Bells ringing loudly,
double vision and blurry.
Bad headache follows!
Imagine a bus that runs Eight Days a Week
with seats made of slimy leek
sliming further for every sitter
and sputtering out oil with every creak.
Imagine not getting to get the bus
'less you come on frying leeks, making a fuss
’bout passengers not letting you get oil from under their seats,
provoking your pan to concuss!
Imagine all the people concussed by pans
on the Eight Days a Week bus – The Beatles fans.
Hold me, love me Eight Days a Week
while we make bus seat slimy leek flans.
Fancy riding on a sturdy open topped crust
with leek-based lube setting our lust?
Why, to society’s travel regulations
should we have to adjust?
Bouncing on a slime seat with nude bum cheeks is fun.
Let’s also slime our face cheeks to shield from the sun
on my mind Eight Days a Week, My Leek.
Massage me with oil – this bus has a ton!
The most beautiful things in life cannot
be seen or touched, but can be felt by the heart.
— HELEN KELLER
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
It was just a slight sight of your beauty,
that spurred my heart to start to race.
Lust and love swam side by side in my veins—
some bound to haem, some dance to hymns.
The choice of dominance–no longer mine;
lechery, at times, sailed faster,
leaving love to gasp in breathless pretense.
Other times, love was the master.
In my brain they took to serious fight,
Both injured but neither took to flight,
My brain was concussed by their fright,
And confusion replaced their freight.
They both ran to my soul that they had stolen,
There, they tortured me with their fangs,
Their greed my spirit could no more cope with,
But they stayed on in defiance.
Their journey within me became endless,
Yet far from my heart your love stayed,
Come closer to free me of their torture,
Otherwise, my brain will soon explode.
(center)Visions grow
out of our imaginations like vines.
We want to excavate a bare-knuckled past
with the jaw bones of concussed elks.
A cold moonlight carves them still.
They are the blunt teeth of a low wailing sky,
the works of a hand-crushed faith
far beyond the ken,
of we curious and depthless delvers.
We who stand now non-plussed,
our minds turned around
these mute megaliths
as if we were stone thoughts
upon a grinding lathe
searching
for any distant sense
of - why
while myopically questioning
the source of our
softly rooted selves.(center)
Months piled up on themselves,
became a road block.
I can still hear
the sound of falling rocks.
I am concussed by the years.
Bought a pair of new sneakers,
bought a wristwatch that counts steps,
bought a wish and a hope
from a thrift store.
In-between the turning of the days
time flips the script,
becomes a shadow on a sundial,
gives you a plow to push uphill,
the mind falls ill
becomes a landslip
bars a way.
The morning is upside and sunny,
Lilliputian restraints
pop and loosen ligaments.
I am on the road again
but taking it slow
no-place is a better place to go.
Ears pricked, waiting,
suspecting,
ever recalling
the distant sound of falling rocks.
Reddish city forced
city conquered, suffered...
concussed freedom
lost self life,
enslaved by foolishness
of absurd men..
until when my God!
Will live like this, without having life...
They grow out of our minds.
They excavate the past
with the jaw bones of concussed elks,
time is not in them,
it is only we who shimmer then disappear.
Wind and a cold moonlight
carves them still.
They are the blunt teeth
of an endless angry sky.
The undead
deadness of their weight
anchors the soil
keeps it from flying away.
If we let them they will ask of us,
lead us to recall the dust
in our green bones.
Tidal Waive
I woke up at the bottom of a wave.
At least, I think I was awake.
You collapsed upon me
and ground sand into concussed
memory.
My eyes opened, but my breath, in terror, was taken.
Rolled into a ball on the dark beach,
I am afraid.
I must...must stay awake.
First grade, pelted with eggs
Second grade, broke both legs
Third grade, fell down the stairs
Fourth grade, clawed by a bear
Fifth grade, ran into a tree
Sixth grade, twisted a knee
Seventh grade, concussed my head
Eighth grade, fell out of bed
Ninth grade, had meningitis
Tenth grade, appendicitis
Eleventh grade, torn hamstring
Twelfth grade, acute bee sting...
So, to allay any fears from admission committees
I wrote the following college application ditty:
You may consider me somewhat injury-prone
But I have yet to break my first wishbone
And I give you my whole-hearted assurance
That I will use my parents' health insurance
Visions grow
out of our minds like vines.
We want to excavate
the bare-knuckled past
with the jaw bones
of concussed elks.
Wind and a cold moonlight
still carves them.
They are the blunt teeth
of a low wailing sky.
They are rock-hewn prayers,
works of a drowned
weight of era’s,
constructs so deeply layered now
that they are beyond the ken,
of we curious delvers.
We who stand non-plussed,
our minds twined
around these mute megaliths
feeling for any sense
of who and why?
Rob Gronkowski, known as 'the Gronk'
A football star chiseled from rock, no 'policy wonk'
At the top of his game, retired at age twenty-nine
A star who saw stars ~ concussed at least nine times
It must have happened in the night.
In the backyard, a pair of men’s shoes.
They loll now,
mouths agape and concussed.
Crows are pecking at the shoelaces.
Rain-fish splash into the uppers
bobble and plash inside leather throats.
The shoes have gained weight since dawn,
They’re water-logged by the drenching.
They cannot now be carried off
by small wet dogs, or ground hogs.
Were they abandoned,
or is this a more sinister augury?
I imagine two pale feet,
awaiting to be discovered
in another part of town.
I confess these fears to the officer;
he assures me these feelings
are quite normal.
The noise is a wound that won't heal
Vibrations don't let scars take hold
Held by a grip that tightens at will
No mind over matter
Because my mind is its hold
Even when seeing it coming
Light travels faster than sound after all
I can brace for impact but still
Adrenaline is injected
Muscles clench
Shaking starts
Without fail Again here I go
It is simply a noise I know
Still
car horns leave me screaming
bus brakes I am squealing
when my lover does dishes
I cringe taking cover
Still
The Noise
isn't all noise
Again my mind is its hold
be it threat or loss of control
Not all noise is my foe
fireworks and thunder are spared
and the right beat at the right time can be blared
but I have been concussed was
knocked out for three days
cussed at on my bike
blaring horns two decades
So I ask you to Please keep it down
and one more thing please
please
no parrots please.
For The Noise contest Hosted by Shadow Hamilton
Composed in the wee hours of March 6th 2017
They are without a doubt
my favorite potato delicacy
French fries
Just the aroma makes me swoon
in sheer ecstasy ... bang zoom
As a youngster, I could eat them everyday
if it were left up to me
French fries
Sliced in circles or sticks,
tossed in the deep fry ... hmmm,
has me licking my lips
Scientists try to tell me
that their nutritional value is low
But what does an egghead know
Anybody who disses the fries,
they must be slow
Or gotten concussed in the head
by an errant elbow
The bottom line is this:
give me the French fries,
and you can have the rest of the menu
Kwaheri, arrivederci
and a fond adieu
Call me king of the potato heads,
now what shall I call you?
There was a loopy boxer named Lars
Who was continually seeing stars.
He saw them day and night
In and out of a fight.
And declared he won a match on Mars.
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