Posted in Poem on March 7, 2013 by leoorbitenglish

      My heart is filled with one thousand burning embers constructed of dried up wood and tattered rags in a cardboard box from thirty lonely Decembers.
Your mind is the fuel, your lips the flint, evaporating any rain as a whole with your flame.
     Blindfolded I smolder with smoke billowing from covered slits. Imaging your silhouette my mind splits, and more illuminated my eyes get.
     Hair from my skin stands on end as I am separated and dismantled caused by static in your movement. No gust of wind could begin to pretend it had the power to dissolve your electric remnant.
     Just from your touch my body’s exterior goes from right, to not so much like current worn river rocks underneath forgotten boat docks.
     My imperfections lay in wait.
     Until then all I have are these symbolic notions of god opening heavens gate, joining us as one, inventing emotion.



Posted in Poem on November 2, 2012 by leoorbitenglish

He rolls over to better place his arm on her shoulder. Her eyes open slightly, woken by pressure enforced squeezing tightly.
Without knowing the events that have taken place over hours of rest they say to each other good morning.
Somewhere distant, in many instance, a man shuffles off;
From his empty bed
Fills his empty socks
Flick of the dial to fill his empty head
Inside his empty loft.
A moment of frustration leaving for work late, realizing breakfast was not eaten nor made.
Half lonesome
Half ready for the day.
On his way to the job site the moon light is blocked providing shade split seconds at a time.
Meanwhile the couple gainfully employed share toast, coffee, sausage, and equally enjoyed. Both work nine to five, she in a pant suit and he in a tie. Both the same race and share the same taste. Both a bit bloated on American pie. A peck on the cheeks to ensure feelings brief. A futile gesture to comfort the inevitable grief called separation.
The singular man with task at hand toils. With every task success another one foiled. Fear at the thought of unemployment never questioning his none existing enjoyment. Takes five and smokes to ease anxiety. Three quarters burned and extinguished to resume propriety. The day is Friday and 10 minutes before departure. The boss approaches, presents an envelope, and exclaims. “Good job today! I’ve given you high marks Mr.”
The man blistered opens and scans line by line. Each one erroneous until the bottom. Overwhelmed he puts the stub upon his lips for a long passionate kiss.
Which one is love and which one is ignorance’s bliss?


Posted in Poem on October 30, 2012 by leoorbitenglish

Points of experience given to blank canvas digitized zeros.
Teenage thrillseekers staring at colored squares. Finding gold, weapons, and glory there.
Ass’ kicked on city streets but VS. Mode adversaries fall to thrillseekers feet.
Armor, potion, and magic are allies. Before to weak to use, now to strong to care.
The geek so mighty and bare dashes to next level with coin to spare.
Wizards of infinite wisdom share secrets of special rings, and amulets, a variety of jewelry to wear.
Attributes bulge from time spent on computer chair.
Index hurts as if playing one fingered flute.
Back in the screen as fake fingers open treasure loot.

Panic Mode

Posted in Poem on October 30, 2012 by leoorbitenglish

     Give use your tired, your sick, your weak, and poor.
     Independently fucked is us, searching for a mystery unknown like a code stuck in panic mode.
     A nation of children running for a door, and on the other side a riddle never to be solved to the living core.
     Zombies in masses walking in the mist licking toads stuck in panic mode.
     Cursed at birth the working jerk. Striving to give to the poor, rest their tired, strengthen their weak, and cure their sick government mandating pricks.
     Brainwashed are sheep in big city streets at one anothers throats, oblivious of real villains.
     Weapons ring out, lets do some killin.
     America trippin hard with a full load between the ears stuck in panic mode.

Season Brewing

Posted in Poem on October 29, 2012 by leoorbitenglish

     A whirlwind of opinion within ones mind is that of a protester in fear of crossing a picket line.
     Angered, enraged, beaten, a civil dispute engulfs the region.
     Lingering pedals detached from their rooted lifeline swirling toward grassy floors.
     Within a moment between impact, in preparation you sharpen the cool steel of a chisel to better carve names into marble walls.
     War looms.
     The stout politician with jaw thrust out states it’s a necessary conflict.
     The citizens who disagree shout conflict of interest.
      When really, merely a conflict between misfits.
     A blade of grass pierces the deceased pedal at the end of its descent.
     On the horizon a flash overwhelms miles of landscape. The aroma of sulfur fills your nasal cavities destroying the common stock of maritime admiralty products surrendered at birth.
     Just know that when god makes his ever famous cameo and knocks on my door,  I’ll tell him my finger was never the pedal and my people were never the floor.