surfersofbole

[surfersofbole]

Feeling kinda sad...

might write a poem

if words move like nutrients

through a plant's vascular system.

[surfersofbole]

Cascade away

today, tomorrow, in the

month of May.

Oh to be

A small stone

In the avalanche

[surfersofbole]

Drinking for Repair

This seltzer drink will now compose

a man that started turning ill.

Meandered streams of drunkard woes,

they're oft expelled post-wild throws

and kill the mood of mild thrill.

This seltzer drink will now compose

orchestral pieces - water flows;

the urinal shall have its swill:

meandered streams of drunkard woes.

While lost in thought, recant, propose,

and close it up; it all will spill.

This seltzer drink will now compose

a man who never really knows

the slow barista and the bill.

Meandered streams of drunkard woes:

a thought of you in the wind blows.

I know it's you that cannot still;

this seltzer drink will now compose

meandered streams of drunkard woes.

A boring villanelle on my most recent trip to a bar.

[surfersofbole]

Poems on "Drinking for Despair"

Limerick

Full in the bladder and wasted, he filled up a mug and embraced it. The bartender waited. "It's decarbonated; it's warm and -" "It's piss that you've tasted."

A night for getting... I find them comforting (vodka and rum): one dulls my senses and leaves my face numb. One lifts the spirits before they are downed; double shots with karaoke: unsound. Floating to coughing to struggling to swim, I barely hang on by the edge of the rim.

Inspired by MeatCanyon's Yokai Bob the Builder

Drinking for despair fills the house of disrepair. Splayed upon a carpet, consumption's on the docket. I have been disowned: the walls have warped and groaned, the home fell with its frame and the land has been reclaimed.

Notes

I only took an hour or two to write this, so it may read unpolished (or like some of the old crap I used to write).

I wanted to start with something serious, especially something to do with floating, but then panicking, breathing under the surface, coughing, and drowning. I quickly got lazy and jumped over to writing a limerick (half of which I had written, but needed to reorganize). I was going to write a follow up about drinking from the tap, but I figured a poem about that would go overboard.

I struggled to come up with something to kick off the second poem, and eventually got the first line. I wanted it to be kinda sing-songy and filled to the brim with double meanings.

The third poem is meant to be my attempt at being serious. I figured it'd be in the spirit of the video to add it.

[surfersofbole]

Going to Fall: What will you do?

This is the fifth installment in my “Going to Fall” series, which is based on Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall.”

What will you do?

Here, your father must now mention if God has seemed unjust, unkind, then, have you paid him no attention? Our sins are many, of great kinds; punishment ‘s held with retention

not unlike the water vapor within the clouds above the world. All the clouds won’t harm a scraper, but rain upon a cardboard home turns the walls into soaked paper.

I can sense your apprehension, and I can sense your broken pride. Do you have some great dissension? Well, now, just take your small asides to relieve any contention.

Some of us find things enlightening when we must live in heavy dark. Lightning rods control the frightening and brightening flash of the short night. Umbrellas keep th’ tensions tightening.

You would think there’d be prevention - that God himself would take the lead. God wants no Earthly dimension and so he goes ahead, concedes rain must fall without suspension.

What will you do, my blue-eyed son? Somethings are hard to answer. Some… What will you do, darling young one? Think you that I should know this thing? Morning comes now with the bright sun.

Going back out before the rain starts falling

I wake up scared as hell that things are going wrong. Why? I was not quite sure of what was going on. My mind was in a cell. I lie down quietly. The motionless allure of a ceiling, empty...

A day begins anew. Will I ever arise? A thunder I have heard; the skies will be disguised. The rainclouds now accrue. I’m scared to leave this place; though, maybe I’m absurd, and I should go/make haste.

I’ll walk the beaten path; I know it will be short. All the small excursions other souls couldn’t afford... I'll face the wanton wrath because the world will fear I am leading an incursion with my mouth that all’ll hear.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

Electrified air climbs to clustered cotton fluff; screams turn to grumbles.

Some schwarzwald sunshine prawns prowl blister-black water - ice of a night sky.

Sharp whistles whittle brittle branch and bark, bitter for the burning blight.

Hollow trees topple. Then, forests from dying flames born of detritus.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

Xerotic mouths agape, facade of night entreats a dreamer thirsting not the light, "neglect a cleanly state and state that you ordain the rain to fall as it is due."

Disguising no intentions with delight, obsessed with obfuscating appetite, come cumulating nimbus clouds above haranguing with each lightning strike thereof.

In time, hard rains again will lift the plight and everyone will be an acolyte lest all the clouds they see move out of sight.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

(The vending machine hums softly. A whirring and some clinking kick off a habit, and I press a button. A quarter? I try again. In the mechanism, it moves. Thunk. Mother's approval.)

Someone's swimming in the pool.

Crystalline medium with waving surface dances the light upon the ceiling.

Diving at the deep, he sinks into the bottom for the longest moment until he is diluted by the dark.

I sit beside the edge, staring.

No manacles bind us to the station we submit.

Someone's swimming in the pool, but I've a job to do. "Refill the canister with two chlorine tablets. Lock up and leave."

The home in the valley meets the damp, dirty prison

I walk to where the sidewalk ends en masse, past the concrete's blend with grass and the footstep-muddled pastures.

I found the last spot God had cried: an oasis that has dried in the desert of this life.

The rain is not the coldest where the trees have met the forest and the mountain meets the valley.

The executioner’s face, always well hidden

At mass, the priest, in his white, polyester robes, stood among pink roses.

"I say, precious Lord, look upon us and see not injustice; instead, find hope."

Among the heightened exaltations of the chorus, water came down upon us.

Back when crimes against the Lord and his people were punishable, men like Christ and Beckett, with their deaths, made leaders grovel.

King, bearing a new weight, shouldered a poor people's campaign; in his memory, we hid this struggle. In this new poor people's campaign, shall hidden faces make another man infamous?

"Do this in memory of me."

The word of the Lord makes requisite that we do things in memory of others that perhaps, through us, they could live on. Such a cause as theirs is worth perpetuating; such a love as theirs is the great communion.

"Mass has ended. You may go in peace"

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

Oysters - pried apart with pearls squeezed from their soft flesh - are discarded shells that cleansed murky waterways. Layered nacre anchors banks.

Black is the color, none is the number

For the briefest second, worlds are colorful and palm fronds, like percussion sections, fill the wind with scratching sound. As raindrops themselves drive through darkness into broken asphalt, thunder-crash!                        The crack in night, it vanished while a youth in leather shoes and wetting socks went running to a covered walkway. Hole-filled pockets bore some grimed receipts, old notes, worn cards, and damaged pictures in a wallet that was drawn up. She inserted plastic; as the m'chine slow- processed four fast digits, vehicles blurred past and disappear until, at last, a menu let her check the balance. Black in text, a zero showed up. Buzzing lights then flickered; rain felt bitter/harder.

Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it

False flags on steel poles; you find their real goals cause hard heads to feel soles as reeled votes steal polls. Loss is a hand that's doled to thoughtless card holders; well oiled, pristine political machines need propaganda's grist cleaned and shoveled on the screens. Greed - democracy's splotch - fills you with the scotch blues; when the night is botched, sit back up to watch news. Feel cold and say burr under a cedar tree, or passover seder with Sam Seder, see his angered, sabered tongue work hard/labor long; hundreds of lungfuls from racist uncles tapered off. Like flaming fungal masses on crumpled paper, scoffed arguments hindered turn to cinder; try not to join the splintered dense blocks of tinder, dry rot. "Freedom isn't free, son..." some person breathes on as a prison's breeze comes; truth in neon: "Freedom isn't free, and it isn't freedom." Jaime Peck 'n' Michael Brooks wait with bridled facts on homicidal cops and Congress' idled acts. The left's best anchors, hosts of the Majority Report, unveil the languor of neofascist authority.

Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it

Guinness in my system at a Regal cinema; someone said, "I miss him." Liquor mixed with cinnamon makes my throat feel dry; is that why I'm stifled? "On everyone's behalf, when we heard you laughing at Dave Rubin's gaffes, all our sides were halfing." Why am I nervous before the final curtain? "He did the world a service, that I say with certainty." "I want to drink, alright, rather than think all night; pour shots until bar fight hour is a starlight tour." Drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly in backgrounds of dim-lit rooms. As this dim-wit reflects, chances look slim; the future's a grim skit. Pillow to my head and sink in like lead, a stone carelessly embedded in the river bed alone.

Stand on the ocean until I start sinking

When one recollects that the keystone oft sank in the sand before standing aloft among clouds on a mountain so solid of faith and devotion, it's then that a false step compels men, "Recover!" I noticed thrombosis had felled the calm warrior, that saint among saints that is Archangel Michael; the champion of men and proponent of justice inspires l'avant-garde to claim in it's crawling a victory not pyrrhic but won with empiric- al knowledge against an- tithetical sirens that draw men towards hatred with bigotry, envy, and greed. So, surrender your voice, but renounce not your thoughts, and remember the message borne by a colossus that called out to Lazarus, "Come forth."

Know my song well before I start singing

Cantos coming soon to a year near you!

Notes

This is the order in which the poems were written: 2, 1, 4, 3, 6, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. I plan for poem 13 to be a series of cantos based on my time walking through a park in my home town.

What will you do?

This poem was written months ago while I was still a Tumblr poet and is the introduction to the final section of the Going to Fall collection of poems I've written. The next poem will be posted when I figure out where I saved it.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

I thought I had a poem for this portion of the final section of my "Going to Fall" poetry collection, but I couldn't find it. Luckily, the haiku challenge issued for November prompted me to write this in place of the imagined poem.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

There were two prompts for this poem. The first is an obscure words poetry contest that I volunteered myself, in which I received the prompt "Xenodochial" (which means hospitable or kind to strangers). The second was from a challenge I made [for] myself [...] I had been stuck on this particular portion for months now, so I'm glad to have something appropriate and fitting.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.

The home in the in the valley meets the damp dirty prison

I had the first two lines stuck in my head for a couple of days. This is the result.

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

This is just a poem comparing oysters and people.

Black is the color, none is the number

October 11, 2020 corrections: *line 4 - "And" -> "As" *line 7 - "." -> "," *line 8 - "Thunder-crash!" -> "thunder-crash!" and line split. *lines 13-16 - "Hole-filled pockets - dirty, wet - hold paper/plastic cards and damaged pictures in a wallet. It is" replaced with current version. *lines 18-21 - "plastic; as the machine processed four fast digits, vehicles dove on past and then they disappeared. At" replaced with current version.

Three Poems for the Great Progressive

This poem came together from the following stanza that I spit out a couple of nights ago: Passover seder with Sam Seder under my cedar tree. Say burr, see his sabered tongue labor long. Hundred lungful's hinder cindered minds. The tinder finds a racist uncle's baseless tongueful like dry rot: the fungal waste is erased from space. Try not It includes one line I wrote a few years ago: "I drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly." The poem is basically about listening to the news all the time because you're sick, feeling restless, going out to the movies and bars, and finally going to sleep. July 20, 2020 update: Completed in honor of Michael Brooks. Also, I wrote the following poem soon after I heard the news, but did not put the time into it that I would have liked. The ground is dry and leaves grow thin. When the new moon is out the fuses trip, the grid's offline, and the world stands too still, I look to the sky as the gold flecks fly; ember is ash. A chill climbs up my spine; stomach can't dip lower. I cannot scout a star within the restless sky. August 11, 2020 update: I saw a contest early morning and wrote the first stanza of the third poem. The second stanza was written after I returned from work. The prompt was the first line from the Beatles' "A Day in the Life".

NOTE: This is the title for “Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it,” “Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it,” and “Stand on the ocean until I start sinking.”

[surfersofbole]

Poems posted in the Spirit of Halloween

The first poem is my response - a tanka - to Woshibai’s “Pupa.” The second poem is a new version of a poem I posted here in August 2018. It includes a four line introduction (inspired by The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” that is to be read in a tone different from the rest of the poem. The third poem is an edited copy of an old poem posted here in February 2016. It has a new, final stanza.

On sexing & desexing and on flowering & deflowering

I plucked flowers from the bramble and ate the fruit. Spring is unsung. This blackberry bush - thick with foliage - grew to wither.

The Shriek (Version II)

I closed my ears all filled with fright. There was a croaking through the night. It was a bloated toad each breath it’d draw. Upon the shoulder of a road ahead I saw the beast that rapes the virgin ear and child-soul which came up dressed with tattered stoll; that gave a hatred all wanton, served with curdled blood; whose shriek unnerved those filled with dread as fountains bled a pumping, squirting, bright, hot red; which goosbumped my shriveling skin and took away my next of kin; that severed a head/curtailed a spine and festers in these thoughts of mine. It came and went with one short breath and seemed near human, but came from death.

The Black Writing: The Gluttonous Feline (Version II)

The belly of the beast has gurgled, all diseased. To say it’s pretty fat understates the obese cat; it feels a constant need to feed and feed and feed. It’s got food coating its whiskers.

Let’s note the very least, this beast eats Fancy Feast leaving none for swarming rats. There is little that distracts a consumer with such greed that feeds and feeds to feed. Is this all it ever wished for?

As the vultures swarm the creased folds of fat (well greased), and the buzzards, peckish at eyes and ears, the gnats - in larval form - will feed and feed and feed, indeed. Hear its dying whispers.

Labored breath has ceased in a carcass all diseased. Nature’s lengthy spats for scraps and skin detached settled; I concede that death did not exceed this role that it’s equipped for.

PS: All these poems or versions of these poems were first published on AllPoetry. I do plan on eventually porting my poems over from that site (and Reddit, but I want to complete old projects that I never completed for this site.  Anything meant to come here will be posted at least two weeks after it’s first posted on AllPoetry.

[surfersofbole]

A Walk on a Cool Winter Night (Reprise)

Two strangers to me.

But intact -

In this long race -

My failures:

No dreams for us three.

They met at

The coasts of Thrace,

Travelers.

Forever they shall be

Feeling that.

In love embrace

Two strangers.

[surfersofbole]

Former Blog Description*

This blog is dead... Hah! I bet I kinda got you there. It's only socially dead. I'm not posting work to be seen for the time being, but I am boasting works for those keen to be reading. If you're seceding to your will to be leaving, leave no flowers,...

*This must have been written months to a year ago. I’m not entirely sure.

[surfersofbole]

The Writer’s Curse*

These nights are so quiet and I wish to write but the twilight ends too soon. Why should I sleep quite yet when a sunlit moon deserve a croon all contrite.

I careen to quick quell with spells from the east, but the last feast starts too soon. Hear the crackling hell I fell through. A rune: symbol of noon and the beast!

With my writings near done, now begins the hunt, and I’ve a blunt pencil tip. I’m a master of none. With sweat, lose my grip. The pencil slips; who’d’ve thunk?

*It’s too late. I must sleep. I think you know, but I must leave one more thing before I go... don’t wait...

[surfersofbole]

Reflecting upon the Story of Life

This story starts as it would end. This story’s flipped upon its head. This story’s twisted and it’s bent Like an arm that’s to be set. This story is a cliffhanger holding on by a cliffhanger. This story is found in danger of leaving you anguished and angered.

Of leaving you anguished and angered, this story is found in danger. Holding on by a cliffhanger - this story is a cliffhanger. Like an arm that’s to be set, This story’s not heaven-sent. This story’s flipped upon its head. This story starts as it would end.

[surfersofbole]

It’s fitting for its flavor

The flesh, so smooth and sleek, impressed upon my lips. The breath I take is short. I want what I must seek when sinking in the tips. My teeth shall not abort

for I can taste syrup. To try something depraved and lose all innocence is choosing to stir up my mind. And now I crave that something grave, I sense.

I know why Adam ate the great, forbidden fruit: the crisp and golden apple. I know he couldn’t wait. Heart rates that stead-fast loop. A tree that’s golden dappled.

[surfersofbole]

Going to Fall: Who Did You Meet?

This is the fourth installment in my “Going to Fall” series. There is one poem from this selection that was created when I first decided to write this collection. A Young Woman Whose Body Was Burning was written around the time I wrote the rejected version of 12 Misty Mountains and Where Have You Been?.

With this series nearly completed, I hope that Bob Dylan’s original song might serve to inspire others to use its lyrics as writing prompts.

Part One is found here. Part Two is found here. Part Three is found here.

Who did you meet?

Everyone I’ve met out there... it hurts me to say so but everyone out there is so much like everyone else.

Every individual - it hurts me to say so -, yes, everybody’s all just so much like everyone else.

I’ve even met some like us that lived in lands abroad. With pain in each iris and tears behind every eyelid,

the world is left wondering, the greed it feeds and lauds... Is it worth relishing in solely satisfying id?

A Young Child Beside a Dead Pony (Adaptation of All The Pretty Little Horses)

Night must near. W’th might, not fear. When you sleep, go so soundly. I must pray: crazed, must beg all the solemn, sitting horsemen.

Watch amazed. Heaven be praised. All the pretty little horses. Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry; go to sleep, my little baby.

Somber, sonder, passing fellow; poor, little baby; crying momma. Carousel of our lives; you get off, it drives. Poor, little baby, crying momma.

Hush you bye, don’t you cry; go to sleep, little baby. When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses.

Blacks and bays, dapples and grays, all the pretty little horses. Hush-a-by, don’t you cry; go to sleep, my little baby.

Way down yonder in the meadow; poor, little baby, crying momma. Birds and the butterflies flutter ‘round his eyes. Poor, little baby, crying momma.

A White Man Who Walked a Black Dog

There’s a stranger with his dog, punishing it in the park. Saw him turn his little cog when he lost it in the dark, and it ran into a log. Should he holler, it won’t bark. Mists of time, a hazing fog... Still this story seems too stark.

A Young Woman Whose Body was Burning

The flames of rejection that leave us so hurt, With the pain in our hearts that ever should lurk, Have shown me, in life, there is nothing but work. And the world says to me, as it’s ever so curt, That I’m not of worth, and I act so absurd In believing I’m entitled b’cause o’ the blood on my shirt. In being burned out, I see the world shall still spurn A person like me who’s not worthy to earn But little of what I should yearn. Perhaps, there is something to learn, But the empty eyes stare back a look, stern, Telling me that this case shall adjourn, So I needn’t feel injustice and sulk. And beckons that I should return to the dirt For the dark is not empty and I need t’ be alert. And I needn’t my whole being stuck in a shelved urn. B’fore the mirror, I’ve mourned. Now, I turn, Forlorn, forewarned not to scorn what I should infer. Know, the day I was born, I did toss and turn. Now, on the ground, I shall toss and burn.

A Young Girl, She Gave Me a Rainbow

A Young Girl

Belle - my dear beloved -, near; come to my se- -cret garden.

Though it may hurt, please, rest assured: hearts, they must be unhardened.

What supplants my former plants? Come to my se- -cret garden.

Horrible! And terrible! Th’ arsonist needs no pardon.

Her Rainbow

All, once torched… all’s now unscorched; come here and see the garden.

Drizzles down and fizzles drown: rain that will treat the ardent.

What must grow but a rainbow here in my se- -cret garden.

One Man Who was Wounded in Love

He was looking for roses, smelled them from a distance, reached out and hurt his hand, heard them on the radio, and something seemed so sour.

Another Man Who was Wounded in Hatred

It hurt me so... I was too impatient. My hatred for hatred left me feeling ancient, and now I know that grapes turn to raisins and the prunes from plums red ‘cause time is the agent.

The sun rises and the sun sets.

Push came to shove. I’d lost your attention. There’s no love that blooms dead. I wished for affection. I wished to love but I felt such a tension Wish the plume had run stead of the words I’d mention.

In the mirror, was it me; or...

...was it you?

[surfersofbole]

NSFW: The Birth of My Son (Inspired by 4chan)

This was written for 4chan, based on my observations of the culture displayed on r/greentext, r/4chan, and r/classic4chan. It makes me cringe, and it shouldn’t be read unless you’re already desensitized to that stuff.

I was jerking off to strangers that I found in clips of porn when I rushed off, filled with anger, in wee hours of the morn. I’d never gotten laid and I’ve never gotten far, I’ve never gotten paid and I wish to be a star, so I play my music loud from the speakers of my car whilst pretending momma’s proud of a man that’s all subpar, who likes jerking off to elves and likes cumming in a jar, who couldn’t save himself from the whiskey at the bar.

I heard a call, “Hey, Wanker!” off somewhere near the corn- -er store and a gas tanker. A woman, all forlorn. My God, that woman, horrid with her snaggled tooth. So fat... so much that it was morbid, and she had whiskers, like a rat. And, Lord, how she did reek like a jar, and had a pat ‘til she found what she would seek in my jeans, and that was that.

I am the mighty angler whose line was just too worn. I am Ahab the sailor, whose third leg was nearly torn. She sucked me like a vacuum and let out such dirty fumes that cops found some dumpster divers doomed to their early, earthly tombs.

This tale I tell’s not tailored, and this smile I adorn ‘cause I fucked that corner worker and in some days, young James was born.

[surfersofbole]

What does it mean to be thankful?

What does it mean to be thankful? And to who does it matter at all? When the rivers run dry and there’s tears in each eye, you can’t help but to feel all awful.

If, your blessings, you count on each finger and toe, and you can’t count one, two, or three; well, don’t you go worried. I think you should know If you’d slow down, then surely you’d see.

What does it mean to be thankful? And to who does it matter at all? Well, there’s times throughout life - whether calm or in strife - when you must just be thankful for all.

Every blessing is found on each finger and toe, and they’re found here, in you and me. It’s life; that’s the blessing. Each moment, you know... ‘cause there’s no second-guessing, you see.

Originally, I was given a few prompts at work to work with, and I had challenged one of my students to write a rap song that mentions ten things for which we’re thankful. We didn’t succeed. I got a couple of iffy lines, and then decided to spit this out onto a note-card. I made one edit from the draft to the proper copy, which was adding down, then and second- to the second and fourth stanzas, in order to make the song flow a bit better. This song was inspired by the song structure for End of the World by Skeeter Davis and The Rainbow Connection by Kermit the Frog.

[surfersofbole]

Give Candy, Give Thanks, Give Presents, Give Blood

It’s a measure of matters to come and brings pleasures of life and of love, when you pour out your veins into a small plastic bag.

How it’s treasured. It matters to some. Such a leisure to give not your blood. Won’t you pour out your veins into a small plastic bag?

It’s no wonder we feel as we must, for to give blood is to fill each lung of a stranger or loved one in need after something’s gone wrong.

If you blunder, than who will we trust to fill with blood the stifled, poor, young- -est of strangers and loved ones in need after something’s gone wrong?

[surfersofbole]

Linda of the Sun Beams

The following is a quick write. I was originally planning one song, one haiku, and one short story, but I figured I’d put some more time into this and I’d write a second song instead of a haiku. The songs were written in one session lasting a couple of hours and the story was written in a few hours as well. In my opinion, the songs are better than the story. Some lines from the first poem came about two days ago (but were never typed up), and the titles were chosen yesterday. Some of the stuff in this post shouldn’t be taken seriously; otherwise, you’ll be greatly disappointed.

If you would really like to read the story, it is hidden behind the “Keep Reading” button.

Linda in the Dark

Crying in the late of night, Linda fills Pitiful Lake. She wallows in reflections of moonlight, ‘nd current slowly starts to take.

Floating down the Stream of Sadness, Linda starts falling to sleep, but when she finds the River of Madness, the torrent pushes her too deep.

How she reaches up as if to grab the air, but - with arms outreached - it’s just clumps of hair. Beyond her blurry sight, the moon would stop to stare, and - it would seem to her - be the only one to care.

Linda with your broken soul, won’t you bring yourself to care? Linda make yourself all whole for you must be aware

the river reaches the Great Pit of Painful Despair where the souls once found unfit fall to disrepair.

At the waterfall, the river takes its dive. Struggling to stand up, every method she’d contrive. Linda grabs the ground and success begins to thrive. Her fingers soon take root and she comes out alive.

Linda with the Sun Flower

Linda, when you’ve had your rest, oh, and when you’ve caught your breath once lost, know you’ve tried your best. Linda, you escaped from death.

Linda, look up toward the Lord. Look at how he stands so tall. Linda, your life’s been restored because you went and gave your all.

He holds his arms outstretched. Blinded, you are by a bright halo in the sky that’s etched all with large petals of white.

Linda of the Sun Beams

Linda awoke to a strange stench that riled up her stomach. Lifting herself up, she began to notice how vile and putrid the scent truly was, and she began dry heaving. The air was also hot, and the air felt like that of a summer’s rice field. Eventually, she stood on the dark, rich soil of the embankment, and stepped up onto higher ground. Among the lush vegetation, stood out a sole sunflower. As she came closer to it, Linda became surprised by its height, and she noticed how it hunched over with its leaves drooped towards the floor. She looked up at the brown-tinted flower, wondering how it could be lacking water so close to the river. She couldn’t help but feel as if the flower, with its exhausted stance, was looking through her, and she felt compelled to turn. A silent terror sent shivers through her spine and troubled her mind. With widened eyes, she could barely process how the red river flowed through this area, and she could not hope to understand how the thicket could have survived - much less thrived - on the blood that trickled from an emptying vein. How do such treacherous things occur on this world? If God exists - and Linda was certain that he did -, how could it be that he would let his wonderful creation become so polluted with waste?

So disturbed was Linda by the sight, it perturbed her to her core, and she left the site without another thought to it. The industrial smell permeated out into the desert towards which she trudged. Miniature stone buildings miles away rode up and down the rippling horizon, and the dry heat brought a dizzying spell upon Linda. She looked around for some shade, only to spot herself in a completely barren land, lacking even succulents and desert creatures. Behind her was the hellish place she left. To her left was the city in the distance, in front of her were some mountains, and to her right was the edge of her world. What lied beyond it, she could not imagine. Despite the aroma of the area, Linda felt great hunger that she could hardly keep off of her mind, and so she left for the city, from which she thought the river flowed. To pass the time, she tried to arouse memories back into existence. She recalled some of the better moments of her life, and some of the embarrassing events of her youth. Among the many thoughts that came and went was this one in particular. Her mother, a devout Christian woman, wished to name her Linda Maria. Her father, on the other hand, wished to name her Belén. His choice was not guided by some religious obligation, as he was agnostic; rather, he chose the name because his own mother was named Belén. For some time, they could not come to an agreement, and it became one more strain that slowly tore their tattered relationship, but they eventually came to an agreement: they named her Belinda Marie. However, this memory, like every other, shriveled up into the deepest recesses of her mind. It was some time past noon, and it was as if Ra himself arose from the grave of an ancient civilization to make the day unbearable for Linda, but she could not care, for she saw someone in the distance. Perhaps this stranger could help save her from hunger and thirst. She began to run, but she was so dehydrated, her legs began to cramp; instead, she limped along, hoping the stranger would come towards her. As the minutes passed, she felt the sun become hotter, and the figure seemed closer. As the figure grew in her sight, Linda knew something was wrong. The figure stood atop a dune, looking back towards the city, and she came across footsteps that went towards the mountains. A short gust of wind came through and blew the footprints away, but the figure remained, which appeared to be a pillar of salt. Linda could not understand, though, because she had passed out.

Linda awoke to find the smallest minaret before her. It was adorned with a bright crescent moon. She sat up, and cried in the night. She wished to return to her old life. She wished to embrace her former, comfortable life and just be Linda. Instead, she was the only living being in a dead world, and she was dying with it. She was tired, hungering and thirsting for anything. She wished to bite the pillar and die, but couldn’t do it, and she decided she couldn’t do it. So, she stood up once again. The city lit no light to pull her towards it, and Linda had to use the pillar to orient herself. The moon light could offer little assistance, and Linda could only hope to be walking in the correct direction.

As the sun’s rays shot through from behind the buildings. At the outside, the city was entirely destitute. There was a broken highway bridge, the remnants of which had fallen into a small stream. By this stream, there was a factory, with a barren path that lead from it to the stream. Then, there came a loud noise, it came from a sewage processing plant that was nearby as well. Like everything else in the area, the building appeared dilapidated, but the creaking meant something must have been summoned from within the belly of the beast. Like a sliced artery, stream flowed outwards and poured into the stream. It was the waste of an entire city being flushed out. Blood, sweat and oil soon flowed from the highway into the stream of fecal matter and urine; a red, viscous industrial sludge lastly inched towards the river, and was swept away into it. From the sources and from the river came various fumes that filled the air, and it was so horrid Linda immediately turned towards the mountains and left.

Linda, filled with fear, could not help but to think that this world was too much to handle. Where was God to preserve the beauty of the world? Perhaps he was hiding from his reckless creation. She remembered a few news stories from a week ago. One was about how forests throughout the world are disappearing. However, she was so malnourished, she could not think why, and instead found it strange that forests could just up and disappear. Perhaps the desert she walked through with its spattered patches of grass was a forest at one point. The air was so hot, and the only smell that Linda could smell was hot. It brought her to remember a second story about how the ice caps were expected to melt in the coming decades, and she could only think to ask why. Why, if the ice is melting, isn’t the earth cooler? Why isn’t it raining? Why can’t she have a cup of water? Why is this happening? She was filled with such anguish, Linda wished to yell out into the void sky the simple question. So she looked up towards the sun and quickly looked away. She looked up again, this time with her eyes covered by her hand, and she stood their quietly, squinting. From her parched throat, out of her dried mouth, through her chapped lips, she produced a sound below that of a whisper, if any at all, and she fell to the floor.

*

She slowly picked herself up, and found herself not far from a small village. After over an hour, she had not covered half of her remaining distance, and she fell again. This time, Linda resigned to her fate, and she kept her face buried in the cool mud.

A day later, she found herself waking up in a hospital, attached to various machines and an IV. She then dosed back to sleep. She awoke another day later to find herself still in a hospital bed, and she thought about the thousands of dollars that she would have to pay, and didn’t posses. As the doctor was ready to give her a clean bill of health, the power went out in the hospital. A great wailing sound came from various rooms in the hospital, and there was a collective mayhem throughout the building. Through the chaos, Linda was able to escape without providing any identifying information. She found people stopped in the middle of the roads unable to drive their vehicles. Their phones were not functioning, and all electronics were nonfunctional as well, and everything seemed right for the first time in a while. A strange thing was happening, and Linda knew it might only last for a short while, but hoped it would last a little bit longer. Then someone broke a storefront window and Linda rushed to leave the area. Linda wondered why people had to be so destructive. Why couldn’t they enjoy the calm that came with the loss of electricity. Everything seemed a bit calmer. Perhaps, with some time, people could come to enjoy the world immediately around them a bit more. Perhaps after a system were put in place to address the various needs of people, they would settle down. Still, for the first time in some days, Linda felt normal, and the sun no longer beat her down.

* God looked down upon all of his creations, and despised the comparisons they made between him and lesser, false Gods. How could he be a Huitzilopochtli, when he did not create war and he did not demand blood sacrifices? These were things of man’s creation. The changing of climate, that came because people could not properly care for the world. The world was made for them to use, not to abuse. They were to reap what they sowed, and all together, all the people of the world could not bring themselves to reduce their consumption, nor could the all corporations recognize the long-term financial incentive to become eco-friendly, nor could the leaders of Earth force either of the first two to try. All in all, their descendants, and their descendants’ descendants, and seventy-seven times over their descendants would suffer the consequences. It was not the work of God, but of man that condemned their future. They tasted of the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, and with it gained their free will, but they now lacked the collective knowledge to save themselves. Still, it was only instinctive that God save his people - after all, deus ex machina. So he slightly nodded towards the sun, and a solar flare launched some plasma towards Earth. However, he felt it was not enough, so he squinted at the sun in a menacing manner, and a CME was hurled towards Earth.

[surfersofbole]

Going to Fall: What Did You Hear?

This is Part Three of this five part series in which I will use Bob Dylan’s A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall as the topic of the poems.

Part One is found here. Part Two is found here.

A Great Fear that Filled the Hearts of Many During Hurricane Irma’s Existence

What did you hear?

Sometimes, I think I’ve heard too much. All the love I’ve heard abroad, I feel I’ve heard too much. Sometimes, pray to God, but never much.

Sometimes, I think I’ve heard too much. Cover my ears to become deaf, I fear I’ve heard too much. Arbiter! Oh, ref! I’ve heard too much.

Sometimes, I think I’ve heard too much; want to leave it all behind. I was warned way too much. Now, wish to be blind ‘cause it’s too much.

Sound of Thunder Roaring a Warning

I heard the news station chatter last week and last night. I heard murderous clatter that caused me great fright.

My woes and my blunders,
 I’d soon realize 
for all the reporters 
disappeared in my eyes.

Roar of a Wave that’d Drown the World

If you could just go outside and listen, you wouldn’t know the tearful fear. You wouldn’t see an eye that’d glisten when they should go and they should near.

We’re not sure of what’s to come, but fills the hearts with dread See the million and some? Out of town, they head.

Hear the engine’s run; see them flood Oak Street. Fires like a gun. Heat feels like a sheet.

To Live and Die in a County that will House Phosphate Mines

One Hundred Drummers whose Hands were all Blazing

The soft parade in our town is the biggest one to date. A gentle sound is comin' down Oak Street to Maine Avenue.

Cross the river narrow near the great big bend. The barrel in the barrow was a cask left unopened, except today, we drank it all, full of merriment. It's winding down. I'm finding out it's something to resent.

Clouded summer. Respite rains waiting in their state for thunder claps to flood the lanes and fires burn anew.

Cross the river narrow near the great big bend. The barrel in the barrow was a cask left unopened, except today, we drank it all, full of merriment. It's winding down. I'm finding out it's something to resent.

Lightning strikes and starts to arc. People sit and wait, try to sleep, but it's not dark. Wish it weren't true.

Ten Thousand Whispering and Nobody Listening

I can see the people organize. The commissioners care not for all their cries. “They need to think of jobs this will create.” There was some truth in that foreman’s eyes, but everybody knew what they had seen;

strangers find a foreign land and flood it with their cash. Then, they find the valuables and toss it in their stash. Anger fills the hearts of everybody left in last. They’ve seen it all before. It has happened in the past.

One Person Starve and Many People Laughing

What of the people that try so hard and fail? What of the lives that are lost to the despair? What of the bread crumbs that have become ever stale? What of the poor souls that look to you and stare?

Coming down, they threw me a bone. Coming down, they pelted a stone. Coming down. Am I one of their own? Coming down... am I all alone in coming down? they are erron- -eous.

What of the people that try so hard and fail? What of the lives that are lost to the despair? What of the bread crumbs that have become ever stale? What of the poor souls that look to you and stare?

Coming down. What did they disown? Coming down. Everything that is grown is coming down.  It is well known. Coming down, sometimes one can’t atone (Coming down) something felon- -ious.

Acrimonious Life, Unceremonious Existence

The Song of a Poet Who Died in the Gutter

A guttural yell in the dead of the night from the seamstress of words who hemmed her own works. She’d hemmed and she’d hawed but found none would applaud. Now, three cackling birds... each carelessly jerks the hair from the head of a poet, long dead. In th’ gutter, she fell in the dead of the night.

The Sound of a Clown who Cried in the Alley

When you think you’ve done well and you start to feel swell that your feelings start to swell, you can’t imagine such hell as what awaits you.

Didn’t you know from the start, the world can’t tear you apart, can’t break your large heart? Now, the feelings you cart, now they offend you.

Hadn’t you noticed the dangers of pulling game changers? You get laughed at by strangers. Then, to be hauled off by rangers... what goes on in you?

Where did all your troops rally? They’re right up the alley. How many? Keep tally. It’s your grand finale, with no one but you.