Work cancelled today but I still have a million things to do
It's beautiful outside for the whole day through
Maybe I'll just hang around here and harass you, you, and you
What else is a part time ne're-do-well going to do?

candy-coated popcorn
peanuts and a prize
that's what you get 
with the skies flinging pies

sitting on a park bench
bag of pickled smidgens
wizard of the waste land
feeds the homing pigeons

Everyday you spread your lies
Trying hard to open eyes
But you're the blind one.

Each day you spread lies
trying hard to flip the script
But you can't, so stop.

The crap you post can't
even be believed by you
Give us all a break

Takes all kinds of dirt
to bury the dead
Takes all kinds of hurt
to witness with dread
Leave talking to the talkers
when the talking's been said
Like living with the notions
of dying in your head

In a dimly lit room one might see in shadows
what they might imagine in grief
With life and death the currency of doubt
and a pallid witness to abandonment and belief

 GeneP59 wrote:

This reminds me of a William Carlos Williams poem I had to read in the 9th grade. The teacher was a plump, smug rookie: 

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

I could just see Tubby trotting those weasel words on a roommate after mooching his cereal. Over the years I'd think of responses like

Listen you asshole

Do that again and

the next plum's going up your backside

and my dog will take a dump in your Birkenstocks. 

 Manbird wrote: 
Hey! Catch!

Not sorry

 oldviolin wrote:

your big head is what time it is

One day, while wandering on the winding road to metaphor, I spotted an anachronism
hiding amongst broken sheen and mounds of red dirt with dead bare trees
and I thought to myself that this could be it.
I stopped my red metal wagon with hard rubber tires 
and picked up to assemble the makeshift easel lying partially buried in the ditch.
Reaching into a bag of jewelry I produced a few gobs of color
and the axle grease from my trusty if rusty carriage and mixed the medium
until the mash was mixed and the memes were a ghost. 
I peered through the glare and prepared my dirty red canvas
and I felt a tug at the strings sewn into my hands and 
began to brush and smear and elbow my way into a house of signs
as I wondered which wonders to paint. 
That was a really long and ridiculous to describe day.

I just saw a beautiful bluebird, perched on the edge of the gutter,
her plumage the colors of the early evening twilight sky.
My Mother loved bluebirds and sunsets.
I'm sure I heard her sing, and sigh.

 GeneP59 wrote:

are you wearing pants in that poem?
because if you're not...

 oldviolin wrote:

Well thank you. I try to please my audience.   

 GeneP59 wrote: 
This is possibly the most disturbing thing I've ever read...

Testing testing mic 123
Therapy session 
What

I must confess, I was one of those "why?" kids
Always with the questions, "why?"
Drove my Mom to distraction
What?
Bryan with a "why?"
Why, Bryan?
You're asking me?
Why me?
i answer from experience
"because"
B cause "why?"
Bryan with a "why?"
"i" notwithstanding
That's what

bad Jokes are like bad poetry
the punch lines are often spiked

So sad little sinew
That I knew you when you
Fleshed your tone from dust
Breathe the breath you must
Bringing forth the force through rust
Iron and red the will well within you

 ScottN wrote: 

 oldviolin wrote: 

oculis prospiciens

Why? Why.
He feels the time is right.
He feels the fruit is ripe.
He has his allies by default.
He has his faulting lines.
Distracting deflecting diffracting
He has his faltered minds

He has his climate manifesto
It's signed in iron and blood
He has his soft boned adversaries mired in heaping mud.
All is not forecast if nothing is ever square
Derivative of focus set in fixed maculary stare
Seeing is believing and belief? it isn't there
not a polar symbol not a pallid prayer