All year long it's iced coffee season,
in that hot tub or during a blizzard.
Filled to the brim bare bones bitter,
invigorated I am FINALLY awake.
You don't want to see me without it.
The temperature matches my mood,
hard and cold and utterly relentless.
Caffeine won't ever be the side piece.
Hot air never did too much for me.
I'll let warmth dissipate into action,
snowflakes make a strong brew swirl.
Caught up in the art of the freezing,
during the heat of an atomic summer
that drop dead shiver fires you up.
Twenty below or during a heatwave,
Iced coffee season is all year long.
If my head bone's connected to the...neck bone,
And my neck bone's connected to the...rib bone,
And my rib bone's connected to the...back bone,
And my back bone's connected to the...hip bone,
And my hip bone's connected to the...thigh bone,
And my thigh bone's connected to the...knee bone,
And my knee bone's connected to the...shin bone,
And my shin bone's connected to the...ankle bone,
And my ankle bone's connected to the...foot bone,
And my foot bone's connected to the...toe bone,
And my toe bone's connected to the...pay phone!
Wish I was connected to the...wish bone!
Plastic pink flamingos often placed in the front yard
to replace the candles of a birthday cake. I wonder
how old the neighborhood skeleton is…
—by Poet
Bare Bones
Yard skeleton fell over - first day.
The bones just collapsed - hip..hip..hurray!
Flamingoes took flight
from yard - out of sight.
It’s April second, he’s back today.
The fool of a frame, I’m disdaining.
The neighborhood, bones have been staining.
The spook is a joke.
He ne’er has awoke.
He’s barely all there and remaining.
Older chatbots, just like people, show signs of cognitive impairment, failing on several important metrics in a test normally used on humans. ~Drew Turney, Live Science, 02/16/2025
old AI
as demented
as I
enter into the abyss
of our poem
sail away
in the quiet time
of death
and bare bones
Dancing on my own grave,
both sides of the same coin;
The power’s in the flip;
Is it righteous or the night?
A slow waltz can give lip;
Dancing on my own grave
rattles the underground;
Unruly sounds fill the air;
Ombré locks dressed to kill,
a bit devil may care;
Dancing on my own grave
the necromancer moves;
Calling the wrong magic;
Bare bones expand wanting,
nowhere near poetic.
The expression ‘bare bones’ bothers
me because of what it implies
about all sorts of other bones, that
they have lots of meat on them
when the truth is they often don’t ~
like discount vs. economy-class
airline flights
Rico Leffanta is his name
Writing limericks is his game
Sometimes his tone
Becomes close to the bone
He is brilliant, just the same
Pretending he has all he needs.
On two wheels of ILLUSION, he rides his steed.
EVENTUALLY the ride is over.
To find him lying in a bed of clover.
Reminicing is his favorite game.
You'd never know he feels any shame.
Partytime comes and he fades away.
Attentive INFUSION leaves him in dismay.
Longing for a comfortable corner.
Always seems the INEVITABLE mourner.
Concience sighs with casual levity.
Evoking riches of unusual CREATIVITY.
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