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L B Jul 2018
For my cousin, Chris Goldrick

Lacing my skates
after walking two miles
in girl-strictured delight
Mom's stories of Sonja Henie--
No, not ever

Lacing my skates
with  snow-ball pompoms
felt skirt
and nylon tights
Cute little hat with matching scarf
My thighs and fingers
already freezing
icy burn
from miles on foot

to get there
the lake where--

I must get out
I must get OUT!

Knowing what
to expect from my body
the quick-twitch of muscle
Could always sense
specific--
gravity of water    
at 22 degrees

Desiring to feel
the motion between ice and steel
Read speed's vibrations through my body
The brain registers relation
to weather's effect
Tell of velocity
possibility of fall
Feel the slash of the blades beneath me
Throw my weight sideways, sudden
to hear that furious hiss
An object in motion tending, dire
to stay in motion

Threatening to stay there
always
in its heights-- of speed
away--

from the crowds of skaters
swirling distant in the lights

Seeking instead
the farthest reaches of Porter Lake
speed and speed and more
to overcome
inertia
of what it is to become
undone

at the outer edges, of humanity
A force  
centrifugal unto myself

Avoiding

Pregnant and slow
with years and babes....

The best
must be broken and tamed
of what it takes to stay free

catching the edges with every stride
catching my toe in the quick
180
spray of frost
to the sudden still

Listen to the frigid chill

and the heave of my breath
tumbling into evidence

Gliding
Once

Forever--

on, into darkness
of woods on frozen water

The wildness of it all

So infatuated with flight
so full of grace

I forgot Sonja

The moon rose
from her seat in the treetops
and applauded
Wrote this immediately from a dream a couple months ago.  With all the heat and humidity, it sounded good to go today.

This dream was an actual relived memory of being 12 years old and skating at Porter Lake in Forest Park of Springfield, Massachusetts.  22 degrees F is minus 5.5 C --Just a reference
The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree,
the snap-pole green beans growing
up the side of the rusty garden fence, and
bags of aluminum cans stored  in the shed
with the old cash registers from the antique store.
These are the golden frames caught and
edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter,
projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble.

We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders;
they took the place for themselves after a storm.
Our new abode was the patch of grass between the
walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard;
shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and
the grass always had a slight dew in places.
"The place where the snakes live" is what we called it
when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands.

One night, the wind blew over the shed doors;
flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing.
We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines,
foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and
rusty hand-crank egg beaters.
Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years
of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that
tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter.

Crickets underneath the gutter guards-
two types; the black singers and the
ones you have to dig for that will draw blood
if they get a hold of one of your fingers.
Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling,
we would drift closer to the railroad tracks
in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets.
One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.
tlp
Shut amid the swell of boredom

Hole in the nose, sparkling adornment
Dye in the hair....a blonde invention
Image altered......still bored
Plenty to do, still bored
Not whilst doing it.....always
But the longing for a bolt hole
Registers, raising its voice to be heard
Yet boredom creeps in, mud spattered steps
Flicking dirt here and there
Clinging sometimes leaving telltale tufts
Staining....can’t wash it out or hide it away

A rash of what you want lands perfectly
Creates a broad grin in anticipation
And no sooner it’s arrived ...well boredom
Rears up grabbing the lead role
You might say ‘be careful what you wish for’
And you might be right...how come...??
Wager the odds on r and r ...v...
Over exposure in the commitment arena
You’d think it would win out
So what’s going on here?

“Boredom”
sobroquet May 2013
I adore women
I refuse to apologize for it
I like the way their voices squeak in the upper registers
I like the fashions
I like the makeup
I like the aromas

Not the silly runway catwalk Biz that relegates them as awkward mannequins
adorns them in  the impractical
and cloaks them in the  absurd overreaching  of  the tired  clamoring for something
new and unique
that which exploits  their  lithesome anorexic perplexing job requirement

I like the way they can shape shift, alter and assume new identities
I like the fact that some have mood swings and ***
I marvel that they can give birth
I like being aware that their  'water-weight' make's  them grumpy
I'm astonished that they innately ovulate with  the cycles of the moon
and that the Huntress Diana inherently  acquired her namesake

Doesn't bother me a bit that "it's a lady's prerogative to be late"
or that opening a door for them is considered 'sexist'
I was raised with a sister and a mother
with lace and dainty  frilly things
I caused them a lot of aggravation and consternation
I think they enjoyed it - nonetheless
somewhat
I refuse to apologize for it
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
It’s been a decade and a half that I haven’t returned back to my little home in that far away magical place. Fifteen years- exploring and travelling through the world. It was always my dream, ever since I was a young boy. Living this life is lonely. No one ever belongs to me, nor do I ever belong to anyone. Seeing a million things is marvelous, but it could be twice as marvelous with a companion to express the feelings over instead of my usual, battered black log book that never talked back but was filled with entries from all over the world. One day, I’ll publish it.

I guess the fact that I was always alone was the reason why the little home and my little mother that I use to take for granted became more and more part of me as I stayed away. The land, the gently curving hills and glassy lake grew clearer and clearer in my mind until sometimes, it was all I could see when I shut my eyes at night after a long day of work. Sometimes I would smell the soap on mothers’ skin acutely and played her voice in my head like a radio.
A blur of bright brown eyes.

I’ve been to almost every country in this world: Japan, France, America, Denmark, China and all the different continents… almost a hundred different countries. Each country held such a different (but slightly similar if they were in the same continent) flavor in the air and never failed to teach me one new thing. They all held such distinct character. Beholding the stunning sights and noticing the heart-wrenching small details of a new place was my passion. It captivated me, but the calm, steady love of my heart remained still.
Nothing touched me like the memory of home and my mother. Not the women who flickered through the chapter of my life, appearing in explosions of lust and never meaning more than ***, though some begged me to stay. My loneliness would sway my path of thinking for a short one or two week before I realized it wasn’t what I truly wanted.  
My lovers reminded me of cookie crumbs fallen from my mouth down onto my shirt- there for a brief, brief moment- sometimes picked up to nibble on or brushed away and forgotten.

Oh Love; Love never found me. Perhaps all the travel I did made it harder for Her to find me. I was never at a place for long. Perhaps She, Love, grew tired of trying to catch up with me as I crossed the seas and vast lands. Maybe She got lost one day in an Indian market with the exotic, fat fruits and glittering bangles- fading off into the air with the aroma of powerfully rich local dishes.
Or maybe I travelled away from Her, and She got left behind.

2 a.m.- On a train: the train is brand new and the metal is still yet glossy and innocent from hard rains, thick snow or fiery heat as the Southern part of my homeland is so prone to. The window is surprisingly see-through, unlike all the muddy windows covered in dust, grime, bird droppings and smashed insects (especially squished mosquitoes) I have looked out of in the past fifteen years. I think I’ll read a few chapters of that book about Cambodian culture to distract my impatient mind: sitting on this cold train that will take me home is all I can possibly think about. Hurry, you ******* train, hurry!
There is something about a train that calms me down and makes me feel all starry-eyed. It is the memory of the only girl I ever loved. A little girl I grew up with. Such thick dark brown hair, big round bright chocolate eyes and the loudest, most obnoxiously boyish laugh I have ever heard from a girl. Hmm, I recalled the small rounded chest and bottom.
We lived so far deep in the country side and one day, on an overnight school trip, the school we attended at took all hundred students on a trip to see the city for just a day. Flashes of her eating a creamy white ice cream sprinkled with tiny candies of the rainbow and standing in awe of the huge library made me smile to myself.
How when everyone was tired that night back on the train, even the teachers exhausted after an early morning and keeping a hundred thirteen-year-olds under control for a whole day, fell asleep. My eyelids were just drooping when she appeared- I smelled her first, sweet like honey with a tinge of something sour like orange or lemon peels. My senses have always been sensitive- especially sight and smell. She carefully peeled back the curtains around the bed, crept into my bunk and cuddled with me, curling her tough plump legs.
My mind flew in many wild ways- for as I said, my senses were sensitive and the curiosity and thrill of an inexperienced young boy did not help to make them any paler- and try as I might to quiet the thoughts, they leapt at her every movement.
I suppose it was her way of telling me she had fallen in love with me. Her cold monkey-feet pressed against me and whispering the night away: her tousled head as she kept sitting up to look out the window on the side to look at the stars. I sat up with her and held her against my chest. I remember wondering how my heart wasn’t bursting from the enormous love I felt for this creature in my lap, watching the dark silhouettes of trees rushing by and the black swaying fingers of rice patties illuminated by needle-point stars and a full, silver moon. The beautiful creature turned around, placed her icy finger tips on my hot neck, and gave a little sigh of relief before leaning in and kissing me.

My skin was covered in goose bumps.

Oranges are my favorite fruit.
I left her, my little home and mother at nineteen. The darling was mine till then. I wrote to her, but when she got around to replying I had already moved. And there my love became my once-loved.
The heart ache didn’t last too long. There was too much to see, I was young and full of cravings and impossible to satisfy hunger despite the countless number of women. I lived in the moment, the fiery moment of passion and life, and the memory of her were blown to wisps.
A ray of pink sunlight broke me from my thoughts and as I rushed back from the past to its future, I wondered in a haze whether she had married or not.

Five a.m. – the sun was up. The sky had streaks of dark blue, so dark it was almost black. A ****** red of a newly-cut wound ran through the sky, arm in arm with royal purple and a pink the color of a child’s lips.

Six a.m. - twenty-two or so students milled into the train chattering. The younger ones have neatly combed hair, slicked down with mousse and parted so aggressively the comb lines are visible cutting the hair in hard chunks with a paper-white hairline slicing through the scalp. The smallest one would be around thirteen and the oldest at eighteen. The oldest-looking one is very pretty with slanted gray eyes and chestnut hair- very matured for her age. A puff of powder to conceal any imperfection of her skin, and the first two buttons on her school blouse unbuttoned to hint at a cleavage of well-developed large *******. Her gaze darts over me frequently. She looks like a lover I had in Holland. I give her a small smile and she returns it, batting her lids to reveal matted dark lashes and shimmery pale blue eyelids like the wings of a butterfly. No child, only if I was much, much younger and had just left home as you will so soon.
A stench of too much perfume emits from the girl beside her. So much that I am momentarily diverted and glance up at her from my log book. I will be relieved when they leave. If there’s one thing I find extremely unattractive in a woman is an overload of perfume- it becomes a stench that is a reminder of gaudy prostitutes.

Six-thirty a.m. -  The train jolts to yet another stop and they clatter out but not before I heard the words, “That man on the train near us was rather handsome, wasn’t he?” I cannot help but chuckle.

Seven a.m. – the train has stopped at least five more stations. This is going to be a long trip. Rummaging in my packed bag for a pair of dark sunglasses I push them on, waiting for the fact that I haven’t slept all two weeks in excitement (and travelling at the speed of light half way around the world at the same time) to kick in and hit me unconscious with sleep.

Two p.m. - the dark glasses cannot block the glaring sunlight of the sunshiny afternoon. We have almost finished passing the city. The rows of buildings, large houses, one-story apartments are narrowing and shrinking in size. I know the railroad tracks have remained unchanged in destination and twenty-so years ago I took this exact same ride but everywhere is unrecognizable.  
I check my wristwatch once again even though I know the time: around nine more hours to go before it reaches the very end possible station and I take the long walk back to my little home.

Six p.m. - I talk amiably to passengers on the train. It is beautiful to hear my home dialect again. The words I speak have grown quite clumsy and my accent is rough. No matter, in two weeks time I’ll be fluent and chirping along with the same fluid accent as the old man beside me is.

Eleven-thirty p.m. – I am all alone on the train. The old man just got off at the station before. He shared a portion of his sandwich with me and a swig of beer from his water bottle (naughty old man), seeing as in my anticipation I forgot to buy any food for the day. A very interesting old man who was delighted to know I travelled just as he use to in his earlier days- quote to remember from him: “Too many people go on about this ******* of a ‘fixed’ home: Home isn’t where you live, son, it’s where they understand you. I’m telling you, that’s something so special in this crazy world.”
It is horrible to be sitting here alone counting down the minutes without a distraction but after all, it is near the last of stations and no one ever comes here anyways. There’s nothing here that could attract visitors. If I were a traveler nothing about this place would excite me very much. Yet for this first time in fifteen years, I’m not an outsider and this land promises me much. My hand shakes from fatigue- but mostly from eagerness. Little home, darling little home, I am coming!
It is a chilly, chilly winter night. My breath pants out in short white puffs. I wrap my scarf more securely around my neck, capturing the warmth as I step out from the warm train into the cold air outside. I can barely notice my environment on the way home except the path has remained unchanged. It is as if I am travelling back into time itself. After a while, the coldness turning the tip of my ears and nose pink is forgotten. All I know is each step is taking me closer and closer to home.

I finally see it. The small little house with a small brown door standing quietly alone next to other identical houses comes into my view. The little homes are clustered on the edge of a river bank, surrounding by dark green trees. The crisp rustling of the leaves in the winter breeze brings a melancholy happiness so great it makes my chest throb. I cup a tiny bit of snow from the ground in my mitten and taste it: oh the same sharp iciness on my tongue.

I wonder if she still lives in that one with the indented steps, the stairs worn out by the thundering saunter of her and her five brothers. They still haven’t bought a new flight of stairs?

The river’s surface is smooth and serene, its surface looking like molten silver rippling in the slight breeze. I remembered in the summer when we, the children, danced; splashing in the water and the elders watched lovingly.

Mother’s carefully watching eyes on me as I swam to and fro, my laughter mingling with everyone else’s. She was especially careful after that near-fateful day when I was six and foolishly went swimming in August without telling mother as she made us her special clear chicken broth. I had inhaled gallons of water before she fished me out, both of us soaking and sobbing. How wonderful it was to hold onto something warm and solid: something breathing, full of life, and I clutched onto her and she clutched onto me and my life.
Up the wooden steps… how surprised mother will be. The ghosts of memories come running to me, pounding their way towards me to greet me first as I open the wooden door with the key slung around my neck as always: mother with her hair curled in soft mocha *****, mother making an ice lollipop in the hot summers in her flower-printed summer dresses, mother swishing around the house cleaning in her blue apron, the hot fire with hot chocolate as we told stories, all the different cats we had purring in a soothing melody… Amalie and her laughing figure spread over the sofa chattering away, Amalie’s quick, hidden kisses in the corners when mother was out of the room or pretending not to look, Amalie’s long hands creeping towards mine… Amalie and mother gossiping together and mother declaring Amalie was the daughter she never had and mother eyeing me knowingly, expecting me to settle my ways and marry Amalie…

Oh little home, I am back, I am home.

I shall go lie on my feathery bed and in the morning I’ll wake up and have no idea where I am before the thought comes back to me that this morning- no, I am not somewhere around half the world away- but in my little hometown.
As sure as the sun will rise, Mother will wake up at her usual eight o’clock and I’ll be downstairs in our sunny-tiled kitchen making a bowl of porridge for her and me.
After her tears and hugs, we’ll sit down by the fire with hot chocolate despite it being early morning and the skies aren’t yet jet-black. I see in my mind’s eyes her dark eyes huge as I unravel my colorful carpet of stories and treasure box of tokens from all around the world.
Maybe after that I’ll ask her whatever became of Amalie…
I hear the tread of footsteps on the stair case. They are heavy sounds. Has mother gained much weight in her old age? She was always a lithe little woman when I was here.
A burly shape appears in the shadows.
For one ******* blindingly stupid moment I think it is mother much fattened in a fluffy night gown, her hair curled up in soft ***** yet again. Perhaps I saw what I wanted to believe despite my senses and instinct suddenly prickling up in one jolt through the spine.
And the shape emerges holding a bat and the outlines gains focus to become a bear-like man with dark brows furrowed and a mass of curls. He starts yelling at me and slashing his bat dangerously.
I raise my arms up in defense and the world swirls around me. From far away I hear my voice shaking in fear and fury, “Where is my mother!” I yell her name and I yell my name to let her know I am here. I am insane with fear for the safety of my mother. No, it cannot be that I come home on the day a demon decides to rob the house of a frail gentle angel. If he has killed her, I will- “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?!”
“What?” he asks in a tone quiet from extreme bewilderment, his grip on the bat loosens and I am quick to see this and take advantage of it.
With an explosion of violent swears I leap onto him to throttle him to death. “MOTHER?! MOTHER! WHAT HAVE YOU ******* DONE TO MY MOTHER?! I’M GOING TO ******* **** YOU, YOU *******!”
A fast pattering of feet sound down the stairs and my mind registers them to be female before I am wrenched of the man and we are separated. I am about to clutch this woman safe from the hulking beast before I notice the skin on the hands pushing my panting chest away from killing the beast are too young to be mothers’. Her hair is a dark mahogany brown, not mild coffee like mothers’.
I stare at her, silent in shock. All the fight drains out of me.
Those eyes that were once so chocolate-brown and bright have lost their sparkle in her tiredness and appear almost… dull as she turns to me.
She says my name three times before I can reply. “Sit down here.”
It is strange that she has ordered me to sit down on my own sofa in my living room. Her frosty hands guide me. “Amalie… where is mother?” I manage to stutter, all the time keeping an eye on the monster of a man.
“Listen to me” she took a few shuddering breaths, “I’m sorry to tell you this way, I wished I could’ve told you any other way but this… your mother is dead. She died five years ago.”
She watched me with an exhausted expression, “In her will she left this house to you and me because she assumed one day-” she shot a cautious glance at the man who towered in the shadows next to her, nursing
Lamar Lewis Oct 2011
It all happened so fast. Like most good things in life--the really monumental moments--it's like you float out of your body and come screaming back just soon enough to realize the moment had passed.

I didn't know how many miles were behind me now. It seemed like a thousand but it didn't really matter. I wasn't going to be one of those mindless wanderers--blindly probing my way through life's misery and defeat to one day wake up wishing I was young again.

I'm taking my youth back from the government, the bankers, the Wall Street gamblers and racing toward the horizon like there are commercial airplanes in my blood and skyscrapers burning in my chest.

You can only go to the same god forsaken place to have your soul ****** out of you for so many ******* days in a row before you either become one of them or make your own revolt and

collapse
                 *into a sea of ash

                                              slithering like snakes along the city streets.
You just run as fast as you can.

I chose the latter.
__________________­__


I'm going to do the cliche thing I suppose. Do as many drugs as possible, do as many women as possible, keep chasing the next good time until I get high enough to slap a saddle on my car roof and ride off into the Atlantic--fireworks shooting off in every direction to *** up the stars--refracting radials within the iridescence of the shimmering sea.

>explosions echo endlessly<
[wrap around the ambient rhythm of the TidePuller]

touch! caress! make love!--stare through eyes into deep blue souls and find something of yourself there.

That's how I'd like to go anyways, I don't know about you--.

That might just be this narcotic cocktail talking. I take my pills ground up in a wine glass mixed with cheap scotch. Then I chase with cups of watered down coffee--chugging until ceilings start to undulate and shake me loose. That's when I know I can start the day.

It's usually my most productive days when the ceiling tiles arrange into piano keys. Then I get to create my symphonies and soliloquies before I try to go get laid.

Now that I'm out here on the road though my mind is being blown.

Try waking to the same white black piano key ceiling everyday, to then finally feel the colors of the sky--for the very first time!

A never ending metaphysical canvas for the thoughts and longings of a drugged up DaVinci who just woke up in his time machine to start the 2nd Renaissance in the clouds. It all makes me wish I would have left years ago.

__________________­_


You see, I'm your typical twenty-something passionate kid trying to turn a ****** past into some kind of salvageable foundation for a chance at catching up with the rest of normal "adult" society. But I've got some problems with this whole "reality" thing people are so adamant at upholding.

Last time I visited my human family around the world they were all drowning in debt and poverty; trying with every fiber of their being to find that one bright spot. Stuck. In the deepest, darkest, most cavernous rotting excuse of a day to day life.

All because some meaningless number
on some computer
in some bank building
with their name on it
either is too small or doesn't exist.

Most of my human family know things are bad,

But most in the impoverished third-world are so deprived of basic human needs that they never get the chance to ponder who really holds the key to their cage.

So they are inclined to accept the status quo and the system and try to live inside of it. Failing to find sunshine within the deepest depths of an erupting volcano; mistaking the heat, the burning alive, for some kind of sign that the brightness has got to be somewhere close. So we will just try to sink a little deeper with the rest of them.

Here in America:
Sure, let's go on back to ringing registers for minimum wage all day until my ears bleed and my head wants to fall off so I can go home to watch some television!

Yes, God Please just let me relax here with my box of flashing pictures and scintillating sounds. The only truth I'll ever need.

Just let me relax here with my reality being defined for me by the volcano directors--telling me that I didn't just come in my house dripping with magma all over the carpet.

YES GOD, just let me relax a little before I have to go to my volcanic, skin searing hell again tomorrow morning. Where they tell me on T.V. that I'm going to find that sunshine I desperately long for. But It'll always

*collapse
                 into a sea of ash
                 to scar the sky grey, silence the sun's rays, blot out the stars, and darken our days*

You just sigh and say "Tomorrow's another day..."
_________________­__


Yeah, I was right there with them yesterday. I was with them for years. Getting brainwashed and ***** slapped by advertising--getting barraged with constant reminders that all I was meant to do was to work my life away--decide to be some tiny insignificant cog in this "economy" they call it.

Looks more to me like I signed up to be some mindless consumerism *****! Sheeping my way along... buying and wasting; buying, wasting; buying again, a bunch of **** I don't need and throwing it away.

We're Living in a society infected with some sort of capitalistic contagion that pretty much siphons off the Earth's life force.

We are conditioned into a reality that the richest & most powerful would like all to believe.

Art-full hearts are stomped on, told to get a job, and plan for retirement. Told to slow down and be reasonable rather than speed up. Velocity of the heart may as well be an act of terrorism unless it's for marriage--and LGBT is on the no fly list.

This is a reality set up predominantly for the endless profit of a bunch of trans-national corporations who won't be satisfied until they hold complete and utter dominion over their ***** and pillaged planet.

Perhaps then they'll be rich enough to fly away in spaceships to **** the next Earth and leave all us sheep here with bargain sales, social networking and reality T.V. as distractions...

Too bad for them some people still read. So I'll learn the different strains of herb from my local library and become a ***** of feeling good, freeing love, and accepting all artistry.

Have you ever seen a painting in the sky? Or witnessed windy symphonies in trees? Hey, don't judge me,

you're the one addicted to killing everyone and everything with your mindless dollar bill.

kneel before almighty god,
mind your founders,
adore their wise countenance,
looking up at you,
re-assuring you,
comforting you,
taking the pain away,
but DON'T RUN OUT!
you'll be back for more.
you'll come crawling back.
You'll do anything for just enough,
just one more fix.

It's got its hooks in bad,
don't it.
___________________­_


PRODUCT-XA110357: Capitalism
DRUG STATUS: Still in Clinical Trials
TEST SUBJECTS: Human Race
PHARMACEUTICAL LABORATORY: Earth
INITIAL FINDINGS: Subjects not receptive, keeps causing: Anger, Greed, Jealously, Oppression, War, Ignorance, Famine, Inequality, Imprisonment, Slavery. Environment not receptive, will cease functioning in the future. Time of Earth Death is unclear. Thankfully it does seem capable to last through the next few fiscal years. A relief, as this is what our stockholders are concerned with.


Symptoms of Withdrawal
Users who are addicted to money and are going through withdrawals may or may not experience a loss of food, water, shelter, clothing, transportation, education, free-time, happiness, fulfillment, reverence of nature, beautiful moments, relationships with friends or families, and love.


FDA Warning
If you are poor, lazy, and uneducated it is your own fault. Being poor and lazy may or may not result in Debt. DEBT may or may not lead to SLAVERY, stress, illness, and an early death.


Poison Control Center
If you have ingested too much debt, slavery, stress, illness, and are fearing an early death please do not call any corporate buildings. Access your phone, computer, or go to your local library to find reputable resources and EDUCATE YOURSELF IMMEDIATELY. Get some nice speakers and start exploring ALL GENRES OF MUSIC. Look at as many paintings, sculptures, forests, and gardens as you can--as often as possible. Lay under the stars and dream about what YOU want to do to make a positive impact on this world. FIND OTHER POSITIVE PEOPLE and AVOID NEGATIVE PEOPLE. If you know someone that is poisoned who you want to save please refer them to the nearest Poison Control Center

-->Smile at the sun--feel its warmth<--

----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------------------------

happy hearts:--after love--not money--free from pain--sickness will surrender--
addicted to art, peace, compassion, and empathy--feel the sky get closer--.


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"In a state of enlightened anarchy each person will become his(her) own ruler. They will conduct themselves in such a way that their behaviour will not hamper the well being of their neighbours. In an ideal state there will be no political institutions and therefore no political power."
-Mahatma Gandhi
Composed October 2011. Revisions (Lots of Them) February 2014. Blend of Fiction & Non-Fiction.
Jacob Beaver Feb 2010
You pace.
Watching our every move,
The graceful arcs of the confident
Contrasting almost poetically with the
Furious frenzied twitches of the
Eternally ******.

The synchronised swimming of academics,
Marks of ten to the best of our
Talented dancers, recalling each
Jump, step, clap with personal flourish.
The strings are well hidden.

You spurn our dance, fixated by motorised,
Radio synchronised monotony.
"Stop writing, your time is up."
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wond’ring at the present, nor the past,
For thy records, and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste:
    This I do vow and this shall ever be:
    I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
Brujo Alligatore Mar 2013
Some playful shrimps clean the octolord's suction cups. One of their antennae buzzes a message up one of his orange tentacles and registers in the Octolord's mind: the silly sun is playing! Another shrimp: what's that sun up to now? The Octolord opened his mighty eyehole lids. The sun! What's...
NOTHING
mannley collins Jul 2014
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the  power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except  for  seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants  their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******.
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they  deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility  
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and  age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are  SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a  Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Tommy N Dec 2010
Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over  his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.
Written 2010 during the MFA program at Columbia College Chicago
Isabella Bachman May 2011
Classroom Discussion
Raucous noise vibrates across
The surface of my ear
Not daring to enter and disrupt
  The train of thought
   That processes as a machine
    Turning, creating, assembling
     The wheel of thought spinning round the axle

          -------A **** on the rope, a pull on the subconscious

The pulley recognizes the intrusion of an applied force
  The wheels halt, as if rust jeopardizes its advance.

The thoughts scatter, a snapped electrical wire snaking in shock;
a cooper waving current racing back to a reality
through black rubber nerves.

          The noise registers,
confirming the split of a once continuous wire
Insignificant words- not quite processing,
  failing to relay information,
   refusing to form a sentence,
    still trapped in a realm of limbo
                 wanting to return to the rhythm of a reverie.

Slipping, falling
the mind surrenders, the electricity dies.

  Materializing in a classroom
   The cage for intellectual minds
    Discussing about.
From one world to another - act, adapt

The bright scientific lights burn
The eyes of the dreamer
Who creates from the dark,
   Objects exposed, judged, determined.
    No place for the dreamer, who loves
      warping reality.

            Within the metal box this reality is set.
Bars on the window, an indestructible verticality
Plastic seats, beige, blue, cold
Sit this way, look up, right, like that.
You are my animals now speak, raise a hand,
perform a trick, tell me what I want to hear,
Speak my language of intelligence, be my machine.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2023
The Picture Window

The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.

The  subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.

Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.

My soul?

Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature  and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..

The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.

Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.

But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy,  where disorder minimal.

My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.

Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.

5:50 AM

P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Sun Jun 4
anonymous Dec 2015
after julio cortázar*

my bourbon

i drink it at a bar, alone

its translucent honey-color is an axolotl's eye
looking into me

and, like a cortázar story,
little by little,
my bourbon axolotl steals my body,
its soul stealing through my eyes to evict me from this
honestly-not-that-well-kept apart
ment

and i feel my bourbon axolotl eye replacing me
as i am drawn out into its glass prison

and i stare up as my bourbon turns me
gently in my glass
as my bourbon raises me to its lips
sips me
no longer winces
or even registers any emotion on a calm-liquid-surface face
eyes wet and flat and blank as a tumbler ******* deep

and i don't know where i'm going or what i'm becoming but
this feeling of spiraling and draining and emptying
is everything that i know

and there is less and less of me as bourbon stares down
cold
unsmiling
neat
and silently consumes me
and i am disappearing
and i am gone

and bourbon stands,
calm, but not serene,
and bourbon walks to my car, each step carefully measured,
and bourbon drives my car to my apartment
and bourbon sleeps in my bed and goes to my job and collects my paycheck
and bourbon falls into habit and routine
and bourbon feels my
empty.

but having a body, a life, is better than being trapped in bottles and glasses
it's probably better, anyway

and bourbon won't go back, won't trade flesh back for silica,
will keep living unfeeling behind glass-eye walls until skin and sinew unknit

and bourbon is so alien and content that
it never wonders if there is anything more,
never despairs for its ending road,
treasures every drop

bourbon calls this body, this life
top shelf

bourbon knows that **** ain't cheap
magical realism drinking poem partially inspired by a short story
Michael Hoffman May 2012
When CNN monotony breaks my heart,
children wail for candy at cash registers,
and traffic buzz replaces birdsong,
I flee to my garden to water and ****.

Sanctuary explodes in miniature chorales
soprano buds breaking through cellulose cradles
last waters from a thousand wilting blossoms
sing tenor at their organic wake above the loam
and endless pneumatic streams drip from leaf tips
as they always have and will.

A googolplex of minute carbon dramas occurs
melodious ballads echo relentlessly
like Buddha’s kalapas of soil and light
as pistil and stamen call the fat brown bees.

Equally marvelous are my hands'
deft fingers fueled by arterial rivers
lymph and blood on capillaric freeways
with off-ramps for neighborhoods of dividing cells
built into my DNA,
this machine of loving grace.

Even the leather of my gloves
once lived thick on a bull eating grass
that waved on a prairie where the soil  
let the sun in
drank the rain
and that meticulous ensemble
plays still for the wolf and the eagle.

With the last seed sewn
I sit transfixed by the garden gate
knowing every blossom in every random patch
will arise and pass away like the pointless TV news
and I hear the machinery of this impermanence
crackling like spring frost
when sprouts push through
and Gaia’s eternal trumpets ring.
Amethyst Fyre Feb 2017
It is true darkness that congregated in the corners of my room that night
And I could not recognize it, only knowing its cousin
Who hovers by streetlights and candles

Deep down, I've always known that the fae dance across my face and talk about me as I fell asleep
I knew what this was, though I did not know enough to fear the messenger
I knew this was a summons
A summons to the moonlight world that shadows the world we know and love

Suddenly, we are far beyond my bedroom
Traipsing through an electric, thorn-filled jungle
My stomach begs loudly of hunger, but it barely registers
With the amount of static sounding in the air
We walk on pathways stripped from the northern lights, pinks and greens, without solid footing
Magnetized forward faster and faster
To destiny

My feet bleed and the true darkness closes behind me, devouring the evidence of my red-stained path

A mist that I had never noticed dissipates
And I see the mushrooms
They glow ghost-white, towering tall as trees
Standing sentinel in a circle, the guardians of such laughter and music as you could never describe-
The music!
It is shattering crystal, raging rivers, and the death song of birds all at once
The darkness pushes me into the circle, and I whirl and twirl to its sound
The erratic beat taking over my heart ryhthm
I throb with its energy, my hands begin emitting their own glow
And the fae begin to take more form around me, in silvers and golds

The music screeches and my heart skips a beat
The circle begins to rumble
Mortal girl comes the echo
My skin feels the kiss of acid rain
You should not have come here
This place is not for the likes of you
A fae with a wreath of thorns adorning its head steps forward
Darkness burning in the sockets where once there may have been eyes

I cannot speak, its stare melting my lips into my face
You have seen too much, you have danced with us
Tell me why I should not hold you here
I look away, desperately trying to gather my thoughts and my voice
The fae would not care about my family, my friends
It would not care about my dreams
The true darkness caresses my hair and I hear its sharp laughter

"I-" I begin

The laughter cuts away, the static dies and my voice hangs in the vaccuum
"I was brought here, by you I presume"
I dare to look the dark fae in the eyes
"I was a dreamer enough to follow"
"You wish to challenge us humans, your endless source of amusement"
"Our torture is your game"
The fae concedes with a thoughtful nod
"But there is no greater torture than to know this place and never come back" I finish
The fae chuckles, as I bite my lip

Clever mortal it mocks
Indeed, go home. I banish you from my lands
May you suffer it adds with a smile

And I am cold
I fall from my bed in a tangle of blankets
In my ear, I hear the wriggling of music
It never quite goes away
The darkness smirks at me from the corners
And I cry softly
For who has ever willingly given up on the fae?
But I hear my sister waking up and I start to smile, despite my sacrifice
For how very few have met the fae and lived?
Storytime!
HR B Feb 2011
Love is like putting on a new pair of glasses.
But not realizing you're wearing them.
Until it registers that you are looking at small things in big ways.
© wordswithmypulse
Dylan Jun 2013
It's two in the morning
and we find Sam still
awake, staring at the ceiling
of his cramped studio apartment.

Overhead, thumps can be heard
along with moans of squelched desire.

He rolls out of bed, gets dressed,
and begins his evening perambulations.

Don's Donuts is his destination.
Although he doesn't much
care for fried sugar bread,
it's the only place open.

He buys a  few maple bars
and takes a seat at a bench,
near his overly-intoxicated peers.

The smell of whiskey and puke
permeate the establishment,
and Sam ponders why he doesn't
succumb to the same alcoholism.

Hey, Sam.
A voice registers
in his conscious attention.

He looks left.
He looks right.
He looks up.
He looks down.

No one is paying him any mind.
Besides, he doesn't recognize
the faces otherwise.

Yeah, Sam. It's me.
The same borderline authoritative
tone echoes over the drone
of the inebriated crowd.

Sam furrows his brow
and lifts the paper plate.
A small, luminous man
about the size of Sam's thumb

sits cross-legged under the plate.
He grins and golden emanations
cascade and unfurl from his
long (relatively), tied-up hair.

It's okay, Sam. You're doing fine.
Everybody likes you more
than you think they do.
You need to stop being so ******* yourself.

I'm just here to give you some
encouragement. You've seemed
a little down in the dumps
these past few weeks.

Listen, man, I know you've had it rough,
but suffering isn't a ******* contest.
This, too, will pass.
And you'll be a better person for it.

Then maybe you can help people who
are going through the same problems.
That's all you really can do, man.
Just help the people you're around.


Sam stands up which sends the chair
skidding across the floor into an
adjacent table. He flings the paper plate
(which still has a donut-and-a-half!)

against the window and screams
in a manner which contradicts
his timid demeanor:
"Who are you? Get out of my head!"

A police officer who, before this incident,
was finishing his third bear claw of the evening
observes the outburst and intervenes.

"Say, are you okay?" The officer puts
his hand on Sam's shoulder.
"What're you on tonight?"
The officer had seen a few
Drug War soldiers
exhibit similar collapses.

Sam feels threatened, he pushes
the officer out of the way
and hurries out the door
and down the street.

The officer follows in pursuit
and shoots his taser into
Sam's back. The electric
shock causes his heart's

circuitry to become irreparably
confused. He drops to the ground,
dead as the day before conception.
Sabres,
labouring to stop their rattling
like
cattle in the abbatoir,
where
the next step is a step to far.

I see a dancing ballerina troupe, arms attendant at attention,not to mention vested interests with the dull of bullets bouncing off cash registers,where nothing registers but the profits,not the loss,
who tosses the baby out with the bathwater ought to look before they leap into the frying pan.
I can sympathise with eastern eyes set on the west but would not like to take the test they're taking now.
One more cow in the cattle shed,one more country to be bled and we are fed and once more titillated
by aggravated assaults.
money from my hands like rain from clouds
copper suns and zinc moons and dead grass green presidents
pitter patter, flitter flutter
falling from the spaces between my good sense and my fingers
into cashboxes and registers.

and what are these heavenly satellites and stars spent on?
what are those famous dead men buying me?
tiny luxuries that vanish like morning dew
trivial things, unneeded and wasteful
a month’s supply spent in a day
by some lazy, jobless child
with little common sense and no self-control.
Tommy Johnson Apr 2014
I'm not going to the pizzeria today
Hell no, I'm not going to that pizzeria today
To go in and scrub the dishes
The bleach is burning my skin
And insect crawling on the food
While my time is just wasting
I refuse to wash another bin or tray
I'm not going to the pizzeria today

I'm not going on that sinking ship today
Forget that, I'n not getting on that sinking ship today
We have a sushi place across the street
Another pizzeria two doors down
They also own the bagel shop between us
And when bakery opens, I won't be around
I'm sorry, but I certainly can't stay
I'm abandoning this sinking ship today

I'm resigning from this bad business today
That it, I'm done with this bad business today
The boss ignored the IRS for months
They came, emptied the registers and shut us down
Sometimes there's no money in the bank
So every now and then all our checks bounce
I work for six ours for $8.25, I expect to get paid
That's it I've had it with this bad business today

I'm giving up on this lost cause today
Yes, I'm giving up on this lost cause today
It fell apart when they switched hands
Two parents bought it for their sons
And they plowed it into the ground
One's on coke and the others just dumb
When they're parents come in they have nothing to say
I'm giving up on this lost cause today

I'm not going into work today
I can not go into work today
Where the employees could care less but still try their best
And the boss act like two year old
Where we get bi weekly pay and everyday is slow
And the pizza in the case is cold
I'm giving in my two weeks notice and going on my way
There is nothing that can make me go to that godforsaken pizzeria today
Brittle Bird Dec 2014
Cash registers and sleepy morning smiles
swept with the exciting smell
of new-old things.

He greeted me at the end of the line and  
I asked him how he was-

          "Cant you tell? I'm radiating with joy!
           Every breath in my chest is a light
           charged and glowing through my bones.
           My throat is sore from laughing,
           my cheeks from smiling,
           and it's the sweetest pain I've ever known."

   -and he was.
thymos Apr 2016
rust is the template of our salvation.
we are all drug addicts and prostitutes,

                                                   ­                                except there are exiles.

we fixate on the mirror to escape
ourselves.

there are no real words, we vanish into
a misspelled being. sight imaginary; thought
symbolic; only touch is ever real.

it’s impossible to think your way out

                                                            ­                           of a refugee camp.

you can only struggle

or be privileged
enough to move like capital across borders
(freely).

the other is injected into me:
it is the denial of the addiction
that is making me sick. *semper eadem.
Salil Panvalkar Sep 2012
Broken trust spilled over a pile of ***** laundry
Memories deform as they enter the realm of imagination
The music still plays, even though the dancers are long gone
Curling away from the streak of light sneaking in through a crack in the curtains
Stupid we might be, stupid we shall stay
Believing in ourselves while living a lie

The clouds finally part
Close your eyes and look up at the skies
Yearning for a familiar warmth
Only to be smitten by the wrath of Helios
Wishing for an oasis, only to be graced with an unending mirage

Perched atop the pile sits a suit
Within the suit, a man
Years pass and yet he moves not
He hasn't blinked yet
Aged, has he not
He sees, yet registers nothing
His existence he cannot question himself
As there is no monologue

As the music refuses to fade
The tired feet, start tapping yet again
And then the wine begins to flow once more
***** eyes in the smoky room wander
As men and women transform into gods and soon into dust
Yet, the music plays on
Distant, but still there.
I didn't want this
never saw it coming
there was never a trailer
for
the featured failure.

a main attraction
is the smallest fraction of
the biggest sum
split into two
the sons of a gun.

but perish the thought
if you think that I've bought
a ticked box of fancy,
she wouldn't let me
and I didn't complain.

with a push and a shove
encouraged by love
life moves on.
stuart harris Jul 2015
knitted on a dodgy bobble hat
or a favourite chunky jumper
from scandanavia, or yorkshire

untasteful but definitely practical..
smelly and friendly like a wet dog
pliable like warm playdoh...

patulioi oil
will always remind me of you...
'a hippy place in my heart...'
like a beachnut,
no, a beach hut
shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society,
flip flop corner...

19:10
some random hermit crab making his escape from
the dripping bundle of just found fishing net
down through the crack in the floor...
into the sand
and back to the sea.
the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf
because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses.

suncracked and faded
pieces of
70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner
between the scraps of rope
and the deflated inflatables
and the bottlecap damian hurst
next to sea purse corner,
biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks
who escaped from the pacific gyre...

panning around, the smartphone registers,
the garish tatty windbreak
and the 90's ghettoblaster
which still has some juice left from those batteries
we bought at the gift shop...
last year...
for our imaginary beach hut....
in the outer hebrides...?

you take the camping gaz from the cupboard
and put the kettle on...
the beach is desert island white
the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard
the wind tugging relentless through our hair.
but the pub is warm and friendly
where grizzled fishermen philosophise
hardily. by the fire.
between warming shots of smokey single malt.
imaginary beachhut

does saying it mean it will never happen?
Lundy Jul 2020
N95
What she saw stole her innate calm.

She could see from across the room that he was in trouble. A kid, stumbling towards her. Desperate for her.

Eyes wild with fear and fatigue. 14, 15, maybe he's 16?

She knew from experience gained over a few months that he had an hour--maybe--before the weakness she saw stole his primordial drives.

A life is on the line

She wraps the plastic gown around her, she bends the metal of her timeworn mask against the bridge of her nose. She hides her hair in a net. She covers her feet with booties. All done with purpose. All done at full tilt.

His name is Paul. And he is scared.

She is by his side when his eyes roll back in his head. He's still breathing, still holding her hand but his eyes have gone white from the work of it all. His head swivels on its axis from north to south. "Please " is all he  can manage to exhale.  

"****" she thinks,  as his oxygen saturation registers at 20%.

A life is on the line.

10 days later. Countless like him have come and gone.

But, it's the exhausted exhale exchanged in
his final plea
that leaves her breathless now.

A life is on the line
Andrew Hill Apr 2015
Smiles
Laughter
Liquor
Plasma screens
Cash registers
Deep cologne scents
Bouncers
Hot wings
Hair gel
Loud speakers
Lip gloss
High heels
Tight skirts
Cigarette smoke
Cell phones
Watches
Car keys
Last call for alcohol
The club scene "grocery list" of everything you will find there
Hal Loyd Denton Jul 2013
The saying it’s written in the sand with mortal hand we scrawl
Achievements precise affirmations all the while they ever are lost by the ticking off the clock
Even as you communicate through writing and speaking your voice activates the image of you I
Have it traced it is incased in the finest gold case it is in my treasure chest though upon earths
Plane it is marked transitory but I have over ruled such categorization I have it marked implicit
Design and effect subtitled worthy goods gold standard beyond reproach of years they stand
Incorruptible they were but spoken with mortal tongue that are sizable to everlasting
Consequence that is their formal statement of issuance and bearing but this is the personnel
Description and discretion they spoke to me in time that is complex and fails as just the faintest
Traces but it became part of my will to live to be the person that I am not superficial thought
That is to be lost but the truth that is not self serving but the aid to others every expression and
Connation is affirmation that has the wellspring of all living things when heard it registers
Compliance it is full disclosure vouched by their word and highest honor they have moved their
Secret treasure into my soul for safe keeping for all time amid distress and toil we became
More than friends we bought and sold portions of our deepest selves this is our fortress our
Defense in time of struggle their voices are varied but rarefied into the soul I wonder among
Dreams they seem as mist these soft images that wistfully arise and fall hold meanings not
Easily understood but in precious yesterdays they were formed by a heart speaking that was
Fully engaged we held each other’s eyes gave expression that of itself were deep rooted they
Gave momentary pleasure as they played on the air our eyes dropped and in their closing a seal
Was placed it had the latent quality to know its esteemed place and that one day it would be
Called upon this resilience is all that we will need in future days to bring victory out of defeat
And it was all created in private times that will always leave us beholden to one another those
We at times take for granted are the store houses that feed us emotionally how moved we are
When we see tears of others they are the closest we come to sacred activity within a troubled
Life stature and strength is derived in no other way we shed them anew when the report
Reaches us of trouble when we go to pray and tears are evident we pass through many guarded
Gates we bear the badge of respect that none other can pledge or buy or display first it is the
Christ’s blood then human tears that are of the greatest markers of value in the eternal realm
The great solicitor who holds all earthy records you go into the hall of records this building of
Gleaming glass you finally come to the outer office of solemnity into incomparable quiet within
The golden halls of record written upon sardonyx tablets that are purist black gems which are
Sard shades of red and your words and mine are written in the brightest blue Onyx is formed in
The gas cavities of lava this is our true expression under and in the same vain that pressure
Creates diamonds indestructible when are feelings are truly breathless taken from excitement
That creates speechless words that are more valuable than our very life Christ said I don’t call
You servants but friends that is the golden vain that this piece has tried to mine and express we
Fail and look at one another with only human conception that is acceptable in only the most
Briefest moments when you look at me or talk to me you can’t see my eyes that have a far
Away look in them you are being established in far greater terms than just common interaction
You mean everything to me or I am the biggest fool that waste your time and mine may
Blessings always flow into your life into the breaking of that great day
Kurtis Emken Sep 2012
Wake up, stare out your jagged window at the yellow-green, creeping mist that pours through the suburbs.  Taste darkness inside a spit shined, stream lined dank tank that your roommates call home.  Shower and be appalled at just how unshapely you have gotten, your body a testament to your diet of Wendy’s and alcohol.  Go to your dream crush, thankless job and stand at attention as the human flesh wave moves blankly through aisles and registers, even as they pretend that they are not the target market.  Watch as they consume ferociously violent DVDs and smart devices at discount prices.  Stand startlingly still and pray to God that they are like Tyrannosaurus and can’t see movement.  Realize you are a ******* idiot because you get your facts from movies.  Feel fear and dread make a shrapnel nest in your stomach when you understand that this might be the best that you can do.  Frame count with fellow claustrophobic agoraphobics and call that pointless perfection pursuit escape.  Desperately have twisted, quasi-acrobatic *** with every woman that is willing, but not so secretly wish they were that somewhat mousy, yet charming, grad student who makes your coffee every morning.  Try to shrink into her pocket, invisible, only an absent touch away.  Hope that someday you can intervene in her life positively so she notices you there.  Go to sleep and breathe in that yellow-green vapor that reacts with your cells and becomes a clean cancer.  Rinse, repeat and pray for that big break.
Kida Price Jun 2014
Us
Ten years shy of our interlude
You watching me punching you.
First impressions were insude.
Who would have thought they would have lasted as long as you?
Hardened shells
Never crack
Passing notes
Hear you laugh.
Searching hallways
Looking back
See your face
Give me that.
A casualty of a hacky sack.
Keeping face and holding back.
Hug me tight
Apology
You won't see a single tear from me.
Turned your back away from me
Never wanting comforting
Especially from the likes of me.
Hugging back
Selflessly
Making you see this isn't me.
Highschool drama
**** those llamas
Keeping rage to a tolerable somber.
Pretending not to see you leave
So far away from my company.
Feeling others pulling me
Away from your integrity
Intentions made so violently
Trying to hate you
Have you forgetting me.
Angry notes are pushing
You farther and farther away from me.
Making us complicating
Something as simple as you and me.
**** this ****
I want this
Complicate me with our trust.
Let me be the one you dance with
When there are others you dismiss.
Passing up what could have been our first kiss.
Day of love
The day I hate
Who needs a valentine?
It could **** my taint.
Down the hall behind your back
A little flower
Now I'm trapped.
Handing it to me
Watching a smile grow widely.
Making my words into hypocrisy
Now they know I'm a girl and see
How you're cracking every bit of me?
Kissing cheeks
Make us blush
Never stopping our blood from the rush.
Holding hands
Intertwined
Finishing sentences
Reading minds.
It almost felt like you were mine
Before life parted us with time.
Far away
Computer screens
Catching up
Living things
Watching you love and letting you be
At least we had the memories.
Fell into some habits
So did you.
What is our lives coming to?
Feeling the shells harden again
Please don't break it
Let me pretend
You don't see me on this end.
You won't be proud of the things I did.
Fall off planets
Wedding bands
Stand at attention
No longer in each other's plans.
Seeing the world is the latest trend.
Asian continent
Back on earth we land
What are the odds
Of you planting your legs where I stand?
Aisle walks
Who's at the end?
Selecting food with a friend.
Stand like a statue
As I ascend
Hardly believing we're breathing the same oxygen.
Did you shake?
When I wrapped my hands
Around your back
Am I an illusion?
Miles from home
And I found my friend.
Bring my songs back to life
Thinking we've change
Together that's a lie.
There's much to do about nothing
To pick up where we left off back then.
The mold I'm squeezing myself in
You trying to keep yourself busy
Any excuse to have a run in meeting.
Find religion
No, but you'll spend time with me.
Watch me do some mormoning.
Maybe come over for some holidays
See the part where I'm cooking things.
Confiding in you that I hate Christmas
And you full heartedly agree.
It's not that bad though on the couch reminiscing.
Pull out year books and point out people
Together hating
What have you been up to since leaving me?
I love long stories
They won't bother me.
Once again fingers entangling.
Almost forgetting to whom I'm belonging.
Don't remind me of what I'm craving.
Here...look at these girls
They're all that you need.
The attention you give me only makes me think.
FHE hide and seek
Sit in my car
Listen to me sink
Oh, you met someone
Isn't that neat?
She makes you laugh
She helps you feel less lonely.
It wasn't until you had us meet
That my inner envy began to creep.
That night before deploying...
Even in front of her
You saying that you loved me.
And I believing it being more than friendly.
6 months out
Desert sands
Losing someone you thought you had
On both of our ends.
Ask advice
The hell if I know
The same thing is happening to me.
I wish it wasn't how it came to be.
A matter of time before you return to me.
Work day
In my registers place
I'm the first you choose to chase
And in response I jump to your embrace.
Relieved you came back in safety.
You came back home
And my home came back to me.
Darken sidewalks
Hand in hand
Tell me how you spent your time in the sand
Your place now
And I confess
There's things I feel
Parts of you I missed.
Expecting you to call me out
It's not fidelity if I say it out loud.
And yet you don't
You mimic me
Telling that you had been missing
Me.
At least we know
We said our peace
No further even though our doors are opening.
Don't swing wide
Don't let me feel your breeze.
Just one toe in
That's all I need.
Game of thrones
Barrack rooms
Wondering what I said to you
Just lay down
Don't go too far
Non make out session
Our hearts pound hard.
I'm on top
My face too close
Touching lips
The story goes
It's you and me
Staring
Can't believing it to be happening.
Just this once and then no more
Kissing as if we never had before.
Trying hard as hell to not want more.
All convictions to the floor
Loving each other like there's a settle to score.
But it doesn't count if you don't say
That you love me in anyway.
Let's keep it casual, I say.
Let's try to stop this all today.
Going out
Drinking scene
I'm trying to look pretty.
And you always look good
In whatever you throw on
Inebriated I try to make you sing a song.
Go out for some air
Let the drinks speak for me
Telling you I love you right then and there
Regardless of whoever could hear.
Moving too fast but I didn't care
If I lost you again at least of have it out there.
Drink me up into your cares
I'd rather be here than where I came
While you tell me you love me all the same.
It's probably wrong for both of us to say
But we've know it too long to be too ashamed.
Let someone else take the blame
Of constantly getting in the way.
Evenings spent in each other's sway
Till he calls or we get too carried away.
Not letting me go home just yet
Don't leave me alone
Don't make me forget
The places I've kissed on your neck.
Crevices discovered
New places of wonder
In and outside of those covers
No control
Let's leave the room
In the zone
Inhale those smoking fumes
Stupid smiles
To one another
They all knew about us and each other
The lust branded us both lovers
Except for that certain act
We broke ourselves not to rein act.
Kissing can be forgiven
But that sure as hell can't
Only when we belong to each other
Would we ever do that.
When and not if
After all of this
We felt too much with every kiss.
Placing each other in each future scenario
Naming kids and watching them grow
In our heads.
Plucking out names as we star gazed
Debating on waiting or straight away
Having our perfect family.
Talking of sharing our lives alone
But we weren't alone.
Knocks on the door
Back home there was met
Someone who found out our little secret.
Confronted
Turns out that I was actually wanted
Could have fool me by his quiet neglect
And we were both being treated like back stabbing suspects.
And that's when the guilt in me crept.
Stronger than I, you stood your ground.
Feeling bad for the conflict but not for being around.
Wanting to protect me from every sound
Of rage and breaking hearted rebound.
And after that it was like a divorcing trial
He'd have me all week and then you on the weekend but only for a little while.
Trying to keep myself going wild
Trying have both of you smile.
Stupid me
Now I see
I'm not the kind of person meant for sharing.
Back and forth and still I'd be
Exposed to 360 degrees of jealousy.
And on top of that you were leaving me.
Not deliberately
Not intentionally
Not wanting
To see me fade away into nothing.
Do our time
Make it count
Get the claw and pull nemo out.
******* there's a gloomy bear?
10 more tokens then we're there.
Photo booth
Print it clear
That we happened. We were here.
Walk a trail and find a tower
Watch the sunset from the water.
Skip those rocks until I get it right
We were always worth the fight
For any of those memories to see the light.
Knowing though right now can't be
Someday you ask to marry me
I've been asked that before
And you see where that got me
You don't blame me for the disbelief
And your ever hopeful eyes still plead
Never thinking back in spite
The things we felt on your last night.
Folding socks
Packing tight
Kissing time away that night.
Interrupted
And I left
Feeling so in completed.
Watch the clock before you take off
I need to make it now or not
Walk right through the terminal doors
And all of your resolve plummeted to the floor.
One last time and then no more.
It's hard enough to say goodbye
I can't do it when you have tears in your eyes
Trying hard to hold back mine
All we wanted was a little more time.
We always joked of how
Hours went by like seconds now
God allowed time to slow
When you're feeling miserable.
In the line
Watch you fly
Now it's only me, myself and I.
Hoping one of us can keep our memories
As my tangible one fade away from me.
Try again to recommitting
To the one I left hanging.
Trying to still be in your mind
But letting go to prove him right.
Then he left me high and dry
Should have saw that coming as soon as you took flight.
Hoping you put me from your sight
Burn my letters and live your life right.
While I deny myself the right and mine
Thinking I deserve it for my crime.
Breaking 3 hearts including mine.
Pass the time
I need to be better
I need to follow his life to the letter
Thinking I don't deserve much better
The one who you had wants out but I won't let her.
Feels like I waited forever.
Reconnected the line to the wrong receiver.
Thought I had done what I thought was best
Hearing your voice say those words and I couldn't contest
With your distance and your suppressed
Empathy for my distress.
It's the undeniable consequences.
Let myself fall of the surface
Breaking ties
Become the enemy
Become the very kind of person
I spent my life loathing.
Prey upon those who'd believe
All the pretty words I'd seethed.
Who knew it could be this easy
To make someone else fall in love with me?
Faceless guys who tripped to see
Any kind of attention from me.
Getting drunk every evening
Just to **** the part of me with feeling.
Touch me want me kiss me taunt me
Think you've made me the one who's wanting?
And then the prodigal boy who bounced me
Came back when he saw what I was flaunting.
You would have rolled your eyes at me
With everything that I was portraying.
Going back to the way I was playing.
In my defense I wasn't thinking.
About him.
About you.
About myself or what I had to do.
Deny the basic human right
To feel some happiness
To feel alive.
Take the bottle and the pills
Waking up the next morning
Disappointment with a side of chills.
At least it was a wake up call
Trying to control it all
If I was going to let myself fall
I didn't want to inconvenience anyone at all.
Play the part
Say the words
Live the lie
Make it work
Made my plans
Aligned with his
Come back home and he leaves again.
Knowing in the back of my head
You were somewhere else
And you lived.
Maybe someone was warming your bed.
Last we spoke, someone did.
Trying to keep my space again
I'd done enough as it is
For you to want to see my face again.
So I had thought
And I did.
You were waiting for my message.
Even if it was just as friends.
Facebook stalking
We both admit
We'd do it weekly until one of us
Started talking.
Passing thoughts
Wait for an update
Profile pictures
Changing
I kept taking more and more
Note on your tagged photos
Wondering who took those.
Did you still have the ones I took?
When you were alone and thinking
Did you have a look?
Did you ever think of me?
Why the hell aren't you messaging?
Then I, with silence breaking
"Hey there stranger...."
Message seen
Then you said you were willing me
To say those words through the screen.
Find out how you were close to me.
How did I feel about visiting?
Driving three hours to my county
And now to you I'm nervously driving.
Pulling up next to you
*******!
When did he get so huge.
Wait a moment for my breathing to ensue.
Unbuckle, get out and walk to you.
Pulled me in
Was the first thing you do
And the the feeling came rushing through.
Like some ****** on a binge
God, it felt so good to be held again.
Trying to avoid holding hands
Check me out
And I'll check you back
Tease each other
Make me crack
Almost kiss
Pull away
**** this ****
Do it anyways.
Walking in public places
Didn't help the pulsing phases
The time apart didn't diminish the traces
Of the physical draw, we just misplaced it
Maybe we should go back to my place
Watching some film while we look away
Baby, let's not get carried away
Close call
You almost made me fall
Crazy how that felt like no time at all
Till we're back on the same spiral.
Catch a glimpse of my swinging face
Smile now frown now back to our places
It's hard to feel so far away
When I stare at your face through this screen everyday
When I fall asleep to your voice at night
When we speak of drawing first blood
How hott it would be to fight.
Making business meetings
Into merging companies
Telling secrets
Making scenes
Silly faces
Fairly lands
Does it bother you?
It never did.
Trying to make my life less complicated
Convincing me
That the ground your standing
Is the one you claimed
Like planting a flag down in the name of your country.
Come to my door
Pull the beasts away from the floor
Then I'm against the wall
Pick me up
Never letting me fall
First impressions are the best
You say hello in a way if can't contest
Trying to keep the shake from your hands
As you fiddle and press all my buttons
Road trip riots
Scream out windows
Call me maybe?
That poor couple.
Amusement parks are just a perk
We're already amused together with the way we work.
Baby, I love you, turn around!
******* A!
The sloth you found!
My jaw almost hit the ground
I went full ****** just now.
Lemonade ice
Wishing wells
Tattooed dad's
Hands are held
Fight the straw
In your mouth
Remind me of my stature
Elbow on my head
Apologize
Kiss my face instead.
See a family struggling
With capturing their own memory
Tell me to ask and see
If their picture could be taken by me
So shy by your own generosity
I lovingly agree
Sleepy now
Wearing out
First time sleeping all personal.
Promise to stay
Regardless of what's happening?
We don't have to go all the way.
Naked now
If you kiss you lose
Did you kiss me
Or did I kiss you?
Alarm clock ******* up the sleep cycle
Waking up to see you smile
Morning breath
Just give me a little while
Get up from bed
Pull me back down
Put on your shirt
Take it back off now.
Taking care of canine kids
Taking a shower while you sit
Ready to go back on the road
Walgreens, gardens, now my favorite abode.
Secret spot that I show
**** rubbing that tree made me giggle.
On the strip
Arts and crafts store
No, I've never been in there before.
We both enjoy what we see so far.
*******.
They're playing Fast Car.
Stares are swapped
Grins are spread
Sharing that secret
Like we did.
Waiting till that song did end
To head to our next destination.
Walk up hill
Serious talk
Sit on grass
Picture swap
Ninja pose
You're built like a rock.
Find some food
But it's too crowded to walk.
Jason's deli has what we want
Only conflict is the drinks that we bought.
You like mine better?
I like yours too
Problems solved
Let the trade ensue.
Ticking clock
Almost time to leave
Rewinding parts of mr nobody
Trying not to let me see
How much you don't want to leave.
Kiss me like you don't want me to,
******* this kid is making me lose it too.
Get in car
Drive away
Call me soon
Drive home safely
FaceTime ******* us off incessantly
If we were in person
We wouldn't need this ******* thing.
Hardly an hour past, and then
You ask when you can see me again.
Make some plans
Rinse repeat
Tabb throw back
Dairy Queen food endeavor
Food lion **** break
Tim minchins radio doppelgänger
Read my brain
You thought it too
Art museum
I'm gunna get you
Riled up
And frustrated with me
It's hard to walk when in my ear
You're whispering
Do you hear a piano playing?
Let's trek back and see
The master of that melody
Hunting down the elderly
That old guy is you
And the old lady is me
Speaking of our future constantly.
Back to the ride
The glove box won't comply
Get some wire to compromise
Take me to get some shakes and fries
Wandering in the mall's walk lights
Going back across the bridge
My paranoia of the road permits
Squeezing your hand every five minutes.
Relax
Scream and step on the gas
You sure know how to make my brain go lax
Check on the kids
And then pursue
The slumber party
Take two
Messing up the room info
King sized bed
Downgraded to two q
Justin S Wampler Jan 2015
A loose wool-knit sweater had holes in the pattern,
through which her skin was visible both above and below
the dark sports-bra wore stretched across her *******.
I could see the thin straps draped over her collarbones,
and thought about the lines they leave in her skin.

Yoga pants squeezed her legs underneath of thigh-high socks,
and both were layered below tall leather boots with low heels.
An olive green fatigue jacket hung open around her and
was adorned with a colorful scarf that lay claim to her neck,
its tassels curled and bounced with each step she took
mirroring precisely the loose curls in her fair hair.

Finger-less gloves left her free to feel the texture of the
pages she turned one by one in a book pulled from the shelf.
She had sat down right in the aisle, planting herself in front of
the poetry section inside of a crowded Barnes and Nobles.
Sitting there with such an elegance, I lack the words for it,
completely unnoticed and free from the numerous
holiday shoppers that were carefully stepping over her,
books in their own arms, and heading for the cash registers.
History isn't made,
Isn't told, isn't its registers.
History is screamed,
Shout without words,
As long the feeling is right.

For every action
There's an unequal voice
Roaring positively haltered,
Farming, dividing, conquering,
Cave by cave,
House by house,
City by city,
Until no desire is spared.

All that's left to do
Is screaming badly,
Be hard and be heard,
Out of tune
For other tunes to be discovered.

Shout, shout,
That's the only way
Reality emerge,
Only by scream, by sound,
That's how to honor
All the silence hidden
In fervent claims.

Shout who you are,
Shout the smell around,
Shout as the flowers could answer,
Shout louder than howls,
Shout hunger and richness,
Shout danger, shout peace.

Only unheard screams
Can be shut by the grave.
Nat Lipstadt May 2014
Plane Poetry: I go to Barber*

aisle seat C 14,
an emergency exit row,
forced to solemnly swear
that for the extra legroom,
I will solemnly assist to open
the exit door, me first as my reward,
and keep my terrified screaming
below an elephant's trumpeting mating call

what hast this to do with a trip to Barber?

you Brits and Aussies, ever economical,
say went 'to hospital,'
leaving we Ameddicans
to dignify that august institution
as going to
The Hospital

Thus advised, be apprised, a
Nota Bene Benidictus:

I go to Barber,
Not
I go to the barber.

Samuel Barber,
Adagio for String Quartet, Barber

If unfamiliar with this piece,
you will recall it well
if "Apocalypse Now" registers at all

If not stop immediately,
return to Go,
start here,

www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRMz8fKkG2g


be prepared to surrender your mortality,
listen and if effected,
if you find yourself on your knees
weeping, recalling the days of loss,
the early empires of hope,
the first kiss
of your firstborn
and unknowingly,
the last you gave
a loved one

if you have the courage to
be touched and impacted,
as I,
then welcome back to
right here where why...

I go to Barber
where violins soar me heavenwards,
where violins rip open sores long since scarred over,
I go to Barber
and float, eyes sky'd, as water
fills and departs my body simultaneously,
I go to Barber
to know that art can rise beyond,
that my weakened, wrecked human flesh, surpassable  
I go to Barber
to harmonize my disconcordia,
romantic lyricisize my waning days,
I go to Barber
to voluntary confess, admit my impoverishment,
to acknowledge that they, my days, yet are capable,
I go to Barber
to remember and to forget,
to mark and unmark time
I go to Barber
to be created and recreated,
to be destructed and despaired
I go to Barber
to acknowledge, as human, better is forever possible,
for of the god spark, yet unextinguished
I go to Barber
because there is no plane as fast as his slow adagio,
to transport me to the who I am and should yet be
Over the Carolina's? 3+ years later, came
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2250737/yet-another-violin-adagio/
Nigel Morgan Sep 2012
The rhythm should not come from the word.
The word is a key to unlock
the virtual library,
where our journeys begin.

The rhythm is elsewhere.
In the space between thought and imagination,
it is the crossing weft of ancient knowledge,
beaten tight against the fell.

What the ear registers, the brain acts upon,
the heart draws in to its own, or not.
What then becomes expressive,
is expressed variously,
in form.

And then, such delight in the connection of things!


Now the sun sparkles
the still-morning garden.

Beyond, just fields away,
the curve of a silent hill.



Just what are such moments?
Do they envelope time?
Can they be measured out in music?

As recollection calibrated
they are the essence of  
seconds’ snapshot-made.

Sequence disappears.
It is just the blink of the mind’s camera.
Poet Basil Bunting wrote two poems on Briggflatts, a 17C Quaker meetinghouse in Cumbria. One written in 1965 is autobiographical and in five long 'movements', the other written in 2008 is just 12 lines and describes the place and its history.
AS Jun 2011
If someone were

standing on top of a mountain of sand (maybe on a camel, maybe with a cough)

along the Dead Sea at four this morning they might have heard

two voices

one accented thickly enough to leave an aftertaste,

one small forced into lower registers for old reasons echoed in new habits

bouncing along the water like insects, like light

“Talk to me in Hebrew” “Want

to see me walk on water?”

”I have the same handwriting as

my mother” ”Let’s start a religion”

“You can see it in the R’s”

”I was in a war” ”My shoulders

are turning brown”

“Summer is coming” “Your back is smooth”

”I don’t believe in anything” “I got on a plane”

“My fingers are salty”  ”There’s

mud in my mouth”

“Your hair is blonder than yesterday”

“I don’t

love you”

If someone had been

standing on top of a mountain of sand (maybe itchy, maybe pregnant)

along the Dead Sea at four this morning they might have seen

two bodies

one white, one brown

floating on the surface, the light coming over the ripples like a thousand slaves carrying morning on their backs

one head on one chest, one palm on one shoulder

“Nothing can

live in this water”

“I’m trying”
John F McCullagh Nov 2013
It’s that time of the year
When commercials appear
to implore us to buy this or that.

For the shopkeepers fear
that without Christmas cheer
They will never get into the black!

Some Fraud in a red suit,
Quite obese and hirsute,
will be called on to hawk toys to tots.

Johnny Mathis and Bing,
Ad nauseum, will sing
old chestnuts of holidays past.

So we wish you Merry Christmas
Now that Halloween has past.
Here’s hoping, too, perhaps that you
might spend as you did in the past.

Let the registers ring
It’s a wonderful thing
To see all the rich spend their cash.
Caitlin Deaver Oct 2011
And I'm suddenly terrified
As your life collides with mine.
One move this way or that,
You always appear.
You're my unspoken focal point,
Where if you were suddenly to vanish,
I'd be lost in my own world.
I didn't ask for this;
So is this a cruel twist of kismet?
A subtle realization?
Or am I simply over-thinking this?
And I'm suddenly terrified
As this fatal absolution concretes itself.
This can't be a tale of Wonderland;
No real mystique or query in sight.
And I'm suddenly terrified
As every moment
We become closer.
However,
Closer only under sincere observation;
We share no same feelings,
We share no common beliefs.
All we are
Registers in the brief moments...
So here we stand,
Always in sight,
Always in mind,
But never together.
Bob B Nov 2016
At five a.m. the doors swing open.
The throng of shoppers lined up at the store
Pushes and shoves and jabs and elbows
Its aggressive way through the wide-open door.
 
Once inside, the crowd scatters
This way, that way, in chaotic motion.
The store clerks gasp, feeling like islands
Surrounded by a raging ocean.
 
"Oh, no you don’t!" one woman shouts
At another woman clutching a box
Containing the last flat-screen TV.
"Hands off; it's mine!" the other one squawks.
 
A mad tug-o'-war ensues
As the two women grapple to claim what's theirs.
An onlooker who is knocked down in the skirmish
Shrieks, "What a sorry state of affairs!"
 
Everywhere you look, items are flying.
The store resembles the scene of a battle,
OR, perhaps, a giant herd
Of loud, thundering, angry cattle.
 
A man stops to pick up a bottle
Of perfume that he dropped--a gift for his wife--
And is trampled by the surge of shoppers.
The poor guy nearly loses his life.
 
One bold shopper with her canister of pepper spray
Threatens to douse the belligerent crowd
Until she is tackled by security guards
And is escorted away, cursing out loud.
 
Announcements blare from the loudspeakers:
"Shoppers' special on aisle three."
Suddenly, the rivers of shoppers change course
As the curious hope to get something free.
 
In the background, Christmas carols playing
The hopeful messages of joy and peace
Are drowned out by the ear-piercing din
That sounds like the honking of thousands of geese.
 
"I want my mommy," a whiny child cries.
"What do you want for Christmas: a dolly?"
Asks Santa, losing his last bit of patience
And doing his best to try to act jolly.
 
The chaos never ceases to wane
As the shoppers vie for the best shopping deals.
One man rushing to grab the last smart phone
Slips and falls head over heels
 
And slides into an obese grandma,
Sending her sprawling into some shelves
Of decorations, which all go flying.
The injured lie covered with reindeer and elves.
 
Interminable lines at the registers await
The exhausted shoppers. You get closer; hurrah!
The woman in front of you then needs a price check!
No, that can't be! That's the last straw!
 
Another day of Black Friday madness.
Would that it could be over! But no.
You've barely started; that's store number one.
You have four more stores to go!

- by Bob B

— The End —