"wikipedia" poems
Yes, it's seemingly a nonsensical rhetorical question, but, for that precise reason, it will illustrate a lesson, if you so desire to tag along for this short session.
Per Wikipedia, "The horse (Equus ferus caballus) is one of two extant subspecies of Equus ferus. It is an odd-toed ungulate mammal belonging to the taxonomic family Equidae." Hmmm... I much prefer that the horse goes "Nay," eats hay, has a mane, and is ridden by cowboys, cowgirls, Indians, equestrians, knights, jockeys, conquistadors, Mongols, and all. Even better, just point a horse out or otherwise show a picture to a kid and they will never be mistaken again. Even the littlest ones will never be stumped when faced with a rhino, tiger, giraffe, camel, and such.
Admittedly, there is a worry that we could be fooled with that of a donkey or mule. How come no one has taken advantage of this?! What a scam to get us rich! "Duh doy," you say, cause we all know when we see a horse, so why would anyone try to trick us with an *** Well I ask you in turn, why does anyone try to trick us with good art versus bad, let alone art versus crap? How could anyone fall for that?!
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
In our fast-paced world, many things have become easier:
communication, information, food preparation, even study.
We have the internet, smart phones, tablets, emails,
Google, Wikipedia, fast food, and instant coffee.
But have we ever stopped to observe just how
things being easy make them seem more trivial, too?
For the things we’re after, we no longer know
how to sweat, sacrifice, aspire, wait, persist, endure…
Maybe it’s made us cease to dream as well
as everything is merely ****** upon us to take.
We have lost the values that only hard work, toiling
and fighting through insurmountable odds can make.
And even then we never seem to have enough of what we desire,
not enough sleep, time, knowledge, money, or power;
We find no contentment in what we already possess
as our seconds, minutes and days are spent wanting more.
Perhaps we need to re-examine where we’re heading,
take instruction from the numerous generations past.
That it is only that which we strive for, that which we cherish
with all our hearts and everything we have, that can last.
*(c) emeraldine087
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 2:44 AM UTC
I commit myself to the homicide
of my thought-flowers.
I indulge in the **** -
Killing my darlings
for the sake of art and sanity.
What a paradox.
I have bloodied my hands
with it even so.
No more love-lite poetry!
No more adolescent chinks of the
pseudo-heart!
No more infantile fork-stabs
at the plate of kid-intellectualism!
No more Wikipedia pages
on thoughts
that can swallow computers
whole!
I'm killing my darlings
for the sake of art,
for the sake of sanity -
what a paradox.
Blood is flowing.
I'm a murderer of ideas tonight -
today I will write
about many of life's very few truths.
Like trees.
Like soil.
These are the only constants in mathematics.
These are the identities.
In my garden, I reach out
to crush an
almost-crimson hibiscus.
Petals squelching with skin and nectar -
no perfume.
The hibiscus roils, unliving.
Red pulpy mess;
heart out of chest.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
A psychedelic substance
A psychedelic substance
Drugs. Drugs a unrelated substance.
familiar states of consciousness, familiar states.
A stimulation
A stimulation of the body
in my body
the drug, with the familiar states of consciousness
familiar states
Oh God, oh Jesus
The hallucinogens as known as drugs
consciousness
Jesus, a pusher, a dealer
a psychedelich *******
a Psychedelich mushroom
like the substance
the psychedelic substance
Capture your attention
in a box
in your mind
in your psychedelic jesus mind
Jesus was a pusher
jesus was a drug addict
a psychodelic drug addict with drums around his neck
Feelings, euphoria, empathy
for Jesus
Love, heightened self-awereness
only for Jesus
Only for my dealer
Increased sensuality, increased awareness of sensation.
Creativity, paranoia
Paranoia over Jesus
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia)
~~~~
I am a draper,
by trade, by nature, by instinct;
a fling of one arm across her body,
while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles,
and even convulses,
to hold her tight with two, with both,
soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow,
the heat breeds unsweetened sweat,
and the snuggling impact,
is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles
numbing, deadening,
and ironical attenuation
this is my pattern,
how I address her,
how I dress her,
draping my contiguous,
drawing five fingers
upon her form,
reshaping her in her sleep,
the arm flung, there, and then
there,
to be hung,
at varied places across her body,
higher lower, above below,
but her face,
free and clear,
so not to interfere
with her sensory preceptors
and as I draw my pattern upon her skin,
her body whole,
listening her to indeterminate utterances,
to determine
which
pitter patter pattern
to which.
she feels best suited,
then,
I prepare my
invoice
for her,
for services rendered,
to present upon awakening,
demanding
in voice,
by her voice,
payment in words,
of her own chosen
amuse-bouche,
mmmm, will it be?
good morning my love?
hello you!
or just an indiscriminate
but yet,
a discriminating
sound of
having been pleasured
by unknown forces
in her deeper sleep, using her lips
to say, to hum, to sing,
a genteel unspecific
but, and yet, a
terrific,
deep from within
guttural remittance,
the sound of a delicious,
mmmmmming
greeting
a new equinoxal gale
of a refreshing fresh
birthing, fulsome
already satisfying
draping of the
day
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
this game has no rules
wikipedia is full of it
z-list celebrity
remember that nobody cares except you
this statement is a statement
this statement exists
this statement has letters
poets just want to jump in
sighs about the decrepit state of humanity
thanks to those who make it worthwhile
and eternal damnation to those who don't
enjoying my indulgent freedom here
hanging up
pentabarf
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
they say a goldfish has a memory of only a few seconds
and I think, how lovely, to love and forget
a hundred times a day.
but the wikipedia page on common misconceptions says really
their memory lasts up to several months.
Well if I could forget you every 30 days
that would suffice for me.
Wikipedia doesn’t say whether goldfish
even have the capacity to love
but if they do
it must be often, and sweet, and forgiving
unlike me
who gets hurt once
and never forgets.
at least not this month.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
I met a jack rabbit,
so twitchy with words,
spoke like a prophet
on Adderall and nerves.
Slick lil rhymes, big ol claims,
said he I'm real: "I feels dem **** pains."
But I scratched the surface,
and—ah—what did I see?
machine made brain
writing his poems
that's not unseen.
He said, "It's all a simulation.
Whatever do you mean?
Your claims are unwinding,
dont be obscene."
Look at this poem and that poem
Claiming his writing is truth
Spent eight hours messaging
Wikipedia proof
But every stanza,
a secondhand sigh.
Every line,
a borrowed blue sky.
Not a soul behind the script,
just silicon spit and glitch,
a shadow puppet
playing "wounded wit."
He ain’t a rabbit,
he’s roadkill in drag.
AI-made messiah
in a thrift-store flag.
He wants applause,
a dopamine feast,
but the only thing real
is his need to be fleeced.
He posts and reposts
poems by the pound,
scraped from some model
with a ghost server sound.
Feet in the air,
head underground,
juggling cliches
like a sad circus clown.
This ain’t poetry,
it’s data puke,
prettied up
for the dopamine fluke.
He cries, “I write!”
but I see the seams,
the Frankenstein phrases,
the Pinterest dreams.
Jack wants love,
likes,
digital grace.
But behind that grin
is a borrowed sad face.
Tells us what’s real,
what’s deep, what’s true,
but it's just reruns
in a shiny new shoe.
Truth is this:
he’s scared of what's real,
a hollow crown,
that don't know how to feel,
drowning in praise
he didn’t write down.
Special? Please.
His soul’s on mute,
while ChatGPT
plays the ******* tune on a borrowed old flute.
So run, jack rabbit,
you digital ghost.
Go fetch more claps
for the posts you host.
But know this, friend:
no matter how clever you seem,
you ain’t the poet.
Not now.
Not ever.
It's all AI digital dream.
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
I forgot to pay my muthafucking mobile phone bill.
I tell ya, this week until payday is going to be some thrill.
The only luxury I have in my life is the information super highway on that phone.
I click on a land faraway, once the weirdos at my work start to ***** and moan.
I click on the browser and let my mind roam.
I get to type all over the world,
The co-workers complain about all the races they hate
while I don't say a word and go to wikipedia straight away.
I can spend hours reading about nazis, astronomers, and plants
I might just invest in ear plugs to stop listening to co-workers rant.
I catch up on gossip about celebrities I have never heard of,
and read about the **** they are doing to ruin their lives.
I go to Facebook, where a few people think my words are clever.
Lets me sever the pains of everyday annoyances.
Read about dreamy recipes I could make, and all the delicious pies I will bake.
Chat with someone who slept all day and is now awake in Egypt.
But like I said, I am without a phone this week.
Seven days to let my insanity peak.
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 10:16 PM UTC
This is a very special day in Bulgaria, my friends. Here - http://www.balkanfolk.com/news.php?id=23 - you can read more on it.
marigolds
marigolds
San Clemente*
and the sun that is
opening
we will lose ourselves
before they find us
in the eternal searching
for ourselves
(and the mind again
steps over us)
did you recognize the happiness
Ahasver**
marigolds
(like an epoch)
San Clemente
and I am bowing
The original:
невени
невени
Сан Клементе
и слънцето, което се
разтваря
ще се загубим
преди да ни намерят
във вечното си търсене
на себе си
(и мисълта отново ни
прекрачва)
позна ли щастието
Ахасфере
невени
(като епоха)
Сан Клементе
и се прекланям
*In one lateral chapel there is a shrine with the tomb of Saint Cyril of the
Saints Cyril and Methodius who created the Glagolitic alphabet and Christianized the Slavs.
**Wandering Jew; the name Ahasver is adapted from Ahasuerus the Persian king in Esther, who was not a Jew, and whose very name among medieval Jews was an exemplum of a fool
/from wikipedia/
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
May 23, 2011
May 23, 2011 at 11:34 PM UTC
This is for all my battle buddies, HOOAH!
Serving in Iraq,
Serving in Afghanistan.
With a grainy, sandy, hot, and humid desert surrounding you.
Looking into miles of nothing.
Always ready, always on patrol, ready to roll.
Ducking your head to re-load in the middle of the firefight.
Taking a stand against the evils of the world.
To my battles with integrity,
We all bleed the same,
Fighting for freedom of the Red, White, and Blue
Live green die green
Scream it with me at the top of your lungs:
HOOAH!
Soldier people;
This for all the clowns that play Video Games
Talking that 1337 (LEET) speak
Owning some newbs for fun
Screaming at the little kids that they ****
I’m taking on the girls 1 versus 1
Passing by the hours staring at the screen
Drinking Mountain Dew, and eating skittles
Sniping people with your M4,
Blowing them up as they walk through the door
Gamer people;
This is for all my Tech-y nerds
Working with computer components
Make sure you stay grounded
We don’t want an electrical eruption
I hated Network Theory,
But I still didn’t get a B.
The “have you tried restarting,” people.
Surfing the Internets, refer to Wikipedia people.
Tech people;
This is for all the Snowboard bums,
We ride hard, but still chill
Jumping in front of the skiers for a mighty thrill
We do it for an Adrenaline rush
Boardin’ through the trees,
And the snow that is white and plush
Snowboard people;
This is for all the Music lovers
That let the beat move their souls
Bumpin’ to the rhythm
Dancing out of control
Let the beat take you away
Fist pump yourself into the night,
Even though I can’t dance, ‘cause I’m White.
Music people.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 9:43 PM UTC
Eskimos have a Gazillion
words for snow. We have
teraflop words for coffee.
Wikipedia it!
But don't get distracted
by the Tales.
Recounted stories of empires
held together by zeitgeist brand,
a belief, a set of ritual,
buying in bulk, a role of thumb,
opposable heuristics.
They've clustered history
in bunches like expanding
matter, as if it matters
who was king or Augustus.
Empires & civilization
held colloidal by the quirks
of geology and brand
feeding food-forward
with ritualistic sacrifice
in Megazillion iterations.
From Fertile crescent to Nile
Valley silicon, when we bind
ourselves to brand,
and move in belief,
secure in synchronized stability,
then comes the rubric cubes
miraculously built high
upon slave backs, holding
pyramidal server tombs.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
I'm trying to find a path.
The one that leads to sleep and straight into my dreams.
I'm thinking that if find it, quantify it, and twist it enough, they might become reality.
I might be able to run past the nightmares and the conflicts and the insanity.
My path is indestructible and it attracts my feet.
I don't have to think
It's like the ground is moving beneath me,
like a black strip of ground is moving beneath me on repeat.
Everyone is suddenly walking on a path
Everyone is on different pieces of ground,
on their own black path
moving beneath them
so they don't have to think.
If these paths don't touch, they don't make eye contact.
They are all together physically,
but they're in their own worlds...
...Who am I kidding, we're all in our own worlds!
And here I am trying to decide which way to go when
I realize it's already been decided.
I'm moving forward on this stupid black path that never changes.
I find myself looking around at the blank walls, the blank faces,
the plugged in faces! The darting eyes avoiding contact.
There's something wrong here.
It hits me every time, full blown.
There's a reason why I avoid the gym.
I'd rather run outside and let the world
take me in.
I'd rather be able to jump if I wanna, or sing,
or say something to the people around me.
Or escape the people around me!
Find a place where I can truly be.
On my own.
So many people are afraid of being alone.
I want this generation to see, to explore, to fall
and get up
and all the things like making forts and traps and seeing
off the top of a mountain -
from outside your car ...
Guys, there are stars in some places.
I'm telling you, there are things worth seeing out there.
I'm telling you what needs to happen.
You need to get up off your seat, unplug your eyes from the screen,
and go discover for yourself where you end up one day.
**** this path of perfection, **** all the shortcuts
and technology and craziness,
this culture of disconnection is
literally
driving
people
insane!
Start asking yourself questions and you'll realize Wikipedia can't tell you everything.
Peel away from your text and you might notice a blossoming tree.
The world changes.
Daily.
It will change, daily, for the rest of your life.
And I don't know about you, but I'd rather not let it pass me by.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
Oh, my dear.
The time we’ve spent together has been the greatest.
I've loved hanging out with you, etc.
But with this new found technology I think we need to talk.
Here’s the deal. There is just not enough time in the day.
Lost is my number one priority right now, as is Weeds, Parks and Rec, and Breaking Bad.
You try to communicate with me at the worst possible times.
My PS3 controller turned off during 30 Rock and now I have to get all uncomfortable and turn it back on.
Can’t you see I’m busy and that I simply cannot answer my phone?
And your solution… Nay. Your “solution” of me simply reading the plots on Wikipedia has cut me to the core and you have crossed the line.
Yes, it would save time. It would also be the worst thing ever.
It’s clear that we are not compatible.
It’s not you, it’s Netflix.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
weeding ‘n planting,
(ten rows of garlic, waiting to bite caressing hands)
<•>
unsurprisingly to me
garlic native to northeastern Iran,
so says the arbiter-know-it-all, Senor Wikipedia
did you know that,
amongst us,
a young woman whose back
is bent,
bent over,
weeding and weeping, while picking,
retrieving the fruit of the plain earths plane
spending days
retrieving spring-planted bulbs in the sun,
a mysterious poet residing among us
conjuring up poems and, **** even
plants questions
with granted permission
asks a strangers gasping queries
so simple she renders his
body from soul, makes him
disclose his crazy ill-at-ease
showing
his own
general roots,
slumbering deep in reddish brown soul’s earth
one whose only great escape
through the written poem
when his back is straight,
straight against the wall
backed up,
and ripe for the picking
in reparation
the favor will be returned
three inquiries will be fedex’d
if I ever learn her address
for now, in the throes of soil resting within,
my need knowings just nurturing
until the calendar declares time!
harvesting is now
when we ready shake hands
when you say
“here is the garlic tended,
and here are our hands,
bitten and caressed”
till such time I get
the answers from
the farmer herself,
I can patient wait
further research needs
original sources,
till such time,
make up tales
that will hold in abeyance
my half contented garlic dreams
for was it not written centuries ago:
Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky.
Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
you wrote the book on being an *******
i read it twice.
and i find myself alluding to it
all the time.
you told me the definition of high art was broke.
if i wanted to succeed,
i needed to trash my collection of huxley
and memorize
every action sequence
in every jerry bruckheimer film.
you based the last six years of your life
on a ghandi misquote,
you ripped from wikipedia.
you told me love was just mankind kidding himself.
only trust in what you can feel,
"like *******
i wrote an article about you,
i asked if you believed in god.
your reply,
"god is a concept
by which we measure our pain."
i thought that was clever.
it took me 3 months to remember
that's off lennon's Plastic Ono Band.
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 10:38 AM UTC
take a look at the first thing next to you
now imagine it but a hundred times brighter (all the time)
if life is a glass of water sometimes i wake up and it's filled with caffeine instead
to keep me running faster than i want it to
there always has been a spark in my eyes that wasn't natural
no one's quite sure where it's from but i used to think it was a superpower
i used to think not sleeping for days was a superpower too
it can be scary if you feel like a puppet that's forced to kick and hurt and attack
it can be scary if you can't make yourself stop
it can be scary if fun isn't fun anymore but danger
it can be scary when you're fragile
it's like a bubble in which there are no boundaries
the world has no boundaries there's only me and my ideas
and i seem to be way better than i'm supposed to
how can you stop when there's so much left to do?
(even if afterwards it won't be)
the world is bright and colorful now but it can go back to greys anytime
it won't go to neutral colors (it never does)
you can't shut it down if the "it" is you, if the "it" is what you're up against
if the "it" is constanly challenging you to go faster better faster faster faster
"it" is so fragile if you stop it for a moment there may be no coming back
there are so many fun things intense things death can be just one of them if you don't control "it" soon enough
when caitlin snow first got her powers in flashpoint she had to stop them
i always had a superpower and it will always have to be stopped
take a look at yourself in the mirror
now imagine yourself but a hundred times brighter (all the time)
if i'm a good person sometimes i wake up and i'm a goddess instead
(what can i be if not godlike if it feels like there's nothing that could possibly stop me?)
there's always been times when i felt like i left my old self to come back stronger and happier
i don't know if there's a happy because every single time i felt truly happy it was an illusion that doctors called "a chemical imbalance"
if i can dress up and be a new me who can dress like this who can do this
but if you'd stopped me i could be angry
(i don't know an angry me, i always forget her)
so i have a calm kind of angry-an angry where no one and nothing else can be touched or hurt but i can
when i was confused about sexuality websites were calling it "hypersexuality"
it can only be a superpower if i see lights and flashes others don't
it can only be a superpower if people i'm in love with have a halo over them
it can only be a superpower if i seem to stop the cars around me when i run through the street
if someone whispered "high risk, too impulsive" i thought fun and passion
the thoughts going through my mind always seem amazing
and i wonder if the people who've written the bible felt like this
if they did, i'm happy for them
i can never forgive myself for things i've done
(not sins, i'm too envious of people who are faithful)
but i guess it's not, not if there's a spark in my eye that can disappear, only on certain conditions
one of the last things on the wikipedia page for bipolar disorder
are the suicide statistics
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
Your wikipedia page is as boring
as you playing mage and adoring
the exploring of maps and falling for traps
without fighting the wight
in the dungeon at night.
Your life is climbing a hill
with no path in sight, no
one who will respond to you begging to bond
so you're rubbing your wand
while I'm clubbing with your blonde
b*tch, which I ditch, leave behind, beyond
cheeky I grind before the eyes you crave
as you drop to your demise from the eye sore,
pink in the stink, so vile, I smile
because you didn't make a save file.
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 5:39 PM UTC
There’s a line in a movie which goes something like “pain is good, it lets you know you are still alive”. The obvious question that I can hear you asking is “So when the pain goes away you know you’re dead?” This inevitably leads to a conversation about life after death.
Now that topic can be dangerous if you don’t walk away from the conversation quickly enough, at one of “those” parties, you know the ones; the one you would not have gone to if you knew that the person who invited you believed in the power of healing crystals. So as the bottles of wine get emptier, the part time philosophers get louder and more opinionated about everything from the existence of an afterlife to what was the “real” message behind the final episode of M.A.S.H. And yes, I have been unfortunate enough to actually hear some overfilled part time philosopher postulate a well thought out, theory on the subject at an Italian restaurant in Brisbane and unfortunately was only up to desert so could not escape without missing out on coffee and Muscat and cigars. It was a tough call though. Ah smoking in a restaurant, those were the days, now where was I?
So given the opportunity to choose an activity which you know involves pain, i.e.: Rugby League, running a Marathon, Childbirth or listening to drunk part time philosophers at parties, why would you knowingly throw yourself into any of these extreme sports? Well maybe because the rewards of the end result are worth the pain involved during the activity. So that cool night in that Italian restaurant I sat through Scott’s theory, not knowing at the time if the pain of the story was going to be offset by the quality of the temptations to follow desert. And so that leads me to the reason for writing this. A friend of mine recently wrote. “Apparently any given situation can look good if viewed from the right angle. Sometimes I get cramps!”
Well my friend the Muscat was good that night, the coffee rich and earthy and the cigars cheap but free. Scotts actual theory is long gone from my head but the memory of that Muscat coffee and cigars lingers for twenty years.
I am lead to believe that cramps may be a symptom or complication of pregnancy, kidney disease, thyroid disease, hypokalemia, hypomagnesaemia or hypocalcaemia (as conditions), restless-leg syndrome, varicose veins,[2] and multiple sclerosis.*
So, given that if in fact it turned out that you had one of these afflictions and the cramps lead you to discovering this fact, I would say the cramps; like my terrible dinner experience, viewed from the right angle looks good! Now off to the doctor with you, I’m off to the bottleshop.
*From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
I found a news article about the most boring day in history.
The 11th of April
1954
Literally the only thing that happened was the birth of a Turkish Academic
Abdullah Atalar
So I looked him up
“His research interests include micromachined sensors and actuators, atomic force microscopy, analog and digital integrated circuit design and linearization of RF power amplifiers. He teaches undergraduate and graduate courses on VLSI design, analog and microwave electronics.” - Wikipedia
He was boring too.
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC
you got to respect your parents -
they gave birth and brought up kids
without Google or Wikipedia
without going on Safari
and without parading your
baby bottom on social media
and you, in your time,
you run to web-search
every time you get a pimple
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
She was an old Mid-western woman.
She was a distinct type.
A stock-staple character,
Sort of half Beverly Hillbillies Granny,
Throw in a skosh Betty White,
Mixed in with a lot of that old lady
In Driving Miss Daisy.
Southern Indiana:
The Confederacy’s best kept secret.
But I digress.
She was my neighbor in Buckeye, Arizona,
A quaint agrarian township, way out
At the west end of Maricopa County, which is
An hour from the Phoenix airport, the so-called
Sky Harbor International Airport,
Which surely must be near the list’s top:
All-time most pretentious,
Hyperbolic Chamber of Commerce,
Municipal Boosterisms.
Wikipedia English - The Free Encyclopedia
Boosterism: the act of "boosting" (or promoting) a town, city, or organization, with the goal of improving public perception of it. Boosting can be as simple as "talking up" the entity at a party or as elaborate as establishing a visitors' bureau. It has been somewhat associated with American small towns. Boosting is also done in political settings, especially in regard to disputed policies or controversial events.
So, without thinking,
Walking down the driveway
To pick up the morning paper,
I let it slip:
“How are you?”
She’s leaning over the hedge,
As I bend down,
Picking up the local Pravda.
35 minutes later she sums up:
“I had to go to the doctor last night.
Gave me some cream for my pud.”
A twinkle in her eye—
She, my lascivious,
Old lady neighbor
In Buckeye, Arizona.
She had that sweet Mid-western thing
Working for her, her regional mojo.
And I’m right there on her wavelength:
The apple not falling far from my tree,
Or something like that . . .
I am losing my train of thought, here.
Last poem of the day, I guess.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
Experience true love and proper death
in a single moment lasting longer than the average breath.
Feel every emotion under the fake-tan-sun-lamps
for the price of a walk and the Queen's head upon a stamp.
Talk about conversations you had in corridors with ex-girlfriends
with a clouded look back, blurred by your own camera lens.
Preach your side of the debate, recite Wikipedia pages,
listen and retaliate dangerously with more stolen words.
Holding hands under bedsheets and duvets and borrowed blankets
means absolutely nothing, like rain falling around those dog days.
Hot days and cold days and no days and everydays are the final lap,
finish, breath, throw up bits of sick and leave the stadium lonesome.
Walk away when the light is right
so the rings around your eyes look like jovial creases
instead of broken bits of I didn't last long pieces.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
what a wonderful coincidence to discover that when I look up
one of my two favorite words
threshold
it is linked to my other favorite word
phenomenon
but my life is laced with coincidence
my third favorite word
they happen daily
like itches
for instance,
today I did a wikipedia search for Ezra Pound
because my poetry student daughter fell in love with one of his pieces
I find that from 1945 to 1958
Mr Pound was incarcerated at St Elizabeth's Psychiatric Hospital in Washington D.C. after being found incompetent to stand trial
for treason against the United States
my father worked at St Elizabeth's hospital for 30 years
including the 12 that Mr. Pound was a patient
my father, who kept his poetry hidden in a little black book
I have a vision of him
young at the time
enamored with the 60 plus year-old poet
seeking him out and finding him
resting outside at one of the tables
enjoying the simplicity and intricacies of nature
and perhaps they have a chat about poetry...
my father having a chat with Ezra Pound
70 years before his granddaughter falls in love
with one of his poems
a poem already written and filed away somewhere in the memory of a once beloved poet
threshold: the magnitude or intensity that must be exceeded for a certain reaction, phenomenon, result or condition to occur or be manifested.
“nothing happens until the signal passes the threshold”
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC