"proofread" poems
If I were a teacher,
I'd teach plagiarism
Like a patent office.
I'd teach publication
Like plagiarism,
And I'll proofread
Any paper that properly
Cites their sources.
I'd teach every
Kid from age X to Y
That if I can't
Lift them as
High as they
Want to go
Than somebody
Else
Can.
I would be the man,
That teaches subjects
Like I'm their King,
And I'd spread
Knowledge to every
Acre of my empire
I'd teach anything.
See,
I'd teach chemistry
By making the reaction of
Why and How
Always synthesize
Wow.
I'd be a catalyst
For positive change
By keeping every
School-yard bully
and kid that's always picked last
Around after class
To teach them physics,
Like if you have mass
And you take up space
Then you ******* matter.
I'd put the cool
in Coulombs.
I'd be so electrostatic
About magnetic fields
You could feel my fluxin'
Energy in the hallway.
I'd say
His story,
And Her story,
And everyone in-between's story,
Is about the day their parents met.
I'd teach sex-ed
Like it's about the
Day their parents met.
And it wouldn't be weird
It'd be beautiful.
Because anybody falling
In love is beautiful.
And speaking of beautiful:
Mathemagics,
Would no longer
Be a bottomless hat
But a bird.
With feathers and wings
And things that always
Find their way home.
I'd transform
The Fourier of
Our foundations
With equations
Of equality
Like you,
And I are
Always equal to
Us.
It'll be cake
To be genius.
....Or pie
Or whatever else is rational
In this situation.
And I
Would measure intelligence
With the answer to the question
Of why we are alive.
I'd standardize
Every test
By removing
Any box that
Takes us
Further apart
I would make art
Combining every
Color from East to West
In a masterpiece
That every child can draw
We'll call it "human"
I would solve
World hunger
And war,
And every other problem
That stems from greed
With answers to the
Questions that I still
Don't know
But I would show
Everyone whose ever
Made you hurt
That a broken heart
Has still got the
Courage to beat
Because it's their words
Where the heart breathes
Where the heart bleeds
Where the heart sleeps
And it's our dreams
That keep us awake
In the wake of our past
So I'd put every love letter
And box of their ****
On a bonfire, light a match,
And we would watch it burn.
Hell,
If I were a teacher
I'd say there's
So much left
That I've still got
To learn.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 1:31 AM UTC
If this were a haiku, I'd have
seventeen syllables to explain
why I'm running
out of syllables
to tell you why
the doorknob,
and not between my fingers,
is where your hand shouldn't be.
Message Delivered
If that sounds confusing,
it's because it isn't,
and you're only confused because I
proofread the text messages
and you forget words,
but it's like you forgot "you"
after "I" and "love,"
and you just never thought to put it back.
Message Delivered
I checked the date
and you missed
Monday morning in Lowry
and the morning before that in Farmer Boy,
and we've got a whole calendar
of affections that you're missing
because you opened up
to a month too far back
and now you're in love
with moments that forgot you
Message Delivered
I’m holding out for cycles of goodbye kisses
and I only got them
when you woke up,
and i’m not sure you ever did again
because you’re living
in sweet dreams
that are quietly bitter
and your ideas don’t love you
like you’ve convinced yourself you do.
Message Delivered
If I could go back
i'd give you space,
i’d break my own heart
not listening to the sound
of your breath
as you fall asleep next to me
but you're finding shelter
in broken affection
afraid to be alone
forgetting
who you are in
familiarity,
in Her
Message Delivered
I’ll fall asleep tonight,
and wake up tomorrow,
the same way I did yesterday,
thinking of something that wasn’t,
or maybe really was
and praying I could fall back into that dream
but sleep isn’t quite that easy,
and blissful ignorance
is granted only to the few
Message Delivered
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 8:25 AM UTC
I live in a room where time stands still
I have been sick of late
I have need to take yet another pill
They don't really do any thing to help
But I keep hoping that they will.
Sometimes I think that I am as dead as
I am ever going to be
That is if I still wake up tomorrow
I am bright enough to see
To whom it is I bless
And just where it is I bring sorrow
I keep wishing for good health
For that I would beg steal or borrow.
I dream the craziest of dreams
Last night I caught my mentor mixing metaphor
Watch me go 'round in circles
I've got one foot nailed to the floor
I stand in a room made of mirror
I see myself clearly
Yet I start out looking for the door.
I woke up and started drinking today
That is the only relief I get
When I go around town smelling like alcohol
I'm not exactly teacher's pet
But I will live to uncork another bottle
Oh on that one you can bet.
I'll always give you the truth you see
On that you can depend
Even if I tell you a lie over coffee
While sipping my special blend
Later I will type 'what is what' you see
But I won't proofread before I send.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
the nights you call lonely
are the nights i spend
reading and writing and drawing
and loving my own company
i enjoy dreaming of possibilities
and laying in complete silence
you see, my mind is so loud
louder than the party you're at tonight
and for me that is enough
i balance it out by being quiet,
by producing shambles of poetry
and endless jumbles of words
to try and understand
that it is okay to love the silence
and the mystery of who i am
you find yourself in bright lights
and loud music
i find myself in the dark
we have been afraid of our whole lives
it is the darkness and the silence
that make you so scared of us
but we are simply introverts
trying to fit into a world made for you
while you are dancing your heart out
ours are pounding in pride
as we proofread our writing for the 100th time
your open arms and our open minds
embrace in harmony
you see, i started writing us instead of me
because i know i am not alone
on these nights you call lonely
i call lovely
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
I don’t tell them I’m going to a protest,
as I know they will not say no, it really
is far safer.
The police have been pretty fair, only a couple
of bull **** arrests and cause white privilege
I probably won’t get arrested.
In a black and white democracy color is prohibited.
I never have been close in a protest yet, the police always tolerant
maybe the commissioner doesn’t ****
I don’t boast to them about starting a chapter in my
school.
I don’t them that the chapter I started with them was finished hundreds
of pages ago.
I don’t tell them I cut class to protest the B.S minimum wage
how I ****** the very thing I’m trying to start cause
I was in a pissy mood.
I don’t them about how my friend and I were okay
with paying a guy trying to sell us **** to buy
us alcohol, later losing 20$
and not okay with going into a tattoo shop for the same purpose.
I don’t tell them about wandering around Chinatown
feeling like we should be drunk.
About the girl who in eighth grade asked me to touch
her ***** and I don’t tell them how
two years later we start hanging out— over facebook.
She moved to London.
About how she will be in the city the day my family goes away,
about trading facebooks for fifteen minutes
and having weird *** crap on my Facebook
and talk of how Jesus is an improper child on hers.
Nor do I my parents about meeting up with a
girl who I meet a month ago at a pillow fight,
and how right they were when they said ******
tables manners will catch up to you,
about how leaving a protest cause "my parents
are ****** and later seeing those people at the burger place.
I tell my parents I’m chilling with my buddies.
I tell them that I got pizza instead of burgers.
Because friends are safer to parents than a nineteen year
old girl you met at a pillow fight and how the entire time you
could not tell if it was friends meeting up or
people who wanted more.
I don’t tell them the reason why I’m so ******* fragile
is that I can’t tell if I’m manipulating myself or being real,
or how I’m the only one who is hurting me,
for fear of saying what I just told you.
Now all of this ******* **** lives in me and I have
nobody to proofread this.
Lovely.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
I’m a written and published open book,
you just have to read past the first chapter.
You skimmed the pages and took a look
at the last line to see if there was a happily ever after.
But like most things it’s up to interpretation,
left open ended in way for a hopeful sequel,
‘cause like all things true it’s plagued with complication,
but our story has no end and it has no equal.
And you, you were my favourite memoir,
your depth lined the thesis of a never ending essay.
I became inspired so I held an impromptu seminar,
a whole panel to if your picture was sepia or artistically grey.
I memorized every single thing you said,
every cryptic metaphor, every perfect rhyme.
I’ve lost count of how often that I’ve fully read,
and I still don’t understand after all of this time.
You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
but you need a title; what should it be?
I’ve been writing you so that the whole world can see,
the way you shine bright effortlessly.
You were my own personal thesaurus and dictionary,
providing different words to dress up each thought.
You’re a first and only edition; what a rarity,
laced with metaphors and satire that’s barely caught.
You’re what Shakespeare aspired to always write,
and you accomplished it simply by being born.
I’d translate you to brail so those without sight,
could hear about you and the beauty they now mourn.
You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
no need to proofread, no cause for editing.
I’ve been writing you so that the whole world can see,
the way you shine bright, always illuminating.
I’m a prologue,
and we’re the conclusion.
My authors note; the words of a demagogue,
but the details still lack any illusion.
You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
I’ve memorized every word and dissected them cautiously.
I’ve been writing you so the whole world can see,
and once they skim the synopsis; they’ll never stop reading.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 8:13 AM UTC
It's not all that hard, it's so easy to learn,
Each and every one of these simple rules.
You see, I'm not even American,
But not even us Mexicans are such fools.
I know this language like I know myself,
I never laid hand on the shelf,
Where everyone placed their literature books,
Just to drop it for looks.
It's easy to remember,
Why can't you see,
English is so easy,
Or is it just me?
No.
That wouldn't make sense.
Spanish was my first language.
Yet I've come to know English better than my native tongue.
You're not North American, British, or Australian?
Alright whatever, I'll let it slide.
But really, born and raised here?
Come on, it's a free ride.
Deosnt it btoher you taht erevy wrod is speled rong?
Notice can't that you is order your wrong?
Proud to be an American, it isn't really saying much.
Cuz it lik jus syin I cn bearle evn speek such.
Yes, I think you're stupid, every time you spell wrong,
Because it's so easy to fix even a word that is long.
It makes me wonder wether your autocorrect's off?
Because that simple thing, knows each time that you're off.
Is it really so hard to put in that one vowel,
Or put in the consonant so your spelling's not foul.
Or correct the double-negative, you know it's not true,
It's easy to do, just proofread right through.
We all have the ability needed learn,
Yet it seems your ability's been placed in an urn.
You've got a big brain, so why don't you use it?
Trust me, I know, you shouldn't abuse it.
If you have pride in nothing else,
That's fine,
But it's good to have pride in the fact that you know,
YOUR LANGUAGE.
Be proud that you can communicate well,
Be proud that even the nerdiest of nerds can't use words you won't understand,
Be proud that you know how to use correct punctuation,
Be proud to know where "ph", "gh", "ou", "eau" and the silent "t" are used,
Be proud to know which words comes first, and which one comes last,
Be proud to know English, you can learn it all fast,
Be proud to know the art of words,
The art so many ancient cultures knew,
The ancient Japanese, and Romans, and even the French,
Yet America has forgotten how to use words.
Be proud to be a leader of the generation in the USA,
The generation that brings back knowing our own tongue,
So that foreigners who come don't know us better than us.
Be proud to know the beauty of language.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
I saw inscrutable
senses,
I saw how he pushed,
pushed them away,
I never saw it heaving back,
I saw him stealing,
stealing a particular
piece of enrage,
I saw his mansion
where he built,
built a powerful
vengeance,
he covered himself with,
with dusk and dawn,
he proofread himself
occasionally so,
he imbibed forest,
forest of shadows
and masks,
I saw he smashed,
smashed the only vase
I thought was worth saving,
I saw him being a human,
human his world wasn't for him.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Step one,
choose your topic.
Likely yourself.
Because what greater
subject could there be?
None
surely.
Step two,
choose an image.
Find something
that can serve
as a metaphor
for you.
Find the rain forest
for instance.
Or perhaps a pond
frozen over in winter.
Yes,
these should serve nicely.
Step three,
place yourself
somewhere in the midst of these things.
Let you be
the trunks of the trees
supporting the lush, green canopy.
You, poor, tired,
supporting the thick boughs
that are the real life
meters
and
meters
and
meters
above you.
Or is your face
the ice of the pond.
All that people ever notice
is how much you can take
before you break.
But there is so much more
just beneath the surface.
So much
teeming with life.
No one knows
how deep you go.
No one will know
until the ice thaws
(which is unlikely to happen anytime soon.
but the metaphor was never meant to extend that far.)
Step four,
write yourself in
to the piece
in such a way that no one else
will be able to identify you.
(Unless they're **** cunning.)
Perhaps disguise your identity
within the purpose of the piece
or the flowing imagery
seeping through the spacious cracks
in your technique.
Riddle the work
with subtle ins and outs
and minute complexities
that vex the reader
away from your intentions.
Nicely done.
Step five,
ruminate.
contemplate
your reflection
as it appears
in your monitor.
Not the image of your face
bouncing off the glass
but the snapshot
of your thoughts
so opaquely back-lit.
Remind yourself
that this is for you
and no one else.
Proofread.
This is just for you
and no one else.
Revise.
This is just for you
and no one else.
Justify
this is just for you.
Step six,
post to a public forum.
Check back in an hour.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
I misread
a lot of you's
I proofread most of your mistakes
you ****** at grammar
I silently made my red pen dance
on your blue inscriptions
that you thought
were unique
I scratched the wrong words
I indented your run on's
I even added a bit of sincerity
to all your reality
I stepped back and looked at you
you were blotches of red on scribbles of blue
you were a mistake
that I thought I could fix
at the end of the day,
I took that paper crumpled it
and aimed at the trash
and scored
My red pen yearned for correcting many more
but my red pen gave up scratching
and wanted to create its own story
of its very own mistakes
of its own doing,
so it can create a masterpiece of
"me"
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
Letters are old school, but I guess so am I.
In a way, I guess that is true,
I sometimes feel like I am an old fool,
Stuck in the Motown groove,
The 21st Century is not for me,
Waiting a minute before I can hear the next song,
And when it eventually comes on it's one filled with hate,
And let’s not even talk about trying to date,
They said to leave a message after a beep,
For my old soul that means a beat,
That brought with it dance and heat,
Words and rhymes and a drumbeat,
See back in my day, a letter meant waiting on the mail man,
And not looking for blue ticks from an app I got from an online store,
It meant post stamps and asking friends to proofread,
It meant punctuating every line so that you knew without you I could not breathe,
Being in love was not just words and play,
It meant dancing in the street; we called it grooving,
Not sweet talking and lying,
The old fool in me is tired of trying,
Am not saying that you are lying,
But you are in no way trying,
To meet me in the street,
Or groove to a Motown beat,
I wish you were sending me flowers,
While you were out there spending time,
With worlds that were not even meant to be real,
My old soul needs more than one-off dines or drinking box wine!
See back in Motown, when a man loved a woman,
He could not keep his mind on anything else,
He did not put a little loving on her, or shelve her
It meant the whole street knew her, and even knew her favorite beat!
I have known only one other of your kind, the sweet-talking guy,
You have me down on my knees wondering when you are going to leave,
That is not love, I don’t know what it is,
Feels like it, but this is something else!
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 10:49 AM UTC
One. Two. Close your eyes. Renew.
Three. Four. Release your thoughts. Explore.
Five. Six. Express. Fix.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Repeat. Refine.
Ten. Breathe in. Let's begin.
"What's the matter, Logan?" Jessica asked.
I paused to reflect upon the moment when my hand reached over my heart. I was helplessly pointing towards my chest to express the chaotic feeling inside. "What are these feelings?" I pondered.
"What? What is it? Chest pain?" she asked.
I shook my head with my hand tapping against my heart. "How do I tell her that I feel irregular heartbeats? How do I tell her that I am feeling something completely indescribable?" I thought. I rubbed my stomach in rotating motions.
"Logan, is it your stomach? Do you have a stomach ache?" she asked. The deep look of concern in her eyes heightened the feelings inside. I reached over to my phone and texted her a brief summary of how I felt.
"Logan, seriously?" she asked after reading the message. She leaned over moving closer to my lips. "A mosh pit of butterflies," she whispered. I could feel the warmth of her breath against my cold lips. "Well, I am ready to rave if you're willing to ...," she said before she was interrupted.
I closed my eyes and leaned in closer. "One size fits all," I thought to myself. When two souls fill the large vacancy between each other's arms, there is nothing to do other than embracing that invaluable time together.
The butterflies subsided.
Ten. Breathe in. Reflect.
Nine. Eight. Seven. Euphoric heaven.
Six. Five. Rejuvenate. Revive.
Four. Three. Proofread. Agree.
Two. One. Close your eyes. Have fun.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
People proofread because they want to find their errors.
People find errors so that they can correct them.
People correct them because they want perfection.
People want perfection so that society will love them.
But there is beauty in errors.
There is beauty in the flaws, not only on paper,
But in the flaws of your person.
There is beauty in the rawness that comes with lack of Proofreading.
Perfection is overrated.
Perfection is unreachable.
Perfection is what stands between you and your dreams.
Perfection is masked fear.
Maybe it's just me,
But I would rather see someone's raw imperfections,
The things that scare them,
The things that they's rather hide,
Than the picture perfect image that they create,
With Proofreading.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
i'm gonna get me
a new set of eyeballs
too much readin'
n writin n stuff
can't proofread
worth a dam
gotta go live my life
not set here n write
now i got me's
a little nut
and she writes
not so slow
i ain't much
fer words
likin the
sound of silence
myself
but this little
new nut
she's kinda a
cute little darlin
so with my eyes
whirling in despair
i slog forth
until they can
be repaired.
i gotta get me
a new set
of eyeballs,
one new set of eyeballs
i'm gonna get
me.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC
Poems don't always have to rhyme
Not all are salable, you won't have a dime
It'll be forgotten as it passes time
You can only be proud to call it 'mine'
It won't be judged by a critic
Nor passed to a panel like a thesis
No one would proofread it
Nor someone scolding you to remember the basic
But without rhyme, how can you call it a poem?
Shouldn't poems have that beautiful tone?
Play with words to rhyme - a job of a poet
But not all poems that rhymed are the best
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
My Dearest; Darkest Devotion,
Ah, but what a long time it's been!
And now, it is with a slender paled sliver of hope this letter finds you before I arrive at your chamber, for I must solicit your heart with the contents of mine.
This night I ponder upward to the twinklings amid the void and my thoughts do turn to that time we first met, before I knew you, and how you let me know you, and eventually I let you know...me.
Having learned the truth of my true vampyric nature, your reaction was not as open a reception as I would have it. I concede I have not been the same sense you drove that plank through my chest and deep into my very still heart. There stayed I until, alas...
A hapless young wanderer, a splendid morsel of a group of people on a retreat from the town, rummaging through nature to find kindling for a bonfire, took grasp of the parcel of wood that protruded from the shallow earth where I was left forsaken, and in his misfortune did un-stake me.
I assure you, at this very moment, I feel quite quenched of my thirst.
My hunger for the sweetmeats of revenge have yet to be satiated, however, I will see you very soon, My Pitch Blackness. And you. too, shall see me.
Eternally yours,
Vladimir Tepes.
P.S. Happy Halloween.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
She typed her poems in size 6 font
afraid of someone
reading over her shoulder.
She was a writer
afraid to share what she had written.
She knew
that she had revealed too much of herself
too much of the part of herself
that she keeps hidden,
suppressed.
To have someone read what she wrote
and know about her,
terrified her.
Yet she kept writing
knowing that it was what she wanted to do,
what she had to do.
If she didn't write,
no one would ever know anything
about her.
So she wrote
and proofread
deciding how much of herself
to reveal.
She would delete
and modify
until it seemed as if she was
an anonymous poet.
Yet someone always could tell
that it was her
doing the writing.
So she shared her poem
anyways.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
Someone told me
our bodies contain
enough carbon to make 900 pencils
ending it with
"you can write with your body"
First, let my body meet yours
let our fingertips touch
and let our bodies
yearn to start
some good writing
tease our carbons
to create, to begin
to fall
to blend
to melt
Now darling
the only way I'd begin a poem
is with you
starting with a kiss
a capital kiss
for the first letter
of the first word
should be bold
and beautiful
silent but loud
The sentences my body start
yours finish
no matter how long
"run on's", fragmented they are
you start I finish,
I start you finish
Interrupted by breaths
gasping for life, inhaling
the souls of muses
and exhaling such beautiful
poetry, such deep writing
that only our bodies know how
to create, how to read, how to vocalize
how to share
Stanzas interrupted by moans
that sing and hum the hymns
of poetry that cannot be
embodied in words
moans that orchestrate
symphonies
leading our bodies
to dance
to love
to enjoy
such intensity
that my pencils fail at
capturing
Let my body write with yours
and re-write the ways of love
edit, proofread, scratch, claw
mark and re-create
new ways of falling
of loving, of sighing
let my body write with yours
and bask under
such powerful chemistry
where carbon burns
And flames
ignite
Let's write
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 5:44 AM UTC
hot screams
pictures flashing remember remember don't forget to have proof proofread a persona a shifting ego rising and falling with the waves a rhythm older than stone and sadness older than hard cider arms folded begging not to be touched begging for an old familiar couch that swallows thoughts whole swollen with years of desires and drool and cottonmouth
hot hot screams
rip through ears holding a pain of identical magnitude a hideous sameness twitching dancing across nervous systems as people disappear and rain sprinkles the front porch in road blocks and tired conversation tired awareness
never drink again never dream again never eat or sleep or scream again
resign while politics eats away at abandoned barns upstate and rapists walk free under the guise of fraternal bonding shoot first ask questions later or just don't ask any ever as if the answers have been found provided by
the flashes seen with eyes closed the flashes seen in eyes clothes the flashes blinding and true blinding and real blinding binding
and the chains are made of severed hands the captor a trillion eyes piled up and growing putting debt and babel and the fuming gods to shame fuming gods of shame and image reflection and refraction twisting twilight twice around twenty somethings like twine twenty somethings need more somethings anythings everythings need want need want kneed want wasn't enough tough pill to swallow wallow wallow just follow the leader beaming glorious light like liquid soap
hot hot hot screams screams hot hot screams hot screams
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
She rested her thin hands beside her keyboard
and proofread the email to her landlord.
She was adamant about getting the most
from her lease and, though wealthy,
insisted on knowing the price of everything.
Milk is almost five dollars and gas is almost milk.
Littered around her bedroom were shoeboxes
of handmade jewelry, pearls, and war correspondence,
each as fragile as a land mine. Loose soil footsteps,
shrapnel, and a Sofield soldier torn in two.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Nothing you said makes me happier
Not “I love you”
Not “I miss you”
Not the sweet words,
The secret language
You used with only
The girls filled with hate
Now I think, to this day
That nothing you say
Could ever make me happier
Nothing you said makes me happier
Not “Come over”
Not “Come closer”
Not the proofread lines,
Carefully exacted
For the time you just left
Me to wander, distracted
Alone in a crowd
We no longer interacted
That didn't make me happier
Nothing you said makes me happier
Not “We need a break”
Not “I'm moving away”
The looks that you gave
Or the way you berate,
Not even a whisper
Of lie and debate
Will make me happier
Than when you told me
“I'll be dead by forty.”
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
to encourage
the unionization
of stereotypes
in YA
fiction,
join my father.
for money, add punctuation
to a vandal’s
prose.
women are not soft, but
I think
anyway
it’s true.
on paper,
proofread god.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
Three in the morning, halfway
through my shift at a printing
plant. I'm tired as always, my
mind frazzled, my eyes bleary.
I'm creeping through the night
as I proofread technical manuals
and pharmaceutical ads and
brochures aimed at type two
diabetics. I'm on life support
here, stuck in a depressing gray
environment, a vampire on the
graveyard shift, the burial
ground of too many aging English
majors struggling to make a buck
while the rest of the world is home
asleep, dreaming in color, people
whose minds and bodies will forever
have a normal relationship with
sunlight.
As I proofread, I listen to talk radio
with its opinionated personalities,
irate callers, and nocturnal candor,
all of it making those Sinatra-like
wee small hours of the morning fly
by like a moth rushing toward
a bright burning bulb.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
every time I write vividly
can’t end days
yearn for epiphany
malice their succession
I don’t learn more of
p o l i t i c s
m e n in shoes
w a r
f a m i l y
m a n n e r s
r o t t e n
y o u t h
afraid of being water
water that decomposes every day
printed with i-service entropy
if craic makes my soul modern
I’ll wait for apocalypse
wild devours my ashes
each of my tea motes fight
heave my tongue like embers
humpty already fallen
all the king’s economists
still drafting recovery plans—
asks to go to Nyos
for silent rain
on a government grant.
all the king’s economists
can’t put him together again.
enlightening activist futility
writing in a singed library
at my diluted right edge
I fear those who tower over me
what if my decade has passed
making a schedule each day
to be better or to matter
I suffer from anemia
my tea is too sour
gambling them
to pay for meaning—
who taught me to write
and forgot to proofread
when they ask my destiny
I say: transcendence of arcana
would restless lurching
take me to God or Satan
I need to ask someone modern
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 6:21 AM UTC