MISSILE BLIZZARD @aalipop - Tumblr Blog

Posts

These Birds

My friends,

who barge in every day,

eat my snacks,

while YELLING! A LOT!

They leave, abruptly.

They’ve always been around

in one form or another.

Some days I wait.

I worry they won’t come…

but they always do,

to remind me that we’re still alive.

The one simple thing I know

is that equal health

can only benefit

a fruitful goal

but disparity

will lead to dispersion

How old was I when I had that paper route?

14? Younger? I had to wake up at 4 AM, every morning (imo, you should only ever be awake at 4 AM accidentally). A guy in a van would drive by and throw a bundle of papers on the sidewalk in front of our apartment complex. Then, I would take them all inside, scissor the plastic twine and individually roll and rubber-band each paper. It would leave my fingers dry and covered in loose ink.

Next, I’d load them up in my paperboy sack - which was attached to the handlebars of a bike that your boyfriend’s son would later see me riding in a latchkey kid news report and giddily mock, “oh shit, that’s a girl’s bike!”

The paper company would give me a list of addresses that needed delivery and I would try to balance it on my handlebars as I searched for numbers in the dark. The heaviness of the papers always made the handlebars uneven - Sunday papers were especially bulky - causing me to awkwardly wobble around.

The route went through semi-rural and suburban areas about 10 blocks from where we lived. It was mostly unmemorable except for the air, which was always very still that early in the morning. Sometimes, the sound of a pitbull would pierce through as it chased me down a driveway.

I got lost. A lot.

Early in the route, my bike would constantly tip over but, as my sack emptied, the race home became more stable.

Though, a day of school still waited and when I met it, I was too tired to care.

I’ve never been adept to mornings and would occasionally sleep through my alarm. On those days, I would beg you to drive me through the route so I could get it done on time. Sometimes, you did. At each address, I would hop out to throw a paper on a doormat and run back to your tired, disappointed grimace.

I hated that job and all it got me was $100 a month. When I finally quit, I left with relief. If I learned anything, it was the nature of exploitation.

The algorithm sorted me

to the middle of the bottom

where we all hum together

in the same little groan

our voices blend thick

til we sound empty as air

The poetry of poverty

i feel it in the pit of my stomach

grinding inside the walls of my body

teeth gnash thoughts into

useless little words

so quiet and small

that no one can hear

they swim all around

in the back of my skull

where I claw and i scrape

but can’t get it out

bones crack and pop

in a rhythm, unsettling

a pathetic display

of an unproductive body

We should not present

a reason to hurt

and give every reason

to coalesce

Sound has always

been a clue;

a chorus harmony

vibrates in you.

It’s the fates,

they’re sending

you a message:

“Sing together,

it will be easy.

Don’t dominate,

it makes us queazy.”

For me

Poetry is like

a whisper wind,

passing though

a momentary vision.

You feel it in a shiver

though, never see its tones.

Through towns and time it went

to share a little feeling.

If you try to pack it up

It all but dissipates,

because

a jarred wind will never blow

when it’s got no room to travel.

“Money is power.”

They say it with reverence

They proudly admit

A will to dominion

over your quaint

little shit

But, power is reactive

whose temps, you don’t heed

will meltdown your core

in searing heat of greed

Or, perhaps, you’re just ignorant

to the teeth of guilt’s wide maw

We’ll show you, then, why vengeance

is newtonian law

Your silly little numbers

don’t make the world spin ‘round

They don’t rate a lick of value

to eternity, unbound

We get old

and yearn for the posthumous peace of ignorance.

To forget what the box has forced upon us.

Some, determined to obscure the burden of knowledge,

tuck their regrets in their mind’s little holes.

Sweep the dusty truth

under the rug,

where they stand

over ground,

uneven with guilt,

to forget the horrors

of their carnivorous hearts.

Though,

how fragile our existence

that we can forget we exist.

I feed the birds

I like the sound of life

Outside my window

So close

Through pecks and warbles

I hear,

“You are my friend.”

The graphs say

they can make them work [this much]

before they break.

You can get 30 years out of them.

Then they’ll be useless.

Always complaining

about the pain of life.

Too much.

They get lazy.

Insubordinate.

They commit misconduct.

It’s bad for business.

There are rules.

You should have just done it.

You aren’t special.

You’re a worker.

A resource.

Your function is our whim.

And when we use you up,

we’ll replace you,

like a roll of toilet paper.

A younger model.

Who doesn’t yet know.

You were always a sacrifice.

A tool.

Property of

The United States Government.

You must earn peace.

From us.

So,

Lay down.

Give us your life.

Or suffer.

America was built on a promise

by men who don’t know

what a promise is

Their promises multiplied

more and more and more

because promises are as free

as a friendly little leash

I promise that you will never die.

I promise that you will spend

all of your immortal days in pure bliss.

I promise you everlasting contentment.

But

You must let me take control of your will

You must devote your mind and body to

me,

the leader of an imaginary idea

The idea of a country

And, though you may be sacrificed

at the alter of promise

do not resist

for you are the fuel that feeds its flame

If it takes an eternity

and all the souls below

as I rock in my cradle

at the center of all

I promise my promise

will be fulfilled

I can’t know

what I don’t know

until I know it

The canary in the coal mine

lying on the floor of his cage

as all the miners pass

and say

“he’s so cute when he’s sleeping.”

Servitude

is not a virtue.

The most efficient machine

has no disposable parts,

sustains and maintains itself

and has energy to spare.

So, perhaps, entropy

can be stretched to eternity.

But what of the violence

inside of its guts?

Molecules bursting,

exploding,

spectacularly.

A fountain of energy

that pushes parts to move.

Over and over.

The tiniest whisper

and millions are dead.

Entropy, the agent of change

and arbiter of time.

The call that’s coming from inside the house.

My very existence, a result of you.

As time flows, so do my thoughts.

So does this body.

How can I curse

that which invented the curse?

How can I reconcile

that the only alternative

My happiness is hiding

like the rarest bird

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

MISSILE BLIZZARD