A child of ten years
Near Albion's River Peck
Gazed up from the earth
And witnessed a hazel tree
Adorned with sparkling angels
(William Blake's mystical childhood vision while in Peckham Rye)
Why must you toast that slice?
You sure don't knead the carbs.
Please put the bread away.
Stick to your diet dear.
I like rye!
Dry fresh toast!
Please don't sigh.
Pie instead?
Don't be sly!
73 years ago
A kid my age steps off a curb.
And, in the motion of falling, he believes he can reach heaven.
He has the thoughts of someone
with an inverted ribcage
And he’s sick on cigarette smoke and hypocrisy.
A kid my age, 73 years ago, calls me a pervert.
Through the thin veil of time and space
We lock eyes.
I say “I see you.”
He says “You’re sick.”
But that’s wrong and he knows it.
I am not the sick one.
He is the kid with the killing hat
And the giving hands
That despise the people he gives to.
He is the kid with filthy thoughts and phony smiles
Who sees the hollow spaces between his ribs
In the innocence of a child’s eyes.
And despite the filth beneath his tongue
And the alcohol stinging his throat
I cannot bring myself to
Feel anything for him
other than
Pity.
The catcher in the rye
I go and drop the ball
I lay it down and cry
I’m sleeping in the stall
Cause everyone is phony
Your company is lonely
Your animals are bony
Your everything is only
I’m underneath the bridge
Below the overpass
I’m locked inside the fridge
I’m sleeping in the grass
Cause everyone is faking
Every excuse for bailing
Your painted skin is flaking
Success story is failing
You’re spinning all around
Mascara masquerade
You’re walking without sound
A conga line charade
You’re hands and feet are bound
You’re tied into the ground
And nailed into the wall
I’ve lost sight of the ball
I’ve lost sight of the band
And buried in the sand
They’re telling me it’s fine
They’re calling me insane
They think I’ve lost my mind
They’re calling me Cobain
They’re telling me to smile
They tell me not to cry
And maybe stay a while
The catcher in the rye
Screaming in a jar, wondering who you are,
Waiting for the glass to crack,
You left me with these scars, you left me in the stars,
Trying to find my way back.
I smoke and I drink, so I don't have to think,
About why the moon's in love with the sun,
I drown and I sink, my minds on the brink,
My shadow's holding a loaded gun.
You pry and you lie, you cry and deny,
A rose wrapped up in all your thorns,
Raise my drink to the sky, as I down all this rye,
And I chase the pain with all my scorn.
I live in a "Mean Peoplez Zone"
soou
leave me alone: I'll introduce
to you to my dad Miezzer.
So stringy is he
and I'll let you see: he's
so
cheap he waits for clothes to go
on sale at goodwill. he told a story
of aman who used a elk, deer and
moose to stem cell meat for cheep.
They only asked me was it gamey
he said. " Nah: Nah, the fella spoke
real quality meat!
Now course you gotta put alotta
garlic onions
and horseradish and stuff
on it not to taste the
woods and grasseyness
other than that it's real quality meats,
gamey no, no i
Wouldn't play around with
something a foolish as that "
niw myself I like the straps from the leather
it's a savings bonanza.
Son of the Scarecrow
He wanted whole wheat not rye
The sloppy sandwich made him cry
He knocks the plate on the floor
Then decides to order more
His sandwich was extremely dry
Oh little Rye!
You’re too young to be mine.
Notice me from afar;
I’m giving you a good sign.
Oh little Rye!
You’re twenty-one, now.
Are you seeing someone lately?
Or have you given a vow?
Oh little Rye!
I wish you were my age
I wish it’s easy to hold you
And it feels like you are caged
Oh little Rye!
Have I pushed it too much?
Dare me to stop from what I am doing
For loving you too much.
My heart is a charcoal gray
With silver specks in the sun
Tomorrow is New Year's Day
And this old year, my dear, is done
A bit of moss on the north knoll
The hills of my heart burrowed through
And I'm cramming hope in the holes
Just like the woodpeckers do.
Snug in the corner I saw the lad lie,
Fire in his belly, a cork in his eye;
And wordlessly sleeping, a-snooze in his bed,
His words, when awakened, go straight to your head.
Alluring to look at, golden is he,
There when you need him as sure as can be;
And anxious to aid you, he doesn't think twice,
The cost of his concert, your soul is the price.
Then, tell him to go now, bid him goodbye;
Leave him to slumber, let sleeping dogs lie!
Tell him his concord you are shooing away,
The lad with the nostrum may no longer stay.
Well! time he was leaving so, show him the door!
A flagon of whiskey a-smash on the floor.
Whole wheat and pita.
French, white, rye, and tortilla.
And pumpernickel.
Gray sky on rye bread
Seasoned to taste, rain or snow
~ Bites when the wind blows
by Mark Miller © 08/17/2016
Sable of night repeals our
Hidden mirrored abuse
Puzzle pieces draw out
Fancy flights made bliss
Can't you hear as fear
Drowns the solar rain gray
Shapely holes alone stray
Grasping for future hour riffs
In hybrid blue the blood wrap clause
Selling ink stains historic loss
Under lanterns light we gather
Stoic streets of concrete keep
It's a myths devise that slip
Our distaste with violent disgust
Sleeping conscious stealth margin
Delivered delights of texts sent
Of playtime children like kindred
When growing up my twin
brother and I would get
up early for breakfast while
our mom was trying to get
some sleep from her graveyard
shift at the hospital as a nurse.
We would meet in our kitchen
on Saturday mornings and
sprinkle sugar over rye bread
which was our version of a
hearty meal while watching
cartoons and wild west shows
on the black and white Philco
television for entertainment.
Enjoyed eating several pieces of bread,
sweetening our tastebuds and filling
our bellies full which satisfied us
until we woke our mom as we ran
around the apartment full-steam
ahead from all the sugar high,
pretending we were chased by a
posse on horseback for eating
too many slices of rye bread with sugar.
Horny
Corny
Kinky
Stinky
Stoned
Boned
Holden
Folding
His biz
Takes wizz
Hit can
Effed man...
Found hoe
No dough
Name sun
Big buns
No clothes
Touch toes
She roared
She sore
More dough
Said no
Pimp slap
Got jacked
(If you have read the Catcher in the Rye you would understand).
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