Scrap of metal is flung from one side.
Shadowy figure fly fast to recover it
Land on the thrower’s forearm.
“Well done, Laserbeak.”
Megatron was pleased
Grabs the Autobot arm
Fling it out to a new location
A mound of dead cypertronian bodies.
Today was a good day.
On a hot summer day, A starving mouse searched for food in the Sahara desert. Over a hill, mouse saw a lone elephant in a waterhole, relaxing. Mouse’s mouth watered at the massive size of the elephant. But, mouse knew the elephant was too big for him to take down. So, the mouse devised a plan.
Mouse ran down to the valley towards a pack of female lions relaxed under a tree. Mouse started to throw pebbles at three lions to get their attention. The lion turned and growled at the mouse. But, Mouse continued to throw pebbles at them. The angry lions roared and rushed towards mouse. Mouse initiated a chase up the hill. At the top, Mouse scurried into a hole for safety. Three lions reach the top of the hill and see the elephant.
They split and surround the elephant. The elephant is trap. They attack from different sides. One lion jumps on the elephant’s back. The other two lions claw and bite at the elephant’s legs. A hour long stuggle until the elephant is succumb to its wounds and falls dead in the waterhole.
The lions dragged the elephant’s body out the waterhole and ripped off pieces of flesh until they were full. They left the elephant carcass near the waterhole and return to the valley. Mouse leaped out of its hole and ran to the dead elephant. Mouse goes inside the carcass and rips a piece of flesh. The mouse inserted the flesh in his mouth, shallows and smile. Who said a mouse can’t eat an elephant.
Pass beyond a security door and enter large room to meet the time clock. The clock is a Nazi but that is okay, I have to punch it daily. I sit in a 4X5 cubic space in the center of the room. The enclosure has no window to eliminate the distraction of scenery and time. Pictures of beaches fill Bob’s cubicle wall but time carry a knife and comes by every hour to prick our necks. A reminder that our lives lost time. Time kills.
Gluten-free Jeanine silently finishes the last danish from the coffee table. This room would be a quiet place if, not for the tap, tap, tapping on the keyboards.
I monitor the monitors monitoring me. An audiovisual stand-off. As artificial lighting overhead illuminates. Jane tolerates a migraine daily. My calendar is my conscience that ponders what I ponder: garbage in – garbage out.
Dave got fired yesterday. Vultures circle his unmanned desk. I got dibs on the multi-colored markers.
From the break room, the smell of burnt popcorn wafts. It is the perfume of the damned. I scrap together six coins to pay the dealer’s new price: A-3, Snicker bar, please. Office refrigerator stores memories of employees long gone. Passive aggressive notes mark our slow descent into hell. Keep your hands off my sandwich – Phil. Boss brings her special creamer to work and signs her name on it. A sharpie will not stop me. I dump half in the sink and leave a thank you note from Phil.
I trick myself everyday by saying I belong here and this is what I deserve. My therapist says I’m in an abusive relationship with my job.
Yesterday, there was a training video about office shooters. Not sure, if it was prevention or tutorial. Will see how the next evaluation goes?
I protest for the wrongs that have been done.
The law does not protect its citizens.
Sacramento allow police to kill the unarm.
Why do you ignore the body count?
SAY THEIR NAMES!
Stop the killings!
SAY THEIR NAMES!
HOW DARE YOU!
How dare you block the entrances!
I paid to watch the Kings’ game!
Y’all are in my way!
What did I do to you?
I did not kill them.
Protest at the police station!
Not the Arena!
Words of Dark
In to a cellphone
So when it’s discovered
People will read about me
And the demon that inside of me
Help, my mental is detached
I touch a screen of ghost
Poltergeist, they’re here
Numbers are pressed
My computer can lose everything except: My Picture folder
Nestled on my desktop screen,
My Pictures folder is my little large gallery.
A gallery of a scattered past:
My father’s last photo
My first child’s confused look at a camera
My second child’s confused look at me
My brothers’ nights out
You don’t realize how much change
until gleams at your former self.
Face is still there
Blemishes & lines are new.
I become Alice
step into imagery Wonderland
And be lost for hours
Some pictures hurt
Some pictures heal
But a white rabbit will remind me
Closing time to the past once again.
Close the folder & be present once more.
The bugle horn sounds
two shadow of men run from the glaring sunrise
Deep into the dark labyrinth forest
The hunting party comes
The bugle horn sounds
Dogs barking with excitement
Scent of human sweat has mist the air
Prey is near
The bugle horn sounds
One man is tired and fustrated
Discovers a hollow log & crawls inside
Other man continues to run
Before he realizes, he is alone.
Silent falls on to his ears
Where is the bugle horn sound
No dogs panting
Shifty eyes start to scan the forest
He is frozen solid with fright
Then a scream occurs from behind
The snails of prey feast on the man hidden in the log
He is alone.
He hide in a tall old flourish oak tree
His fingernails stab into the bark
Climbing to a tree branch with leafy camouflage
He looks though the hole for his hunters
Dog growls start to pierce the silence
Bush branches are broken for passage
Dogs appear as steeds with furry riders
He widen with shock
A weak branch breaks from behind
Guns unholstered and pointed at tree
With a devilish grin, one bunny speaks:
“What’s up, Doc?”
Once upon a time corporation and government abandon the slum jungle to the poor. They would barricade their castles and kingdom with their blue guards. Just to leave the poor villagers to fend for themselves.
Continue reading “Day 19: Hip-hop mythology”
I just finish reading Webster article on the history of the word “poet.” It states the words early origin was Greek (poiete) and it meant “maker”. Then the 15th century, English Speakers put the word “poet” in a high esteem role in the English language in association with God. It, finally, evolved to word maker to speakers and writers of poetry.
‘Poet’ comes from a Greek word meaning “to make.”
This history lesson is incredible. A word that is commonly used for a word artist. The evolution should give some pride to today’s poets. Plus, it is National poetry month. So, Poet, you have been told that your title has been used to represent deities and, now, it represent you. This title means your thoughts are connection between gods and humans. You are an emotional scientists journalizing results to all social, environmental, spiritual, financial, political, and technical experiments. You are the vessel for understanding the world’s dark and light moments. So, be the god. Maker. Sayer. Poet.
Webster’s word history – Poet
One day, a banana met a strawberry in a fruit bowl. They talked about their interests and goals. They went off to the counter and the banana started to peel. The strawberry was impressed of the big tall banana. So, they both took a dip in the yogurt bowl and swam around. “Oh, banana,” said strawberry, “you are so great. I want to blend with you.”
“I want to blend with you.” said an excited banana. The banana caress strawberry’s seeded exterior which started a spiral in the yogurt bowl. They began to swirl and swirl.
The swirling was intense. They blended so hard they started to merge. Then, banana felt something. Then, strawberry felt something.
“Oh my god! Oh my god! Don’t stop!”
The feeling was getting stronger and stronger. “I can’t believe it!” Screamed strawberry, “This is incredible!”
The feeling was reaching its apex.
Their emotions heighten. Their senses peaking.
Lost themselves in the feeling, banana and strawberry started to speak:
I’m gonna! I’m gonna!