#15: Redneck Asshole
#15: Redneck Asshole
Curious mind
Untamed hair
Smelly breathe
Caveman beard
Red neck
Tanned arms
Caring heart
Faded clothes
Gentle prick
Deadly calves
Swollen feet
Steel toes
Music prompt (reverse haiku) – Hour 8, Prompt 8
Music prompts me to be chill
but to write at will
these last words I’d rather spill.
– Sandra Johnson, 9-2-2023
Hour 15
Version 01:
I sing the song of my people,
A loud voice in a sea of quietness
Before she approaches me.
I freeze.
While I am a tiny but mighty frog,
I have terrible stage fright.
Version 02:
Luck is a fine thing
That we have crossed paths at this point in time,
Creating a delusional reality of spontaneity
That I am able to experience fully,
With all of my heart,
For you.
Hour 16, Poem 20, Glitch
Yellow leaves on grey background
And a splash of bright red
Is it blood or
just ink
Or a visual from an artist’s head?
How can we know what is real ¿
For all our brilliance,
maybe even we aren’t
Everything can be an illusion
Or as concrete as the creator
meant.
⊗
Watch out!
There’s bears and shit out there
if you wander too far
Been here before
there’s even footprints-
probably mine
all the landmarks are the same
compass is no good
the poles have shifted.
Ode from a Crayon
I once embraced this world
sharp and pointed.
My prestige label covered me.
I was the fresh wax scent
of a brand new box.
When you took me out
I engaged with paper
like butter does to bread.
That’s me a precise colorization,
my known popularity.
I’m #000000 Black inside
16, 24, 32, and 64 count boxes.
Crayola, never RoseArt or Cra-Z-Art
imitations.
I’m the real deal.
The eminence of the coloring world.
You can’t color without me.
Then, my point got broken
flat-headed I still filled in and drawed.
Eventually I ended up on a preschool
classroom floor where I was ripped
naked of my grey wrapper,
stepped on, and broken.
I ended up in brokenness
of a broken crayon drawer.
Melted I blended in with a few friends
of shades no one ever gave us any names for.
Now I sit with other crayons and candles remains.
A far cry from Easton, Pennsylvania
the Crayola Factory I was made.
Hour 16 (Untitled)
I’m sorry
the weather’s terrible
right now
lightning strikes across the sky
thunder rolls in the distance
raindrops are hitting the pavement
dark clouds hover above
I don’t know
how long this will last
but when it’s over
the sun will shine again
Perez Hilton (16)
In this dream I hang out with Perez Hilton
And we dish about people I know nothing about
Driving down Hollywood Boulevard
laughing about overdoses and broken marriages
that happened here and there
oh can you believe
and I can, because Perez tells me
and I believe Perez Hilton
I believe his meanness
and light socket shock blond hair
And when we are at his mansion
and he’s drinking, he tells me he wants to stop
and I say no, Perez
drink more.
The 15th Hour
The 15th Hour
time is transient and transcendent.
a boat on the water. choppy at times,
stillness for a moment, or in the flow of life.
do we recognize when time is running out?
spinning in the galaxies of time,
perhaps no-thing is really time limited,
merely out of balance with fulfillment
yet having whatever time it takes to flourish.
only the seeker will know the moment called home.
To Do (prompt 16)
in my absence I will ask
that a few things be cared for
primarily the hanging vines
the sun starved plants
will need tender encouragement
occasional misting
and – just as you do with me
will you trace fingers along their veins
grace them with your words
tell them how good they look
how they feel perfect against your skin
should you be so inclined
to spend a night or two
I will only ask that you
make the bed and part the curtains
before you leave please fold
linens over
slide them into their spaces
they should fit nicely
squeezed in tightly
together
one last note – when you go
turn every lamp and light down low
wipe down any mess you’ve made
take a second to inspect
each surface
my home deserves the
exquisite
attention
that you bring