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Scottie Green Sep 2012
One little window
in
my tiny dorm
room.
To watch the sun rise
and then
sleep

Makes me miss my tree house windows
untoasted bagels
for breakfast
And a textbook
for a friend--
Thomas's 12th edition

One little
Window.
That keeps me sleeping
Until
noon.

One little window.
That keeps me
so concealed.

One little window
That makes me miss home.
Ashley Mar 2014
Across from me on the couch,
My mother frowns at a Weight Watchers commercial
Saying "I really need to get on that. I just don't look like how I used to."
With diet coke she drinks, out of a measuring cup
That it's just a way for her to know "what exactly is the right amount"
but
I know what's going on
That smile she has hides something deep inside
Her eyes that sparkle when she she offers me the uneaten pieces of food on her plate
I noticed she only eats dinner when I ask about it
I wonder what she does when I’m not there to do so
Maybe this is why my house feels bigger every time I come home for breaks
As she shrinks, the negative space around her somehow seems positive
and there's a connection
She wanes while my father waxes
His stomach grows round with Miller Lite, late nights out with the buddies from the office,
A new secretary at his job who was overweight as a teenager, but
My dad was sure to correct me “no, she’s crazy about fruit!”
It was the same with his parents,
As my grandmother became frailer, her husband swelled to round stomach
And I wonder if my lineage is one of woman shrinking
Creating space for the entrance of men in their lives

I have a friend who never thinks before he speaks
"How could anyone have a relationship with food?" he asks
laughing at a table full of boys and girls
As I twirl my spoon in the chicken noodle soup I got for its lack of carbs
As the girl next to me, who just excused herself from the table, forces herself to throw up in the toilet on the bottom floor
As that other girl hurries to the gym to go on an impossible run that makes her pass out
and as the girl, sitting at the next table over, who heard the comment, squeezes her thighs decorated with self made scars.
I want to say “we are different. You have been taught to grow out, I have been taught to grow in. You learned from our father how to emit, how to produce, to roll each thought off your tongue with confidence.”
I was taught accommodation
I was taught to always have a filter
I learned to absorb
I learned how to be recognized as a leader, but if done with too much force, can appear bossy
And just succumb to the man
whether he is right or wrong, I do not know
I took lessons from our mother in creating space around myself
and took lessons from my peers in determining which foods to eat to get that guy to like me
And I never meant to replicate my mother, but spend enough time sitting across from someone and you pick up their habits

That’s why women in their family have been shrinking for decades
We all learn it from each other, as my mother tells me to pick up the pieces of cake
I'm trembling, because I know I'm really just picking up all the habits my mother has unwittingly dropped
Some nights, I hear her creep down to a piece of cold, untoasted bread in the dark
Like a fugitive stealing calories to which she does not feel entitled
Deciding just how many bites is too many
How much space she deserves to occupy

This burden followed me across the country
From texas to connecticut
I asked 5 questions in biology class today, and all of them started with the word “sorry”
I don’t know when my article for the High Society is due because I spent the whole meeting deciding whether or not I could have another piece of pizza
A cheesy, greasy obsession I never thought I'd have, but inheritance is accidental
Still staring at me with diet coke, from across the couch.
Kenneth Brackney Dec 2017
This is a Poem
because it rhymes.
The muse’s threads have woven them
where nothing else but sorrow survives.

This is a Poem.
as old and as true as the sky.
Words from muses below them
let no others survive.

A very Generic Poem
as Generic as untoasted bread.
As low as where the ships stow them
spun just as blankets from a thread.

A very plain Poem
as plain as a white piece of paper.
As potatoes in the gardens that grow them
the trowels extend with their taper.

A substantially unimportant Poem
as substantially unimportant as a fruit fly
as the Marine’s obstacles that slow them
as the silent pained one’s mute cry.

This poem means nothing.
It doesn’t even have to rhyme.
As long as it is cutting
it will remain till the end of time
I wrote this poem to represent my own mind. It's repetitive, contradictory, and includes a quote from the Jungle Book (line 6). It's simple, and not my best, but I figured "why not?".
Kelly McManus Jun 2019
In contemplation
deep thoughts about creation
toasted  untoasted
                                      Kelly McManus
Methinks the here
     to fore purposeful inclusion
     of key word "babysitter"
a slight oversight describing
     residents at Highland Manor
     (a particularly nagging omission
     in previous epistle to detail,
     how flat screen televisions

     constant blaring subdue
     said majority of tenants),
     whereat this emphatic
     writer, (a penny pinching hitter)
susceptible to miss
     out oomph pa, I
     (a poetic critter)
will now intend to convey

     without recourse to:
     instagram, snap
     chat, or twitter
thus, this quasi
     appended verse
     attempts to avoid
     communicating disappointment,
     asper unfulfilled

     childhood, adolescent, or
     young adult jitter
ring circumstances found
     me tubby a quitter,
now as an aging ******
     with decreasing glitter,
     I aver feeling litter
ally somewhat bitter

sweet asper those
     figuratively untasted,
     untested, and
     untoasted fritter
     (comfort zone
     expanding challenges,
now bugging me
     psyche) with jitter

re: ness, cuz yours
     truly denied, deprived,
     and disallowed himself
     tubby a more vibrant
     Matthew Scott Harris
     to get distilled
     from je nais se quois
     crucible of life,

     hence omitting,
     sidestepping (like do si do),
     and skipping tummy
     loo, viz fuel
     joie de vivre injecting
     more verve
     into what thyself
     subsequently evolved into

     a staid staind and dire
     strait tinned existence,
     but no pitter
patter pity please toward,
     this present day
     pearl jam knitter

of (senseless, listless,
     and aimless)
     verse as this human
     specimen racks up years
     as an aging orbiter
round mister sun.
what a difference a shift can make:
i come in and out of positions:
sometimes i'm outside on the bag cordons
my favorite spot is
Charlie Cordon 6 for the concerts
last Wednesday i was just there
having a fabulous time

but today my sign in was 3 hours later
i came 20 minutes early
upon exiting Wembley Park Station
a flash of lightning my god's smile
my father's and my son's and daughter's
and i was sort of weirded out
by a missed call from mother
and Lyndon: my agency manager
for the shift...
which came later much later
but i put my phone of aeroplane mode
so only switched back reception
on the train:

jeez! misread the Elizabeth timetable
after 23:48 there is no Shenfield
to Paddington (no bear either,
Lizzie with the marmalade toast: untoasted)
that smile of lightning
and a THUNDERCLAP like the gurgling
of a goat killed proper Halal bruv...
or the hunger in the stomach
of a monster and a child...

i whispered in my mind: one name: though...
Thor:
the mood didn't suit the almighty
Arab and later Bangladeshi or Hebrew
later St. Paul and the German Protestant...

the difference between:
working in a team...
four Englishmen one ******...
the Pollack being their supervisor:
playing all James Bond
my ext number at university
dorms was 007:
            but it felt very edgy:
i was white (still am)
and i was supervising four Englishmen:
as a Pollack that must sound
weird coming to someone like
Rishi Sunak the vegetarian prime minister
it must be weird
sounds almost unnatural
but that was one shift prior: i got it:
break-up stab in the back
going all crazy with the pheromones:
and silent moans
and kiddy candy of the eyes
on the borderline with 17
no sweet 16 no let's not go that far
but imagine my fright:
wolf pack:
who?
wolf pack wolf pack...
one ginger one german in disguise
bartablondine with a crop full of hair
and enough beard
because there was a migration of hair
not from the head
but from the beard
toward the Chest of a Hairy Pirate
the stomach no six max Greek sculptures
hairy like a bear's...

fair enough so many lovely ladies
but i sometimes smoke too much
and not microdose like after today
and i get all transparently transcendental
and sometimes paranoid
but like today i micro-dose
and drink enough to keep me away
and i told myself:
you began tripping again
when you smoked half a proper joint
and drank whiskey without Pepsi:
those carbonated drinks:
no sugar...
no good: especially when mixed with alcohol
best to keep alcohol pure
and steering away from beer and wine
but if wine
then white wine and that's on special occassion
mixing it with marijuana
but best mixing a little whiskey: pure:
best Welsh...        PENDERYN...

     Welsh is the whiskey for me:
not Irish or Scotch:
discounted by over £10 quid at Asda...
from well over £30
to £23... 70cl...
    
             i just feel sorry for myself for not cramming
the entire day in but i can't
be James Joyce and account for the constiption
of but one day
and no one really manages to think so much
in one day
i certainly don't: so i look pocket and of pinpoint
days
and accounts of the hours of that day:
for a day i account for hours
and their smaller minions
when it comes to years
i account for days:
and their larger minions of weeks and months...

i was smarter today
because i was working with a young Bangladeshi
******: openly ******:
a Nigerian: aristocracy: by the sound of it:
and face:
the black girls of former slave owners
must have called
and said their mixed race counterparts
were nothing but **** boys...
and white girls' slaves...

a perfect journey home:
finalized by catching the 00:35 last 103
to Chase Cross home...
and i finished shift at 11pm and coming
down from level 5 at Wembley
is just as hard as exiting from Turnstile G
where staff sign in and sign out
and there were stories
i heard about someone walking in with proper
planning and accreditation
**** like that
just plain old bonkers:

               and Zain the introvert:
i didn't know whether he was the Bangladeshi's
rage whether Indian or not
so i allowed the whole:
and i thought only white people were
racist but
this is racism like Germans were ethnocentric
but not racist:
like the "racism" of the Germans and the Russians
who tried to dictate to the Pollacks
ethnocentrism: a white within white...
but look at me having to be
driven by an English ethnocentrism
that's placed face to face with competing
with the world
having invited the world over after having
traveled the god's blue and settled for
smash my garden up my garden my *******
garden
i love how only one empire imploded
but then exploded back into the fore
of the commonwealth:
and that's not Poland-Lithuania had:
didn't go ahead to charge an Empire
but instead settled on the Commonwealth:
and maybe there's a 3rd stage
while all the immigration fiasco settles
and England, Scotland, Wales: maybe:
certainly Ireland
settle for the Commonwealth of themselves
and from the radio on the news
i heard the vast and drastic and incoherent
term:
DEVOLVED NATIONS...
devolved...
i actually need to look that word up...

           no! no devolved governments!
equal representation of the tongues
or rather the reignited of the Scotch Gaelic!
pretty come please come
speak to me:
like that one black girl i thought was
oh so pretty with St Matthew going all the way
to Ethiopia looking for love...
not rubbing:
but comfortably touching my belly
closing my eyes closing hers
and i tingled at the thought:
but there's a loved woman in your life
and you love her so:
and i want to find that sort of love for me
and i want to find that same sort of love
for me...

to think: this day has not yet been
as perfectly executed to memory imprinted
with self-evident lettering to
my standard of digestion of dream:
before a digestion happens:
there must be a conjuring... of them...
i never understood people who have
recurrent dreams:
unlucky maybe sunshine maybe moon-too:

I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL
I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL
I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL...

i was there: pretending to be a bowl steward
like my origins in this industry:
i just remember that i managed
to sneak in one SIA without licensing
and when the Quality Assurance Officer
came up to me and
i addressed her as a Quality Assurance... blah
blah:
there was quick-chess going on
in the realm of ants and hierarchy
and i did mention
to my fox hunt: wolf pack vs. fox hunt...
because foxes don't hunt
so a fox hunt is... 5 foxes...
    being hunted... coming together:
to figure out an escape plan...

   adoptive Darwinism: fox hunting is a *****
sport...
i just delved into the FOX HUNT
vs. the WOLF PACK

   5 foxes: being hunted: started to huddle:
figure out us: we have glamour: and ice...
entice:
what we'll do we'll speak smoothly
smoothing and smiling...

           i'll do the talking: you do the muscle
pretend in between:
jeez one text i didn't want this one guy
to have a bad experience of gigging
i ended up taking the most vulnerable
down the elevator through to the side of
turnstile G...

          i feel like a rock star
                 i feel like a rock star...
i feel like a rock star:
because i have the world and its troubles
like the dirt from unwashed hands
and overgrown fingernails
and a smooch in my head from: her-hier...

but as a team we remained tight
no other response team from level 5 managed
to walk out through any turnstile
we were the owners
i felt English too and i didn't give a ****
i swear turnstile A was solid
without a queue
gone in 10 minutes
and the girls were flirted with
that i couldn't with a Bangladeshi or a Nigerian
but this was ACDC
and this was more politics
than teenage crush dream...

       candy crush saga of lady labyrinth
of Jane Austen:
that... exfoliation of language of class:
in Bridgeton and elsewhere
oh baby but
i'm somewhere in between
that class of tongue
and thesaurus and peacocking
and just talking ***** and reality
of the Cart and Horses in STR (greater anglia
acronym, station name).

— The End —