D Ry

Hope me some wishes.

I coulda been more Feeling like a failure I coulda been more I coulda been more I coulda been more Feeling like a failure I shoulda been more Feeling like a failure I coulda done I shoulda done The world could see me I could see the world I coulda been more Feeling like a failure I should be more Be a better leader I been disorganized I've lead from behind I try and fail and could do better Could try to do more If I knew it wouldn't matter Who am I to listen to When should I be what you hear I'm just wooden and hollow I don't even echo I'm just wooden and hollow I should be more I coulda been more I should be more Will I always be a failure Will I always come up short Can I deny the truth staring into my eyes Can I continue to live within all of these lies I'm the boxer in a ring Taking jab after jab And the crosses and hooks Make me rattled and shook And my hands just drop And I fall into my black eyes and stop And I lay as I hear 7... 8... And get back up Taking jab after jab 7...8... I coulda been more 9... 7..8...9... I shoulda been more I will be more I get up and start throwing I shuffle my feet quickly I take shots like steel And return blows like rubber bands I pop and duck and pop and crush I coulda been more I shoulda been more And then it ebbs 7...8... How do I stop this? How do I usurp life's cycle How do I break the rut Why am I lazy Why don't I work hard Why are there bigger better faster And stronger Why is my glass jawed weak kneed self Hitting the canvas With Pollock-like splatters of blood I coulda been more I coulda done more 8...9... I can hear my own whine I can see that it's time How does the fight end Does the fight end End the fight And just fight with me And I won't fight my self I can't fight myself I should be more I could be more If I just knew how To coach myself.

#flamingo #coachinghaiku vote for me

So there was this girl I knew, bit of nothing to me when I first met her. We  were young. She was hot and I was cool and we, well we sort of happened to fall in together. We were on and off, hot and cold, she was my darling one minute and a fucking bitch all up in my shit the next. Who’d stay with someone like that, right? But she was someone like that, too. And on we went, like flies towards a light, she was hot and I was cool. But before you knew it I was getting fat and she was getting lazy and we were like peas in a pod instead of being hot and cool. And it was weird. Here I was, trying to be cool and she was just melting my ice cube with her enduring smoldering hotness. I knew I was being too sappy and my finances were becoming liquidated but it was just right. how I’d changed, I couldn’t solidify; I turned around and I suddenly I wasn’t cool enough under that kind of heat anymore. The heat was boiling me, changing my material state from Joe Cool,, cool as a cucumber, Mr. Chill, the ice sculpture of masculinity to this tepid puddle that was only fun to jump in in golashes or something. I didn’t know it was because I was cold-hearted and too crystalline but she fried me like vulnerable exposed white boy skin on the surface of the sun. What did I know. There I was trying to reason my way out of this thing and I was boiling it down to your just saying “I’ve determined it’s just your personality. You want too much for yourself, nobody. You’ll never get it So shut up and quit your dreams.” And I realized that you were a fascist patriarchy of militant, regular Joe’s With answers of ‘all right and’ tongue-tied ‘you knows’es’. And instead of shooting my load and getting hot under the collar and burning with fury I froze and I looked in the mirror and would you believe it it was snowing outside. And I ran outside and caught a snowflake on my tongue and it melted and suddenly you didn’t matter anymore either.

There's a pier, off in the distance where we sink because of poor moorings. It's creaky, wooden driftwood a traditional looking thing looks like someone tied it together maybe used glue probably public works needs a sanding, new finish its value becoming diminished every wind lashing stormy winter night and every scorching summer day under weight of ice and child and man and woman this goddamned pier made by some old timer who has some story about it he says the driftwood washed ashore that year way off in the distance no one knew when or why it arrived but a little girl was playing on a dock before and she got trapped under the older pier, it, the thing from before orange inflatable wings, vest, did no good like i said, goddamned pier, the old timer was taking over this dock, this pier i needed the old thing away from here he says and so each day he walked the shoreline collecting charred cracked wood from the same mysterious downed ship and made it into a new pier he made it wavy looking wood so air could get in, in case of emergency here's this ancient thing this damn old fashioned pier that has been so durable made in a death lamentation i mean this old dude got lost thinking about it i get lost thinking about the old dude thinking about it that's when it all ends sure, we can see it. the goddamned pier but i was working to replace it to save some more kids maybe dress up the lake a little bit and so i go to the lake tryin to change this dock over and theres this old man chained to the damn thing hes got this big ol dog by the riverbed i cant see whats in his hands, his mouth but the sumbitch lobs a firecracker at me hippy holding a sparkler like he protectin a redwood its his magnum opus, his oeurve, his cous de gras his little fuckin girl man we pry him away tell him to forget the old thing the old pier and we take it and burn it in the lake and build a new metal one you know, with inflating buoys this old man takes wood from the wreckage sinks our inflatable lifesaving dock to put his new deck made from third wreckage pier. And we go back to burn the new one down and when we get back the dock is solid ice and the man is made of gloopy raindrops and the edgings around his eyes are fire and there's our dock again like its brand new. except our hands go straight through the ladder when we get there and a snake pit surrounds us the old dog tears at the grass around the shoreline we feel the maggots of pond scum in our immune system and we thrash around and grab this goddamned driftwood. Saved my life. And that's why I have a piece of driftwood where a normal man has a big game bust dear driftwood dear driftwood

Are these sinister shapes we see? Shadows, smoke if we scream can they hear us? or are we beget from mirrors our jeans' fit reflecting our genes Wim Hof blood pressure in emergency until we're a blown up Baghdad insurgency. We fail to fail we're supposed to be miserable lovers and angry when we spill a drink can't quill our ink sweat underneath covers can you turn down the heat or keep it from rising even the floor is hot now Is that the devil? or am I seeing a mirage because I'm overtired crying, sighing, wired alone in my garage. But I was in a different room is this a trick? Or am I again fucked brutally hard by the devil's pickled red dick. This is my cram before the test my thoughts at my mind's behest as my lids shut and my mitochondria closes to pulses of life I know know know an answer to the cure of cure cure of cancer. But I can't recall it it I can only recognize So place a choice in front of my dying eyes and let me take the test one quest- I pass.

Graffiti artists climb To make their art In dead of night They scale buildings Or cliffs near train tracks Dangling as tired operators Whiz by, as winds shake buildings So that your commute can have Color. That's love. They buy spray paint Plot out intricate designs That you will see in passing And fail to register Just so that you have that chance To deign yourself too absorbed They are the tattoo artists Of the world. I climbed Everest And at the peak: Graffiti. The observation deck of the Duomo: Graffiti. In my first plane ride I looked out On the left side And the cloud looked like a pig And on it was a pink tag The sun Natures best graffiti artist. But forget the sun. Does the earth cry When we taint it? Should we leave the Washington Monument, Mount Rushmore The Space Needle As their own works of art? Or should we impact with paint And vision As much as we do with footprints And dollars Or are they Our new art? Are we the generation Of air rights And Chem trails And gun control And Internet surveillance As artistry? Or will we paint the Brooklyn Bridge White? Paint an american flag on the steeple of the Freedom Tower What will our monument be? Will we endure like Giza Or crumble like Ozymandias? We paint our bodies Pollute our earth with islands Of plastic in the ocean. Get a graffiti artist out there. Because this generations' art Is too typically garbage. Our planet, our generation, We need makeup And braces. Yeah. We can't change our ugly mug Or our receding hairline. But we should look nice if we're going To party. Even if we're twitter tacky On the red carpet Because at least we Threw a new color On that Bastille of groupthink- They panned Gatsby on twitter too. Read, read my lips That I painted on this earth As my graffiti Don't let your saccadic eyes See only lies. Find the beauty In your staycation It's your duty To define us as more Than the Party Generation.

But celebrate.

Be one with the plaster and gauze United in goal and in cause Leave no part uncovered So when we finally come together, United in presents and pasts We are mired in ecstasy One of many casts Memorable to me.

He feels himself slump crowd gasps, lightbulbs flash the flies are back in droves and the sun is hot. Days left: one. He hears his breath begin to catch his toes begin to curl his hair falls out completely he chokes back the urge to hurl "Today is the day of great anticipation." He said. 

I can’t help but recede at times Into my minds locations Volcanos erupting unexpectedly, lava slowly belching from the gut of the earth Fading away into the darkness of the depths of a pool as the chlorine stings your eyes and you fight to rise to the top and always get there, but think about when you won’t Or that deep grass verdana on a sticky summers evening with a man in a cheap cloth suit and a fedora staring out in anticipation, hairs on the back of his neck at attention as he sees a lion approaching his enclave. And they’re all moments transfixed in my mind Eyes struck sightless and blind And the sublime attack Renders me lifeless. With a beat til the end Controlling my body Toeing the line, Teetering fairly in immodesty.

The green growth flair From the rooting lair Is too much for me The birds of spring Like to sing Just for me. I listen in To their playful din As its strains sweetly fall No thing like spring My baby birdies call

There is something about May nights When it is quiet and cool And you hear the growth in the wind It is easy to get lost in the lulling blackness Of lush valleys of tall grass With a warm and earthy smell emanating from its coolness. The sounds are low and far away. The moon may or may not be there It’s getting harder to tell through the thickening trees Ripening just as light hits its apex Keeping you in darkness But in May there’s just enough night light And night bright To walk through the world and see yourself right It’s easier to breathe Mother Nature And the dew point contrasts the Mayday boiling points With deftness and ease And soft rustles of trees There’s no destination Or path of right and wrong the music of natures conversation All long, cool, quiet night, long.