang tidak kukenal, tertawa lepas. Mungkin karena aku jarang ke kantin, aku baru melihatnya di sana waktu itu. Pada acara demo ekskul, aku melihat dia lagi. Bermain bass di atas panggung. Anggota klub musik rupanya. Pemain bass. Pada hari-hari berikutnya, aku lebih sering melihatnya berjalan di koridor depan kelasku, kadang sendirian dengan earphone, kadang ada beberapa temannya. Anak kelas sebelas juga rupanya, jurusan IPS juga. Hari-hari berikutnya, selalu kutengokkan kepala ke jendela setiap kali ia lewat di depan kelasku. Aku penasaran, kenapa mataku tidak pernah melihat orang semenarik dia sebelumnya? Dan, kenapa dia hanya muncul di tempat dan saat-saat tertentu, seperti saat istirahat, masuk sekolah, dan jam pulang? Hari-hari berikutnya, berpapasan dengannya membuatku senang sekaligus semakin penasaran. Dia anggota klub fotografi juga, aktif, sering memimpin rapat anggota di kantin sepulang sekolah, dan ternyata karyanya banyak dipublikasikan di majalah sekolah. Dari situ aku tahu namanya, Mahesa.
---
“Geser ke kanan sedikit. Bukan, bukan, sedikiiit lagi. Sedikiiit, oke, pas!”
Sebagai dokumentasi, Mahesa memotret beberapa lukisan dari berbagai angle dan beberapa kali memintaku untuk berpose ala-ala tak sadar kamera. Tentu saja aku pasti bersedia, selalu bersedia. Dia juga merekam keadaan sekitar dalam bentuk video, yang katanya, bakal dia edit menjadi super artsy.
“Percaya sama gue, kita bakal jadi tim paling keren yang menghasilkan dokumentasi paling berseni, Ra,” kata Mahesa sambil tersenyum sendiri melihat hasil jepretannya.
Destinasi terakhir kami—pameran lukisan yang sedang digelar selama seminggu di hotel Metropolite—akan tutup sepuluh menit lagi, tepat pukul tujuh malam. Setelah terakhir kalinya Mahesa merekam keadaan pameran dan beberapa pengunjung yang masih melihat-lihat, baterai kameranya habis. Sebelum pulang, Mahesa bilang dia tahu tempat makan enak di sekitaran sini. Jadi, kami mampir untuk mengisi perut dengan soto ayam dan berbincang-bincang sebentar, setelah itu baru benar-benar pulang.
Di perjalanan pulang, derai hujan turun perlahan. Karena rumah kami terletak di pinggiran kota, jadi kami harus melalui jalan tol atau kalau tidak, akan lebih jauh. Mahesa memencet-mencet tombol radio, mencari saluran nomor 19.2, tapi setelah mendengar acara yang dibawakan penyiar radio, dia langsung mengganti asal saluran radio yang lain. Saluran radio yang menyiarkan lagu-lagu pop kekinian yang sedang hits.
“Sekali-kali dengerin genre lain, ya, Ra,” katanya sambil menginjak rem. Jalanan seketika padat merayap di depan kami. Mungkin karena hujan mulai deras, jalanan mulai tergenang, orang-orang mengemudi dengan lebih hati-hati.

(bersambung.)
to be continued.
Ralph Akintan Nov 2019
Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo
Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo

Gaiting out of the prescient of
      the stable with pride.
Galloping for space on the polo course.
Hooves trotting on the footmark
      of strength.
Now cantering for span with the
      shield of victory.
White tail of strength flapping
      the cognomen of success.

Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo
Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo

Immaculate white mane arrays
      against the ants of winds,
Absorbing the residuum of the
      hardened breeze with relish.
Whitening coloured cresty neck,
White head, brown eyes,
White legs, blackened hooves,
Colourless long shaft holding the
      ***** of procreation.
Swinging like pendulum of nature.

Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo
Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo.

Submissive strength clocked under
      the apron of the stableman.
Cantering with honour.
Galloping  in royalty.
Head collar rope ordering the
      pace of strength.
Hostler tightly chained on the
      tray of stableman.

Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo
Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo.
Nebuleiii Mar 2013
To my innocence, naivety, and viridity
Childish ways, high school days.
A mere three weeks, I say good bye
With a cry, a tear, a sigh.

To blue slacks, and a polo
Black shoes and white socks
To my pink skirt, and white blouse,
Pleated, soon to be folded.

To the OHS rooms of our first and second years:
The broken windows, and tantrum-kicked chairs,
The broom box behind the spider webbed chalkboard,
Messages on the wall hand printed in red and green.

The broken doorknobs, and broken floorboards,
Carved armchairs, and eaten chalks,
Missing brooms and dustpans and garbage cans and rugs
That show up in who knows where
Stolen by jani- we know who.

The witnesses and victims
To our random laughter (from some Chinese-looking girl’s corny joke).
Our random tears.
Our not so random learnings.
The pillars of our memories.

To the PF rooms of our third year:
The storage room turned gigantic garbage can and dressing room (maybe because ours keep being stolen)
The exploding socket causing sparks to fly (and us to fly away from it), and
The amazing “alambre” lock; who knows who installed (as if that could keep us away).
The earthquake resistant rooms would be missed.

To the New High School Building of our last years:
The kicked door (not our fault!), and cancerous blinds (like hairs falling after chemo),
The jigsaw floor (not sure if better than broken floorboards),
The “Halayan 2012”, and
The mind-boggling “no key needed” lockers.


The UTMT with its fair share of mango sentences,
The old guidance office now turned “tambayan”, and
The Computer lab with its fragile yellow chairs and bruised bums.

To Ibong Adarna plays, and the half cooked uncooked Teriyaki,
Generation X (and Generation NOW! and Generation Facebook),
Jai ** dances, and cheerleading,
Kalagon Kamo Namon,
And Mickey Mickey Mouse Kabit-bintana memories.

To the NikJep Tandem,
Kanlaon Boys Behind the Flowers,
D.H.A.I.N.G. (not sure if they remember this),
Fred vs Gino version
And DewBheRhieTart.

Keep the volcanoes of memories burning.

To blue paint, and blue shirts,
And Geometry teaching us
“There are a lot of solutions to a problem.
We just have to find one that suits us.”

To saying “***”,
And cooking imbutido.
And wearing (for some designing) reduced,
Reused, recycled clothing.
And dissecting.
And parrot-Filipino teachers (she gave me P30 for load though).

Keep the river of rumination flowing.

To being scared of one whole sheet of paper,
Two becoming one,
Party rocking to make up for the tears,
And knowing we should have won.

To the hand sanitizer girls,
The Cream-o-holics,
The Canterbury Crusaders,
The Valenciana eaters.

May our tree of friendship continue growing.

To our winnings!

The glow in the dark madness,
The Lakan at Mutya clutch-heart-moments,
The Sports Fest *******,
Basketball girls’ coronation!

To the fieldtrips and failed trips,
To air conditioned crammings,
And space and time bending
To comparing notes (and sometimes other things)
Copying notes, sometimes photocopying
(Not Xeroxing)
Sharing words, phrases, sentences
And giving pictures (via Bluetooth).

May you keep walking on the right direction,

To the expectations achived,
Broken, overtaken.
All the skepticism,
Constructive criticism.

All of it.

The in-your-face-we-did-it-baby-
We-are-awesome-you-can’t-bring-us-do­wn-
Coz-we-rise-back-up-attitude.

To Arielle
And Mhae

To Amica
Marie
Narzcisa
Cyan
Fred
Theo
Alvinson
Anthony
Faith
Karmil­la
Matt
Jeffson
Lourince

To Carolyn

To Makayla

To the thirty-five castaways in this room
The thirty-five castaways who struggled
The thirty-five castaways who persevered
The thirty-five castaways who fought, cried, made up, laughed, shared, gave, back-stabbed, and front-stabbed, celebrated, suffered, passed
Thirty-five
Thirty-five castaways who loved,
Thirty-five

Thirty-five castaways who made it, who did it.

To Nikki
Hazel
Alyssa
Gef
Veni
Alex
Jaykee
Bernard
Myra
Vince
Chanta­lle
Josen
Jerian
Shaira
J
Uriah
Ihra
Renz
Bless
Steffany
Angel
Fl­orey
Bernadine
Antonette
Rency
Owen
Majah
Gino
Marcelo
Ney
Keith
­Joselle
And Jessa,

We did it guys.
We really did.
TO MY CLASSMATES (IV-ILAWOD)
So many private jokes and inside thoughts. So many.
'Oderint dum metuant. Atreus, Books III–V "De Ira", I, 20, 4.'

They unwrap me like candy
Peeling, stripping flesh and sinew carelessly

Rice paper thin boldness dissolving
Melamine tinged shifting unsettled smiles

I grin back at them sweetly,
Teeth and jaw, bare bone beaming white

They have made me no more but the refreshing whispers of wrappers
Now, I am the nothingness that they cannot destroy
White Rabbit taffy and Polo mints are popular childhood candies in my native Malaysia (and my personal favorites as well). White Rabbits are milk flavored candies wrapped with an edible rice paper layer, the dairy used to make the taffy was contaminated by Melamine during the 2008 Chinese milk scandal; many governments deeming it unsafe for children to consume. The Latin above reads 'Let them hate, so long as they fear'
Robin Carretti May 2018
I don't really know if this is cut out for me. I rather go to Colorado in my singing voice* how I wish I was your lover please_ let's respect one another....

Here are the
stage lights
If you cannot
stand the heat
Bud light
Other seasons
The Four Seasons
Sherry Baby

Delicacies
Diva and Don Perion
Dressed
Navy and bloodshot
Eyes maroon
The fire desire
Only made them
Moon up higher
legacy
The voices
appetizer

Pina Colada
Fireworks Bella Diva
Gondola
Sunrise Prima Donna
Between the Diva
Fireworks outside
Of Lady Madonna

(Moonstruck)
Havana
Fireworks at
her breast
hot singer
editorial
Designer Hermes
scarfed $
Diva she raises
money
Fill in her gaps
Gap Navy
So savvy Honey
Oh! Jesus
Another
genius
Fireman
Rifleman
Joplin
Baby baby
Baby

She stepped
away
from reality
What about
me Robin
I am a singer
World became
my Godly
duty
Miss Mom Judy

The music
All trends
addicted to
shopping
Men %% $
Those  Poppins
Pop stars
Robin bob bobbin
along
She's chicken
Avocado
Comando
Chief Fido

Fireworks top
crooks
The safe box
She cooks
crock ***
Aluminum Clad
Potheads
Australian lads
All spread out in
Chickenpox

Egg Foo young
Cream say cheese
Lox Hip Hop
Sugar Daddy
Pops
Collegiate
Quickie talk
((Chatterbox))
The made hit
singers paradox
Calm me, Colorado
Endless voice

Eldorado
Diva had too many
Stars at the sing sing
of Rosy®
At the check coat Sassy
Tommy can you hear me
Her mouth
mento mints

Extreme bossy
Deep-throat
(Juicy Pineapple
Dole) her

The singer sways
all over him
Dancing Glove pole
If this is the
last thing
we ever do

Designed for a
Diva with
Jimmy Choo, it's
not a
better life
for me and you

******* coo
Lana Turner,
Turntable 4 the record_
Tina Turner
What does
loving a Diva
got to do
with this!!

So tramped on
Diva devourer
He's the observer

Maxwell millionaires

Tantalizing tongues
The Canaries
Yellow Solo
Not the goddess the
Diva Luv-a sun
{Ralph Polo]
Little darlings
Vampire
Diaries
The mad
librarian
BLT Diva VIP
The hell of
tinnitus

D=F ****-Fun
in" D"
Devilology
Diva Fireworks
sanitarium
Disney
aquarium

My sign the
Aquarius
So Forestal Crystal
Forest Hills US
open tennis

We are the
champions
The  sexter pistol
wedding ring
Go, Crystal
He compelled her
Divas revolver
Wild thing makes
my heart sing
And his boxers
make me  
so closer

Diva solver
Frenzy firecracker
pleaser
Who is ready to vote
Songs wanted
love pusher

Diva's eyes
  Maybelline
Maybe all lined
Stadium of voices
titanium
The Diva to
be resold

Too many songs
were sold
Wife trophy
Platinum had
a voice tone

Diva Grand
Marnier
He's the
connoisseur
of mouth's
experimental

Mentally
He tricks you
Singing horse
you just know
won't trick you
A singer is like
a horse

Wizard of Odd
Moms many colors
performances
This land is your
land from
California but
the Diva Islands
flipping
Las Vegas

Nothing is
guaranteed
((Lady GaGa))
Your out
Haha
Stay upright
lights down
out of sight

*Brooklyn Blackout

Cake Ebinger
We were eating
Singing and Guessing

Diva sucker
lollipops
Panic at the disco
To run him over
What R the odds
Getting even road
Steven the Cosmos

The singing
highway
project
Robin was
from Bayview
Project
All Adultery
Bills
Clintons Mastery
No Susie
homemaker
Hilariously singing
Shining like the
shoemaker

Sitting at
the pub
She ordered a
hot steaming
Spa voice
The Egyptian
grains
of love sand
Medler
Fergie Google
Ben Stiller
Singer just
pill her
burlesque

So Cher-like
if I could
change back
the time I would
do it anyway
Jumping Diva
Kangaroo  pouch

Too much Diva
Ouch----
Joe DiMaggio
fireworks of *****
Big wiggle
Opera
Marilyn Monroe
The Phantom
Of *** appeal
Propaganda

Blowing off
competition
nails

But__ dying inside
like a deadlight
Sparkle me
*** lights
That voice
signals
"Neon Nights"
ooh la the
Eifel tower
bowed her
Moonstruck
striking
wallet high Kicking
wages
Got her voice back
to be shot in stages

Her revolver
eight days a week
The real voice
never take
for granted

Genie
The Diva Luv
in her SUV
She was still
singing
And he wasted
his
whole
dinner

But I got
my voice back
Singing
She let her heart out
He turned his head
He said  what a stunner
Why on earth would anyone want to be a Diva what are the benefits?
Are they the ones with the best views I rather gather all my info and I have a sweet tooth. I just love those ladies with the (Charleston chews) they really know how to chew your ears off
Gillian Cortez Apr 2015
Hello to the guy in the white polo
the formal black slacks
and polished black shoes
You could've noticed a little girl around
who is utterly attracted to you
You look at me every now and then
and I ignore those looks of yours
you don't know I'm secretly giddy
flattered, enthralled, enamored
Writing this right now in school while some upper class guy is sitting across me. Hoping for sparks to happen.
pixels Sep 2014
Your eyes peel off my Polo,
Shimmy off my conservative slacks-
I am not a walking show.

I do not consent.

Your words strip me of my smile,
Your whistles devour my dignity-
I am not a dog, to be called to attention.

I do not consent.

I do not consent to this ritual humiliation,
I do not consent to this violation,
I do not consent to this dehumanization.

I do not consent.
Austin Heath Jun 2014
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big *******
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's ****-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."
Brooke Davis Jan 2023
My soul continues searching
for yours.

"Marco."

I wonder, can you hear its beckon?
Would you still answer its call?

I crave your
"Polo."
There was a cat named Crazy Christian
Who never lived long enough to *****
He was gay hearted, young and handsome
And all the secrets of life he knew
He would always arrive on time for breakfast
Scamper on your feet and chase the ball
He was faster than any polo pony
He never worried a minute at all
His tail was a plume that scampered with him
He was black as night and as fast as light.
So the bad cats killed him in the fall.
The blue-green ocean
spreads out like a fan
before us

our dry, sand imbedded
feet approach

we are timid birds -
uncaged

fearful of the gait
of our shadow

but sand is forgiving
and we step

inch by inch towards
the water

we are so close
that I can taste
the salt

brown seaweed
sticking to my
naked soles

what did we come
here for?

I wanted to see the sun
reflected on a liquid
mirror

I wanted to forage
and find

treasure

but we are stolen
by the waves

carried out across
the shore

we are made
of yesterday's
passion

our bare skin
wrinkling

with age

we have found
nothing but

ourselves

hopeless drifters, now
unclothed, unhinged

and tethered to

the tide
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
when marco polo sailed to china,
kublai khan was the emperor of china.

or what other privilege can i speak of, if not that celebration
of the bilingual, there rooted, the sword in slavic
and the sheath in pseudo-Germanic;
for what violence is to come
it will always retract in the Germanic
for a time-period of two-faced thespian
pleasantries,
           without the need for pleasantries
already waiting bloodthirsty,
        as said, the common motto
more true now with ***** farms of turnip
donors than ever before,
science has become arrogant, almost religiously,
it's arrogant, it's arrogant, it's arrogant,
and because it's arrogant: it's blind.
       high expectations for words so grand they
fathomed nations to be used in between
kettles, teacups, knives, forks and napkins...
where's the equilibrium economy?
     well, for one this sort of work is deemed "work",
intellectualism is nothing in the post-Germanic
world of English and Americanism -
if you ain't singing (citing the motto): you
ain't thinking... for the quick buck, doctor.
it's sad and almost revealing,
          a cursed fate of our fathers' indentation
on the world...
                 you don't grow a beard to look smart
while holding a book using your upper-body
to wriggle the jig of a song, the vanity of having
a double chin...
       the principle of ensō is to have things intact,
ensō doesn't exist outside of poetry,
      you don't drink coffee in between and
then flick to a sitcom for a "creative" break
to what is: an already generic narrative.
prose is the excess of narration, there are sparks
along the way, but nothing as convincing
as Stendhal's omnus...
                and could i have simply abandoned
that quasi-epic poem of mine that's two days old?
only having realised that all said things prior
and now, subsequently, after are instilled within
the ensō principle that's less axe on the gallows:
and more guillotine; which translates into
symbols and the effectiveness of *less is more
,
what's the standardising canvas? alcohol,
i.e. proof.
               a poem can be nearing 100% proof,
something you'd use in a surgical theatre...
i have drank spirits in the 90 - 99% range...
          a poem can be considered to be in the >50%
range... after all... people are able to memorise
poems, or are intended to do so -
which is hard to conceive the Koranic attitude
toward poets, the Koran states an abhorrence
towards poets, in some surah of so-and-so number...
my problem is with the Hafiz: people who memorise
the Quran... as suggested from the above:
prose literature can be considered to be in the <50%
range... hence the need to extract spoilers /
quotes from prose books... something memorable...
and because prose is laden with too much
narrative lead, it sinks to the bottom,
into the unconscious, and is only revised within
dreams, when something synonymously-parallel
happens to us in your daily-narrated lives:
we are more prone to narrate than think
in terms of Jefferson and the light-bulb...
i wish i had the encyclopedic reference point where
the Quran explicitly states hostility toward
poetry... but thankfully the mere existence of
the Hafiz undermines the Quran as: the poetry
to end all poetry; and where does Stendhal
come into this? in the Red & the Black, the protagonist
is also a "Hafiz", in that he can recite the entire
Biblical text: by heart. i retain the this fact even
though the days spent reading that book
extended to many hours on the bus to school...
Julien Sorel / Ewan McGregor (in the realisation
of the book onto the screen)...
if the Quran attacks poets for their fickle-mindedness
i can only say: the mind is very literally fickle
in the first place, given:
a. the number of choices we can make, and
   b. the reversal of where the mind is embedded,
i.e. in the brain, and given the brain's complexity
and foundation in polymathic expressions
from the gymnastics of trivia, to the labours of
  singled-out interests... poets aren't fickle
  minded because they're poets,
   we're universally fickle minded, because the mind
is a fickle thing in the first place...
  to counter the complexity of the brain,
    only when the mind is found migrating into
the ******* region or the heart is there any sense
of determination to be seen...
clearly Muhammad migrated from the brain
   got himself a mini-harem and established a family,
****** Ali over on an empty promise and
immediately established a schism that took much
longer to be established in Christianity...
       i told you: my prejudices are personal,
they're not environment, i did have Muslim "friends",
i did read the Quran and i did sit in a Reagent's Park
mosque in my socks looking at the feng shui
minimalism... obviously the schism would come
from the place where a major element was used
in dressing up the mosques... persian carpets...
   and the fact that the Farsi loved their poetry...
the fact that the Quran is to be sang is basically
one poet, telling all others poets to come:
YOUR WORK IS ****!
                     that's feeble, esp. if you take the sword
out after when people tell you no.
   but that's what i don't understand, if the Quran
is so against poetry, doesn't the existence of
the Hafiz mean that it actually is poetry?
  could you find a team of such plonkers to memorise
a single chapter of Tolstoy's war & peace?
  i ******* well doubt it...
plus the whole mono-lingual attitude toward it
means for me to argue certain points with some
Sheikh Ali-Baba would means years lost
   to hark out a word of arabic...
      point being, any chance to learn a new optical
encoding of sounds is impossible,
the one i already have has eroded such a potential:
plus the fact that it's so different...
plus i spotted some anomalies in the system i'm
using: here's it's saying java, .dos, linux...
               oh don't feel left out from the computer
programming community: turn the cheek and
say in robo-slo-mo: psi-borg     (Ψ-borg):
it's the crucifix of the psychology community anyway (Ψ)...    
        i inherited the difference between
   s & ś                         a & ą -
or as one ironic German phrasing had it, a long long
time ago on a Catholic retreat in the south of France
(Taizé): vey didn't oonderstand my good Inglish aacent,
you know how Arnie sounds, right?
just like that... became the running joke for a few years...
you basically learn an accent having spotted
  diacritical markings... having been raised in
a phonetic-realm where diacritical marks are used,
and then growing up in a phonetic-realm where
they are completely disregarded... well,
it's not hard not sound English and then lurking
in the shadows if someone is calling your ethnic origin
as vermin... having such a kind remark as this one
to further the entertainment... i heard
that in America there's that thing called "white-privilege",
and that you can't be racist to a white person
if you're a white person... well... you won't be getting
any jazz and blues out of me sweetiepie, that's for sure:
politics, unfortunately; and what better way
to state politics than with poetry, or the tact within
poetry: telling someone to go to hell with them
anticipating the trip.
Luce Dec 2013
I like you in the backseat of the car.

The first time
I took long (stabilising) breaths
because you were so close
that I could taste your aftershave
in the
            limited
                          amounts
                                            of
                                                  air.

I could only focus on your close proximity
and I bit my lips to stop myself from smiling
stop...
pretend to enjoy the scenery

even though your face
is a perfect landscape
that not even Monet
could create.

I fell asleep in the backseat
that night
The driver guided by the
headlights
street lights
moonlight

but I was guided by you
as you put your head on my shoulder first
saying it was okay
no-one knows us here
in the confined space

except the pair of eyes occasionally
flickering to me and you
through the rear view
mirror.

I haven't been able to close my eyes
and sleep next to someone
for so long
because I'm still a little afraid
of the dark

and even more afraid of the darkness
in my own mind
but the possibility of nightmares
jumps the gun on them all
and scares me to death.

But you got me to sleep
peacefully
and let me stay there
even though I murdered your arm
with my head

like I nearly did once to my own body

you
held my head to your shoulder
pulled me a little closer
as we went over the speed bumps
as if you wanted me have me one less disruption in my life
even if it was only for a moment.

I begged time to slow down
let me stay here
let
       the
              tick
                      tock
                               stop

because maybe if the clock hands
stop moving
my hands can move
onto yours
our fingers will become as intertwined
as our complementary minds.

Now,
my head is on the pillow
but it's not as comfortable as your shoulder
nor is it as warm as your arms

because I like you in the backseat of the car.
do you like me in the backseat too?

(i like you in the backseat of the car.
do you like me in the backseat too?)
While in the midst of playing solitaire
(with losing outcome foreordained
after a couple moves), I became gripped
with combinations predicated on thirteen
ranks each of four French suits subsumed:
Clubs (♣), Diamonds (◊), Hearts (♥) And Spades (♠).

I  totalled a sum of fifty two variations.

If one of four possible draws for king available,
(which could be either Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts,
and Spades), that would automatically determine
every subsequent card diminishing in rank
topped off with an Ace.

Please feel welcome to challenge my presumption
within a dark alley late at night.

The above calculation logical since a standard deck
(not surprisingly) comprises 52 cards
(4 suits of 13).

Each suit (Clubs ♣, Diamonds ◊, Hearts ♥, Or Spades ♠)
contains an Ace, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10,
Jack, Queen, And King.

There are no duplicates.

No Google search yielded results
asper this nagging question, but unexpectedly
whet an immediate appetite describing
the history of plain old vanilla playing cards.

Said legacy encompassing the four suits
i.e. collectively represent four elements
(wind, fire, water, and earth),
the seasons, and cardinal directions.

They represent struggle of opposing forces
for victory in life. Each suit on a deck of cards
represents four major pillars of economy
during middle ages: Heart represented
Church, Spades represented  military,
clubs represented agriculture, and
Diamonds represented merchant class.

King of hearts is the only king minus a mustache.

Face cards (Jacks, Queens, And Kings) so called
"face cards" because the cards
have pictures of their names.

One-eyed Royals (the Jack of spades
and Jack of Hearts often called "one-eyed Jacks"),
and King of Diamonds drawn in profile;
therefore, these cards
commonly referred to as "one-eyed".

The King of Spades ♠ ranks
as one of three immovable Fixed Cards
in the Cards of Life and resides
in the Crown Line of both Master Scripts
(Spirit and Life).

Said card, in situ, the most powerful card
in the deck.

A Jack or Knave is a playing card,
which in traditional French and English decks,
pictures a man in traditional or historic
aristocratic dress generally associated
with Europe of the 16th or 17th century.

The usual rank of a Jack, within its suit,
plays as if it were an 11
(that is, between the 10 and the Queen).

Charming, resourceful, personable and easy-going
best defines Jack of Spades.

Blessed with a creative mind,
this one-eyed Jack of the deck manifests
jais nais sais quois salient scrutiny
jest via virtue of lightness of his being.

The four card suits that we know today —
Hearts, Diamonds, Spades, and Clubs
(rooted in French design) circa 15th century,
but the idea of card suits is much older.

The written history of card playing
began during 10th-century Asia,
from either China or India,
as a gambling game.

That idea found its way to ancient Muslim world
before 14th century.

The oldest known deck of Muslim playing cards,
like the playing cards of today,
had four suits: Coins, Cups, Swords, and Polo Sticks.

These decks of cards then showed up
in southern Europe, but because polo sticks
were unfamiliar to Europeans, that suit
eventually changed to Scepters, Batons,
or Cudgels (a type of club).
In France, Parisian cardmakers
settled on Spades, Hearts, Clubs, and Diamonds
as the four suits.  
    
The first adaptations of German card suits
constituted Leaves, Hearts, and Hawk Bells
(Acorns rounded out German suit).

Considering cards strictly made
for French upper class, tis little surprise
cardmakers chose expensive
Diamonds over common Acorns.

The French advanced card making utilizing
flat, single-color silhouettes for suits.

These images created with simple stencils,
made manufacture easy, quick, and inexpensive.

Innovative new, cheaper cards
flooded the market in the 15th century,
became popular in England,
and then traveled to America.    

Contrary to contemporary belief four suits
meant to represent four seasons inaccurate.

Equally questionable 52 cards linkedin
to 52 weeks of the year.

Many numerological and religious
explanations asper composition  
analogous to deck of cards postulated,
but these explanations purportedly created
ex post facto, perhaps to give deck-holders
a solid argument, that role deck of cards
maintained existed other than for gambling.
Mr Bigglesworth Oct 2014
I was late for school but it was cool, my chauffeur took the wrap
I even blamed the butler for the absence of my cap
My cravat was always crease-less and my slacks were really snappy
My shoes were always shiny, which made my pappy happy

Lesson one was cookery, but not for me today
So I sent our chef, an hour ahead, to make a nice soufflé
He usually does a marvelous job or when his mood permits
For Daddy signed him on a whim, after dining at the Ritz

Lesson two was Polo or Gymkhana if you must
So I chose fresh clothes and donned my hose as Polo’s upper crust
Oh I wish I’d brought my pony for the school ones just won’t do
They are barely fit for peasants, they are barely fit for glue

Morning break was late to take and the Polo match was drawn
But if you pleased, they’d bring cream teas to be taken on the lawn
I really didn't fancy Maths, so I stayed and sipped my char
For who could bear, and hour with Blair and his dreadful algebra

Lesson four was falconry with Mr Preston Love
His birds were plump but deadly and so quick off the glove
I loved to watch them soar and dive, a spiffing show for all
Reminds me of my gap year, hunting foxes in Nepal  

Lesson five was cancelled as Mummsy wrote a letter
She felt that English won’t suffice and elocution’s better
So Wilson rolled up in the Rolls and whisked me off to class
I hope tomorrow’s much improved, for today was oh so crass
Piramidal, funesta de la tierra
nacida sombra, al cielo encaminaba
de vanos obeliscos ***** altiva,
escalar pretendiendo las estrellas;
si bien sus luces bellas
esemptas siempre, siempre rutilantes,
la tenebrosa guerra
que con negros vapores le intimaba
la vaporosa sombra fugitiva
burlaban tan distantes,
que su atezado ceño
al superior convexo aún no llegaba
del orbe de la diosa
que tres veces hermosa
con tres hermosos rostros ser ostenta;
quedando sólo dueño
del aire que empañaba
con el aliento denso que exhalaba.
Y en la quietud contenta
de impero silencioso,
sumisas sólo voces consentía
de las nocturnas aves
tan oscuras tan graves,
que aún el silencio no se interrumpía.
Con tardo vuelo, y canto, de él oído
mal, y aún peor del ánimo admitido,
la avergonzada Nictímene acecha
de las sagradas puertas los resquicios
o de las claraboyas eminentes
los huecos más propicios,
que capaz a su intento le abren la brecha,
y sacrílega llega a los lucientes
faroles sacros de perenne llama,
que extingue, sino inflama
en licor claro la materia crasa
consumiendo; que el árbol de Minerva
de su fruto, de prensas agravado,
congojoso sudó y rindió forzado.
Y aquellas que su casa
campo vieron volver, sus telas yerba,
a la deidad de Baco inobedientes
ya no historias contando diferentes,
en forma si afrentosa transformadas
segunda forman niebla,
ser vistas, aun temiendo en la tiniebla,
aves sin pluma aladas:
aquellas tres oficiosas, digo,
atrevidas hermanas,
que el tremendo castigo
de desnudas les dio pardas membranas
alas, tan mal dispuestas
que escarnio son aun de las más funestas:
éstas con el parlero
ministro de Plutón un tiempo, ahora
supersticioso indicio agorero,
solos la no canora
componían capilla pavorosa,
máximas negras, longas entonando
y pausas, más que voces, esperando
a la torpe mensura perezosa
de mayor proporción tal vez que el viento
con flemático echaba movimiento
de tan tardo compás, tan detenido,
que en medio se quedó tal vez dormido.
Este. pues, triste son intercadente
de la asombrosa turba temerosa,
menos a la atención solicitaba
que al suelo persuadía;
antes si, lentamente,
si su obtusa consonancia espaciosa
al sosiego inducía
y al reposo los miembros convidaba,
el silencio intimando a los vivientes,
uno y otro sellando labio obscuro
con indicante dedo, Harpócrates la noche silenciosa;
a cuyo, aunque no duro, si bien imperioso
precepto, todos fueron obedientes.
El viento sosegado, el can dormido:
éste yace, aquél quedo,
los átomos no mueve
con el susurro hacer temiendo leve,
aunque poco sacrílego ruido,
violador del silencio sosegado.
El mar, no ya alterado,
ni aún la instable mecía
cerúlea cuna donde el sol dormía;
y los dormidos siempre mudos peces,
en los lechos 1amosos
de sus obscuros senos cavernosos,
mudos eran dos veces.
Y entre ellos la engañosa encantadora
Almone, a los que antes
en peces transformó simples amantes,
transformada también vengaba ahora.
En los del monte senos escondidos
cóncavos de peñascos mal formados,
de su esperanza menos defendidos
que de su obscuridad asegurados,
cuya mansión sombría
ser puede noche en la mitad del día,
incógnita aún al cierto
montaraz pie del cazador experto,
depuesta la fiereza
de unos, y de otros el temor depuesto,
yacía el vulgo bruto,
a la naturaleza
el de su potestad vagando impuesto,
universal tributo.
Y el rey -que vigilancias afectaba-
aun con abiertos ojos no velaba.
El de sus mismos perros acosado,
monarca en otro tiempo esclarecido,
tímido ya venado,
con vigilante oído,
del sosegado ambiente,
al menor perceptible movimiento
que los átomos muda,
la oreja alterna aguda
y el leve rumor siente
que aun le altera dormido.
Y en 1a quietud del nido,
que de brozas y lodo instable hamaca
formó en la más opaca
parte del árbol, duerme recogida
la leve turba, descansando el viento
del que le corta alado movimiento.
De Júpiter el ave generosa
(como el fin reina) por no darse entera
al descanso, que vicio considera
si de preciso pasa, cuidadosa
de no incurrir de omisa en el exceso,
a un sólo pie librada fía el peso
y en otro guarda el cálculo pequeño,
despertador reloj del leve sueño,
porque si necesario fue admitido
no pueda dilatarse continuado,
antes interrumpido
del regio sea pastoral cuidado.
¡Oh de la majestad pensión gravosa,
que aun el menor descuido no perdona!
Causa quizá que ha hecho misteriosa,
circular denotando la corona
en círculo dorado,
que el afán es no menos continuado.
El sueño todo, en fin, lo poseía:
todo. en fin, el silencio lo ocupaba.
Aun el ladrón dormía:
aun el amante no se desvelaba:
el conticinio casi ya pasando
iba y la sombra dimidiaba, cuando
de las diurnas tareas fatigados
y no sólo oprimidos
del afán ponderosos
del corporal trabajo, más cansados
del deleite también; que también cansa
objeto continuado a 1os sentidos
aún siendo deleitoso;
que la naturaleza siempre alterna
ya una, ya otra balanza,
distribuyendo varios ejercicios,
ya al ocio, ya al trabajo destinados,
en el fiel infiel con que gobierna
la aparatosa máquina del mundo.
Así pues, del profundo
sueño dulce los miembros ocupados,
quedaron los sentidos
del que ejercicio tiene ordinario
trabajo, en fin, pero trabajo amado
-si hay amable trabajo-
si privados no, al menos suspendidos.
Y cediendo al retrato del contrario
de la vida que lentamente armado
cobarde embiste y vence perezoso
con armas soñolientas,
desde el cayado humilde al cetro altivo
sin que haya distintivo
que el sayal de la púrpura discierna;
pues su nivel, en todo poderoso,
gradúa por esemptas
a ningunas personas,
desde la de a quien tres forman coronas
soberana tiara
hasta la que pajiza vive choza;
desde la que el Danubio undoso dora,
a la que junco humilde, humilde mora;
y con siempre igual vara
(como, en efecto, imagen poderosa
de la muerte) Morfeo
el sayal mide igual con el brocado.
El alma, pues, suspensa
del exterior gobierno en que ocupada
en material empleo,
o bien o mal da el día por gastado,
solamente dispensa,
remota, si del todo separada
no, a los de muerte temporal opresos,
lánguidos miembros, sosegados huesos,
los gajes del calor vegetativo,
el cuerpo siendo, en sosegada calma,
un cadáver con alma,
muerto a la vida y a la muerte vivo,
de lo segundo dando tardas señas
el de reloj humano
vital volante que, sino con mano,
con arterial concierto, unas pequeñas
muestras, pulsando, manifiesta lento
de su bien regulado movimiento.
Este, pues, miembro rey y centro vivo
de espíritus vitales,
con su asociado respirante fuelle
pulmón, que imán del viento es atractivo,
que en movimientos nunca desiguales
o comprimiendo yo o ya dilatando
el musculoso, claro, arcaduz blando,
hace que en él resuelle
el que le circunscribe fresco ambiente
que impele ya caliente
y él venga su expulsión haciendo activo
pequeños robos al calor nativo,
algún tiempo llorados,
nunca recuperados,
si ahora no sentidos de su dueño,
que repetido no hay robo pequeño.
Estos, pues, de mayor, como ya digo,
excepción, uno y otro fiel testigo,
la vida aseguraban,
mientras con mudas voces impugnaban
la información, callados los sentidos
con no replicar sólo defendidos;
y la lengua, torpe, enmudecía,
con no poder hablar los desmentía;
y aquella del calor más competente
científica oficina
próvida de los miembros despensera,
que avara nunca v siempre diligente,
ni a la parte prefiere más vecina
ni olvida a la remota,
y, en ajustado natural cuadrante,
las cuantidades nota
que a cada cual tocarle considera,
del que alambicó quilo el incesante
calor en el manjar que medianero
piadoso entre él y el húmedo interpuso
su inocente substancia,
pagando por entero
la que ya piedad sea o ya arrogancia,
al contrario voraz necio la expuso
merecido castigo, aunque se excuse
al que en pendencia ajena se introduce.
Esta, pues, si no fragua de Vulcano,
templada hoguera del calor humano,
al cerebro enviaba
húmedos, mas tan claros los vapores
de los atemperados cuatro humores,
que con ellos no sólo empañaba
los simulacros que la estimativa
dio a la imaginativa,
y aquesta por custodia más segura
en forma ya más pura
entregó a la memoria que, oficiosa,
gravó tenaz y guarda cuidadosa
sino que daban a la fantasía
lugar de que formase
imágenes diversas y del modo
que en tersa superficie, que de faro
cristalino portento, asilo raro
fue en distancia longísima se veían,
(sin que ésta le estorbase)
del reino casi de Neptuno todo,
las que distantes le surcaban naves.
Viéndose claramente,
en su azogada luna,
el número, el tamaño y la fortuna
que en la instable campaña transparente
arriesgadas tenían,
mientras aguas y vientos dividían
sus velas leves y sus quillas graves,
así ella, sosegada, iba copiando
las imágenes todas de las cosas
y el pincel invisible iba formando
de mentales, sin luz, siempre vistosas
colores. las figuras,
no sólo ya de todas las criaturas
sublunares, mas aun también de aquellas
que intelectuales claras son estrellas
y en el modo posible
que concebirse puede lo invisible,
en sí mañosa las representaba
y al alma las mostraba.
La cual, en tanto, toda convertida
a su inmaterial ser y esencia bella,
aquella contemplaba,
participada de alto ser centella,
que con similitud en sí gozaba.
I juzgándose casi dividida
de aquella que impedida
siempre la tiene, corporal cadena
que grosera embaraza y torpe impide
el vuelo intelectual con que ya mide
la cuantidad inmensa de la esfera,
ya el curso considera
regular con que giran desiguales
los cuerpos celestiales;
culpa si grave, merecida pena,
torcedor del sosiego riguroso
de estudio vanamente juicioso;
puesta a su parecer, en la eminente
cumbre de un monte a quien el mismo Atlante
que preside gigante
a los demás, enano obedecía,
y Olimpo, cuya sosegada frente,
nunca de aura agitada
consintió ser violada,
aun falda suya ser no merecía,
pues las nubes que opaca son corona
de la más elevada corpulencia
del volcán más soberbio que en la tierra
gigante erguido intima al cielo guerra,
apenas densa zona
de su altiva eminencia
o a su vasta cintura
cíngulo tosco son, que mal ceñido
o el viento lo desata sacudido
o vecino el calor del sol, lo apura
a la región primera de su altura,
ínfima parte, digo, dividiendo
en tres su continuado cuerpo horrendo,
el rápido no pudo, el veloz vuelo
del águila -que puntas hace al cielo
y el sol bebe los rayos pretendiendo
entre sus luces colocar su nido-
llegar; bien que esforzando
mas que nunca el impulso, ya batiendo
las dos plumadas velas, ya peinando
con las garras el aire, ha pretendido
tejiendo de los átomos escalas
que su inmunidad rompan sus dos alas.
Las pirámides dos -ostentaciones
de Menfis vano y de la arquitectura
último esmero- si ya no pendones
fijos, no tremolantes, cuya altura
coronada de bárbaros trofeos,
tumba y bandera fue a los Ptolomeos,
que al viento, que a las nubes publicaba,
si ya también el cielo no decía
de su grande su siempre vencedora
ciudad -ya Cairo ahora-
las que, porque a su copia enmudecía
la fama no contaba
gitanas glorias, menéficas proezas,
aun en el viento, aun en el cielo impresas.
Estas que en nivelada simetría
su estatura crecía
con tal disminución, con arte tanto,
que cuánto más al cielo caminaba
a la vista que lince la miraba,
entre los vientos se desaparecía
sin permitir mirar la sutil *****
que al primer orbe finge que se junta
hasta que fatigada del espanto,
no descendida sino despeñada
se hallaba al pie de la espaciosa basa.
Tarde o mal recobrada
del desvanecimiento,
que pena fue no escasa
del visual alado atrevimiento,
cuyos cuerpos opacos
no al sol opuestos, antes avenidos
con sus luces, si no confederados
con él, como en efecto confiantes,
tan del todo bañados
de un resplandor eran, que lucidos,
nunca de calurosos caminantes
al fatigado aliento, a los pies flacos
ofrecieron alfombra,
aun de pequeña, aun de señal de sombra.
Estas que glorias ya sean de gitanas
o elaciones profanas,
bárbaros hieroglíficos de ciego
error, según el griego,
ciego también dulcísimo poeta,
si ya por las que escribe
aquileyas proezas
o marciales, de Ulises, sutilezas,
la unión no le recibe
de los historiadores o le acepta
cuando entre su catálogo le cuente,
que gloría más que número le aumente,
de cuya dulce serie numerosa
fuera más fácil cosa
al temido Jonante
el rayo fulminante
quitar o la pescada
a Alcídes clava herrada,
que un hemistiquio solo
-de los que le: dictó propicio Apolo-
según de Homero digo, la sentencia.
Las pirámides fueron materiales
tipos solos, señales exteriores
de las que dimensiones interiores
especies son del alma intencionales
que como sube en piramidal *****
al cielo la ambiciosa llama ardiente,
así la humana mente
su figura trasunta
y a la causa primera siempre aspira,
céntrico punto donde recta tira
la línea, si ya no circunferencia
que contiene infinita toda esencia.
Estos pues, montes dos artificiales,
bien maravillas, bien milagros sean,
y aun aquella blasfema altiva torre,
de quien hoy dolorosas son señales
no en piedras, sino en lenguas desiguales
porque voraz el tiempo no ]as borre,
los idiomas diversos que escasean
el sociable trato de las gentes
haciendo que parezcan diferentes
los que unos hizo la naturaleza,
de la lengua por solo la extrañeza; .
si fueran comparados
a la mental pirámide elevada,
donde, sin saber como colocada
el alma se miró, tan atrasados
se hallaran que cualquiera
graduara su cima por esfera,
pues su ambicioso anhelo,
haciendo cumbre de su propio vuelo,
en lo más eminente
la encumbró parte de su propia mente,
de sí tan remontada que creía
que a otra nueva región de sí salía.
En cuya casi elevación inmensa,
gozosa, mas suspensa,
suspensa, pero ufana
y atónita, aunque ufana la suprema
de lo sublunar reina soberana,
la vista perspicaz libre de antojos
de sus intelectuales y bellos ojos,
sin que distancia tema
ni de obstáculo opaco se recele,
de que interpuesto algún objeto cele,
libre tendió por todo lo criado,
cuyo inmenso agregado
cúmulo incomprehensible
aunque a la vista quiso manifiesto
dar señas de posible,
a la comprehensión no, que entorpecida
con la sobra de objetos y excedida
de la grandeza de ellos su potencia,
retrocedió cobarde,
tanto no del osado presupuesto
revocó la intención arrepentida,
la vista que intentó descomedida
en vano hacer alarde
contra objeto que excede en excelencia
las líneas visuales,
contra el sol, digo, cuerpo luminoso,
cuyos rayos castigo son fogoso,
de fuerzas desiguales
despreciando, castigan rayo a rayo
el confiado antes atrevido
y ya llorado ensayo,
necia experiencia que costosa tanto
fue que Icaro ya su propio llanto
lo anegó enternecido
como el entendimiento aquí vencido,
no menos de la inmensa muchedumbre
de tanta maquinosa pesadumbre
de diversas especies conglobado
esférico compuesto,
que de las cualidades
de cada cual cedió tan asombrado
que, entre la copia puesto,
pobre con ella en las neutralidades
de un mar de asombros, la elección confusa
equívoco las ondas zozobraba.
Y por mirarlo todo; nada veía,
ni discernir podía,
bota la facultad intelectiva
en tanta, tan difusa
incomprensible especie que miraba
desde el un eje en que librada estriba
la máquina voluble de la esfera,
el contrapuesto polo,
las partes ya no sólo,
que al universo todo considera
serle perfeccionantes
a su ornato no más pertenecientes;
mas ni aun las que ignorantes;
miembros son de su cuerpo dilatado,
proporcionadamente competentes.
Mas como al que ha usurpado
diuturna obscuridad de los objetos
visibles los colores
si súbitos le asaltan resplandores,
con la sombra de luz queda más ciego:
que el exceso contrarios hace efectos
en la torpe potencia, que la lumbre
del sol admitir luego
no puede por la falta de costumbre;
y a la tiniebla misma que antes era
tenebroso a la vista impedimento,
de los agravios de la luz apela
y una vez y otra con la mano cela
de los débiles ojos deslumbrados
los rayos vacilantes,
sirviendo va piadosa medianera
la sombra de instrumento
para que recobrados
por grados se habiliten,
porque después constantes
su operación más firme ejerciten.
Recurso natural, innata ciencia
que confirmada ya de la experiencia,
maestro quizá mudo,
retórico ejemplar inducir pudo
a uno y otro galeno
para que del mortífero veneno,
en bien proporcionadas cantidades,
escrupulosamente regulando
las ocultas nocivas cualidades,
ya por sobrado exceso
de cálidas o frías,
o ya por ignoradas simpatías
o antipatías con que van obrando
las causas naturales su progreso,
a la admiración dando, suspendida,
efecto cierto en causa no sabida,
con prolijo desvelo y remirada,
empírica
Arturo Hernandez Jul 2014
There was a small boy, in a little town,
Unknown to most people.
He was soaring, I remember,
As if running through to freedom.
He spread his arms between the crowds
In his navy blue pants and sweater,
His bright white polo
And his shiny shoes of patent leather.
The school bell rang
So he tucked his wings to grab his bag,
And he climbed up the steps
As fast as a little boy can
But the gate had just closed right in front of him.
He had his little hands
Gripped around the metal of the gate
And shook them wanting to get in;
He pushed his arm but only got his shoulder though.
There was a man
With no emotion in his face,
Watching him trying to find a way in,
But the man didn't move an inch.
The boy put his back against the fence
And I cried before walking back.
Nothing he said would change his mind.
That was me then but now I'm the man in the other side,
Having forgotten what it was like to spread my wings
And want to fly.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style

It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.

the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.

yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.

previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.

everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.

lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.

it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.

was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.

divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.

not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.

maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.

think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.

"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.

"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".


so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.

Thanksgiving

Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving

New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.

— The End —