May 27 by The Running Son
Who am I.
Whooo am I?
Dude, this isn’t breakfast chatter,
and this ain’t no Breakfast Club,
Who am I? Who are you?
Why not explain
in a letter, or a poem like I do?
Then we’ll all know better how not
to offend you,
or send you bending up rails
to dance out that frustration,
or off rocking in fog boxes,
losing yourself in smoke, green needs,
and dreams woken
from spring seeds, and bad jokes.
Like, hey you, girl! Girly–
*snapsnap–What’s your name?
I see you hiding there.
I gotta tell you though,
you are every-thing
beneath that faded green and your sneaky
social tithing. And you, book smarty—
you live through orange peek-holes.
No mere crusts of manliness makes us.
No vain cherry topped privileges
will save us. Brains may date,
but minds relate on, over time.
Bender ain’t blind.
He dropped the Jeans Jacket and Marlboros,
and asked why breakfasts
are so bright in the morning.
from last night are made up in a morning,
Where orange juice awaits,
and the soul always floats;
pleasant orange, mid-spectrum
and compatible with
all the colors contained in white.
Lights make thoughts manageable,
and fires make night
manageable. Club-life and friend fights
make life right,
faster than training for the masters
with task managers wielding jock hammers,
or gorging PB&J samplers,
casting crusts, pixie straws,
and HGH wrappers.
Don’t you forget about us.
We write our own meanings.
We twist tongues
like cherry-stems, a fate that bends
into secure identities written in dreams.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.
blu butterflies live freee.