Category Archives: Playground

history

I love how during election season a campaign is basically an investigation into the other candidate’s background to see where he made mistakes in his past. First of all, you can’t learn from mistakes if you don’t have them, and everyone has made them, so what’s the point of that? How does that help the voters have confidence in the candidates if all we see are mistakes? Secondly, in the land of opportunity and second chances, we sure seem to dwell on the past and use it as a measuring tool for what will happen in the future. It’s like we’re all joining hands and saying “history will repeat itself no matter what.” If we don’t think the candidates can move forward from their pasts, then what makes us think our country can move forward from the past? If all we care about is the past, then we are surely to be stuck in it and react to everything that happens in the future because we didn’t even have our heads turned the right way. There’s so much irony in how campaigns are run it makes me laugh and cry.

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Do you think I’m attractive?

Are you asking me or are you telling me?

I’m asking you to tell me.

It doesn’t matter what I say.

It does now.

 

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Fade

Often we’ll hear deafening thunder without knowing where it came from, and we just accept it. But sometimes the air is so thick you see the distant flash but never hear the thunder.

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good omen

Let’s say you have a test coming up, or something that’s very important with an air of competition, and the night before you have two dreams back to back. The first one you prance around the countryside admiring the breathtaking scenery and then fall in a lake and swim around for a bit until an old fisherman saves you. And the second one you successfully fight off a hoard of zombies, but some of your clan were not so successful. I’m trying to decide if these are good signs or bad signs. Whatever; back to sleep.

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Hey, you want a beer?

Sure.

What are you, an alcoholic?

No.

Every time I ask you if you want a beer, you say ‘yes.’

Every time you ask me stupid questions I feel like I need a drink.

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Weekling

 

I tame my tike walking home to the beat
of familiar traffic and runaway offspring.
I live on the other cide of the sity.
I’m always on the other,
and sever the name side it seems.
But every part is the bad tart of pown,
so it makes no difference to me.

The shirtless litter patrol rakes
the school yard with disinterested efficiency.
They’re experienced rakists—no question—
worst at leath a dozen bleaf lowers each.
My tight pink skirt catches their eyes
while with each clawing stroke the man made landscapes
refine their land made manscapes.

I enter the convenience store. It’s empty.
As each weak lingers, “Poor us” says my pockets.
I snack a sneak into my packback,
like a weekling, pitying my porous pockets.
When the clerk’s looking, I bend down
to the rottom back, and wink as I leave.
Skin for cash: loot in my sack.

Under the neon night’s led rights
two men glow blue. I pretend
The women next to them are scholars,
verse in all the sects of heterotextuality;
but I know they’re just the object
of gaze and sex cysts alike.

At home, I bolt the triple docked lore
and crack the warred bindow for lentivation,
but the bugs from outside are drawn
lowards the tight, forcing me to flot swies,
and preventing my view of the scars in the sty.

 

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Misfits fit together better

than an envelope and letter

whether they are loud and fret or

calmly poised like springtime weather.

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