Yond their aggressive spoke reach
Their dark willed shadow's
Too loud, head, senseless bludgeons
Too close chills the heart
Life, here midst the bird and tree
Now but noted for
What gentler, more obliging
Preserves. At peace art!
In California today, 2025, city managers, attorneys, engineering
Work in an infrastructure of control without water fountains.
Micromanaged district supervision of States of legislature
Troughing below the poverty lines as entrance and exit serve the wills inheriting the labor of "housing" "something" without competing.
Prediction of 24 hours, 7 days, is enough hearing of you
Needn't be hear nor better with time in a second arrived
Lots full of practice and routine appearance
Essayists and poets marching
Into town halls to legislate
Creating labora frame
Georgia 5th had no time to talk
Once there stood a golden field,
Swaying crops, a farmer's yield.
Morning songs of birds took flight,
Beneath the sky so vast and bright.
The village paths, of dust and stone,
Where children laughed and cattle roamed,
Now paved with tar, so smooth and wide,
Where restless cars and buses glide.
The thatched-roof homes with lantern’s glow,
Replaced by lights in glassy rows.
The banyan tree where elders met,
Now stands alone in cold cement.
The riverbanks where stories flowed,
Now buried deep where buildings grow.
The marketplace of voices loud,
Now lost beneath a concrete crowd.
Yet in the heart of progress’ run,
Echoes of the past still hum.
For roots of earth, though hidden deep,
In memories, they softly keep.
- Phin Jiu
She sent back the last order, as well.
This time, she shook her head
like a dog in the rain,
like a posh-frock woman
having "a spell."
The brimming broth, she said,
had a bitterness that swelled
and stung between her cheeks,
and across her tongue.
It steamed with the scent
of turmeric and sweat,
a lipstick kiss in the basement
of the Red Grotto Used Bookstore,
of a Dominican girl, half her age,
in skin jeans and red sneakers,
pulling her by the hand
during Summer City Lit Festival
last year.
She claimed she craved the
steaming heat of our menu's
Andean soup,
but bones like razors waited
when she raised the brim
of the bowl to her lips.
Just like the wine she sent back,
she said that the broth bit her lip
with a vicious grin
when she closed her eyes,
opened wide,
leaned in,
and tried to love it
with the whole of her mouth.
We live in glass cities,
fragile as the truths we whisper
behind closed doors.
The streets hum with neon sighs,
faces reflecting off windows,
never quite meeting.
At night,
the skyscrapers lean in close,
as if to confess something
they can’t say aloud.
I walk,
barefoot on cold concrete,
hoping for a crack
to let the stars slip through.
I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.’
(The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act 3, Scene 2)
by Shakespeare
I have a real tale to tell
of two cities.
I need an author
of some note.
I heard of one whose
first name is Charles.
My name is Oliver and by
some twist of fate, I can’t
remember Charles’s last name!
… I see the bad moon a-risin'
I see trouble on the way
I see earthquakes and lightnin'
I see bad times today
… Don't go around tonight
Well it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise
… I hear hurricanes a-blowin'
I know the end is comin' soon
I fear rivers over flowin'
I hear the voice of rage and ruin
… Don't go around tonight
Well it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise, alright
There’s A Bad Moon On the Rise CCR
Nature’s Revenge
We have spilled oil
and dumped garbage on the ground.
We have left tons of junk in space
and paved over natural habitats.
We have put toxic chemicals in the water
and spread our cities far and wide.
We have multiplied for so long more
than 8 billion of us cover the earth
spreading and consuming like bacteria on a
petri dish.
Like that bacteria we too will consume all
resources and leave nothing but toxic waste.
Perhaps nature will take its revenge.
Paris is gay
Madrid sways
Munich's beer flows
Amsterdam's tulips grow
New York and Chicago
high grime and crime
San Fran and L.A. ~
Buddy, can you spare me a dime
Too many people
Too many buildings
Not enough grass
Not enough space
To get away from
Everyone if needed
I mean look at how far
You gotta go just to
Touch fields of grass
Makati is a beautiful place
Cities just aren’t for me.
The cities churn like a flock of seagulls
where fear comes from a broken unchained door
the masks of hunger hide in shadowed walls
fighting for scraps tossed on a filthy floor
buildings stand to decay where streets collide
garbage lay in piles, a strong smelly blight
change means nothing where the dying abide
to disturb the hate of a city's plight
children play where window glass is shattered
and the homeless sleep on cold darkened streets
where impoverished women's clothes are tattered
find their lives empty praying death defeats
Far from the rubble and graffiti walls
Greedy men of sworn oath toss scraps to gulls
I'll tell you about the Traffic Cop
Who stands on the road, a rigid prop.
A whistle in hand, a stern, fixed stare,
A battle with chaos, a daily affair.
His uniform was bright, a badge on his chest,
A symbol of order, put to the test.
He waves his arms, he shouts with might,
Trying to tame the traffic's plight.
He sees the rush, the honks, the speed,
A constant threat, a desperate need.
For patience, for care, for rules obeyed,
But drivers, it seems, are often swayed.
By haste, anger, ego, and pride,
Ignoring the warnings, they swiftly glide.
A world of impatience, a race to be won,
Leaving the officer feeling so undone.
He's seen accidents, tears, and pain,
A constant reminder of life's fragile chain.
He's faced with insults, with threats, with scorn,
A lonely figure, often forlorn.
Yet still he stands, with a steadfast heart,
Protecting lives, playing a vital part.
A guardian of roads, a symbol of law,
Deserving respect, a standing applaud.
So next time you see him, with the whistle in hand,
Remember the danger, the life in his stand.
Show gratitude, patience, and care,
For his service to all, beyond compare.
1.)
Slept most of my life
Forget the stress
The best kind of strife is the kind kept repressed
Every guy just gotta accept we’re inclined to becoming depressed
You’ll never cry
Except if you gotta a good reason why
Keep your eye dressed
If you’re clever
You’ll keep your tears dry
I’ve wept without the fear of needing to confess.
Nevertheless
I lived the most whenever I’ve slept
You’d never of guessed
But I’m not exactly proud of whatever life I lead.
2.)
Warnings that we’re never really heeding
Forget about any of the poor examples preceding
Family mourning
Forgetting why we’re even meeting
Take the better trout
The man learning surely doesn’t even need it
The drinks now pouring
The Moët your clinging to is fleeting
Without a doubt
The Moët your clinging is just fleeting.
Breathing in the luminous vapor that tastes like vanilla
While looking at illuminating our neon skyline
Since the moon and stars are veiled with the aluminium ceilings
Pastel rain that tastes of iron drips down from the blank sky
Seeing people as mannequins with implanted violet eyes
The brand-new craze in this blind and crazy world I would guess
With those in dark alleys selling a pink drink called “Rose Stardust”
A substance to give someone a kick since football is banned
Wearing my blue satin jacket while walking from my doctor
Hearing preachers in white preaching about “Moonlit Visions”
Some visions, or gnosis they call it, of some strange outside world
I ignore them and continue with my neon lit day
Is this city of iron skyscrapers what we wanted
Is there a world of sunlight outside this neon light city
An impetus purposed writes of two conceptual me; cuffed and uncuffed.
FIRST: The absolute is "London," a story riddled with facts; "Kingdom of Sweden ...," characters of notoriety and the usual drama of infidelity, innocence, loyalty, the young family, and of a kingdom's people. REALITY
The abstract is "Paris," a story riddled with fiction that writes as I go, "A Name if it be ...," character's are real, and are not, whimsy factors in, visual setting, who took the first scene becomes the main, yet secondary is the notable poet, "Poe" but the fictitious brother-in-law grasp the whole 'off-the-cuffs,' 'shot-in-the-dark'--WHOLE STORY initiated via social media's posted picture of his devotion, Lenore--the human element, Poe--infidelity.
nation's tent cities....dreams sleep frozen in all
impoverished seasons
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