A Continuation of Lost Thoughts

A collection of thoughts captured from my mind and vividly displayed on screen in poem form.

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Location: Newburgh, Indiana, United States

I'm a 29 year-old wannabe writer, who enjoys a good dream. I'm also a big proponent of drinking liquid magic shell. My taste buds are partial to caramel, but any ol' flavor will do.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Room #4157

Living in code blue, without a pot to piddle in.
Man’s largest toilet, dotted by the Dogwood, idles
Outside with shaken leaves made for wiping.
I can’t race to the wilderness. I can’t jog. I surely can’t fly.
The loss confounds my mind. So, I’ll stud my eyebrow with a

Hobnail. The transformation is quite becoming.
These four white walls are made for breaking down.
I never knew how to crack up before this accidental discovery.
Smash, teeter, and fall, and all the doctors couldn’t put it
Back together again. Maybe a pill? A blue one, of course!

It tastes like a stale peppermint with a chalky aftertaste.
Where are my house slippers? The ones you bought for my visit?
Sideways and up your rump roast, most likely, so I shall not
Race into the wilderness. I still have my broken sole -
Now fire poker red, and dripping, mimicking a leaky spout.

It’s soon to be the great Niagara! Dogcatcher! Code red!
I’m beginning to itch forth another solution for the heartache -
You must excavate the pain, then suture up the buttercup,
Or all the blood will drain to my feet. Tell me, then.
How will I run? How will I jog? How, ever will I fly?

Friday, July 18, 2008

The Auction

Going, going, gone!
To the most sincere bidder,
The penny worth a luxury or more
With its copper profile - a man for sure!

They wheel and deal the woman
On the chopping block. And believe
They can buy her for what she’s
Worth, and sell her for what she
Thinks she’s worth - a ten-cent piece!

Humbly. They knock her up for scoring,
And proclaim the purest love, she’ll
Find a suitor for eternity, unless
The emancipator calls for her first.

Freedom or shag-dom, the auction
Doesn’t foresee. Coinage
Is the rate for beauty, the debutante.
Buy a gumball, buy a girl,
Spend wisely, unless you think you’re hers.

Monday, July 14, 2008

The Land of Sour Milk and Honey

I set myself up, by putting
Myself out
Amongst mealy-mouthed mosquitoes,
The parasites chomping the spit, spat out
Relishing in her disgrace.

A cake, a candle, a celebration
Is in order. Or perhaps a funeral.
Black dresses and black suits adorn
The congregation in attendance.
Blasphemy! Maybe a hymn?

May she quiver in quietism, below
Ground, while the misses and misters
Hover above her casket, her cake
Missing the piece they ate
In her token honor. Her pink

Negligee torn. A game piece. Spent on a machine
Called life. The ambivalent attitudes
Forego the special occasion.
Babies to attend to. Sockets to
Fiddle with. Might I electrocute myself?

Saturday, July 12, 2008

The Separation

Some people like to pull out the nail, only
To ram it back in, with splinters
Slicing the skull, my skull into
Shards of hard knock luck.

I hide all hammers, your hammer
Inside the safety deposit box
For safekeeping, my well-being -
You can’t find it there

Or my screwball effort to save the
Flotsam as it bends out of reach
Too far away for the withering fingertips
That long to make a deep indention in

Your left cheek. I leave you unscathed.
So much for wishful thinking, or cathartic
Means of reconciliation, like replacing
The cap on an empty container of lighter fluid.