Pomes an' Life. Ya dig?

four

(a dedication to hutch, marc, clay, and jack)

one – hutchie

I’ve always been the person who sits in the middle of the chaos;

            neutral.

So I am now the gray area,

                                    but I like it that way.

And as the little pet doors of opportunity present themselves

            they close again,

            locking me out,

            depriving me of life.

If I were meant to have it all, would it take this long?

My outlook is a cliché’d mess

and I barrel through life while people yell from curbside:

“it’s too late!”

I wonder wether to stop or keep going.

Iwillremainmyselfforalittlewhilelonger and watch the pieces and parts of life

trickle into my being;

            let them taunt me with excellence

            only to fufill misery.

But I overcome and strive to epitomize

the nike’ness of this world.

So I am trying if nothing else,

and trying is my middle name, but I’ll never be hopeful again.

two – marcus

Allergic around a stinking god and not blinking once

but only scratching eyeballs with college literature:

my current night of passion.

I passed another gorgeous creature at the mall

                        (underpacked) in her unsteady noiselessness.

Timidity is insulting.

Why was I caught in the middle of:

                        “coffee craze perks up younger set…”

Anyone?

When I try to write the long poem it eludes me – all the knowledge!!!

Plagiaristic in a soon-to-be dead language society,

I see abusive husbands and mothers that beat their children.

It seems as if there’s a cycle to this life, and when I’m sitting on an idiot toilet

babbling about a certain realization,

playing with the chipping paint,

I know there is.

Positivity and a sobering retina sun beating down on my peeling back

without any self-restraint.

I’m raising fists in a solemn exchange of wit and brute stupidity

with a world I cannot understand.

                        *                                  *                                  *

Later that year I realize(along with others) that I’m still here with

a glass in my right hand while smoking a short

cigarette with the left and smiling-joking-discussing

popular yet unconventional movies with all the

conventional characters of my past idolistic dreams.

Now I do my goddamndest

to keep from carrying on empty telephone conversations

with self-conscious women/girls who need what I haven’t

found:

                                    LOVE.

I understand that socialist ideals unfill bladders and colons every day.

A fact unknown to all magazine stocked bathroom dwellers.

My thoughts surround me.

three – clayton

Shower tendencies

                        Skin feels so silky smooth until soap washes off…

                        You can hear the drop from your eyebrow hit the tile…

                        Farts still make bubbles that tickle the groin…

                        Backs burn at the pressure increase until the knob turns back…

                        Thoughts can be seamlessly un-interrupted

with only the sound of falling hard water

from the same shower head that millions use each day.

There is a point to be reached where no one thing stands

alone in the thoughtprocess of man.

In the bathtub I sit, cross-legged,

waiting for an inspiration and examining the things

around me small and insignificant without 20/20 vision.

Where will my inspiration come from?

Somewhere there are people I would like to

meet and would enjoy being with.

But why search for something out of the norm?

Everything is normal.

If a believer in fate can convince me that all things are not normal

then I am either confused or enlightened.

four – jackie

Goin’ on down the bumpety-bump asphalt

kickin’ over the orange cones of madness,

there’s only six more miles ‘til we hit the border

where the cops’ll catch up

an’ bust us with rodney-king-black-stained-billy-clubs.

Teetering over the jagged rocks of my grand-canyoned sensibility.

I listen closely to the chirping

yellowish sanctum of my left-eared-wax,

which repeats to me word-for-word the popular

songs at parties that nobody knows, but mumbles

incoherently to their selfish chicken-diet-based-egos.

——————————————————————-byron p. wakely

Now I feel like a chump that hasn’t had time to get a gift. But in reality, I don’t know what she wants…

I’ll just get flowers.

So it’s now 5day until my Fiancé Jessica’s birthday an I still don’t know what to get her. It gets so much harder every year. Maybe I’ll try to make her something.

So I’m starting a tumblr blog to post my old poetry and some new stuff and any other media I feel might be relevant. Enjoy.