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Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
it is all I know.

Jan 6, 2013
your effusive and lengthy comments are each a poem in their own right.  

Tinkered with June 22, 2013
With a push from Bala,
A serial peeper, thank God!
haley Oct 2017
when she was eight years old
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes  like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach

it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
(self proclaiming)
for she trickles with stars

when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot.
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage
she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues
Caro Jun 2016
On the tip of my tongue you burned like hot coffee,
With a hit of my blunt you’ve undone my lofty, made me a softy,
I wont forget.
Denim jacket leaning down, you’ve got room in your throat,
You’ve got words in your coat,
Pockets full of notes,
Ink on your arms that wrap, wrap around me,
Words pushing on your teeth like braces,
Up your shoes that walk all around me,
I won't forget.
Maybe whisper it now or tell me tomorrow,  
In the morning I’ll drink you up and you’ll drink me down.
Denim jacket leaning down, tippy toes to kiss your nose.
You’ve made me a softy,
I won’t forget.
Sweet and simply say it from behind those curtains,
Smoke in your nose from my fire lungs,
Stain my breath with your words,
Blessed syllables,
I won’t forget.
Brandon Amberger Feb 2018
Quite scary to know we have “x” days remaining
I will never lose a day because it’s raining
But I must protect what I hold most dear
It is time with family and friends maybe some beer
Laughs, stories of heroes and foes
Live my life bold and loud, not careful on tippy toes.
Because why would you ever be quiet and hide?
Life can be a euphoric one hell of a ride.
gracie Dec 2018
Mom kept the cereal boxes on top of the fridge
out of reach from my thieving little hands
so I wouldn't spoil my appetite with
frosted flakes
But I'm taller now
5'5" to be exact
I don't even go on tippy toes
to grab my routine dinner of
cheerios and milk
to be eaten alone
in my room.
Delia Darling Jul 2018
On the day that I lost my name
I took a nice long walk
To the edge of infinity,
Searching for it

You know, they say the earth is round
And as I leaned to peer over the side of it
There, lay a vast blanket of outer space
No continuous ground— like they said
No path to move on from
Dead-end roads  and deadened feet
Had led me to this edge, where
I cut myself on contemplative thorns

“At what point did he stop loving me?”
“My friends are gone”
“Rehab couldn’t fix me”
“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow”

No, the world isn’t round
My thoughts are round
And so are my vices
Always spinning and falling
Into a perpetual mental cycle

So when I looked beyond the cliffs of my flat Earth
Into the depths of nothingness
I pondered what it would feel like

                         my way over

                  To lose myself forever

If I never wake up tomorrow
Would they remember my name?
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

Slow think,
make real

what fighting for life is…
this is the only
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Weil's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H two Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tangle wood and catclaw and mesquite,
willow thicket,

And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen


60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?


Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.
A continuing examination of opposing forces when good is the goal, who could be against that? The old word war is festering, inflaming evil to start a try, therefore,  I whet the edge and swing wide
JV Beaupre Mar 7
i am that Fly--
the one that Crawled across the sheet--
her last sound and Sight
and i want You to know--
its not my fault, she Would have died-- Anyway

We flies get a bad rap--
we carry Germs- never met one myself--
Across food i tippy-toe-- i only take One bite-
from that little Bite--
she would not -- could not die

But let me set the record Straight--when
she finally went still-- was i Glad--
one less Swatting and shooing-- but
its not my Fault, she would have died-- anyway.
The fly's response to the narrator in Emily Dickinson's poem, "I heard a Fly buzz - when I died"
KSC Jan 2018
I think I see a pattern,
Someone once told me that I am incapable of love,
Maybe it is because my inner sadness pushes people away,
Or maybe it is because my own insecurities,
Both of these things feed on me when I stand still,
I find myself running and running until I’m broken on the side of the road,
In the bed of strangers begging for warmth,
Alone in my room drowning out my sorrows with a bottle of Jim Beam,
With you I have tried to disprove this theory,
I’ve been tossing and turning for months now,
My feet are getting colder,
My lips quiver at the thought of being placed around a cold bottle,
This once red heart filled with passion has become a dull life less piece of grey meat,
I don’t know how to fix this,
Your hands are rough from trying to fix this before,
I’ve seen the deep scars the last girl left,
You’ve tried to remain patient,
Like a stripped *****,
You have all the qualities to work,
But some savage has overworked you,
I can tell you have tried to help me but you have been worn down,
So much that you have become crippled,
You are the fixer of things,
And bicycles,
Girls are not things,
But occasionally we need help fixing ourselves,
Our interworkings are complex,
They are delicate,
We are held together by butterfly wings,
Flower petals,
With a glimmer of warm light,
Contained in a glass box,
I keep expecting you to fix this chip in mine,
It’s growing and spreading like a suffocating spider web,
However, I know I am setting you up for failure because I can only fix myself,
Until I feel whole again,
I’m going to the highest cliff overlooking the ocean,
Standing on the edge,
I hope it is your hand that slips into mine,
Pull me back,
For I am teetering, balancing on my tippy toes,
I know I will fall,
Only to be shattered below,
The reminisce of my essence to be a memory,
A desperate whisper that will wake you from the deepest sleep,
“I love you, Tom.”
( for Driftwood )

She dances
upon her tippy toes

upon my toes
whirling 'bout the room

she my little Bollywood queen.

"Again...again....again!" she squeals
mad with childish delight.

Asha sings to us

Sunlight throws itself
at our feet.

We dance upon it.

Summer gasps
holds its breath.

There is nothing but
the music....and us!

She is all
of three

screaming: "Bollywood me...Bollywood me!"

"This...won't....get the dinner done!"
screams Mum above the fun.

The record screeches
and scratches!

I cut cucumbers
into tiny tiny pieces.

Tilly washes spinach and lettuce.

But when Mum
goes to answer the phone

it's her best chum
she will be hours

we sneak Asha
back into the kitchen.

The return of. . .

"Dum maaro dum
Mit jaaye gham
Bolo subaha shaam
Hare Krishna hare Krishna hare Krishna Hare Ram!"
Such a superb composition by RD Burman. Asha Boshle voice that perfect creature that it is and matched to Zeenat Aman. Back then we had no idea what it was about only that big father and little daughter couldn't help but compulsively dance anytime the song came was such a joy and we never tired of it.

Piya Tu Ab To Aaja (Monica, Oh My Darling!) was another favourite with all that sung panting and the call of Monica, Oh my Darling! We couldn't get enough of it.
Stu Harley Sep 2018
her red umbrella
dangled in the air
like a red pinata
balanced herself
walked across
thin spaghetti tight-rope
her frighten soul
suspended in the air
tiny tippy toes
high in the sky
like a slippery *****
unready for death
love at her best
different breed of cat
must say
nine lives to spare
she survived
Onoma Nov 2018
so close, you can't

stand it...

so far, you can't

stand it.


tippy toes ring in

my ear.

i dig the sound...

because it can't

be made of.

easy listening can

be so hard.

even when it's the

best music you've

ever heard.

the sound of yourself

walking toward you~
tinhearts Aug 2018
In the silence
Fruits of private prayer
Consumed by Your radiance
Unfolding a banquet of imperial morsels within each layer

My hunger is only for You
Whispering enlightenment my soul craves
Thank you for Divine Wisdom in holiness so true
Following on tippy toe footprints You pave

“If you are willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land”
Your promises stay tucked in my heart
You’re Love conquering every enemy with Your gentle hand
My soul is Your promised land renewed as Your art

I’m lost in Your arms of magnificence
Nations come to set their thrones at Your gates
You remember the devotion of my youthful reverence
My love as a bride how your love resonates

Holy to the Lord the firstfruits of Your harvest
May I come softly to the threshing floor to lye at Your feet
Spread your wings over me as a gentle garnish
For you are my redeemer my soul cherishes complete

All your angels delight as witnesses
Embracing Your nourishment
Within me rejoices being a partaker of Your loving kindness
Being a first fruit of Your Holy Spirit victory’s fulfillment

Becoming is Your
I wrote this for my grandson as he is entering the Kingdom more and more each day with enthusiasm that lights up the room with His presence.
To my Ben at 23 your a blessing ❤️
Shaheen Dec 2018
How great is your expectations toward me.
No acquaintance
No Relation
My mere existance provokes criticism
Child of the new age
Much is required of you
The bar is set very low
Rise up its time
Centre your stage
Valuable gems come tumbling down from your lips, hips and your tippy toed tango
Come on strong
No time to gasp
Talk sense
Arise Oh Suffragette
Exist to Emancipate
BLuRryFacE Apr 4
I close my eyes. I see pitch black darkness. And in the distance, I begin to see what looks like flames. It is flames. Flames that you ignited inside my heart and soul. Flames shaped, from, and slowly change. Change into long fiery red hair. And as the red hair forms, it floats still, just blowing in the wind. The long fiery red hair continues to float, but a human figure begins to form, fitting along with the hair. And this human figure, pure and forever filled with beauty. The human figure forms, in a red hoodie with black hearts scattered across it. Black leggings, ever so fitting to her beautiful hourglass figure. And long light brown boots to finish her exquisite attire. Beauty and grace seen in her eyes and in the way she walks. Heart beating fast, skipping eight beats at once as she approaches. She draws closer and closer. She stands right in front of me. She lifts her hand and traces it up my hand and all the way up to my chin, teasingly keeping eye contact the whole while. As she keeps eye contact, she begins slowly tracing my chest muscles and then back to my arms, tracing them as well. My body, ever so frozen. I remain silent, even though I want to speak. I open my mouth, but no words come out. You put your finger to my mouth as if to silence me. You trace the finger down my cheek and down my chin again. With the finger on my chin, you place the rest of your hand on my chin and slightly pull it down so our eyes meet once again. You stand slightly on your tippy toes and whisper in my ear. “ You don't have to say a word. I already know.”  You release my chin and begin walking around me slowly in a circle. Once you lap around me twice. You stop right in front of me once again. You once more trace your hand up my cheek, you lean in as if to kiss me. You stop and whisper once again in my ear, “ It’s okay, it’ll be our time soon…”, stopping in the middle of the sentence. Then you come back, close to my lips, once again as if to kiss me. With our lips so close, they almost touch, but you pull back completely and turn around and finish the sentence and say, “.... it just isn't our time now”. And as you say that you further and further walk away. I finally am able to move and speak. I follow and try to grab your hand, but as I grip it, your human figure turns into a figment of my imagination. And all that's left, is the flame. That floating flame that you ignited inside of me. A tear falls from my eyes and rolls down my cheek, dripping to the floor. I drop down onto my knees, and tears continue to flow as my head is dropped, looking at the tears on the floor. While I'm not looking, the human figure and you reappear, but in a ghost-like form. I see your long brown boots in front of me, and I look up, excited. You reach your hand down and touch my chin, pulling me up. I get up and try to hug you. But as I hug you, your ghost-like form separates and escapes from my grasp, causing me to step back, wonderingly. You reform into your ghost-like form and say, “ I can touch you but you can't touch me. It’s forbidden.” , I drop my head, sad. You lift my head up, and say, “ don't give up on this, LONG GAME is still to be played. That is if you're still playing.” You say with a curious chuckle and a curious look as you wait for my answer. And without a second wasted I reply. “ Yes. I'm still playing.”  And then you nod to my reply and say, “good…. But THIS game is over.” And I look curiously and ask, “What? Why?” And you count on your fingers and reply, “ because… three, two, one.” Then you point up, as the sound of faded music starts to play. The faded music grows louder and louder. So loud it starts to pull me away. I begin yelling, “ Will I see you again?”  You yell back, “ Of course you will.” And then after that, the music pulls me super fast and as I'm leaving you turn back into the flame and far in the distance, everything returns back to darkness. And in a snap. I am awoken by the sound of music from my alarm clock and all to realize that it was a dream.  A dream that was all too real.
This isn't a poem. its the beginning of a story that I'm working on, in this beginning. it's describing a dream/fantasy that the main character is having about a girl. and even though this is for a story. this is an actual dream that I had about an actual girl.
(NOT THE GIRL FROM MY LAST POEM) but anyways, I thought I would take the dream and make a story off of it. I'm still having trouble coming up with a name. so if anyone reads this and can think of a good name. please let me know it. it would mean a lot to me. thanks. hope everyone has a good and blessed day and I hope you enjoy.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
there may be a time when I'm removed far enough

… but no, not today, today, I ask
new mercies, and
I recall, that's on auto. Hapsthappeneverday kinda thing.
Time after time.
That is a miracle, time.

Really smart
people, that class that feels included in the
we, the
people, politico-intellect-ism trend sect,
they think the math is there to prove

time is
what clocks do, (Royal Institute Youtube watch it)
that we,
that ain't me, ye see, I got

removed far enough
to see the blurry
next res
bigger picture more pixels than an eye is said able to see

So for everlasting ideas,
like hell and

the re act
to my act is the power
to act. Eternal motion as perpetual
as can be imagined by mortals, for sure.

Get it together or you leave a huge hole in the fabric of reality JBP

play the role your hand finds dealt,
your special way,
words count inbetween the sayer/hearer
the idle wons are wins not worth the weight, don't fight
the value system that makes life spirial,
swirl of a wand, mathematically
bowing to magi
Fibbo, go viral
with my wind.

this is your life role,
the one in eight billion role.
the star of the show as the hero of hormone wars.
it's all in your head,

how did it *** there, howditgit
this way
this is crazy. No, you never saw crazy, old dude.

Ya had yo'own knows sparkin' at the grindstone,

whet the edge,
or put to more labor..

far enough from this world

my bubble
is in it not of it,
… since 1970. No ****. Outathis world…

Crazy was the melding  from the sixties to…

I was thinking, to about the mid-eighties, but
you and I, we travelled to the beat of several
different drums.
Olde dude,

If you put your nose to the grind, ******
you may have missed,
in fifty years,
than you imagined, now, is a new day time.

Some seed never sown back when, can be sown and
grown right,
That's good.
I'd say some words I've helped be heard have

made the world some better'nitwas when we stopped.

time to roll.

Sisyphus, right. 'Never missed a trick time
it takes to roll the rock up,
then in between tick time
to roll the rock up,

onus minus the roll down, the unshackled wireless
inbetween shameless blameless
happy ever after…
Pretend, the end.

Push, happy as hell.
tick, time
to roll the rock up,

Incorrectness of value of value from the gitgo,
like buttoning your shirt wrong from the first button,
as soon as you fix it, it's fixed.

Nothin' you can do?
Do nothin'.

Think, Sisyphus, happy

Happy he's not in that time we are so removed from
slow and steady kinda wins the race, she said that,

Ben or me? Where does the thread un-ravel?

Extended time model, Rogan in the back ground,
what myth has the fear factor guy,
a little short power-lifter-kick boxer guy,
some smart, quick of wit, a hunter,

who was asked, in Thailand,
Have you seen the true beauty of the elephant?
I was asked that, in Thailand,
by a saffroned monk at a kickboxing match
in the jungle in 1968.
Synchroni-city or what?

Who could steer it's  hearing
by a clock and fail

to hear the rhythm of the rock rolling down the hill,
the tick…

Sisyphus says time is more effective,

if-ity-ish when,
and only then, when ticks hapt to be

at the very point of return
the roll back
no rush, no dread no worry, imagine

time ticks at the sharpest point of the story
at the very very very tippy top
point in time

defining you.
Shame, sticks to you like tar.
Marilyn and Monica and Marla and all

Fame to blame, to shame for being  a believer that
there may be a time when I'm removed far enough

to ignor my own ignorance and innocence
of ideas that possessed

A murderous assault on your attention span,
musicals, those people really live near enough my bubble,
that I can find

from decades I missed, this is 2018, how can it get better?

The grand wizard cat. pop. elephants are so sweet,
rewound. Really,
cool, I know what he says next, it's funny before it's funny.

Today is a real good day to get away. Binging Rogan,
testing a mystery fruct-ification
of a single seed from
a sack 'shake.

As you move forward in time how do you measure

lo-res thinking, 72 dpi 1984 Macintosh. Hello

now there is reality at the speed of thought, imagine

this was once the speed of thought.

why are you in pain? Do you know any lies you believe?
Do you
urge others to suspend their un-belief
to hear you think

ridiculously (is that a good word)

listen, people become interesting, from a distance,
thank you,
Earlier on the Sisyphus Happy channel
Graff1980 May 25
She stands on
the tippy top of
a grand canyon
miles above
looking down
to a ground
where I plant
my heart
hoping to dance
and be a part
of the world’s art.

Her poetry floats
across the gaps
like an echo,
and I gasp
as I grasp
the meaning
of her repeating

She leaves me
grieving gently
longing for
a connection,
not a lustful *******
sprinkled with
the touching
kind of affection,
but communication
and shared appreciation
of each other’s
poetic creations.

She does not see me,
from life’s beating
whilst beseeching,
then dying alone.
I was your number 28
that was eight numbers
eight people
eight individual girls
after the twenty who
felt you
touch you
went in your bed and got wrapped in your sheets
kissed you
laid with you
I was 28
2 numbers before you hit thirty
thirty notches in your belt
thirty knots on your rope
I had the privilege
the honor
you had the audacity  
the courage
the stride
the confidence to tell me I was number 28
Like hearing a number and waiting for your turn
waiting for hours in a line
filled with
white trash girls who probably had you number 50
Latina after Mexican after Hispanic who had hip as big as their attitude
Black women with curly hair who had lips as sweet as pie
after number
after ******* number
until you met me
with the chubby cheeks
and small hands
the round glasses always on the bridge of my nose
a nerd
a reader
a geek
who you crowned a recycled crown number 28
swapped from 27
placed on 29
so insignificant
a mindless ****
a ***** squeeze
just a nobody
who was there to please
and when you got bored you got closer to thirty
when you ran away after the first sign of trouble
you coward
and you crawled
tippy toe around bushes and forest
ate popcorn as you watched me walk on eggshells
you hid in shadows that were casted by your ego
never wanted to talk
never wanted to admit
just there to use
to tell me how good of a **** I am
to spit in my face a mouth full of lies
to ignore me endlessly till i took off my crown and walked away
empty handed
you were my number four
i was seven time more than that
you were fourth in a short line
were i cherished the moments we spent together
cried many tears at the thought of losing you  
I would've named you a king
but a number is all ill ever be
a notch on your belt
a knot in your rope
an insignificant number
for an insignificant girl.

— The End —