by every press of the peddle
the black smoke rises
disperses
disipates
dispells
the purity of earth and air
all in the name of
duelyism
Author: Jared Abraham
Today was (and is and always wilt be)
poetrya drunken
alcohol devoid
stagger,
fumbling through
with the only
real purpose being
to reach bed,
again.
Quarter-life moments
poetrylaying in the half-light
of Sunlight’s struggles
to penetrate fabric
considering the options
stay
go
sit
lay
turn
roll
sleep
wake
making no decisions
only processing
considering no ends
only meaning
Growing old must be hard
poetryPerhaps among the top
10 crappy plights with
which the elderly suffer
from day to lengthening
day, is sitting across
a table/room/bed/couch
from their grandchildren
who want to talk but
know not what to say
because they can’t ask
someone who never leaves
their house, who can not
do anything different or new
“what have you done lately”
or “what will you do today.”
Quote of the day, heck of the month
poetryone of my favorite things
is to hear old people say
unexpected and jarring things
such as this quote heard today
from the lips of my wife’s grandma
concerning her view of Sarah Palin:
“God didn’t put tits on women for no good reason”
I thought you would all like to know
poetrythat i referenced
the sieve along with the sand
in my class today
forcing them to read
or at least listen to
a descriptive poem
presented as a model
of impecable writing
a model to be emulated
They call me the destroyer
poetrysacrificial doves die
welcoming september
with their blood,
dying in agony, irrecon-
cileable to their
peaceful symbolism
“Hot sauce makes everything better” -Ned
poetryFunny how my day was
snatched from the ruins
of wishing for a different life
(or at least a different career)
only to be saved by the glory
of hot sauce bathed goldfish,
dripping Louisiana goodness.
Lazy Sunday Mornings
poetryA tenuous magic
exists this morning,
as we lay in bed
daring not to speak,
move, or even hardly breathe,
lest the spell be dispelled
at the slightest stirring.
Untitled
poetryIs a poem
entitled untitled
really devoid in
a titular sense?
work-shmwork
poetryI could sit here all day
watching scrubs and be
perfectly happy but when
it comes to doing work
it comes so easy to
procrastinate and do
anything else, even
watching scrubs for hours.
I was liberated the other day
poetrywhen i read the phrase
that i do have a choice
every day, i can either
put words down on screen
or i can kill myself
But at least I made $90
poetryStarring out this upstairs window
the blinds divide my vision
into small slits of life
seen through plastic prison bars
seperating the outer life and light
from the inner cold flurescence
bathing me in a prison of dull colors.
Why I sometimes feel like a babysitter
poetryI’m off into the fray
to confront all of the
little monsters who
if they had lived in
my grandfather’s day
would have been grown
up, out, in, and to the side
by now (as he assures me he was)
but alas are not.
But is it wrong to find a silver lining where there should be none?
poetryThe one good that comes from angst
is that now I have a poem to write
where before there was none.
Confession of a habitual offender
poetryhaven’t I done this
many of times before
and yet I never learn,
never improve, instead
choosing to go down
the same old road,
over and over and over again
making a statement
in my selfishness and
watching the pain wash
over her contorting face
struggling to conquer the tears
and remain strong so as
not to be hurt anymore,
never again;
and so I harden a heart
by withholding my own.
(Advertisement) but is money all that keeps the world from being perfect?
poetryin a perfect world
i would download
all the music i desired
subscribing to the
top emusic service
bringing me every month
75 new songs
(though most are very sorry),
in a perfect world without money
cricks are a pain in my kneck
poetrynot much is worse than a crick:
crickling its way all over,
cricking with every movement,
being a cricking pain.
i’ve never been good at startings
and i’ve rarely been good at endings,
much preferring the middle,
oh the comfortable middle in which
thereisnobeginningandthereisnoending
thereisnostrivingandthereisnomoving
and it might start smelling from stagnation
so that i hate my position and wish for a change
but at least it will be a comfortably, horrible smell
bringing me an ironic smile in the contemplation
of its (andmyown) putrescence.
the poor old tramp
poetryI used to jump
on the old tramp
out back but not
with flips and
twists and twirls,
like I see on tv.
If I had I don’t
think the poor tramp
could have taken it
but would have instead
squirted blood and
guts and gore,
like I see on tv.
the sieve and the sand 
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