The Self-Titled Hippie

Fluent in Salior, open thinker, and avid fan of Jesus. Here are my thoughts on life:

[jbeans139]

I liked the pause of sleep,

Where others paused

And the crackle set to fizzles

And I pushed the red to black

Keeping things safe, to sleep last and wake first

Silly insomnia is like a predictable

Unpredictable

Predictable air mattress

Coffee is always brewing in the morning

[jbeans139]

Yeah

[jbeans139]

[jbeans139]

I need to trauma dump on someone about that show The Deuce.

I'm in a raving, racing, in reaction

It felt final and the way. BUT FUCK I didn't want that.

[jbeans139]

[jbeans139]

[jbeans139]

I feel lame.

Like when Jesus asked us to pray...

Before his death,

And I fell asleep.

Fries scraping the plastic white

of a deep BK sauce cup.

[jbeans139]

[jbeans139]

Them Wilder ladies from the Little House accepting their lame fart excuses of a marriage proposal to live a lifetime with them, to risk their lives to give them children and a home.

Well I'm about as upset as finding out Mr. Wesley didn't go to his own wife's funeral! Hurrrmpff. I'm sure there is an excuse for the three of these fellas, even if one is non fiction.

https://youtube.com/shorts/ibgfqvKVXaM?si=hrlvNl4LL-8hscU5

[jbeans139]

[bpdnchill]

Found on fb

[jbeans139]

[jbeans139]

U.S.A.

Cuz we're like McDonald's 

Our property held

But trusted 

A parsonage. 

A church.

Waver

They own the land 

[jbeans139]

[sedehaven]

War Poems

I don't always write about war.

The rain pattering against an

autumn windowsill is just rain,

not bullets falling soft on ruddy

sands. The drift of crepe myrtle

petals, white and fuschia and red,

are just flowers, not the blood

falling from children, punctual

as death clock dandelions.

Sunlight splashing on grass,

limning blades in nuclear gold.

It's just light, not flesh melting

from burnt black bones. The

fresh-cut grass is emerald and

mint in the early morning. Grass

clippings, not blood stained dollar

bills ride the warm breath of noon.

War keeps a fat, ragged thumb on

my pen. Is it any wonder that,

sometimes, it spills blood instead

of ink?

[jbeans139]

[jbeans139]

Gas Prices

It feels like stitches in jeans.

The line of the working class... depending on the lifeline of the auto industry.

The web of it all, mapped out and set in chains.

Already plumped make it barely poppable.

subsidies, and special laws offer protection,

a dry socket of rot and greed

And then they tax it