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Washcloths Are Scrubs

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A bath towel knows

the raw and rude truth

Which in most cases

Is not a good thing

A paper towel gets wet

Easily. Then it’s all over

In one or two short wipes

A kitchen towel thinks

they’re fancy schmancy

But is just a dishtowel

By any other name

Handkerchiefs are snots

A sanitary towel can seem like

A murderer on a rampage

But, are really innocent

Napkins underneath it all

Beach towels get sand

Stuck up their creases

Tissues expose themselves

Then are found about the house

Involved with a wad

Bar towels smell like barf

Drink incessantly

Dabble with chasers

Rags are always found in

The most awkward circumstances

Hand dryers fake the funk

Washcloths are scrubs

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Hands

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These lines in my Hands,

Some say they can read them.

Stories like hills speak through them

A Dirt Embeds itself in my palms

Deep inside the lines,

I have rinsed with the coldest Water

Over my opened Hand

As more lines appear,

As if they are here to stay

 

I wonder whether I have

Taken good care of them?

These Hands have been

Given to me that I may hold things,

Touch my lover, hold my children

Feel the coolness of a spring

Roughness of bark as it travels

Down the spine of a tree

These Hands Write words

Feeling them out upon a page

Have made a musical instrument

Soar and its Rhythms vibrate

Then, my Hands can hear

As well as speak

 

I hear my father’s voice,

From my Hands, sometimes stern

Other times, filled

With an inextinguishable pride

My Hands still hold his messages,

That others can read.

My mother’s love

Can be heard from my Hands

Her grasp strong, unwavering

Which holds my soft Hands high,

above my head, above fear

as my pudgy legs learn

to handle gravity.

A walk others can read

 

 I walk this city

My Hands feel its scales

Observe it struggling to breath

Through gills in the form of blocks

As it holds children, touches lovers

The coolness of its rain, soothes me

The roughness of its streets

Is fused to my spine

It Writes stories too long to read

Its music is shaped by our Hands

 

These lines in my Hand

Some say they can read them

Life, heart, head, and fate.

Each a story, Each a desire

Four hills that are dirt, embedded

Inside my palms, explain my reach

They curl up, within, as I grasp

Without——— them,

I could not hold onto anything.

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Woolens Are Overprotective

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Argyles are in cahoots

With high waters

And can recite, from memory,

Dialogue from Star Trek

Nylons want to make

Believe they are free and easy

But run when the going gets tough

Woolens are overprotective

Leg warmers brag

And want to be looked at

Especially if teamed with cut-offs

Knee-highs play games

But are slipped off easily

No-shows always peek, peep,

and take a gander at bony ankles

Crew socks are players

Dress socks have personality disorders.

They go to church, weddings, funerals

And dinner parties, Otherwise,

They stay at home in the drawer.

Panty hose, Ahh fuck, who named those?

Tights need to keep it together

Stay positive, be sensible, never droop

Or get too down about things

Toe socks get overly attached

Sock puppets are imposters

Never believe them

They are gloves! I swear!

Tubing needs to be outlawed

Fishnets catch more then they can handle

Bobby socks can be found lurking

Around retirement facilities

And should be over the calf by now

Socklets need to grow up and get over it

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She Is Not Among The Debris

 

 

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She forgets the slow current’s nature

The bridge makes memory disappear

Both sides, anchored to one another

By concrete skin, steel bolts, a mirage

Beams and illusion. Hazy covenant

The shores are never separate sides

Only two similarities, held in suspension

 

The ferry allowed her a connection

Provided time, renewal, ages to swim in

Banks gave up affinity, held unique desire

Now she bites with identical jaws

into wooden docks, slippery,

overgrown with asphalt and oil

 

She interrupts the bridge at its heart

A way to swim, to enter the slowness

A means to disconnect, severe from sameness

The sky turns the river into blue invitations

It does not lie, but reflects, apart

 

The river, ashen surface, greyness, an area

There are always crests in the wind

As if the river runs backwards

She must be pulled up by hand

 

She is not among the debris

Spring runoff has plans of its own

Bunching up, with the bridge

 

She swims with all her clothes on

Singularities explode into dimensions

 

Her fall, is a taste of everything remembered

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Never Smooch A Brooch

 

 

Nancy Cunard
Nancy Cunard

Always walk arm and arm

With a purse. They’re insecure

And get addicted to junk

Don’t listen to babbling bracelets

They get caught up in the apparel

Never hang out with a trashy trinket

Necklaces will fool you

With spoiled-ass sweet talk

Keep them behind buttons

Or they’ll wink at any old dog tag

Don’t let a ring control things

Anklets can be footloose

Make sure they wear bells while jingling

Earrings think they’re trapeze artists

Dangling high, unless their studs

Then one’s fine, two’s ok

Three or more is an orgy

Toe rings stink

Don’t give into those

Snotty little nose rings

Divulge nothing to pinky rings

They’re not mature enough

For indiscriminate indexing

Can you believe the gall of the tiara?

Never let a choker get its hands on you

Bangles are for bums and beehives

Rosaries want to wait until they’re married

Then all hell breaks loose

Never smooch a brooch

Heavy Woman In Costume

 

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Found on 500px.livejournal.com
Found on 500px.livejournal.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

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