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Sunday, August 17, 2008
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entry A5j
Category: Writing and Poetry
When The Bombs Drop In The Toilet Water by: Justin David Tate
I got money diarrhea and folks try to Pepto-Bismol me.
But I ball free into another existence to roll out my old one from which I couldn't crawl free.
So wannabe plungers should not call me.
I refuse to misuse my fumes that I was meant to spread into the air since I was in the womb.
Everybody will smell and everybody will tell everybody that is anybody that somebody is making a crazy use for his body rather than trying to embody another body.
I take my squats to try to get my crap out.
If I can get that out then I can do any thing that means anything to any thing.
The world fed me this crap so surely they should see the feces.
Some people question why I do this but my dodo is apart of my puzzle that you need to piece me.
I say that despite the odor, my excrement is Heaven-sent.
It made life stink but stopped things up enough for me to think before I got flushed away.
So I'm thankful for ALL the turds that inspire my words in the past, future, and even today.
11:22 AM
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entry A4j
Category: Writing and Poetry
Monsters And Gods Of Poetry by: Justin David Tate
I see pterodactyl-winged strange beasts flying overhead.
They drop bombs to destroy the world.
Sections of people's trains of thought are shut down by verbal terrorist attacks.
News-worthy deconstruction of the mind goes on so long,
But not as fast as the further corruption of the blind.
Open heads receive venom to counteract the poisons of life.
Women, men, and children run bowl-loose scared.
Mighty warriors that don't even seem human express humanity.
Yearning to join them, I watch the paths they excavate.
True monstrous Gods from across the globe.
Understand that King Kong may climb the Empire State,
But I'll buy a plane.
Roars, raves, and rants of Godzilla may be across the ocean,
But I'll swim if I have to, HAHAHAHAHA!
No One Will deny me my chance to battle with Gods and Monsters.
So that…Maybe…I Can…Join…Them.
11:21 AM
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entry A3j
Category: Writing and Poetry
Mainstream Dream by: Justin David Tate
I'm a fish swimming in garbage.
Somebody needs to get the filters started.
This ocean needs to be clean.
This is filthier than most I've seen.
The water is turned black and I feel blue and would give anything just to see some green.
Evolution changed my scales so a backI grew to carry on the weight of dreams.
I grew too different for other fishes floating up stream.
So I threaded through darker waters because swimming with schools wasn't part of my scheme.
I don't mean to sound mean,
But I don't have the means to make my gills' bubbles' worth average higher means.
So when I do breathe fresh air above these waters,
I'm going to change these fins to wings and make a nest for my sons and daughters.
Ink, not H2O, enters and exits my gills so I'm not a big fish author,
So I deserve my buried treasure to be uncovered before I'm buried as a martyr.
And please don't sink my boat just because it got loot.
The net didn't catch me, I dolphin flipped on deck in a pursuit.
I'm after the world most fish believe they can't survive with.
But to me, this air is what I thrive with.
So please don't knock my success at entering the surface asmore than a dish.
Look at it as my evolution into a powerful man to be more than just a fish.
I'm not trying to knock the underwater scene, I'm sure you're more in touch with your fans.
But above the surface, I got bigger plans.
11:21 AM
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entry A2j
Category: Writing and Poetry
I Want $ by: Justin David Tate
I want $! Never a starving artist!
You can have all the lent in your pocket, but I prefer dollars.
They taste so good and wash away the bitter taste of being broke.
Dollars are beautiful because they paint success stories.
$ turns people with no cars into people with too many.
$ transforms those who look at the stars into their very own star.
When I think of $, I think of luxurious living.
Chains and diamond rings.
Please don't hate my aspirations, if anything, love me!
Love me for achieving a symbol of success we all thought masters of the pen couldn't do.
Love me for the platinum achievement in the next man's eye.
He wouldn't normally go to a poetry venue and would rather listen to ice rappers.
You know those people who rock the same rocks you speak against on the stage when you get up to rock.
That viewer and listener will see my chain and see success and pay attention.
My message will catch him while the rest of you self-righteous poets only speak to intellectuals and truth searchers.
I dare you. I double dare you suckers to rock a dance club.
Rock the microphone with your poems in a dance club after an ice rapper gets off stage like you would at a slam.
And he'll rock the same conflict diamonds you feel conflicted about.
These same conflict diamonds to him signal the end of a conflict to get out of a lifestyle in which the mind conflicts.
Well, I will rock that stage, rock that diamond, and rock EVERYTHING I WANT!
11:20 AM
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Friday, August 15, 2008
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entry A1j
Category: Writing and Poetry
Dollar In My Pocket by: Justin David Tate
I ain't got no dollar in my pocket. I ain't got no change to spare.
I ain't got no dollar in my pocket. All I got in there is air…
And crumbs and dirt. The crumbs in my pocket are from my hands feeding me food I didn't work for. My independence is nonexistent for I am dependent on my parents! The only way to receive independence is with employment. Until I have that, my hands will only deposit crumbs into my pockets instead of dollars into my account. So I walk the streets of potential occupations, working to find work. From greasy fast-food restaurants to oily department stores, I search aimlessly for a job, not knowing who will most likely hire me. And every time I don't hear the two word phrase I want to hear (You're Hired), I just lose it. Not on the outside though, for I walk quickly away from the buildings in which my proposal to work was rejected and my hands bury themselves into my pockets to keep me from forming fists to bury into the face of the employer who refuses to employ me. Dirt collects into my pockets from my hands like shovels used to bury the dead. I guess if my hands can't work, they are dead.
That leaves me with…No dollar in my pocket. And no change to spare.
No dollar in my pocket. All I got in there is air.
And a pencil, eraser, and pen, the tools by which I write. My pencil records my thoughts and ideas into
stories, poetry, and sometimes prose. Of course, in its roughest form is where the eraser comes to wipe away my human mistakes later to be replaced by clearer and better wording to upgrade the literature I author to a higher point. My pen acts as a similar editing tool except with a more humbling approach as scratches form over lesser versions of what I wanted to say in favor of smaller text scribbled above the scratched text as clear as possible to avoid misinterpretation by my ever so forgetful human mind. And this occupies my life more than life itself. To go to sleep on an idea that requires writing is to go through an endless night of a junkie's itch and ache and feverish outbreaks waking me out of bed so the thoughts from my head can be manifested on page in the form of fully realized literature that explodes with fiery detail and spine chilling pleasurable relief. This relief is like no other and only getting paid for it could possibly make it any better.
But until then…I ain't got no dollar in my pocket. I ain't got no change to spare.
I ain't got no dollar in my pocket. All I got in there is air.
11:18 AM
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Saturday, August 16, 2008
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entry A0j
Category: Writing and Poetry
EARTH RISE
Sunrises and sunsets each day
Give our moods festive display
My earthy needs multiply, increase,
Lead and move, unfold the crease.
We see rise and set from our view
The Sun revolves around us anew
The Universe is ours by glance
We've adopted self's stance.
Easy to take for granted, human
Limited focus, weak, woman
Legs part receptive, I stand
Thighs warmed by sun's hand
Light arrives, departs in dress
Vibrations revive, caress
Nipples, Naples yellow, hot pink
Clouds add orange scents in sync.
Aroused by the sensation
The perspective designs my attention
Engineered by hidden link,
Mind sips addictive, sensual drink.
Death, the night specter most feared
Lives; head from neck, severed, reared
By thoughts of annihilation -
Separate life is daily damnation.
Yet, what a different show arises
When Earth from elsewhere rises
Seen from planets, stars and moons:
Earth-rise or set is a tune that swoons.
Blue, pristine water view weans…
Stellar Earth, the eye that seems
The yes that measures, partakes
Its wise eyelids lull quantum quakes.
Earth sight electrifies in comparison
To the inhospitable dead horizon,
Earth offers charge cards to all creatures
With Godly, built-in features.
Earth, not sun, rises and sets
This truth my heart accepts,
My Earth needs are decreased,
I've grown stellar, I've increased.
Some say life is illusion:
A great "Maya," film fusion.
With scientific connections; why
Is it designed dramatic, I pry!
For dreams, illusions have magic.
Appear irrational, manic.
Reality's rounds roll, all balanced
Mathematics cannot be challenged.
Logic is a gift that allows the shift
Of atomic strings with precise thrift
Born to die, yet never do, strings shape
Into me, into sea, or trees, turns take.
Miracles exist, that is the twist.
Saints and prophets know their gist.
As witnesses prove seasons,
Logic unwinds Creator's reasons.
Transient ecstatic guest – I honor this place,
Everyone, every lesson, every borrowed face!
As child seeing outwards from self
I grow, beyond self to cosmic health.
Gain and loss we feel as ours
They are but temporary hours
To stretch our spirits around infinites
Expand high joys over Earthy limits. ..
…And prepare…for eternal minutes.
-Lana Deym Campbell
12:32 AM
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entry A9i
Category: Writing and Poetry
R E N E W A L
She came, a stray mission
I was four, her vision
Was mystery, she warmed
When she saw my lesions,
Said, "Do not be scared"
As she saved me from tear,
From scraped sore knees,
Parent's silent freeze,
Kid's glares, taunts, tease.
Alone, we were a pair.
Good company we shared,
Talked softly in Cat-speak;
With a purr, she stalked
My heart's thought-beats
Poured strength I reaped…
Her emerald gem eyes
Isle escapes decide.
Do we leave for tomorrow?
Do tomorrows row sorrow?
All life from there borrows.
Questions she answered
In contemplative stares:
Imagine your life
For life resides there.
She sunned in wisdom's chair.
I noticed she mostly slept
Never ever wept.
Alert while sleeping,
Swiped at those who crept.
No exercise, yet she exorcised.
Cut monsters to size,
While yawning anew,
Sensually she stretched
Spread her wide clues.
Boldly, mystical cat renews.
Wears hope as her coat
A fur design that lightly cloaks
Nature's effort to teach
Nature trying to reach
The Creator she'd dial
With elegant style
Cat walks miles to show
Adventure in freedom
Means freedom to grow…
Renewed now, I – we, can go.
Sun's flowers we'll explore
Jasmine scents we'll glide.
In our cosmic backyard,
On a star-fueled rocket ride,
Where even death steps aside.
-Lana Deym Campbell
12:31 AM
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entry A8i
Category: Writing and Poetry
Drowning
the answers are evading me
no hope for rescue from this sea
i swallow down the thoughts of you
waves rush the skin, all beaten blue
from the torrent, theres no escape
within this torment, grows the ache
the salt, the sand, sting each pore
ever apparent, that fading shore
i dare not guess how long i might
allow my soul to stay and fight
i struggle just to stay afloat
to mute the screams within my throat
perhaps the choice may come to me
while here i swirl and drown at sea.
Beth Evans
12:00 AM
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Friday, August 15, 2008
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entry A7i
Category: Writing and Poetry
Suffering
I hide behind this pitiful smile
keep mouth closed, heart close at hand
Trudging along each tiresome mile
Till at this crossroads, now, I stand.
I've choked on many a salty tear
swallowed them down, as harsh as bile
Passed each day of this gruesome year
Laughing madly, all the while.
I cannot feel my heart as much
pump wildly in my chest
it seems to me now more, as such
a whisper in my breast.
I wait for it to sing to me
the song of my soul's power
finding that this suffering bee
stings only but an hour.
How is it I revive that spark,
send shivers through my veins
the glimmer of light inside this dark
must, surely, bear a name.
Perhaps in this, lies fateful error
the truth must exist within
but with this knowledge lies the terror
of answers behind my own skin.
I alone, can start the murmurred beat
spark a fire my heart has known
My head, my hands, my own two feet
must carry this burden alone.
I'll toil through such indifference
and melt ice that chills my blood
arrive at such sweet circumstance
where tears overflow, and flood.
Ill continue onward down my path,
a choice not made so easily
Ill crawl from under this tortured wrath
and find the me I used to be.
Beth Evans
11:56 PM
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entry A6i
Category: Writing and Poetry
and suddenly
and suddenly i am a stranger
suspended by a thin thin string
serenely strung by skillful fingers
from the centre of these shadowy streets
to where the stars shine so much brighter
away from city lights
the stars shine so much brighter
and i am so out of touch
slipping silently between secrets and suggestions
and i am so out of touch
but my skin shivers and when i scratch it smiles scarlet
and i am so out of touch
practising exercises for the paralyzed
and i am so out of touch
and i am so out of touch
and suddenly
i am so
out of touch
- Graeme Ruck
11:53 PM
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