Strong Brew

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Originally posted on Just Us:

Perzon

“It’s purzun,” she says
or at least she would, were the Bronx in her socks
instead of the south of London in her jeans. And
she arises, bent, but better, awakening, shaking off the
dusty din of discarded decaffeinated detritus,
the daily drudge of dying promises
of lies he said, of didn’ts he did and
woulds he wouldn’t and love
that never sweetened the bitter taste of his
stale, morning brew.

but it’s a fresh morn, time for
starry starts and ill-spent dreams
time for love in the streets, of
surreptitious tugs and licentious licks
of games of touch and songs
with no words but plenty of woodwinds
and a salty rhythm from just south of the Equator.
in the old days, that baker’s dozen
dime-store brew, she’d settled for the ease
of decaf, taking the tinge of bitterness
from her palate, and praying for the
death-strike of hope, to…

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100 Days of Art – Day 25: But I Can Dance Among the Clouds

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Originally posted on Just Us:

I cannot dance upon my Toes
by Emily Dickinson

I cannot dance upon my Toes —
No Man instructed me —
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,
That had I Ballet knowledge —
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe —
Or lay a Prima, mad,
And though I had no Gown of Gauze —
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences — like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,
Nor tossed my shape in Eider Balls,
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so —
Nor any know I know the Art
I mention — easy — Here —
Nor any Placard boast me —
It’s full as Opera –

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Marching Orders

Because I forgot. Love, Bill

9Charlie was dreaming of hyenas, again. He had dreamt of little else for days. They were not always run of the mill hyenas, however. In his dreams, hyenas were everywhere: in school administering mid-term exams, patrolling the grocery store, even standing at the pulpit in church. While others in his dreams seemed not to notice Charlie, the hyenas always did. Whether he chose to run or fight, the hyenas reacted the same way–ferociously.

This night, however, Charlie was not the prey. He had taken the form of a lion, sitting with his back to the sun at the peak of a sand dune on the Kalahari, in Africa. He was massive, six feet tall at the shoulders, and covered head-to-toe with black fur, except for curly flaxen hair that framed his face at the base of his mane. He stood, panting, watching a family of hyenas that was tormenting a zebra herd. Charlie sat silently, waiting, as the sun settled low on the horizon. As darkness enveloped the Kalahari, he crept toward the hyena clan. His footfalls were silent in the warm sand and soon his pace quickened into a loping gait. Swiftly gathering speed on his descent, he launched himself – airborne, he was, powerful wings unfolding from alongside his back.

photoshopped+black+lionToo late, the hyena clan saw him.

The battle was swift, bloodless, and decidedly one-sided. When it was done, there were zero living hyenas, one winged lion, the zebra herd …

Who’s the Native American dude in the silly hat?

Charlie turned to the intruder and roared a warning. “Who are you?”

“Some call me Kwih-doh,” answered the man. “But my friends  call me Gabe.” The man smiled and pushed the hat from his head, leaving it to dangle on his back from a string tied around his neck. He looked around at the plains – eyebrows raised – and wiped his brow.

Charlie squinted. He had never seen the man before, but knew him immediately. “Gabriel,” he said.

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Bad Poetry from my Youth #2

Never Go Back

You can never go back
except for when you do.

Her eyes still kiss his
softly, secret — never ends
A vision of youth
ten years fade — never werer.
Lines grow lighter, lighter,
love is young, and bold, and proud…
reborn.

Hairline stretech, reaches forward
(afro blowing in the wind)
stretch marks fading, disappearing
green eyes shyly, brightly,
burn.

Now she stands, ever lovely,
eighteen still and twenty yon.
Taller, standing
(or he’s mistaken)
now sure, is she, that
broken hearts can be forgotten
shallow tears make this one sweet.

Her eyes still kiss him
tall and strong
and young and proud
musician’s hands
and a sinner’s smile.

She blames herself
for their transgressions
sees him through unworthy eyes
beauty inner, outer, ever
standing here,
without disguise.

Bad Poetry from my Yout’ #1

I’ve decided to start a new feature because … boredom. I have tons of really bad poetry from my yout’, which I shall inflict upon youse unsuspecting bloggers.

Paying the Piper

I tried to explain to the gas company
why I couldn’t pay the bill
and still feed the kids
but,
I realized I couldn’t afford food
either.
I wanted to tell the welfare people
why I’m working and still
not making enough to survive
but,
I didn’t have money for the bus.
Well,
I guess it’s for the best,
cause if they’d given me more money
I woulda had to pay the gas man
anyway.

Find Whate’er Ye Seek

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Originally posted on Just Us:

I must admit, that despite my fairly advanced knowledge of music, I knew little to nothing of Sia. It had nothing to do with her talent; rather, it is that Pop music has to cross a pretty high threshold to get my attention. Perhaps “Diamonds” as performed by Rhianna should have done it, since it’s one of the few of the singer’s songs that I really love. Apparently, Sia wrote the lyrics to the song in fourteen minutes.

Yeah.

So, imagine my interest when I heard the controversy surrounding Sia’s new video for “Elastic Heart,” starring Shia LeBeouf and the amazing 12-year-old dancer (actress) Maddie Ziegler. I drew my attention, to be honest, because it was trending on Facebook for claims of implicit pedophilia. I pay attention when people ring the Ped alarm, for a number of reasons, which I’ll go into a bit later. But first, if you haven’t…

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