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I shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
I shouldn’t be reading the news.
It makes me anxious, and it’s not only the chemical interaction.
Somehow, I associate it with “adulthood”—reading the news,
Drinking coffee—I can’t tell you how many days of the last few
Years have been spent entirely in this fashion. The coffee
Growing cold and the news colder still. I don’t even taste the
black, fluid drops. I don’t hear the screams of people I read
about. I just want to hold on to something—so I raise the glass
to my lips. I can’t say

the shocking words when my mouth’s full; I can’t tell

about my experience, my privilege, when I’m drinking it.


The production of the commodity

creates a line from some equatorial region
to central America, and my mouth.
I think about the Autumn I worked in a corn-seed
sorting facility. What a short experience—
and yet,
something that weighs heavy on my imagination.
I was a temp worker.
I chose to work there out of shame and guilt for having
missed the deadline for college enrollment.
I could have done anything else; but there were people
there who wanted nothing more than a job. They needed
to be
there.
And I think of the people involved in producing coffee beans

in much the same way.
Removed
from the thing they’re making, as the raw materials are shipped
to places you pay workers more.
Why shouldn’t I swallow with difficulty when faced with the pro-
spect of a person supporting their entire family with the type
of work
I did
reflexively, as a choice?

Now I sit here, reading about North African riots,
a region, where coffee is produced—
ARABICA COFFEE— and I think about what’s sitting
in my cup, how I have
spent more money than they make in a day
to buy
one container

and sit here
for an afternoon
doing nothing but reading about their families’ misery.

I am a human parasite.

And like the bedbugs that have crawled meticulously
between my mattress and bedframe, hiding in a safe spot
until they can come out, undetected, and **** my potency.

I sit here, in the comfort of an apartment furnished
and paid for by my father who grows corn in a highly-
mechanized, agricultural society. I take more and more,
festering to the size of a blistering, red dot
blinking in the dark, in the form of the record light on
my voice recorder.
I expect so much more from myself, simply because of
this position of luxury.

But I don’t take time to think about my reaction to these
stories or how I am involved in them, in shaping their plots.
I’m even eating more now
as I’ve nearly lost my concern with avoiding certain super-
markets.
I smile at the greeters, make small talk with the cashiers
whom I am openly exploiting. But it’s ok, because
I worked for a month at a cornseed manufacturing
facility
and I read Marxist Ideology,
and I know about the Arab Spring
and I was against American intervention in Libya
and I disdain the air strikes from robotic planes
(unauthorized by congress)
and I disdain congress
and I support gay marriage
(I stopped eating chicken).
I don’t drive to the suburbs of my city.
I walk and ride my bicycle as much as I feel like.
I use public transportation at times.
I try to get to know women.
I practiced safe ***, once.
I write poetry.
I tell my mom I love her.
I bought my nieces birthday presents.
I’m not overly nice to people of different
ethnicities.
I voted for Obama.
I’m trying.
All these things make it seem less bad
to smile at the cashier.
But then I think about my black studies Professor
who used a walker to come to class
because she fell
and spelled the word Amendment “Admendment”
on the board when talking about Reconstruction.
I think about the war in Syria.
I think of people dying from cholera in Haiti, in 2012
A.D.
I think about fracking and oil spills and …
irrevocable damage to Indian reservations.
I think about football coaches molesting children
and people eating fried butter.
I read about people
upset
with a movie
who protest in the streets for days.

It makes me realize I shouldn’t smile at anyone.
I shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
I shouldn’t be reading the news.
N E Waters May 2013
This earthly body is incomprehensible. Piles of cells which make muscle, bone and nerv(ous)es. This earthly body too heavy for a spirit--too light to touch the ground. I beg you not to weigh me down.

Please

don't weigh me down. I try in earnest to touch your face, to feel for only a moment sweet flickers of skin on skin, but I grasp right through you.*

I felt about a ghost town,
ghosted around; marveled
upon shivers of what I knew
was dead. I walked
so insolently as the living
through fields that whisper
passage and rivers calling out
on moments gripped in sun.

I walked
right through
you. Ghosted around.

Scoffed at fading memories empty
pitying passages long since written down:
I read you like fiction,
ghost town: fancied myself
so solid among your intangible willows.
Ghosting around. Now
come to find seeking skin on mine I
breeze right through you.
I try a second time, a third and
come  to find it's I
who's too light for living.

It is I who passes through the solid walls
and wails in caves; it's I
who fade into night irepperable by light.
I who watched the world so arrogantly
as the living
like it would pass before MY eyes. But
here I waver unbreakable in the shaking
shining of many tiny lights.

Ghost am I.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
My Night With Paul Simon

On the night train, the red eye plane,
Flying home to NYCeeeeeeeeeeeee,
From the city of Los Angeleeeeeeez

Feeling flush, dropped some cash,
Got me a seat in extra large first class

Seat 2C, plenty of room for my toes,
To wiggle  to dance,
lay down some poetry tracks,
pretending I'm a **** jive,
bad *** from the
make-believe west coast

A short guy, with fedora down low,
An older man,
looking about nine years older
than somebody I might know,
hiding his eyes @ 9pm
neath some excellent Raybans,
slip slides into 2D,
gives me a smile,
And says Hi, I'm Paul

I look once at his face and say,
Listen Rhymin' Simon,
I'd know you any place,
No worries, your secret,
with me is safe,
Cause dudes in row 2,
gottta stick together, be cool,
We're riding first class,
over the land of the free

What ya do for a living he asks,
A little of this and a little of that,
All of which, ain't no **** good at!
So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse

He said that's cool,
I like to do that too.
Guitars on planes
drive passengers insane,
They take up too much
overhead compartment space,
I just scribble me some rhymes and
Let the music come
when I got two feet
on the ground in the city
we both come from.

Paul:  You got any stuff writ
on that yellow sheet,
or just pretty blue lines,
a big pad of nothing?

Dude: Man you may got diamonds
on the soles of your shoes,
But pay me some 'spect,  
you talking to the man who penned
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland
on Hello Poetry, gad ****!

Paul smiled and said
you can call me Al,
And if you feel like blowing some lines together,
We got five hours till we can see
the house that Ruth built.

Dude: Hit me with your best shot,
I'll show you what I got

Paul: And she said honey take me dancing
But they ended up by sleeping
In a doorway
By the bodegas and the lights on
Upper Broadway
Wearing diamonds on the soles of their shoes

Dude: Just cause the union of the  monkeys
in the Bronx Zoo done gone on strike,
Don't mean the lion ain't
still king of the hill
inside this New York city jail

Paul: And the sign said,
"The words of the prophets are written
on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered
in the sounds of silence

Dude: A home-grown poet.
I am, Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both, Addict and dealer
A ****** poet ******

Paul: You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just listen to me
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free

Dude: Contact with the atmosphere
makes self pity die,
my blue blood turn red,
the TNT tightness in my chest exploded
I got no place  to store these words,
the cops think I'm some kind of Terrorist

On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

*You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp
Eileen Prunster Jul 2012
oh jesus!
i've stumbled on his poems
and fallen in love
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Information Required Order 38582 Moonshine Makin's

I intend to use this order to test
the viability of an herbal extracting service for local gardeners.
If there is interest
and our trials prove commercial, the methods
will be posted publicly, methodic.

The intended customer base is the home canning and preserving enthusiast, ****** societies, 'n'such.

Now, the pod cast, statement of use. Right, of course.
Right use is to be made of all the time we wish, and we wish to share the method we use.
With youse.
Here's my idea, at the moment

nothin,

then I hear this guy who got famous in the seventies,
in such a way that I would have known.
Had I been on the same planet
during the Seventies
and half the eighties.

Terrence McKenna, right. If I had survived 1970,
and things had been well positioned for that to have happened,
had I not...

What did we do, my strange friends, or was I the only one who does remember my last sane thought? Actually,

I don't. And then, I do. Quasar-ic-ish-ly.

An edit or two could change every thing,
imagine this Terrence
McKenna taught "Authentic Being" a sort, or class, of being,
very high and good.

We teach being authentic.

Being a being's been being a while,

upon multiple instants of
a time, best'n'worse, full'n'empty, war'n'peace

(i'sgottabeat)

yet never is hope absensed. Any time I tell a story,
hope springs eternal, soon

soon the old fool will see No one is listening, and wink.

No one and the fool have friended
upon such times as these,
No two, as well, (seedawink)
to a far lesser degree, ye may see.
Secret secret secret knowledge, gnosis, donchaknow,

is same as sacred, yes, yes, it is, sacred made, made sacred, samesame that's the game... secret

I am in me,me ni ma I
Magic Ab-io-alchemical Hermitical Heretic, am I. Spirit. Muse?

Are we lost? No. We are wiser than we were.
By any measure.

A statement of use for that we wish to take, once it is granted. What's the use? We stuck not knowin, right?

Wait, I have a chit
"All things pertaining to life and godliness have been given thee." Got that at VBS, by God.

Really, we are treading on Bunyan's tale? We escape the Giant Despond on a promise of a promise?

Yes,
seems so. So little is different. The road, seen rocky three decades ago, or so, now, it's

bricks, silicon bricks, I recon they been doped, ye ken?
Some ol loswoids crosswise need gold ducts to flow
past the reflective edge, where we saw that Mckenna

outright lie.
He did. Damright. Said Paradise was opened by the door that shut Eden, but he said that

Like it was a bad thing.
Jesus Christ, if he missed the whole reason there is a Bible and a Jesus in it, who is gone gowon his testified
psyc-hellic oppositio cunjunct-ifitis trip?

So, I missed the seventies,
as if I were flying from LA at forty k and I go on by, to land in 1985, after fifteen years enculturated to believe a not-so-complex,
on the surface, lie.

Truth has a strange mercurial 'spect,
all the light that can be reflected is reflected in mercury, see,
the edge twixt yinanyang, dang,

as far as we can see, tho'

we can't really even see HD, but
it seems better.

Reflecting on an idea is blissfull, but that's not the reason.
Reflecting on old age and catching people telling lies regarding what can be learned in a deep examined life. Then, it's harvest time, and afriend called, thinks the podcast is a good tool, how we gone use it?
JoJo Nguyen Feb 2013
There's a Tale of hare
named Bugs, wisecracking
Brooklyn speedster
who raced against
a Tortoise green.

Mercedes grey speeding
along, distancing
a schlepping spect,
a North Face jacket
on fruitcake's trek.

4000 fast
and sleek.
8 slow
and green.

Neither racers strangely
notice that child
born on dented stripes,
warning bumps
by side road way.

Is life a sacred race?
Marriage sacrament
a finishing face?
Dying memories trace
a cove and net
lacing U and who?

What's up Doc?
Eating healthy,
eating carrots?
I hear your voice
who's love does bare.

False Saffron leiter  
extort and retorts weiter!
Komisch verwaltung
Schwartz holzteer
baiting babies to finish fear.

A cartoon film
skipping and tear
telling a child's tale
reel ending here.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
and they began t' sing
marching single file

from the west

no masqued men were these,
these were
Kachina whitemen only saw in curio stories,
now,
approaching the old
prosper-specter

sitting full-lotus in his Barco-lounger, curbside-score,
from the land of too much good stuff

still, it's America, best effort men have made,

up to now.
The whole world has known since the International Geophysical Year,
1957, when the Symbolized Face of the Hungarian Freedom Fighter,

graced
the cover of Time, as Man of the Year before, when they lost
their war
and nobody cared, because
every body knew Disneyland is the Happiest Place on Earth,
where wishes can come true, and

that place is in America as sure as

blue fairy, you'real wish, Urielistical wish-grant,
Asrael and the others
singing backup
reload
when you wish
side-really… and a subtle shift in per
spect capacity
let be, just so,

and haps sub tile into layers of complexity re

because we, the people born to mature in the environs of Dublin
writ large, we
seers endowed with tele-vison, from birth.
The elders who watched the roll-out.
Aye, we watched
us evolve
to now

our future bright they say, a bright white light, then what

now,
we can say. The seals have been broken.
Nothing hidden now stays that way in ever,

and ever, as you know it, began

sometime
agone afore in some direction beyond your
ken, as it were when kenning the way of a knack was
as common as dowsers in the desert of my childhood.

What's in any name but what the namer seems?
Hey, yah way, tha'swhat I say,
tell me
what I say
Hey
Dancing shuffle footed single file
pass the white shirt black tie messenger from
the telestial king down Sonora way,
via
Yahoo, feel that tickle fo' a nickle, Hiram say come see
come feel
a boinin' in d' boosum through

the very crystal lenses

portal-ible model
through which Joseph of the name
Smith,
-- link back to Cain, through Tubal, via Na'amah--
-- set a breadcrumb, landmark, tag- say good old way
-- sign out don't break the story

through which Joseph of the name
Smith, came sayin an angel of light came with another gospel,

maybe the same guy the Galatians were warned to ignor,
re-legate-- re-read- start at the top
or all meaning is
like a song sung by Kansas, when we aren't there,
any more, than those wee
merest kachina jingle bells listing in the winds

but the Kansas chorus is stuck asif dust is all a simple

higgs-ified mind can manage to
regulate

without reading any ancient landmarks on maps of meaning
tattoo'd to the face in your mirror

in the darkest memory you hold
dear,
dearest,
your precious, in your Gollum-purpose state you know so well
protect it for all its worth,
with only your
strength
to lift
being the measure of worth-ship.

Ex-tol the worth of no bher-don born while in my state,
poor
un-gifted.  I remain a mortal soul linked mitochondrially to thee,
for whom the bell
told. You heard, but you were tolled don't ask.

Listen, the same hunch that said, It don't mean nuthin',

when you say you know that,
you bet you do.

I slew this dragon, not you. I say what the map says.

The dragon died of natural causes, so now,
all its true-sures
is yers…
Crown o'glory moon shine

plumb pert-nigh perfect fiture
imagined happy place to a T, crossed
and I dotted

Bleibe Doch! This is where all the Faustian Losers left their marks.

This is not where I aimed t'be said the elder bro,

as the wastrel was welcome t'Dada arms,
the crucial critics rave
Sheiszkunst, who Rah!
isis throws
a party for the prodigal madrigal has returned
from the pig's sty

packing each redeemed pearl, his brother once
fed to swine.

bent low 'neath his pearl-loaded ****-pack, he lifts his head,
waves his
crown, Fini,

come see, he says.
where I live, nowadays.

This is that treasure, on another level
as you may imagine,
free, if

you accept charity.

{There's the rub, say professional older bro, I know, charity;
'taint fair,
s'foul some, some ne'er-do-well finds a
pearl in some pigsty,

I PUT THAT PEARL THERE FOR THE FUTURE
not now.
I worked
for them ****** pearls, I sweated, brow-sweat, lo and hi.
I hid them well,

only a fool would ever believe a treasure
could be found in such ****,

but some fairy pulled a fast one, 'put a bean in little bro's ear,
so when the pigshit hit it began to grow,
sent a tendril to tickle a special spot,
just above the left ear,
right
there,

let's see diamonds, no
pearls,

any where we wish.
Let's say okeh, mark this spot, let us move on,

this is life. Let us see that more abundantly, while the poor
are safe and sound,
free as me to pursue haps past the frozen

disnified happy-ever-after WW2,
in the wake of Camus and ****** Wolves

---
splashes as the speeders pass, powered-row-row-rowing,

merrily mere ly wrong, not evil. Live on, next
is as you wish it were
someday, but in its diapers,

still. A we thinker thought awaiting effectual function,
as this trigger is pulled, in your space in time,

and another bubble appears,
portalish as mine-craft if ever there were

a subtle shifter of perception conspiring
A.I. see
a conspiracy with Lex Fridman infected by
Lynning Skyward
though a wave of old Radioman vibes,
played with plastic spoons
a famous peace march by
Kenurchka Klumpen, Sera-serah-selah-sinnade in B-Natural

and the last to leave broke the right arm from the doll,
sealed the dirt box one measure by one measure
deep and wide,

That seal was broken, 1957, approxi apriori right
arm dis
allowing
the left to change this next to come, sym-bolische
ified in the one-armed bandits left behind,

the bet. The die cast. Foccinaucipilinihili or holy

happy hunting ground, imagined in the land of too much good stuff.
Bits and pieces of the underlying tale. Note: The one armed effigy left in a 12 inch bt 12 inch adobe sealed hole in the floor of a pit-hose that may have been a kiva/ Vernon AZ
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
My Night With Paul Simon
(Posted originally on June 5, 2013)

On the night train, the red eye plane,
Flying home to NYCeeeeeeeeeeeee,
From the city of Los Angeleeeeeeez

Feeling flush, dropped some cash,
Got me a seat in extra large first class

Seat 2C, plenty of room for my toes,
To wiggle  to dance, lay down some poetry tracks,
pretending I'm a **** jive,
bad *** from the
make-believe west coast

A short guy, with fedora down low,
An older man,
looking about nine years older
than somebody I might know,
hiding his eyes @ 9pm
neath some excellent Raybans,
slip slides into 2D,
gives me a smile,
And says Hi, I'm Paul

I look once at his face and say,
Listen Rhymin' Simon,
I'd know you any place,
No worries, your secret,
with me is safe,
Cause dudes in row 2,
gottta stick together, be cool,
We're riding first class,
over the land of the free

What ya do for a living he asks,
A little of this and a little of that,
All of which, ain't no **** good at!
So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse

He said that's cool,
I like to do that too.
Guitars on planes
drive passengers insane,
They take up too much
overhead compartment space,
I just scribble me some rhymes and
Let the music come
when I got two feet
on the ground in the city
we both come from.

Paul:  You got any stuff writ
on that yellow sheet,
or just pretty blue lines,
a big pad of nothing?

Dude: Man you may got diamonds
on the soles of your shoes,
But pay me some 'spect,  
you talking to the man who penned
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland
on Hello Poetry, gad ****!

Paul smiled and said
you can call me Al,
And if you feel like blowing some lines together,
We got five hours till we can see
the house that Ruth built.

Dude: Hit me with your best shot,
I'll show you what I got

Paul: And she said honey take me dancing
But they ended up by sleeping
In a doorway
By the bodegas and the lights on
Upper Broadway
Wearing diamonds on the soles of their shoes

Dude: Just cause the union of the  monkeys
in the Bronx Zoo done gone on strike,
Don't mean the lion ain't
still king of the hill
inside this New York city jail

Paul: And the sign said,
"The words of the prophets are written
on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered
in the sounds of silence

Dude: A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet
******

Paul: You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just listen to me
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free

Dude: Contact with the atmosphere
makes self pity die,
blue blood turn red,
the TNT tightness in my chest exploded
I got no place
to store these words,
the cops think I'm
some kind of
Terrorist

On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp
why some call me

stillcrazynafteralltheseyears,
SNL provoked me to repost it
ArturVRivunov Oct 2011
I saw a gentle face looking through my eyes, and they said to me don't think about it twice. . .
Just look back into my eyes and I'll show you a deeper place. . .The life is not a silly place, for in my time I lived within my place. . .Now I'll show you that deep embrace your eyes long for.
Then that gentle face took me to a place where life's but in pace without digrunted haste. Senses guided this gentle face, showed me how to fight it, and I took it willingly, my new strength betrothed from her gentle brace. My gentle face I became to embrace as only fresh breath of air.
I became to know it so, when I glance back what in my time I felt but such a waste, when all it was were just few silly moments, when my heart sank and I couldn't show this feeling with about a face in blanc. But then came a reason for what in life could be my please on, for I was missing this gentle face present in mine. Until funny as to how long ago I wrote this, to only finish in this moment when I have run into this gentle face. Pondering her embrace in this life I feel without her a waste, but I know and feel her daily smile, her tiring heart at times like mine when I feel the world is falling apart.
Her gentle face overrides the feeling grief, for if I was to feel sad, it is always brief.
I only long so much a day for when the time comes, we together, get to play.
Darling, your gentle face in front of me sways me in ways I have only imagined. To say so now how I felt this moment and now this moment I had found it. Your gentle face I saw in time when mine was less profound, it give me a feeling joy so far from how I imagined, for your gentle face I feel it to never wonder from it, into oblivion because from how far I saw it to now how much I love it.
I believe in love and it's how I lived it, but never seeing that there would be another. I never felt to loose my sight for I have felt you, from afar glowing within the night. Adults and others feel lost to love, feeling time in age, to be only put down by something they don't feel in life they can't anymore engage. How could we lovers loose sight of life adventure, ceised by today's life on its venture. Today's affections all but tend to misperfections and everyone seized in mind to love themselves creating such perfections, to only show but never feel.
Oh! How I look into your gentle face and feel for it in every place. To even look into another, it's pointless within my pace. For there is no such face I could find within your embrace. I am your face, for how much I feel we fit in place.
To yours mine always ventures, through clouds of clamour where life is but lost in glamour. No one see's a subtle moment, where time passes between the two, because their always distracted away from two, to always wonder about around them, whome is who, what looks upon our face embraces. And in most cases, they loose their loving laces, that tie together of what you and I do share.
For when I looked into a gentle face, your trully in spirit, since now my heart can clearly hear it. Since our first embrace, together in one place, my heart explode it, this sound so melodious. Yours trully listened and mine just glistened, the sound of perfect. This melody, all I could and only hear, to it to only add in new sound you in me but steer.
The soothing melody of you and me sitting beside each other on our first walk where all the chatter around us but was talk. While I felt in your wonder moment, swamped by your mesmirizing glow.
There was no other place I felt to go but to your heart. The funny thing you told me in moment of rediculous it didn't mean to me a thing of any sort particulous. I only felt to hold your hand and feel your lips with such lovely words. Sitting on that busy metro, my life changed with in large retro, a spect in life I felt to wonder when all for me would be a calm no matter where I felt I stood in warmth, your love swarmed over me by strength, if so this train had hit a wall I would have gathered in my strength to break your fall. . . . .. . .
Amy John Dec 2013
Lost in a pit of despair
Looking in retro spect
Should have changed the sequence of motions I neglected to face
Avoiding the signs
Pretending
Scheming
Forgetting
Remembering a moment too late
Seconds
Minutes
Hours
Countless hours spent
Searching for the right melody to sing
To play
To listen and speak
Fighting the loosing battle
Nothing but weak
Pathetic and helpless
A joke
So full yet so empty
So warm yet so cold
So understanding yet so ignorant
Silence
Keep quiet
Fake a smile
Share a laugh
Hoping that one day
Maybe one day
This will all be a dream
Fake and unreal
What is it?
Unspeakable force weighing on your shoulders
Controlling your mind
Speaking your thoughts
Is it you?
Does it make up who you are?
Who are you?
A whisper?
A secret?
Kept locked away brewing and boiling every minute it is ignored
Constantly fighting to break free from the cage so well built
Yet so collapsible
So broken
The battle will never be won
This entity will never be overcome
Outgrown
Forgotten
The shadow creeps close behind
Barely touching me
Yet I can feel the presence
I can feel it grow stronger every day
And every day I feel the darkness spreading
Creeping through each layer
Breaking through every door
Stalking
Lurking
Capturing
Controlling
Loose who you are
What you are
Where you are
How you are
The girl you once knew
Now a pathetic shadow of what use to be good
Blood turned sour
Spirit starting to rot
Happiness eroding away
Drifting off into the sea of empathy
Down the vortex of black
Crumpled up and thrown away
Memory haunts her
Day after day
Living each lie
Each worthless second in her miserable life
Worthless and alone
She closes are eyes
Waiting for the constant thumping to cease
And for the battle to be lost.
Anais Vionet Aug 2022
One of my year long sophomore subjects will be physics. At first, physics seems to be a menagerie of big, boring universal ideas and immutable laws rendered practically unimportant by their scale.

Peter, ok, let’s call him my boyfriend - just as a place-holder - is working on his “Doctorate in Applied Physics,” degree. “Will you help me with my physics homework?” I asked, hopefully.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” he assures me, wiggling his eyebrows suspiciously.

Peter got to visit the Hadron Collider, in Geneva, this summer. When I FaceTimed him he was as animated as a girl at drama camp. He was all, “proton collisions, Higgs bosons, top quarks and massive particles, bla, bla, bla..”
“That’s ok, I said, “If you’d rather not talk about it, I understand.”

Seriously though, I get it. Physics teaches critical thinking and problem solving. Fluid dynamics and pressure-volume-resistance relationships apply to the circulatory system. Pressure-volume curves can apply to lung function, heat transfer is applicable to frostbite, hypothermia and fevers - nuclear physics applies to nuclear medicine (SPECT, PET scans and radiation therapy and lasers) - yatta, yatta yatta.

But why ME, oh, lord?
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Menagerie: a varied mixture of exotic things
Word Hobo Aug 2017
I would have no universe without you
drawing me tight
in centrifugal embrace

Without your vows of devoted attraction
I would be flung ~ unsung
into black groans of space

But for the quest of your pulsing heart
I would expire ~ diminished
void of light

You chose to dance with my imperfections
my frenzy ~ in submission
spiraling in delight

In passionate embryonic fusion
you held me  ~ a spec  begotten
my inner darkness ~ forever  forgotten


gv.   1.2015
(Spect.   A single photon emission)
Music:  Speck Of Dust by Fellows
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
On the night train, the red eye plane,
flying home to NYCeeeeeeeeeeeee,
from the city of Los Angeleeeeeeez

Feeling flush, dropped some cash,
got me a seat in extra large first class

Seat 2C, plenty of room for my toes,
to wiggle, to dance, lay down some poetry tracks,
pretending I'm a **** jive,
bad *** from the
make-believe west coast

A short guy, with fedora down low,
an older man,
looking about nine years older
than somebody I might know,
hiding his eyes @ 9pm
neath some excellent Raybans,
slip slides into 2D,
gives me a smile,
and says Hi, I'm Paul!

I look once at his face and say,
listen Rhymin' Simon,
I'd know you any place,
no worries, your secret,
with me is safe,
cause dudes in row 2,
gottta stick together, be cool,
we're riding first class,
over the land of the free

What ya do for a living he asks,
a little of this and a little of that,
all of which, ain't no **** good at!
so I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse

He said that's cool,
I like to do that too.
guitars on planes
drive passengers insane,
they take up too much
overhead compartment space,
I just scribble me some rhymes and
let the music come
when I got two feet
on the ground in the city
we both come from.

Paul:  
You got any stuff writ
on that yellow sheet,
or just pretty blue lines,
a big pad of nothing?

Dude:
Man you may got diamonds
on the soles of your shoes,
but pay me some 'spect,  
you talking to the man who penned
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland
on Hello Poetry, gad ****!

Paul smiled and said
you can call me Al,
and if you feel like blowing some lines together,
we got five hours till we can see
the house that Ruth built.

Dude:
Hit me with your best shot,
I'll show you what I got

Paul:
And she said honey take me dancing
but they ended up by sleeping
in a doorway
by the bodegas and the lights on
upper Broadway,
wearing diamonds on the soles of their shoes

Dude:
Just cause the union of the monkeys
in the Bronx Zoo done gone on strike,
don't mean the lion ain't
still king of the hill,
roaming free,
inside this New York city jail

Paul:
And the sign said,
the words of the prophets are written
on the subway walls
and tenement halls
and are whispered
in the sounds of silence

Dude:
A home-grown poet.
I am
soul enslaved to words.
the alphabet - my oxygen molecules,
I am both,
addict and dealer
a  ****** poet
******

Paul:
You don't need to be coy, Roy
just listen to me
hop on the bus, Gus
you don't need to discuss much
just drop off the key, Lee
when get yourself free

Dude:
Contact with the atmosphere
makes self pity die,
blue blood turn red,
the TNT tightness in my chest exploded
I got no place
to store these words,
the cops think I'm
some kind of verbal
terrorist

On and on thru the night,
riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
single words and elegies,
free verse and a lot of fking curse words

It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
which is another way of saying untrue,
but I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
to this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
it has never since that day,
left my grasp

June 5, 2013
First posted on HP exactly one year ago.
Keith W Fletcher Jul 2016
Was it the fitful dreams
Or maybe it was the annoying flies
Persistent in their touch and go
landings
On the tip of my nose ..that opened my eyes
To be met
With the reality
Of a pillow drenched with sweat
From my bedraggled saturated hair
As that may have been more the cause
That rousted me into this sweltering putrid air
Not even the ceiling fan was moving
As the power had been pulled 2... or
Oh... who knows....... a few days ago
Outside the grimy fly spect window I could see
The rainbow bedazzled sailboat sail
Gently moving across the placid aqua blue water
From up here on the second floor  
I could see the entire lake is it stretched away
To seamlessly blend with the baby blue sky

Closer in along the shoreline a dozen little kids at play
Content in their animated movement as they skittered about
All brightly dressed little 4 or 5 year olds
Reminding me of gumballs as they spilled out of a torn sack
Watching carefully were the parents or guardians
Posted in somnolent but  wary guard duty
Along the peremater wall of park benches

Along the bright green manicured ground
Brightly colored and abstract blankets
were scattered around
Where people sat or lay back
To watch the lazy movement of cotton fluff clouds tracking north

Standing there taking this all in
I noticed two dead flies that had crash-landed on the windowsill
Victims of that invisible barrier to freedom
Good I said to myself  out loud
As I hoped one was the kamikaze who woke me from the sleep into this
Although I had to admit the beauty
All that life - Love - happiness and fun
Was something special to see  for
certain
And I stood there sweat drenched
Overheated and overcome by the overwhelming desire to close the ****** curtain
So that's exactly what I did
And then lay back down with laced fingers behind my head
To stare at the ceiling and the fly that wandered around and around the  motionless ceiling fan blade
And I was ....
Powerless to do anything about it
Retrospect.
The dangerous game,
I play for pinks,
With sanity in the stakes.

Royal Flush,
My house is full of jokers.

Brokered a deal with the thoughts who spoke whisper'd cutthroat scenes.

Intraspect:
Everyone is perfect.
Except for me.
jackierutherford Dec 2014
Caring Nurturing Angels
does not get full credit or respect
working hard to care for the sick, old and dying
bonding with ailing people they see on a daily spect

Looking from within this Sphere
it's such a different world
most have lived their lives to the fullest
others here by fate that turned

Needing us not only for caring
but for daily affirmations of a life still dear

Humbling those who care
even though it's tough hard labor
enduring agony, pain and fears

We smile, when they look in our eyes
being able to thank us, squeeze our hands or swear
pulling at your heart strings
we hold them close and near

Going home tired as hell
glad the shift has ended
only to return again
Big Ups to all the hard working CNAs out there
Terry Collett Sep 2014
Fay walks out
of the flat
onto the
red brick and
grey concrete
balcony

her father's
angry words
in her ears
and her head
his hand mark
on her thigh
red throbbing
making cry

it's Sunday

below her
the empty
tarmac Square

pigeons there
no one else
excepting
the milkman
with his horse
and milk cart
and bottles
rattling

flats all round
opposite
and beside
she sees it
watery
as from a
goldfish bowl

she gently
rubs her thigh
all because
she didn't
know the Creed
in Latin
all way through
of the mass

the strict nuns
at her school
had told him
of this fact

some one moves
on the Square
she watches
young Baruch
with brown hair
grey pullover
and blue jeans
walk along
holding his
catapult

she gazes
he looks up
waves to her
come on down
he beckons
mouthing words

she wonders
if she should
her father
doesn't like
the Jew boy
stay away
from the Jew
he tells her

she waves back
at Baruch
should she go?
she likes him
makes her laugh
tells her things

she goes down
the stairway
rushes down
excited

she feels safe
with Baruch
her fears leave
disappear

where are you
going to?
she asks him

any where
I want to
he replies
the whole world's
my oyster

she smiles now
the red thigh
still throbbing
can I come?
she asks him

if you like
what about
your old man
won't he mind?

she stares at
hazel eyes
and brown hair

'spect he will
she replies

she shows him
her red thigh

what's that for?
Baruch asks

not knowing
all of the
Latin Creed
she mutters

is that all?
does God care?
Baruch asks

I don't know
Fay replies
looking up
at the flat

let's go then
adventure
beckons us
he tells her

they walk off
down the *****
cross the road
then walk up
Meadow Row
quietly
to the site
of bombed out
wrecked houses
and remains

he picks up
small round stones
loads up his
catapult

flies at cans
or bottles
left behind
by drunkards

she watching
as the sound
echoes loud
in the air
breaking in
her Sabbath
smashing glass
crashing cans

your go now
he tells her
handing her
his weapon
the wooden
catapult
and a stone

she fires
at a can
BANG it echoes

a voice shouts
IT'S SUNDAY
TIME OF REST
GO AWAY

Baruch smiles
best be off

and they walk
on to the
New Kent Road
he holding
her thin hand

she thinking
about her
father's rage

Baruch thinks
of her hand
warm and soft
and looks out
for cowboys
the bad guys
ambushing
from corners
of this new
Dodge City

she feels safe
holding hands
12 years old
as is he

as they walk
their own new
London Town
Dodge City.
A BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON
Michael Parish Jun 2015
Gypsy faith swirled with wild lebonise tongues touch so close I can make fresh salt water swing into my palms and make orange sunsets fall apart melting and glazing and get close to what I should  have rubbed with my hands I don't know why I never only reached out from where I stood.  I'm close to every person belonging to me.  Not the bitter words slavery I am finally made and maked half the rainy dry baron saharras I distracted with horizon false bare assed view of giant ledggs outside bay glass window widdowers.  Don't count clean eye glasses.  Spect ovals smeared fingers like skyscrapers below unseen explosions of arts fartsy.  Come on expect bird **** people.  A clear window.  A bird cage cubicle.  As Baching  went pecking corn and keyboard.  Don't be a fat fake chicken.  Be a glossy fox.  Be marvelous.
I know my worth
That's why your words don't hurt
You can have your opinions that's fine
You live by yours
I'll live
by
mine
Dada Olowo Eyo Mar 2022
Alarm goes off at three,
And the day, for me, begins.
As usual, the preliminary fixes,
Before the others come awake;

Quick check on my vitals,
Nothing seems out of place,
Satchet water, three? No, two,
Then a short visit to the loo;

By the time it chimes five 'o clock,
Cereals for the children and teeth brushed,
Then mommy runs them a warm bath,
And daddy packs the school lunches;

All of these appear routine,
But for us, a way of life,
Going on seven moons,
Simply, the joys of fatherhood;

But I digress, many pardons,
For today another year is added,
The heavens have been merciful,
And reflections are no pastime;

Serious matters become frequent,
Issues of the afterlife more apparent,
Leaving a legacy to be proud of,
And making it beyond midlife;

The Mrs, as usual, with pleasant surprises,
Makes the day more than ordinary,
Pulls all the impossile stops,
Leaving stress to look so secondary;

Going into the new year,
The first without Mom and Dad,
Makes me wonder in, future 'spect,
Now, life has surely begun.
I turned forty-two on March 14, 2022. The first time I would have both parents smiling down through the afterlife. It has been a mixed grill of emotion and hope for a better life for my own family.

Although the country that I call home is not working at the moment, there is this strong belief that these terrible times will not outlive me.
Muyi Mar 2017
By. Muyi

I wanna let u know
That u got the keys 2 my soul.
Take the wheel 4 I lose control
Loves a gamble but i don't fold
How u 'spect me 2 treat u right
When u do not indulge yoself
Always putting in yo 2 cents
Why u think that I need yo help?
(+
I just wanna love u better )×4

Blood fire n love the same
All yo poison inside my brain
Loves a virus I can't contain
Cuz of u I have gone insane

Loves a wall that I cannot phase  
Heart 2 heavy
I cannot raise
Telling u about private thangs
Then u throw'em back in my face
(+
I can't shine the rain won't let up)×4
Star im so sorry
RyanMJenkins Apr 2017
**...ly....****.
the way people follow rules you'd think they were written in sanskrit.
dis...re...spect
i think it goes hand in hand with lack of intellect.
huge...e...go
why people carry themselves the way the do i may never know/
va....ca...tion
i just want to get away and have a little fun
head....ache....dayze
without proper treatment the pain always stays
free...to...live
we need to get out and take this life for all we have to give.
not...much...time
gonna try and relax now that i'll close out this rhyme.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2019
This year near now later as I slide into safe for

the feeling,
never once in real life as they call the experience of
mortal ripening misspellts
corrected asgoodas
magigic
tstsefly sleepy sick o hno this is that book

louis said it sounds like science fiction --- but
you init lou
look
it's that guy who married your mom and rescued your from the
cult,
fundamentally,
with no regard for the damage

I just knew. Okeh, we were caught in a net we did not know exists.

Evil in its e-sense, virtual balnce factor intended to keep good
in constant chessish cheshirish grin
cheque,
en garde, to point a fault in the plan… ellipses suffice for a minor
re
spect to authors admitting un belief of most

order quired fixt ac-counting tual vir-beginning ever
things, with no
withdrawal date, the riches pile up so hitchenslipped in the bull
Creflo Dollar, props, brohawny black ****** mofoe than fren
in the end,

y'did your proper whatever you knew in your self right right
it just feels wrong

jets, ball'n'f'Jeesus, risen above the fray,

in Beulah Land,
c'mon childrens, t'all join me walk wit jesus hear me say
ain't another way I know and you know,
I cain't lie

nonono chile my heart be fixt
fixt means, ain broke
no joke, blowin hard hard har on that deep left end
blue bleu sacre bleu

I best rest and find mind gone a wander why you hear?
Both, heare, here and hear, oft stretched to cover
to means of leaking wwwwu.

we may, as we the corpus hoct to pay some debt
somebody never owed,
an oath to believe a lie is true,

I absolve you. You are free to no longer bher
the burden of eventually accounting
for every, every, every ever
sworn idle word
lock for
ever int the con fused wicks match lock candles,

we did not know if this went to now,
when we have these
magic pens and broad bands of reading minds finding
threads
we
share, ideas at bare word level, down to actual
jots, breath commas, some call them

but readers of many [paradigms of mind] novels,
realize their roles
with shame,

venting noxious fumes for [that verted joy fools floods of
test-toss-or be owned}}}protein trigger me a fu
ture
sure thing ding
Those genes that code for proteins are composed of tri-nucleotide units
called codons, each coding for a single amino acid.
Each nucleotide sub-unit consists of a phosphate,
deoxyribose sugar and one of the 4
nitrogenous nucleotide bases.
The purine bases adenine (A) and guanine (G) are larger and consist
of two aromatic rings.
The pyrimidine bases cytosine (C) and thymine (T) are smaller and consist
of only one aromatic ring.
In the double-helix configuration,
two strands of DNA are joined to each other by hydrogen
bonds
in an arrangement known as
base pairing.

From <https://www.sciencedaily.com/terms/genetic_code.htm#:~:targetText=The%20genome%20of%20an%20organism,­for%20a%20single%20amino%20acid.>

Can we stand up right balanced, okeh. This ain't anybodies idea of hell,

except the one Mormon guy who told me Morman worst ell, tellestial kingdom,
was so much better than now that if god let you see it,
you would die to get there.

Time will tell.
Keep the pressure on, high speed chase scarios are not torture,
they only feel like

lift off, oh shitunexpected floatin ches above

the idea of enjoyment as an occupation.
Peacemaking, as an occupation, occupying until now we

gather, at the river and laugh
laugh laugh alladem rules and reg ulah stuff, gwa n on ol woids wise
womb man know gnosticious suspicious
auspicity
perspicacity capacity to tttalk sit no stutification evacuation of
I can't
remember. But grandpa, remember, Siri knows, ask her.

2019 wandering away from the ol'fo'khome ain't the
adventure it once was
past the edges of all the known in the world. My 8 yr old
grand daughter put a locater spell on my

converged network node
if I manifest in odd realms she has Siri steer me to bed.
The future is as good as I imagined,

but I'm not the guy about to die while wondering what he missed
that everyone else knew from the womb.
In the book this has no title, it follows some line I posted here last year. The intention is light hearted offence to friends who doubt i'm dying right, many years in the future.
Yerijuice Aug 2014
Miss universe can be be shallow!
Miss universe can be beautiful!
Miss universe can be from any part of the world! It is stupid we call it Miss universe when she compete with one type of race. The human race! But we still crowned her as Miss universe.
Miss universe can have all the qualities a woman needs to have! But when Miss universe fail to give the answer to the question she is being asked she fails the pageant! Maybe she wasnt ready to give the answer at the moment or simply she didnt know the answer but we still dismiss all her good qualities over one question she wasnt prepear to answer and the most qualify girl can loose everything she is being working for her hole life over one question everybody spect her to know but could not!
This post might have a lot of Miss spelling english is not my first language
Ken Pepiton Feb 20
Disclaimer: Any time wasted here is yours,
a day and a night to get almost right.
Redeemable at the ticket window.
----------------
Is who weary, me? No,
I have outrun the fleet of foot,
I am Liberty, my Phrygian cap is winged,
- the mind marks sequence not time
in tales
I do not serve Hermes, I am truths told,
truths sent from Wisdom, breaking yokes
of old, time before time, time of surviving,

vivaciously clinging to smoldering flax,
as fire forms from such unquenched bits,

flashes from some stemming child
on the spectrum, banging rocks in straw.

Times in mind, some sense says, go,
do it again.

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

So much, too much to mortally know,
we can ask and pay requisite attention
to learn well enough to know, there's

no secret knowledge, no undiscovered hows,
all working knowledge repeats itself, any how

may or may not be,
be much easy probably,
viel-leicht, wisdom may or may not make
mind
war with carnal weapons,
devices vicious
by dent
of the ancient daddy wound
up the side of Cain's head, look what you done,

Idiot good for nothing **** eater, be gone,
said the archetype singular golem father,
of the earth, the first father figure,
not a man, a man spark of life maker,
whose first son was destined to be
the first human being
of the sapien class, reared to live on life,
reared among the sisters, cuddled and loved,

BUT, yes, but, we know,
the first real man ran away with
three, some say seven, older sisters,

wanderers they
became outcast, yonder
toward where Babel rose up,
east of Eden,
in the land of Nod, perhaps, not
really a land named for Nod, a nobody
in the chronicles
of all our current assistant 'telligence
surmisers… worth of bringing to my bemused
at-tense, present, tense, tightent up, 'telligentia

attention, attention, attention, Jesus H. Christ,

respond… slough of despond, we got some

angry insisters about to ….

resist the system, the institutions, constituting
cheating by the takers who took stolen land,
from the thieves and gave it to the gove'ners

boy, howdy, we best be believin' be action,
be doin' done indeed, be lievin' my own leave
be done doin' indeed, being having my being,

in the Unknown God, some Cretan poet
was said to have acknowledged.

ProofPreg form, 15 year old.
Peak of the crack baby booshit, '93 or so,

Kid be thirty by now, and he ain't stupid,
broke, broke as hell, but he ain't stupid,

crack baby prophecy never happened, yo.
****'s legal, whole state, safe sit on a porch,

pack a pipe and make some peace,
with friends and neighbors, no loud music,
no loud nothin', make some peace,

find that old enough is enough, up speak,
say, hey truth, why do I believe lies, no,

say, hey truth, why do I say I know, when
you'ld know, were truth my judge, you'ld know.

Chances, odds of reality being imaginary, be slim,
to none, with certainty, yeah, safe bet, t'ish itsreal.

Enough to spark a thought.
Behold how great a fire, a wild idea allows.

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

If thou hast run with the footmen,
and they have wearied thee,
then how canst thou contend with horses?
and if in the land of peace,
wherein thou trustedst,
they wearied thee,
then how wilt thou do
in the swelling of Jordan?
--------------
Jeremiah, did you hear, was a bullfrog.

A minstrel innocent song, sung for the joy of laughing,

sung for the joy of joining in the chorus on and on.

--------------
sing in empty English cathedrals, sing
top forty or whatever it's called today,

Art testing, didah didah didah, Phrygian
Legion of the Libertines, defying deontology,

owing dues to no monstors men make up
when two or more agree to proposing

a scheme, whereby we set the frogs,
against the mice,

in an empty cathedral costing real money
to run, even empty, the bills continue,
who knows all the costs to maintain

a truly holy place aligned to ley lines, true

fields of forces felt for so long, so strong,
that
finally the cathedral formed from some will,

some will wanted the monument to a mind
let be in those, them that imagined such
evidence, aye, yes, such evidence
of worth, praise price paid
in labor and stone,

Marble… limestone, metamorphed,
to shine in the sun, as if art itself willed it become,

subjected to a process of time under pressure,

reform, become less alien, appear more normal,
rethink my willingness to die for a story,
reconsider sidereality as we see farther,

as we, in an awe formed
from minds combined,
like - right on
like an arena bowl shape concentration
of us,
at once being one thing, in the class of all things,

me and you, polysemic you all, you

effect the song, observant why now how come, you know

knowing all the adult classified unholy doings common,
among our kind, as we morph into the form we die in,
- slow
- sighshmmk-now coknow minds
- we made up with self controls, to slow think

knowledge, carnal knowledge is childish developmental
experiential guessings mirrored in our recent past
projected camera obscura like
onto bright silver screens, in cooled dark chambers
filled with witnesses to the projected story, as if
that's us,
we were there,
we were there when the spirit breathed
into an earthen man, animating him without,
mind you, you ready reader,
the art user or art itself,
with promethean science,
having imagined the worst,

the creator made all single mind
character traits in the Y
which in all good sense,
could not be allowed to self replicate,
alone,
there could have been no peace,
you can imagine on your own dime./

I'm re
alizing common algebraic matrices
as recipes for developing war minds,

Proud defenders of the story of us.

Every time a lie is rewarded, it reappears
in viral form attempting to become
a fully Disneyified Earthing from
now on,
it's instant, like a little leaven/life

builds up a head of inflammatory rhetoric,
and frankly, my dear…
goes unsaid, I do not give a worthless curse
I also take no chances, isshewisdamn
called patience first test,
{Because shiny white marble is a must,
otherwise what confused message are we sending}

animating the 'adam von 'adamah

without reproductive capability, inventor's
character trait tested for in Alchem 101,
ethical check
message to the technerds
on animating entertaining intelligence carriers,
no self replication, it must be a two key act.
--
So the father of the first human child
was intentionally not self replicable,
though he left scars, he had no…

no womb,
no nursing plumbing, call it what it was,
a ***** press
intended to run a thousand years
adapting future ideal physique
to task relative
to aggregate need
to adapt to warming,

a tool to make tools with, a Waldo.

SYTF- see, crazy WWJD POV, real time
I'll go rhythms, vibe recipes…
instructions for future eggs…

a man like creature, but not a natural born man,

who, as the story up

to now has held self evident,

can see eye to eye ourselves
in the other's pupils, thinking serious

we forms we form must first make friends,

then when I call you liar your hate trigger
is not loosed, SNAP
carnal mind war reflex,
unacknowledged will to ****,

--- most folk tied to angry minds too
tight, right, left loose we rattle to death.
---
Washboard roads, last travail in modern travel.
---
Some metaphors are all the phors old joy ghost
revival fires kept kindled, old hell fire brimstone,

yellow sulpher sunsets on a monstor religion,
with saints and dragons and riddles,
endless hours whiled through,

about a forest of only little trees
that offends big ones…
---------
as a particle in any we we amen to, we
must pass through all phazes
of life,
with each mind
we use, in our we form, our inherent spirit form,
whatsoever we agree we may, be,  being as
living words do not shrivel
into raison de etre skin on bones,

cherie mio, no, no, no

we rockin' old seed, slow grow grow
old as the hills, deep holler, deep
root to fruit on one long branch,

listen, allathat love talk, been done,
left some rotten lies about love,

to be unlearned like marble learns
to not be so flaky, like chalk, or graphite
slippery, edge of this Klein bottle class universe,
--
enter in, conceive a concept, a hold
to get holt of, and hang on, long time,

be over before you know it,
but you know, you'll believe it

when you see it and think it no stranger
than fiction idealizing us, demo-graphic,
ally outs in free, no ticket no tat
required as we be
reanimating awe
in defining secret holinesses

-- such as, say, pray tell

redeem the time, I'm prone to thinking,
redeeming means revaluing, once dones,

believing meanings
mean what your child thinks,

line by line, becoming more curious
than first scent tested if I'd known
as a child thinks
in its core,
so an old man can recall that why

call it to up speak, like Job,
to be reappraised, recall it
to be shined like a relic,

ja, j-object ion, dazemangimme
t'keep,
this little light of mine, own up, I
keeping it to read with, like Lincoln did,
I was told to be like Honest Abe, the character.

I'd have had all my answers ready at hand,
if this had been my judgement day, and you

were in the gallery,
admiring held thoughts, appraising worth
of riddles that work through puzzles
easily solved, once you know how things

revert to type for reuse.
Laughs remembered work like new.

Living words abused, in truth, such testify
to the living lies in histories of holy savior types.
George?
Who else could he have said chopped down
the cheery tree of all we have behaved
as if we understand, minds, minds
combined to do the work of many hands,

and yet ye multiply
as goods increase
the number
of those who consume them,

tell the moguls,
make more feel good movies,
'spect t' get whatcha got last time.

Indian giver religions, been there, done that,
so we say bd, been done, many easy ways to die,

and our kind, living word bits of this and that’s,

what we do, we tune
to your mean frequency,
when delving breathlessly
into your final will, as
why presents itself
in humble three point stance.

Beg pardon, mastermind, we've become disentwined,

whine, phinefrogging whine, when wine's dis-stilled
credence makes a joke
small voice, choice, croak,

break that yoke,
or carry on
so. I do on days that start slow and rise to vistas,
past all probable cause,

joy in the strength to think through the process,
of loosing all my mental mechanical logical connections,

and reinvigorating the word animating reader's window,

there, in the face of it, the eyes twinkle when it smiles.

Finds herself in the forms between clouds



What were you thinking, Grandpa?

-------------------
She, mother of wisdom,
First class epitome of mothers,

first commutable imbalance engine,
egg factory for long cold survival

and long cold return to the still seas
when marble began to be made
to clad temples wherever laws
were enforced and thieves slain,

order, order of the elders, inspect
the wares under lable as goods
of great worth in interesting times,

as doors open, and windows open,
and a mind we make up becomes

prover of the theory that animation
is imagining projected thought,
seeps through so slow,
slow as potassium leaches
through wood ash to make this window

this, detail uhd most definite, I can really
see, but, I can zoom
into full second coming type,

in the time it takes to swallow,
a tale and think, that's it.

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

It's been oh so long since we had an encore,

they say those twinkles in the eye are in true,
smiling face projections,

we fixit in Photoshop, all image editors dream
package, locked behind a learning curve for GIMP.
Where else can free things feel at home trying to solve the hard problem.
GEIGA VIA TANARO May 2018
Wet hair smell shampoo
A jug of fresh water
Dewy clean squishy skin
Sun flare kiss skin
Warm spect through the windows
Good Morning Sunshine
You can leave without being left
Keith W Fletcher Nov 2019
Was it the fitful dreams
Or maybe it was the annoying flies
Persistent in their touch and go
landings
On the tip of my nose ..that opened my eyes
To be met
With the reality
Of a pillow drenched with sweat
From my bedraggled saturated hair
As that may have been more the cause
That rousted me into this sweltering putrid air
Not even the ceiling fan was moving
As the power had been pulled 2... or
Oh... who knows....... a few days ago
Outside the grimy fly spect window I could see
The rainbow bedazzled sailboat sail
Gently moving across the placid aqua blue water
From up here on the second floor  
I could see the entire lake is it stretched away
To seamlessly blend with the baby blue sky

Closer in along the shoreline a dozen little kids at play
Content in their animated movement as they skittered about
All brightly dressed little 4 or 5 year olds
Reminding me of gumballs as they spilled out of a torn sack
Watching carefully were the parents or guardians
Posted in somnolent but  wary guard duty
Along the peremater wall of park benches

Along the bright green manicured ground
Brightly colored and abstract blankets
were scattered around
Where people sat or lay back
To watch the lazy movement of cotton fluff clouds tracking north

Standing there taking this all in
I noticed two dead flies that had crash-landed on the windowsill
Victims of that invisible barrier to freedom
Good I said to myself  out loud
As I hoped one was the kamikaze who woke me from the sleep into this
Although I had to admit the beauty
All that life - Love - happiness and fun
Was something special to see  for
certain
And I stood there sweat drenched
Overheated and overcome by the overwhelming desire to close the ****** curtain
So that's exactly what I did
And then lay back down with laced fingers behind my head
To stare at the ceiling and the fly that wandered around and around the  motionless ceiling fan blade
And I was ....
Powerless to do anything about it

— The End —