Leather and oak
Whiskey and smoke
Exhaled in a languid defense
Of an evening that’s spent
In a mist of ferment
That eventually lifts all pretense
Quietly tight
As you sip through a night
Of forgetting the reason you came
Asking, no doubt
What your life is about
And then looking for someone to blame
Feeling at ease
‘Til the moment you seize
On a thought that you thought you had lost
Wondering why
You believed in the lie
And then categorizing the cost
Leaving a tip
Like a bargaining chip
To the sad patron saint of the waiting
Hoping to gain
Some relief from the pain
In the arms of sweet equivocating
On your way home
You’re no longer alone
As you walk about talk about trust
Like a moth to the flame
You dissolve in the shame
Of the heat and the light of your lust
In the morning once more
You have evened the score
And your ego’s exacted its price
So you say your goodbye
And you try not to cry
For the loneliest act of your life
Bigotry is ignorance
Bigotry is not meeting but maybe one person in a certain category.
Bigotry is categorizing all people into the same box
based on crazy things
like religion, the color of their skin,
even their hair color if you truly get down to it.
How many times have you heard:
all blondes are dumb? All old people are senile? All bald headed men are virile?
Bigotry is no here near pure and simple
It is also not totally absolute or self-assured.
I was once told by Matt who was a racist against Polish people,
“My sister could never marry a Pole.”
I asked “What if the Polish man was super nice?”
It would not matter.
“What if the Polish man was kind to the entire family?”
I would not care.
I got serious now.
This is America after all.
I asked him, “What if the Polish man was rich?”
Here is where things changed.
“How rich?”
“Rich enough to buy you a new car so you would change your mind about him.”
“That would be different, he said,” no bigot at all, when it came to money.
The essence of everything
parades in my mind’s heart
categorizing items into cages
in a variety of dwellings
Overwhelming my dendrite highway
actually putting her off her feed
to make sense of mysterious ideas
I fall into a deep sleep to escape
Upon awakening my idealism is unclear
My thoughts are foggy, but feel less daunting
I wander in my imagination for a bit
processing nothing, but beginning anew to create.
how to add poem subject categorizing words other than those shown below
They're on the wall is a self-portrait of me
In a small local art gallery
A small group of people looking at the picture
There are few who agree look at his Eyes
Look at his eyes
I show no smile no teeth lips put together
In awe and I wonder why are they still looking
Wondering still why are they still standing and continue staring
I'm still mesmerized and why they still categorizing
Yet to my surprise they still say as I asked why
They silently chant whisper and all look at his eyes
Look at his eyes
For the eyes are the mirror to the soul
Look at them they're so golden and round brown and bold
And all the world's dysfunction and turmoil
And if I if I can see he has peace in his soul
Whether this like knowledge to whether it is known
It is truly shown I can see it on the wall the painting of his face
Shows no shame no disgrace such a beautifulness
And it's all shown in his eyes in his eyes
He has the peace of God
In his eyes for you see this is my self portrait on the wall
08/20/2017
An alter in an altercation? No. That is merely the result of a lemon fruited display of a quite fruity pie. Or could it be an orbital orange? Or lake of lime? In time digestions of peas is quite charismatic when absorbed with the milk of a leaf. But categorizing caterpillars is just not wise. Wood pigeon wood pigeon woo woo woo. And the clap of a shaft from an otherwise dormant cave. Fringe of a bag is the shroud of a hag and a hag is neither a coat, nor a cousin. Nor is it a beetle belly flopping in a nine acre pond. Dip dab dip then. Erotic notifications of a zenith steel stew. Such rambunctious ramifications and a ram baaa baaaa baaaaaa. Wow. Quite fascinating isn't it? Really. Compose not a compost. And graze no gravel. How eradicated. How interesting. Hahahahaha carrots can can . No hahaha but hahaha to frozen flowers imported from Dubai. Capital airport with a p y q. Under umbrellas view. Style. Xxxxx constipation z c v b z z z m
It's the course of every love song.
It's the tempo of every good bye.
The tone behind "I'll love you forever",
And the reason behind a midnight cry.
Maybe she's the girl who never noticed
Or he's the boy who never cared.
Regardless we stay awake night after night,
Wishing they were there.
It really makes no sense
For us to wish for more pain,
But it's better to pretend they know and care
Than sit alone, remembering yesterdays.
But once the fog has cleared,
And they are gone from our lives,
Are we freed from a curse
Or were they a blessing in disguise?
It's a stupid thing called life,
Filled with wonder and magic,
But it has an insane need
To turn everything beautifully tragic.
(10/24/13)
**For any poem wizards out there, if I ever label my poems incorrectly please tell me. I am terrible at categorizing and just put everything pretty much as free verse or I don't know. So if you know that it belongs elsewhere please let me know, it wouldn't be rude and you'd actually be doign me a huge favor. Thanks!**
hospitality, peace and mutual respect; we’ve chosen
because the key to our prosperity is love, unity and cooperation
settlers now on the cheat as our true identity is kept frozen
but no matter what! We will reverse it with our landmark ordination
the threats against our heritage and culture may have risen
it has kept us unique, unshakable and uncompromising
though there are bastard judases in every dozen
the failure and exposure of their deeds are amusing
the buckles of our identity we will never loosen
no matter how the invader tries strategizing
or putting our inheritance into some sort of categorizing
No! is the answer, none of us will lose being a complete citizen
At 3am you become your own philosopher, categorizing
the different genres of humans and wondering
if you fall even remotely close to anyone on the spectrum.
You debate with yourself the meaning of life, again,
and then regret everything you accomplished the previous day.
5am, that’s the breaking point.
The sun climbs out of bed, and chases away
the comforting lure of night and all dreams of slumber.
The damned birds start peeping and you curse and sigh,
watching the room change colours
until you must get up to join the others.
But 4am, it’s the gaping time of day
that even the insomniacs deny.
As if night took a deep breath and forgot to exhale,
the silence is quieter, the darkness more pure.
You hide under covers and stare into emptiness
trying to make something of black space
but your mind remains impossibly blank.
Tracing the envelope of my existence
i take a walk around the seams
checking for chinks in my fine armor
checking for holes along the way
trembling at the prospects of repair
feeling my own deep dispair
knowing that what it may seem
the way is always a little more
feeling now the far distant resistence
that dwells deep withing my heart
i find change is painfull and discourageing
but, i know it is my integral part
of growing and learning and stretching
please forgive me, the envelope,
trembling i take a peek inside
dividing the good from the bad
categorizing and depleteing the mess
organinzing and replete with the goodness
i lick the sticky stuff to seal it all inside
remembering that with a little steam
i can open the seam
and check it all out again and again
til i have the envelope of my existence
filled to the bream of my best sentence.
If my mind be painted in colors borrowed, would it be red?
Rusted in brown, or maybe instead, an indigo streak?
Depending upon the source of inspiration,
and the song on the radio at the time of connection...
I keep coming back to sea green,
or the blue of underwater murals at 3ft tall of childhood,
eyes wide in fickle, transient hazel
absorbing each moment, be it safe or unstable
categorizing each scent and each color
each love and each valor
each crisp Autumn, Summer
in vats of brain paint to be later unlidded
and splashed with insignias
of every person and place and event
that ever touched corneas innocent, bent
on absorption.
If my mind be painted, I think it be green
like the moment I'm lucid before I dip dreams
and hang them to dry in the gallery
"Mind's Eye"
and push to wake up to connect, signify
every sensory path that I've traveled before
to traipse them again and still come back for more.
I'm a stickler for art and with your canvas blank
my sweet innocent dear, with each word that you hear
you will brush stroke your way to uniqueness.
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