He was thrilled to shill his best bet token
AM green candles he had awoken
So I FOMO’d in chasing candles green
Surely to see more money than I’d seen
But alas, the baned black swan, it appeared
Way worse than any flash crash I had feared
Fearing my FOMO turned flat into FUD
Fainting to facedown in red-tainted mud
He made his move, got out, and I got burned
That frenzied fickle market, it had turned
Quick to find, then lose, that forward motion
Quick to quit, then wrestle with emotion
Craving fast quick cash that we can’t refuse
Never buy more than you’re willing to lose
By the will of a shill
They deface the blood-filled memory
Marauders invade the capital city to the steps
Spoiling the roots of liberty tree by butchery
Strike the man who stands upon a mountain
Art of memory destroyed to satisfy mediocrity
“Let it burn” controlling hunger of a mob
A fitting placebo for the mentally maimed
Destruction remains of smoke and graffiti fire
Then the children ask in horror
Why a proud man died?
Demeaned like Santa Clause
They fall with grace withheld
Soon the young in strife will seek to vilify
Anyone those lacking leadership decry
Until no neutral Hun exists
Acceleration of the withering slain
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cBayEcXsxc&feature=emb_logo
https://www.wsws.org/en/articles/2021/01/07/pers-j07.html
You're the fierce flame that burns in my heart,
to keep me going, know that I (was) am
the harmony that loved you from the start.
I weep and mourn for the warm human lamb;
tremble from the deep fearful hollow dam.
None listen to my mournful lullaby.
You laid a breath kiss, died a lover's sigh
under heaven's steps in the endless night.
Shill I taunt the gossamer wings and die?
For I yearn your nearness, your touch, the sky.
12/31/2019
A-B-A-B-B-C-C-D-C-D
Gave Mr. Bro’ man a couple of dollars,
with a frown gave he a backhand holla
Said my alms were light,
and my palms were tight
Man, how I hate ingrate red stop collars!
The Golden feel, of August chill
A fondle of delight
Deceitful shill, sure to thrill
The Golden feel of August chill
A minor spill, too often, will
Shed false rays of light
The Golden feel, of August chill
A fondle of delight
Mary Yelvington
1876-1910
George Towne, now there was a man;
Handsome as the devil;
Strong as a bougainvillea vine.
And married to the redoubtable Fannie Towne,
Town shill, and occasional teetotaler of the dry brew!
Ol’ Fannie was oblivious to the treasure she owned;
That incredible athlete!
That insufferable charmer!
At least after 3 o’clock, on most afternoons,
She never knew,
Or cared one iota really, where her man was!
Other than the little dramas concerning the Townes,
Life in Whittier, at the turn of the 20th Century,
Was boring, I must say.
Boring as a book with no danger!
Dangerous days never arrived for me,
Nor did I ever make the acquaintance of a dangerous man.
My life’s journey indeed found intended joy,
Ecstatic joy in singing the hymns at church;
And it found surprised sadness as well,
In not surviving pneumonia at age 34.
And now, here I am, buried deep in the dark dirt,
Of shady Mt. Olive Cemetery.
But if only I had tried.
Tried to whistle, and nestle up to the big lug;
The day I saw him at Central Park,
Sitting on a bench with his prim coat and hat,
The incredibly dangerous George Towne!
I wanted the moon to fill up the night
like a presence we couldn’t ignore,
to shine bright as day in the dark quiet air
like’s been told in stories of yore.
I wanted the harvest moon rising
poetically over a hill.
But, I got a sliver of somebody’s nail
in a vast night-darkened shill.
Alas, tis the day and the tale needs a tell
there’s something to say & I should
though the moonlight last night was not a bit right,
but, I can’t speak a lie if I would.
So, I’ll tell of the dark and the failing moon too;
I’ll focus on darkness instead of the blue,
and woodland spirits will dance a sweet jig
on the single white shaft of dew.
by Annette Gagliardi
I teach History, you see.
But, I don't know what it is.
Just as Hollywood remakes classics
with new faces for new generations,
I suspect,
I do much the same.
I do try to sweep away
the old myths and lies
of History, but,
as each class, each year,
recedes farther from my age,
I wonder,
am I just replacing old myths,
with my myths.
Is there something tangible
that I can teach?
Have we evolved at all?
I sit here, just past the bloodiest century
since we left the savannah,
and I wonder,,,
Am I just another shill.
New myths for old!
New myths for old!
Come and get
your hot new myths.
My personal physician
says I’m the picture of perfect health
Then he hands me the pharmaceutic scripts
Dr. Miyagi
makes me wonder sometimes,
if he’s a paid health insurance company shill
Seeing how there’s fifty bottles of medicine
on my monthly HMO bill
Metformin
Deseryl
Glyburide
Lisinopril
Every day the bottles say,
I gotta take fifty pills
But the side effects will give you deadly cold chills
Nausea,
diarrhea
Constipation,
insomnia
Me keeping well
is profitable to somebody I can tell
Just pop open the caps,
and watch your thoughts congeal
Bactrim
Gabapentin
Amneal
Indomethacin
Taking fifty pills is waking zombie time
My staying well feels like being sentenced
to a life imprisonment crime
Always feeling sick just to stay healthy,
going to sleep is the only time I feel good
So, I bequeath this advice in my will:
if you wanna die painfully slow, then take fifty pills
It's so hard, sometimes
To remove this cerement
To muster a veritable smile
To schlepp out of the sediment
It will end, I know
When authentic smiles will replace
The disingenuous air
I bedaub to my face
The crazy part is, it seems
That the solution to my abasement
Though well within my clout
Looms just far of my embracement
Motivation! To do the work
For which I have the skill
Seems lacking in my repertoire
As does the supportive shill
Wur in RE an the nuns are gien
oot sweeties, fur getting the kweschins right.
Three oota three, then she’s askin mae who Jesus’ mither is.
‘Ah doan’t know sista,’ ah tell hur.
She isnae happy an tells mae tae hink aboot it. So ah dae
an ah wurk oot Jesus wis god. It wis a trick kweschin,
‘he didnae hiv ah mither.’ Ma
sweet stoats aff the side ae ma heid.
She’s spittin in ma coupon fur a name, an
diggin hur digits in ma neck.
‘Ah doan’t know who Jesus’ friggin mither wis!’
Miraculously ah float tae the front ae the cless. Ma haun’s oot,
bit ah doan’t hink shill hit mae wae that big stick. Thwack!
Ah look doon it the bloody gash through ma puddlin
eyes, ‘yoo’ve broke ma haun’ ah croak,
then turn roon an boak.
I write of art that stupefies,
I, who would immortalize new fire, new reflection...
one that weaves a thread of elegance,
who does not make of smoldering solitude
a shill for anyone who passes by.
Dare I presume to extirpate the dross
that my own vision fines?
Yet while with every pungent spadeful, I would violate the earth
and lay it quivering upon its virgin breast?
Show me that tentative, exploring light
that your own grace imparts,
that gift you have of offering faint pictures
of the gods you see...
of leaving finger trails upon my body,
indelible, effable.
With your spirit, write the words
upon a spirit slate that time will not corrupt,
for with you who are my mirrored flesh and breath
united, I may now descry,
my mother, daughter, illuminator
of Almighty God.
~
In brokered spaces hangs a clammy chill
That gawkers with heightened senses distill
With stealth, guile, avarice and pawned skill
Around unsuspecting celebs their viruses congeal
Intimate and carefree moments quarantined in a still
Tendered seconds stolen by each, maverick shill
Plundered with a ravenous, rapacious thrill
Each grainy visage paying the stalker's, truant bill
Malleable fodder placed in the public's, greedy til
Enhanced images on glossy folios to spill
Their frothing rumor mill with innuendo to swill
The public's license with more greed to instill
Anesthetizing emotive strains with wanton zeal
Jilting muse with availing inspiration did wend
Barren reservoir doth futility portend
A bristling quill with no well to descend
No gratuitous frills on vapid contours suspend
Seeking with brokered shill to amend
Imploring vagabond seeking itinerant dividend
Wading through flooded channels, silty grains to append
From literary vault embezzled title apprehend
In voluminous discourse a simple aphorism distend
In ancient annals a trite fable from corroded parchments
rend
From Medieval chronicles a homily with which to contend
Out of Victorian poet's graded folio a euphemism vend
From contemporary laureates' silken threads, new yarn
spin
distend- to stretch out, to inflate
The craps tables in a house can’t sit still.
For that reason, the casino employs a shill.
They are undercover personnel out on patrol.
Each shill is on the hotel’s payroll.
Going to the craps tables, they start a roll.
With knowledge of the game, they must be able.
They are to bring the real patrons to the table.
The players lose their money, and that’s all she wrote.
You could say a shill is like a Judas goat.
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