Hopeless Idiot takes Philadelphia


Is how I came to you,

as an 18 year old,

and I imagine it's how I'll leave,



hold no grudge,

Because you have taught me,

All there is to teach,

a young man,



stood by me,

As choas,

buried my curly head beneath currents,

no one could see,



depths noone,

could ever hope to reach,



stood agast,

As I stumbled,

ass backward,

Into the stupidest things,



Ever said,


to the kindest women,

I'd ever meet,



laugh with me, astonished,

As my dull gaze,

tries to make sense of a world,

That is honestly not that fucking complicated,



watch my shoulders ache,

my checks flare,

As I internalized the latest,

grave injustice placed upon me (sad),


You watch me miss that doctors appointment again.




Like everyone else,


Why the hell do I tolerate this idiot?


But you do,

And it shatters me with warmth.


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Yards Away


Cannabis in my yard you stink my air


My child smells you and she is just nine


Marijuana I know you with that first whiff


Doors away from where I think you grow


I once enjoyed a little discreet taste of you


But had forgotten and want no reminder.


Selfish users and abusers force your stench on us all now


Unwelcome intrusion makes me wince


Maybe others too but I couldn’t know


Not for much longer I wish to tap my feet to another’s music


Watching my garden bloom


City life I see, hear, feel, hate, love you


Without you I tire, with you too

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City Life

City life is all that I know
Lights for miles let off a glow
Plenty of people spreading good cheer
As together we count down the New Year

Some prefer to be secluded and live far away
Some in the mountains and some by the bay
Flat landers they call us with a simplistic smile
Yet to get to a store they drive many a mile

All that I need is here in this beautiful city
For those missing out I feel such a pity
Today I will catch a movie while they sit on the porch
I will enjoy air conditioning while they sit and scorch

I'll have my morning cup of coffee in the diner, and a friendly chat
While them hillbillies sit and weave a straw hat
At least they can sit and count squirrels in their spare time
I will shop in the city and watch a mime

Beautiful city women are all around
No! You can't see them from your mound
A Flat lander I may very well be, and a city boy no doubt
Just remember, if you are lonely in the hills, there is always Bigfoot for you to take out!

By: Wayne Hoss

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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Portland THE Oregon


My streets were paved in yellow dreams and setting suns over bodies of water

and blues music followed by the smell of cigarette smoke that I find comforts me now as I’ve moved away.

My angels were bridges that enveloped the sky and my heaven was the blurred lights off of tall buildings that were the stars in my city.

My canvas was the Gorge and my painting was the sweat of summer adventure committed by a coniferous childhood.

My happiness was shutting my eyes and taking in everything I couldn’t see. Smells of campfires, songs on guitars, gasoline burning behind our rocket to the memories I cherish most.

My freedom was escaping into the night to sit on the shoulder of green giant and have conversations with her but never needing any words.

My relief was to exclaim all my furiosity to the water, and take it out on the rocks by the dock. To mock back at the seagulls who first mocked me with their judging eyes.

My guidance was light posts that flickered and signaled my return to home.

and still today I reserve a section of my heart and mind to Sauvies island, with its bushes painted red in the summer and its ground splattered with orange in the fall and its pine scented traditions growing in the winter.

And my childhood romance was with a City whose outer beauty was comprised of skyscrapers and waterfronts and inner beauty was the acceptance of the people who resided there.

And I bought her love in return, not with money, but with hours of my life spent roaming the trails, and the tracks, and with all the times I got lost in a City that I know like the back of my hand, and with all the times I loved underneath those rain clouds, and smiled at a bus stop, or let my arms get slapped with wind on a long car drive while blaring billy joel in the back seat of my mother’s minivan.

I earned her love.

and the problem with moving away is that you leave different parts of your heart in different cities, which never allows you to fully feel at home ever again.

Yet the price is worth paying a million times over.

But what I know today is that I left

my untamed spirit,

my wild abandon,

my insatiable hunger for color,

the smell of rain and lavender,

the jumps to the trees

the mowed grass

the smashed cherries on the ground

the feeling of being small and big all at the same time

the finite and massive details that I captured with my blue eyes

in a city that flies with her own wings

and will forever be my start

P.S Suck it Seattle

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Train Station

A train stops 

Pale strangers
with hungry eyes 
and dazed  faces
gazing ,
dragging baggage 
and dusty- shoed feet
 right over left,
into the station.
Miles of 
dimly lit cavern-corridor;
the acrid city air is heavy 
with filth and hopless
woven metal wastebaskets overflow 
yesterdays black and white news
And ticket-stubs
torn in half 
like the curbside heart
of those bid fare well
shabby cloth flea market millionaires
in toothless rummage-through
almost carefully...
for tin vessel pocket change
to trade for 
bottles of wine,
or six- packs of beer.
Clinging to the littered walk,  
the transient liquid mass
of faceless caricatures
sweep like dust
across a glass photograph.
Starry-eyed children laugh
and talk happy things 
to a gray haired lady in a 
cat sweater.
My how youve grown.

A sharp mechanical scream
made necessary 
diversion from the hi-heeled
flesh vendor,
hair dischevled; 
pleading for fare.

A serpet hiss as doors open and exhale  
an overdressed man with plastic hair
carrying flowers; 
greeted by his long awaited lover
and her open arms .
Train station. 
Mysterious intention. 
Cause,  or affliction.
  The place where the journey
begins or ends.
 A travel weary heart.
castaway of a vast unknown,
or drawn back to sanctuary home.
Where love chases its 
furry phantom tail....
where hopes sprout
 like spring blossoms,
or wither 
like the skin of an old whore.
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To Become

Society's filled so dark
A sickness fit to last
A hasty hungry shark
A one that bites the glass

The air turns a poison mist
and the grass turns to a distant waste
A glare becomes a fist
and then a flower becomes erased

I Walk An Endless Road

I walk endless an road

locked into a heavy load

Of these questions and fears

Gripping from it's unreasonable tears


As a car roars by

I look dead into it's light

Wondering where it leads

But just like that it's gone

just like another day

As I wake up to the sun's harsh light


I try not to look back

As I attempt to fill this crack

Of this hurt and wonder

Unstoppable, a storm of rain and thunder


As a car roars by

I look dead into it's light

Wondering where it leads

But just like that it's gone

just like another night

As I stay up to the moon's hypnotic might


Bound by the cities

Bound by another one's pity's

Expect a place to be

Or expect not want to be seen


And I'll take you as walking money

I see you as a pretty big funny

We and I, all have found our place

And you my dear, have barely found a face

Bound to me, and to my briefcase

I'll lend you a smile, but you're a secret disgrace


Find the comfort in another's eyes

But in reality, another girl will have them hooked on their clever disguise

Find a place to be

Or expect not want to be seen


Stuck in a rut

With no qualities, not knowing what

Who are you and what are you in this city?

Gone and withdrawn, alone and all shitty?

Expect a place to see

Or expect us to be mean


For you are bound

What goes around, comes around

You are stuck here, forever with me

With no voice, or founding plea


For you are bound

My slave, to paint my sacred ground


The Drabble Ditch

Marcella is a girl so mocked, she enjoys it.

I see her in the window of a high-rise in London,

Where by day, the sun is sulfur yellow, 

Clings to skin and streaming eyes, 

And by night, heads are down and stars shine black 

And dull as a November London road.

Marcella, you are the only moon I see here, 

Your face and hair glowing like a china doll in a wedding veil, 

The white against shadowed streets,

The headlights and streetlamps glare at hooded city stalkers,

Never looking up at people like you, the pure light, La Luna,

Marcella, your eyes seem to speak truths of this city

That airwaves and black print cannot:

Red, yes, that's the colour of a blunt blockade, 

The beefy bloke who bars us from going further, 

Red is the pestilence of London, smiling and shooting streamers in the streets,

All the while crushing and compressing until we're cold.

Marcella, sometimes I wish I could coax you down from your nest,

Show you the steel concrete chaos that your sight has survived.

It's intimate here, I'll give you that, 

But the stars remain anxious for awe-struck eyes,

Lights can be dazzling, claustrophobic and pressuring,

But stars wait forever for our smiles.

Funny-looking Marcella, but in a nature-lover's way,

This maze: Where each twist and turn is a park or a book or a new song,

Where each needle of fern is a final notice or a corporate climber,

You can follow me. Take my hand. 

Marcella, take my ticket. Board a train and run. 

Pretty birds like you don't belong in the city,

Where vultures of all natures watch hungrily for prey. 

Just promise to find the right flock, and fly.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

© Lizzie Ayres, 2013

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