Three Cheers

Here it comes like a fastball thrown by an energetic pitcher
Hot tempered and would be damned if anything gets by it,
Destined to find the missing spot, where the bat will fly by,
Without a thud, or a thump, a whisper of open air just under or above,
And the people will not be expecting it,
They've been on the edge of their seats,
Staring and seeking out with beady little eyes from far off seats,
Guessing and second guessing the intent and arrival of said baseball,
The throw is wild and deliberate and it smacks hard into the catchers mitt,
And the man's hand is sore, and bruised, but not broken,
And the crowd leans in and ponders it as the umpire shouts "out",
That was the third strike of the night, the third out of the inning,
So the people hang their heads low, dragging their knuckles on solid ground,
The smell of beer brats, and popcorn balls,
The smell of stale ales, and ketchup packets,
That have exploded upon cemented bleachers,
And on blue and gold bucket seats,
The batter goes and he takes his place on his bench,
The game is over, the people stroll home,
Perhaps its time to call it quits, to hang up the helmets,
Steal away the gloves, and the grass stained uniform,
To take a relaxing warm bath with salts and herbal remedies,
To relax the knuckles in a bucket of ice,
To sigh with utter conviction that he gave it his all,
As he gave it his all in every game of his life,
Time is catching up, the wind is blowing low,
The stadium is emptied, and the ghost of fanatic shouting is heard echoing,
As the phantom people are rejoicing,
And as he stands in his street clothes next to the home base,
He takes his batters stance and knocks one out of the park,
"This is for you," he mutters to himself,
And then he swings again at the spectral throw,
"So was that," he says this time in a low and convicted tone,
One more chance to make it all count,
And this one he hits half way around the world,
He is legend in his game,
In himself he is the master of his sport,
So he runs around the bases, a total of three times,
A triad of shouting, and rejoicing, and he waves his hands up in the air,
And makes applause come from the empty chairs,
And when he makes it back to home he sits, and stares down the pitchers mound,
It is certain this was his final game,
It is also certain that it was lost,
But in the eyes of god redeemed himself,
And in the eyes of the angels,
He's redeemed his team.

Inch Worm Triathalon

Somewhere there's a place where the pains and the woes will go to slumber
Where the sickness and disease hides away in fear of the finality of the joy of this existence
To be, and to have been, to grant us life in the midst of our imagined losses,
Go thee to heaven in a robe of pearls and touch the people on the temples,
And give them a taste of chocolate and licorice in their mouths
The would be's and could have beens will be so far away from us,
That place in the clouds, or between the trees, somewhere inside our minds,
Frantically facing a calamity, but with a serence fierceness that few have ever seen,
Go on and see the truth, because it is there,
Just around the corner waiting for the grief mop to be away,
Soon on the other side of the bridge where the water is fresh and the vegetation is overflowing,
They will feed on everything so abundantly,
It's final and its scary, and the world is a stage that will slowly have the curtain drawn on,
Tomorrow gets us everything,
If we only find it in ourselves.

In Yellow Rain Coats

They said that the weather warranted this simplistic type of clothing
One long heavy coat to allow the rain to swim down themselves,
And into the mix and mash of itself that forms puddles on the floor
And these great big leathery boots placed upon little and bigger feet,
As they jump and kick up splashes of rain water from beneath their heels,
It's only a matter of time before they catch their colds, but for now,
For now it matters not that its freezing it only matters that they are smiling,
When the rain turns to sleet and the sleet into snow then we may have places to go,
Some place warmer and full of fiery heat, to melt away the icicles on our feet,
To bring forth a glow of red warmth on already rosy cheeks and slowly dismiss discomfort,
As they lay their heads down on soft pillows, as their bodies lay on hard wood floors,
Infront of a stone hearth, bellowing and blanketing them in its flame,
From a safe but comfortable distance, they are not burnt but they do feel a baking on their skin,
Soon the weather will return to normal, and bring back on the spring showers,
And the oversized coats that act like duck feathers will make them play in puddles all day,
So it goes and so it shall be, with themselves, and then their children in eventual unions,
With husbands and wives, and nieces and nephews, finding satisfaction in mother natures temper tantrums,
And going out of the way to splash upon a friend the mud and the muck on a newly pressed dress,
Some business man just bought his fancy new wife, to make up for his infidelity,
Yet in the spirit of the seasons, and in good sport they'll smile and splash the childish ways back,
And all his sins will be forgotten because in a child's eyes it really isn't all that important to dwell,
All of these warm weathered days will seem dreary, as a blistering sun boils the flesh,
And the kids will stick to the water, the closest they'll come to the rain droplets on their coat skins,
Soon thunder clouds will roll in, and coat racks will be bare, and the simplicity of a certain kind of misty misery,
Will result in glorious satisfaction, for one persons dismal day is another persons warmth and relaxation,
A way to view the happiness of childhood, or the peacefulness of a pitter pattered little helper,
On the scalp and on the thoughts inside a worried brain, washing away the pattern of perplex agony,
Into nothing by way of rain,
Just rain,
In yellow rain coats.

A Grimm Fairy Tale

this is the plight of a hapless woodsmen
chasing a big bad wolf through a thicket of briar
and sensing in his scratched and bruised ego
that he won't get much farther before his blood lets out
when all hope seems lost,
two little pigs toss their sticks and stones,
to avenge their straw building brother,
and the big bad wolf runs away with small wounds,
the woodsman thanks the swine travelers,
and together they resolve to track down this evil doer,
and to put an end to big bad terror forever,
through a long and strenuous winter they travel,
and eventually the woodsman gets hungry,
and while one pig is gone to procure supply's,
the crafty woodsman slits the throat of the lone little pig,
and he sticks him on a spit, and twirls him over the wee little fire,
he taste of fat and juicy meat,
smiling the woodsman wipes his face and rubs his belly,
then he hastily disposes of the evidence.
when the pig brother returns he asks about his sibling,
to which the woodsman lies and blames it on the wolf,
so the brick laying little pig is full of fury
at the wrong bad guy, but  a bad guy none the less,
when they finally track him to his nice little den,
the wolf is world weary and wounded from the sticks and bricks,
the brick pig confronts him and demands justice for both his brothers,
but before the wolf can confess to the slaughter of one
the woodsman lays him low with the blunt force of his axe,
they both agree that its done, and the worst is now over,
and when the pig turns his back he takes a similar blow to the wolf,
but luckily his helmet is built of the most durable material,
and he turns and hurls bricks at the woodsman,
the man's face is bruised and pulp,
and he falls down unconscious,
and then the little pig becomes a fat pig,
as he eats through the mans bones like butter,
he is to full to run away,
when the wolf pups come out to call,
and the big bad wolf wife approaches very calmly
while the pig pleads for his life,
and then before she snaps his neck with her killing jaws she says,
"hypocrites."

Don't Forget

Don't you see the people starving on the city streets,
Don't you see the nonsensical clowns killing them quietly,
Don't you understand that fundamental thing about us,
Don't you understand that no one will forget you,
Don't you believe in anything
Don't you believe in nothing
Don't you fathom the changing of the seasons,
Don't you fathom the coming of the storms,
Don't you silently wait for the doors to open,
Don't you silently sit and stare at closed doors,
Don't you gather that this is no way to exist,
Don't you gather that this will tear you to pieces,
Don't your insides feel like failing,
Don't your instincts feel like flailing around like mad,
Don't your memories cloud your judgement
Don't your memories feel so lost and forgotten
Don't you hear what I am saying
Don't you know what it is I am writing
Don't you feel anything for anyone,
Don't you hate when you accidently become hated,
Don't you want to be alive,
Don't you want to forget about dying,
Don't you simply want to see the end of the world,
Don't you wish you could just make it a little farther,
Don't you see that this is futile,
Don't you believe in anything,
Don't you believe in nothing,
Nothing at all.

Since the Dawn of an Ending

Maybe it's time to say good-bye,

To bid farewell to the last ten thousand years,

And seal the fate of the lizard kings,

Terrible and tyrannically they ruled the planet,

With a scaled toe and consequently faulted the parallel lines of comprehension,

As terrible otherworldly forces slandered the good name of forgotten fables,

Where worker ants are angered by briskly lazy grasshoppers,

Enjoying the live long day of non-labor on an imagined railway,

In a drowned rail yard where simplistic little pieces are scattered upon microscopic tombstones,

And long ago lost spirits pray to the couple pieces of stitched wood,

To make peace on a volcanic plain of impromptu improvisation,

While sickle cells break under the steam pressure of a barreling locomotive,

On a cool summer day where the sun does not shine enough,

To make the sweat glands pour out the promise of a cool down sensation,

Over the back of the poor migrant worker,

Who only wants to make it through to the day he kisses,

His little girls good night

Stagnant Air

The fable begins simply enough
the bugs and the people try desperately to hug,
and the pinching feeling of tentacles swarm
as octopuses contend with squids,
and simplistic people penetrate with swords,
The heart of some feline manhunter,
Who only wants to feed its kind,
and digest and distribute the remains,
That are then to be buried under sand,
Kindly remove the judgement
Replace it with humility,
And contemplate the forever after,
Of a once rotted fairy tale re-imagined,
In a new half hour special,
In this 1st world country,
Where others find themselves fading so fast,
In the midst of the myth,
Looking for a moral to the now long gone story,
Contemplating since childhood,
To now to their dying last days,
As the breath frequently leaves the mouth,
And the lungs dry up without any moisture,
and then the tigers come and eat away the remains,
Don't be alarmed,
For your deposits will make the flowers bloom,
Or so they say of this circle of life,
And the finality of some mistaken legend,
Let us enjoy the story,
For their may be no point,
But its adventurous and its dangerous,
Its dramatic and hilarious,
It is what it is,
And it will be what it will be,
Take it or leave it,
But stay awhile at least to witness the coming storms,
Thunder will not harm you,
And the lightning isn't good at seeking out its aforementioned target,
So go,
Sleep away the pains,
But then wake up and walk a brand new day,
And breathe it in, till you can't anymore.
You got it,
So stop wishing it away,
The End.

Seasonal Grief.

when the snowstorm blew in they tried to hide the fear on their faces, but the fear was apparent in ever line if you traced it, and they just tried to see with eyes brand new, while white washed under the morning snow fallish dew, and to their disappointment they fell in love with nothing but the cold and frigid air.

And then the first blooms came, they loomed over the earth as positive reinforcement and people excelled with their low self esteem, because everything seemed new even the steam from the sewage drains on park avenue, and through the smog they smelled the roses, and died a horrible death of auto-erotic esphixiation.

Then came the high summer sun that melted the woes, and the grief into puddles, and people swam in polluted waters, where dead fish dried up on wet beaches, where bitches dried up under strenuous heat, and their whorish ways wouldn't allow for re-entry and the hot sand was rough and it scratched at their thighs, and they missed the men who secretly died.

So it's come to this where the leaves are dying, and the children are crying after their stomachs explode with too much sugary goodness, and we are mortified to learn that the razors edge is not where it's suppose to be.  They were only practicing shaving but we throw them in the hospital assuming the worst, and creating it just the same.

...But not at all.

When the tissue paper was torn off the package,
The party goers oooed and awwwed,
And they all just stared,
With stupefied smiles,
Plastered all over their pretty bland faces.
And when the puppy was lifted from the box,
The gift receiver blessed the gift givers,
And drank the milk, and ate the cookies.
The party ended and the people went home,
And that's like life.

A Toast to an Asshole

How long will it take for you to cry yourself into a drunken stupor.

 

How many people do you have to ignore or insult as they grieve before you are completely knocked out.

 

When will you get the truth through your head that your not a victim, but the oppressor.

 

When does it begin to sink it, when the bottle of rum is empty the glass in your hand is half full?

 

You'll beg and you'll cry on a nearby shoulder, but as others need the same your tears stab the other persons tears to death.

 

You can't abide grief in the face of others. 

 

Yet you expect them to abide yours.

 

You won't listen to bitching of the masses, but you bitch as much as all of them combine and for the rest of your life.

 

When will you get that you don't even come close to helping, but you expect a ton of help in return.

 

Woe is you you say?

 

I say fuck you, that's what I say.

 

Alone and blistered, and turning quickly gray.

 

Maybe one day you'll stay the same only difference being you'll slowly fade away.

 

Can't help you, because you don't want to be helped.

 

It's easier to live in your little lie, and make light of the troubles of others.

 

Who have endured it longer, and you only had maybe a year of attachment.

 

Don't get up and down your drink, I tried to buy you beer but you only stole away the liquor cabinet inbetween your mattresses.

 

Take some pills, here's some anti-depressant. 

 

Push your way inside another person who doesn't really want you.

 

And then whine and cry because your dellusions made it so perfect, when in reality everyone else saw the tell tale signs.

 

Reserve yourself back there, in the corner under the blanket of shadows,

And rock back and forth,

And sing a song about nothing in particular.

 

Curse the world for not understanding you,

 

When you never really wanted them to.