Summer Games

Summer arrived a few months back,
and with it longer days.
The moon hangs higher every night,
stretching out it's rays of light.

In the midst of this phenomenon
our lives evolve from short to long.
The cobblestones of numbered days,
etching lines into my face.

Age not felt, yet time endures.

We know not when the cards were dealt,
nor how the fastball curves.
We will not know the actual rules
Until after the end occurs.

this was supposed to be the workings of a story, i guess it might still be, but this is what i wrote instead.

There’s a man in the shadows. Is it you?
There’s a man in the shadows. Missing you, missing you.
There is a man with tattooed fingers, that used to hold you.
There is a man broken down and lost without you.
A man who lost his lover. Missing you.

There is a man in the shadows. Laying your body down.
There is a man in the shadows. Missing you, missing you.
There is a man who lays his lover down on glass.
There is a man who has seen all that was you pass.

I lay you down my love. I lay you down.
I love you, now and then.
I love you, and remain.
Wrapped in gauze,
Lain on glass.

I’m a man who sits in the shadows,
I’m a man who sits in the shadows,
I’m crying for my loss, my loss
I’m crying for missing you, missing you

Where are you?
Where are you?
Where are you?
Sitting in the shadows.
I miss you
Sitting in the shadows.

MEDIA MAY MISS
MUSCLE MELEE: maybe moon
maladies mean meek.

US Americans get up from bed,
Eat breakfast, talk, rush out the door, must go.
Who knows why fighting happens, what is said?
There’s something happening, pulse up, time low.
The show’s a spectacle turned upside down,
And words are peaceful wasps’ nests, dramatized -
Be brave they say, be brave, ignore my frown.
What grips is action here, those smiles are prized.
US Americans now travel home,
Two in the morning, on a bus, the lights
And streaks of motion, pass me, cars flash chrome.
They name a feeling, late restaurant sights.
The machine hums; there’s words almost, you hear
A name, it’s yours. Then things move on, no fear.

On Politicians and the Presidency.

Doesn't matter who you are,
'cause you're not to be trusted.

You've taken things way too far,
and now those things are busted.

They'll never be the same again,
like before you went and fucked them.

The jagged ends will never mend,
we might as well just chuck 'em.

Feeling Sorry for Myself
- Charles Harper Webb


I start with a groan, swelling to a moan,
rising to a keen, ascending
to a shriek that tapers off in a thin wail.
I hug myself and, whimpering,
rock back and forth on my heels.
No one has ever known such sadness.
No one can grasp how I feel.

I smash an egg over each eye.
I smear my face with coal and pepper.
I wear a paper bag soaked through
with spoiled watermelon and pork grease.
I shred my happy past - my books,
pictures, and poems, published or not.
Ill never fly-fish again.

Ill never make love again.
Ill never sit outside and watch night
stretch its starry tent over the sky.
There will be no more metaphors.
I am more sorrowful than a sorrowing man.
Life has no more meaning to me
than a life without meaning.

My heart slows. My blood congeals
to brown, vein-clogging mush.
My stomach goes on strike; my colon
bars its door. People assume
Im terminal. They imagine what
would make them feel the way I look,
and project their paltry problems onto me.

As if they could fathom my misery
by waterwinging over its abyss!
My pain is too heavy to lift,
too vast to measure, too ineffable to name,
and incalculably too precious to share.
I dig my grave in a landfill, and topple in.
I rub dirt and dog droppings in my hair.

Ive sunk so low its funny; so I start to giggle.
Then to chortle. Then to roar. Mothers
clutch their bleating kids, and rush away.
Gangbangers dash to the far side of the street.
I crawl out of my grave, strip, and shower
with a gunk-filled water hose.
I shake and shiver, grinning, in the filthy air.

The Shipfitter's Wife
-Dorianne Laux

I loved him most
when he came home from work,
his fingers still curled from fitting pipe,
his denim shirt ringed with sweat
and smelling of salt, the drying weeds
of the ocean. I would go to him where he sat
on the edge of the bed, his forehead
anointed with grease, his cracked hands
jammed between his thighs, and unlace
the steel-toed boots, stroke his ankles,
his calves, the pads and bones of his feet.
Then I'd open his clothes and take
the whole day inside me-the ship's
gray sides, the miles of copper pipe,
the voice of the first man clanging
off the hull's silver ribs, spark of lead
kissing metal, the clamp, the winch,
the white fire of the torch, the whistle
and the long drive home.

80's Action Movies in the Afternoon

[not] lost in translation

everyone wants to be found
whether you sit and wait
or go looking yourself
the need, the drive is there
different ways for everyone
multiple translations of single phrases
swirling in the void between two people
until you realize...
i'm not lost anymore.

quote:

Originally posted by Boogerhead:
Summer Games

Summer arrived a few months back,
and with it longer days.
The moon hangs higher every night,
stretching out it's rays of light.

In the midst of this phenomenon
our lives evolve from short to long.
The cobblestones of numbered days,
etching lines into my face.

Age not felt, yet time endures.

We know not when the cards were dealt,
nor how the fastball curves.
We will not know the actual rules
Until after the end occurs.

love this one, Boog

did I get everythin wrong or are you two gettin spliced? as in married? or have oyu done the deed?

if not, me halloooosinatin'

‘08

The lighting of a candle signifies
A birthday, mine, but now that I’m alone
That differs, red wax, heat against old lies,
Exchange of words and looks, days passing, tone.
It’s okay, writing sonnets, fancy that,
Pretending one’s romantic, of that school
That’s extinct by a century, once sat
And wrote the same as I, but much more cool.
I quite believe that they encountered verse
Because an equal woman meant hot sex,
While most back then were made less, bond a curse,
And less meant worse, the common muscle flex.
So much for poetry and birthdays past,
A candle, as I trust to hope and last.

quote:

Originally posted by Aisha:

quote:

Originally posted by Boogerhead:
Summer Games

Summer arrived a few months back,
and with it longer days.
The moon hangs higher every night,
stretching out it's rays of light.

In the midst of this phenomenon
our lives evolve from short to long.
The cobblestones of numbered days,
etching lines into my face.

Age not felt, yet time endures.

We know not when the cards were dealt,
nor how the fastball curves.
We will not know the actual rules
Until after the end occurs.

love this one, Boog

did I get everythin wrong or are you two gettin spliced? as in married? or have oyu done the deed?

if not, me halloooosinatin'

Next June.

Cyberpunk Poetry
lines blur at the edges of my vision
i punch in fast forward
bypass the intricate passgates with a well-timed key-tap
hover over the wire-framed world
neon pulsing grids beneath every surface
scan the horizon checking landmarks
avoiding fangroups flashing avatars made of mashups
location found i vector in slowly
the WGB community site unfolds around me
'Net home, post-locational
hey guys, hows life.

"Help wanted!" the poster said
but there was no picture
no bounty
Who the hell
is this Help anyway,
pondering,
I clicks my tongue
to Queen Victoria 'cause
I don't likes to use spurs
if I is not fleeing the Apache
or enraged Molly

caffiene rushes in
replacing blood completely
my eyes are bugging

The anarchy cheer
leaders rush by, like drinks tossed -
cut scene to more chords.

Vote for my poem.

Crates of apples
on the floor
of a barn
a swinging door
on creaking hinges
flashes brightly
dazzling sunlight
and a field
of dandelions

Just thought I'd share this:
one of the thoughts that popped into my mind that got me going on this poem, was a song from Saturday Night Live - from a skit on female Country singers when Jennifer Aniston was on. Amy Poehler I think sang:

Ain't nothin' cuter
Than a fat country baby
Eatin' peaches
Off a hardwood flooor

Shit, I’m still in bed with a Russian girl,
A party card tattooed on her left breast,
Still brings me up, that hammer, sickle furl:
I’m USA, gone seventy years, lest.
Who helps the man who wants more, works for it?
I’ve stood in Washington, stared at a bed
That people left their lives on, sign to fit:
Don’t touch - the Holocaust Museum - read.
Well suck my dick in line, who has my vote?
Which clown suit fits the fancy, knows the lies?
Obama or McCain, who else of note?
Whose suit is for the freedom fighter’s ties?
What makes sense, Russian girl, please answer this,
A question as I make the rudest kiss.