"trippers" poems
~
not a fan of reality TV,
plenty of "unreal" episodes
of my own direction stored,
available for further review
in the storage units of
neuronic black and white prison brain cells
which is why I have free~will chosen
to enumerate my poem~videos;
for easy retreat retrieval resurrection
of the travelogue of mind own insurrections
*a garage of mobility devices,
car, rollerblades, cross country skis plus,
a potpourri of escape methodologies
that by definition are all round trippers,
returned to their storage unit after use
and I count them Noah~like,
two by two, as they come on board,
and when they disembark for days of
rest and recreation*
this one, #4,
is born
among headstones,
just anther memory storage unit
specialized,
flag decorated,
but different
This is a one-way,
no return,
unit
but
it can be viewed at anytime
by those who care to be users,
by speaking this:
*Read to me poem number four,
on a day we celebrate,
about free men of every color and persuasion,
who are calling out to
open the door to storage unit four,
so we to can perform
our once-a-year
Tour of Duty
to the those who called,
and answered with limb and love,
for by their glory,
we are
free too*
to remember in any way we choose
~
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
He was taken into custody on Friday
After he got off a bus in Marseille
That had come from Amsterdam
By way of Brussels,
According to police.
The manhunt began
After he opened fire
At the Jewish Museum
In the center of Brussels,
Killing at least 3 people,
Obviously: an anti-Semitic attack.
He was taken into custody
“As soon as he set foot in France,”
According to François Hollande,
Congratulating himself
For an efficient round up of
The usual suspects, all Jihadi
Round trippers from Syria.
He was taken into custody in a mere 6 days--
A magnifique display of French efficiency,
A sublime achievement by
Our furry friends in
Police-Protective Services.
The swarthy perp was carrying a Kalashnikov--
That’s AK-47 for you NRA gun nuts--
A handgun, ammunition, a baseball cap,
A small video recording device, and a
Copy of The Koran,
All items matching
Descriptions of the gunman,
And, even if not, a known-terrorist
Named Mahdi bin Laden,
Carrying an assault rifle
Would have been enough
To fit the profile,
Justify the profiling,
Sufficient to stop anyone
Passing through Customs,
Except, of course
The French Corps Diplomatique,
Wreaking most of the havoc in the EU these days.
There was once a time when any Thom, Dieter or Heine
Could get outta town on a ratline,
Blessed by the Pope,
Assisted by the OSS.
A white linen suit and a Panama hat:
Was all it took any Schutzstaffel
To pull off another Argentine makeover,
Melt into the landscape,
Speaking Spanish with a thick German brogue.
It’s nice to know
Jew persecution is criminal,
Socially frowned on these days.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
Rustle in the leaves,
tussle with the vines,
afoot in the tree of life,
the gutsy snake coiling,
Raddled and rattled with mans sin,
Divulgence to the loner who cherished the fruit,
in the dusky orange red skies which brought in the adhen
and from the tolling bells in the distant church ,
While the snake lolloped in the stark blue skies,
Manipulating this oppo for the abyss.
The wandering seam of the night,moon,
With flickering light forbade the seance on the seemlessly never ending night,
Pity the snake for another morn would rise
For it will have to go to the *** ,no the pit.
The ***** and cuckoo within cooee , chanted and coerced another morn out !
Following the sun like the grail, the people lounged in to the waters of the ganges.
While broods of hurted children huddled in hate,
hurling stones at the traitor.
Hauling the renegade into the throngs,
Hunnish hands assaulted him until he swooned in to the motherlands lap,
Hue and cry of the avengers brought in the tripper,
Heavy loads hugged on to his shoulders,
In poise words he spoke,
''for every creation has its flaws,
And when we batter on the withered soul,
It leaves the barren man dry again,
To ward off evil is like blowing into the forges of Vulcan,
And only when tests and temptations are burnt in the bonfires of joy,
will man be moulded into a joyous being''
Hissing whisphers from the crowd spoke,
Heresy of the tripper is the hold,
Hasten yourself and bring our brother medication,
Hunt down the snake will we,
For this vagabond has spoken in verses,
Only to be filed in the trippers travelogue.
Hushed up as the snake in the pit.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
I am prepared to caravan our
Cargo across the country into
New times zones.
Carpool with our college friends
Through rush hour traffic and back roads
Without street lights or deer crossing signs.
Pledge my allegiance to the
Fraternity of road trippers who
Believe all homes are mobile.
Measure myself by interstate
Mile markers—every township line
We cross is an invisible stamp
On the passport of my soul.
Spend bathroom breaks between pilgrimages
Gluing Polaroid pictures of our expedition
Next to city names in our road atlas.
Learn how to **** into coke
Bottles in bumper to bumper
Traffic between rest stops.
Discover new reasons to live
As the glow of brake lights guides
Me toward the next exit.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
spinning twirling
fire dancing
laughing singing
gallavanting
brothers sisters
goblet drummers
hipsters trippers
moonlight shimmers
welcome one and all
i assume since your here
you've started to fall
see your vision is clear
your having a ball
join us up here
take up the call
the government is wrong
it tears itself apart
they won't last too long
they are people without heart
they'll never here our song
so **** em
we left em
forget em
we are together watching from a distance laughing and playing and enjoying what is around us without having all of the rules that we as a species have imposed upon ourselves through years of mental debauchery constantly trying to get ahead of the guy next to us constantly consuming simply for the sake of consuming we dont need but the plague of man kind can be reduced to one little word "want"
....
spinning twirling
fire dancing
laughing singing
gallavanting
brothers sisters
goblet drummers
hipsters trippers
moonlight shimmers
Aug 7, 2010
Aug 7, 2010 at 5:08 PM UTC
Silent air in loud mood the night is shaking in the lies of youth. The eyes move and the roles are played the truth is never made. Sit back day trippers and let the night sip on the laughter you give on. It takes the light radiating from that smile and converts it into an energy of expectations. Hands touch skin and eyes touch lips in hopes of true contact. Silent observer is alone in the adventure of new lingering nights. The moon light hits those observed eyes and lets them see the honest beating of a heavy heart. Keep up with that heavy heart. No one can lift it anymore. No one.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 6:07 PM UTC
One has a population of 1,700,00
The other 2,000 locals,
swelling to 10,000
come the summer people,
the likes of him,
and noisy day trippers,
neither like
both born and bred on their respective islands
he locks his car always,
when and where ever
where ever is
mostly,
she leaves her keys
in the ignition
especially when
she leaves
the car running
on the street,
when doing quick errands
both are life long islanders,
that from time to time come
avisiting each other's home plate
at night,
he just locks the doors
but once,
no deadbolt,
a sign he is cool
on her countrified territory
her house door has a lock,
but no one knows the
key's exact whereabouts
going on,
as long as she can remember,
which is most of
her twenty years total
he lives in a tall apartment building
on a finger shape island that probably has
10,000 tourists arriving daily
she from an irregular shaped isle,
twenty five miles as the osprey flies,
and they do,
hers, nestled tween two forks,
and ferry's connecting you to the
"off island" till about 1:00am running,
after that, well, find a beach...
she, in a house,
outback,
behind the
country-package-store-deli
where the
most expensive gas on the island
for sale to touring folk
on the island's main gig highway
that store where
only the localest of locals
come in for
to buy their beer,
and the lost tourist,
looking for free directions
pays for them with expensive gasoline
he has one job
she has three
when not waitressing at Sweet Tomato,
she's planting flowers for the landscapers,
or working the counter at said store
she was prom queen
he did not go to his prom some 45 years ago
Two islands, two people,
one ancient, even borderline old,
one a student studying
modern farm management,
with the future openness of youth,
who won't take down college loans,
the other,
edging closer to his distinct extinction
but they talk for hours,
and he tips her more
than the cost of his meal
and the bottle of Pinot Grigio,
which loosened his tongue,
on a Friday eve
having traveled almost
four ungourmet hours,
to get to the island
he borrows from her,
in the summer time
and two days later,
one is encapsulating
the memory of the meet,
on an island of poetry
and he thinks he will go back
to conversation continue,
but that first meet
well, no repeat,
so he leaves
it's taste
here
for you to share
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
What if I got drunk,
****** out of my gourd,
decided to get stewed
on the cheapest whiskey,
throw myself
into oblivion
shooting smack,
poke my biggest vein,
inhale a pile of pink-flake,
the kind that
melts in your mouth
& you can't feel your tongue.
I might attack
my ****** soul
with ripe *****
pop some dexies,
lick purple stars,
then go
whacked outside,
into the salt breezes
driving my beat up Rambler-car.
I could pipe my distaste
for this messy
robot-establishment,
tell them how it is,
these control freaks
trying to run our mean streets.
I could spew it to them in rhyme,
write free flow verses
about starry night skies
& our misplaced loves,
the agony of
our cracked
bleeding hearts.
Indeed fellow trippers,
I could show them
the danger in my eye,
cry for the sympathetic wolf,
flip a few Molotov cocktails.
But whatever I do,
you must believe me,
you wonderful people
& you sober-minded drones,
I have seen the light
from the bottom
of the abyss
& it ain't pretty,
it't ain't pretty,
doped up,
living a ********
life on the edge.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
If I were a bee what a good bee I would be
From apple blossom to honeysuckle
From petunia to plum tree
If I were a bee what a good bee I would be
From peanut butter sandwich to sweet iced tea
Enjoying the company of the trippers , backpackers and -
picnickers
The honey , the syrup and the *** liquor
If I were a bee what a curious bee I would be
Flying high above a green mountain scene
I see bears , a buck and a sleepy red fox
A maple , an elm and loblolly tree tops .....
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 4:24 PM UTC
Went on a day trip,
carried on as a night trip,
she met witches,
and *******
and cliffs that crumbled,
before her eyes,
they dissolved,
as Henry dissolved the monastic orders,
where reality of beliefs were questioned out loud,
inside the mind of the trippers,
she listened to music so loud, but so quiet,
in a spot where sounds played on indecipherable,
she went out to dinner with the man of her dreams,
however;
it wasn't a bit like it seemed,
he fed her spaghetti,
it made her sick,
it tasted good at the time.
The journey continued,
met up with Old Nick,
who screeched at her,
" you ****** day trippers,
you all make me sick"
he played a bit more,
with her day tripping mind,
He laughed loudly at her,
right in her face,
pallid visage,
as he scared her to death.
she sat and she gibbered, as an unmoulded jelly,
and she cried,
poor little cow,
looking back,
she doesn't know how, she ever enjoyed it.
She never enjoyed it really,
some scary escapism.
never again.
(C) Livvi
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
Enter: night
Bring on the night----
Where those dear play,
And where freaks come out anyway
Go ahead, bring on the night.
Bring on the night---
Where travel is often and much go,
Where the travelers are on the go,
So bring on the night.
Bring on the night---
The creature of the night reign,
As they come out like stars with flames,
Yes, bring on the night!
Bring on the night---
Of every drug dealer and dope head
The hookers walking like the dead
Yes, bring on the hight.
Bring on the night---
Every baby's mama hanging tough
Late night creepers who think they're rough,
Just bring on the night!
Late night watchers watching so,
Bring on the night!
Creepy crawlers crawling you know,
Bring on the night!
Day turned trippers,
Bring on the night!
Coffee drinking tippers,
Bring on the night!
That's right bring it on,
Bring on the night!
Bring it on!
Bring it on and on and on...
(C) 2002
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC