"representative" poems
Representative of the Ocean;
The under side of galaxies -
depths that man will never come to know,
But will foolishly never cease to search to for.
The tips of waves
Caressing the shore line to meet man once again,
Though it draws its feeble hand back often.
The color blue is
The moment after grieving,
The emptying of great seas.
Temporary peace.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
The Kurds live
In parts of Syria, Iraq, and Iran
As well as Kurdistan
Kurdish groups such as the KCK and PJAK
Seek democratic autonomy for Kurds
And democracies in Turkey, Iran and Syria
Aposim is a grassroots socialist movement
That promotes gender equality
Apo is the political founder of the PKK and PJAK
The female fighters of PJAK
Don't have families
Because this will weaken their commitment
To the organization
Thomas Morton
Host of this Vice documentary
Stays in a farmhouse
He headed up to meet the fighters
The PJAK division he met with
Fights for women's rights
Around the Iranian border
They tell Thomas
Women are being killed in Iran
It is a mental persecution of women
The PJAK representative says
It is about the right to democracy
Freedom, Equality, and education
The woman explains that
The Iranians use Sharia and Islam
For their own purposes
It is not true Islam according
To the PJAK representative
In true Islam there is equality and equity
Thomas
That really was priceless
Watching you line dance with them
Really funny
I think the women of PJAK
Got a kick out of it too
God bless the women of PJAK
Such beautiful smiles
Full of life
Standing up for women's rights
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
If we were the kind of friends who unironically
raised our glasses in toasts,
I would give one to the generation too comforted by the ease
of a honeybee in the plaintively nonexistent mind
of a tulip
To the generation, or at least its subset
that wrongly feels representative, who stumble drunkenly
or maybe just tiredly out of tents
to **** in the view of their friends, who are still at the fire
because the tent was too cold
To those who did raise their glasses in a toast
on New Year’s Eve at what felt, with the ball drop
not screening in luddite protest, enough like midnight.
Beginning with “dear friends” and a couple laughs;
concluding with “now let’s get ****** up” and
a couple more
To those who proceeded
as directed, clinking their shot-glasses
and swigging them back. If only because
they were not tulips.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
It will be different with different people and it will be different at different times. If love really grows, this is the way: first you fall in love with the woman because her body is beautiful. That is the first available beauty - her face, her eyes, her proportion, her elegance, her dancing, pulsating energy. Her body is beautiful. That is the first approach. You fall in love.
Then after a few days you start going deeper into the woman. You start loving her heart. Now a far more beautiful revelation is coming to you. The body becomes secondary; the heart becomes primary. A new vision has arisen, a new peak. If you go on loving the woman, sooner or later you will find there are peaks beyond peaks, depths beyond depths. Then you start loving the soul of the woman. Then it is not only her heart - now that has become secondary. Now it is the very person, the very presence, the very radiance, the aliveness, that unknown phenomenon of her being - that she is. The body is very far away, the heart has also gone away - now the being is.
And then one day this particular woman's being becomes far away. Now you start loving womanhood in her, the femininity, the feminineness, that receptivity. Now she is not a particular woman at all, she simply reflects womanhood, a particular form of womanhood. Now it is no longer individual, it is becoming more and more universal. And one day that womanhood has also disappeared - you love the humanity in her. Now she is not just a representative of woman, she is also a representative of man as much. The sky is becoming bigger and bigger. Then one day it is not humanity, but existence. That she exists, that's all that you want - that she exists. You are coming very close to God.
Then the last point comes - all formulations and all forms disappear and there is God. You have found God through your woman, through your man. Each love is an echo of God's love.
Osho
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
The power of Averages,
it means a lot
if you can
understand Means, a lot.
Assuming a Normal Distribution,
A Standard Deviation, or σ
defines where about 68% of the data falls;
roughly 34% above and below the Mean.
Two Standard Deviations
defines where a further 28% of data lies;
14% above and below 1σ and -1σ.
Positive 1-Sigma is one Standard Deviation above the Mean
Negative 1-Sigma is one below;
The range from -2σ to 2σ includes 96% of data.
The implications are astounding.
Within 3 Standard Deviations, one finds 99.7% of the data;
Within 4σ, 99.9%, 5σ, 99.999%,
the remainder are generally outliers and other improbable results.
To illustrate:
Suppose we had a group of 100 people,
and we wish to determine average height:
If our Mean height ends up being, say, 180 cm,
with a Standard Deviation of 20cm,
We can suppose that of 100 people, on average,
with a certain Margin of Error that is inversely proportionate to our Sample Size, or n
(for sake of argument, the Probable Error, or γ, is 13.49cm)
4 are taller than 220cm
14 are between 200cm and 220cm
68 are between 160cm and 200cm
14 are from 140cm to 160cm
4 are shorter than 140cm
--
Statistics is the parent of Probability;
Statistics is the Art and Science of Forecast,
Statistics paves the way for modern Science
Statistics is a powerful weapon in the fight against Ignorance
Statistics, however, are generally and intentionally misrepresented and thus misunderstood.
For increasingly accurate figures,
one must have a larger Sample Size
and a Sample group that is a representative subgroup
of the Whole
*This is intentionally abused
by most of the News
you read or see each day on Paper and Screens alike.*
If a "Statistical analysis" does not include at least
Margin of Error or Probable Error,
Mean (Average), Standard Deviation, and Sample Size
do not take it as accurate.
Depending on the source,
it could even be deliberately malicious.
Arm yourself with Knowledge.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Together we are alone
the wishers utter was always unheard
the Art of my consort is like ash in the wind
this purified drift of the eternal fire burning for all eternity
Timid little shell as fragile as the pearl inside
Impurities imparted and manifested into a gem
Let me see the diamond
the diamond in your mind
I ve been mining with a keen intent
to break down the barriers only to be surrounded by the remains
Im intrigued by lustered reflections of light in these rays of waves in this passing haze of the delicacy protected by your shell
Pandoras box and eves delight
only gives me a peek of that iridescent insight
Such an elusive emblem of the coveted representative Aphrodite
Awakened by impending doom
To
Cross the threshold of a Careless bloom
you turn to me to turn away
that I see
the Diamond is your mental mineral.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
"My daughter,
when you grow up (enough)
to be able to brandish self-sovereignty
tempered by self-discipline
I only hope that if and when you may choose
to try whatever drugs may appeal to you
you are least fortunate enough
to have access to clean ones
and a safe enough and comfortable enough environment
in which to study your interrelationship with them,
intellectually, physiologically, psychologically, spiritually, and socially,
but not necessarily in that order.
I won't tell you what to do,
but my advice is this:
Don't eat yellow snow:
don't snort yellow coke.
If you're gonna poison yourself,
poison yourself with the good ****
If you want to see whats up with something,
be certain your sample size is representative.
That's just good Science.
No one likes a false statistic
except those in power
who wish to remain in power
so maintain thy power
to wield thy freedom of choice
armed with an arsenal of personal experiences
sailing with an armada of accurate information
upon the high seas of this uncertain but certainly beautiful Life,
but be prepared to accept the consequences.
That's just responsibility.
That alone oughtta put you well ahead of the curve."
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
Blue
The color I always imagine your eyes to be
Same as the sea
And I'm always pleasantly surprised
When they're both bluer than
I'd dreamt they'd be
Blue
The predetermined color to represent sadness
But I like the color blue
More than I like being sad
The only thing about blue that makes me sad
Is not seeing it
Blue
You imagine the sky should be this shade
Yet are always shocked
When it blooms a magical purple at night
And turns the softest pastel pink
At dawn
Red
The known color of fear, it scares me also
Reminds me of bad things
Dreams soaked in red
Are never ones to be retold
Though it looks magnificent on brown skin
Red
Representative of love
Yet war
Maybe that's why love always turns bad
Why we can get so angry
With the ones we hold dearest
Red
Reminds me of sweet apples
And sweeter lips
Of harlot lips, like the one's on that girl
The one you left me for
That Saturday evening the sky was blue
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
Talk-show queen
Oprah Winfrey with her entourage
is going to Australia
and it’s timely now for a quick Colbert Report
on the state of the colony of Australia
Colony?
Yes, that’s right
Australia is still a British colony -
How else do you explain it?
as the Head of Government in Australia
is still the British Monarchy
and her Majesty, the Queen of Great Britain,
has her representative
a Governor-General in Australia;
and the Aussie national media faithfully reports
that Prince Philip is a God in some remote island
and the TV stations broadcast visions of
which British Prince kissed which of their latest fancy
And so, Oprah, welcome to the Colony
Ah, yes, and the Chinese migrants coming in
are surprised to learn of Australia’s status
at citizenship ceremonies
and the young man explains to his grandma:
“Oh, Foreign Devil still control Australia;
sad, Chairman Mao did not Liberate Australia.”
And Indian migrants, much to their disappointment
are heard to remark:
“Oh no – does this mean we still have
to go through another fight for freedom as in 1947?”
But then they are consoled by the fact
that a Gandhi only comes once in 200 years
so we can all still get on with our lives
and the nation will continue
to eat burgers and enjoy barbecues and hop like kangaroos
until such things may happen…
Ah well, dear talk-show Queen Oprah Winfrey
and her entourage
this ends our report on the sovereign nation down under:
Happy Stay in Her British Majesty’s Colony
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 12:16 PM UTC
The pimple faced gernment representative told me
I had to hold my pollinated dreams until
next season.
And in my school house dream
matthew told me his dream
nothing less than Sustainable Planet
And as I started to argue, I realized,
my mouth was full of seasoned nuts
full of warehoused food,
because I could not attend
lunch, at this newly packed cafeteria;
I was on a mission to... I forget now
but in my dream it was **** important!
Now that I'm awake, trying to write a poem
that captures the meaning
all I can tell you, as you read my heart
is that no one can tell you when to start
caring about your dreams.
Get on your moral high ground and shout out to the world
"I'm MAD as HELL and I'm NOT gonna TAKE it ANYMORE!"
And unless you get knocked off your high horse
and unless you find your voice dry, horse,
don't stop yelling until others join you--
because they will join you. We all want freedom
We all want the dream, but will we fight for it
to make it happen? Would you fight for love,
For life?? Would you fight for survival?
This is it, its this or oblivion, its sustain our childish
fever of consumption,
level out our infantile pride or
rest quietly into forever.
They say sustainability is what were after
but what we really mean is sanity;
they say rational policy is what were after
but really what we mean is enlightenment.
I'm asking you to change the wheel of your mind
and your asking me to hold my order until the window!
Can I have fries with that?
Make it a KING sized!
**** your frizzy fries, and your listless orders,
I want none of them, give me liberty or give me DEATH!
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
You sad fool. My dear, old friend
How I find myself waiting for you again.
Your eyes drive into mine, with brights on,
and you leave palpable words hanging in the air with the writings by your teeth,
without a mouth to open, just jaw clenched, no recognition of existence,
And your hands are soldering irons cooled clenched until clashing into my air
Touching time, and instantaneously heating space, as an element
Reaching Avogadro's number, ten to twenty-third
Holes appear between us.
I remember when we used to laugh
And mostly at each other,
but not as we do now.
There was no malice.
One day maybe there will be solace.
"You act as though I'm a nice guy"
So it's true you like to objectify
The object (oh, the irony) of your affection
Which is anything that cares to mention
How creative was your invention
It was not my intention to
Organize a fluidity to the scrutiny
And the staged mutiny of what was a foundation.
For it's not representative to your thumbprint.
I feel no organization here. You have ordered chaos.
Francisco,
Bring up your lights.
Just remember that you look best at night, when the moon is carved into the sky
and your real intentions revealed.
Where you sit upon that pale desk
And wrap your knuckles against the floor,
Stab with a quill the pools you leave behind,
to write your ***** recollection,
Just remember you look best when your tears catch this starlight.
Francisco, bring up your ****** lights.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 12:02 AM UTC
The representative from Ohio
wipes his *** with Jose’s brown
palms after a bout of verbal defecation.
Luckily, Jose’s food truck houses
a small sink in the corner where
he can wash his hands in between
baskets of chorizo prepared
for rich politicians.
Sometimes Jose scrubs so hard dream flakes
rub off of his skin and he throws them
into the wastebasket to be picked
up by the sanitation workers who
eagerly jump like frogs in orange vests
into the waste of Americana. When
the Representative stops by for
a plate of carne asada, Jose’s
dream specks pepper the beef
and his salty sweat flavors
the inside of the burrito. He grills
the onions and green peppers with
a dash of minimum wage and
boils the rice in a mixture of blood
and pieces of his heritage.
He serves the meal in a white Styrofoam
tray and drizzles it with cheese flowing
from an open wound. The receipt is an unpaid
medical bill, the drink an icy reminder
of his future sipped through a straw.
The nightly news tells Jose
the Representative is bedridden
with a stomach infection. He
complains his insides feel like
a million ***** feet kicking the lining,
like unheard mouths with rows of
sharp teeth gnawing at the liver.
Jose to the tv: tonight we’re not starving.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Here I am baring my scars and there are people calling me brave and this is never what I wanted. I wanted to show you my scars because I feel like a fraud and I wanted to show you my scars so you would know how pathetic I really am but you don't understand, my scars are not battle wounds, they are not badges I've earned, I do not wear them proudly, my scars are representative of all the times I was too weak to fight those battles, my scars are surrenders and do not call me brave if I didn't even bother fighting. I wanted to show you my scars so you would stop telling me how strong I am because I am not strong, I am weak and I am still hiding from you because you think these scars are things I have overcome but these scars are the very things that haunt me and who are you to know what I am going through simply because I have told you? I am falling apart and these scars are reopening, I am falling apart at the seams and you are calling me a hero but heroes do not hate themselves like this. Here I am baring my scars and there are people calling me brave and this is never what I wanted.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
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Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
100
A science—so the Savants say,
“Comparative Anatomy”—
By which a single bone—
Is made a secret to unfold
Of some rare tenant of the mold,
Else perished in the stone—
So to the eye prospective led,
This meekest flower of the mead
Upon a winter’s day,
Stands representative in gold
Of Rose and Lily, manifold,
And countless Butterfly!
2.2k
*Sham democracy
Representative sun comes up
In fantasy world*
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
I’m a just right, out of sight, lily-white,
Never coy, ball of joy, good old boy,
So great it keeps me up at night,
Clever son of all the tricks I employ.
A world-beating, caucus leading,
Really big deal, big wheel big shot,
Clean outside, mean on the inside
Super savvy, super cool, super hot.
I’m the guy you want to toast
I’m the tops, I’m where it’s at
Some are good, but I’m the most.
I’m a sainted southern aristocrat.
It’s not good to get on my bad side.
I’m a fearless, remorseless go-getter.
I’m right, you’re wrong, if there’s a fight,
Yeah, you may be good, but I’m better.
I’m a cut above, you’ve just got to love
A gift from God sent from high above.
A card-carrying good guy to the letter,
A credit to my entire race, nobody better.
Whether in the news or word of mouth,
A quality beacon of the Sainted South.
I’m the guy you want to toast
I’m the tops, I’m where it’s at
Some are good, but I’m the most.
I’m a sainted southern aristocrat.
It’s not good to get on my bad side.
I’m a fearless, remorseless go-getter.
I’m right, you’re wrong, if there’s a fight,
Yeah, you may be good, but I’m better.
So, go away with your stupid picketing;
We knew how to run things way back when
We have God on our side, so just back off.
Old ways are the best way, again and again.
Your talk about equality and nigras rights
May sound good, but it’s all just libel.
We are the chosen children of our God
And you can find that in The Holy Bible.
I’m a cut above, you’ve just got to love
A gift from God sent from high above.
A card-carrying good guy to the letter,
A credit to my entire race, nobody better.
Whether in the papers or word of mouth,
I’m a quality representative of The South.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
To say the least, I am lost and confused. Lost and confused in a city that is changing. A city that is growing. And I know it is, because I can feel it is.
Some days, sometimes even several times within the same day, I want to be at the center of the action. I want to be plugged into the social pipeline. A pipeline that leads straight from and directly to the gutter.
I think I just want fun. I know I want meaning. I think I know I want camaraderie. Friendship. Love?
At some points, I feel like all of this is pointless. It drags me down and creates a groove in which I neither fight to get out of, nor have to fight to continue on in. It's resistless and easy. It's not warm or cozy, but it becomes familiar and what's to be expected.
The lines between reality and imagination are ever-increasingly blurred to me. I do not know whether these people are pretending, or trying to hide, or pretending to try and hide who they are appearing to be. Are these walls really rotting and peeling or was it painted like this to look grunge?
I can no longer determine, cliche as it may be, if art imitates reality or vice versa. Is the music these people play directly resulting from and representative of them and their lives, or are they pursuing a highly regarded, in the hep world, a less fortunate and haggard lifestyle or "scene"?
Is the music and its energy a force, a presence, a power, an entity of its own? Inhabiting the body, possessing the mind, and flowing forth from the mouth of those without an identity of their own?
I don't know who I am. I know who I am to myself, as when I'm alone. But I do not know who I am to be or who I am to others. I have always found myself being drawn to mystics, magic, and power. But this is dangerous, weird, odd, foreign stuff. This is not stuff to be dealt with lightly nor to be done out in the light. It is shameful and secret and dark.
I am afraid. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of the power I may possess, and I am afraid of the power that may possess me.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Pray, And then Do Something!!!!
Be Still and Know.....
Face your Problems, don't Facebook them...
............
The Language of the Mob.
Never a place of Witnessing.
Look Up... Oh say can you SEE..
by this Dawns early Light
what WE Gratefully Hail
Christ's Heaven and Life...
Liberty's Light Shining Celebration Up
Beauty's tears of fading illumination out
Life falling softly into the arms of Grace...
Comfort the wounded, they are many..
Listen...
Sound of Clutter riding fiercely upon the breath of Giving..
becoming more like a machine gun.
Do you hear the Sound of fighting
within the streets of NEW Divinity?
****** **** defamation... all threats,
Yes... each of them given.. Its true ..Backdoor gifts of rage..
Once a puppet show for re-emerging Wisdom
Now a strip tease for an endless line of dancers
This is the Made in Hollywood movie that all have demanded
get your pop corn out...you are Witnessing the Question of Choice..
Nation sold for the drop of a dime
Free Choice...
the right to Vote by Public Declaration
Now held in the arms of What? the Secret Ballot?
Prayer. The power of WORD
Spoken by the Giants of Robot imagination
a trigger, tied to the experience of feeling..
The scientific formula of Good,
magnified by ONE million strong
Are we focused on the Good First,
or the Oneness of Anything?
..."Give the money to the Representative
and it will all go away"....
But it won't...
Do You Understand the Question Now?
Peace.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
His shirt is too small.
Not too small in the sense that he is a ******* who
Should have bought the right size.
No shirt seems to fit the pit stains
Swallowing his arms with the perfume
Of first date nerves and the awkwardness
Of the soggy must of locker-room-penises.
His beard is patchy.
Like a boy sprawled along the floor of the barber shop
Collecting bits of people to glue to his face.
It resembles the ***** patch of grown men
Running their hands over rough denim
Until their crotch all over his face.
He has Jesus tattooed on his arm.
As if he is some new-age-badass Christian
Who is thuggin’ for the Lord.
But Jesus was probably far from his mind,
Probably all the way over in Jerusalem
Shouting like a refrigerator buzz,
While his macho representative
Swallowed his first ****
As far back as he could go.
As deep as he could go.
He wears glasses and button up shirts.
So he probably looks out of place in the circle
Of drug addicts and alcoholics where
It only takes twelve steps to stomp on your soul
Like a child kicking up rainwater from puddle to puddle.
They have a dance that has only twelve steps
To sway all over the grave of your homosexuality.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
I am a female.
I am in my early twenties.
I have naturally brown hair smudged in fake red and vibrant green eyes.
I am short with a baby deer walk.
I am a student.
I am a worker and a dreamer.
I am an advancer and an experience glutton.
I am a caffeine rush with a brush of sarcasm coated in a smile.
I am a music enthusiast with notes flowing through my bones and measures lifting my every step.
I am a note aspiration draped in wrong tunes and character.
I am a musician unborn.
I am a glutton for the melodies and rhythm of the world.
I am of a shadow generation desperately seeking themselves in each passing fad.
I am a product of the public and society, but am of the discarded bunch, tossed to crowded shelves for less potential.
I am a generation pent up in a box and I am making my break through.
I am of a generation with the potential greater than the last and the means for a voice louder then the rest.
I am a decade of pain and tribulations and of hope and progress.
I am a cynic and I am hope, I am a technological hub and a mirror of all that is to come.
I am the future, the present and the past.
I am representative of those left behind and those who ran full speed.
I am a dancer in the air around me, I am a writer of the languages I cannot speak.
I am an open book with blank pages. I am a magic observer and a culture absorber.
I am a student of the world and the land and the people.
I am a prophet of language.
I am a reader of words sealed in paper.
I am all that I could ever hope to be and I am all that I never wanted to see.
I am my mother, my father, my friends, and my peers.
I am you as he is he and we is me.
I am the product of my mother.
I am the lick at the end of your tongue.
I am the bite in your spite.
I am the twinkle in the glitter you spread.
I am the pocket sized rowdy mouse running about a world too big.
I am the offspring of my father.
I am the peace that was given a chance.
I am the notes dancing from the end of a bell.
I am the back that never turns and I am the last shirt to give for warmth.
I am love and I am hope.
I am the looking glass of perseverance.
I am that nature that will not give up, until dreams are met.
I am radical and quiet all in the same.
I am me.
I am everything and I am nothing.
I am whatever I hatch for the sun's breaking day.
I am a product of the universe and I am molecules unspoken.
I am a voice and I am impact.
I am the change and I am the cause of the need for change.
I will be the dream, I will be all I hoped to be.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
High up on a hill
Like a little castle
Windows like the sun
T.J. Eckleburg’s eyes
Watching down below like the representative eyes of God
I can’t write poetry
This is a failure
Whatever
I wonder if the people in that building knew how they’d die
I wonder if we all know how we’ll die but we just can’t remember until we’re there
I hope my death is like a déjà vu
I hope I see this picture when I die
And the sky will be the same colour
And the ground will be cold and rocky
Somewhere in my line of sight there’ll be a building
With windows like the eyes of God
And I promise not to go into the light
But I can’t say it’ll offer the same courtesy
Maybe the people inside will be staring at screens or marking little boxes in the shape of my eyes with little x’s
They could be talking
Maybe, laughing
Morbidly joking, “oops there goes another one”
While they sip pinot grigio and pretend to be scientists
With their degrees bought in the black market
Agents of God that even He, Himself decided to write off
High up in the sky, watching life unfold like a bad reality TV show
God must hate reality TV
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
(I)
People used to light candles to ward off
prophesies such as this. Stopping, each
motherly representative, for 75 seconds
or less,
to tip match-spark to wax-thread
and hope for the best.
What ceremonial significance now
do we seek for to slow the approach
of what we know is waiting?
Oncoming march of death-knolls and unhappiness
bound up in silence
where
once we laughed uncensored at and for
the characters who spun throughout
this town, that school, the city, our lives.
All being, understandably, becomes
efficiently replaced with obvious simplicity.
From effortless performances
of what made our lives important
back in childhood years when living
was stable and guaranteed,
now to this mongrel era of constant migration
beckoning....
The familiar is no longer our youth’s
careless summer holidays.
The Familiar is now a land where
people don’t bother with any ideas
of an ideal existence beyond
what lottery tickets may bring.
Those who inhabit here are
more alerted to the purpose of lighting
coals in winter to shelter the children
and to keep the windows from cracking.
In summer find these same awaiting with
patient ears to heed any advice
which keeps them from going completely insane.
(II)
Go now, away
,begin
your quest, foolish schoolboy.
An entire adolescence’s
comeuppance is due.
Time now to seek recompense
for the years you waited
for anything significant to happen.
Time to seek girls with inviting eyes
and lilting vowels to offer favors to.
Abled with a catalogue of charmed
intoxicants. All softened by
a plentitude of weekdays waking
at three in the afternoon.
(Does “afternoon” exist in layman’s terms? Does
he simply made do with morning, day and night?)
Then on your flight make haste
to ensure your visit merely brief.
Like only one dimension of
your day-persona be a hawk
that delivers messages
back to the ivory towers of
new central HQ, while remaining
all cloak and whisper.
Messages from where people live
but no longer speak,
as result of an assigned sense
of failure,or complimentary
wrongdoings sought, what sorrow achieves.
Shattered lives, Ending dreams.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
When I was but a boy
no older than 4
I insisted that the number of pickles
on my sandwich be representative
of my age.
4 years. 4 pickles
5 years. 5 pickles
6 years. 6 pickles
This went on for awhile.
Eventually, though, I felt it was time to end that particular tradition.
28 pickles was getting ridiculous...
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC