Observation

The bridge to Jonsi's "Boy Lilikoi" sounds exactly like the verse to Kings of Leon's "The Bucket."

I found her.

Midterms, Midriffs and Midazolam: Reflections on the First Four Months of Adulthood and the Last Four Months of Sanity

College
is hard.

The end.

Bullets in a River

a stream
of water, no doubt
water, unconscious water
in a conscientious stream
moving its molecules
across millions of others

millions of brothers
lost in battle
longing to rise
and be recognized

among millions
of brothers

millions of molecules
moving themselves
across millions of brothers
lost in a stream
of water, no doubt.

'Leven Forty

by Edwin Carrlington Thompsinson

Whenever Frame’s kids write ‘bout poetry
We paraphrase and we procrastinate
We do it late at night, while watching Glee
But we don’t care, it’s time to graduate

And we always make up last minute BS
And we always print our essays in the core
We start to write when West Ranch TV says
“Good-morning,” – let’s face it, the rest, even I ignore.

But we are smart – yes, smarter than we appear
And committed to school, even if just for the As.
It’s time to have some fun – and by fun I mean “lots of beer”.
Just kidding, Frame, you know we’re all lightweights.

So on we worked, great things we pretended to write,
And analyzed poems we’d barely even read
But at ’leven-forty, late one Wednesday night
Some bonehead kid wrote this nonsense instead.

Sonnet 18 Redux

Shall I script one last poetry essay?
Thou art assigned, though my efforts abate:
Our calendars lack only two ‘til May,
And summer’s dawn hath all too soon a date:
Sometime too close our graduation shines,
And often do the teachers try to fight this;
And every grade from great sometime declines,
By now they ought to know, ‘tis senioritis;
When reading this, thou might scowl unimpressed
And curse my interruptions with a grimace;
Apologies, I learned from Kanye West,
But you’re not Taylor, so I’m-a let you finish:
So long as Ke$ha tiks and Tiger grins,
So long lives us, the class of 2010.

No one depends on me
and none can I depend upon.
Read this when you're ready
I won't be moving on.

5746, Slaughter House

The plan was great, a masterpiece;
perfect in two dimensions.
For man, for market, for industry –
best were the intentions.

A blueprint for a work of art,
beautiful and impressive.
A blueprint for the future;
painstakingly progressive.

Sketched and measured, clean and true;
a label on each item.
Blackened lines, crisply drawn –
with enterprise to guide them.

Sixteen by nine by twenty-four,
efficiently designed;
but efficiency bears so many costs –
and torture’s so refined.

From without, a house of bricks,
fit for mom and daughter;
but from within, a musky hell –
a building born for slaughter.

A concrete floor, on paper, white;
in reality cold and soiled.
Click-clack, click-clack, hooves and metal –
a steak that’s soon to spoil.

A roof to keep the weather out,
the squeals and crying in.
A chimney for the farmer’s warmth
and plumes of burning skin.

Hooks and slabs, a scalding vat,
and dampers for the smoke.
A perfect plan in blackened ink –
a life with every stroke.