The Chicago Cubs won the Hyper Bole and the entire planet celebrated!
earthrise
on tranquility base
breathtaking
sans oxygen
makes sense?
It’s week two up here on the moon. Just jotting down poems that come into my head, to pass the time. Crew’s dead. I’m the only one left. I like to think there are a few people left down on Earth, too, fighting zombies in some crazy zombie apocalypse people saw coming. But that’s likely not the case. They’re all dead as well. Silly bastards we humans are, we blew everything up.
I may be the only human left in existence. An extremely endangered species. Time for the next generation of aliens to take over. Dig up our artifacts and wonder what the hell happened to us.
sense makes
oxygen
sans taking breath
base tranquility
on rise
earth
?
Dear Brian (I think that was your name.)
I want to convey my sincere apologies for my husband’s behaviour at the restaurant tonight. I thought you were an excellent waiter. But please understand that my husband is very jealous, so when I complained that my fork was dirty and you licked it clean for me, he thought you were coming on to me.
I’m so sorry he gave you a black eye. I’d like to make it up to you. Please find enclosed with this note a $100 bill and a box of condoms. I’ll be at the motel out on Route 67 by the gas station at 10pm tonight.
Yours truly,
The Lady at Table 6
P.S. I hope regular-sized condoms are okay. I took you at your word when you referred to my husband as the bigger dick.
An eerie light
shines starkly through
the stained-glass windows here
that wasn’t there
just yesterday
the reason isn’t clear.
This little poem was brought to you by “The Daily Post,” (link above) and by K’Lee and Dale’s Cosmic Photo Challenge. This week’s prompt was “glass.” Check it out! It’s fun! https://diaryofaninternetnobody.com/2016/10/31/klee-and-dales-cosmic-photo-challenge-34/
Some women deal with their break-ups by drinking wine, some surround themselves with friends and plot how they’re going to let the air out of their ex’s tires. Me, I’m celebrating with a giant bag of Doritos, a bottle of Coke, and a horror movie.
Jeremy was not a nice guy. He started out okay, as most guys do. Why else would I have dated him in the first place? But as time went on he started in with the digs about my weight. We’d be in bed and he’d squeeze my hips and say things like, “That must be the pizza we had tonight,” or “Have you been sneaking chocolate bars again?” I ignored it for the longest time. But eventually it wears on a gal.
Nope, I’m glad Jeremy’s gone. And now I can sit here with my Doritos and not have to deal with the insults. The fact that I burned off a load of calories burying his body in the back yard makes me feel all that much better.
Taking the Bridge to the inner city is like driving out of fresh air, into the pits of Hell. The Bridge itself is lined on both sides with grills, jails if you will. At the outer edge, near the freshest of air, are the criminals who live, still. But as it gets warmer toward the middle of the Bridge, one can see the prisoners are fighting for air. Zombies, treading upon one another with clubs made of loose bits of the Bridge torn off are closest to the inner city.
Why must we travel there, to the city? For work. The luckiest of us still grow our vegetables at the far end of the Bridge. For meat, we must go to the city. That’s where the brains are.
This post was written entirely in Stream of Consciousness, and left unedited. If you, too, would like to participate in Stream of Consciousness Saturday, click the following link to add your post! https://lindaghill.com/2016/10/28/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-oct-2916/
i love
how you rearrange
my thoughts
you reappear
and re-propose
all those things you did
so long ago
you’re addictive
you know
even though
I’m not
the woman I was
you
seem not to change
that’s why
you rearrange
how
your arch’d brow
makes me vow
there’s never been
another quite the same
and there will never be
for me
for the truth
is that you
like a tattoo
skin deep
are a part of me
I’ll never see
again the same
in the november rain
those showers
how that beauty
will be ever ours
secretly
It has been two days since my precious laboratory burned to the ground. The final spark to go out, did so when the wisp of smoke finally ceased rising from the top of Ogor’s head.
Patients L52 to N2 escaped with their lives (such as they are) with the exception of the poor Patient L63. Ogor is trying to blame him for the blaze, but I blame Ogor. It was he who caused the error in the first place. I must now decide what to do with him.
Hmmm… N3, perhaps.
I can’t believe it! My entire troupe has been banned from the local hospital! We all went into the Emergency Room because one of the guys had a cut on his finger that needed stitching up. One look at the expression on his face and we all knew he needed moral support.
So off we all went, just to keep him company, you know? And then, what do you know; they kicked us out!
Apparently they don’t allow mimes in the ER who aren’t sick or injured. The nerve!
Today we take off the bandages. Patient L63’s transformation should be complete.
“How long has it been since the patient came to us?” I ask my assistant.
“Forty-three days, Master.”
“Would you please stop calling me ‘Master,’ Ogor?”
“Yes, Mas… I mean Doctor.”
“Thank you. So, forty-three days should be enough, right?”
“By your calculations, yes, Doctor.”
“Okay, let’s get at it.”
We peel back the bandages slowly. Meticulously. About half-way through I notice Ogor has begun to tap his foot.
“Whatever is it, Ogor?”
“What’s what?”
“You seem nervous.”
“Not at all, Doctor.”
We continue to work until there is just one bandage left across the patient’s face. As lift it with my tweezers, the patient opens his blue eyes.
“Wait!” I exclaim. I go to the patient’s chart. “Patient L63 has brown eyes. What is the meaning of this? Ogor, double-check the patient’s toe tag!”
“It’s um… It’s um, Patient M63, Mast… I mean Doctor.”
“But this patient isn’t ready! And Patient L63 must be chomping at the bit to get out!”
Just then, a groan came from inside the freezer.
Linda G. Hill 