"soapbox" poems
"So why are you painting a woman in a bottle?"
The challenge. Handling all those quirky reflections and layers of transparency.
"She has phantom arms and legs, what about that?"
Yes, pretty cool. A Vitruvian woman in a bottle.
"I'm looking for Meaning: Don't paintings look under the surface?"
You mean, what does it mean, really mean? It's just a way to test my skill.
"But what are you saying with that?"
It's not feminist nor anti, it's just an exercise. Besides, there's a rope.
"But aren't you, as an artist, exposing reality, presenting emotions and feelings, seeing the soul?"
*I'm not on a soapbox-- I'm testing my skill-- I paint and don't think about it too much. After all, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar' or is it 'just a smoke'? *
"I don't like your message."
*OK, I'll paint you in a bottle...
As a shrunken head.*
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
-
crack another thermometer open
on the broken bathroom sink,
pour yourself into me like mercury
and pan the bed of my stomach
for multitudes of gold flecks
like however many myriads
of sickly pill bottles in your
dresser drawer of socks.
-
see all
the shredded speckled petals
i ripped up before i'd let
the deer get to them;
i'm colorblind,
and i can't tell
the sun's reflection from plastic,
or tulips from the broken
pottery outside my front door.
-
and far least from another beer,
and another fifth of whatever
could be fit under your shirt
-
and never a chair pulled up to speak,
from standing like a soapbox
more suited to cleaning
than to preaching.
-
pour yourself into me like mercury,
because it's so much easier
when my veins weigh me down
to distraction, than being able
to think of hydrangeas again.
-
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
There's a private, invisible flock of comedians chanting soapbox knock-knocks in my parking lot
Noisy, clang, boom thingy aloft and clipping the air around the slimy snow
And why does ajax keep butting its nose into everything I’ve got?
They’re all just boom-lost facades in a canonical, sly-faced rant.
So slanted, frankly, and poised toward a milder pace that the clang clipped the frosty branches beneath a drunken frat-house party.
Ah, the dandy-clang : native to the sandy graves and morose olive branches.
But only on the night of the dandy-clang, candy dances
for the branches are not partial to missed solid caches
of want and woe
of tongue and toe
and seldom shaken beneath the overbearing heat of a white-faced predator
for times it was that here and now, because
the wind had bitten harder
What am I saying?
That if the dandy-clang came. And if it produced the branches of the dancing eve fame...
with but not together. The clouds up in the ether
that lake and earth should wither
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
Waltzing through the chaos that life’s left for today,
Dragging along my battered horn in case she wants to play
‘Scuse me, Ms. Bartender, but I’ve got something to say
Ain’t nobody listening to the radio anyway
I don’t need a soapbox, no suit or microphone
Just a space to spread the truth wherever I may roam
I speak straight from the bottom of a bottle left at home
The night is not much easier when you take it on alone
Hear ye, hear ye, gather round to hear a tale
Of dreaming big, working hard, but destined still to fail
Shredding that loopy little melody,
The craziest cat you ever did see
Make you feel so alive, ladies screaming, “Wow boy!”
I jump and I jive, cuz I’m a bebop cowboy
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
#
From an ornate podium
the orator spoke words--
..extraordinarily elaborate ones..
as if,
as if
But those who know..
we who have laid low,
down in to the trenches
as grunts, both outside
and inside
of the wire..
Those who have quietly
done their legwork..
who have accepted their
difficult fate as that borne of
and in to, a training.. an equipping;
lay low,
lay low
. . . .
The throngs
at the foot of the podium--
mesmerized by their own need
to be mesmerized, never even
noticed the children
who in their innocence, peered
out from under the crowd's legs
to better see the 'magnificent' podium..
The oldest of which, ran back to trenches
trying to describe what they saw.
Two of the quiet, unassuming-ones
made their way back to the podium,
and in blocking out the orator's voice,
(which to the knowing,
was as that of a clanging bell..)
Now observed up close, the inner-workings
of the elaborate podium
and sat in wonder of its expenditures--
wrapped around such slipshod, weak
and hastily assembled framework..
And in having become interested in the
structure's groundedness to what one
would hope would be a solid-built
foundation, placed onto solid, earthen ground
They instead gasped as they saw its
legs floating upon nothing..
*"What the **** is holding this thing up..?"*
War-trained and battle-hardened,
they remembered their superiors speaking
in hushed tones that even ****** with all
of his blowhard oratorical ******** at least
had a semblance of the podium's fastenings..
Albeit, partially assembled by our own country's
stupidity within certain provisions brought forth
in the Treaty of Versailles,
but this
but this;
This oratorical misleading of the broken-ones
this empty illusion of a presentation, borne
not from a suffering leading to true regeneration
but instead, a distractive short-cut into the Realms;
This counterfeit substance..
as if borne in power, as if.. as if.
.. But the realms.. they know
It is only those down here on earth, spirit
cloaked within the deceptive misgivings
of the flesh-- so aching to establish itself
apart from the necessary legwork needed
to humbly become a part of Stream's flow:
(borne, solely from the inner Wellspring-- deep
within the bowels of Love's True Ache)..
It is here.. on earth.. that you will find
the reward you seek.. oh wondrous orator,
oh magnificent 'smither' of fine words..
**Your podium, a whitewashed soapbox
floating upon nothing..**
--And therefore meaning nothing
within the Substance-Based parameters
of the Realms.
#
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 3:48 PM UTC
This is one of those serious poems
And yet it has nothing new to say
But the poet needs to keep himself busy
And writing seems to be the easiest way
The poet rises up on his soapbox
Because he works better from an elevated height
He screams about organized religion, politics
And stripping away of our basic human rights
Like a magician with a classic misdirection
The poet wraps his moralizing in purple prose
He hits you over the head with one simple point
That he’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know
Around the time of the nineteenth obscure reference
The reader is in awe of his far-reaching knowledge
Then the poet overuses polysyllabic words
Just to prove he went to a good college
And the poet keeps filling up the notebooks
Even though he should have stopped long ago
But the publisher agreed to pay by the word
So unfortunately, there’s four more stanzas to go
Quickly, the release date approaches
There’s one printing, then two, then three
And the poem becomes a hit in coffee shops
Recited by grad students in between bites of biscotti
His face now graces the cover of every magazine
In an explosion of exuberant media admiration
Dozens of talk show appearances are scheduled
For the newly crowned “voice of our generation”
The publisher decorates the dust jacket with blurbs
Complimenting the book’s “dangerously original rhymes”
But it’s nothing more than passing hyperbole
Gathered from a glowing review in The New York Times
Now thousands grasp the paperback edition
And eagerly await the feature film adaptation
Meanwhile, the poet hunches over his typewriter
And commits more sententious literary ************
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
the destroyers are out to destroy
they are the heat of the night
napalm-burned bodies trembling in the jungle
they are bullets nestled silently into the back of one's head
babies dangling from their mother's limp arms as
she builds herself a new body
made out of the countryside & the trees & dynamite
and she will bring the explosion at dawn
i could fit the memory of last night in a wine bottle
i fell asleep in the dumpster and you kissed me with your wine stained lips
in the morning i hoisted the sunrise into a wheelbarrow and headed west.
now i don't know who or what i am
all i need is a soapbox to stand on
or a cliff to climb
a little solitude
i need to be regurgitated as smoke
hanging over three lanes of asphalt
i need a valley with soft green carpet
and a pretty girl's adolescent thighs
i need my face shoved in her *****
i need the enormous bliss of a long afternoon
i need to find the intersection of
our intimate streets.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
Like mourning bells ringing,
I woke to hear trumpets playing taps,
Next to a funeral casket.
I observed quietly,
With some foreign melodies filling the void between my temples.
Showing disregard out of mere respect,
Really.
Not for myself,
Certainly.
For I was as dead as the corpse I was grieving.
Falling into my fog again, screaming the names of ex-lovers
Over and over and over.
Needing infatuation
On uneven planes of judgment,
As if I were seeking insight from an invalid.
But there was a time when I lacked even more
Than at that loathsomely lonesome moment.
And it went slithering on inside of the void
Like some ******* disease that was ripping the holy living **** out of my heart.
Seeing the casket lower
Under a cascade of flowers,
My temples went silent,
The melodies burned away like thousands of distant cinders,
And their voices occupied the void, as if my mind was their soapbox.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
You can identify your own flaws by scrutinizing strangers.
I watched a woman
from across a platform
at the subway station:
Straight, dishwater-blonde hair
glimmering in the subterranean fluorescence;
striking posture—
a dancer's figure—
and a thrifty ensemble that bespoke good taste
in spite of budgetary constrictions.
She pulled a circular compact from her purse
the way people in films exhume a pack of cigarettes.
Then, in deliberate fashion,
she removed a pill and swallowed it.
Birth control is like receiving a governor's pardon
in the process of planning a crime.
I resent her having that kind of indemnity.
I pass judgment on assumptions of character,
high on the blissful soapbox of bigotry.
As that pill crested the ridges of her teeth
and met the soft tissue of her tongue, then esophagus,
my mind conjured a phantasmagoria of lewd images
on the surrounding subway walls--
more a reflection of my character
than hers.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
Who are you to wave your finger?
Ya' must have been out your head.
Eye hole deep in muddy waters,
You practically raised the dead.
Rob the grave, to snow the cradle
then burn the evidence down.
Soapbox, house of cards and glass,
so don't go tossin' your stones all around.
You must have been high.
You must have been high.
You must have been-
Foot in mouth, and head up *******
what'cha talkin' 'bout?
Difficult to dance 'round this one
'til you pull it out, boy;
You must have been so high.
You must have been so high.
Steal, borrow, refer, save your shady inference.
kangaroo done hung the juror with the innocent.
Now you're weeping shades of cozened indigo
Got lemon juice up in your EYE!
When you ****** all over my black kettle
You must have been HIGH, HIGH
You must have been HIGH, HIGH
Who are you to wave your finger, so full of it?
Eyeballs deep in muddy waters, fuckin' hypocrite.
Liar, lawyer, mirror; show me:
What's the difference?
kangaroo done hung the guilty with the innocent.
Now you'll weep
or change the cozened indigo;
got lemon juice up in your high-eye,
when you ****** all over my black kettle
You musta been!
So who are you to wave your finger?
Who are you to wave your fatty fingers at me?
You must, have been, out your, mind!
Weepin' shades of indigo
shed without a reason
weepin' shades of indigo
Liar, lawyer, Mirror for ya,
what's the difference?
kangaroo be ******
he's guilty as the government
Now, will you weep
or, change the cozened indigo;
got lemon juice up in your, EYE!
EYE!
Now when you ****** all over my black kettle.
You musta been HIGH, HIGH, HIGH, HIGH.
Eyeballs deep in muddy waters
Your ***** deep in muddy waters;
***** p-lease!
You must have been out your
MIND!
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
volcano the rat popped out of the sewer and ran down the road gnawing on a crooked table leg. the pin up girls have been crying in the chapel over strange men with belly problems. it is very early and the sky is still a black mongrel rolled in waves of silence. i was king midas for forty minutes in a dream last night, i held a crazy unspeakable microphone and i slapped myself in the face. buy me a soapbox just like jesus had, hang posters of houdini and exist in silence. i have the mad pulse of a child, a rosy cheeked poet am i. last night i secretly tried to chop down the church steeple, "down with enthusiasm."
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 7:28 AM UTC
wet. ambition of her silken hair
scatter my moral compass
but after terse words
we set out on the road
her tale carries us for miles
and leads to many thoughts
but I'm easily distracted and distraught
by soapbox celebritys and their
rabid claims to fame
and am left to letting her choose our path
she pens regrets to me and mails them
to the wrong address so ill never know her love for me
has grown cold
I befriend the postman
putting the letters of my words
carefully on his face with a fine line pen
but he keeps whispering that I should be
so sad because love has been rejected
and my heart was returned marked postage due
the description sours when
the ink hits the page
never quite suits the thought
as we trundle along the stony path
the bone rattling pace lends misgivings
find my way home in the song of her heart
find my weary way to her door
turning the door inward
and see the vault of her hearts fortress
reduced to rubble ans she has
now gone
she has fled eastward
wagon laden with tales and trinkets
her blue dress flowing over the side and fluttering in the breeze
wet ambition is no mercy
wet ambition is cold
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
GET IN THE BOX *****
GET IN THE Ditch AND Burn
GET OFF THE Soap BOX Preacher
IT Time YOU Took Your Turn
IT'S Pure Hypocrasy
IT'S Heresy IN Your Name
IT'S A Faux Show Fantasy
YOU Wear THE Devil Shame
NO More Lies
NO More Lies
NO More Lies
ALL ARE Fallen Angels
**** THE Preacher
Burn THE Witches
ALL False Idols CAN Burn
ALL False Idols CAN Burn
ALL False Idols CAN Burn
Your Church Will Burn
SO ALL This
SO ALL This
SO ALL This
SO ALL This Rests ON A LIE
Your Right TO Justify
Torture IN THE Name OF GOD
THE Devils Ignorant
Angels ARE Innocent
DON'T YOU Know THE Devils AN Angel Spurned
This Devils AN Angel Burned
GET IN THE BOX *****
GET IN THE Ditch AND Burn
GET OFF Your Soapbox Preacher
This Minds Open NOT TO Learn
Enduring Reality
AS YOU Preach Duality
IT'S Pure Hypocrasy
YOU Wear THE Devil'S Shame
CAN'T YOU SEE YOU'RE Blinded BY THE Light
IN Arrogance YOU'VE Lost Sight
IT'S Reality NOT Duality
This Polarity Seeks TO Resolve
IT'S Solution IS TO Dissolve
Reality
Duality
Polarity
Seeks TO Resolve
IT'S Solution IS TO Dissolve
OF AN Angels Scorn
A Devil'S Born
FOR This Gods OWN Conceit
THE Devil Took HIS Seat
TO Cast Into Hell AN Angel Scorned
AND There YOU'LL Dwell
A GOD That'S Horned
THE Devil'S Ears Bleed AT THE Choirs Song
Justifying OF That Gods Wrong
Merciless Cruelty
NOT A Word OF Dissent
Allowing False Judgement
Blind TO Hypocrasy
THE Devil'S Begrudgement
THE Angels Heresey
TO Cast Into Hell
AN Angel Spurned
AND BY Your Hand
THE Tables Turned
Revoked Your Throne
BY Your Conceit
THE Devil Burns
ON HIS Rightful Seat
DON'T YOU Know IT'S Wrong TO Demonise
IT'S This Arrogance I Despise
DON'T YOU Know IT'S Wrong
TO Touch AN Angels Hair
Knowing IT'S OF Evil WE Both Share
OF THE Fabric WE NOW Tear
AND NOW THE Devil'S IN THE Chair
AND NOW THE Devil'S IN THE Chair
AND NOW THE Devil'S IN THE Chair
AND NOW THE Devil'S IN THE Chair
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 6:45 AM UTC
The reason I don't like you,
let me put it into words.
You're a prat, a drain and a hypocrite,
a ****** characterless ****
You talk, you talk, you ******* talk
But you never say a thing.
You think that you give speeches
Like Dr. Martin Luther King.
But you don't because your boring,
You bore us all to tears.
Ruining every social event,
by banging on for years.
Bla bla ******* bla bla bla,
your monotone drones on.
You're in love with the sound of your own voice,
while we just want you gone.
So pack your **** up in your soapbox,
And turn your answer machine on.
Then **** off back to snoresville,
or wherever the **** you're from.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
Woke up from the American Dream
Hungover
Hellbent on reality
After I saw the worst minds of my generation
Destroy with their madness
Rather than exploit their demons
They shot them in the heart with anti-depressants
and let them wake up
dead to ambition
They prescribed me like you
Withdrawal made me like me
GOD MODE ON
Just reach for the sun we're touched by
Fire in the mind.
Controlled flame
I am American Madness
Mommy's little monster gone manic
Mood swinging from the right intentions
I am American Madness
Jumping this shark with the high horse I rode in on
Saving my country from soapbox to soapbox
I am American Madness
The revolution in our minds manifested
standing up for something un-televised
The psychos in sheep clothing
Lycanthropy at the right time
Letting out our own Howl
Standing present
Our hands are red white and blue in guilt.
With the ghosts that we're dragging from past lives
Tearing the throat out of
the things we can run
but can't hide
Fighting off our demons
Transmuting the nightmares
Caught in the American dream catcher.
We could be the champions of the oppressed
Crossing the first threshold
We all come back around together
© kenHeike, 2k13
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
I truly fail to understand
Why it’s gotten out of hand.
It seems so very odd
There are so many God
Is supposed to have ordained
Some aren’t even trained.
There is an absolute dearth
Of an actual true rebirth
In the revivifying blood of Jesus.
It’s almost like allergic sneezes.
Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.
We are becoming overrun
With an ecumenical kind of fun
In which before we can holler
Another puts on a backward collar
And starts tell us what to do.
When the rebirthing is through
They are on their park soapbox
And ******** about our Xbox;
Telling us what we should watch
And the coffee in our coffee klatch
Is unGodly because Jesus never drank it.
Makes me want to grab and spank it
Before it multiplies. Jerks, those guys.
Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
“A demagogue, in the strict signification of the word, is a 'leader of the rabble'.” — James Fenimore Cooper, "On Demagogues"
a political leader who seeks support
by appealing to popular desires &
prejudices rather than by using rational argument;
A demagogue or rabble-rouser is a leader
in a democracy who gains popularity
by exploiting prejudice & ignorance
among the common people, whipping up the passions
of the crowd & shutting down reasoned deliberations;
rabble-rouser, agitator, political agitator,
soapbox orator, firebrand, fomenter, provocateur
"he was drawn into a circle of campus demagogues"
Only in ancient Greece and Rome
was it a leader or orator who espoused
the cause of the common people;
demagogues overturn established customs of political conduct,
or promise or threaten to do so;
demagogues have appeared in democracies
since ancient Athens. They exploit a fundamental
weakness in democracy: because ultimate power
is held by the people, it is possible for the people
to give that power to someone who appeals
to the lowest common denominator
of a large segment of the population;
demagogues usually advocate immediate,
forceful action to address a national crisis
while accusing moderate & thoughtful opponents
of weakness or disloyalty
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 7:44 PM UTC
I hide behind cardboard ceilings
walls and feelings
searing idols collide
find
ask me why
they trust the words we throw
I feel the wood and leaves at my hands and feet
and they are real to me
got the best
and found he who lies
and cover in a soapbox mound
where the standing shout
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
The man stood on a box
In the middle of the park,
When people walked by
The old boy would bark
“It’s in the Bible,” he cried.
And some people would ask
What is in the Bible, sir?”
Prepared to take him to task.
“Everything’s in there, friend!”
He answered with a smile
Feeling the people there
Would stay and listen a while.
“Well, that’s an easy answer!”
One of the onlookers said.
“You have left nothing out!”
The orator nodded his head.
“The Bible has answers for you
To any question you can say.
It will be your salvation, sir
No waiting until Judgment Day.
It tells you what to eat and then
Tells you how to choose a wife.
It tells you how to go to heaven
When you reach the end of life.”
The questioner replied, “Yes, sir,
And it tells of women made of salt,
And a fellow who walked on water
Another brought the sun to a halt.
It tells of a boat quite big enough
To have two each of every animal.
And people floating up to the sky.
Don’t you find these things incredible?”
“Not all,” the soapbox man said,
“God can do any holy thing at all.
He has made the planets, the sky,
The heavens and the waterfalls.
God knows everything and he is
Who speaks to you in your heart.”
The onlooker shook his head, said
“So, when does that stuff start?”
“What stuff, sir?” the orator asked.
“The part where God speaks to me.
I haven’t heard a word from God
And I have been listening, you see.
That would be a truly wondrous thing
For this God person to finally do.
But, if God speaks to all of us
Why the hell do we need you?
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
my arm is nothing more than an extension of my soul,
stretched parabola forming a straight line
towards heaven.
I stand on my soapbox with a sermon dangling
from my lips, this tired old street corner
this tired old man giving the world what it wants.
I am enlisted.
I am the bubble hidden deep
inside the bone.
I am the beekeeper creating a brand new colony,
stung by his own pride.
here, brother, listen:
walk with me while I tell you about the
accubation of life
and all of it's little lovers,
those tiny frail things so easily forgotten.
my tongue is nothing more than an extension of my mind,
soft, flattened, delightful
attracted to flavor.
a million spiders bred a million more,
and still their webs spread empty between the trees.
this is the way God works.
earthquakes,
tsunamis,
libraries engulfed in flames,
over-dosed artists,
a genius child sold into slavery.
we all become what we already are:
gentle creatures abacinated by society
fenced in and cornered by evil dreams.
we thrash in our sleep,
we wake violently,
we burst onto the scene like lions
from another planet,
hungry, oh so wild and hungry.
this is the way We work.
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 9:07 AM UTC
If this is all there is
If everything I've seen so far in life
Is all there is to live,
And you are never ever coming back
Then let me be happy with it.
Because I so desperately want to be happy.
Let me see every new new day like
A mother sees her child, eyes open wide
Staring at something I had a hand in making
That could just as easily go wrong as it could right.
Let me hear every seven AM wake up call as
The bells of St Peters to the ear of a choir boy
Calling me to worship with unquestionable faith.
Let me eat every burnt slice of toast like
A convicted criminal ensconced in solitary
Devours his last meal on death row.
Let me feel laughter as something other,
Than just the vibration of vocal chords.
Let me always speak with the conviction
Of a dreamer, a believer, an activist
Shouting every syllable
From the pinnacle of an overturned soapbox
And treating every street corner like a stage.
Let me stop trying to predict rain
And accept that if there are going to be downpours
There are certain seeds I need to sow.
Let me stop watching the television screen
As though all of life's mysteries
Can be answered by documentaries.
And that I can finally tune in, by connecting with fictional shows.
Let me see wonder
Because for a long time now I've been dreaming in colour
Its real life that seems trapped in monochrome.
If this is all there is
If everything I've lived in life has taken all I have to give
And you are never ever coming back.
Then lets get it over with.
Because I so desperately want this to be over.
Let me breathe in smoke for the rest of my days
Until tar spills from my lungs, to my heart
And burns my capillaries with that nicotine flame
Let me make heartbreak an art.
Because it reminds me of you
And I don't deserve any better.
Let me walk like I'm walking on eggshells
How I always used to do for you.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
Of all of the days to sleep in this late
Why did I have to choose today
The revolution we'd been planing along
I'm sure was already underway
I grabbed my bag, thank goodness already packed
And headed for the door
I ran out so fast my dog was aghast
My feet barely touching the floor
When I arrived at the park
I saw none of my friends
There were old ladies knitting shawls
Old men playing rummy and gin
I was already there
So I refused to go home
The revolution got canceled
And I wasn't informed
So I stood up on my soapbox
And yelled listen to me
All the old folks gathered round
As I gave the greatest of speech
I talked of how long
We'd been beat down by the man
As I went point by point
Of my intricate plan
There came weakened shouts
From a few in the crowd
While the hearing impaired
Wondered what all the fuss was about
We all moved to the street
With luck a Boy Scout happened by
To help all the old ladies across
But only one at a time
We surrounded Dairy Queen first
Because they have ice cream soft serve
Which goes down so smooth
When your wearing dentures
Next we did a flash mob
In the local Right-Aid
There were old women swinging purses
And old men waving canes
They all slowly shuffled down
The adult diaper aisle
Where they stripped the shelves clean
With raspy giggles and wrinkly smiles
Things were running so smoothly
According to revolutionary plans
We were creating social havoc
And sticking it BAD to the man
In the middle of the craze
My cell phone it rang
It was my radical friends
Wondering where I have been
I'm a tad bit embarrassed
That's the least I can say
In my mad rush to arrive
I went to the wrong park today
So I snuck out the back of Rite-Aid
As the swat team arrived
If I had a conscience I'd feel bad
In leaving my new old friends behind
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
My 5 o’clock shadow shielded my 4 o’clock guilt
The shady gentleman in the corner is a no one
The man to his left, a soapbox of stilts
Still, a matchbook
Strikingly same
A celestial speaker
A back of green to maim
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
The monumental image of this memory depicts
half of a man.
What makes this image monumental
is the unspoken truth
behind strong, naked feet
dancing and
kicking up dust
on top of a soap box.
Unshakeable emotions
warp this memory's
crowd of many
nameless faces,
pinching cheeks into malice
for a few,
long hours.
These malicious expressions may
be the result of the dust storm
filling in the blanks
for lots of people
collectively trying to ignore something.
Authorities have concluded that time
cannot heal a wound
if the hourglass has cracked,
so,
the memory goes on,
amassing
confusion, chaotically
like this television screen
showcasing half of a man
dancing
on top of a soapbox.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
Its paralysis in wonderland
Ignoring all the things you can
Building a soapbox out of buried hatchets
On which you finally hope to take a stand
Will you ever be this young again?
I don't know, but don't get mad
when I ignore your gender, man
We split the toll for the long road home
We find ourselves questioning things
that they never wanted us to know
Pioneering sinking ships,
- still being told to 'row!'
A routine change of quarters,
Pushing on every border,
Until you finally feel you've found a home
Where is your light?
Where is your soul?
I guess we've got a ways to go
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC