A.G.E's Joint

  A hammer and nail She wants me to time travel But I won't do that Going quick and dirty because I'm out of town for the next week. 

  History doesn't repeat It rhymes The professors say they understand When all they want to do Is tie the poem to a chair with a rope And torture a confession out of it And become the next Carl Jung But all they are is the next Dan Brown.

 Buzzwords Lifting the targets  For the AI bots to consume He's for the mask She's against the vaccine Stirring it up In three word sound bites Magically designed  To make us salivate Like Pavlov's dog.

  Zealotry hates beauty Desert harsh is its abode Black, brown and gray Are all they know. Reds and greens Scare them Long hair and sweet scents Enrage them Hard and unyielding Is their only way. And they believe All that should exist.

Sedated I want to be Somewhere over the rainbow Dreams above the churning waves of the ocean Against clouds illuminated by the storm Embracing to clear skies Lit by the diaphanous moon . ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Topic- Dia Jade Pic- Barbara Kausteklis Pic guesses: Diaphanous moon (in blog), Rise, Dreams (in blog), Night light,

I had a dream last night A dream of you Perfect in imperfection Shelled with your scars  Showing. Bonded, we snaked alongside Each other Giving, taking And giving again. I wondered if it were mutual Through the ether I find you were sleepless   All night.

We toil For unseen gains From unseen bosses Living in gated houses In gated communities Driving our little tanks Filled with precious cargo Seeking protection from Unbridled anger In our own prison Where we are guard And inmate. 

  There is no cure like travel So they say. But the Yellow Brick Road Is pyrite Lined with ravens And no one is Who they say. As the darkness falls, Who will be the last to fall?  Ozymandius Behind door number three Ready to give away the trip To Puerto Vallarta To set up the new illusion?   Nail them while they are vulnerable. That's my motto Lead them down the pier Into the endless lake . Blinded by a deadly  Lemon sky . ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ https://www.facebook.com/notes/925899040764647/ Come join us on Blogophilia. The site to work out your writing kinks. Topic-Christine Wichman Pic-Nina Nixon Pic Guesses: Lemon sky (in blog), Ravens (in blog), Endless lake (in blog), Deadly dream, Crows, black haired beauty, Yellow Brick Road (in blog)

It piles high. The detritus of our youth Objects that once meant the world Tossed in the open air storage unit. Animals and toy cars that meant much Are now soaked and mildewed Now return to the dust. Just like us.  

Push and pull Powerful add power Weak suffer And get pushed closer To the cliff. Catching traction, strength surges Survival against tides Violence meets violence In a never ending battle

I've been having fun this week trying to figure this set of prompts out.  I started with some bad poetry: Wisps of steam obscuring the view Of a snow covered walk We look like something the cat drug in Disentangling arms Sweat soaked hair Tender skin We love like lions Fifty times a day. You are Zachariah Level higher than others. Burning brightly Over all. And while everything is in there (the odd fact is Lions can mate up to 50 times a day in season), there was something unsatisfying about it. So, I tried again, using a story about how my cat drug in an owl (or the owl chased him in). And that way, I could mention how owls have three eyelids, one for blinking, one for sleeping and another for keeping their eyes clean.  And I could mention how awesome (again on the level of Zachariah) it was to have the thing staring at me.  But, then people would say: "Pics or it didn't happen".  He was so surprising, I grabbed a beach towel (to toss ...

Two glasses in On the last day of the year. Listening to my son and his friends Laughing in the other room. Echoing back to another day Another time When it was me as the entertainer Or the entertained. Not that it matters Doing the same thing over And expecting a different result Is still insanity. The guardian angel aghast At the proceedings of the night. Seeing things through the alcohol lens Instead of as they are or were. Now, thirty years later It is my son's turn To chase illusions And hope they become real.  So before the last leaves fall And the glass ball drops  I wonder at where I am And where I will be. 

The book was on the table, almost even with his eyes. It had an old, cracked binding and no front cover.  Parchment leaves shaded from beige to sienna exposed like he was.   It seemed to shimmer and float, like a magic scroll or talisman. A meaning of a dream, maybe? Dream? Yes. Had to be. Mark tried reach for it, but his arm was pinned under her ribs.  Morning sunilluminated the room, showing their naked forms tossed amongst the sheets. Arms and legs gave like sacks of flour against whatever surface they touched, whether the mattress or each others legs. Not a pretty sight, but who was he to talk? He leaned over and kissed the top of the pale shoulder, drinking in the mix of sweat and Chanel.  It had been so long...  Red and green neon had always taunted as he walked to home from work Blinking "chicken" in light displays in front of him.  He finally gave in and stepped in the bar.  Inside, it looked like a clubroom. Red leather bar, wi...

One by one the guests arrive The guests are coming through The open-hearted many The broken-hearted few And those who dance begin to dance And those who weep begin Welcome, welcome , cries a voice Let all my guests come in From "The Guests" by Leonard Cohen When I was little, I had imaginary friends. We'd gather in my room and talk over apples and ginger ale.   I would talk to them and change my voice to have them answer me.  My family thought I was strange.  And, indeed, I was. I had to be strange to navigate the waters of an alcoholic couple who were completely incompatible with each other.  Add to it, four other siblings doing much the same thing, there was always great drama around. So, my friends were my way to escape, and the central "I" stayed back in the control room of my brain to make sure none of them totally took over. Yes, Dis-associative Disorder (sometimes called "split personality") is something I have always been intimat...

I'm an old man Yelling at clouds I can't be heard Over thunder's din What was Is now the opposite And I'm to believe The opposite was truth. But truth and falsehood Are man's inventions Something to explain away Something to large to understand.

Punk and anger Go together, As it were A generations rebellion Against all that Had come before. Jello, Siouxie, and Serj Yelling and screaming Telling What is wrong With the world. Bob, Joan and Pete Still said it better With more passion And fewer decibels. But the rebellion Is a phase We all become parodies Satire doesn't effect change. Only time does. 

Friday night Shot glass Cures fright. Predator Prey We are all One or the other. 

Gypsy woman Looks deep Into the woman's eyes Saying nothing. Is it real? Or the image Of  tea leaves, Spoonful of sugar?   The image of a train Appears to the woman. "All Aboard! The conductor intones. Which way does it go? Ecstasy or tears? Love or hate? To tell the truth  it is unknown. Gypsy fades from sight As she climbs aboard To another world, Another life.

She's there Not another woman The woman of your dreams You think. But you thought that Twenty five years ago In a cafe like this And you followed The impulse. That was is still there At home with her soaps And wine Not thinking about you So do you Follow the impulse Once again Knowing the cliff Awaits.