Meteor Showers on
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Breaking NewsThe Right turns left,
The Left turns right, perhaps, I'll turn off the news tonight, But first, first, last, last, they're counting votes as hours pass. Then win, win, lose, lose, some poor coach is singing the blues. A bitch pitch, mud slings, no news - foxy cues an agenda rings. And black, black, white, white a little race baiting to boost ratings in sight. Not good, good it's bad, bad war, war, more than a little sad. Posts, posts, by hosts, hosts, hollow commentary from teleprompter ghosts. Ode to an Immigrant GrocerOh, I can tell
by the skittish look in your eyes, and the trembling of your camel-colored hands; you are going to hate me too. Your clumsiness clearly indicates that you have never actually met; a Black, a Latino, an Asian, a Catholic, or even an American Jew. But you are going to ease on into a movie marketed American-ness by doing what only the worst kinds of WASPS do. You are going to listen to old wives tales, vote for vitriol, and adopt the more un-American points of view. Because like the millions of immigrants who have landed on these blood-stained shores before .....you; You are going to try, real hard, to hide the fact that you are brand spanking, novice new. You are going to assimilate through abhorrence, so no one suspects you. In Green PasturesDare the roaming scapegoats live or die?
Dare fat ewes and young lambs bleat or cry; where carcasses and silver casings are strewn; and warm pools of crimson slicken shades of ochre, ecru, marron - ebony and brun? Corpses into cut grass many mothers lower while o'er hills, patches of civil rights fade; A star, a badge, a scythe - a swift mowing blade. The HoneybeeTowards
my hive, I drive, I drive, and all too often I sit and wait in traffic, and at slow red lights and behind archaic life forms called, retired old ladies that make me late. Towards my honey comb I speed, I speed, a worker who wads up bits of padded paper, and attends buzzing meetings, to pay for a vassal's needs. Towards my colony I race, I race, pass my busy swarm and across the sticky, grey carpet to find my cubed place. Towards my waffle, I fly, I fly, winged ideas fanning others as I productively; chew and spit, and chew, and spit, re-purposed nectar until the day I slow, I slow, and die. Method ActorTOO
many clean years have gone by, running together in one long line of littered lingo, words on a page, a well scripted, scripted, something to say, to memorize, needling and wheedling words for many strangers curious eyes. in the boom lights, a lit up site, a stage set, another shoebox diorama on the shelf scripted, scripted THE END THE END for him and his actor's alter ego, a dramatic catharsis pushed upon himself, one final, heart stopping performance, viewed by no one else. (Rest easy Phillip Seymour Hoffman) Getting Closer to Mercury
Today as our orbs meet
I'll finally get to study up close the nature of the wild winds beneath his feet. Today as our spheres collide, I'll finally get to see up close the burning supernovas in his bright eyes. Today as our globes greet I'll finally get to feel up close his heavenly messages on my skin, his heat. |
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