Saturday night

1. Gave up handsome for handy.

became a jack of all trades instead of a jack dandy.

working with my hands instead of letting arms hang idle.

The character was played put the facade to heavy.

what my past self would tell my self, rotting pages on the shelf.

and here i sit alone on the apex of society grieving its loss. silently.

dog laying on the carpet at my feet, knowing no one else lets her on the carpet.

I could be a better me. I better be. Need to quit smokin (was a g but i began erasing, habitual me)

I gave the dog a bone, now shes back in her bed chewing noisily.

The things that can be built is astounding, what limits our capacity but resources. and reason.

Reasonable and responsible is all I really want to be, yet part of me shuns the stress of responsibility.

But if I'm handy, can't I always get handier. Not getting any prettier, teeth rotting up and down, not for lack of trying with oral hygiene, cursed nicotina making me a monster. but if I get handsomer, I might forget to be handy, dangling arms down the sidewalk instead of a grubby vestige of the late 90's.

We aren't wearing silver suits (yet) but this future they promised us sure is exciting.

From the 60's to now, unfathomable the exponential growth in technologies. Humanity with many hands building against itself. Living entwined in incredible growth, unsustainable unless we make it so. 

writing this on an apple the wont rot but rather be recycled... god i wish i could find a better font.

is this how the narrator whispers, I think I saw it once in a novel

im brushing my teeth right now, multi tasking. amazing i can type with my left thumb. 

and now i'm having a cigarette because the dog wanted to go out. it's cold.

so silent so deadly sickly sweet, you know my mind made we add the last adjective. My pronoun is now "we", my microbiome and me, losing to plaque and afraid of the plague knowing the build up in those lung quadrants.

so much of me is not me.

so we.

Please visit www.bleedpoetry.com (thanks)

Drown

Is water wet to fish?

Or it a perspective of us,

anthropomorphism. 

What if no other creature, experiences moisture like we do?

Then is water truly wet if we are the only ones who experience wet this way; a tree feeling it's wet roots, an amoeba the wet in it's fingers?

Aliens among us, covid virus mutation, attacking us, does it feel wet in the rain or does it crave wet as we crave dry warm blankets?

So what is wet, we already know the spectrums different animals see in never truly looking out those eyes.

How far is too far to extend what truth is to.

Can we at least accept our fellow man and know no man likes to work out in the rain.

The flies may not feel damp but I do.

We've already poisoned so much water, why build in drizzle, slow down the world and blame it on the weather.  

Please visit www.bleedpoetry.com (thanks)

School

what if

what if they change the schools artificially, prompted by need, not an obvious blow. Turned them in to makerbots, butcher/baker bots. But no, they'll rule them to supremacy, a road laden with those fallen behind.

Imagine the school reworked so tense, immense anxiety, Kids herded like sheep for a week till the resources wear out and life gets back to normal

. Absent children on iPads, covi-toes ain't enough to let you skip school

( use for pendameter, not my idea)

Taking the social aspect out, could it be the end of communal learning forever.

Absolutely not, but we're all ticking time bombs on the line with something dangerous.

Strange this wonderful world I see, sad it takes the worst to bring out the best in history, It's June 5th 2020, 8:20 at night. i want ice cream

but instead I smoke a cigarette and sit out side reading relevant garbage, wondering where the time has gone, but more so, how it will go.

A good poet friend would tell me to butt out.

This unrehearsed universe, the concepts implied and the chance and the change, still Genx fearing numbers, still millennial trying to help myself to a piece of pie, working hard to provide, to have a home to call my own, one day. 

Bot what when the communes and gulags take place. Is there any hope for the human race?

We cannot contain the power of children, which will apparently amaze.

physical distances and social adherence, given glares when you sneeze, The children of the twenties partied to the great depression, somethings got to give, we have to clear out the powers.

Or will it devour them whole. Children of the depression built America, the ones that survived. They saw the danger and stood on guard for thee. Now we let their Unions crumble, these legacies they left to us, an offer of a better life if you are willing to work for it.

Disrespectful children at the table.

Maybe their not wrong to bubble wrap the little insurance risks.

Streamline and monitor their social interactions, why expose the wimps to bullies. 

drop down sneeze shield, everyone looks like salad, I'm 35.9 degrees. No summer school with no air conditioner

The death of one is a tragedy, the death of 398,129 is just a statistic.

So what are we hoping when we open, a return from industry overseas? Will need robots to man the factories, and the man will program it. What's a girl to do in the 21st century?

Never been a lady on the moon, or a person of colour. Should be an exciting few years coming, as Bob and Doug float overhead.

Restrictions are coming to our freedoms, this wild parade finite teetering the brink of disaster, not as infinite as it thinks.

Grinding teeth more as society offers. Head on my pillow willowing away. Can't say what tomorrow will hold, but I'm damn well done with today.

Please visit www.bleedpoetry.com (thanks)

We

we

with picture perfect memories, a generation of documentation, mix tapes to this social disease.

of callus analysis

memes that worm their way across society.

the emboldened cold

left out and reined on

for a sunnier day.

consumers of the plentiful,

ultra convenient addicts

having never know anything else.

digital children we feed,

how pixelation has come

a long way.

timestamped and tracked, privacy in exchange for freedom, eating cookies, merde information.

Living in a world

of perfect sense.

Please visit www.bleedpoetry.com (thanks)

Hear me out.

Hear me out

Tetris Leggo waffles you bake on a pan,, trademark trademark yardage yadda 

Think about it

Elongated box

Waffle dimple lidded legolised with tipped tops and charade into separate shapes serrated.

They said never play with your food, fuck it.

Building mansions of waffle, oven baked on a holey pan, Sunday morning sacrament a tower of strawberry jam grout lines, whipped cream steeples smothered in that pre packed motherfucking 100% pure Canadian maple syrup from a supplier so small these are limited time only Wegos.

The answer was there all along. Lego my Eggos. Now it is done. 

Send this forth into the universe, let it ring out that they may hear, fulfill the spree spilled prophecy find the right hands to move this idea along. Lego shaped eggos you bake on a special pan in the oven, have them stackable not flat and pieces serrated into separate shapes but coming as an elongated Tetris Puzzle. Again, if I'm stepping on your trademarks toes, perhaps you're in charge of making this happen. Just hide a thank you in the box.

If you could broil them quick as a toaster from frozen, if they are the perfect size for a toaster oven. With a family sized upsized edition. Is an eggo still an eggo if it's rectangular, can you precook the batter in lifts instead of presses, is it a kin to a waffle, or do I need to design a stiffer batter?    almost upside down conical , but is it still LEGO if it stacks upside down?

I don't owe you any money for the idea.