"septa" poems
Batshit crazy,
Batshit soup.
Am I just lazy,
or caught in a loop?
Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
Razor blades,
Razor blades,
Razor blades,
****
Love is not a competition.
Love is not a game.
You see me as a player,
and it's a downright shame.
Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
I am totally lazy,
and caught in a loop-die-loop.
Glass houses and baseball games
Angels wings and tar
SEPTA lines and pine trees
Can take you pretty far
Love is not a competition
Love is not a war
and acting like a soldier
is really quite a chore!
Silly souls and wacky words
Dragonflies and tar
I want to make some art with you
but I don't know how you are
it's
Just another slide
down the razor blade
of life into a bowl
of sour owl ****
Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
Am I crazy,
or am I caught
in a loop?
Razor blades
Razor blades
Razor blades
****
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
Today, I was sitting on the SEPTA, on my way to work as usual.
Suddenly, a Secane Bro appeared. This wasn't just any bro, it was a special breed, rare and only to be found at the Secane station between the hours of 7 am to 9 am and again from 4 pm to 6pm.
These are the Indian research bros.
They come in with gelled hair, starched shirts (ranging from pink, sorry, salmon, to white) and the indelible odor of Indian cooking and men's cologne.
For a more science-driven bro, a heavy backpack is essential, while the cooler bros have headphones and briefcases.
The bros are often self-conscious and gang together.
They rarely have a female companion, since such a thing is against the bro-code. They always sit together, or at least in the same car.
Most of all, the bros have hope.
They are ambitious,
flying fish in the dreary SEPTA morning atmosphere,
zealous believers willing to jump
through whatever loop and
hoop to get their own piece of the
American dream.
Dream on bros, dream on.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
I ponder what my parents told me,
“The light in your eyes is back.”
Not because I am happy,
(or sober…)
Its because I stare at the dimly lit skyline
In the City of Brotherly Love,
In a melancholy manner.
While I could make some cliché allegory
Of a cigarette being another source of faint luminescence.
But I am a college student,
A speck of a presence drowning in dimwits,
With such bright futures ahead!
(Along with a large sum of debt.)
So while I sit and stare
At the city lights,
Soaking in suicidal thoughts at the SEPTA station.
Remember the light in my eyes
Is a reflection of those city lights.
Dimly lit,
Not aflame.
I have no one but myself to blame.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC
Cultures dissected …
structured refusal
Cloistered eruptions
dearth to accept
Rising triumphant
they steal from each other
Defining their existence
—by what they reject
(Septa R5: September, 2023)
Oct 7, 2023
Oct 7, 2023 at 9:53 PM UTC
Tapering to a point
time pierces the veil
Unharvested moments
a gardener’s tale
Dug from the furrows
a voice has been freed
Whose final word spoken
—eternity’s seed
(Septa R5: June, 2023)
Jun 27, 2023
Jun 27, 2023 at 3:33 PM UTC