Actors

We, the depictors,

of scenes read and writ,

with faces of angels,

we oft read and then sit,

Repertoire a-quiver,

an arrow to draw,

a target to pierce,

the audience heart,

Which soaks then in pathos,

O nectarous brine,

to doth insight bravos,

N the empathetic sigh,

But the pain of these I's,

is just that they are bound,

to live repetitions,

to regurgitate sound,

So oh what a shame,

for this once private few,

that garner attention,

just so we might know "who"

(..is richer than us presumably?)

An Old One, Influenced by a Song

So the people set up rooms,

that they set apart with walls,

and they organized their tombs,

in case they witnessed falls,

of the brothers and the sisters,

down the olden stone age stairs,

that were kept below the separate rooms,

and some thought it was fair.

The people who made the rooms and walls,

liked the shade of their own skin,

which they considered shadeless,

and they let few others in,

into the stain-glass hallways,

the dark unholy vaults,

to make outrageous far-fetched cries,

and point at others' faults.

The Envious Tirade

When I realized to myself

That textual reason

Could reflect textual treason

I was a tad thrown off,

And dispersed behind

My eyelids floated

Wriggling moths

That told me nothing

Except to persevere.

Upon the Edge

Upon the edge

of a night I

whisper, to a

page that is silent,

but for its own

silent shuffle,

crunch crunch,

rumble rumble,

the dust mites hear.

I'd hear it if

I quit the page,

scrunched and

bunched and punched

the page, filled

utmostly with

the type of sanity

I'd never have

suspected. Infected

projected and dissected

lyrics from a mind

that scrunched from

a page. Rhymes

from a coward,

whose tools had

been made eons ago,

by sunny sullen

madmen, archaic assassins

sent to kill any thought

they hated, but they didn't

realize then, they had

also made.

Bound

Here’s to the boundaries,

The separate by space,

To our friends, the villains,

Who are bound to their states,

Who must be futural,

Inescapable foes,

To bleed out certain progress,

Correct in the mind,

With opinions to bandy,

Preferences to exploit,

The needs of I

Cannot be

Within your boundary.

When I win, have

Won, have

Beaten you, the space

That you held,

Proud to do so,

In opposition of I,

Here is to boundaries.

They motivate us to be.

renovations

Ah, tremendous goodness. Without pen n scroll

near it’s ok I say, to the typer

I move, and here I am, so I have said.

my product shimmers before me and it always changes and it’s always not the same,

But by me, declared by I,

I give it up to the infinite typer in the sky,

Who doesn’t even look, not once,

@ me..

What does he or she or them not see?

The bulge of words, the salute to emptiness,

Aren’t I just

doing their work for them?

Aren’t I right? My right? Of my right to be a beast who fights?

For a better way! I’m trying to say…

Decay decay decay is all I can see

But I can’t not believe in things better in today

And yonder don days,

As Future to’s come to pass,

And we grow all stronger, from strength held fast,

Pardon me said the parson, on I go, rhyming again,

After the apology, stands there corrected,

With all due respect looks inside to see,

Nothing rhyming but odd bits of gristle,

Prickling any friends with any tender thistle,

Away with you parson! So tired I’ve grown.

Machines manufacture tiredness, soma efficiently defecates,

And it’s all broken, in a precisely pristine way,

With non-rhymes roll toward an in sight better today

Turf Management

(sometimes I catch myself doing this)..

Adoring the plight of the greens-cutting man,
Anything to cut a straight line,
So members see greens and his glistening tan,
And feel that they are fine.

But such is not so for the greens-cutting man,
N'I see when I look in his eye,
He is typically sadden'd by god's great plan,
And soon expects to die.

See none of the greens have been properly cut,
By the hand of the greens-cutting man,
See lines left and right, struggling to be taut,
While members just don't understand.

With sun in his eyes,
Sad sung lullabies,
And endless sad sighs,
Mowed down dragon flies,
Inebriate night,
One-too-many fines,

His plight and our plight
Is in the never-ending lines.


-(a poem about golf course maintenance)