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Michael Feb 2022
How do you know what you know?
You know by stubbing your toe
Induction principle
Back to the future go
It’s epistemological

Is it all empirical?
Is it all observable?
I’m asking how
Atheist’s count
With numbers being abstractable

The induction rule
Is a Christian tool
By stubbing my toe
Against the bedpost
It comes into view

By stubbing your toe
Extrapolate, tow
The past is not material
In motion, or emotional
It’s not biological

Whose brains do we use
To arrive at truth?
No matter how hard you strive
Atheism’s a lie
Given an internal sleuth

We move from the toe that’s shod
To the toothpaste proof of God
Is insistence matter or motion?
This only causes commotion
To insist that you can live like a god

To persist that is false
It's to stumble instead of waltz
Yeah, there’s a dichotomy
And it’s a lobotomy
Reasoning becomes schmaltz

It’s tautological schism
An unreasonable prison
To assume atheism at all
Isn’t reasonable
He exists and that’s not fideism

Jesus the reason for reason
The fool only causes commotion
In everything you contemplate
Even Pyrrho and Descartes can’t help you escape
Because doubting isn’t matter or in motion

So don't assume like Hume
Or become a skeptic, that's hectic
So how do you know?
Thank God for me stubbing my toe
This is a poem written to get others to consider in what worldview the induction principle can exist. Atheism is matter and motion, and by the denial of God you lose the right to appeal to the abstract realm. So how is induction matter or motion? So to the impossibility of the contrary only the Christian worldview can import the induction principle. It is at this point that David Hume (an atheist philosopher) became a skeptic.
i dreamed a rattlesnake was loose in the closet i heard it rattling i was afraid to open the door



a man suffering a toothache goes to see his dentist the dentist administers laughing gas when the man comes to his numb tongue swooshes around his mouth he asks how long was i under the dentist answers hours i needed to pull them all out



he imagines when he grows old there will be a pencil grown into one hand and a paintbrush grown into the other they will look like extra fingers grown out from the palms extensions of his personal evolution little children will be horrified when they see mommy mommy look at that man’s hands!



what if we are each presented with a complete picture of a puzzle from the very start then as our lives proceed the pieces begin showing up out of context sometimes recognizable other times a mystery some people are smarter more intuitive than others and are able to piece together the bigger picture some people never figure it out



i wasn’t thinking i didn’t know to think nobody taught me to think maybe my teachers tried but i didn’t get it i wasn’t thinking i was running reacting doing whatever i needed to survive when you’re trying to survive you move fast by instinct you don’t think you just act



many children are relieved when their parents die then they no longer need to explain prove themselves live up to their parent’s expectations yet all children need parents to approve foster mentor teach love



she was missing especially when her children needed her most she was busy lunching with girlfriends dinner dates beauty shop manicure masseuse appointments shopping seamstress fittings constant telephone gossiping criticizing she was too busy to notice she was missing more than anything she wanted to party show off her beauty to be the adored one the hostess with the mostest



i dreamed i was condemned to die by guillotine the executioner wore black and wielded an axe just in case the device failed in the dream the guillotine sliced shallow then the executioner went to work but he kept chopping unsuccessfully severing my head this went on for a long time



1954 Max Schwartzpilgrim sits at table in coffee shop on 5th floor of Maller’s Building elevated train loudly passes as he glances out window it is typical gloomy gray Chicago day he worries how he will find the money to pay off all his mounting debts he is over his head in debit thinks about taking out a hefty life insurance policy then cleverly killing himself but he cherishes his lovely wife Jenny his young children and social life sitting across table Ernie Cohen cracks crass joke Max laughs politely yet is in no mood to encourage his fingers work nervously mutely drumming on Formica table then stubbing out cigarette in glass ashtray lighting another with gold Dunhill lighter bitter tastes of coffee and cigarettes turns his stomach sour he raises his hand calling over Millie the waitress he flirtatiously smiles orders bowl of matzo ball soup with extra matzo ball Ernie says you can’t have enough big ***** for this world Max thinks about his son Odysseus



when Odysseus is very young Dad occasionally brings him to Schwartzpilgrim’s Jewelers Store on Saturday mornings Dad shows off his firstborn son like a prize possession lifting Odysseus in the air Dad takes him to golf range golf is not an interest for Odysseus Dad pushes him to learn proper swing Odysseus fumbles golf club and ***** he loves going anyway because he appreciates spending time with Dad once Dad and Odysseus take shower together Dad is so life-size muscular hairy Odysseus is so little Dad reaches touches Odysseus’s ******* feeling lone ******* Dad says we’ll correct that make it right Odysseus does not understand what Dad is talking about at finish Dad turns up cold water and shields Odysseus with his body he watches Dad dressing in mornings Dad is persnickety to last details of French cuff links silk handkerchief in breast pocket even Dad’s fingernails toenails are manicured buffed shiny clear



Odysseus’s left ******* does not descend into his ******* the adults in extended family routinely want to inspect the abnormality Mom shows them sometimes Dad grows agitated and leaves room it is embarrassing for Odysseus Daddy Lou’s brother Uncle Maury wants to check it out too often like he thinks he is a doctor Uncle Maury is an optometrist the pediatrician theorizes the tangled ******* is possibly the result of a hormone fertility drug Mom took to get pregnant the doctor injects Odysseus with a hormone shot then prescribes several medications to induce the ****** to drop nothing works eventually an inguinal hernia is diagnosed around the age of 9 Odysseus is operated on for a hernia and the ******* surgically moved down into his ******* the doctor says ******* is dead warning of propensity to cancer later in life his left ball is smaller than his right but it is more sensitive and needy he does not understand what the doctor means by “dead” Odysseus fears he will be made fun of he is self-conscious in locker room he does not comprehend for the rest of his life he will carry a diminutive *****



spokin alloud by readar in caulkknee axescent ello we’re Biggie an Smally tha 2 testicles whoooh liv in tha ******* of this felloh Odys Biggie is the soyze of a elthy chicken aegg and Smally is the size of a modest Bing cheery



one breast ****** points northeast the other smaller breast ****** points southwest she is frightened to reveal them to any man frightened to be exposed in woman’s locker room she is the most beautiful girl/woman he will ever know



Bayli Moutray is French/Irish 5’8” lean elongated with bowed legs knobby knees runner’s calves slim hips boy’s shoulders sleepy blue eyes light brown hair a barely discernable freckled birthmark on back of neck and small unequal ******* with puffy ******* pointing in different directions Laura an ex-girlfriend of Odysseus’s describes Bayli’s appearance as “a gangly bird screeching to be fed” Laura can be mean Odysseus thinks Bayli is the coolest girl in the world he is genuinely in love with her they have been sleeping together for nearly a year it is March 11 1974 Bayli’s birthday she turns 22 today Bayli is away with her family in Southeast Asia Odysseus understands what a great opportunity this is for her to learn about another culture he knows Bayli plans to meet up again with him in late summer or autumn in Chicago Dad wants Odysseus to follow in his footsteps and become a successful jewelry salesman he offers Odysseus a well-paying job driving leased Camaro across the Midwest servicing Dad’s established costume jewelry accounts Odysseus reasons it is a chance to squirrel away some cash until Bayli returns it is lonely on the road and awkward adjustment to be back in Chicago Odysseus made other plans after graduating from Hartford Art School he is going to be an important painter after numerous months and many Midwestern cities he begins to feel depressed he questions how Bayli can stay away for so long when he needs her so bad the Moutray’s send Mom and Dad a gift of elegant pewter candleholders made in Indonesia Mom accustomed to silver and gold excludes pewter to be put on display she instructs Teresa to place the candleholders away in a cabinet Mom also neglects to write a thank you note which is quite out of character for Mom Bayli’s father is a Navy Captain in the Pacific he is summoned to Norfolk Naval Station in Virginia the Moutray’s flight has a stopover in Chicago Bayli writes her parents want to meet Odysseus and his family Odysseus asks Dad to arrange his traveling itinerary around the Moutray’s visit Dad schedules Odysseus to service the Detroit and Michigan territory against Odysseus’s pleas Odysseus is living with his sister Penelope on Briar Street it is the only address Bayli’s parents know Odysseus has no way to reach them when the Moutray’s arrive at the door Penelope does not know what to tell them Mom and Dad are not interested in meeting Bayli’s parents it is not the first sign of dissatisfaction or disinterest Mom and Dad convey regarding Bayli Odysseus does not understand why his parents do not like her is it because Bayli is not Jewish is that the sole reason Mom and Dad do not approve of her Odysseus believes he needs his parent’s support he knows he is not like them and will likely never adopt their standards yet he values their consent they are his parents and he honors Mom and Dad let’s take a step back for a moment to get a different perspective a more serious matter is Odysseus’s financial dependency on his parents does a commitment to Bayli threaten the sheltered world his parent’s provide him is it merely money binding him to them why else is he so powerless to his parent’s control outwardly he appears a wild child yet inwardly he is somewhat timid is he cowardly is he unsure of Bayli’s strength and sustainability is that why he let’s Bayli go whatever the reason Dad’s and Mom’s pressure and influence are strong enough to sway his judgment he goes along with their authority losing Bayli is the greatest mistake of Odysseus’s life



he dreams Bayli and he are at a Bob Dylan concert they are hidden in the back of the theater in a dark hall they can hear the band playing Dylan’s voice singing and the echoes of the mesmerized audience Odysseus is ******* Bayli’s body against a wall she is quietly moaning his hand is inside her jeans feeling her wetness rubbing fingers between her legs after the show they hang around an empty lot filled with broken bottles loose bricks they run into Dylan all 3 are laughing and dancing down the sidewalk Dylan is incredibly playful and engaging he says he needs to run an errand not wanting to leave his company Odysseus and Bayli follow along they arrive at an old hospital building it is dark and dingy inside there is a large room filled with medical beds and water tanks housing unspeakably disfigured people swarming intravenous tubes attach the patients to oxygen equipment feed bags and monitoring machines Dylan moves between each victim like a compassionate ambassador Odysseus is freaking out the infirmary is too horrible to imagine he shields his eyes wanders away losing Bayli searching running frantically for a way out he wakes shivering and sweating the pillow is wet sheets twisted he gets up from the bed stares out window into the dark night he wonders where he lost Bayli



these winds of change let them come sailor home from sea hunter home from hill he who can create the worst terror is the greatest warrior
Simon Soane Jul 2013
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite
thankfully not in a medical way
i don't have to pop pills everyday
to keep an essence of danger under control
and to stop my head doing backward flips and forward rolls
to curtail bad thoughts and contain OCD
wake up and think "what's happening to me?"
but sometimes i'm full of mazey bomb blasts
and crazy contrasts,
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite
I say work i'm not even gonna give 50% percent never mind double
but i'll stay just below the warning threshold so i don't really get in trouble,
i do see my sick days as extra days of annual leave
but my bums on my seat most of the year and at least one Eve.
I'm always ducking and diving, i hide and they seek,
but i hit my targets every week.
They can say put down your pens,
strip your pencils of lead,
you can't stop me writing in my head
But you'll sometimes dictate what time i go to bed.
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite
Nearly every road i walk down i've got a ***** cat friend
there meowing never drives me round the bend
but if me owing then just a letter i'll send.
I’ll rescue  spiders from the bath, without any exception,
But I’ll clean their webs and evict them when I have a house inspection.
Giving up pork, on a parity with pigges at last
But then i broke my faste with bacon for breakfast
Watching lambs a gamboling there frolicking is fab,
but i'll see you on a plate later if i'm craving a kebab.
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite.
Money and the capitalist structure baffles, no thanks, no ta
but before i go out a quick sub off Ma and Pa.
I'll pay for a taxi, i don't care about the amount,
while checking fervently the statement from my bank account.
Cash cannot be eaten it just gets you into Eton
but i'll rifle through my pockets for pennies to get an eat on
i don't adore you, i'll say your the means to an end
but then i spend some more and ask for a lend.
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite.
I'll say anarchy  is everywhere, petition and abstain
then  read in the late edition who i think should take the reins.  
I scream smash the system without any regrets
but then start stubbing out where they deem no cigarettes.
I'll say **** big business they are always looting tons
while cutting out Asda coupons to get the soup with croutons.
i'll say **** materialism, to that i am adverse,
"ohh if you want to get me some trainers Mum can you make em Converse? "
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite
One Saturday i found it hard to move
crying out for water, more than needing food,
stomach emptier than the packets in my pockets
Early winter scribble
spoiled by the ripple of rain,
deadened and dull
on a precious day,
the time I crave
passes through a husk
full of caves.
Each inhabitant curses
and burns
the stagnant soil under their feet,
I want something to eat.
I need to drink.
The cold slab of sink
lures flesh to rest,
unsatisfied
with retched offerings
flung from a scorched earth
so next Friday, a few beers and l I’ll hit the hay
Ten beers later, where’s the MDMA?
And my staunch resolutions go up my nose
Chatting through the night, striking a pose,
Music accentuated, stars sparkling hard
World’s discussed in magic back yards,
Focused and fraught in tumultuous thought
Ten cigs in an hour
An hours too short,
As the morning comes, I start feeling a mess
It slowly disintegrates the treasure in my chest,
Feelings of strength crumble to a feeble frame,
Spears in my head, WHOOPS I’VE DONE IT AGAIN.
You’ll stop this time, I curse and lecture,
Two bottles down next Friday etc etc,
I’m a schizophrenic hypocrite
I remember an uneventful Tuesday when i wasn't working
belly full of rice
and i saw you twice,
two times a day,
on a day in lieu,
time stood still,
smiling at you
i thought i'm gonna have to write about you,
so i park myself in a bar after a joint in Netto carpark
and start using words to build an arc
and if you you do wanna walk in two by two,
can i walk in with you?
Is it this green ride that's getting me high
or the regret i seen in the gleam of your eye
that as soon as we said hi we said bye,
as disappointed as the catcher when he dropped the rye.
If i may be so bold,
if you were cold
i wouldn't hail these stones
i'd pummel Jack Frost until he knows he's lost,
i'll leave all the lights on to hasten global warming
make Obama declare winter a season of mourning,
If you met an iceberg of Titanic  proportions
i'd cut through it quicker than the Ripper does back street abortions.
If you were in prism
i'd try to unrangle the science of triangles
so i could build you a pyramid with all the right angles,
my stomachs in knots;
the most tranquil of tangles.
Then i saw you get out of the lift
and i wanted to play you a rift
until you exposed your midriff
because you set me adrift from chains and shackles
my mind goes crazy and fills with cackles,
i crackle with lightning, my energy heightens
my heart tightens
and not cos of cholesterol
cos i think you're special
and celestial!
I got dreams from naught, my head feels taught,
i prised a lesson from your eyes,
love is the greatest prize.
But now that's gone, all things
pass evolution in transience
faces that were everything lost to balance
blue it merge
but seldom a residual surge
and your bark today was worst than your bite
it said something softly,
i sow the seeds for the sycamore trees
we can carve our names on next summer.
Under an endless stretching sky
you wrote you
and i wrote i,
the lights in our eyes don't lie
they are gateways to the suns inside,
our hearts couldn't hide from this brightening tide.
I'm a Schizophrenic hypocrite
I remember this guy from work, cooed to me
look at the **** on this page 3
he drooled over Nuts magazine like he belonged in a zoo
i bet he frequented strippers too.
He said seen this clip, it's ******* great,
it ad turn a couple of queers straight
it was these two twins with rouge lips being rude,
the way she chomped on her like food
and they defo loved it,there is  no doubt
it's just just ***** Eskimo ******* kissing snouts
and sharing with her sister the joy of getting licked out.
Wonder how they looked in the family car?
giggling about some exciting destination,
like all kids displaying a lack of patience,
“are we there yet” chorused with glee and duality,
dressed in the same clothes to ensure parity.
Ice cream for tea.
Maybe they might be way into drugs
or addled with addiction
lacking hugs
and sore from the friction.
Not liking the glare
feeling scared.
maybe?
He said nar they love it up them baby.
But then,
i have it
about 3 or 4 times a week
after the 5th time of hitting snooze,
or a heavy night on the *****,
or sometimes no beer,
even after a sonnet of Shakespeare
a sudden urge comes over me,
GET THE LAPTOP!
GET THE *******!
Then it's
Japanese teen lesbians spitting,
finger ******* wearing mittens,
****'s ******* Britions,
oap creampies
***** covered eyes
***** flicking,
extreme suction,
**** destruction,
Captain Birds Eye gobbing
Batman ******* Robin,
A ten inch plumber ******* in a kitchen sink drama
Robert de Niro unpeeling Bananarama
Marty doing the Doc
a gimped up Kirk whipping Spoc
Rita  ******* Norris
Gail licking Fizz
Sally doing Dev
and Kevin doing ki.............Kevin, get out of the room.
Back to
a **** doing a ******
a pre op pleasuring granny
two ***** one *****,
then i chuck my muck all over my tunic
flip over and continue reading The Female ******,
I'm a Schizophrenic Hypocrite,
i've gotta split.
CH Gorrie Nov 2012
Reclining in their rocking chairs, the brothers Beau and Cletus gazed despondently out
Past the final farm toward the convergence of the worn highway
And the fritz horizon. Cows paused their chewing; an ashy sun
Obscured in incongruous fluffs of cloud; it grew
Greyishly chilly. "Shame the kids're movin'," Beau squeezed out before a deep belch. Cletus only
Mumbled, his voice lost in the light drizzle rapping on the milky sheet-plastic roof. The
          porch

Was unfurnished, save the chairs, one ashtray, and a novelty sign reading: "Get off my porch."
Cletus took a long, pensive drag off a cigarette before stubbing it out.
He coughed a raspy croak wetted with sixty-six years. Besides Cletus' sporadic coughs, the only
Distinguishable sound to be heard in Moody Creek wafted in from the highway:
Rattles of the day's final Spokane- or Boise-bound semi-trucks grew
Inaudible as Beau transiently  murmured, "Purtier than a string of fried trout, that there
          sun-

set." "Whaaa?" Cletus wheezed. "It's settin'," answered Beau, loosely gesturing at the sun.
Fractaled-orange-shafts webbing manifold shades of yellow – amber, belge, stil-de-grain – grew
Plumply stout upon the farmland, edged between properties and crumpled on the porch.
"I'll tell you what Beau – I'm glad they got out,"
Cletus uttered with assurance, his eyes scanning the reaches of light upon the highway.
Beau fixed his cap, musing over Cletus' words. He cleared his throat before beginning, "If
          only..."

Then stopped and itched his belly-button. Cletus turned to his brother. "I know one thang only
Beau: they'll do good in California. They'll be livin' high on the hog. Yer son n' my son
'll 'ave secure futures." Jack nodded somberly. He hated the highway.
He hated its ability to isolate everything. It had been his original revamp, the now-rickety porch,
His first project on his fixer-upper after marrying Dorothy West. They'd wed out
In his father's corn field; bought a house a mile or so down the road. Kids were born. Love
          grew,

And in its growing all things tangible and gorgeous – like tangrams piece together – grew:
The farm, the house, savings account and family. They ate hearty; drank canned beer only –
Living was smooth – but it changed when Dorothy took Little Dale and got out.
She wanted what the farm couldn't give or grow, leaving tiny Moody Creek with their son
As the last moon of May, 1955 went up. "*****!" Beau had yelled from the porch.
He'd woken to his Buick's rev and watched its taillights wane upon the
          highway.

And though he remarried, this was, in truth, mostly why Beau never squarely looked upon highway.
The light drizzle grew
Heavy, intensifying. "Gosh **** rain might near knock the coverin' off the porch!"
Hollered Beau. Cletus looked up and blew a cloud of thick grey smoke. "It's only
Rain Beau. No need gettin' ornery." That morning they'd seen off their youngest sons as the sun
Was just rising. One left to work for a dairy ******* in The Valley, the other went to figure
          out

Himself and his career. The porch shuddered. Beau absent-mindedly repeated "If only..."
Daylight died; black inked upon the highway. Cletus lit a new cigarette. Moody Creek grew
Dense, compacted by the darkness. The sun inched away. Cletus hacked and put his cigarette
          out.
This is a sestina. The six end words of the the six lines of the first stanza are repeated in different orders within the following five stanzas. It is all followed by a three line envoy containing all six words.
Anais Vionet Oct 2023
Last weekend was “Parent’s” weekend at Yale. A time when parents are formally invited to visit. They have receptions and other events - but no potato-sack races (which is disappointing). My parents couldn’t come, they’ve never come to parent’s weekend, but Leong’s parents came again, from Macao, China, a 16,060-mile round trip.

There was a time when boys could tank my self-confidence with a word. When the male gaze seemed overpowering. I’d felt constantly evaluated - but I’ve evolved - somewhat. We’re going to a party. Lisa, Leong, Sunny, Anna and I - we’ve got our shine on and we’re drawing looks. Well, ok, Lisa’s drawing looks and I’m in the general frame.

Lisa sneezed, “The air quality’s bad tonight,” she announced, wiping her nose with a Kleenex.
“I don’t have any allergies,” I bragged. “Me neither,” Leong added.
“If you can breathe the air in China,” I said, “You’re golden.”
Leong laughed “Tài zhēnshí liǎo,” (Too true!) She agreed.

As we left the more street-lit part of the path, the moon, wandering in and out of the clouds, created moving shadows that peopled the darkness with phantoms. Was that impression the paranoia of fatigue? I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. Or maybe it’s October and Halloween’s just around the corner.

I was walking in the rear, nestled in the mingled scents of my roommates' perfumes that, like rare blossoms, enchanted and excited the child in me. I wasn’t paying attention, and I stubbed my toe on a misaligned sidewalk tile. Don’t you hate the gap between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain?
Michael John Jul 2018
i

i think why not to let
but proved the query set
a double somersault-twist
or kiss your sweet lips..

can  end in cold death-
still the birds in the trees
go cheep or not at all..
i have reason to not question..

ii

i have memories return from the crib
it is all just part of the aging process
we beetle by saying that can´t be right
the lights´ get bright and bright..!

birds talk to us but i don´t hear voices
we become preoccupied with prices..
i recall four blackjacks  a penny
dying has a long curious way..

i am pretty sure i am someone else
absolute and completely and yet
these early feelings as blithe pictures
remain constant..



iii


more work less ******* about
but creation is just living
some absolute and indistinct
(it is tough being a poet..)..

iv

lily says,for it is her,
you don´t play no more,
only i say in mind
the years don´t lie
content´ s fragile store..
repetition dulls the brightest
core..eventually a silent purr ask´ s why
not why not..

v

why write poetry says lily
because it is a futile act
of achieving something perfectly..
we like that..


or like stubbing one´ s little toe
a rabbit from a dream hat
in a vain effort to retain what
remains of my memory..

lily why not or why bother..
lily red diamond from her
eyes sparking like a star is
just a ******* star baby..

she half nelson bottle wine
why do anything..a sign
a metaphor an hieroglyph
love and hate lily..

or the little bird in the agaves
i would like to shoot that one
hate and love lily
porquoi-pas..

vi

i read o twenty years before actually commiting to paper
not much but i knew the stuff i loved and kept there
i know it was charles bukowski i loved his funky gear
thank you norwegion liz for lending me his books dear..

ham on rye and factotum you say don´t lose them mf
i swore i would not lose them i would not lose them kf
kind friend..but i lost them i lost them..df..
dumb ******..


i leant them to someone that swore the same
they suffered an horrendous head..crang..
on and the books lost the books got lost..
there was scant satisfaction in plaster form..

maybe they went to a happy home
so not my fault that his drunk poems
god is he fun liz i hear your laugh then
such a wild sound ..generous so!

you said i should write and thank you
only human to encourage me true
and always a good drinking companion
you bought decent wine..

i adored cognac o..that was my poison
you always attracted van gelis errant tounge
unpleasant but one had to watch him..
that was his fun..

and then backgammon
goes a bit faint then..
i would like to say i won
you told me roland was cheating..

i think it was fun to play him anyway
esspicially on cement truck day..
not that he ever bought me a drink
not that i liked cement..

i lived with roland actually
this stopped any conversation
i met him by accident in eilat
that place was a laugh..

i think i enjoyed the second time
first loads of day jobs though i
played in the streets..and living with
the russians..

that a blast lily..my immediate neighbor
we never spoke..and the police pulled his hair
and yet not a squeak..a match box of grass cheap
i went to silently get a light..

he did say never run boy..
i thought alright for you
alright,
who was playing late night
in the soft quiet night..

so i was nosy
within the deepest hush
a glass and bottle jungle
impossible this silence

and i could hear him swallow
once the army ran through
i was tucked up in bead reading
by hopeless candle light..

i met roland in the peace cafe
a misnomer if ever there was
he picked me up and tossed me
around..

hey mike we got ****** and under
the landing planes roaring down
aint had hash like that in so many
years..

there was the red lion and at seven
free food and a drink and a movie
i read miguel cervantes..they
play the eye of the tiger later..

then the hard rock cafe with killer
egg and chips
i worked with an architect and made
a few shekals.

vii

i got out of there man i went south
dhab a quiet hut and goats..
that is the life right there..
o the corral beauties..

the stars as glimpsed through the palm..
pretty carpet and soften-songs of balm
brain blown and fly blown
and then back to town..

which came as a shock then
i had a drink and a very nice mention
for the cafe at the bus station..
i salut the the patience of the librarians..
Ted Scheck Jan 2014
I'm a Prisoner Trapped Inside a
Little Rectangular Marvel
Which knows, to six decimal ...'s,
My position on Earth

And the irony is that...
Electronically found,
I feel lost.

Way before we knew about
Jeep *** EssSs...
I lived 300 miles away,
In a little town called
Bettendorf, Iowa.

Few days after last
Christmas.
I made the journey
Back. To the
Former.
Place I existed, survived,
Lived, thrived (albeit briefly)

I took my family with me.
Or, I went with my family.
The four of us in the same vehicle,
Anyhow.
300 miles in December.
There was snow everywhere
Else. Not on the road, thank
You.

You leave bits and pieces of
Yourself in the place that is
The home for your feet, blistered
And toe-stubbing sidewalks and
Your hands grasping frozen Gym-
Door handles on Minus 10 Saturdays
When you bundle up and slog 1.3 miles
To play Dodgeball all Saturday afternoon.
(And returning it's twice as cold and dark is
Edging its fangs over the dim, muted horizon)

You sweat in the summer. Profusely,
Drops of the stuff watering brown
Grass. You bleed in the snow,
Stark red on even pastier
White, though it feels
Painful only in the abstract.
Sometimes numbness is better
Than painness.

You get blisters from raking leaves
In that season that seems
To have gone palavering somewhere
East of here.

These fringes of leavings, like
The tiny toenail clippings you spy
As you use a foreign bathroom, balefully
Eyeballing someone else's Medicine
Cabinet of Curiosities.

So we went to the place
Formerly known as home.

You can travel a linear or
Non-line-like distance back
To the place where you cut
Your teeth on life, and life cut
Its own bicuspids on you, but fading,
Fading,
Only the shimmering
Ephemeral memory of an
Equally diaphanous memory
Of those teethmarks exist.

Or, succinctly put:
The past is dead.
Long live the passed!
(But not the vaporous
Kind)

Still, we pine for the earlier
Times, younger and much,
Much more innocent, gull-
Able, even: When time had
Not yet painted and varnished
Us so much, the years piling on
Our faces deeply and thickly,
Lined canyons of worry criss-
Crossing our brows, the feet
Of those ****** crows nestling
Where our eyes end in points;
The sagging, the
Lowering of once springly,
Spritely flesh. 3 chins.
Since when do I need two
Extra chins?
**** you, Gravity!
**** you to Heck!

We travel back on new
Roads over the great
Old ones that used to be
Concave asphalt trips to
Anywhere and Nowhere
Special, they all were, even
The ones that led to hilarious
Dead ends.

Wow! There used to be a
(Insert memory here)
But hey! Lookit that!
A Yarn Barn. Hmm.

And oh! I lost my
(Insert memory here)
In that very back parking
Lots of Tots? What kinda name
Is that for a Pre-School!
Open on CHRISTMAS? Whaaaat?
My hometown has lost
Its mind.

And then silence, as the
future that passed us by
Reasserts itself so strongly-
It might as well be screaming
At us from useless billboards
Selling crap we don't need.

This place is a foreign
Country to me. I don't know
When it stopped being home
And now, I really don't care.
Let's do this thing, family, this
Familial obligation, and then kick
The stupid dust from this town
Off our tailpipes.
Go, Bettendorf!
Go, Bulldogs!
Go, next-town-over!
Go on with your bad
Selves.
Because, people of these
Towns, in 30, or 25, or 12, or
4 years, you'll blink, and find
That you no longer recognize
The place you can't call
Home any longer.
Mitchell Aug 2018
I was there
Beneath it all
Stubbing my nose
Catching my eyes
On the most soulful of gifts

There was a promenade
Then music
A chef in a tall white hat
Shouting at the top of his lungs
As cracked eggs
Desperately tried
To reimagine themselves
As whole again.

They did not wish to change.

I am a poem
And I am nothing

I am a man
And I am nothing

I am a before
Yet to embark
On an after

Could this be it?

I think of
What could have been
If I had done this
If I had done that
And switch
Paralyzed.

The horizon
Fades at dusk

And is reimagined
At dawn

How I wish
I were content
To be ok
With such a simple

Routine

Progress
Achievements
Recognition
Advancement
Aw­ards

Realization

The ***** turns to tighten
To hold
Only to rust
Be forgotten
Put in the back of the pantry
Read from afar

The days of the sun
Are over

Darknesses lengths
Are upon us

Taste of the hubris of the moon
Its position is fixed
Such a fact, such a reserved space

Where will the moon go
But anywhere
But here?

And of us?
Where will our bones go?
Our me minds?
Our fleeting psyche?

The I is none other
But the billionth petal
Of a flaming sunflower
In a field
Surrounded by the identical

Taste ash
Mixed with honey
As the buzz of the bees

Fade.
Saint Jonah Jude Mar 2013
No one wrote a book
On how to queer up the world.
I’ve been waiting for Volume One
On how to hate your body effectively,
Because all of the brats who spit in my
Cherry eyes won’t tell me what I’m doing wrong
When I say “it doesn’t fit.
It never fits. Will I ever fit?”

Because we’re one binary and the other, and we don’t
Fit quite between, and we’re doomed to be melting
Snowflakes in schoolyards. We’re doomed to tears,
And standing awkwardly between ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ sections.
They opened up their doors to us, those who fit
Comfortably or not so comfortably in either of the two
Slots (like maybe this is a gameshow, and I didn’t pick
The right door?) but they promptly
Threw us out when we tried. And tried again.
And failed and cried and threw our hands in the air like
Children, misguided, in pain, stubbing our toes on the door
That says “real suffering.”

Because our suffering isn’t real to a world that encapsulates it in
So many words as symptoms for a
Common cold.
barnoahMike Sep 2010
It seems that there was this Small Group of Men and Women with "VERY MUCH" Knowledge.  Many of their followers were of a Like Opinion,,that THEY YES,  had much Knowledge.   So,  as they Sat around one day,  Pondering ,  AS those with Great Knowledge would do:  They came up with the IDEA to make Man and Woman with a NEW type of Body!   "Where should we start First, they Queried?"   "maybe if we changed the Elbow,  BECAUSE people are Always Hitting their Funny-Bone!"   "Maybe if we changed the Big and Little Toes,  BECAUSE People are always Stubbing their Toes!"   "Maybe if we changed their Eyes,  BECAUSE People are always getting something in their eyes!"   "Maybe if we changed their Fingers,  BECAUSE  People are always Jamming their Fingers!"   "Maybe if we changed their Noses,  BECAUSE  People are Always stickin it where it shouldn't be!"   "Maybe if we changed their Knees,  BECAUSE  People are Always Weak in the Knees!"   "Maybe if we changed their Backs,  BECAUSE  People are always down in the Back!?   "Maybe if we changed their Hearts,  BECAUSE  People always have Broken Hearts!"   "Maybe if we changed their Ears,  BECAUSE  people are always not hearing!"   "Maybe if we changed their Tongues,  BECAUSE  people are always Wagging them!"   "Maybe if we changed   their feet,  BECAUSE  People  are always putting their Feet in their Mouths!"   "Maybe if we changed their Mouths,  BECAUSE   people are always Spouting off at the Mouth!"    "Maybe if we changed their Minds,  BECAUSE  People are always changing their Minds!"   "Maybe if we changed their Smell,  BECAUSE   People are always saying ,Something Doesn't smell right !"   "Maybe if we changed their NAMES,  BECAUSE  People are always trying to make a Name for Themselves!"  "Maybe if we changed Their stomaches,  BECAUSE  People are Always saying* They Just Can't Stomach That!"   "maybe if we changed their Hair,  BECAUSE  people are always Coloring or Losing it!"    "Maybe if we changed the way  they Walk,   BECAUSE  People are Always getting out of Line!"    "Maybe if we changed the way they speak,  BECAUSE  People are Always speaking Out of Turn!"   ,,,,,,,"MAYBE IF WE CHANGED",,,,,, SO, When the Itch in the middle of our Back really needs attention,,,, we Untie  our hands from our Sides!
Copyright @2010  barnoahMike,,  Mike Ham
Two days later, he opens his eyes.
Bright sunlight, some blinding enemy,
Like heat waves upon scalding sand.
Two seconds later, he closes his eyes.
How did it begin?
And where, for that matter,
Did his dignity run off to?
He rolls out of bed,
Clutching his greasy head.

It was the annual banquet
For the Pure-of-Heart-but-Poor-of-Soul’s
Club; They dined, they danced, and
Someone grabbed his sweaty hand,
                                             and…

He leans against a round-topped refrigerator,
Stained a putrid brown, which collects
Take-out boxes from all over town.
He ought to find a chemical,
Some bleach-magic in a bottle. He could
Use steel wool, or a sponge,
Make it into a worthy possession again,
But still,
He won’t. And he probably never will.

A metal cap is flung across the room,
Landing soft upon a soil on the floor.
The beer tastes
Like aspirin and the ***** General Electric.
Waste not, want not,
He’d always say.
And so he sipped, and did for
The rest of the day.
Waste not, want not,
Wasting away.

What color was her dress?
Did she dress,
In that purple dress,
To seek? To impress?
Anyway, he thought,
Anyway you stare,
Is alright. Not okay, but did he care?
And he just might marry her red hair,
But only if her crooked grin
Would run away with him.
She’d never seen a black tie before,
And neither had he,
Until he found one on the floor.
“I see you’ve joined our Club,”
She said, stubbing a cigarette on her shoe.
“Just passing through, fair-headed,
Taffeta lady. But it’s sure nice
Seeing you."

A dripping air conditioner
Barely clings to the window ledge,
As if a seven-story fall from
The pathetic high-rise were
No big deal at all.
And it pours its sour, frigid air
To the dark apartment there,
And another ***** shakes itself loose,
As he turns up Scarlett O’Hara
On the evening news.
“I’ll bet she’s a princess,” he said
To an audience of burn-holes and broom handles,
“The woman of somebody’s dreams…”
And glancing at the dieing machine, he added,
“Well, since you are my only friend,
What do you think?”

She kissed him over an open pizza-box delight.
He was probably crazy,
But not as crazy as she that night.
Crazy will do as crazy often does,
Which explains a lot,
If you don’t think about it much.
He should have known better
Than to trust a pair of cloudy eyes,
Or the bird’s nest of a mess sitting
Confidently on her head,
Like some wilted rose painted red.
Some devil’s right-hand angel
Was kind enough to carry
Him home that night,
Staggering drunk, robbed blind.
And crazy never changes,
So the Taffeta lady will remain
Counting all his money in her room
In the asylum for the criminally insane.



Sometimes you live, other times you die;
Two days later, he opens his eyes.
Charlie Miles Mar 2011
When I was eighteen I worked for a company called GLENCOM. You probably haven't heard of them, you're not supposed to.
They're the invisible middleman.
What happens is, when a company wants to set up a call centre but doesn't have the space or the manpower to do it themselves, they call Glencom.
Glencom then puts together a team of people in Swindon,
teaches them the bare minimum about the product they need to sell and sticks them around a table with headphones on,
completely cut off from the people around them being force-fed phone numbers for eight straight hours a day.

They do this for dozens of companies. And there are dozens of companies just like it.
Producing nothing, just doing other peoples ***** work.
The jobs they don't want to do themselves.
Like Telemarketing. Cold-Calling.
You know when you've just got into the bath,
or you're sitting down to dinner and the phone rings and you think
'I don't want to answer that but it might be important'
and when you answer it it's someone you've never met desperately trying to sell you something you don't want?
And no matter what you say they don't seem to listen, or care,
they just keep reading standard procedure from a script until you can't take it any more and you just hang up?
Chances are, that person is a Glencom specialist telephone agent.

I loved that job, I really did.
You probably think I'm crazy for it, it's the kind of job that middle class kids do for a little extra cash while they're at university,
until they get sick of the soul-crushing routine of getting yelled at and hung up on, yelled at and hung up on and they stop showing up after six weeks.
Year after year, cold-calling is rated in the top ten things people hate about the modern world.
I was part of the problem.
And I loved it.

You see, when you get one of these phone calls, you don't realise that it's a real person on the other end of the phone.
Of course, you do know that it must be a person, that's common sense.
It's just not in your nature to think of that disembodied voice as having a face and a mind
and a favourite food .
and a family
and a history
and a home that they go to every night at seven thirty.
They're a spirit.
One-dimensional.
So you don't treat them like a real person,
and that's OK, really it is, we're used to it.
As far as you're concerned, whoever you're talking to is just a faceless corporation,
so you yell, and you swear,
way more than you would if you were face to face with someone, say, at your bank or in a shop.
Every little thing that has ****** you off that day gets unloaded onto that person because,
for those five minutes,
with your bath getting cold,
or your dinner getting overcooked and blackened,
they are everything that's wrong with society.

So by the time you finally slam the receiver down, and return to whatever it was you were doing,
you're face red, out of breath, can't remember the last time you were that angry
they've ruined your evening.
You swear you're going to complain,
but you know that if you do that you'll just get caught up in their red tape and rhetoric all over again.
There's nothing to do but let it go.
So you do, and with it, something strange happens.
All that anger and tension that you've been carrying around all day just leaves your body slowly.

The traffic that morning;
your workload at the office;
that cold you just cant shake;
the barista who got your coffee order wrong, but your were running late so didn't have time to complain and get a new one;

All those little things that you can't control,
it doesn't seem worth worrying about them now.
You think of how angry you were at that little voice coming out of the telephone speaker and you feel sort of proud,
like it makes up for bending over and taking **** from your Boss all those years.
from your bank all those years
from the gas and electric companies
and your phone company and internet service provider all those years
from your politicians all those years
all that doesn't sting so much any more.

Because you just stuck it to the man.
You stood up to the big corporations and you got the upper hand.
You start to see the funny side,
you'll tell everyone at work about this.

That's the thing about telemarketers: They're one of those little annoyances that people love so much,
like the weather or queue-jumpers.
Something we all hate, but can all relate to,
a lynch-pin of small-talk,
that inoffensive comedian you like so much was talking about it on tv the other night.

But this time you get a chance to stri ke back.
It's not like getting a parking ticket,
or stubbing your toe,
you get to yell at this inconvenience, tell it exactly how you feel without any fear of repercussions.

Without you realising it, that telemarketer has just done you a valuable service.
You've just saved yourself an hour in front of a punch-bag,
or a session with your therapist or *****.
Without knowing it you are in a better mood than you've been all week,
so you don't smack your kids when they spill paint on the carpet.
And you don't yell at your wife when she forgot to pay the electric bill.
You float on a cloud of air until bed time, and probably make love to your partner for the first time in weeks.
You sleep a healthy eight hours and wake up to breakfast  and coffee and drive to work feeling like you did when you first started there,
when you could still see a bright future ahead of you.
All thanks to that soulless,
faceless,
nameless
disembodied voice on the other end of the phone.
All thanks to me.

I worked out that in any given day,
I got yelled at or told to ******* or otherwise unnecessarily lashed out at maybe thirty out of every hundred calls.
That was thirty families who were going to have a nice dinner,
without the usual arguments for once.
Maybe a few times a week I could prevent an abusive husband from having that one whiskey too many and bashing his wife from room to room.
If you believe in a butterfly flapping it's wings in Tokyo, and all that,
then maybe I, without ever leaving my desk, could stop a ****** from happening, perhaps once a year.
I was making a difference and all I had to do was let my computer dial a random phone number and to introduce myself as
'whoever calling from wherever to let you know about a valuable promotion...'

When I realised all this I decided I would work harder to up my productivity.
A hundred and fifty calls a day,
two hundred.

And I had to provoke more anger.
Subtly of course, I would try to be more obnoxious and inept.
I got peoples names wrong;
I talked over people.
Soon I was getting fifty hang-ups a day.
So I, like a good employee, constantly tried to better myself.
I sniggered at peoples names;
I requested needlessly extensive and intrusive personal information;
asked to speak to 'the man of the house'.
I was getting balled out with every other call.
Seventy, eighty, ninety times a day.
Every time I was called a nuisance I gave myself a pat on the back.
Every time someone said they wanted to speak with my supervisor, I just said they weren't in and then rewarded myself with a cookie at break time.
I got more competitive with myself.
I considered it a personal gift when I got someone with an Indian name,
or a speech impediment.
Gay couples were a Godsend.
I corrected peoples grammar;
I cursed;
I slurred;
I made thinly veiled ****** references.

I was thorn in the side of everyone just trying to enjoy a quiet Sunday afternoon.
I was the itch that no-one could reach.
I invited venom, longed for hatred.
Because if it was aimed at me, it may as well have been aimed at the moon.
I was a necessary evil.
I was the common enemy of the whole country.  
I can't say how many relationships I must have saved,
how many lives I touched.
Suicides prevented? You never know.
I was making the world a better place, one botched customer service attempt at a time.
I was saving people without them even knowing my name.
The anonymous benefactor,
the masked hero.
I was Zorro, I was Batman.
And I loved it.
I thrived on it.
I had found something I was good at.
I could have stayed there, soaking up insults, absorbing peoples troubles, lightening their burdens, forever.

Until three months ago when my manager saw my sales reports.
He, of course, didn't understand why we were really there.
He thought it was about money, about generating figures for whatever company we were hired by that month.
He threw buzz-words and management speak at me.
Improving Revenue.
Optimising Productivity.
Promoting Synergy.
Utilising Opportunity.
Sentence fragments that wouldn't make sense if he meant them.
Nonsensical ramblings littered with capital letters.
By Glencom's standards, rather than my own, I was the worst specialist telephone agent that he had ever seen.
I didn't bother trying to explain.
He wouldn't have understood,
I wanted something real.
Glencom could have been the first call centre to truly,
what's the phrase he would have used? Attain it's Potential.
We could have been pioneers in the business world, providing a service that the public really needs.
But there was no point, he had listened to recordings of my calls and had no choice but to fire me on the spot.

That job was the only thing I had loved for a long, long time. T
he only thing that gave me purpose,
my reason for getting out of bed,
for putting on trousers and shoes.
It was all I had and I lost it,
blacklisted by the employment agency that placed me there.
For a while I tried calling people at random from the phone book but it didn't work out.
You have no idea how much it costs to make a hundred phone calls a day on a pay as you go mobile.
Ten pence a minute
times by sixty minutes an hour
times by eight hours a day  
minus a half hour for lunch equals more than jobseeker's allowance is willing to provide.
I switched to contract but these days everyone has phone number recognition,
so everyone can see that you're calling from a personal phone rather than a business one.

Eventually I started getting phone calls from the phone company explaining that I'd be cut off
and fined if I was using a personal phone for random telemarketing without a license.

The operator was clear, polite and ultimately very helpful.

******' Amateur.
I am thankful for another day of breath,
Another day to get up, stretch my arms, and grab a pen,
Jot down a thought, a mismatched feeling, a strange sensation,
Pluck a note or two on the guitar, hammer a chord on the piano,

Sketch a funky thing on a piece of paper,
Talk to my family, reach out to a stranger,
Add a gift of hope, listen to some sound the wind carries,
Love like the next move the clock makes will be to run me through.

I am thankful to run here, there, dream mad, crazy, absurd things,
Conjure childish, stupid goals, reach for them, and hopefully catch them,
And praise even as I grab palm fulls of empty air.
I praise God Almighty especially as I grab palms full of empty air.

I am thankful for the moments of sitting across from Russian girls and not understanding them,
Admiring their beauty as they talk, one singing Madonna, the other speaking quickly,
And I am thankful for the moments of making a fool of myself and stubbing my toes as I walked away.
I am thankful for the audiences played for so infinitely much, the cheers, the times I was and am admired,
And I am thankful for the times I have been scoffed at, the times I was and am afraid.


I am thankful to God, dearly and bountifully, Lord knows, for everything and all things.
Things I don't deserve, things I shouldn't see or have, but things I cherish,
And things that I know are divine,
And in heaven, I owe God all things, but I want to have a hug.

From my Father in heaven, I want most of all, a hug.
Rachel Samson Dec 2013
Pain pain go way
Never come back for another ache.
I’m too tired, messing with my mistake.
Pain pain go away!

Pain pain go away
I've been too weak for what you did.
Stubbing my heart, until it bleed.
Pain pain go away !

Pain pain go away!
I’ll never be deceived, your love is fake.
I’m too drained, black tears I cried.
Pain pain go way!

Pain pain go away
Never come back for another lie.
My heart is breaking, and soon will die.
Pain pain go away!
Do you remember begging our parents to let us be adults?
When our favorite thing to do was dress up and play make believe.
Drinking meant chocolate milk and artificial fruity drinks.
Getting wasted meant falling off your bike.
When the only pain we knew was stubbing a toe…
Or scraping our knees from the fall.
Getting high wasn’t a term where we blew smoke out of our mouths,
it was seeing who could jump or swing the highest.
When “taking one for the team” meant helping your teammates,
not making a girls night a little bit better.
When kissing was just kissing and you got cooties,
Not STDs and aids from going too far.
And the protection we wore,
was helmets on our heads to prevent concussions…
not a newborn.
When wearing makeup was fun,
and a way to express yourself…
Or wearing your favorite skirt made you feel cute,
not like a ****.
When we didn’t know what drugs were,
just knew that the creamy pink liquid made us feel better.
When boyfriends and girlfriends were described as,
“My friend thats a boy….”
“Or my girl……….. Friend.”
When sleepovers were strictly sleepovers,
not an excuse to get in bed with your best friend…
Who you recently discovered feelings for.
The only wars we knew were card games
And our worst enemies were our siblings.
Dad’s shoulders were our thrones and mum was our hero.
How about that time when we all wanted so badly to grow up?
Poetic T Apr 2020
Pack it up, pack it in
don't throw my bolts there creating a din.
I won't ever battle you, that would be a sin.
Never will I stack up,
              cos you just  knocked me down again.

Trying to act higher,
            with you and your godly crew.

  But I'm the lord of the dead,
             come on get your tombs up,
I raise the dead, can I have some hands up.

I have two minions, no there not yellow.

Pain is his name.
             Getting splinters in your **** cheek,
stubbing your toe once again,
                                 jump around, jump around
                         his confusion will get you down.
    
           Then we panic,
                  who likes a bit of disco.
   But he'll move your keys
just so you jump around, jump around
                           lateness is his merry go round.

I'll serve you up on the river of sticks,
           If your coins ain't legit,
   Throwing your cheap **** off the boat.
You get a special place for being tight-****** ..

   I've got more schemes, than any other villain,
copyrighted some cos others trying to steal um..

Tried to get Hercules on my side, but he was a
       goody, goody, with piercing blue eyes..
   I tried to ride his horse but it threw me off,
            Slightly embarrassed by blue hair went off..

Yes I 'm bald and I wear a flaming  blue wig,
but I'm a millennia old, and no sunlight down here.

You think Zeus locks are real,
        More like Clouds that with a deceitful blow,
have his head looking  like a shiny chrome dome .

My name is Hades and I'm king of the underworld,
                                           I'll  never rise to the top,
    But I'll see you on the other side,  enjoy it up top.
DieingEmbers Oct 2012
High heeled inabitions
stamped their want
upon my back...

as she walked all over me,

her toes
stubbing out my *****
like a discarded cigerette...
causing searing pain
giving sincere pleasure.

Eyes bound could not see her
gagged mouth could not taste her
but I could feel her

tap dancing new tattoos
upon my calloused hands...

each graceful step
another movement
in her ballet of belittlement.

How I had begged

to play the lead.
Journey of Days Jul 2017
...do not tell me
what I think or what my intentions are
you do not know me at all
what you see is true
but it isn’t all of me
there is so much still hidden
some things thought lost
as if passage of time removes their relevance
secrets and events held deep
in depths welded into caverns
there are sconces on the walls
marking the tombs for the living
you walk over them and past them
unknowing and uncaring with your presumptions
clipping your heels and stubbing your toe
on the rivets that keep them tethered.
preaching your rants
spin them wildly into screams
to keep you covered
in a fury of anger and hate
while I keep mine encased
held deep in a cold temple
with the pressure it might create diamonds

@journeyofdays
anne Feb 2010
i walk a line
some where between listening to myself
and listening to God...
if i truly believed i'd burn in hell
i suppose i wouldn't smoke that chronic i bought
and if i truly believed i'd burn in hell
i'd probably do my homework,
stop saying "****"and make sure to not flirt with men that weren't mine
picture this weekend scene;
saturday night, basement
drink in hand
smoke inhaled as clean and clear as everyday air
i would tell that nice boy
with the lip ring and name that starts with a "b"that i was taken by a special man
and ... and..excuses....
let them go let them roll as smooth as bacardi straight from the handle
bought at the local CVS by a bought-off ***
i guess i'm a girl that believes in hell on a bad day
when all bad things
poverty, homelessness, grandma's cancer and stubbing your toe
comes in the form of your dorm roommate
drunk at two am hollering and arranging the mini fridge,
when all the bad things feel as though they affect you directly
and if i truly believed i'd burn in hell
i'd be the girl that appreciated that remembers there's a merciful God
twenty-four seven always
but realitywho forgets
that life is a mystery
i write and it flows
and i know that these words are exaggerated because my conscious knows
i never miss a lecture, and is faithful to the one beautiful boythat actually gives a **** the day after
i'm the girlthat smokes a bowl
and worries about her soul
picture this weekend scene:
alone with a man
gorgeous and caring as could ever be
frozen lake front
wrapped in his arms,
perfect any teen girl couldn't want anything more
but unhappiness rests in me
it rests in his arms, sure neglected for a day or two
but this girls knows
clearity in mind strength through living empirically
and if i truly believe'd i'd go to heaven
i'd stop letting my worries write these ****** *** poems
2/25/10
GaryFairy Apr 2015
walk a mile in my shoes
there's a trip line at every step
you'll slip in the puddles
of the tears I've wept

walk a mile in my shoes
with soles that are worn thin
every little pebble
feels like a stone within

walk a mile in my shoes
every corner is a stubbing toe
feel the gravity's power
only then you'll know
Mitchell Oct 2013
Transferring action lit by dim candlelight
Forming sentences by the wind
A tall tale underneath painted purple bed sheets
Mysteries of life and the gatekeeper's lazy hand

A transference of love through the page
Bringing images by words and meter
Peter tempting Gabriel two times or more
Contracts ripped in half by two lover's quarrel

Necessary are these hours
Staring far into the stars
Nodding not into sleep, for
That
Is too easy

I nod for the scent of freshly shampooed wet hair
Or the glance of the eye downward from shyness
A tell that all is not stable, though both are quite able
To take what they will if they wanted if they could

An annoyance
Like the ***** of a finger on a rose petal
Ironic
Like stubbing one's toe
On your recently bought golden toilet bowl

Fresh are you, fruit of the Mid west
The snow in your hair never melts
Consequence beseeches you, fair angel
My heart is but a spool of yarn, fallen and tangled

Quick, in first gear
To the rear go the spears
Holy water pipes and
Misinformed volcanoes are but a wish
To see destruction
On what we familial souls
Claiming belief in what we love

What does one need other then
A room with a key and lock?
These men and women who flock
To shiny office and cloud piercing cathedrals
Are mere coffins ***** and metal

Lost in flight
Reaching for a moon that does not wish
To house us

Another night passes.
The dawn is quick to rise.
Mornings moon disappears
From sight behind the trees
And the marble fountain made
For the phantom of petty monarchy.

And though the phrase
Is spoken in a nightingales song
Does not mean that a razor doth hide
Underneath the tip of the
Very same tongue
F White Jan 2013
Bad
there's something about
'****'

not scatological.
the edge.

the sacred,
bitter, hit.

deliberate.

of someone saying it,
spitting the
syllable-

while wearing a stolen
black leather jacket
and red lipstick
stubbing a cigarette
and cursing sideways at
'men and their...'
back handedness.

from an artist's mouth...
maybe a woman's...

but the taste
it's like metal

it always cuts-
just right.
copyright fhw, 2013
Sarina Jul 2013
My childhood
was stubbing toes on pool railings
while trying not to drown
four foot tall, six feet under.

I sat by houseplants
on cold tile.
I lost my teeth to salt water taffy.

My parakeet was named
after a character on Full House
who had frizzy hair
and did not have her mama either.

One day,
she broke her beak.

It was my fault, I brought the
blood to my face as I would salve
to apologize

but it was far too late.
Daddy set her free while I slept.

I would rush to the
school supply aisle in Kroger
for pens and pencils
and bought Barbie dolls to glide
against the bayou’s surface.

Later, Katrina came
to sink everything I ever touched.
  
I thought
about the black men and their
saxophones downtown

how I wanted to replace the reeds
so badly
to hear New Orleans jazz
one final time before we moved.

The whole time
my sister was made of sage.

My brother slept on my Powerpuff
Girl sheets so often that
I kept my ******* in another room.

And I thought that
mothers came from fireplaces
because mine
hid her liquor in there sometimes.
jack of spades Feb 2016
nothing has ever given me a rush quite like leaving,
like sitting in an airport moments away from getting on a plane.
i’m a little scared of heights,
in the way that they make my heart go racing
and i don’t like feeling my pulse leave my chest,
but i’ve always loved leaning over the edge.
i’m scared of heights in the way that i’m scared of planes:
i love the concept and the purpose and the view,
but nothing scares me like going into airplane bathrooms,
when i haven’t slept in two hours too many
and the mirrors are like a funhouse from a scary movie.
airplane bathrooms are like a portal into the past,
except this time i can see every crack and fissure
and misplaced hair in the outline of who i’m trying to be.
i don’t like airplanes in the sense that time doesn’t exist,
that where you’re landing is different from where you were beginning,
that i can sleep for seven hours only to find out
that i’m two hours behind where i lifted off.
i’m scared of missing things, i guess.
i don’t like airplanes in the way that i’m scared of what lies ahead:
because i really like going,
and i really like getting there,
but landings make my ears hurt like hell and
takeoffs make my stomach churn.
i know where i am and i think i have a vague sense of where i want to be,
i know when i’m real and when i’m dreaming,
but it’s the in between that loses me.
i’m scared of the dark,
but differently than heights or flying,
because that’s just a loss of time.
i’m scared of the dark because it’s a loss of everything.
if you can’t see it then how can it exist until you’re
bumping your knees on coffee tables and stubbing your toes on walls
and the cat’s eyes are reflecting light from nowhere
and you’re waiting for the claws.
i’m scared of the dark because the dark is uncertainty
hiding all the truths that we want to believe,
because the dark is all the spots ahead of us that aren’t set in concrete,
because the dark is deep and suffocating,
because i don’t like not being able to see.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
between poems,
an old curmudgeon,
am me-he,
thorny gray stubbled face
available for
knife sharpening and
tongue lashing

cranky and cantankerous,
bad tempered,
ill mannered, me-he,
until they slip me a
paper aspirin

place before me a clean sheet
Presto Chango,
the ole man displaced,
(the boy who remembers to forget,)
in his heart~place, installed,
though the
briar and the thorn
never from his visage depart,
just briefly, Red Sea parted

kiss me surprised,
stumbling about in the
wee of the rambunctious hours,
stubbing me eyes upon
a poetess, a kindred soul
who claims my pointy moniker that
earned I,
only after years
of indentured servitude,
Briar Thornly,
so unnaturally misnamed,
yet she of but,
few and the tenderest years
rights me up
with young words

her poems sweet treats, sweet eats,
departing me delightfully unfairly from
my grumpy good graces,
look below if you dare risking,
a hazardous glancing upon her works,
if you like to, grrrrr, smile

Déjà vu
Oh to write or not to write.
My mind says I don't have a choice.
Love has made a home in my heart.
I suffer not being able to
open the door to my inspiration.
I toss a paper ball into the trash.
Chapters of my life turn into dust.
I bury those words in my mind.
Words that I used to think
were wrapped up in true meaning.
A break could **** my block but
my pencil spins out of control.
I'll conquer all of those lost attempts.
Piano's and violins phase in and out.
Wheels of creativity turning in caution.
The clock sounds gong,gong,gone.
Inspiration died at the start of a vacation.
On the page there was the suicide of passion.
The ghost of my muse will soon reappear.
My emotions need to break free from
the shelter of my imagination.
I"ll write till the dawn of poetry.^



read her poetry till dawn
or face my thorny faced
muse,
and perhaps now you understand,
at last comprehend,

**a rose by any other name
would smell as sweet as a
thorn
Read her.  Please.  
http://hellopoetry.com/briar-thornly/

One of many done, and plenty yet to come, in my "read the young poets" series.  The list is long....

^ http://hellopoetry.com/poem/612091/deja-vu/
Ben Mar 2018
A most deceiving mask
A coiled contemplation
A look of despair and woe

The grimace of pain
The coming of rain
The stubbing of a toe

My sweet love
I am ready to confess to every sin
The rumbling of the gut
The raising of the ****
The flatulence's raucous din

But lo!

This is not a measly prairie wind
That passes lazily through the tall grass
This is a grinning of the devil
A demon's carefully constructed bevel
A hell fire that rips from your ***!

From what I thought was my own fault
To cause you such a look
Twas' a stalk of broccoli
A sprout of Brussels
A miscalculation by the cook

So white knuckle my dear
Hold tight for life
As your intestines come trembling out
Whatever you ate
My succulent date
Is making your **** shout

But bless the heavens
And all that is eternal
That this has come to pass
What I thought was the end
The loss of my friend
Was just a spot of gas.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
You Gonna be Cursed, Ain't Nothing You Can Do...

Dedicated to those who understand
That if you look at life askew,
Then your head will likely be
******* on straight and your
Poetry will set you free
And help me too, stay that way

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


You are refrained, restrained,
Unconsciously, the wire inserted right thru
Your eyes when wide awake and
You sucker, oblivious, clueless are...


When older you'll blah blah blah,
Understand, realize,
Cause you will be accursed
With cautionary tales,
Wisdom from cowardly fools,
Familiar with the stupor of life,
a/k/a, experience,
Symptom but one, over-caution.

With the caution that comes from
Stubbing your toe, losing your job oh no,

Getting ****** the night before before,
The most important day of whatever more,

Marrying the wrong woman cause,
You can't find the one with secret sauce
Enlivening your boredom with a secret whoredom
To anything but her, you, a not-so-secret serf.

Go the safe school,
Or pretend you're a rebel with pink streaks,
But that's b.s. too, self deluding
Real rebels only come one way,
Demeanor modest, keep your eyes on the
Quiet ones who run around happy when raining.

Cockeyed, squint, then you'll see it straight,
***** you, experience,
You take so much more than you give,
But most of us ***** don't know it till is
Gad **** way too late.

Preaching cause I am the fool
Biggest, sacrificed 30 years of misery
Afraid to apple cart, slept alone for decades,
Till I found the right one who before you,
Here, have embraced, repeatedly.

So when read your heartbreak hotel songs,
So weary-laden, no future foreseen,
Think of this, the only pain,
This heart break of failed love
Y'all write of, so oft,
Is the chiefest exception to this curse.

Live and love are one and the sane,
Love lose pain love again, dangerously,
Do it over and over, unstintingly,
Get experienced,  but never cautious,
Fail, fail, never cease to be edgy.

**In this endless struggle stay involved,
No pause button, no recess,
For when the love accident happens,
There are no words I possess to
Adequate communicate,
The euphoria of having thrown caution
In the garbage can, next to its ******* cousin,
Experience.
This written over the last two hours while waiting for the M31 bus on Madison Ave and E.57 St., getting my hairs cut and other such chores.
Ergo, written in a passionate haste, without
caution, its crude rude verse reflect the anger that lurks underneath. Sub later I'll fix it up. Sometimes you want to share when it's fresh...more importantly, listen to the voice saying, go for it...
Nat Lipstadt May 2014
Been off stubbing repeatedly,
my toes,
on the raggedy twisted
sidewalks of a sinking city, not mine,
where here, my own metaphor,
is being hand delivered,
to me, for me, by me

too many cayenne creole paroles,
none of them getting me any freer
none, as of yet,
making me a free parolee

been off studying some
of what I cannot yet do,
parole in libertà,
a language cosmopolitan
of creation, via creative writing
remolding all of the dix senses

been drawn and french quartered,
drilled down, found no unknown
solace deep bedrock grown,
so doing a redistricting of the map personal,
exposing my gardens, my Doric columns,
to any passerby with the
audacity so sheer to look me
in the face direct and say
laissez le bon temps rouler!

looking to liberate my words,
looking for liberty in my words,
in a different melting *** where here
I am a semi-low semi-free
person of color called
Old Fashioned White,
looking for a seasonal hurricane
to move me along,
push me to write in a new style,
developing cayenne words
smothered in jazz à la mode

multi-flirting with multi-fluency,
searching for Experimental
mellifluous words
stolenlen from, and built upon
a thousand years of languages,
river wide delivering its mountain deep
cargo of silt, a city of words, upon it built,
just like the great Mississippi,
changing course every one
                                               thousand years

my mouth, a river opening wide,
catching both salty and fresh,
god's love delivering,
doing the best I can,
writing real fracking poetry for poetry's sake,
not text messages of asstags
kissing nobody's ads of sad dead #hashtags,
following nobody noticeably,
but thrusting your good stuff into my orifices,
most pleasurably deep
                

but never parrying,
                   

      I am a poet social only in this:

my devotion to my crew
                                   stronger every day
for and
                           of that particular poetry,

           I can write better than anyone,
              so big,
                                    sooooooooo easy,

and that's, Steve, Bala, y'all,
how and what I'm doing
and by the way,

Putain Zang Tumb Tumb

you could look it up
In Nor'leans, studying alternate forms of poetry and discarding half-started poems on the street, arrived as a mate on board a steamship, standing on my only good left foot....
jo spencer Nov 2013
I'm off to see Jenny
she's keeping well,
just worried about her bunion
but she's a brave lass.
The way she cares for one and all
and carries her mascara,
with dreams of being a brunette.
not forgetting her penchant for wearing worn designer shoes -
she insists on taking to Bournemoth despite
stubbing her toe nails,
to no ones avail.
emily webb Apr 2010
Felt so sticky
I got up in the middle of the night
With swollen eyes and swollen resentment
To hum restless music
And change my sheets

I imagine the scene
Where I'll stand, stubbing out
An old cigarette on grey gravel
With the toes of my shoes
And finally dig my nails into
That sweet and thoughtful persona of yours
That lets me eat your mistakes
And the restless music buzzes through the gravel
Outside the hookah bar we go to
To pretend like we're sitting still
We stand in silence for the song to end
But restless music never seems to end

Weeks later, I'll sit up nights
And tell myself I was nothing but sweet to you
Nothing!
Sprawl out nights
And stick to my sheets
And absorb restless music
And nothing ever seems to end
Tim Gronek Sep 2013
STOP THESE FEELINGS

Feeling trapped with no where to go
I wish I had feelings of happiness to show
Depressed, anxious and raging, too
Some may ask, “what else is new?”

They say time heals all wounds
A cliché like “the man in the moon”
I may try to let it all go
But it still feels as badly as stubbing my big toe

Work through your problems they say
I have been trying that every **** day
Stay positive and keep going straight
As if that can stop it at a faster rate

Journaling, poetry and prayer help on the days
In which I feel the likes of rot and decay
Escaping this world seems the only way out
For some people it always seems the quickest route

I dream of finally finding everlasting peace
But the suicidal thoughts need to cease
I have to remember God has a plan
I’ve got to stay here just as long as I can
Jimmy King Dec 2013
At the top floor of the skyscraper that touches the sun
A man sits with his bourbon in hand, looking out over his creation:
The world in which people shine like glass

Something in that dark yellow of the bourbon reminds the man
Of that time he saw the world’s last tree
Twenty year before it fell.

It was when he was still young and naïve,
His visions of eternal life and glass people,
Still on the brink.

Some instinctual twitch in the back of his brain,
Passed down from the apes, guided him to climb it
But the first branches were too high
And so he cried,
Like a child who cries after stubbing his toe.

It’s while he’s still thinking
Of that first and only time
Seeing a tree beyond a screen
That the man takes his final sip of bourbon,
Though the glass is still half-full.

With the first gunshot in two thousand years,
The bourbon drops to the floor and
Shatters
Part of a series I'm doing on human future in relation to the advancement of technology
ScrabbleDiva Sep 2014
Some people think they know what pain is.
I'll tell you what pain is.

Pain is accidentally using your astringent instead of your eye makeup remover.
Pain is stepping on a lego barefoot.
Pain is stubbing your pinky toe on the same table leg for the 50th time.

Pain is taking responsibility for something that wasn't your fault simply because you're an "adult."
Pain is shedding a tear for the close friend who committed suicide over a year ago.
Pain is thinking about the last look of recognition before your grandfather's death.

Pain is feeling like you can never be honest with anyone about what you are truly feeling.
Pain is the fear that you may not ever find "the one."
Pain is caring too much for people who will never love you.

Pain is realizing that everything you believed in might be false.
Pain is knowing that the people you trusted have lied to you.
Pain is understanding that they were only doing what they thought was right.

This is my pain.
What's yours?
Mallory Mar 2010
We look at a dot      .Not knowingThat there's a whole communityLiving on itBut maybe some other creatureLooks down on earthAnd sees a dot         .The top of a bald man's head      _Oh so smoothTiny organisms trek for centuriesTo climb over the huge hills        /\/\/\/\/\/\/Which are his hair                          We climb Mt. Everest                     /\/\/\/\/\/\/And cheer                              Another creature Walks over it smoothly                 __Not even stubbing a toe          We're hugeThe pupil of our eyes can fitBillions of miniscule living things We're tinySmall than a grain of sandIt all depends on Which side of the binoculars you're looking throughIt all depends onYour perspective . <----home to a community                  me----------------->. /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\                         _____Which is the bald man's head? Which is the hilly land?
This is 3 years old.
Also, there are a bunch of pictures in the margins and stuff that enhance it, so it's missing the full effect.
Hope you enjoy!
Terry Collett May 2013
Father knew **** about Vietnam,
Says Bill, other than what he heard

On the radio or the newspapers or
All that other spiel from red necks

Or dumb heads, he knew nothing
About the real war or the reasons

Behind the death fields. Bill inhales
On his cigarette and takes in the

Young feller undressed and laid
Out on the bed with his thin arms

Behind his head, his ***** hanging
Limp like something dead. He watches

As the youngster looks up at the ceiling,
A cigarette held between red lips, his

Pale blue eyes like ponds of shallow
Water. We pulled out of Vietnam quicker

Than a ***** drops her draws in the end,
Although we in the know knew it’d come

To that even before the politician could
Pull up their pants and put on the public

Faces. The youngster sniggers, pulls on
His smoke, some private joke, Bill considers,

The shallowness of youth, remembering
Young soldiers in Vietnam and elsewhere

In later years blown up or out or dead or
****** in the head. The youngster gazes

At Bill wondering if this guy was some secret
Government agent who could **** as good

As he could ****, whether it was all just talk
Or whether the guy could walk the deadly

Walk. Bill smiles, the innocence of youth,
He muses, stubbing his cigarette **** into

An ashtray, remembering the young kid
Whose throat he slit in Mexico some years

Back as he sat and ****, some double cross,
Some dark deceit, Agency orders, job done,

Neat and clean, unknown, unloved, unseen.
POEM COMPOSED IN 2011
Catrina Sparrow Mar 2013
sometimes
the moon stays full for days
like just maybe
it's been burning daylight feasting on the waves
filling it's belly with fuel for our fires

it's the hardest then to sleep
i lay awake counting the ways to wish for you

in my nightmares
you're always just a crest too far to reach
i wake in fear that you might never find me
but you know how
i promise

i shout through the fog to your shadow
as it dances across the moon
"third star from the right, and straight on 'til morning."
you howl back
sometimes

the piano keys weep
as i stir their fondest memories

sometimes all it takes is a touch to send anyone spiraling back
through the years
and the fears of everything haunting that's built us

the dark sneaks its way in 
in our sleep
so i try my best to always stay awake
out of bed
and out of my head

the piano and the storms have become my greatest friends
more than happy to join the ride 
as we bide our time

i sing to the ashtray and cry in the sink
and the things i must ignore slide past my apartment door
stubbing their toes as they stumble down my stairs

maybe life still isn't fair
but it works
**** it

sometimes
i lie to myself
i trick myself into believing that it doesn't hurt
when it really ******* burns
sometimes you just can't give pain a chance to set in

i'm always warming my hands way too close to the flames
now
i'm covered in scars
it's our roadmap back to the stars
to a space where time slows down enough for me to love myself
or at least to remind myself that moving clocks
in fact, run slow
i've been on the fly since the day i came to life
i just gotta remember that physics have always given me the choice to stop time

at the drop of a dime
i can keep life from restraining me
so i don wings
borrowing flight from the things i dream

i am built of what i hate
but it makes me
it makes me strong
and courageous
and once again beautiful

sometimes
everything around you changes enough
that you're forced to muster up the courage 
to bend yourself back into the shape 
of what you have always wanted to be

sometimes
you've had everything that you've been searching for
all along
Ellis Reyes Nov 2011
The emptiness hurts

Like a brain freeze
and a sunburn
and sand in your eyes
and a sore throat
and stubbing your toe
and a kick in the *****

all at once.

Today I want to chop up love.
This poem was written as a contribution to the Adopt a Metaphor experiment. The metaphor adopted here was "chop up love".
A Winter's Tale

It was clearing up in the afternoon
fingers of sunlight lit up the olive grove
a slight mist and a bizarre story
I saw him the old man dressed
in a soil dark suit, with a jute sack over his shoulder
picking up lost souls.
This time, of the year there is many.
The clouds in the sky have many hues some are black
others rosy
and ephemeral shifting colours with the light,
pushed by the wind
Church bell tolls before noon.
This miasma of ages,
stubbing a toe on the exposed root of an olive tree
when trying to follow the track of yesterday.
It has no future
What was it all for?
Is there a god?
The end is silence

— The End —