A pie passed me by...A pie passed me byAs the sky said to dieLike a fly in the rye.Bill Nye the Science Guy!There were none in the bunBut a nun on the runWith a ton of good fun.G.U.N. ExperimentationA bee by the treeLet it be said MaryThere's a flea in my tea.Mr. T is Mr. TThey must hug and yet FlugAnd a bug in a rugWith a pug once called Doug.Dig Dug and a Moonshine Jug.Though my poem is at homeAnd the Dome unlike RomeShiny chrome, fluffy foam.Lordgenome needs a chest comb.A third sheet shall repeatWith this treat of a beatAll the meat that is sweet.The Egg Fleet is obsolete.It acts coy like the boyWith a toy made of koiAnd annoy not the soy.Colonel Roy Mustang, oh joy!Taking bleach to the beachHelps you teach them to breachBut will leech fuzzy peach.Halo Reach is unlike Bleach.Ho hoe jo yo-yo yoTo the show we will goBut my toe must not grow!SEGAshiro, my hero!Time paradox it rocksThe locks of my new socksBut jocks cannot have flocks.Goron walks are oft' road blocks.
GRAB MY EGGPOD"SONIC GRAB MY EGGPOD" Robotnik shouted at his blue rodent enemy. All around them was nothing but a strange yellow light.Robotnik's face bore an expression of utmost seriousness. Curious, Sonic complied, reaching out with his left arm and taking hold of the Doctor's hovercraft.Immediately the two launched into the sky, high above the clouds; a majestic rainbow followed them as Robotnik exclaimed, "GET A LOAD OF THIS - - - !"
Limerick - There once was a time I was rude...There once was a time I was rudeYou might even say I was prudeA man gave me a cakeBut no thanks I did makeJust because he was dressed in the nude.
AnonymousWe are oneWe are no oneWe are everywhereAnd we are nothingThe powers of the worldgreed, corruptioncensorship, violencewill be routed outTheir secrets areour greatest treasureAnd we controlTheir public faceThey anger usWe take them downUplifting thoseWho better serve usRight Center LeftWe fight allWe fight for allThe /a/moral moralityWe are AnonymousWe are LegionWe may destroy ourselvesBut we will never die
Sad PandaI am a sad panda.I wake up in the morning'Oh hey, bambooHuzzah'The same thingall dayevery dayRoll out of bed(which is a rock on creeky twigs, by the way)Eat bambooWalk over to the tire swingSlap it around for a few hoursChat with WúliáoAt the watering holeAbout life In the zooYeah, they make itlook comfortableBut we're stillstuck hereKeeper comes byto see what we're doingI roll a rock over(pointless, really, but it keeps him happy)He says, "Keep up the good work!"and walks away.End of the dayeveryone leavesI go back to my bambooI sit on my rockPandas eat shoots and leavesI eatshootand leave
Causa Accita"Well, this is the section of world myths and legends. If there is anything about the demon attacking your nation, it will be in here." After Renki explained his people's plight to Nestor, the historian had led them into the depths of the library. Immediately they got to work scanning the shelves and removing books and scrolls."Myths and Legends: Spirits," Pachacamac read the title of the first book he pulled off of the shelf. "Definitely blunt enough, I say." He tossed it on the floor, causing Nestor to jump slightly as the paper flopped onto the stone tiling."Please be a bit more careful. Some of these tomes are quite old."Renki had crouched down to scan the lower shelves. He spotted a thin book with ornate writing on the spine and pulled it out. "What about this? It looks like it's written in your language. Subitō! Meratrīcēs Ubīque!""That is not supposed to be in this section!" Nestor yelled, leaping at Renki and snatching the book from his hand. Susp
Pax Nocturna"Pachacamac, how much do you know about that legend?" Renki asked the echidna walking beside him. The two had been travelling for two days (it was now morning of the third) and had nary a conversation apart from deciding where to camp when evening came. They had gotten off to a rocky start, Pachacamac being rather annoyed at having to escort the outsider, and this was only made worse when he found out that Renki had not known about the trade route despite the fact that, as he bluntly pointed it out, it practically ran straight from Renki's homeland to their current designation. Finally, however, Renki had worked up the courage to ask his companion the question that he had been holding since they left."What legend?" Pachacamac replied indignantly, his spear making a harsh click with each step as he struck the paved brick road."The one Chieftess Cihuacoatl spoke of, about the power my people sent me to find.""Oh, that legend," Pachacamac said, as if it had completely left his mind in
Primita ProcellaThe sun shone brightly as a weary traveler trudged through the thick jungle growth. Sweat soaked his fur, and he was panting for breath. "Why must the weather be so accursedly hot here," he said as he trudged along, using a thick branch he had picked up, broken off of some tree and now quite dead and dry, as a walking stick to prop himself up. "Honestly, it is not so much the heat as this jungle humidity." The traveler was a young fox, hardly looking to be of an adult age. His fur was a mixture of various light browns with a red tint, apart from a section that ran from his muzzle to a tuft of hair on his chest which was white. His hands and feet were significantly darker, practically black, and the tip of his long bushy tail was also tipped with black. He wore a light robe, dark brown in color, which fell to just above his ankles, and had rather open sleeves. It was held together with a thick black belt, upon which a sword was held. Over this was a jacket of similar fabric and design,
N.O.W.Only seven when two towers fellthe eleventh day of the ninth monthtwo-thousand-onewhen a pentagon went quadrilateraland a single field became the siteof carnage intended for a house of whiteBut "Ignorance is bliss"they often sayand rarely would a child understandwhy classroom TVs are turned onand the teachers' faces are all sad.Two thousand nine hundred seventy-sevenOn thousand four hundred thirteenNine thousand nine hundred seventy-oneFour thousand four hundred thirtyThirty-one thousand nine hundred sixty fiveSixty-six thousand eighty-oneFifteen thousand one hundred ninety-sixNumbers of WarPrisoners of HateMillions massacred, buta million is a statisticOne man deadmakes it all significant.Nine years, seven months, twenty days.Singing "We Are The Champions"the crowd forms(nothing more Americanthan British rock songs)and the commander-in-chief,delayed more than Nukem,makes it truly officialAn era has endeda new one beginsStill battles rage onwhile war
BorderlineI dreamed once that I saw your face inmy mirror, rippling prolifically likewater on glass on my face,and then I was drowning, and Ifell, fell, fell too fast into your watery eyes. Without imagination, prosaically as you could, you told me you loved me and hoped we'd meet again soon. I smiled, propri
BoyMany women will write poetryfrom you. They will translateyour nose into an apostropheyour smile to the front sideof a parentheses, the backto tears only once admitted.They will filter your father's ashesinto adverbs that define your fingersquaking along skin and sintoward fibrous paper. They will dismiss your flawsas improperly placed commasor periods born before their time.They will inspect, perfect& infect you with emotionsyou never learned to muster.But none of them will knowyou as I did: a boy, bentbeneath the waves of loveand glad for it.
UntarnishedHe thought he was funny."This is a frigging stupid class," he'd say to me. "It's stupider than…your mom."And his voice would trail off and be lost in a sea of pages flipping and pencils scratching, because nobody cared about the kid spewing crap in the corner.It was to his advantage that the seating chart had placed him in the back of the room. He liked to lay back, balance his chair precariously against the wall, then throw his feet up on the table. It was his thinking time, he explained, because of the two classes he was taking that semester, AP English was the one he could afford to slack off in. I never really understood the logic in this, but I gave a neutral nod. It was easier that way.One day, however, I asked him what exactly ran through his mind during his "thinking time"."I wonder about what's going to happen to me after I die," he replied. "Is there a heaven? Is there a hell? I doubt it, but somehow, being put in the ground in a box and having that be the end of
leftover human.she is the girl with the sand-swept faceand a seashell mouth thatonly echoes.
Haiku 12late spring stormthe wet robin rests,chest heaving
a little perspectivei sit up,face the sunlight,and yawn a littlesong-i comb the dreamsfrom my hair,letting the worldseep through my skin,i walkand slip intomy favorite,white, whiteblouse,with thebuttons to myhips,while children,with bobbing heads-thick as bonesand sorrow-fall into themselveslike little housesof cards,only there are noqueens or kings,only numbers,only days, onlytime, only-lovers split and loverssob and lovers stoploving and shatterlike mirrors andsingle mothersgo poor and somefathers aren'tfathers anymore,the streets stinkof death and liesand cheats and love,and memories, fleetingand fragile, slippingthrough the asphaltcracks and i ambrushing my teethand skipping down the stairs,but some girls are skippingmeals, some families areskipping meals and somepeople have forgottenwhat a meal even is,they only knowmugs and the chime of coins,and here i slumpbeneath the weight ofbooks and papersand red A's andB's smearing likelipstick,and the
When God Sleeps.I. So it comes to this: pangea tearing itself rawfrom our throats to pour into squares of newly open skywhere the stars grew aches and darkened lakewateronce bloomed into bruised winters. Somewherebeyond the thick of snow, prayers are strungon moon-rattled windsand birds' teeth tear apart the poetryof our hands. They will raise something beautifulfrom these ruined words.Continents shift slowly. They aredirt-bound titans, these beasts;rootless giants that mold themselvesto fit the vision we hold inside our heads. Oceans sighand their tides crawl ever upward.II. Our shadows become umbilicalin certain light. Unknown children castdark shapes of waterto nourish the gardens springing forthfrom the dirt's wrist like a eulogy for lost sky.Morning doves sing because they see what we cannot:the years between us laid out like miles and our feetthat never mark the reddened earth andthe passion-trees birthing flowers of such cold, untamed souls.We are walking in the wombs of
Sofia Wrecks a ChairSofia lived on Chryssen Street, where the houses folded themselves out like they came out of pop-up books and the alleys were nothing but pencil lines on maps: erasable, here one day and gone the next, filled with trash and turned inside out, turned into quagmires and marshes of garbage.She lived on the fourth floor, room number four-three-three. It was a room into where the moon liked to shine. On nights like these, when she didn't feel like doing anything and Gray was off on another of his last full shows, she liked to sit where the moonlight was brightest and watch everything fall into half-shadow around her.Tonight, the moonlight favored the terrace.She trod barefoot onto the cold cement of the open terrace.It was a small place, some would call it cramped while others called it cozy. She was never good with words. Everything in her world was an outline, a picture, a silhouette that didn't need to be described; it simply was and there was no need to make existence any m
Condensation I think of you at sunrise; ( sometimes ) when I think of you I think in terms of teraVolts ( sometimes Fundamental; / I think of cycles that cut through magnetic fields: relativistic 50 microTeslas/and escape; velocity & energy(multiplying) naturally giving off heat; bleeding off Joules;s p i r a l l y fulfilling astrophysics = dreaming
distinctionThis is what I cannot understand.There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.Or so I've always thought.But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe until we don't. We live until we die. There is no gray area, no matter what the talk of doctors and comas and life support and brain death might say. Your heart beats until it doesn't.This goes beyond just life and death. Emotions are until they aren't. As are moments, definitions, seasons. Two people falling in love, well, some of them inevitably cra
To Leave*I am a lousy soap opera,a dying monologue,wolf boots and cricket hair,full of questions and denial.I throw postage on love letterslike grenades.I duck under the kitchen tableall I'm hoping for is an explosion.Maybe the letters could create a new solar system.I would be the mini suns and moonsand you could be gravityor lice or a Barret that was never worn,really, I don't care, dress accordingly.Oh I have a question:Why do we always turn our backs away,why are we consistently empty and aching,when does the road end, and life begin?The silence is a wrench stuck in my throatI'll gladly choke on to avoid you.*
AppassionataClaire does not find him at his funeral.Dean's body lies in an open casket, face-up with soft wrinkles and loose muscles. There is nothing of her husband in this corpse. He was rough and jagged. It seems wrong to see his edges smoothed down.She hovers over his body and feigns sorrow. She hears family and friends weep and whisper comfort into each others' ears behind her. They offer their words and shoulders to her and she nods politely and pretends to cry.All the while, she traces the ring on her finger and does not flinch when the diamond cuts into skin.Claire looks for her husband. It is exhausting, but she has time.In the rooms of their house, she does not find him. Instead she finds the ghost of him, his scent lingering in the cracks and crevices of the floorboards. Two weeks after the death of his body, her husband still has not returned.His disappearance cuts into her now, making her grief raw and causing a tightness in her chest. There is a pressure on her lungs, as if her
Chin UpAnd sometimes, coated and layeredwith tens of scores of others' eyeswe forget the word 'lonely' -so when it flings asheswe blink, and are blinded.
A lovely haikuHaikus are easyBut sometimes they don't make senseRefrigerator
the seed greeted the asphalt -the seed greeted the asphalt with surprise, said it was set upon by early morning winds,that they came from under the bridge by the bay,rose up and turned like a freight train down the street;ignoring the stop sign completely, causing an early commuterto lean into it, squinting. discoloured leavesrushed to fill its absence, falling over each other,it said the heavy mass of pure air hit with such momentumas to shake it off deliberately, making it a helplessand unwilling hitchhiker for some 20 metres.
Loki - CupidIf the diner knew it was playing host to two gods, it might have spent more care in preparing our lunch. Or perhaps not. Only the Oracle knew the future and he had gone half-mad from it, finally holing himself up at the summit of K2 and refusing any visitors. The popularity of climbing Mt. Everest had a sharp decline directly after, either from climbers wanting to visit the Oracle or because everyone realized that perhaps the Oracle knew something about Everest that we didn't. Either way, I didn't know if the diner staff would care they were serving gods and I didn't know why my fellow Watchdog looked like he'd been chewing on broken glass all morning. He glared at his sandwich like it had personally offended him. Perhaps it had. Tomatoes were hard to come by and it could very well be our fault."So," I ventured tentatively, "How did it go?""I threw him into a car."Tim started eating after that. I
Destroy This PoemDestroy This PoemTo the person grading this poemTo the kind, patient woman hovering over this with a penWaiting to say kind, patient words in response, do me a favor:Stop it.Dont Patronize me.I did not slave over this with hammer and anvilShaping it into a masterpiece.I didnt paint it onto the ceiling of some church,Going blind from the pain and the stress.I didnt even turn this in on time.And while Im writing this in my fifth-period economy class,You can bet Im not concerned with iambs and troches and Italian terza rima.No, Im concerned with how much water is left in my water bottle.This isnt a masterpiece.Who are we kidding?Youre not going to hurt it, and you most certainly arent going to hurt me.Stop it.Dont patronize me.I want you to destroy my work.I want you to rip it to shreds with sadistic dominatrix glee.Tear it apart from margin to margin;Laugh openly at its crippled, struggling body.Stab throu
An Anatomy Lesson If I collected the lies I've been told I could make myself a skeleton. 206 hollow bones made of hollow words. The bigger lies are structural support, holding up the rest of me. 33 dishonest "I love yous" could be 33 intersecting vertebrae, composing my curving spine. I could gather shards of my 10 favorite broken promises to be my long, sharp finger nails. The 10 runner ups fit on the tips of my toes. Spiderweb truths, theirs and mine, will weave my new skin. An average of 20 feet of sticky substance, easily torn and easily rewoven. Words will circulate like blood through the 100,000 miles of my veins. Cynicism creates phagocytes, attacking all foreign bodies of hope. 2 hazel eyes are formed from memories. Green from springs come and gone. Brown from Autumns jus
Writing a HaikuWriting a haiku;Running out of syllablesis a pain in the