"rearrangement" poems
Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher
We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for **** machines.
were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.
bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.
perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.
the rub, as the bard would have writ,
is that this roaring tempest-tost,
our love for hard labor lost,
secret sacrificed behind a locked door,
of a Sanctum ********
is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who
hide-reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.
in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped clean up," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
was surely a brilliant woman
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
come in many styles,
walking, soft top, striped,
you name it , they make it,
market it.
now then i buy cheap ones,
5 pair a go quite comfy,
with dots mainly.
we talked of clough ellis, his yellow
breeches, long wool hose to knee,
all arty and architecture.
she liked the woolly ones, chose
a dull colour over pink.
a day of rearrangement.
as you were.
sbm
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
I called to give you a rearrangement of irony and a bucket full of Jews, I tailor made a rebreather because the past connections were used . Indeed, just like a crossview that encouraged stars to collapse, then did a fix up for the X's and O's so every oxymoron followed with a laugh. A pail of shrubs, an ounce of yore, yesterday you were following your very own bated breath. Up until you challenged yourself to a duel, you didn't look so bad for a disastrous mess. Harms' Way could be the place in town where odds go to get even, or it could be the street where Blow-Pops aren't just made, but also handed out to toothless citizens. We the captured, please and thank you, sir and mam until our captors go, like if you imagine The Godfather in The Graduate, describing how the Komodo dragon roasts. We haven't made it thru a single day since they've come in packs of seven, but today we'll have the chance to share some face time with the hours that we are being given.
Misty-eyed, mournful, and very sorry walked in separately from the yard. They drank cold-filtered PBR and joked about all the kids they may have fathered. Has it been four weeks or just four days, since the Ferguson, Missouri Captain resigned his post? I was always taught that for a captain to go out, he or she must go down with their boat.
In time where boredom lays around with dynamite by the loads, tomorrow remind me of the basorexia I've had since we met not long ago.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
Slide to Unlock
When inspiration is imprisoned,
insight,
a crime-of-no-passion victim,
strangled by codification,
clothed in a prison uniform,
where uniform be another word for a
poet's death sentence.
When dream interruptus,
is a nightly altercation,
a hellacious sensation,,
rolling of the dice,
rewarding the dreamer
with an not-so-good ending to his
falling sensation,
or, for an old school type (me),
the nightmare worst:
A world sans punctuation!
The truth about what haunts you,
in the valley of dried bones grows whiter,
even Vishvaksena and his armies
helpless, cannot eradicate.
Then, your iPad reminds:
"Sir, sometimes you have to
Slide to Unlock!"
Slide to unlock the aggravations,
Let it out with disregard,
Let us know how you feel
When the constriction in the throat
From the things you can't say
Stops making you choke.
Truth is out of style,
common decency is a phrase
unused
or just abused.
The only difference between liar and fair,
a single letter and a
rearrangement of the facts
to suit yourself.
So I like you fine,
I like you better even,
now that it's ok to slide
beneath the fielder's tag
and get in your face and
unlock what rumbling around
in the ruins of my psyche,
ruminations about this and that,
released with a flourish and a rich
***** you!
But I like it, like you best
when in the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness,
it's ok for me to politely inform you
to fk off!
So,
I do declare myself
unlocked
and in your face
booked!
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
The desk is a refreshing change of pace from the
uneasy comfort of the bed. I
eye the flimsy container of trail mix
lying in wait, my lightly salted prey.
rolling from beneath the body-like warmth of my
blanket cocoon,
I stumble towards nourishment.
I attack my snack,
and settle into the
beeswax halo of drunk hung Christmas lights,
mistakenly onto an uncapped felt pen,
tip bleeding into a beige throw
bought for a newly redecorated room.
Unnoticed, the stain spreads,
advancing on the threads of the throw.
I will, perhaps, see it tomorrow
and curse silently,
and wonder if it can be
hidden by rearrangement and ultimately
decide that a little folding will do the trick.
Outside, the snow freezes a fresh exoskeleton,
primed for crushing the footprints of strangers.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
Words are always
Rearranged and rearranged
Scrambling
Manipulating words
Stating with conviction, firm
Purpose esteemed from my own heart
With no promise of anything to be earned
Sometimes my words are just for me
Unless others can similarly see
What I am trying to convey
For you to come with me
And stay
To portray alternate meanings
To explain our feelings
Words just come and go
As long as they make sense,
I suppose
Poems that could make sense to
No one else
Give meaning to myself
I shape the sentences in my own way
The things I can never actually say
Writing the words of my desires
Or just simply writing because I am tired
Sometimes I feel alone,
Just me, here,
One
Or my mind just wants to run,
Away without time to think
And my heart begins to sink
But these poems are a definition
Of me
Words that I have crafted
Within all the letters scattered
Upon the sea
At times I write with no clear direction
Or I choose carefully with painstaking
Selection
It is beyond me
How letters can transform
Into words, so free
Scrambling
I find it like some sort of game
How can I force my words without sounding
Lame
Sometimes I feel so loved
You, me, we
And I write to confess
That with you
I never feel anything less
And I state my fears
That one day I wake up
And you won’t be here
Poetry is my cries
The way I question all the whys
In life I perceive
All it takes is for you to
Believe
In the words that you read
And your soul can be freed
Scrambling
Like the rearrangement of words
Till you find some sort of meaning
Poetry makes life so less
Absurd
With simple rearrangement of
Words
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
The clock becomes a detachable head.
Acquiesced to the ground
The fragments become priceless.
Wrinkled people grovel over the eager glass
Pick them up and risk the cuts.
Vibrations equalize
and everyone is holding hands
stuffing their distractions and sadness
into a sack
looking into each others’ eyes
blurring the faces into one
letting go is hard at first
but then after it is hard
to keep from spinning out of control.
At first sharing for simplicity
and then in a disease involuntarily
for daytime T.V shows
and self-help-how-to-do-your-life books
by self-proclaimed seers and prophets
reading the palm of your hand
which is also mine
and his.
No time
to stop
not for a second.
you are
the god
and all the questions are answered
you are the ice that covers sidewalks
warmth will defrost thought out actions,
instilling the masterpiece.
Response:
Why not look inside of you?
Are there questions that cannot be answered?
Yes but only because of detail
and the sharp and spiky squares of
Science.
the dance we learn to stop dancing,
goes on after us and goes on into forever.
like forever may not be there.
it doesn’t seem to note or care
that the space between your two ears.
comforts my neck best
or constellations crossing your chest
constantly suggests no matter the rearrangement
no coincidences are circumstance
I’m trying not to look for it
some reality where I belong
if forever sees it has missed a beat
laughing and playing.
I so obediently repeat
what you’ve so gracefully said to me.
Life is not a sign for anything else.
It is more of an enigmatic saying from a hermit
below a full moon
purely nonsense insane.
…but realizing the smile with which it was contained.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 11:10 AM UTC
Standing in
The grocery store
Dazing through
Colored produce
Her hands
Tangled
In her hair
Looking past
The people
Passing
Your ring
On her finger
A little lose
Wires
Of her hair
Clutching
Its turquoise
Edges
Looking
Like she
Is looking
For you
Like She never
Got the phone call
Like an answer
Never came
Like you only hid
In the tall grass
With a small
And laughing
Smile
Like if I shook
Her
I would be
The first
To tell her
Where are her words
I wonder
Falling
From her lips
From her
Mangled mind
Scattered and
Silently pleading
For rearrangement
For a callback
To say
It was all
A miscommunication
They didn’t need
Her daughter
For the role
To hear
It was just
A mistake
The store
Could make
A refund
Because this
Isn’t
What she bought
Standing there
I stare
At her
Staring
Almost blankly
Almost apathetic
Almost just barely
Uneasy
Contemplating:
If she pressed
Hard enough
Into her temples
Wrapping
Her fingers
Deep into
Her hair
If she
Could get it
To become
So quiet
No one around
Remained
Maybe
Time
Could pause
A moment
To breathe
A deep
Breath
Opening a door
For understanding
Overcome
With relief
Maybe then
She could
Press harder
Releasing
The reel
Of time
Letting it
Roll backward
I almost
Don’t want
To interrupt
Though I know
Her mind
Is not quiet
I place
My hand
On her
Shoulder
Softly
As if
To wake
A sleeping
Baby
I almost
Expect her
To turn
To me
Not knowing
Who I am
To tilt
Her head
Back
Her mouth
Falling open
And her face
To become
Wrought and
Wet
With distress
It doesn’t
She looks
At me
As if removed
From some place
Far from where
We stand
She says
She thought
She saw me
Walk in
I see
Your eyes
In her eyes
She sees
Your memories
In mine
We exchange
Words
Both
Looking
For you
I realize
She thought
She almost
Found you
Until turning
To see only
My face
The hurt
It carries
To her
Placing it
Back
Into the
Front seat
Of her
Memory
Though she
Had been
Far
From forgetting
Standing
Like two
Lovers left
By the same
Lady
An awkward
Almost drunken
Daze
Her heart
More broken
Than mine
It didn’t matter
How much
Either
Of us
Loved
Our lover
Left us
It grows
Silent
I tell her,
I need to go and return my mushrooms
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
welcome to me,
in advance,
I thank thee
I am an abecedarian
a newbie,
learning the letters of the alphabet;
the green shoot,
a beginner beginning,
in any field of learning,
but stepping out here
so carefully
in the minefield
of poetic works
but here I find muy self
at your disposal,
hoping that my rearrangement
of our common letters shall
make uncommon sounds,
pleasing all thy senses,
as your essays, do mine
glory and bravery are
for the battlefield
around this table,
I hope to share but
courage and compassion,
battlefield traits as well
glory, none sought,
bravery, some but,
only to be to mine own self, true,
but
courage to dispossess my inner self,
and you, with com-passion,
meeting a welcome reception
these from within,
I conjure and summon
and with these,
bid you peace
of what I shall compose,
are paths yet to be found
on no map plotted or recorded,
but this I speak with utmost surety,
of thee I will surely sing*
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
Infinity might be a lie.
Know! You and I will cease to be
And all humanity, eventually shall die.
That time and space
May race to singularity,
Can give a freedom
Which eternity denies,
Loops chains of hope around
Our scope for action.
Cosmic reaction to the gravity
Of mass despair
Will make a solar flare
Seem small compared to ends
Which physics teach.
Though we could reach
A billion, billion years,
Still, human fears,
Banish tears enshrined
In finding reasons.
Sufficient seasons notice change,
Time, for rearrangement of the wrong.
Prolong the outward song
Restructure stars
When farthest worlds are fried,
Inside the sphere of solar death.
The breath of life can last,
But not surpass the final fate
Which waits,
Expansion, or, Collapse?
Perhaps; we’ll live as far
As light from farthest stars
Has yet to run.
Begun to know
How atoms grow
To complex double helix,
Mixing mind and space
In the same race,
To glean some meaning
From our cosmic place.
While some ask why,
Let you and I,
Sigh “Just as well.”
Fulfill our now with
Simple shrines which
Minds like mine can comprehend.
Face the feeling all shall end,
By sending song of this small race
To chase along the space
Between the stars.
And, confront the final days
With humble words of human praise,
To raise amazement;
Even from the gods.
© James Rainsford 2010
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 9:19 AM UTC
parts of me wound up real nice n tight, like
knots on the corners, some made-out mend;
you'd said
just enough to infer what had really happened,
as the days tousled past
in a blue haze.
and i wonder what had gone wrong, as
all of the possibilities writhe, in my own hands
(finer slice, never seen),
and drive me sick beyond any mineshaft
running down on through circles
of hell in my stomach:
little hot red streaks of
dulled-away panic, drizzling across my chest.
little sad indents, calloused bent-away
everyday musings: songs i won't
ever let ring.
couldn't hold it against you, though,
or hold anything at all. this isn't my game. not now.
terminally unsure, move or play to unmake.
or just wake up, another morning, dreamless and dry.
you were a shimmering blinding point in the
schemes of a brass-gleaming, **** ugly world. could
have sworn salvation was strikes of seconds on your
wrist-watch. could've felt beautiful under your gaze,
'nother moment. but beautiful me, in a clause you
spelled out
with eye-beats and the gnashing of calm,
was just rearrangement of belief. the world's so pretty, yeah,
you wouldn't believe. well, i couldn't see.
and finally i, truly, am shown **** ugly
me: the burning safety blanket,
the unwinding net, the snowblinding fisherman,
out on the lake.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 4:58 AM UTC
Opens with some lucidity
after the world has gone limp
like marionettes
slides up to a good posture
and the everything rises
and blooms
All is well-enough
Not to do any-thing
Sit back a relax
People crave the expected,
Give em' the song and dance act:
Unseal her, let the air out
Pretend her hair is different
Let the left-over shape mean something
Make it the secret of Life
Cue the yellow hue
live your memories in a fuzzy lens
Slow the images, it's raining sunshine
Demi-god celebrities play your part
you're the star
be able to keep your heart
in one place
lock it up
Take a pause. . . . . .
Hit the spotlight, change the focus, transfer the weight
shift
the
burden
Wide eyed shot
dark shadows back alleys open veins
american pulp love with an insanity twist
Make the events your life
dislocate the easiness
Cut to the bed
torn to shreds
Blood slow on the back, warm wine on the wrist
all reddened by friction
Drop
Strange the angle change
dunce cap and a corner prayer
the catharsis framework
Go back to the clear cut beginning-end
crawl through the webbed nothingness
the vapor of conversation
reality pushed upon
the drooling stranger through the
bedroom window
eyes like a bone-saw, artificial
Pity
him
Become
him
Time has been extended over the back-lit stage
a lucky break waking up with an adrenaline needle in your chest
a resuscitation
Take the life from the shelf
Contradict yourself, very well, Contradict yourself
Make the impossible concrete, the unreal cities grow like roses
Cut to Black
rip a hole for light, you're gonna need it
Role the credits, see the forgotten names which mean forgotten faces
you've hung on
sit in the dark
clap to yourself
to this far away distraction
you're the hero and you've made it make sense in the rearrangement
of
blood
love
and voyeurism
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 8:25 AM UTC
Inborn, instant wandering Orient, oh Dragon breathing fire, breeding underwater. Love your magnetic triangle, love it like your child , protect your nest, let none be safe, if that be best for your hatchlings.
Outgrown, violent ripping, Vesuvius rising, burning and churning her helpless spew, if only we knew she is the victor of balancing. Thank her inner fire, even as you melt beneath her flow, follow her stream into the dreams of tomorrow, for she makes for fresher Earth.
Changeling Eastern desert sands, there is much movement into blood and heroic tears for what has come to be a rearrangement of the nativity of the people's homeland, such duress is unreal, to those who do not live it day by aching day. God Bless You, you are sturdy, resilient, Strong. I pray it won't be to much longer. My thoughts are with You All.
|~{•}~|
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
how do you bump off a poem
you suffocate it
with superfluous words
and stuffy grammar
for it cannot
inhale the pretentious fumes
of a smouldering thesaurus
in indelicate hands
or chop off stanzas
with a fountain machete
watch the words dissolve
into immutable discord
a jigsaw puzzle
that’s no longer a picture
you stab it
with the drab discipline
of a force-fit
two-bit
rhyming scheme
and leave it gasping
for a breath of free verse
or strangle it
with a taut wire
of ineffable material
imbue it
with playful profundity
and everything else poets do
except the crucial dash
of yourself
yes these are
the standard
operating procedures
in the do-it-yourself manual
on poemslaughter
but the sure-fire way
to **** a promising poem
is to never write it
because once born
a poem never truly dies
even upon mutilation
it is only relegated
to literary life-support
until
a chance rearrangement
of potent words
in the fevered imagination
of a sentient being
infuses it with
a lust for life
i’m alive
it’ll proclaim
jump out of
its feather bed
and quietly
mutter to itself
i’m still alive
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Would you be able to
tell that this was a
poem
if it was not spaced
out like so?
Is it even a poem
now?
Poetry is not simply
rhyme schemes and
counting syllables,
it's raw emotion
that leaks out in
words.
Poetry is self
expression, placed
on a page for the
world to view.
Poetry is the
deepest thought you
have, kept to yourself.
Poetry is a trivial
conversation brought
to life by a rearrangement
of letters and phrases.
You are a poet,
and in the same moment,
you are a poem.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
she pens a thank you note, for my stealing inspiration from her observation,
to create a “beautiful bundle of words”
my vocabulary acquired by just hanging around this planet of aged years,
(hirsute, multifarious, repacked packets of globbed and gloated pins and notions),
is minimally useful in the arced architecture of reassembling a new combination
that pretends to be a beautiful bundle of words, a nouveau riches,
a poem rearrangement is only addition but that a new poem, does not make
to make a creation, one requires
a beautiful bungle of words,
each tripping upon the next, somehow discordantly harmonious,
a humorous pin ***** sordid that moves the lips into an O shape light emitting,
“why in the hell did not I think of that”
if it makes sensible than it’s likely just recombinant, i.e. a used car
if it makes sensitive as if it’s a new cry, unheralded unheard and
the first newborn among its peerage
bungle your pictionary mistakable notions from fumes of intoxication
stumble into a new theorem predicting the relativity of the impossible,
combine cross pollinations, fish and fowl, meat and milk, stench and best,
faucet drips of hurricane magnitude, draw insights from inside a child’s vision,
and say to yourself repeatedly,
this is how I bungle breathing into new poems,
this is how I birth beautiful
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
till my aching flesh
break my hardened bones
plough my thirsting roots
prune my reaching arms
‘til all that once
I called my self
falls to the ground, gathered in a heap
—to fuel some future fire;
withers away, composting into the earth
—released to fertilize;
dries up, evaporating into clouds
—set free to fly;
leaks out, running off into ground waters
—flowing to the ocean;
rearrange me ‘til the changes
smudge the image,
blur the reflection,
futilize differentiation
between past and present,
here and there,
this and that,
life and death.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
tea time for two
most British thing anyone could ever say is, lets go for a cup of tea but for two
there’s two cups &
Between the two of us, the tea we currently struggle with is anxiety.
Infinite conversations turning into infinity,
I am willing to empty my cup
to taste your tea.
so take a seat
because the rearrangement of seat is teas
and take a sip.
casually turning tea stains into art,
because a t-shirt is really a tea shirt.
no more spilling tea
just mixing teams like mixing drinks
with different tastes of strength,
than taking a T break after playing a game of tag,
because what comes in a team
is unity as we surround ourselves
in a different community,
we’re now a family
encouraging artistic creativity,
as we tease each-other for having different taste in music.
but did you know that rap stands for rhythm and poetry?
welcome to the witty side of me,
I only have one cup of tea
but this poem gives you 22 different
sides of tea.
maybe David can provide us more
but only between the times of 9:30am to 9pm
except on Sundays.
thank you for having tea with me,
hopefully someday you can leave a good tip,
so than maybe next time...
i’m able to have a tea party.
Sep 16, 2024
Sep 16, 2024 at 2:56 AM UTC
Eloquently taking no formal shape
They are here to cool but not expire
The flames that have bursted
Or what has become to transpire
They roll like waves in a restless sea
With brute force they burst through
Tearing through your seams
Finger nails dug deep till it bleeds
Fighting to stay alive
The flame slowly dwindles
Slowly suffocating from oxygen
Nothing else left to burn
Under atmospheric pressure
The flame collapses and expires
An abyss without measure
Coal and ashes remain lifeless
Only to rediscover the cycle of life
Enough remains in ashes
Against the odds it collides it clashes
To sustain a garden filled with life
Eloquently it breaks with no formal shape
It's cracks extend like mosaic glass
Desperately awaiting rearrangement
Awaiting to be pieced once more
Burnt, molted it has reached prime
To have rays of sun shine through it
One final time.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
Let's beat a dead horse on the news report
Let's beat a dead horse on the news report
After all this let's go to Chuck for sports
Let's beat a dead horse on the news report
A silence ringing Ever repeating
Symphony of
Discontentment
Reassessment
Where the heck am I now?
A lofty lonely absolute
With candy bars
Let's be astute
I've lost all of timbucktoo
In times of lonely and the blue
OH let's just get out of here
OH let's just get far away
Withe the ever screeching contamination of armpit's bleeding
Tumors the size of icicles with the everlasting gob-stopper hole
Rearrangement gentle spinings
Take away my Christmas tidings
And leave me here on this freaking porch
Listening to the Police Reports
OH let's just get far away
OH let's just lay here to stay
Let's beat a dead horse on the news report
Let's beat a dead horse on the news report
This evening there's a shooting near a local door
Let's beat a dead horse on the news report
I never said this would be easy
But I always expected it nonetheless
I never knew that it'd be so hard to
Listen
Just to
Listen
OH we can never get far enough away
OH somehow I've only managed to stay
Saturday night is the wrecking crew
I'd ask if you were here, but I think you've spewed
The intellect and nonetheless I'm making up for all my
misplaced tests
Taking time to make the rhymes and bring about the chiming of the tolls
The ringing of the chimes
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Life is a collection of Post-it Notes
Tiny pieces of paper
making up the collage of my mind.
These days though--
I'm not sure how well the glue is holding
The stickiness is starting to fail
The constant removal,
Rearrangement
Each note's move
Changes the picture,
Changes who I am.
When at last those squares
refuse to stick
Notes come tumbling down
Falling like rainbow colored rain
A final flood of memories --
Then ...
My mind's awash
Thoughts all a- jumble
A gentle breeze,
forceful as a hurricane
Comes to blows the bits away
Post-its scatter like leaves in the wind
All that's left
Is this blank yellow square
Longing to be writ
Once more
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
if i run
as fast as i can
maybe
i'll outstrip reality
and trick it
into rearrangement...
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
I'm sitting here trying to write how I feel and yet I cannot find the words or letters that speak in the right order,
I talked with a friend who said that I was growing, but I had to be honest and tell him that what I was feeling was not growth, but a rearrangement of myself; so the holes don't show what I have lost...
We don't grow; we just change and get smaller,
Or maybe that's just me,
I feel like I've become so small that I cannot even lift the blankets off of me when I wake up;
I was wild with love in my youth, but as I age and my body rejects me like my mind rejected my heart, I have to confess; I didn't have a clue how to love someone, and I still don't;
I do know I'm scared of it, though,
Scared of love,
Because I gave those parts of me away for a reason, the ones I so desperately rearrange to keep hidden;
And if someone else tried to fill those hollow parts of my heart, I know,
They would never really feel at home.
Nov 19, 2019
Nov 19, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC
Home is in
The cramped spaces
Where couch and loveseat
Fill a room
Where the kitchen
Doesn’t fit
More than two people
And the dishes
Cleaned by hands
Of my mother
Smoking menthol cigarettes
Home is in
The cheap plaster
Walls so thin
You hear
A thousand tragedies pass through
At night when you are sleeping
Babies crying
Mothers crying
Everybody crying
No one happy makes a sound
Home is in
This endless wheel
Of poverty sickness
No one asked for
Or wanted
On welfare
Selling loose cigarettes
Forty ounce malt liquor
Six packs
Emptied
Friday’s hunger
Home is where
Old ladies rent
Single bedroom units
With no air conditioning
Alone with
Endless birdfeeders
And white bread
On the lawn
Out the window
Home is where
Hardwood floors are scarred
With rearrangement
Constant variation
Definitions shifting
Under orange parking lot
Floodlights
Obscuring night’s blessing
Home is where
I see into the lives
Of a thousand strangers
Never talking
Where children play
Identity games
In the park
Home is in
The Christmas lights
Strung on the windows
Carelessly by neighbors
Or in the wreath
My mother hangs
To signal autumn
Home is
Buttered bread and noodles
When there’s nothing else to eat
It’s a movie
You’ve seen a thousand times
And still laugh at
It’s the clothesline
My grandfather strung up
In the basement
It’s the gangs of children
That secretly run the streets
It’s in the identical faces
All spilling light
Out onto the pavement
Home is not a place
It is a collection of universes
All spilling into one another
Mixing in infinity
Blending forms
Home is the embarrassment I felt
When we turned onto my street
And the realization that
I’ve got it better than anyone I know
Home is where the world ends
And where we are all secretly trying
To get back to
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
Sanity fails to compel me now
Submitting to your wish my master
As I step into the dark asylum
Serving you like a drudge here after
In darkness I believe my existence
To you I deliver my soul
Deceives me not spiritual pretense
consenting to this malevolent assault
Against the acumen, once weakened me
For the virtue of that sane fake
Sins after sins to execute on command
I stand for this oath I take
Control only to get out of control
I petty mortal’s vulnerability
Unknown to the turmoil,
Of what Will now hunt their tainted sanity
Screams of terror, acclaims from the dead
Getting closer they will hear
Dreaded to what they would see
So defenseless only to run and hide in fear
In his grace they believe
Lamenting to the savior they beg
But this faith will be slaughtered
As they Witness this immortal outrage
Bringing the disciples down
Animosity reigns the so thought faith
Breaking every illusion to reality
into a melancholic outcome of their fate
saints misleading no more
leading them for a change
in a contradiction to their preaching
a rearrangement; crucified in disgrace
a touch of an animus cruelty
to adorn this redesigned abase
all the facades now ripped open
to show the real tint of this place
resurrection to the emperor
reign of a sinister eon
amendment to all aphorism
as this infliction forever now will go on…
gehenna arriving to take over
for a start of an end they prepare
terminus to their thoughts and existence
a damage; now gone far beyond repair…
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 5:00 AM UTC