The Call

Beck Beck.

I hear the call.


The violent abyss of evergreen hills

The serene catacombs of teal mountains.

The song of Ulysses rings out,

And I hear the call.


White puffs prance by like cotton candy

As grim bodies encompass the stage.

The roar of Zeus rings out.

And I hear the call.


Like that famed creed of the USPS

Through dark, through storm,

Through sleet, through snow,

The call beckons me.


You release your anchor

I discharge my ballast

I surface carefully as you drift past the edge.

As Charybdis feeds, my tether is severed.


I seek the source

I search til the sirens shred.

But death in content,

Having heard the song.


Beck Beck.

I hear the call.


Come join my odyssey.

Inheritance

Inheritance

As the filthy baboons bicker,

Break your hockey stick,

And throw it in a wood chipper.

Trade in those snowboard tricks,

And learn to wakeboard instead.

Or skateboard if you’re an optimist.

First they deny the water has lead,

Then they say they can’t fix it.

When they finally try, everyone is dead.

The baboons say, “Kids will love this,”

“Summer vacation is now forever”

“Why would you take that from the kids?”

“Think of the money you will save in winter,”

“You will never have to burn oil again!”

Disgraceful. Begin to poison by conditioner.

The dreadful beams of warmth radiate my skin.

The disgusting taste of my fathers’ failures,

Fill me with fire, at their inaction and sin.

But the fire sinks down like a dying sailor,

There are no more trees left to burn.

So I trade in my car for a whaler.

From our parents, still few of us learn,

The hopeful cast away their faith,

We stuff the American dream for an urn

As the beautiful night turns to bay,

The city that never sleeps, sleep always.

The Death Of A Prisoner

The Gradual, Unfortunate Death of a Prisoner

In the fizzing soda a morose droplet swells with stale air.

It jumps, determined to go over that glass barrier,

Then it solemnly descends back into its gas chamber.

Justice

Heavy is the soul of the man with the gavel.

Heavy is the weight of the sins he’s committed.

He would himself to hell just to feel whole.

And justly so for what he’s permitted.

Rocking back and forth in cell,

A man looks to escape from hell.

Innocent he is (in most ways),

but burning he has been for days.

Oh so heavy his shackles are

And so much regret he feels.

Blackened not is his heart.

At the altar he readily kneels.

His sentence was death

For resisting arrest,

From an officer of the law

That eagerly broke his jaw.

But the humility of the other.

To endure so much in duty to his city.

Each day he feels he locked up his brother

Then he goes home, and eats away his pity.

The innocent starves, awaiting the end.

He had so much to live for and so much to defend.

He has to die for fighting back

Against a racist cop that saw he was black.

The judge regrets greatly,

Those sent to death row.

Those men that were white and wealthy,

And the officers in prison that he knows.

The man looks at the rope.

The judge smiles with hope.

He got that guilty dope,

He chuckles a bit as he watches the man choke.

Abscond.

Chestnuts and borders crack broken.
Rockets tell swordsmen it's over.
Women walk weeping through cities.
Golems seize order from chaos.
No one is left to live hopeful.

Heaven is meant for blessed, favored
People, and devils, but good are
Burning unjustly like bread in
Ovens without a hope living,
Justice is dead and sin vivid.

Broken and hopeless not dying
Relentless, and harrowed, not caring.
Worthless is caring to silence.
Pavement cold, blackened says very
Much of our torture, and little:

Hope has not vanished it flourished
Life is not torture it's beauty.
Heaven's not idyll it's poisoned.
Torture's not evil it's blissful.
Listen, illusion will falter.

And then it drips away like water.

Beautiful Day

A Beautiful Day

by Matthew D. Ciaramitaro

Look at your hands, your thumbs, your feet.

Feel the contour of flesh, the texture of meat.

It is magnificent to think of how I am me.

There is no one alike, we all are unique.

Feel the roughness of hair, the shape of your bones.

Touch the lobes of your ears. Hear the beautiful tones

Of a scream, a song, a speech a moan.

Any sound is beautiful, from symphony to stone.

The perfect imperfections on your body are beautiful.

Each tells a tale that could never be dull.

The tales fill a bucket that will never be full,

But the incompleteness of the stories are what makes life feel whole

The smell of a rose, the taste of a drink,

We take for granted these things, but I hope it will sink

Into your mind just to stop and think

How lucky you are to be able to blink.

The fact that you exist is a miracle of the world.

Appreciate your life before it's unfurled.

I walk through the woods

A soul

Alone

I think of the woulds

The coulds

The won'ts

I soon hear a sound

Its bright

But faint

But then there's a round

I jump

I faint

I'm covered in it

It's red

It's paint?

My head has been hit?

It hurts

The pain.

I see its face though

The noise

Maker

It's vile and gross

With lips

That curl

I run but I can't

My legs

Won't move

I feel that I shan't

Live on

To prove

My purpose was real

Not false

Or wrong

But now I can feel

Purpose

Is gone

Still so much to do

No dreams

Fulfilled

With nothing to prove

I would

Prove still

I cry to the world

"Not now!

Too soon!"

Its lips are still curled

Eyes dark,

Cold stone

Malice in its heart

Its soul

Its mind

It goes through my heart

My soul

My mind

The knife takes away

All that

Was mine

The future looked bright

But now

I'm blind

I think of the woulds

The coulds

The won'ts

I walk through the woods

A soul

Alone.

Winter Wonderland

I once lived in bliss, as if a cloud floating in the sky,

But one day I was forced from my home.

It then became a distant memory, a lost file.

Then, there was only the fall and the cursèd groans.

Others from my home fell with me, and many would cry,

"Why? For what purpose have the stitches of our lives been sewn?

Who dictates these events, and when will our tears dry?"

Some tried to answer but I did not; I simply fell without any word or protest.

During the journey from my home there was much chaos.

I looked left and right and watched my friends burn,

As it became much hotter than my home was.

I looked up and down and saw my friends blown,

And ripped to shreds by the fierce gusts.

Soon the many became the few, and the protests were heard more:

“Who dictates these events, and why must our gold rust?"

Some tried to answer but I did not; I simply fell without any word or protest.

Eventually I could see the ground, and the screams of the others around me.

The fall was coming to an end, and it seemed that even after this fall there is winter.

As I closed my eyes, I waited for the inevitable end, yet death seemed to let me be.

The piles of bodies around me softened my fall, and allowed my flame to flicker.

The survivors began to call out for their families, but unfortunately,

Paralyzation is the disease of the survivors. I heard them roar,

“Who dictates these events, and why aren’t we free?”

Some tried to answer, but I did not; I simply watched without any word or protest.

I have now sat in the pile of the dead for three months.

I have seen my friends thrown into the air by growling machines,

And every day I can feel even more the warmth of the sun.

But now I feel the burning spreading throughout my being.

I hear the others’ screams and grunts,

“Help me, I can’t feel my body. I’m burning up and I can’t see anything!

Who dictates these events, and why can’t we triumph?”

Only I am left to answer, but I can’t; I simply fade away without any word or protest.

Cracked

I am not the person I was 4 years ago


I still don't know if that's good or bad though

Am I sponge, only leaking what others have said or done

or am I gone, am i absent?

What have I become?


Before I would never give up, but now I am done.

The only thing I can do is break the glass of life and run run run.

Have I begun, is this for Coach Munn, it doesn't feel fun.

But it is for approval, of a man that is dead

It is for the inspiration to escape from dread.

I will always relent, no matter what is sent

to stop my attempt to become a dent

in the course of humanity, not for reasons of vanity,

but because I believe I can be free to choose charity

without remembrance over selfishness and celebrance.


Cogito ergo sum. Those who don't think are doomed.

Nothing but my mind can stop me. People might drop me because I won't not be

some one that doesn't have a copy. No difference, in life I've found the key.

Though the road may be rocky, I don't drive fast and cocky,

I prepare, I dare, I watch, I listen, I stare,

I don't care, if my life goes unnoticed,

I will die bare, and all I do will affect us in the greatest

way, each and every day. I will work and work and I won't play,

until I make a crack, a dent, a hole, one that will last, one that will stay.