The Year of the Rat, 14: Paper Tigers by Frank-Jaspers, literature
Literature
The Year of the Rat, 14: Paper Tigers
“Whatcha thinking about?”
Nicole nudged my rib cage with her bony elbow.
“Ouch … nothing.”
“Nothing? Your face looks like you’re putting together a scrabble board.”
“From memory, yes, that is exactly what I am doing.” I said sarcastically.
“Well, you’re a liar. You should tell me what you’re really thinking about. You don’t talk enough about your past. I feel like I hardly know you.”
“That’s what everyone says … Oh, but don’t say that … what do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. How should I know, if
Silence is golden, no sounds are in sight,
Nothing is heard, that sheds any light;
Motion winds down, and quiet draws near,
Listen to stillness, then watch dreams appear.
on florida, after the fact by successwithhonor, literature
Literature
on florida, after the fact
they say the tallest thing in the state is a landfill.
fitting, for what are we all but used up things rotting in the sun?
this gilded cityscape even Mike Bell couldn’t escape, the king of
running, the concrete kiss that kept him still.
say this is for the ever expanding list of obituaries i recognize
in the paper, not sure whether to mourn or make note,
we, just a bunch of rich kids with nothing else to do but die
and once, summer was just an afternoon thunderstorm,
just a parade of bicycles in the cul-de-sac
and, back then, we didn’t really know cool
till we heard it on the bus radio, know how to
keep ourselves out of trou
One, two, three, four
Hear the coming uproar
March! (two, three, four)
See the mighty downpour.
Weapons out, banners bright
Every shape, hue, height;
Rain barrage and passing spray
Remember this Umbrella Day!
And yet! (two, three, four)
This is anything but war
Hup! (two, three, four)
This is earth and sky rapport.
Waterfalls from building tops
Ripple-watching, puddle-hops
Heavy awnings, glowing shops
... But we're all glad when it stops.
October 19th
I arrived at home a pure soul
but I retreat a mosaic of soles.
Yes, I have been stepped on,
I have been led and brought on, spat on,
had the rod on, been beat and been broke.
At least you like my lyric.
At least your bootmarks no longer ache
and glow hurt-red. Marks, my words
when they pelt the ground, raindrops
falling but not on my head;
they cool my wounds. Even nature
is sympathetic. It gives you a sun today
and an excuse to burst from your dungeon.
I say take that chance. There is a want
for freedom there. Boot-march is a twisted
soundtrack there and it has gotten old;
the bright thoughts of bright leaves
and the dear face