I walked through life with a rude and fresh arrogance:
I was taught it when I was still a big fish in a small pond,
When I still had a can-do-it-all attitude, when the dance
Was life, and the tune was want, and the performer, fond,
Moved like anything. Anyone. Save Lethe, who dulled me,
Who pulled me under waves when I cursed the sea,
When I thought, to time immemorial, I had the energy
To do anything, go anywhere, be anything I wanted to be -
I lived off borrowed time, and borrowed fire,
And borrowed, all of my once blazing desire
Fed no one, but lost dreams - I reap the harvest now:
I should have been a doctor, and I plough
My lack of care and decision, my blind turning, and the resulting salt,
I trudge through the compost of other unfinished deeds, never to halt -
I never knew the meaning of a battery, even when it ran down;
My phone recharges at night, and I simply squint and frown,
Trying to make sense of a world sensible to girl who used to dream;
Sleeping through waking, as though nothing would be as it would seem.

Let the rain wash away sober pains of drunk yesterday
Beating vivid like fire in the night  
Let your soul illuminate to new heights
One last breath upon your chest
Running fast, moving without rest.
You left me here
Chained to rot, my dear.
But I am the sun, always moving on.
And when it is time to rest
And my shining light is in its nest
Only the darkness sees my true form.
My sunshine beams weep like willows,
As I wait till dawn with emptiness & pillows
Until the new day recharges my light
As the daylight awakens me ever so bright
**I will be stronger.

Pleasantly content
Full of love
Full of commitment

To go above and beyond
Make you feel the beauty of passion
Provide you with the warmth
From my love

That replenishes my being
Recharges me
When I’m done.

Searching

I always thought the iPhone
the most human of devices.
I named mine George.
Like an overeager child
George buzzes when engaged.
Spent, he recharges
to the sixty second cycle
of a resting heart.
Last night in a hotel bar,
an accidental altercation
with a roughhousing stein of Great Lakes Lager,
ruined the inner George.
Now, when shaken, George rattles.
No longer able to connect,
the heart-rending message “searching,”
parades across his shattered screen.
How human that yearning
for connectedness?

i.

in the wild, drumming rain
blossoms sink, confetti pinks,
riotous whites, collapse
in spring’s paper mache pools.

ii.

on a hot tin roof
the rain plays her wind
guitars and percussion
while the sea recharges
her engines with the
thunder of the waves.

iii.

the sound of the rain, chiming,
a crazy singer on the forlorn
lawn, stretching like an
accordion, wild in her
wilderness,  crashing
like the waves
drawing me closer to you.

iv.


you kiss me and
my heart skips a beat,
flutters with excitement.

i long for summer with her
gold sun, warm, rushing
streams and bottle-blue sea...

I was there,
when each of you
                      were born,
that change,
from womb to
life with room to
grow,
beyond what nurtures,
leaving behind sutures,
and now, scars at what your mom, all moms
gave away,
so you are here today,
she bore scars then,
and she will again,
and again,
when you forget a birthday card, or to call,
or don't drop by on Mother's day at all,
but she, will be the first to defend
each one of you in their turn, until the end,
so remember, if you read this, it is nothing
more than a kiss as a reminder,
come and find her, stand behind her,
not to take advantage,
of being first or last or in between,
and whisper in her ear, that you love
her, as much as there is air in the atmosphere,
and you know she has cried an ocean of tears,
inside for each time, each of you, or others have broken her heart,
but it does not mean she is angry,
but it does not mean she is frankly cranky (that's me)
what it means is she is human
who has made enough room in her
heart for all of you forever, whether or not
you bring flowers or hold her hand for a walk, when she gets older,(light years from now)
just call her and listen more than you talk,
give her the time to be creative, ART recharges her battery pack.

For she is special, like ripples in the pond,
her love can be felt like the waves that goes on and on,
                             and I observe all this, and I am in awe,
becasue I too have a mother,
who is unlike any other, except her capacity to show her love for me,
for all the time, years and miles, distance between her and me.
             And she still smiles when me she sees.


©DWE112013

Under heavy fire from enemy forces
I hide behind a concrete barrier.
Blind fire spray
take out a man and a woman.
tumble behind a wall, pop up
Shoot a third.
run down a corridor. Spot a fellow soldier
"group up!"
as we Charlie's angels back to back. He immediately drops to the ground.
"Evan!" no time to mourn. I'm in cross hairs
run down a tunnel watching my back.
Turn around to spot the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.
Wearing the wrong color.
Tread quietly up behind her.
before she can even see me,
hold hip, hand tangled in hair,
kiss her against a barrier.
while she's stunned.
We lock eyes and exchange smirks.
I Shoot her.

"You fight *****!" she screams, as her vest beeps and recharges
Coming to life just in time to get revenge before I'm completely out of site.

when the game was over we
told war stories.
"We need to do that again sometime!"

I get sick of my rusty parts
So I start
Yanking me apart.

Strategically I scatter my static limbs about the concrete
My minds own crime scene
I short circuit and nobody can solve me
So I think

But effortlessly
He picks up the parts of me
He screws them back together
Patiently
As if this hasn't already happened
Every day this week

The hope that lies in him
Recharges me- My battery

I've cried out canker sores
Pulled the drain from the bath of smoke
Slip into a sea of walloping wolves.
Shortly awake from a screeching call
Stumble into my worn down soles
Float along the cherry wood floors
Still caught in a web of dreams
Scoop a spoonful of bloated cereal
Swish it through my teeth
Hopscotch into a familiar car
The strangers seem so distant
A slip of the lip
A twist of the tongue
And I already wish I used my feet.
My mind sinks into thoughts of absence.
I sit and slurp a cup of tea
Conversations with snow monkeys and tigers
Invade my morning
It is I who play the symbols,
Jump through rings.
I cough my day out of my throat
Vandalize the home of dust specks
Sing a cackling song
Taste copper pennies in my cheeks
Engulf my dinner
Sink back out of my soul
Let it rest,
As my body recharges
For the next day to come.

your critique mimics
the chills down my spinal chord.
I've had an ache for weeks now-
seems there's not enough stretching myself thin
to rid of the pain in my neck now.  
your lips form lashes around my tongue
and it seems I have acid sores
encompassing my lips
because everything you say to me is so toxic.
Your mouth is a battery,
you won't stop running it-
seems it recharges itself.
Seems I cannot throw it away-
it would harm too many others.

Standing in front of you I feel weak,
a version of myself I do not recognize.
Seems I was never strong enough to stand up to you-
so I backed down.
Time and time again
hiding how I feel for your benefit.

It's a shame whenever someone comes around
I wince, afraid you will use your acid tongue
to weather them down
and form rust stains out of their smile.
Most days, I clench my fists
ready to be a shield in their wake.
Most days, that's a mistake.

The high horse
you build your house upon
has grown higher-
you built it that way.
You look down at everything
and bask in the glory of your accomplishments.
The materialistic glow of your youth
shines down upon my face-
but you are not looking at me in awe.
You do not consider me something worthy
of your appreciation.
It seems you think you owe it to yourself
to be nothing less than egotistical,
you grew yourself this way.
Built it from the ground up
so treat it as you wish.

Your way is the only value.
My words are meek inside your muddy waters-
your mindset is clouded again.
I am the rain upon your parade.

Addiction runs in your blood
without something
you fall apart.
All I ever wanted
was for you to be better-
you can never give me that.
You give me a complex instead.

Read this back again,
come back to it and realize
that us women always marry our fathers.
and I can't decide which this poem is about-
I think it's my Father,
but it could also be
every man I have ever loved.

I'm still trying to find love
in between the lines I write
but I only find the past-
the one where love didn't exist
seems it's not enough anyway.
I can't find love
when you show it to my blindside
you don't even care to move in the right direction.
Let me get over-
you.

I stare at the never ending depth of darkness' abyss
As I dive down deeper and deeper into the mystic blue,

Obstacles such as sharks, corals, electric eels get in my way
I hit rock bottom! The bottom of pits, nowhere else to go.

Deep blue darkness gangs up on me, almost seems like a hoax
Until I see the glimpse of light near the end of the Photic zone

I realize, from here on I have nowhere to go but up!
Scurrying up the ocean layers, I am one with the zone

Leaving my lonesome, burried down with the limestones
A gulp of oxygen recharges me to my soul

I am ready to be saved, reset to the contractions of the womb
A new life is born, in the midst of it's twenties

Broad shoulders, clean shave, perfect musk, I'm ready,
Here I come, Lookout ladies!!!

Horizons never end, the world keeps rolling, and life as we say keeps us going, and going!

Relax, relief, Steve, a short one, I do believe,
is coming down the turnpike, a simple
thought kernel that occurs me to each
morning, and then gets swept out to
the sea, via the sound’s currents them,
a reality check on weather.com, an internet
a daily compilation of mispredictions,
guesses and disconnectedness to our
reality… that we yet must read first,
always & nonetheless…

so, here it is, a golden buttered kernel,
that flys past my poem seeking radar
so fast that, it has escaped for now
nearly sixteen years…

this spring chicken, lies besides his woman,
who wakes traditionally secondarily, and
she sleep best then, shedding the dreams that
come unwonted, the review and recap of life’s
tumult…and finally gets the deep sleep that
recharges our cells with restorative justice…

as she sleeps, her face sheds, a morning miracle,
deep at ease, she breathes soft, clean and clear,
silently and a m a z i n g l y, every line on her
face
eases,
disappears,
and her skin, smooth, tight,
and I’m face flushed, by guilt for never telling
her, and that guilt that has not been yet here
recorded, and yet…

a reminder that a first poem of the day (a FPOTD),
like morning ***, starts a human off right, clears
forehead, like smooth writing, fresh oven baked,
blue lines on paper, begging, asking for fufillment
and satisfaction, that has no competition, for it is,
unique, that the first deep breath of a day, when
you take in all that surrounds, and observe close
the minor miracles, all an addition, that gives our
body, the reasons to wake up, with wet eyes, and
just…
a thin, curly, half grin, hall (half+all✅) whimsy smile…

natty
6:34am
Sat Jul 20

(and this one flies out the window, past the oak trees,
to the water and the wind grabs by its lettered bones
and is sending it out to Iowa, Travese City Michigan,
Missouri, Oregon and the great  Northwest Pacific
over the Pacific, to the Philippines, India,  New Zealand, Israel, Europe, the UK as in You Know) and back past Lady Liberty in the New York Harbor, along the Long Island shoreline, to a little house on a little island, where it recenters my body, asking why oh why, no way, natty, have you not offered me
my first coffee of the day, (MFCOTD)
yet, all this traveling, loving and thinking is

so very tiring… java, por favor señor!)

a bed is just a bed
until it's not anymore
it's refugee from trouble,
it's home away from home
it's where your tears well
undisturbed in the dark
it's where two people ******
and another two made love,
it's where he turned with pits
for eyes and said, "maybe you should go"
it's where he ran when hope evacuated
his body and his soul
it's where your dreams knit together,
where you ghosts reappear,
where your body recharges
and where your fear stalks near

a bed is permanent, a fixture
in your life
yet this bed is not, could not,
ever be mine

dressed in disguise, wearing
a pad and a topper,
this mattress has felt the bodies
of similarly empty hundreds,
reminding me that this bed is an illusion
much like this life i live,,
the sheets constantly coming untucked
as they reject my existence
still, it accepts me during the night,
offering no tangible resistence
though beds are inanimate objects,
there souls find ways to roam
and in this bed, i am acutely aware
that i no longer have a permanent home

Hope is a very potent thing
It can cause the blind to see and the mute to sing
It can break chains and tear down walls
It sees the silver-lining and gets up again after every fall
It is a light in darkness when we have lost our way
It never gives up can't be quenched and recharges when we pray
Hope will keep you moving when you can't move any more
Hope is the fire that burns deep down in your core
Hope will spread like wildfire all across the land
Hope will keep a light on and is hard to understand
Hope can keep a man alive when the rest have given in
Hope can take what would be loss and turn it into win
Hope is something beautiful that shines so bright and true
It burns in me hot and steady: now I pass it on to you!

Old man Jack slowly sips his life away
The same old worn out bar top
Swallows his lager with hate
The cracked protruding pavement
Walking home, dim lights guiding the way
To an empty apartment
A studio in disarray

Blame the ex wife
Blame the immgrants
But Jack will never change
Alcohol can make you tough
It's the American way

Living in dystopia
Living the American dream
Reality can be sobering
Loneliness is king

While the cities flood
The homeless drown
Technically distracted
People move on
Species die
But my iPhone recharges
Quiet ignorance
Evolutionary *******

The bones rot out from our faces
While we Socially isolate
Surface level understanding
Swallowed by earthquakes
The billion dollar stare
The American way

Living is dystopia
Living the American dream
Digitally dehumanized
Loneliness is king

Ignore the other
Reject your mother
Poison your brother
Together we suffer
Fat, sick and dying
Cull the black sheep
Genius is weak
It's the American way

Living in hell
Living in the modern world
Wealthy, mentally castrated, and high
Popping pills to stay alive
America on life support
While the whole world dies

There is an usb port in the sky
that recharges your heart every time
you look up in awe

before i sit down to the... how (is it)
   how my mother usually
words it: pięknie, ślicznie, prozaicznie...

  beautifully, beautifully, prosaically...    

            (how how = howl)

śliniak - baby bib...
  ślimak - snail: a garden essential
if cabbages get chopped on the guillotine...

etymology or rather: the similarity of spelling
of words...

piekło - hell...

                      i'm thinking hard about soft machines,
i was trying to find william burroughs'
the soft machine
    in my library, stashed it somewhere deep
so had to resort to mind-bending alterations
to cite his style:

but not yet...
    from the river Jordan to the Mediterranean sea...
of what is known at least i know
a Palestinian is a Philistine is a Philistine
  
geb nodrap, nodrap, said watt, geb nodrap
dis yb, nem owt. yad la...

        such is Beckett...

thinking about the soft machines in hard machines:
about algorithms in computers
no modern novelist with a clue
as to programming, coding...
   bullet shining and diamond biting quality testing

a hack in googlewhacking and
years ago i hacked an iPod the wrong way...
had a bunch of scratched CDs... copied them
into an mp4 format, shoved them into the iPod
and what happened?

the iPod crashed... ****** it right there
right done and proper...
did the same with some lesser known player
with an mp3 format... scratches audible
but the hardware was intact...

like now, hacking my samsung s8....
   get frequent messages about moisture getting into
my USB port... hardly...
the phone is old and by "capitalistic" standards
of new **** newer **** newest ****
"needs" replacement... no... it doesn't...

(all misnomers in "quotes": have to air them out
like ***** sheets)

hit the restart button and once the the second
loading screen comes on
plug in the USB and the phone recharges just fine...
but (i) still have to hack the hardware
while the soft machines update themselves: pronto...

i'm using chatGPT to do the custard churning
of content for me...
and i use sololearn for stretching
punctuation marks
into flying paper rides into 3D...
like so:

<p>paraphrasing</p>
<button>grease</button>
    {else
/^exchanging results>/
            ]wormholes[
but that's still basic trimming:
i'd rather be in the garden
doing so autumnal cleaning -
spring cleaning in the house
while the garden requires autumnal cleaning:
pretty neat...

             oh the joy of knowing a slavic language
and a germanic language: perfect fusion...
for nuancing furthest apart, historically speaking:
borrowing from the 20th century...

щ is szcz is also šč
  (******* pressed on qwerty s then
ring finger pressing down on 3
index finger pressing down on
c and the ring finger again pressing down on 3
for the crowns)

    the only languages where these sounds
couple together (or at least, that i know of) -
дeщ - deszcz -
but there's something inherently wrong with
the Russian script -
you actually want for the transliteration
to be complete...
as was the case with the transliteration
of Greek into Latin...

namely the following letters:
a e m
              i mean: kudos on transliterating
iota into и...
      
but a bit lazy, drunk almost,
          having left a and e intact... and m (μ)
α ε.

       evidently you wouldn't use ε if you already
used it for з ζ (zet o zet)
and i understand that O is infinitely
un-transliterate-able...

л λ...

             sore sight for sore eyes... this unfinished
Russian script...
it could be finished like so:

    ɐ ǝ         borrowing from я

which would leave m in the hands of...
well...

if not the myslite or something akin...
given the mu is hμ

hunch: i.e. hmm...
                ღ           (georgian ghani
or ო            oni
     or even ლ    lasi)

then again... how about armenian?
ah... borrowing the armenian π:

պ...

   boy...

  мальчик could become

պɐльчик

                        all hypothetical stuff...

դեշճ

                   or via mkhedruli (st. george)
ᲓᲔᲷ (schva - ooh... ease in a sh for heaven's sake,
welcome the reaper) -

which is still rain... implying it was a happy sunny
day in England and i'm scribbling this down

brzeg: the shoreline.... a marriage of george
and armenia...

                                                      բᲯեᲒ

so much for ceasefires and fanatical marches
with ******* star of david "transliteration"
placards are brandished by supposedly very sensible
people...

to alleviate my confusion i had to watch a historical
programme on t.v. about the history of the ᛋᛋ
because i'm quite frankly a little confused
like i might be with a quiet quite...
                                                  easy mistake...
oh yes, i do mean the glam black Hugo Boss ᛋᛋ...

but still in some wintry part of the world
a journalistic yawn:
                                   a bit like the narrative structure
is awry or the wrong sort of gambling
with memory
given the fright of pan am flight 103, 1988...
in the same year
       iran air flight 655...

                                           it's only a question of:
as a people with what narratives do we go forward,
i'm thinking of what narratives i keep...
clearly memory is a fickle beast
and eroded by memorising spelling
and basic arithmetic from an early age
my personal memory hoard is limited
as it should be: or shouldn't?

                    absolutely zero imagination...
   so switched from watching history to watching
charlie and the chocolate history
and became flooded with the memory of
Samuel - how we used to walk to school
almost every single day for a year or so...

how he loved Roald Dahl and how reading
really wasn't my thing...
maybe i was neglected as a child for not reading
books for children: out of self-neglect
because i passed straight into the minds
of Stendhal and Marquis de Sade...
                                and Plato... oddly enough...

ah... it would appear i'm ready:
to sit down to the mind-custard of prosaic
NVQ level 3 coursework in
spectator safety... officially supervising teams:
on paper... since technically already doing
the practice.

What recharges you?
Which font regards to you
Sentiments;
Like spineless piles perched slant against
Sturdy walls.
Sturdy drawls.
Sturdy, crawls
Steady Falls.
Steep toles, full loans, grows swift
Amongst the earths souls.
Dirt, cheep, hold on to meet my hand
Cut deep and burried  in sand
Sturdy home slides, security to rejection
Prepaid pensions grasp
Fleating.

It was a pleasure meeting your gaze.

Nature calls my heart as my hair catches wind. ❤
It heals and recharges
Makes me forget every pain
Nature calls my heart as my hair catches wind
Hear the swoosh of the water
Feel the breeze on my skin
For a moment I believed
I heard an angel whispering
Told me I was beautiful
And to make the world the same
It took only a second to know what she meant
Show them love, show them peace
Gently guide their hands
The world could be much better
If only earth angels learned their strength

Tomorrow may not come
and if it has any sense
it won't,
it'll run away as fast
as it can
that's my plan too,
to disappear from here
to be
free from this toxic situation,
to make a reservation on
some desert isle,
and living alone for awhile
recharges the batteries,
she's
always saying that.

all ok for me here
even though my battery
gone low

writing before
it recharges

life is pleasant
even with the arrival

of

monkey pox thing
avoiding zeds all together

guess you know more about war
than most

good you have your benefits
now

he asked to be friends
with suchlike

so we replies no just pals

and he don’t understand

hahaha

am not bothered
me

maybe you will help
with the writing

it was a documentary
so i guess it is still there

james

16.26

#slabcity