Mute Button – A Poem by G. S. Katz
I wish I had a personal mute button
To silence people as they are speaking
If I don’t like what I’m hearing
MUTE- you’ve been cut off
I wish I had a personal mute button
To silence people as they are speaking
If I don’t like what I’m hearing
MUTE- you’ve been cut off
Another pathetic excuse to throw a party
And eat a lot of crap to constipate you
For days
My team’s not playing
And even if they were
All this fake patriotism
And high fiving
Just give me a six pack
Or a bottle of vodka
And some non Super junk food
And leave me the hell alone
In my usual misery
Ok, somebody had to do it
Might as well be me
The silent protest against LOL
The assault on the norm
Lol is way overused
And laughing out loud
Can be rude
This is your alternative, LTM
Go ahead and try it
It won’t bite
Be original
You can even say its yours
Words
that refuse to stay
upon the page.
They break
rank and file
to slip carelessly
from line
to line,
and loiter furtively in the margins.
Assassins of poetry
they obey no master,
reluctant to convey
any meaningful message.
Yet I am aware,
as I reshuffle
phrase after phrase,
it is often the words
not written,
the dramatic pauses…
the breaks
that tell the real tale.
I Leave The Wheels To Machinery,
There Are Strange Things In The Clouds,
Honest And UnDieing They Could Live In The Wake,
Of New Days From The Next Deaths Of The Old,
Turning Lightning InTo Blackness And Stone,
The Wearing AWay At The Grip Of Dreams,
Erosion Of Forms And Patterns,
Blinking The Light From Entrance InTo Havens UnSeen,
Tenacity To Cling From The Swaying Lines,
To Burn And Incinerate The Dream,
To The Fragments For Spaceious Skys,
UnDoing Like ButterFlys,
Ripping Through The Membranes BeTwixt Glass And Grain,
Shadeing Lapses As I Step Forward…
…
Never A Division For A Partial Chance,
Empty As All Paces Can At Once Be,
Each To Lift Not To Settle,
And As I Have Stood…
…
Those From Such Walks Meet,
Side By Side,
To Stare Beyond The Shoulder’s Length,
Filling With Texture And Sleepless Breath,
Fingers Pressed Against The Surface,
Cool To The Touch…And Smoother Than Lies.
More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.
I sing the song of the shepherd–
As evening shades the hill–
Though flock I’ve not nor even flute–
To play the peaceful stillness
That surges from the valley
And wanders from the sky–
That tells the starry self- the truth–
Yet questions never why.
More at http://www.firestonefeinberg.com and http://www.verse-virtual.com.
Unto the world a stranger I–
Who never did belong–
Too obvious my sacred lie–
Too odd my secret song.
But never did I so regret
My status as it be–
Nor do I now, nor will I yet–
Make apology.
More at http://www.firestonefeinberg.com and http://www.verse-virtual.com.
the New York boy
found his country falling in upon itself
like an earthquake stricken high rise
the empire state’s enigma
shaken to his core
as the mountains disappeared
and the water tasted stagnant
the Midwest called his name
as he spit out foul liquid
from his beleaguered brain
when pastures diluted themselves
and he deluded himself
that cows always come home
instinctively
but tremors keep happening
aftershocks of a young life
spent in concrete shoes
asphalt tension of sparse blades of grass
waiting to wither in oppressive pondering
thoughts rise higher than those buildings
he couldn’t climb
as his fear of heights impedes
those steps he couldn’t take
when he found the cows had gotten lost
in his mind
and the seismic deformity of his spirit
deflated the needle on his compass
until he disappeared within himself
never got to drink the potent
ale of growing old–
the New York boy
still without a country
but understanding doesn’t need a flag
to identify the experience that
will follow him to his grave.
UpOn That Rocky Crag,
On High With The Founding Ghosts Of Marshes… Once To Be As Kings,
With Questions Travelling Across The Dire Breaking,
Where No Copper Could Be Thrown Up To Cover,
At Times To Eclipse And Quicken,
The RestLess Paramount AFlame… Then To Be As Rover…
…
Treading CoastLines And Then To LaundryLines,
Semaphore Sophomore Surf…
…
Waves From The TollBooths,
Loose Like MilkTeeth…
…
For Crickets To Be Ruled By Cicadas,
Examined As Patients… Willing To Escape,
From Triangles And Bermuda Shorts,
SmokeStacks And Coal-Chambers…
…
…
The Ocean Blue,
Under Bridges And Spreading As Bed-Sheets…
…
Spooling Its Thread Around Fossils Of Expectations Held Great,
Passed On By As Faces Change…
…
Those Whose Faces Change…
…
…
…
Those Faces Have Changed.
More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.
Living without love
Is breathing minus oxygen.
Love your life and breathe.
More at http://lovevsolitude.wordpress.com.