"werthers" poems
ey yo if you think that 9/11 **** is crazy, take a closer look at jfk pushing those daisies, you could mistake this for the facts of life theme song, sticking its head up the rabbit hole and now you just seem gone, but if you grab on tight and then you pull it, up comes boundless theories of grassy knolls and magic bullets, wheres the love when a 10 year old can a spot a liar with his vision, swiftly points a fat finger at the entire warren commission, what happened we all forgot how to ask questions? lips tremble from a holstered police smith and wesson, never stopped to think if its just water their testing, scapegoats getting arrested, and then promptly murdered, just to take this trip a little further, leaving a **** taste in your mouth like ******* down an entire bag of werthers,
people laugh at 9/11 **** and downplay all the evidence,
but would you put it past a country that murdered their president,
for political gain, theyll put 4 shots through mine and your brain, keep us detained, for days, chuck us in guantamo bay, and then one day we're on a plane flying towards some towers, or wait no we're picking out flowers, bang flash, for my wife, shroedinger's life on the end of this knife, so stop you ***** just listen, this **** may seem sick and twisted, but please wait there is absolutely no reason we live in a police state, thats just what you've been told needs to be done, had consumerism forced down you, and you're told to have fun, and you say thank you and walk way, i'll take my stand another day. and yeah that farmer was an ******* i loved when he got overthrown by the pigs, but we'll wake up one morning and want bacon for breakfast ya dig?
quis custodiet ipsos custodes
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 12:56 PM UTC
I remember the sun kissing our
neon zinc-ed faces, heating tiny cubes
of red track until the rubber,
warm to the touch, clung to resting
palms and thighs.
I remember the smell of watermelon,
hot dogs and gatorade mingling with
the acrid smoke of the starter’s pistol
and the feral horde of butterflies
fighting in my stomach each time
the gun would blast.
I remember ghosts of friends from
back then sharing laughs as
we warmed up, muscles strong,
nerves tight, bravado bared to all.
I remember his folding chair,
right there at the end of every race,
rain or shine, he showed up, coaxing
tired bones out of his favourite
recliner and into his giant, blue
oldsmobile, the interior littered
with cigarette holes and
werthers candies; he showed up
with pride, without fail.
I remember overhearing the boys
talk about the old man smoking
by the finish line, how gross it was
and why was he even there anyway,
and I remember shame taking root
and spreading: I knew the old man
was there for me.
I remember the day I stopped running
through the ribbon, straight to that
striped chair, to that time bowed man,
with his precisely combed white hair,
wearing ironed jeans, wrinkles
and a smile that could charm anyone.
I remember his funeral, not long after,
sitting in a room stained with
dust, tears and time arrested;
shame and sadness lodged heavy in
my throat as I wished for just one
more chance to say I love you.
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 11:31 PM UTC