Simple rhymes on a saturday

Doubt

Does nothing but deaden the desire the soul

dedicates itself to.  Forget the fallacy of falling

apart, forgive yourself for feeling forgotten.

I admire you for your admissions

of apprehension regarding my words.

Wait on my worth, walk with

me as we wind along the

walkway that is our trust.

Trust me, the truth, you tremble

when touched, tenderness and tact

be damned.  I

Demand your desire to devotion,

doubts be dimmed.

I am for you, you are for me

the rhyme is simple, as our

feelings should be.

A little poem for one of my friends stuck in the ATL.

Glass Turkey Baster

Elegant design, easy to clean, can't stain

Get rid of your perpetually greasy, stained baster. Our glass baster can't stain or retain odors, cleans up more easily and far outlasts plastic models. Unique, angled tip directs liquid into small spaces to perfectly baste meats, poultry and vegetables. Tempered heat-proof glass can handle the hottest liquids. Durable rubber bulb. Dishwasher safe. 101/4"L. USA made. 

A turkey baster, employed, specifically-in the basting of turkeys; usually jammed into a kitchen junk drawer (besides corroding batteries and a broken temperature gauge); only seeing the light of day around the fourth Thursday in November. 

You, sir are neither Patuxet or Pilgrim.  You, sir- do not have a turkey either frozen or fresh in need of basting.  Sir, that does not belong spiked in your arm. 

This is the roughest of first drafts

 

Clayton Bigsby

While pissing

I hold my dick in my right hand.

I use my left hand to hold the

Toothbrush

that cleans my teeth.

And I think of contradictions.

Suntans

And

Racism.

  

 

 

A hint of poetry.

I originally wrote this poem for another blog.  the blog is called 50 first words, you basically take a word or phrase and then write the first 50 words of a story pertaining to said word or phrase.  The prompt for this particular poem was candlelit.

Candlelit

 

Candlelit cravings crept quickly

away while imagining the antiqued

purple rose petals strewn about

your pale-pale-

 

The constant quiet comes back,

the kitchen clock coughs,

the time is ten to ten pm.

Side by side the linguine

and chicken sit, sadly, lamenting

their cold skins as the candles

cry out goodbye.

Casting The Made For TV Moussaoui Movie

Hollywood Here I Come (Chatting with a casting director)

Cue the close up, cause I am ready!

Time to make me famous!

With all these Arab terrorists in movies

and on TV,

I feel it’s about time we cast an

actual Arab in these roles.

I come with credentials,

check out my name:

Abdul Rehman Mohammed Issa,

rolls off the tongue don't it?

Plaster that name on billboards and

I guarantee we’ll sell out theaters coast

to coast.

And check this,

my dad, his names Mohammed.

I come with an authentic Arabic lineage.

and

he is one of those devout Muslim guys.

You know the type, the ones that carry prayer rugs

wherever they go.

Where do I sign?

I mean come on, I so fit the

stereotype

of a

camel riding, Jihad joining, Flight school certificate holding

Dune Coon.

So pass me the turban and the pen,

I’m gonna be a star!

Do I speak Arabic?

Well, no,

but…

you want to cast my dad?

Might be a problem.

I haven’t um seen him since

I was six and he um

lives over in Saudi and

last I checked that’s a long drive from

Long Beach, CA.

Planes, are you serious?

I hate planes,

I hate flying.

My mom, yeah she speaks Arabic.  But

she’s not what you’re looking for. 

Trust me.  Dude, she’s a white girl.

Blond haired blue eyed devil.

See me slip into character right there.

Well screw you too.

Look I’m sorry.  I apologize for the

outburst.

Technically I’m half er a quarter Arab.

But…

Have a nice day?

Fuck you too buddy!

This was gonna be my big break,

I was gonna be a star.

Do I speak Spanish?

What the fuck do you mean

I look Hipanic?

I wrote it but I have no idea what this poem is about

Here to There

 

I start at

the smallest toe

on my left foot.

The toe with the

crescent shaped, brown

and purple discolored,

bent, broken-

possibly broken,

possibly by severe stubbing

or falling.

 

The journey?

More mystery in that,

to me

it must be winding,

with

sharp

turns, steep precipes

to scale.  Train tracks

and tunnels included

but unaware of where

to plot

their points.  Must be

amazing, this mystery

of a journey, a-

mazing.

 

…It ends at the ear

on the edge of the

right

side of my head, bat like

structure, stalagmites

and tites

of skin folds

crease the crevice

filled cavern.

Deep deep dark, like a

gouged earthen rape.

Same way the Grand Canyon

gashed a perfect plain

and left a deep deep dark

wound without

heal.

 

 

Just another manic poem

Little Attics

In my mind, of my design.

Built to house moments of time

which hurt and blurt both

silent and spoken.

Each attic tucked in my ears

houses a memory steeped

in fear.  A friend abusing his girl

with words he hurled

through her heart.

I should be shouting

"Shut Up!"

to the prick who thinks it's okay

to yell

BITCH

at the mother of his

child,

when she acts mild and meek

and waits on his temper-losing control

he beats and he beats

and

she takes and she takes.

And I wonder,

who is wrong?  And

who is to blame?  Which is why

my shame is so high.  I let this go on,

pretending not to hear

the fear

in her voice, as it

quakes.  And I know that

her mistake, is love.

So I smile

stuck uncomfortably here.

My desire to run is what

shunts me from going.

Why do I not interject?

Is it fear of respect being

lost in the eyes of my friend?

But, who needs a friend more?

She,

me,

or he?

 

I dim the lights

and close the attic door.

The loudness fades

and the drama

plays on

within and

without

me.

Ah a blogging binge

Ars Cer

(The Art of Bitterness)

 

Myspace.com, where

your asshole ex, just posted

pics, of her next ex.

Lazy Sunday

I search for inspiration, staring at the ceiling, at 3am.

God bless the American haiku.  Seventeen syllables and I can say I’ve done a days work.  Yep, did my post for day, now its time to rest up, don’t want to sprain an eyelid or something while watching basketball.  How embarrassing would that be?  Being rushed to the ER with a possible March Madness related injury, like a ruptured hangnail due to sloppy technique while dipping your Tostitos into six or seven layer salsa dip.  It’s only a matter of time before Dickie V. is offering analysis on ESPN 9’s coverage of the NCAA sanctioned Six Layer Bean and Salsa Western Regionals, ” It’s awesome baby, Redick was PTP through the first four layers baby, his follow through while scooping that sour cream was super-scintillating-sensational-baby.”  So sleepy now.  Too much writing, must-go-lie-down. 

Poem

Juror Number 12’s Notepad

 

Today

I killed

a man,

before I said hello.

He may have been a nice man.

He had big, thick glasses.

The man

that I killed today,

was in his forties.

He was going bald.

He never looked at me,

but I could tell,

he knew I was going to kill him.

I felt badly for the man I killed,

he only had one eye.

Some bully poked his other one out,

poor, poor guy.

All because of his problem,

I killed a man today.

He liked to touch little boys.

He liked to touch their little penises.

So I killed him,

without ever

saying hello.