Long Negotiable Poems
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You call me by my name, too intentional
I gather all the courage to think more rational
You always held me when I’m available
But truly who am I, for you negotiable?
Your time is priceless, I cannot bargain
Mine is typical, but I can always sustain
I never asked for more than everything
Just be part of yourself, I can do anything
I hugged you at the worst of your moment
You hold me, when nothing seems permanent
You showed me that I am not a rebound
But you cannot show it when people are around
Stay with me be part of my world
With you I can be brave, I can break the stronghold
Let me know what you really want to keep
Our friendship, relationship, or just situationship?
Most imp potent and salient playbook page...
'bout fluffiness of hair after washing
Now get ready for...
yup intelligent persiflage
determining if potty "talk" gauge
correctly calibrated courtesy this sage.
Beats out global warming
by a long stretch
most important commander
must set example you betch
chore life no matter
if miserable wretch
survives impeachable offenses
enough to make me kvetch,
especially four more years
yours truly will once again become
bulimic anorexic wretch.
Versus important crisis
of planet Earth,
where Gaia's bountiful
nature woolworth
analogous wharf resplendent
docks side of ships berth state
housing electricity generating
mined resources inevitable dearth
warming chill folks
courtesy homey hearth
reminiscent during inchoate
fetal nine months
in utero signaling imminent birth.
Quite understandable reasonable,
non negotiable, inviolable...
blah... blah... blah
scalp itching blather
particularly to prioritize
orange-blond hirsute fullness
upon rinsing sudsy shampoo lather
as expressed by this
post baby boomer
pencil neck geek father,
who attempts to walk poetic feet
across cyber sea
miraculously to slather.
Trademark seedy nonsensical
farcical gobbledygook,
perhaps posthumously printing
bestselling blank paginated chapbook
ghost written by Trump
titled Art of the Steal
detailing head and shoulders how to look
suave and sophisticated all business
swiftly tailored harried style shook
White House disguised himself as rook
key "Fake" incognito president
recruiting apprenticed bartered bride
slow vacuuming trophy wife crook
cow hoard milching, kickstarting,
inciting, generating... donnybrook
coiffing pompadour resembling
forefathers windblown periwig.
Nope not even one hair
mussed out of place,
as if teetering fountainhead
supporting Atlas shrugged
top heavy topples
and crashes scattering
bajillion easy pieces everyplace
analogous to humpty dumpty
each and every last vestige
vanishing without a trace
exiting out cloaca
subsequently intently watching
toilet bowl royally flush
clockwise if within northern hemisphere
heavy enough to sink submarine
haint no reason yours truly might gush
even if abominable ballast
saves queasy passengers
plummeting thru aerospace.
Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
am a wild stallion
Tossing my mane
I can withstand the rain
Running for miles and feeling no pain
Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
am a female houdini
and borders and fences
can never keep me in
Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
am a woman
who pays no heed to the controlling nature of men
I am the wind that travels everywhere and no where
I am a fast approaching shooting star
I am a lightning bolt
who will quickly dissapear
Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
am a lazy leopard in the heart of Africa
Strong and wild
I'll leave after I have had my fill
My wild eyes so filled with desire
Are intoxicating I swear
Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
am untouchable
non-negotiable
Like a Hurricane I will crash over you
I am your deepest regret
Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
am a shadow in your hearts prayer.
Form:
Confusion is seldom born alone.
It arrives with noise—
too many voices,
too many fears,
too many mirrors
reflecting a face no longer recognized.
A mind deprived of solid ground
will grasp the nearest certainty,
whether true or false,
because the human heart
hungers less for perfection
than for relief.
Those who would govern without trust
have long understood
that doubt can be cultivated
like weeds in an abandoned garden.
Facts become negotiable.
Memory becomes fragile.
Neighbors become strangers.
Even the self begins asking permission
to believe its own eyes.
Yet confusion is not obedience.
It is only the winter
before a thought remembers
how to bloom.
The patient who pauses,
who questions with quiet courage,
who tolerates uncertainty
without surrendering reason—
that patient cannot be owned.
Healing is not the absence of questions.
It is the return
of an inner compass
that points, however imperfectly,
toward truth.
So let those who profit from bewilderment
scatter their fog across the landscape.
Morning has never negotiated
with the darkness.
It simply arrives,
and one clear ray of understanding
can undo a thousand carefully manufactured shadows.
Now, WHO
The towering twilight's twinkle tumbles thither thusly trembles Terra's theater, thwarting tales, tabloids, tidbits, totaling terrible troubles tethered to those traveling to Tibet...
An auspicious austere aubergine autumn awning advances, alerting all about appearances, alternating, almost alone, approximately ambiguous attitude abound, abroad Afghanistan...
Inevitably, indulging in ill-gotten information, involving inept individuals inadequacies, instituting invaluable, intricate, including, indisputable intel inside India...
Cool cast characterizes complete composites capturing celebrated cases concerning corruption, coercion, criminality, combustibles, calamitous crazed cold cases controlled comfortably choreographed Chinese counsel...
Now named, nay, nickname, naught, nice neighbor, no, naughty neighbor, nought, negotiable, never, noteworthy, nope, nevertheless noble, nevermore, nonetheless nifty--nincompoop!
2019 September 12
'The policy was quite precise, lie again and your out my life, it's contents non
negotiable although it said he first would fight, but how to fight for Julie was Dante's
tormented plight, how could he be certain, how could he be sure if he remained by Julie's
side that she would lie no more. she knew his position was painful, cause by now he should
of gone, she was dying slowly inside from the shame of what she'd done.
She looked straight into his eyes, those eyes that she had hurt, and begged that he would
stay with her and make this love still work, she showed him where her guilt had took her,
to the edge of torments reign, and with tears falling vowed to him she'd never lie again.
She waited while he contemplated if what she said was truth, and he went closer to those
tormented gates and took a closer look, he said Julie don't you realise while you were
standing here that I was right beside you cause my torment brought me near, I too stood at
this torments edge and looked upon it's reign while it's hands were clawing at my skin
disguised as lovers pain, if we do get past this torment, and start our life again, then
no traces of a lie upon your lips could still remain. she took his hand so tenderly
after such a long and lonely wait,and she said Dante I promise they are gone, please let's
leave from torments gate.
Did Dante forgive Julie, did he lead them to the light, did he keep his word just like he
said and raise his sword to fight?
Well if he did I'm as positive as any one girl can, that Julie learnt her lesson and is
rolling with her man!
I like to think them still together, still in love, and it's not real hard, to see Julie and
Dante as they cruise Christ Boulevard, his spirit right before hers and he is down on
bended knee, he says Julie I still love you, will you re-marry me? she says yes I'll
marry you, as I did upon the earth, and I am thankful that you gave me a chance to prove
to you my worth, he said baby it was simple if with me you wanted fly, just always come
to me with truth and never tell a lie! He raised his hand to wipe away a tear she had
cried, she said baby for the millionth time I'm sorry that I lied, he said that was oh so
long ago and you never lied to me since, now can we let this go, Damn girl I'm
convinced!
Living with a four-year-old dictator
I had forgotten how it feels
For my own youngest is forty; but now I remember.
He will not let me trim a bush
That hits him in the face as he comes off a slide.
“I like it, grandma!” he protests.
He stops singing when I mention how cute it sounds.
All of the outside chairs have been moved and stacked,
Under the sand pile, their legs sticking out in various angles.
The mulch I put out an hour before he came
Has now been dug up and transplanted.
And not by a groundhog.
“I am not your best friend!” he cries out
Whenever I give him any kind of redirection
As he knows it is non-negotiable
I just got it again
After refusing to retrieve the ball he kicked
Into the back forty for the hundred and twelfth time.
In another thirty-six years I will probably
Be happily watching this natural athlete’s
Son or daughter kick a ball into the back forty
If I know me, I will also be retrieving it.
In early April the bus from Lecce
unloads us at the fabled fish market.
The place is shuttered down, not even
the scent of chowders past lingering
in the air. The only hint of June’s
full fare is one slight stall where we
might taste the slimmest feast from the sea.
Our pre-season stroll through the town
finds the walkways of Gallipoli
totally negotiable, no clump
of photographers enthralled
by weathered or whitewashed walls
selects, collects, and edits images
while others still in line are stalled.
From the piazza we look down
upon the moored boats, a fleet
of white and blue at rest, sails furled.
The slips are full, all expectant still.
No one putters with paint or repairs
a necessary cloth in this week
before the moveable feast.
On the beach’s sand and seawrack
where summer’s bodies will soon
arrive, accumulate and over-
lap in ever-increasing heat,
a single person, a young man,
and his dog are the only creatures.
Their toss/fetch game is photographed.
In the Mercato, nothing is
for sale; but its facilities
require no wait, leaving us time
for questing tongues to lick
a taste of the local gellati
on a bench before the patient sea
until the bus beckons us to leave.
They smile like church people
front row teeth, polished shoes,
hands folded over gold-plated lies.
And America—
sweet tired America—
keeps mistaking volume for truth,
keeps mistaking a salesman
for a savior.
There are towers with names carved into them
like warnings no one read in time.
There are golf courses green as envy,
ballrooms glowing like kingdoms built
from unpaid invoices
and handshakes with devils
wearing silk ties.
The father stands at the center of it all
like a carnival barker dipped in bronzer and grievance,
calling every indictment a witch hunt,
every critic an enemy,
every law another thing
for poorer people.
Meanwhile the children circle the throne
with sharpened smiles.
One trademarks patriotism.
One sells certainty in little jars.
One hunts influence
the way wolves hunt soft animals in winter.
And the friends—
God, the friends—
they rise from the shadows of private dinners
and closed hotel doors,
laughing into champagne glasses
while contracts bloom like mold
behind the curtains.
Billions.
Not earned in the old way
with broken backs and factory whistles.
No.
This is the new American alchemy:
turn outrage into currency,
turn division into stock options,
turn flags into receipts.
And somewhere a woman works double shifts
under fluorescent lights
while a billionaire complains about persecution
on television.
Somewhere a veteran sleeps in his truck
while men born into marble bathrooms
speak of sacrifice.
Pamela Harris says that corruption is not only theft.
It is the slow teaching
that nothing sacred exists anymore.
That justice is decorative.
That truth is negotiable.
That if you are rich enough
you can stand in the middle of history
and dare morality to touch you.
But history always keeps receipts.
Even empires with gold curtains rot.
Even grifters grow old.
And the loudest man in the room
must someday face a silence
he cannot sue, brand, or bully away.
Train my tongue
Words are ever young
Train my words
Before they fly out birds
Train my airstream
Before reality seems a dream
Train my smell
Time dates hell
Make me able more than my being
To keep believing in the whole green
White not left out even though we cry
Yet manna don't rain from the sky
Suffering as a messenger not guilty
But made a fool despite his active acuity
How will we pray for our leaders?
When we have become mere readers
Making fun of our suffering
Praying fervently while battering
Is a senseless act, deceit birth
When only them live in safety and wealth
If praying for them is the key
Won't we prefer praying the retiree
For swimming in the cool Dead sea
Is non-negotiable to agree in DEMO decree