Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Fugue State
November 1, 12, 14, 17, & 20, 2004
Nil was formulaic of any suggestion jaunted for treatment
by counselor or any featured psychiatrist.
Of course, there were never arranged visits or set appointments
for any attempt to narrate a life or dispel a problem.
Stagnant, frigid, and unstoppable, all personal capacity remained
blank, brief of a sort, but certainly self-contained.
There was no faultfinder present, though all liberties seemed
ornery, as the search to convalesce rushed to mother diffusion.
How this rain made the eye all about everything internal was
a motion flushed into a tentative lake that laved certainty.
Reality wasn't frumpily relieved as cerebral matters desired to be
pleased; however the strain of whatever furthered importance.
The mind welcomes strange interlopers to wend through the basic
power points of unwanted knowledge, weltering whys and whatnots,
revolving purposely to facilitate conscience.
It's ordinary to rack reason by running from the conciliation of
a sensible revelation.
That mental registrar that calls to be pulled and recanted regulates
as an ambiguous pain, forcing to pierce the shield not so impeccable.
There is the stare, the limp stare prompt and tardy of being aware.
Square. If circled, continue to curve without cessation.
To deal with forgetfulness that wants to be revealed, righteously
stoned, a callous cruelly creepy, a dying fish in a creel, is to
deal with a cremation of regards that a bit of sanity would seek to
seal, and there it all goes, goes into the act to grate intention.
Regularly, business will hold its stance on the melting mound;
if to stay, dead will be sound; if shaken, cease to drown.
© 2004 Jarrod C. Lacy
November 1, 12, 14, 17, & 20, 2004
Nil was formulaic of any suggestion jaunted for treatment
by counselor or any featured psychiatrist.
Of course, there were never arranged visits or set appointments
for any attempt to narrate a life or dispel a problem.
Stagnant, frigid, and unstoppable, all personal capacity remained
blank, brief of a sort, but certainly self-contained.
There was no faultfinder present, though all liberties seemed
ornery, as the search to convalesce rushed to mother diffusion.
How this rain made the eye all about everything internal was
a motion flushed into a tentative lake that laved certainty.
Reality wasn't frumpily relieved as cerebral matters desired to be
pleased; however the strain of whatever furthered importance.
The mind welcomes strange interlopers to wend through the basic
power points of unwanted knowledge, weltering whys and whatnots,
revolving purposely to facilitate conscience.
It's ordinary to rack reason by running from the conciliation of
a sensible revelation.
That mental registrar that calls to be pulled and recanted regulates
as an ambiguous pain, forcing to pierce the shield not so impeccable.
There is the stare, the limp stare prompt and tardy of being aware.
Square. If circled, continue to curve without cessation.
To deal with forgetfulness that wants to be revealed, righteously
stoned, a callous cruelly creepy, a dying fish in a creel, is to
deal with a cremation of regards that a bit of sanity would seek to
seal, and there it all goes, goes into the act to grate intention.
Regularly, business will hold its stance on the melting mound;
if to stay, dead will be sound; if shaken, cease to drown.
© 2004 Jarrod C. Lacy
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Callie Conceited
4/16/03
"Can you believe it?
The world should be mine, guys.
I went to the mall the other day and saw
this incredible dress in Arthur’s: dark, black
silk, long-flowing, sleeveless, strapless, elegant
to a tee.
I could see myself modeling it, spinning
around in it.
Watching that soft, sleek fabric swirl and flutter,
billowing on the air.
Girl, if you only knew what men I could catch
in this number.
Ooo, the party!
Yes, the party, girlfriend.
Something to wear?
No problem there.
That sweet, hot dress will do more than impress
the audience I deservedly deserve.
Clap for me!"
© 2003 Jarrod C. Lacy
4/16/03
"Can you believe it?
The world should be mine, guys.
I went to the mall the other day and saw
this incredible dress in Arthur’s: dark, black
silk, long-flowing, sleeveless, strapless, elegant
to a tee.
I could see myself modeling it, spinning
around in it.
Watching that soft, sleek fabric swirl and flutter,
billowing on the air.
Girl, if you only knew what men I could catch
in this number.
Ooo, the party!
Yes, the party, girlfriend.
Something to wear?
No problem there.
That sweet, hot dress will do more than impress
the audience I deservedly deserve.
Clap for me!"
© 2003 Jarrod C. Lacy
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Kitchen Bricks
February 2, 2012
Kitchen, Kitchen, Kitchen Bricks
Bore two faces and a few, old tricks.
A poor, old farmer who was southern bred,
But when the war came round, he wore blue instead.
A homemade Yankee, a whole of a terror,
But being a turncoat wasn't his only error.
He sought; he stole for those northern boys.
His chores made a way while they held a poise.
Kitchen, Kitchen, Kitchen Bricks
Tossed away his grays, one of two, old picks.
It was only when the fight didn't go his way.
Forget that rebel yell. He's a Union stray.
He joined in '61, but was caught in '63.
He made informant during the rivalry.
Burglary was a trade as bold as his face.
Though one too many would do him disgrace.
Kitchen, Kitchen, Kitchen Bricks
Played the game awry with no last licks.
A scratch with a scrap with no outer fight.
Rather take to death and the color of night.
Instead of turning states and beggin' for pity,
He invaded the sanctum of some old biddy.
So how did it end for an old yella brand?
A shot from a doc with a hole in his hand.
© 2012 Jarrod C. Lacy
February 2, 2012
Kitchen, Kitchen, Kitchen Bricks
Bore two faces and a few, old tricks.
A poor, old farmer who was southern bred,
But when the war came round, he wore blue instead.
A homemade Yankee, a whole of a terror,
But being a turncoat wasn't his only error.
He sought; he stole for those northern boys.
His chores made a way while they held a poise.
Kitchen, Kitchen, Kitchen Bricks
Tossed away his grays, one of two, old picks.
It was only when the fight didn't go his way.
Forget that rebel yell. He's a Union stray.
He joined in '61, but was caught in '63.
He made informant during the rivalry.
Burglary was a trade as bold as his face.
Though one too many would do him disgrace.
Kitchen, Kitchen, Kitchen Bricks
Played the game awry with no last licks.
A scratch with a scrap with no outer fight.
Rather take to death and the color of night.
Instead of turning states and beggin' for pity,
He invaded the sanctum of some old biddy.
So how did it end for an old yella brand?
A shot from a doc with a hole in his hand.
© 2012 Jarrod C. Lacy
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Please, take a little time to read (and giggle at) "The Apple" this week. 1/15-17/14
The Apple
August 26, 1999
Johnny had an apple,
But Lola stole a bite.
This left him little fend for,
And Lola would think twice.
Johnny's minor slackness hurdled a silly grin
After seeing Lola's face fully wrenching.
Her eyes were surly bulbs,
Her taste was in total duress.
Derided at the case and Lola's little mistake,
Johnny made the effort
To snicker - though low-key -
When Lola revealed the apple-chunks
And the worm she was chewing.
© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy
August 26, 1999
Johnny had an apple,
But Lola stole a bite.
This left him little fend for,
And Lola would think twice.
Johnny's minor slackness hurdled a silly grin
After seeing Lola's face fully wrenching.
Her eyes were surly bulbs,
Her taste was in total duress.
Derided at the case and Lola's little mistake,
Johnny made the effort
To snicker - though low-key -
When Lola revealed the apple-chunks
And the worm she was chewing.
© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
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