1/1/14
I'm living right across the street from Central Park. It's 30 degrees outside with a wind chill factor of possible frostbite. I'm indoors early; tomorrow is back to business.
I think in verse, a funky kinda slanted/slashed rhyme scheme meme.
I have great difficulty witing prose because of the tendency to verbosity over wit.
There is much work to be done at my house in Laguna Niguel. Flooring, plumbing and new appliances for the kitchen. I want to sand the kitchen cabinets, varnish.
Polish the concrete floors and wood in the living room.
12/31/14
I'm going back to the real world soon. Back to the
bump-and-grind on the mindless expanse of expressway
that is southern California.
Orange County grew its last orange decades ago; long before
I landed on the shore of Laguna Beach.
10-8-11
In celebration of a certain simile
I like your I as far as eye can see.
All good things come to an end- this is true, but only because all things, good or otherwise, come to an end.
All bad things come to an end- this is the realization that keeps me from jumping off the nearest tall building.
promises and lies are the same- the exchange of carbon dioxide for oxygen
words are thin as water vapor and melt on contact
is it possible to live a long and honorable life?
|
I think I found the name for my band
Organic Shrapnel-
When a suicide bomber goes off, flesh and bone are propelled outward with such velocity that it can penetrate the skin of those nearby. Survivors can develop infection weeks later as it rots under the skin. There's your visual, Method actors! |
Happiness is an act of resistance
Noam Chomsky suggested a fart-in as a method of protest many years ago. Since reading that, I wonder whether any protesters have employed said method. I would think it would make the news if a group tried to pull this off. Imagine a gathering of Veterans Against the War, a potluck of beans, cabbage and cauliflower beforehand, literally blasting the doors off Congress. Power to the people!
I reside on the dark side of the moon
and drink from a glass half-there
I eat from a silver spoon
and walk on water when not floating on air.
I live in a house on the hill
just down the street from the School of Hard Knocks
the green house with the red windowsills
the purple plum trees and the big box
garden where my veggies grow
and where i spend my days in admiration
of Hedra and the way she so
elegantly embroiders her contemplations,
words writhing on the page like Ivy on a red brick wall.
a friend is someone who spellchecks before you carve it into your flesh.
there's a dying man
in the living room. Elliot Smith- some lines bend my mind just right
The air is warm. The sun is out and there are so many things to do.
It's 12:25 and I'm stuck here.
12:52 27 minutes later and all i've accomplished is making a cup o' coffee.
Discipline is the way to success.
When asked how he made the light bulb, Edison replied that first he made 1000 that didn't work.
it'll pass, i know
but right now
there's no denyin'
that i'm dyin', just a little
more and more each day.
it's a common malaise that afflicts the affluent
a kind of gout of the soul,
leaving one's mind tender to the touch
of reason and its attendant responsibilities. It's all too much
this call to action when
i'd rather just
gather dust
right there in that chair by the fire.
a well-crafted metaphor is the pinnacle of creative thought.
i was once told to write, regardless of the lack of inspiration- and so i am writing, lacking inspiration. 3 hours daily, any topic or no topic, with diligence. this will make one a writer.
if i had discipline i wouldn't be able to write. it is my inability to fathom any kind of real job that has enabled me to imagine living. i think of trees and lakes, communion with snakes and angels. i pray when i recognize the spirit of flowers and stars, thanking God for all that is good. i don't know how to care for the cost of gas and the evils attendant to the compromises forced upon us all. thanking God for all that is good.
i wanna be there to care for others but i seldom see beyond my own moment.
a man of strong appetite, a connoisseur of fine tastes, a fat f**k who only cares for what he consumes.
all the while forgetting to thank God.
Van Morrison sings in the background of a brown-eyed girl i'll never know
he tells me she's beautiful and i look for her everywhere
she died shortly after the release date.
the spur of the moment
the moment the spur grinds into your mind
poking holes thru the thin membrane that holds
your brain in place
the race is on to find
the perfectly polished words that make your pain sound cool
you can search high and low
but every fool knows that inspiration will find you
at the spur of the moment.
i'm stuck here- right here
"Whatta you lookin' at?"
the fear pulsing anger into my face, turning
the corners of my mouth into a wicked sneer
full of contempt and disgust but don't worry
it's just a momentary burning.
painkillers pushing my eylids down
there was no pain until i took them, now
the mind wanders down dark alleys, brown
fungal pathways between the valleys of the hows
and the whys, down and around the crown of thorns
behind my brow,where i keep my doubts
and frustrations within easy reach.
guest poet Kay Ryan
Turtle
Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet,
she can ill afford the chances she must take
in rowing toward the grasses that she eats.
Her track is graceless, like dragging
a packing-case places, and almost any slope
defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical,
she's often stuck up to the axle on her way
to something edible. With everything optimal,
she skirts the ditch which would convert
her shell into a serving dish. She lives
below luck-level, never imagining some lottery
will change her load of pottery to wings.
Her only levity is patience,
the sport of truly chastened things.
i wish i knew Kay; this poem is transcendent in its mastery of rhyme- brilliant.
Goodbye is literally 'until we see each other (meet) again' or 'let's see each other again'
Goodbye (speaking to one person) ... do-na-da-`go-v-i
Goodbye (speaking to a group) ... do-`da-ga-g`hv-i
O-si-yo (t)do-`hi-tsu (t)`o-si-gwu o-gi-na-li-go-hi tsi-lu -gi i-tse di-gi-ne-li a-ya wa-ya a-di-si da-gi-`lv-wi-sta-ne-`he da-de-yo-hv-s-gv tsa-la-gi
Hello, how are you? I am fine. We welcome new friends. I am Running Wolf.
I will be working, Teaching Tsalagi.
The word of the week is:
Today (ko-hi-`i-`ga)
wa-do
Thank you.
Wa-ya A-di-si
Running Wolf
"The secret to being a writer is that you have to write. It's not enough to think about writing or to study literature or plan a future life as an author. You really have to lock yourself away, alone, and get to work." Augusten Burroughs
These are the ladies of literature,
girls in fact, trying on ideas like the latest fashions.
Passions rise at the perfect fit-
for Alice, the wit of Wilde brings out the crazy in her eyes,
and Jasmine lives her own Three Penny Opera.
Rachel and Jess continue their quest for the perfect word;
Julia is busy turning her doubt inside out while
Chloe can be heard on the street, keeping the beat.
a great poet once said
" I know that nobody really feels older than fifteen." She's 15 herself- how can she know this? the truth of it is more evident for me with each passing year and each dead friend but i'm 47. she could live 3 lives and still be 2 years younger.
yet i believe her assertion to be true; anecdotally sure, but it adds up for me.
on the quest for peace of mind
i searched at albertson's grocery
among the things i did find:
a melon, sticky and ripe
strawberries, bright red and stippled with seeds
jumbo scallops on sale, striped bass
and wheatgrass juice.
i filled my cart and carried on
searching in the hardware section i did not find
the key to my nephew's jail cell.
i looked thru the medicine aisle and did not find
the cure for my sister's hypochondria
nor the elixir that would melt my ulcer away.
i drove to san clemente with a friend, then saw the new james bond film. fast and furious would have been a better title. the movie was great but only because it was free. it was ridiculously implausible and the jump cuts made me dizzy but the chase scenes were exhilerating.
the hardest part of growing up is missing those you've lost along the way.
what is the point of pain?
no, not the point that seems to be burying itself in your heart
i mean the reason, the why of it all.
Beavis and Butthead said it was because on account of
you gotta have the funky so's you can recognize the good.
(brief aside- everyone in my memory is a hillbilly, even the brits.)
this was funny when they were talking about a particularly bad album
or the fact that they were out of beer. it even seemed relatively profound.
it helps to smoke pot when searching mtv for profundity.
this reasoning is not very elastic, however,
in that the humor is lost when regarding anything worse
than the scenarios described.
i wish i could slither
seems to me it could be rather fun.
slide the soap along the skin and lather up
until you slip
write for 3 hours a day, everyday- that is discipline. 30 minutes at a time and my mind starts to wilt unless i'm guided by the furious delusion i know as inspiration.
just spill it out, edit later- this makes perfect sense but i find it none too easy. the sloshing about in my skull makes me queasy and blurs my vision.
pierced like St. Sebastian
blood flowing all over my white polo
pooling on my wingtip shoes
dripping from the silver tips of my braided bolo
while i wonder why and whose idea it was that i
should go on wondering at all.
well, it seems i've crossed the line with one of my fine young friends here. not that line, sicko, the friend/annoying old person line. i was recently thanked for my advice-ugh. when i was a teenager, "thanks for the advice" was a polite way to deflect annoying oldsters; better translated as "i stopped listening a long time ago grandpa." if you live long enough, life will travel full-circle and you will find yourself under the watchful gaze of a teenager every bit as sarcastic as you ever were, eager to embrace every inconsistency as proof of your hypocrisy.
i'm sure i read too much into it; my knees hurt and i'm feeling 47 years old today.
i was told long ago to never start a letter with the word i.
i did it anyway because i'm extremely self-centered.
i continue to rule over everything and everyone that crosses my path.
i feel pretty good this morning as i accomplish nothing.
i feel pretty good this morning as i accomplish.
i feel pretty good this morning as i.
i feel pretty good this morning as.
i feel pretty good this morning.
i feel pretty good this.
i feel pretty good.
i feel pretty.
i feel good.
i feel nothing.
i feel i.
wop bopaloobop alop bam boom
47 years have gone by now. i have shaped my life as my life has shaped me. none of this was planned.
sharp pain emanates from my shoulders as i try to grasp some sense from the smell of the wind.
i'm a wild animal who never chose to be, just was, and is, with no effort exerted for or against, a soul just along for the ride.
there is a purpose to life and that purpose is- drum roll please- to wonder.
i'm wondering how much more of this ride i can handle.
Hell is a construct of the Catholic Church, meant to keep the masses in the shackles of fear and doubt.
Those who have been called will hear this in their hearts. God is love.
have you ever loved someone so much that it physically hurts?
i look into her eyes and welcome the pain.
it tastes like bitter chocolate moonshine.
lose the second line- too vampire schoolgirl.
i like the idea of the flavor of pain. i'll bet you know the taste.
my car is fixed again and running better than ever. how long will this last?
mmmmm i wish
you could hear the rumble of a sigh
building in my heart when i stop
to think of you it stops too stop.
mmmmmmm wishing you could hear the rumble
of a sigh building in my heart
when i stop to think
of you, it stops too.
purple was Jimi Hendrix'z favorite color. Jimi Hendrix was the greatest guitarist ever. are you listening?
the haze was purple.
The Mad Philosopher sistah
is a direct descendant of the Emperor of Mars
who noticed one day
Murakami-hime as she bathed among the stars.
He spied upon her supple beauty
as she brushed the moondust from her hair.
Transfixed, the Emperor convinced himself
"'tis not base lust; duty keeps me here."
A true Goddess is she, and never to be caught unaware
knowing full well the wanderings of gods and men,
she took her ablutions there, allowing the Emperor to
see her on his march across the sky.
when you can hear the written scream, that is literature. i hope to get there someday.
she creates worlds with words
she swings thru dark skies on bats' wings
she rocks energy of birds of prey
she wears primary colors to warn away
the thug-monkeys who would steal her dig.
she be love and got me in knots
and so i go
on and on andonandon
a word, a way,
a world away from the day i find
peace in a world not of man's making.
wherefore art thou? in a building near St. Mark's Square?
in a temple in Kandahar or on the far side of nowhere? I believe Lord
You are here and there and ever
and all i see is living testament of You.
Sumbitch missed the Super Bowl
my cousin was found dead in his bed. heart attack is the prevailing theory at this point.
Ricky Dicus was a kind-hearted loving man; dead at 56.
he was a king and a pauper
a troubador and a prince
and he will live forever.
it's weird to me how people stay dead. that's ridiculous i know, but i keep thinking it's too awful to be real. my cousin is still dead. he'll remain so long after i've ceased to think about him but right now i keep expecting someone to explain the mistake to me because this can't be real.
i spent 20+ years working with old and terminally ill people; dressed a lot of bodies, went to alot of funerals. but these were old and/or very sick people. sudden heart attacks suck.
we haven't seen each other in years but i always figured we'd get together again- i suppose we will yet.
the recurring story
re-occurring dreams
unfulfilled ideas because i didn't
believe enough to sweat
the salt from my eyes.
i'm preparing for the inevitable, gathering resources for maybe 3 more trips around the sun. i'm ok with this although there are so many places i've yet to see- my life has just begun. it's as if the first time you see the sun, it is in full eclipse.
the Japanese have a belief that we all get 50 years. anything after that is a bonus, anything less a tragedy. i wanna see chicago before i die. that sounds more melodramatic than i meant. i've always wanted to visit chicago. Jasmina Josic was my girlfriend in 7th grade. she had moved to our small town in arkansas from chicago. to hear her tell it, Chicago is the greatest place on earth.
Hi Clown- I hope you are doing well and finding some happiness.
another poem i wish i wrote
First it was five above, then two,
then one morning just plain zero.
There was a strange thrill in saying it.
It's zero,
I said when you got up.
I was pouring your coffee
and suddenly the whole house made sense:
the roof, the walls, the little heat registers
rattling on the floor. Even the mortgage. Zero,
you said, still in your robe.
And you walked to the window and looked out
at the blanket of snow on the garden
where last summer you planted carrots
and radishes, sweet peas and onions,
and a tiny rainforest of tomatoes
in the hot delirium of June.
Yes, I said, with a certain grim finality,
staring at the white cap of snow on the barbecue grill
I'd neglected to put in the garage for winter.
And the radio says it could go lower.
I like that robe, it's white and shimmery,
and has a habit of falling open
unless you tie it just right.
This wasn't the barbarians at the gate.
It wasn't Carthage in flames, or even
the Donner Party. But it was zero, by God,
and the robe fell open.
i'm losing my mind and i'm kinda ok with that.
it was getting old and dusty anyway.
hope is corny and tastes like cheese. i need hope to breathe.
13 minutes until the end
and the seconds pile up, 12 minutes
until the end and time beats
you down and 45 seconds more
then 11 minutes thump thump
thump thump syncopated pop
and you're not making any sense
and you're 5 minutes from the future
12:29 am 3/5/9
the clock is wrong
perpetually 3 minutes
on the other side of now
that's how i start and end
each day and every night.
gotta get up in the morning and make something of the day. i've padded my sick time to the limit.
worked my a*s off today and feeling better for it. it's nice to be able to pay the bills.
she's in the kitchen making strawberry jam just the way i like it- not too sweet.
i smear it on toast with blue cheese- delicious.
on an uninspired rock, no fountain in sight
thirsty for the possibility of more than profit, the light
of righteousness far greater illumination than the shiniest metal or medal.
there's truth buried in the oddest places
one must care and that is the hardest part. i'm rambling
and why should you care when i can't?
i'm stuck here with no ideas. am i a poet or a narcissist? my life is a fiction- why can't i assemble it into something worthwhile? i eye i eye i eye i eye i eye i see nothing but narcissistic bs everywhere i look. that's right- it is all about me-Faah Q. if i stare at the monitor long enough i can feel the back of my eyeballs.
would vince van gogh have been a great painter if his manic personality had been treated with prozac or paxil? i started prozac one month ago and am wondering if i should refill-
ponder, ponder long and wander far into the throng
do battle with the ignorance of fortunes past and those that never had
when i wonder long enough
my mind begins to wander past
the point of no return
hello.
zen e-buddy out there?
my relatives who are still trapped in arkansas desperately want out. can't blame them but you can't buy a house around here for 50k. i told them they'd better invest in an annual park pass for the local campgrounds and give the pets away.
these days i wander thru the wires
looking for the one
in Bible verses the conspiracies add up
to salvation and resurrection taught
war and destrution wrought and the evil of earnest performance
art brought down upon the foamy heads at the poetry bar. it's enough
to drive one to the brink
of freedom, i think we need more-
i have to quit burning the ganja. i think it is beginning to liquify my brain.
there ain't much left to burn
time is winding down kids
or up, however you turn the phrase
just know there is nothing sacred anymore
i know what it is to feel life slipping away
i have held the dying close and felt the last
flutter of breath, the shudder of muscles
grinding against time, chipping away at the will until surrender.
a new moment, a new font, a new tap for my inspiration
gotta grab with all my fingers, thumbs be damned as they catch the keys
at odd angles i ever enter every space and then
some body throws head-to-toe into the mix.
and so i said "so-and-so said"
and so began an awful sin, ensnaring
souls as it gathered speed on tongues of fire
wild and distorting
whether hurled in the fury of the moment
or sweet deceit whispered into a lover's heart
happy birthday CMT- i hope you had a day of celebration. 17? you are still so blessed young and you are gonna enjoy your days. i'm glad you are out there somewhere and am sure God will reveal Himself and His plan for you- just listen.
i ain't no preacher and not about to start now other than to say i pray for you blessings, wisdom and strength. keep writing.
baking a cake at 1 a.m. for no other reason than nobody cares.
a ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face-
Visions of Johanna- Bob Dylan
2:49 pm 4/19/09 SoCal
a moment in time-western local
a trick of the mind, an imposition
by arrogant men on the machinations of G-d.
Guest Poet Alice Bridgwood
With those words, Joe.
A perfect perfect flow
rises easy as a note
from deft lips and slips
to mingle unnoticed
in it's fluidity
with the bloodstream,
making pins and needles tingle
down spines, scorns the idiocy
of lesser rhyme,
and all is lesser than Joe's delight
in skipping through language
like child over rope,
never tripping, though vivid enough
to make us feel we are.
9:49 pm Friday 5/12/09
it's late and i have to get up early but..I wanted to squeeze the day thru my brain and see what comes out.
I helped a friend clear out her father's house. he died and left behind a huge number of books and a funky tux.
I read the usual websites and felt the usual outrage and impotence when confronted with an impending apocalypse.
I wandered far and wide and deep into the folds of my brain and found only a fine sand in the creases.
i got words in my stomach and songs in my eyes
and all i drink about is you.
8:52 pm Sunday June 28 quiet, just the thrumming of the computer and the tap of the keyboard. i can taste the air- metallic and stale, like hard water
sound and fury, signifying nothing. that is what i think of overly sentimental writing.
there's a rhyme in me, i know cuz i can feel the itching
it's just behind the eyeballs, a certain twitching of neurons
Apocalyptic wanderings are all I see when I look into the crystal ball
A future intriguing, not fearful, remembered with an exhale of heart and hope.
Twist it one thousand ways into the pretzel called "author's intent".
And these are my vices:
impatience, bad temper, wine,
the more than occasional cigarette,
an almost unquenchable thirst to be kissed,
a hunger that isn't hunger
but something like fear, a staunching of dread
and a taste for bitter gossip
of those who've wronged me"for bitterness"
and flirting with strangers and saying sweetheart
to children whose names I don't even know
and driving too fast and not being Buddhist
enough to let insects live in my house
or those cute little toylike mice
whose soft grey bodies in sticky traps
I carry, lifeless, out to the trash
and that I sometimes prefer the company of a book
to a human being, and humming
and living inside my head
and how as a girl I trailed a slow-hipped aunt
at twilight across the lawn
and learned to catch fireflies in my hands,
to smear their sticky, still-pulsing flickering
onto my fingers and earlobes like jewels.
strung out on adrenaline and cynicism
spun tight around the finger of ---------
and lovin' it unreservedly and without
twisting thru an afternoon on the winds of-----------
armed with cliches and innuendo i enter
the battle has only begun.
beginning to wonder if i'll ever write again, beyond stupid exercises like this i mean. thoughts spew forth with no rhyme nor reason and the season for ignorance is here.
can you find a rhythm through sheer insistence/persistence?
akhu9nd.isF;I',P9IQP9,msz-m,9
1 allinallisallweknow?
=
=
[=O0IKOEWOUM;O8UK'PIU,po,'r658:imieeeej'oe[
[
c]f-;.[
pi0i,gb[0iv cz
a[j84gkmmo9b[]'PLJ
i see the pictures in my head but the time stamps are missing. memories are like projectiles sparking at the points of contact with my skull. huh?
i imagine this s**t i'm living with now will end- when least expected and at the most inconvenient time.
this page is about exhibitionistic self indulgence.
Prowling churches and truck stops @ 2 am
I don't go to church- too much misinformation.
I loved the time I spent in college and look forward to returning some day. Education is worth what you put into it.
I spend less time worrying than I did when I was younger. I think I've learned where most dangers can be found and thus how to avoid them.
I enjoy most of the music I hear on a few select radio stations- internet radio is da bomb!
I am trying to impress clowns.
I roll out of bed ready. I live and work at home and have no hair to comb.
I am genuinely happy for a small part of every day. I feel God blessed me with hope.
I don't believe anyone has had an original thought since the Flood. Art is in the execution.
I try not to get caught up in comparing myself to others because it's a loser's game. Jesus Christ is supposed to be the model I strive to emulate; all other comparisons are without merit as I cannot know another person's heart.
Every life is built on a foundation of decisions made to that point. This is a why a person should think carefully.
I wonder if anyone can answer that question honestly.
I read the front page today
a bad decision, for my anxiety FLARED UP
and I could not sit down for fear of falling all the way
another day, another font
another opportunity
to scrape the resin from the dome of my skull,
spread it on milquetoast and serve it with tea
Been dreaming lately,
walking faraway hills and riding yaks
in Outer Mongolia
while the fluid drips
micrograms per millimeter per minute.
I see so many long-lost loves
and escape so many precious bores
and live so many different lives
and see so much more from this hospital bed.
8:55 pm 12/25/09
merry Christmas and a happy New Year
the holidays are on, the tree is lit
and so am I.
me and memory
out for a ride
down Main Street in Hot Springs
and along the riverside in Tulsa.
Done the Jesus dance too many years now
and don't believe He ever fell for it, anyway.
Better to honestly drink openly to Horus,
for that is who was born today.
G-d did not crucify His Son to facilitate sales.
I came up with my drag-queen alias: Roxanna Hardplace
throwing stones into the river Styx
12:33am Tuesday, May 4
Nirvana is determining the thrust of my fingers now and streams of consciousness are converging in my highly acidic stomach
AllApologies- I have so many- easily amused
I'll take all the blame in the sun.
I love music. How can anyone see stars and hear music and smell roses and deny the majesty of Creator?
Segue-where will my playlist take us now?
Dylan, the man who helped me realize just how alone I'll always be, and to find the beauty in unsustainable passions.
Visions of Johanna conquer my mind as ghosts howl through the bones of her face.
Can you feel these words with me? It's a new place this world, yet pain will always sound like a harmonica when played with soul.
Rhythm is feeding me again for the first time in a long while. I had forgotten how to hear soul for awhile; a blessing too often overlooked. I'm bouncing in my chair right now and looking forward to ghetting (keeping that typo) on with doing right. The Pogues are singing about Christmas in New York and I can feel it on my face. Loving being loved despite the fact that I'm an idiot; rich in friends and -how do I put it?- a troubador for hire.
It's been so f*****g surreal this last 48 years. I can't blame anyone else anymore because I'm a responsible man.
Warren Zevon-I was in the house when the house burned down. He was with me while I lived under the boardwalk in Laguna Beach, singing about the werewolves of Hyde Park. Segue further into the 21st century now while we listen to some real Seoul and then a twista Timbaland.
Stepping out of Her meteor shower
wrapped in rainbows, She rose
to Her seat among the stars. On Mars
they call Her Venus,
the Enchantress sets her sights on the man
who can make it reign.
words have failed me as of late, i have no way of knowing whaT TO SAY ANYMORE. WHEN OUTAND ABOUT, I SEE AND HEAR SO MANY ABSURDITIES; NOW I WONDER IF I EXIZT AS A PART OF SOMEONE'S MEMORY OF OBSERVED ABSURDITY.
ABSURDITY IN THE CITY IS WHAT I PAY FOR.turn caps off- words are not bullets.
"Lines Written During a Period of Insanity"
Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion,
Scarce can endure delay of execution,
Wait, with impatient readiness, to seize my
...................................Soul in a moment.
Damned below Judas: more abhorred than he was,
Who for a few pence sold his holy Master.
Twice betrayed Jesus me, the last delinquent,
...................................Deems the profanest.
Man disavows, and Deity disowns me:
Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;
Therefore hell keeps her ever hungry mouths all
...................................Bolted against me.
Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers;
Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors;
I'm called, if vanquished, to receive a sentence
...................................Worse than Abiram's.
Him the vindictive rod of angry justice
Sent quick and howling to the center headlong;
I, fed with judgment, in a fleshly tomb, am
...................................Buried above ground.
….….…................….….…
William Cowper
Many days I feel like Eddie Haskell, others
more like June. I always wanted to be Beaver Cleaver.
3/6/19
Still picking up the pieces since my last visit here.
This place is the scene of my best thought-crimes; at times
When YAH lit the way through the labyrinth, I cried out
In joy and exaltation- We are forgiven, and will live in the
Millennial Kingdom, HalleluYAH!
I have to make a million dollars by the end of never
I have to speak in click languages to impress as polyglottal
I was told long ago never to start a letter with "I". This is not a letter.
My brain burns and my heart makes an audible squish as it takes on more funk and sweat. I want to cry in Times Square; I want the world to wonder what my problem is.
Captain Crunch and Dirty Underwear.
A Poem by Chloe Madison Taylor.
George.
If this was once upon a time,
and I was a damsel and you werent my distress,
maybe instead of sitting at my computer
eating Captain Crunch out of an oversized bowl
rotting in my underwear and hatred for you
I'd be running outside right now
I'd throw open your car door
grab your gorgeous face in my shaking hands
suck the doubt right out of your lungs
and prove to you with one kiss this has nothing to do with fate.
Maybe it would even start raining,
Maybe we'd even start crying,
Maybe we'd end up in a passionate love scene,
which would then be followed by the rolling of credits
and a gag reel full of s****y acting.
Cause this is just s****y acting,
and I'm bleeding to death one period at a time
and last time I ran after you the carpet tried to eat my feet.
So my a*s is glued to this computer chair
guzzling down leftover milk and smoking myself to lung cancer
to the sound of your car tires scraping out of my driveway.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
