He was her Father
and she was nothing to Him
unless she was His,
but she would not be His
and would not call Him
Father,
for she had not seen
or heard from Him
in quite some time,
and even then,
their exchanges had been bitter
and one-sided,
she being always drunk
or asleep
on the rare occasion
that He came around.
Truth be told
He had never said two words
to her,
even when she was just a child,
except to say in a letter once
that He knew everything
and was absolutely perfect,
and was everywhere, in all things,
even in the room,
watching and doing nothing,
as she was raped and beaten
by four men in ski masks
at the age of 10.

He was her Father
and she was nothing to Him
unless she was His,
but she would not be His
and would not call Him
Father,
and, in fact,
was terrified of Him.
His letter haunted her,
and His last words worst of all.
“One day,” He had said,
“One day you’ll come home
and I’ll be there
waiting.
And if you don’t call me Father then,
and sing Me songs about My greatness
I’ll burn your fucking house down
with you in it
and all the world will hear you scream
and the saints in heaven
will smile
and nod
as the flesh drips from your skull.
And you’ll know then,
but it will be too late,
you’ll know how fucking great I really am.”

• Ode to Black Friday, by Cassandra Rice
• Sadness Makes Itself at Home, by Rafael Alvarado

Ode to Black Friday
By Cassandra Rice

I called off work
something about a virus
the flu
a cold
bit of a fever
should be fine tomorrow

Truth is
i just feel like staring at my sagging couch
my peeling walls as if they hold some great meaning
which time and effort can reveal

Depression is
the sale on blue men’s underwear for the winter season
no one likes a sad girl so sell her
the pressed pink panties with the padded pastel push-up, pretty please

Psychosis is
the celebration of profitable rape
slavery
biological chemical nuclear warfare
AND genocide by stuffing a bird
it is
pretending that these things never happened
that they aren’t still happening here
and over…there

Hysteria
Neurosis
Obsessions
Compulsions
Insecurities (there are so many)
are the next day shopping sprees
charge cards to pay off loans to buy an education to work a job
owning everything while having
nothing

Denial is
the cost of a funeral
purchasing one’s own death thirty years in advance
it is a well-dressed corpse
rotting but smiling in a gold box in the dirt

Schizophrenia is
the harlequin face of monuments
devoted to god country the individual
it is believing we have enemies
other than those we have created

Manifest Insanity.

yes. I am Thankful
Proud
Free and
Brave.

why shouldn’t I be?

Sadness Makes Itself at Home
Rafael Alvarado

Sadness came home today

Fell asleep on my bed

Took my dreams the ones that could make me smile

It was a long day
Of swallowing

Pride

Doesn’t go down well 

I choked a little

I am quiet at work

Who I was
Is gone 

So gone

No footprints to follow

I am tired

Still I walk on

As my eyes show women no future

My eyes 

Want eyes to look 

To see

To see me

To see the man before sadness 

Came home

To see the man before the last good bye

It wasn’t long goodbye

It wasn’t even a long a hello it was just a taste

I don’t want to close my eyes

‘Cause sadness is smiling

Dreaming that dream

That I can’t

That brings tears now

I know 

I know
I can’t be
I just can’t be

I really can’t be
So I wonder

What do I do now

As I close my eyes

Realize I’m blind

‘Cause I never saw you

FRI. 12, 2007

• I Leave You With A Breath Of Ivy, by Morney Wilson
• A Small Hand, by thepoetryman
• This is When You’re Nothing, for Something, by Brittany Patrice Gay

I Leave You With A Breath Of Ivy
By Morney Wilson

This day hangs heavy on me.
It will not fit me right.
I’m unbuttoned
unzipped -
this hem is ripped.
We tripped but we tried
oh we tried to walk a straight line.

I am itching –
my skin shows no mercy
take it off now,
oh god please take it off -
I grow frightened of losing my breath.

You tell me catching it could be worse…

Where did you get this glue?
It sticks to me as if it thinks
it is a second skin.
It is not part of this body.
Why does it cling so
tightly?

I am paralyzed.
I am scared.
I dream I am dead.
This is the hospital where the nearly dead go.
I will be tested and I will fail.
You talk to me, you touch me.
I reply, I respond – oh god thank you, all is well.

You sigh deeply.
You rub your forehead.
Maybe one tear forms.

My ears ring with a church bell and a voice
wishes to speak to me soon.

Why are my ears closing up?
I cannot hear I cannot hear.

I am her from top to toe today -
the ivy grows.
Soon I will be waist-deep…

Could this be my last chance to tell you?

I am tethered to that bed again
and the ivy is growing fast.
Words need a mouth,
words need fingers.

The fingers were webbed together before
that tray stopped with paper and a crayon.
“Pens,” she said, “make a pathetic but possible attempt.”
“Pencils,” she said, “can be bluntly sharp and the bloody mess…”

“A crayon for you, dear -
and all the paper that you need.”

But I have gone, I have gone back into the breath of ivy.

© Morney Wilson.

A Small Hand
thepoetryman

The new light was lean;
crawling
like a horrid serpent
it made its nest.


It slipped over the eyes of the children
certain not to rouse them of their sleep.


The wailing came next,
its throat,
with its lament
a woeful tide of loss.


Faint at first,
then
to shattering pale prayers
with its great howl.


Have we not enough
madness, destruction,
man’s angry shell
over children’s throats?


Are there now
other rifles to aim,
bombs to plunge
like God’s will?


Her small hand motions to us
from the mists of tomorrow,
pleading, come forward
out war’s great sorrow.

This is When You’re Nothing, for Something
By Brittany Patrice Gay

You’re an awful drug,

That I need to kick.

It’s making me ill.

My stomach is having a fit.

Poison leaving craters,

In my brain.

Scooping out places,

That’ll never be the same.

There’s a break in my heart.

And its been forming from the start.

When I first got a glance,

At a beauty so dark.

On my face, I was falling flat.

Crawling for the slack.

Hoping you’d be on the other end,

Pulling me back.

I’m sinking.

You block my thinking.

It’s your name that I’m speaking.

I run for your house, though,

In morning,

I know you’ll be kicking me out.

No need to shout.

I know the way.

I may be crazy,

But I know not to stay.

You effect me in an evil way.

You’re my night, and my day.

Is there a chance of weaning you,

From my system.

Any words of wisdom?

If there were any,

Then I missed ‘em.

When infatuated you’re not yourself.

It destroys your health.

Puts all of your emotions,

Clear on the shelf.

These are the confessions

Of a sucker romantic.

So now all you others

Can go frantic.

We are of a dying breed.

The ones most girls do not need.

While there are stars in your eyes,

There is coal in hers’.

And you just keep hanging on,

No matter how much it hurts.

Girls can be jerks.

But that’s just how they work.

Flawless hair, makes you stare.

And for you, they really don’t care.

Just eat up the glare.

Never satisfied,

Wants a good girl,

But that all could be lie.

Cause good girls finish last.

The ones that win,

Are normally bad.

But I can’t resort to being

A bitch.

Rather raise a wave,

Than a fist.

So until I can be appreciated,

I’ll just remain intimidated.

Scared of love,

That never quite fits me like a glove.

Could be years.

Till I’m bleeding from the ears.

As I wait,

I’ll be mopping up the tears.

THUR. O4, 2007

• Upgrade, by Rafael Alvarado
• From An Alley, A Flame, by Morney Wilson

Upgrade
By Rafael Alvarado

It’s 9. I’m home. I’m dead tired.
I can’t think of anyone I want to fuck,
Start to miss myself.
This upgrade, this better man, 
Isn’t much use to me.
Dressing me up,
Putting me positive,
Putting me forward,
It’s 9. I don’t want to fuck anymore.
I don’t want to kiss anymore.
Be inside
‘Cause son you find yourself outside.
I wanted more;
Now just want to forget
That I woke up with someone,
That I think.
The night has now become endless
‘Cause I don’t drink.
I don’t get high.
I never liked needles.
There is no replacement,
No bad action to make me feel better.
No starting fights;
It would ruin the upgrade.
Beard shaved,
I want to know
Why can’t you love me?
Over & over
I hear the answer.
If I wasn’t afraid of going to jail,
I’d be at a bar drinking myself back
‘Cause this upgrade,
This new person
Still feels
The same inside.
It bothers me
That I don’t want to fuck anyone,
That after all these years,
I’m not calling someone just to hold me for a night.

From An Alley, A Flame
By Morney Wilson

I waited for days inside that
alley, dark – watching – dim
but somehow smelling
of stale lavender, when my
granddaughter danced the dance
of the dying -
- mad, wild, hair tossing, eyes glitter spark
glitter spark glitter spark dulling dulling.

She turns and turns, spinning -
oh daughter of daughter you will take off
these coats and we can feel the heat,
yes, love, we can feel the heat
in that body wracking with guilt,
with guilt with fear.

Once a young girl… you -
now – what are you now?
Where do you go now?
I know I cannot follow.

I tried.
I tried once.
I tried twice.
Perhaps I tried a third time.
I called you back I call you back.

You are not coming.

You never did oh my
girl when I thought you were here
You were already gone.

Now this heat, this fire
furious fighting fearsome flames.

My genius.
Burning yourself out before you could begin.

I will cry.
One day.

Not now.

Are you rising?
Burn, my flesh of flesh, burn.

Did you come back last night?
I was waiting -
the alley was silent.
I thought I saw a spark ignite
and a gate open.
Were you burning your way back home?

The fire rose quickly when the door shut.
The smoke coloured the sky an orange light
like the crayons we used when you were small.

But then the cold came.

You died.
And I still don’t know why.

© 2007 Morney Wilson.

THUR. S27, 2007

• Smith Street, by Brooke Van Poppelen
• Riot Act, by Demos

Smith Street
By Brooke Van Poppelen

My head throbs
my heart hurts
and it was
another night
with
you

Electric and thick
something like
tension
hangs languid
in the air

You pop
I buzz
we crackle
shambling down
the street
excitable
on fire
tipsy and so
sure of ourselves

You hold my
hand like a
cigarette
it’s 4am
when the weary
have given up
and we have
only just started

Liquor makes
your lips loose
you can’t
hold in your soul
pouring yourself
like Jameson
and I can taste
you on my teeth

The crowds clear out
and the world
opens up in that
dizzy
truthful
violet hour
when we are
possible…

Riot Act
By Demos

Is it the deeds of the “Great”
 That change society?
 Or is it people like you and me?

Revolution is not born from the head,
 Of the hierarchy.
 It is bred of needed bread,
 And from words that get left unsaid.

The dissent within the ranks,
 The lack of communication,
 Hidden information,
 Smokey masks breathe in the tension.
 Spread by the anonymous.

I have my hold hand,
 The game face to win if I stay in.
 Do you see what I’m thinking?
 What I’m feeling?
 Or are you just playing your hand?

What do you see in that mirror?
 Are you even shaving your face?
 Show me the voice that represents!
 Or are the barriers too thick to speak through,
 Afraid your words will not be heard?

I will root for the underdog
 With potent optimism
 Through his eternal winter.
 Hark a silent prayer,
 ”We love it when someone comes from behind.”

The struggle pulls the stitches free,
 Liberated from the bonds
 Of selective hearing.
 You eventually see the truth
 And what comes with that, responsibility.

They say it’s how you play the game.
 Some even say,
 ”It doesn’t matter if you win or lose,”
 In turn ignoring the objective with their claims,
 But the end will always have a beginning.

When they come in,
 You’re first and your words
 Will be useless!
 You will be a shadow
 Amidst bullets and tear gas.
 Sorting through the smoke
 Was never the guards intentions.
 Shoot first.
 Let the questions be answered later.

Look at the light
 As you’re surrounded by darkness,
 A deer in headlights.
 There is no escape from the truth
 Crushing into you in the final moments.

“LET THEM ALL DIE, god will sort them out.”

It’s better we never knew their names,
 Their stories,
 They were dead already.
 No room for empathy,
 I hold my sympathy for few.
 If I listen,

It just may hit too close to home.
 Let go of their demands.
 Let them incite their riots.

When the dust finally settles,
 That’s when the revolution really begins.

WED. S19, 2007

•  ANGER AND INDIGNATION, by thepoetryman
• The Paper Doll, by Jane Crown

ANGER AND INDIGNATION
By thepoetryman

War delivers something significant
Overlooked in our hurry;
Blindness of its reach
Leading demons to our bed.

Our minds see too late the sacrificed
In its jaws or upon its talons
With “This war, this lie will echo,”
Stomping inside our heads.

There’s not room for much else,
Shrapnel has invited itself in
And eats our guilt with a shovel,
Burrowing to our center.

Another soldier, a child,
Who believes himself impenetrable
Is taken to soil for our charade,
Cold and ashen now.

Where is the anger
For having been wed to this legion,
For standing motionless
As deceit commits so many?

Where’s the indignation?
What have we sacrificed to the ground?
Do we believe we’ve ducked its swipe
And come out unsoiled on the other side?

Now, after we’ve learned, will we
Snuggle up to precious war
And kiss its beneficiaries,
Too afraid to die?

War bends for no one, save for utter defeat.
These are the days of our significance,
These we live, so grab the warring shovel
And bury it of its damnable use!

The Paper Doll
By Jane Crown

I am the paper doll of childhood,
Shabbily dressed, with clasps barely there.
That thin nearly invisible
Toy-that asks to be
Dressed and adored.
Take a hat and cloak for me
To cover my lack of much
But papered soul.
Hide my shame and promiscuity.
Dress my innocence, barely there.
Lay me down inside your floral patterned box
or book.
Flat upon my crinkled back,
Waiting for your touch.
Here I lay silent,
Paper lips, pulp and sinew.
Clasp a child’s hand round my
Smallish diameter throat.
Make me speak in high -toned octaves,
Like a girl, like a woman, unlike a human doll.
I am the paper doll of regret,
Which all humans have-
and yet I yearn to be full, not folded.

WED. S12, 2007

• Untitled Poem, by Jane Crown
• Fuck the Disorder;
  I Have Cheese and My Lover by Virginia Corley
• I don’t want to kiss you, by Matt Jaeger

Untitled Poem
By Jane Crown

Boxes packed with China,
Transcendental longings

We spit and fume,
Unpack, to our surprise find items
Matched in symmetry

One pattern, one sided
One rhythm, one longing divided

The twitch of things familiar
Palpitations of the self-conscious
The solipsistic pleasure, the worship of my
Vanity before you

I titter, I moan sure to wink back
To careless material made for supporting a move
To a new Chaos in things to come

One pattern, one sided
One rhythm, one longing divided

An inanimate fear of the less cautious sighs contained
Packed like wrecked little thieves,
Broken amongst the novelty
Bravado and photos spill out the neurotic worship
Of what we forgot we possessed

Patterns full of soothing sameness
Things that go together
Dwell in the fortitude of miles
Casual streets winding
To the columned rows
The lost home and its occupants

One pattern, one sided
One rhythm, one longing divided.

Fuck the Disorder;
I Have Cheese and My Lover
By Virginia Corley

I clawed my way up from the “sickness” that had me trapped, useless, paralyzed for so long
and today I was shoved back down a little bit by a force beyond my control
just enough to make me feel like a second class citizen
just enough to make me feel the rage at the ex-husband whose actions continue to fuck with my life
just enough to make me feel the hot sting of tears that cannot be cried hard enough
just enough to make me go to a place in my mind that belongs to a woman who I refuse to allow to exist
just enough to make me ready to cook my Great-Grandmother’s cheese enchiladas
sweet comforting cheese
sweet comforting Lover (I am so lucky) with his hands full of saucy tortillas
In the two of them, I find assurance that the problem that sent me into fits of instability will pass
second class my ass
take that woman who allows the disorder to win
and shove her back into her tiny corner of my mind
and tell her to shut the fuck up
we don’t say “Bi-Polar” at the dinner table.

I DON’T WANT TO KISS YOU
by Matt Jaeger

we both drank like dehydrated camels and
you were wearing one of those
halfie t-shirts that shows
your bellybutton
which always turns me on
and you flopped on the couch
with your head in my lap
so in the middle of the slow song
i reached over and touched
your bellybutton
which made you giggle
so i slowly put my hand
up your halfie t-shirt
and you breathed in quickly like
the welcome gasp
before going under water
and you tried to hold your breath
while my finger circled your nipple
but small sighs kept escaping
and i began to probe a little deeper
and you began to moan
so i looked for the zipper on your skirt
as you slid beneath my jeans
and we started rolling and rocking
looking for a rhythm and
we rode the hobbyhorse
real slow for a while
until we broke stride
and we laughed and poked
and flipped each other over
sticking our legs in the air
and i was the easy rider
and the beast of burden
and you were aphrodite
and a paved princess
and we screwed like bunnies
until we both passed out

now the sunlight spotlights
all the dust that was
pounded out of the couch last night
and you are wearing one of my big t-shirts
but it’s the one i’ve had since eighth grade
with holes in the armpits
your hair is frizzy
and you smell like beer
and i imagine myself
waking up next to you
in a mobile home
you say how happy you are this morning
and i feel like crap
you say you’ve been wanting
this type of thing to
happen between us for a long time
and i feel a bit hunted
you talk sweetly like we’re on
a honeymoon
and i can’t think of anything to say
i don’t feel like i made
a mistake because i
had fun last night like
the rush you get from
a roller coaster but
now with your arms
around my neck
and your lips puckered
toward mine
i don’t want to kiss you
because then i’ll have to call you
and this morning
i find you kind of ugly

SEPTEMBER 5, 2007

• Who Shall Meet the Looming Strike, by thepoetryman
• The Mother Fuckers of Invention, by Freida Bee

WHO SHALL MEET THE LOOMING STRIKE

By thepoetryman

Who hears the coming toll
clanging down upon existence;

the hell’s bell strafing the motherland

in shock and awe’s comeuppance?

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Not nearly enough of the breathing.
For the idle flesh… it’s now beyond remittance.
Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.
For whom should it toll?
And for how much longer?
Ask the twisted faces… staring back in anger.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Behind us, the screeching gloom hunched in wait.

In front, that goddamned piece of paper
of which… we’ve made a solemn pledge.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

What should each of us do?
And why should each of us do it?
Ask the occupied… that kneel in rigid prayer.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Who should heed the gruesome chord?
And who should meet the looming strike
of shock and awe’s reward?

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Not nearly enough of the living.

For the fallen… it’s now beyond their giving.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Who should stand and hold back hell?
And who should end its surge?
Ask the million ghosts… clanging on the bell.

The Mother Fuckers of Invention
By Freida Bee

Ironically, independent infidels
And first-class citizens
Insist
On similar luxuries:
Organic food,
Purified water,
Financial freedom.
The downtrodden
Have forgotten
Their voices are essentially
An extension of their consumption.
Whole foods and food-not-bombs
Might be accessible to a few,
But Wal-Mart feeds the masses
And foreign children
For one dollar per hour.
Merely making a buck
Won’t cut the mustard
At Labor Day events
Slash cookouts
Where communities of workers
Play the tug of war
Of hearts and minds
While their social security
Vanishes
Into the pockets of presidential pardonees.

This is a sad story if it ends here.

August 22

1. My War on Terror Starts Here
2. Asleep

My War on Terror Starts Here
By John Harrison (aka Manila Ryce)
www.TheLargestMinority.com

Dear Mr. corporate conservative,
You and I aren’t as different as your puritanical posture indicates.
For we are both caught in the sanctimonious peril of this tumbling planet.
We have both derived from similar cells that share the same atoms,
Atoms which all have their origins as vast clouds of swirling hydrogen.
Atoms forged by stars that compose the greatest of galaxies and tiny ant shit.
You and I are somewhere in between; just pieces of all matter.

Yet, you deny me.
You are of the lineage that has drawn the globe with sharpened pencils.
Those draped in the earth’s core shadow that have escaped the vision of God.
I too am a naked ape of Eve, but with intentions of opposition to yours.
I’ve watched the blackened shadow of your hand spread across our open skies.
I am a survivor of your gluttony with stitches that have come apart at the seams.
It is a great mistake of yours to think I should be the only one to feel the pain.

What I feel, you shall feel.
I want to rent my insides out to the good boys and girls of your Americana.
I want you to inhale my disease and feel the biting rain inside your twisted bones.
I am the anguish of your kin whom you’ve crushed under the tread of machines.
I am the last tree hugger who’d rather have blood on his hands than sap.
No longer will I be your scrap piece of paper; a billboard for your fuck-ups.
So retreat in cowardice to your suburban dreams of neo-conservative fascism.

Write me off as unpatriotic,
Honesty is a gravel road your SUV has yet to explore beneath the martyred trees.
I will box your ears until you hear me. I will joyously cut away this country’s infection.
I will see the day when you are crushed beneath the rainbows in your beautiful world.
God will rain down the gasoline you’ve desired so badly from smoking suburban skies.
Your homogeneous neighborhood overturned with scenes of tumultuous splendor.
Though lately it’s occurred to me that God is relying on us, and not the other way around.

I am your feared neighbor,
I am not your easily tamed trophy wife who breastfeeds your children from plastic cups.
I am simply a 500 pound guerilla growing with rage inside your monkey bars.
I am personified hunger with the frustration of insignificance grinding between my teeth.
I am the manifestation of God’s wrath when he decides he can no longer be a spectator.
I am the growing weight suspended above those signing his name to justify tyranny.
Apathy has crumbled off my leper poker face, unveiling a beautiful valentine scarecrow.

I will end your consumption.
I will cram my finger down your throat until you are done regurgitating deceit.
I am not like the fools who have given their consent to be branded by your fire.
Instead I’ve struggled to expel this scarlet letter “W” which you’ve sewn into my chest.
I am an instrument in Gods hand; eager to exorcise the demon in mans paw.
No longer will your red meat values eclipse the expansive pupils of innocent eyes.
You are pride’s ugliness who is to be pelted with newspapers at the doorstep of heaven.

Drown in your baptism,
In the ravenous stare of vultures on limb. In the fleshy muzzle of maggots and mites.
You and your bible study buddies who love Christ but don’t understand him.
You stone casting hypocrites who know nothing about your own religion.
Your counterfeit-protected god is the thin tourniquet you will bleed behind:
Your silver spoon Jesus, your cowboy messiah, your cluster bomb reverend.
He is merely a salesman behind the pulpit of which greater men have stood.

Sincerely,
Your bone framed furniture whose skin has worn thin.

Asleep
By Freida Beehttp://freidabee.blogspot.com/

Silent serenades are sung
Loud and punkishly in my mind
Alternating with
Whispers and nudges in your ear.
Cries of pain are muted, muffled, muted
Until they are imperceptible, incomprehensible,
abandoned.
What was that I said?
It’s not that
Important.
Enough is enough
Is too much
For you to hold and tote and
Hold on a second or an hour or
Ten lifetimes
Until I’m ready to speak
The truth.
What is that?
I forgot
While I slept.
I hear nothing mixed with stillness
Secretly, steadily stated
So loud it hurts
My inner ear.
Out of balance, spinning, reeling,
I fall.

August 15

One Man’s Bullshit Is Another Man’s Bible
-Alexander Shaumyan

It’s been a long way to the truth,
With all the bullshit obscuring the way-
How often throughout my youth
I sought something honest to say.

I’ve seen most art as a lie
That has little to do with the world,
And the honest ones often die
Long before their story is told.

I’ve heard turgid words that blind
In a constant attempt to impress,
While the truly brilliant minds
Can speak volumes by saying less.

I’ve learned that great art is not
For the gaping public to praise,
And true beauty cannot be bought,
No matter what anyone pays.

I’ve learned that true art is above
Rigid rules of the cultural snobs,
Or the cheap declarations of love
That appeal to the ignorant mob.

I’ve learned that wisdom comes cheap,
Told by those who proselytize
Their bullshit to those who sleep,
Dulled by dreams of beautiful lies.

© Alexander Shaumyan, 2007

4 Comments

1. Comment by thepoetryman on August 24, 2007 8:47 pmSLOUCHING TOWARD OBLIVIONThe brighter sun is set, my friend;
   our dim beacon
   has lost its glimmer,
   is AWOL of its liberty, freedom.
   Glorious was its seed-
   The ghosts that embraced our land
   and people have chosen another creed-
   a new way.
   Founders saw glory best honored by freedoms
   posture not bent in fear-
   not upon scattered knees, hands
   outstretched yet untaken-
   words snubbed short for truth
   clogging the earth with murmur-
   instead saw fact command.

   What burden what is done to us
   when guiding principles
   count for naught-
   truths they now utter in smiling mirrors,
   their message lunges forward in murderous night,
   lies and lying negate our inheritance.
   Now is the hour for us to stand!
   Our children and grandchildren need guide
   their way out of darkness as ever we our own…
   They will feel the shackle of tyranny
   and hope for little else
   in this harsh temper,
   into flowers planted on graves.

   Rise up before the sun!
   Rise to the trumpet of dawn!
   Sleep not the day-
   the hours precious peacefulness
   in its point.
   The truth and freedom are growing weary
   with the push of light-
   each moment is quieted and undone,
   far flung, beyond the reach of hope
   and honeyed peace.
   The undercurrent quickens-
   we’ll not stem a flood, our death.
   Rise now!
   Do battle our dead reflection

   toward home of a brighter sun…

   mrp

2. Comment by P. Bloodsworth on August 25, 2007 7:42 pmOperation Vendetta
   (Theme:City Smells – http://www.editred.com/Uploads/st_54072_Operation_Vendetta_Theme?allowadult=1)it started in September
   the scent first wafted in
   asbestos laden entrails
   and the ashen taste of sin
   a screaming sense of vertigo
   explosions from within
   years later they’re still finding
   what would lie beneath the skin
   an evil emanation
   prevented questions being asked
   and those would-be redeemers
   now wish they had worn masks

   and it became a duty
   to seek out and destroy
   ANY, one might deem a threat,
   to what had been enjoyed
   played and replayed images
   smatter the t.v.
   the television lets us know
   that no one’s really free
   while morbid curiosity
   holds us dazzled in lights
   an unholy phosphorescence
   hurls us backwards in our plight
   but we still buy our fragrances
   and we still “tune-in”
   to the images that show us how
   the people burned from deep within

   but now we remember
   the 5th of November
   for that was the day when it ends
   we realized the truth
   when it was too late
   and the gases were all wafting in

   at first the aroma
   seemed a bouquet
   and the toxins were hard to detect
   but soon we discovered
   malodorous poison
   accompanied our every breath
   and what we had welcomed
   as something benign
   something inherently sweet
   we soon realized
   was, in essence, a lie
   and the city began to reek

   and now we remember
   the 5th of November
   because that’s what we’re programmed to know
   and the scent wafting in
   it is really our friend
   and it helps our economy grow
   and they say we’re not helping
   refusing the rations
   and digging them out of our skin
   but I sometimes remember
   that day in September,
   the day the scent first drifted in

   P. Bloodsworth ©2007

3. Comment by CONNIE on August 27, 2007 7:23 amWELCOME TO THE MACHINE
   (A RHYMING UN-METERED FREE VERSE)The war grinds on
   the one we have always fought
   for millennia after millennia
   it is always in the name of someone’s god
   power is sought

   it is the never-ending
   price we pay
   for whatever the prize is called
   each day

   Naught can win
   ‘twould be a sin
   people would be out of work!
   the soldiers would fail
   the allies would bail
   freedom would just sail away
   in the hands of the enemy jerks…

   But wait…
   what of the war on disease and death
   or the war on hunger
   or crystal meth?
   What of the war on
   ignorance
   Illiteracy
   poverty
   What of the war on war?

   I will gladly suit up
   for that battle cry
   I do not want to play
   but I’ll give it a try

   The war on war
   what a concept!
   Our weapons of mass destruction?
   All the tears we have wept
   for our sons and fathers
   daughters and brothers
   wives and lovers
   who were forced to fight and kill
   while government molded their will
   into a heat forged tool
   into a misinformed fool
   into an order taking ghoul
   who fights for evil oil soaked men
   who never have their fill
   until
   our families are spent
   their blood spilled
   so pockets can be filled
   so lives can be bent
   till the infidels repent

   Alas I fear
   that
   we
   have
   become
   the infidels…