Garbage planet with hearts broken,
walking death all over trying to prove us wrong,
understand the mind that hates your ideas,
nothing in this silence matters, but voices,
where do we go this isn't just a game,
turnaround and witness these human machines,
cubical on wheels follow your dreams,
broke television from the past,
hear you own ideas whisper covered lies,
break and protect, forever hide, am i fine,
big ideas and small rocket ships just not enough,
simply just ugly filthy life, greed will feed
give it all, make it grow, existence potential fall
guard your ideas and look up craters on the moon
something within its darkness
one day we will all walk and bark like dogs.
I wonder who’s in charge of our section.
The anxiety about who will lead me,
brings on a cold sweat.
Her sweater is tight.
I turtle-neck,
over my sanitized cubical.
Small breasts, tiny and hard in the frigid light.
Her spectacles add no color to the sterility.
“Are you numb?” She asks?
‘Not quite yet.”
"It’s the white precision
that examines us." She says distractedly.
"Yes."
Have you figured out how to fit in?”
“No, please tell me,
is there a password, a special name tag?
I am sure the one they gave me isn't working.
Should I frown as if concentrating?"
“Yes that might help.”
“Can you give me any advice?’
“Your crotch needs to be tighter.”
A chime goes off forever.
I wonder....
did we clock in or out?
Locked, the fourth floor’s doored cubical
Inside the ghosts are lined up saying ‘hi’
Never is there goodbye: no living/leavin’
Did fear entrap? Is it power of the mind?
And who is to say, within, is not Nirvana...
Long roads taken, to nothing at all...
Entangled internals that never flee...
Eternity so vast; a door shut, finite.
(9/7/20: '05 Beneteau 373; KKMI)
I wonder who is in charge of our section.
The anxiety about who will lead me through,
what I need to do, makes me sweat.
Her sweater is tight.
I am a turtle looking over a sanitized cubical.
Small t..s, tiny and hard in the frigid light.
Her spectacles add color to the sterility.
“Are you numb?” She asks?
‘Not quite yet.”
"It’s the white precision
that examines us."
"Yes."
Have you figured out how to fit in?”
“No. Please tell me.
Is there a password, a special name tag?
I am sure the one they gave me isn't working.
Should I frown as if concentrating?"
“Yes that might help.”
“Can you give me any advice?’
“Yes,
your little cold p.... needs to be tighter”.
"How do you describe,
Those moments inside
When you start something new,
And wonder how to get through
The names and the faces,
Your heart races
From adrenaline or fear,
Draw on your confidence, that’s clear
For life presents us challenges,
But you are talented
Understanding your expectations,
Is beyond others limitations
With courage and strength to achieve,
I know you believe
You can do more than expected,
Because you refuse to be intimidated
In control and focused,
A star among us
A model for all to follow,
Today and every tomorrow
With every new, now normal,
Sharing the view from your cubical"
Solemn Confinement---
Encapsulated confined into the space of the Hidden spears
What in the world do you do and why must you have fears
Solemn Confinement
Downtrodden in atmosphere of environmental galaxies
And disappear totally in solitary confinement plexieties
Solemn Confinement
Solemn confinement Quantum physical cubical boxes yet glean
Lipstick Italian Mary Jean astronomical environmentally unclean
Solemn Confinement
Dreamer of many a thing ethnika
Overthrower of the ancient Kings
Solemn Confinement
Automatic conversion missiles that are anointed
Anointed for destruction rings toast launch appointed
For destruction corrugated conclusions of cosmic intrusions
Disillusion in great confusion nuclear fusion box rediffusion
And constant reminder
Solemn confinement
1/5/19
written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Here I am, rotting in a place they call bliss
Soaked in an emptiness
To see reality did things as it pleased
Here I am, stroking my messiness
Fettered in additional story
Soaked in an emptiness
My brain is hurricane, but no, it's not about history
As I close my eyes, commotion freeze in yellow dim
Fettered in additional story
This black cubical is the most crowded rim
Claustrophobic fills the cavity in a mysterious way
As I close my eyes, commotion freeze in yellow dim
Words may decay in ages and ended stray
My soul longing for the love that never been full
Claustrophobic fills the cavity in a mysterious way
Shadow wade above the ambiguity whirlpool
My soul longing for the love that never been full
Here I am, rotting in a place they call bliss
To see reality did things as it pleased
we r at the picasso exhibition
i love him studied him
the naked art now
here
going through periods
blue pink delving into
cubical geometry
of figures violins
my heart is leaping with
joy
gigantic voluptuous
art on marie teres
crying sharp vagina of
dora
they were cracking jokes
we were beginning to finish
my heart is full and i was weeping
they asked me
who is picasso
your father?
i cried harder
He sits in the bus cubical
dressed in tattered clothes,
he holds a Coke bottle
filled with something I don't know.
I can see the pain
that hides behind his eyes,
nowhere to go
the street is his home tonight.
His hair is all matted
doesn't look like it was brushed,
a scruffy beard on his face
passersby never made a fuss.
His hands are all dirty
his face is too,
he sits there peacefully
as there is nothing else to do.
My heart goes out to him
as he is homeless beyond compare,
it hurts my soul
just to see him sitting there.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Apr.20/2005
Morning Shower
This morning I have carefully slumbered into the bathroom to start the shower
Groggy and tired I turn the control counterclockwise to a satisfying temperature
I step inside the cubical and shiver with the initial shock of water pouring on me
My body starts to melt as the warmth covers me like a warm blanket
Worries and agendas come seeping through the shower tiles like unavoidable green monsters
Clouds of steam give a ferocious roar and the mischievous scoundrels scamper off into hiding,
Knowing that they will return once again
I’m taken to some place new
A beach with sand white as snow and the sun’s rays kissing every inch of my skin;
With the sounds of a soothing melody and a reggae beat off in the distance
I don’t recall the song but find myself knowing every word and sing along,
As my mood is calmed and contented
Well managed cubical piece
Rolling around on the floor
Looking like a perfect die
Landing on the One
Russell Sivey
My eyes are glazed over like krispy krèmes.
How long can one person stare at the same screen?
My feet are limb like a long air plane ride.
How long can one person sit idly by?
My ears like potatoes, mash, all the sounds together
How long can one person listen as the noise gets duller and duller?
My fingers repeatedly work like an assemble line.
How long can one person type the same thing waiting for the stop sign?
My mind is full of gloomy clouds in the sky.
How long can one person sit here and mentally die?
My life is just passing me by as if toothpaste out of the tube.
How long can one person site in this cube?
In my cubical I sit
Strapped to perform the task for which I’ve been programmed
Molded to their way of thinking
In my cubical I sit
Twist tied in place behind this acrylic screen
A window to those who consume others like me
So we sit in our air tight cubicles
performing task not of our own making
By Robb A. Kopp
Broken, dark, alone.
Confined in cubical prison.
All expression has been sucked away,
leaving a hollow shell.
As hunger starts to take over,
your given table scraps.
Only to prolong the suffering,
to slowly wither away.
In the beginning you scramble about,
searching for inevitable failure.
Barred, boxed in forever,
no means of departure allowed.
Slowly motivation dies,
and you return to remaining still,
and wonder throughout the only thing left,
the flowing imagination in your mind.
In your corner of the world
you think of happiness and joy,
yet unreachable in the present.
You mourn for eternity.
Delusion slowly sets in,
hopeful sighting becomes fictional imagination,
leading to madness,
and emotional corruption.
Slowly you grow more rigid,
building to the climax.
Searching for with all will put forward,
for an escape route.
Finally, the answer is found,
only one way is possible
to escape positive loss of sanity,
losing all wits whatsoever.
You must accomplish a feat,
to great for mere mortal.
Guided assistance is given,
and you open the door.
And step out into the world.
From a boy of seven
As i grew through the years
In the back of my mind
That constant fear
Memories of my brother
Been knocked down
Brought nightmares and horrors
In memory drown
Adult life reached
Kids born and growing
But when that Wednesday came
Past memory showing
The call that i dreaded
Had come that day
Your son's been knocked down
On his bike, as he played
In my office at work
I fell to my knees
Thinking back to those angels
Release him please
Hospital i reach
Tears in my eyes
Now I'm the father
History cries
Cubical entered
And the sight i see
Is my son Liam
Crying for me
I got knocked off my bike
I have a hole in my leg
As i thought of the angels
Who heard what i said
Crying like my father
At his sons hospital bed
" Dedicated to the angels who released my son that Wednesday "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/me.php
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