Weather I SleepThough my window is shut and tightIt cannot hush the sounds tonight.I can hear the mellow chimes below,In the canopy where flowers grow.The storm is strong and some snow we need;Thus towards the beckoning tone it heeds.So I mind the windsong through the glassAs some vague lesson or a class.In intervals the tune is playedBut the snow has sadly been delayed.Still through locked pane and wood it seeps,The song; like springtime it does peep.High and low in octaves moist,A soothing melody is hoist;Aloft in some strange universeThat is called night- so we've rehearsed.One quiet pause is 'nough to hearTo convince me that the ice is here.So now in comfort do I layAs snow dust travels near to play.
Sub-SecretsAnthony Stephan boarded the sub confidently, fulfilling his Friday-night venture to Cynthia Voyager's apartment. His suit was clean, after spending countless passive hours at his ritual of an occupation, but his face was haggard with still-remaining evidence of the cocaine he had previously snorted. Passengers regarded him with apathetic expressions of uninterested. Other, better dressed, passengers knew him as a lawyer from numerous news reports of crimes justly solved.Anthony gripped the warm poll in the isle, not only attempting to steady himself from the drugs, but the departing vibrations of the subway bus. His exhaustion wore simultaneously with the kick of nitroglycerin laced in the coke. Now aware that he was being watched, Anthony fumbled with his Blackberry, glancing awkwardly around to locate a vacant seat. The sub was just reaching full speed as the drugged thirty-year-old made his way to a small, blue chair. He crammed himself politely between two obese passengers, who, w
Fumble HushCome back Seven! I want to play.Don't leave me alone, Seven, not today;Because tomorrow is one, two
Three days away!Fine then, run away from me.At least I have my F and G.I bet that they will keep me company.I swear I just saw the word FLYINGBut it flew too fast for my eyingAnd now I am sad and feel like dying.My name is Ssthpnanaie; that I know,But others tell me it is not soAnd that there are places I'll never go.So many Sevens have gone awayThat I cry all night and every dayBecause there are words I'll never say.H, I, J
A, Kill 'em N
Oh! P!The alphabet is easy for me.I just sing la-la, tee-dee.I want to play and laugh and writeAnd sometimes I do think I mightBut making letters gives me much fright.So I'll just wait for Seven, or a team of 22'sWho might kindly come and show me how to tie my shoes.
Congrats to the RatsFine print is twenty-twenty like hindsight and intuition.The fine print is lifelike- Warnings and warranties; symptoms.Fine lines are bold in reality, trying to scream at you,Trying to make up your mind- this that and the other thing.Fine lines are artistry from the companies and from theGrocery stores.Yes, that place you buy your food, thefood you eat and consume and LIVE on, is manufacturedlyMarried to plastic.So and so calories. No cholesterol! Whole grain, I swear.Income over outcome, matter over mind. Mind? Mine?Not anymore.Credit or debit, or do we pay cash? What is cash?I'm sure the waitress would like a better tip... but so would I.May I care, Medicare, somehow just not fitting here. Policy, budget, cannot get enough of it. Of course we can't, we are people.Consumers by classification. Such heterotrophs to the pointOf worshiping fast-food because THEY can actually cook.Fine print is too small to read; too risky to worry about because I NEED that vikadin; my tee
Adding TrustShe would like a lemon pie.She wants to see if it is sour.It will be because it is inevitable that lemons are sour; love is sweet.But not allways.She would like a piece of quiet.She wants to know what silence is.Since she cannot find it in her own mind, she wants to recreat it.Maybe a rainbow lolipop will taste like Windex, but at least you can say you have tried it.And maybe the lemon pie won't be sour...Add a little sugar for her.Add a little love.He would like a spot of coffee.He wants to know if it is bitter or harsh.Of course, it will be the same rude awkening he has allways tasted.But he could never know that unless he has tried before.He would like to listen to that old disk.He wants to hear if it still makes his feet bounce.It probably will; he has listened many times before.Maybe if you wish for a rainy day, the clouds will go away.Maybe if you want a slow dance, the music will pick up speed.Maybe if you tried hard enough, no one will notice.Maybe if you w