Infinite Monkey

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Posts Tagged ‘poems

So . . .

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So weary of this war machine

where “They” and “Them



So easy

when it’s THEM




THAT and

THEY deserve it


Children, howling, slapping back

With all the rage and indignation of a God

(we bluster)

all the bite and brawl of a rabid Dog

(we attack)


Heeding the seasick call of

an infrasound fear,

beating just out of reach,

behind our eyes,


beneath our hearts

in the slick, oily underbelly



the syncopated rhythms

of our own internal compass

Jarring our needles from their

HOMEward pointing cradles

spinning them, careening

towards a magnetic pole

that leaves us all thin,

dizzy and amnesiac


All less than our whole


Stretched and translucent

Far from community

from tribal unity

from our humanity


And just as senseless,

just as petty,

just as bereft of higher vibration

or thought



of true meaning

of THE purpose

that IS




An action so small

Four tiny letters typed on a page

A line, a circle, an unfinished inverted triangle, an arm encircling in half-embrace

Four letters (4)

To bring us HOME




to join arm-and-arm with fellow humans

REAL humans

not automaton politicos

or Wall Street thieves

or the grift of man-made marketer dreams




to leave behind all the gaping, ooze of want

(disguised as NEED)

to abandon our Corporate Overlords

to their empty marbled fortunes

and gristle-strewn lies


(All of them, long ago parted

from the heft and whisper of their 10.5 ounce fisted muscle,

aortic valves parched, cracked and curling at their edges

their barren chests echoing with the hollow reverberations of a desolate chamber)


Peeling back these crusty, wilted layers,

the greed-covered rot, 

to find that better place

where those four tiny letters

and empathy,


and consideration,



To find us,

and them,

and they,


Are WE.


Reunited –

blooming in the Bedouin desert

hand-feeding one another,

feasting, on the honeyed milk-giggles

of OUR children



Vanessa Nix Anthony

June 14, 2016


Written by Rainee Squatch

June 14, 2016 at 4:18 pm

And Sometimes Late at Night

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she stomps late at nightShe clips

and she clops

she bangs

and she stomps

my neighbor, next door

But just in the morning . . .

and sometimes late at night

(when she’s most important)

or more importantly, when I’m adrift

wading through a dream or semi-wakeful state,

groggily numbed by the washed out sounds

of my white noise machine Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

September 28, 2015 at 1:39 pm


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lost black hoodieI lost a black hoodie, 2 years ago now

I’ve tried to replace it (multiple times)

But none are the same

in fabric

or cut

or design

None fit quite like

that old hood of mine Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

April 24, 2014 at 9:30 am

Posted in Poetry

Tagged with , , , , ,

Raindrops and Chainsaws

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evil-dead-image08 jane levy mia raining blood chainsawUm,

it’s 9:17pm on a stormy Saturday night.
The house is quiet.
My kitchen window is open,

venting the steam from a pot of bone broth that is simmering on the stove . . .
and then —
“Is that a chainsaw?” I say.
My husband, in the next room,
pulls the earphones from his ears and says, “Did you say something?”
“Yeah, is that a chainsaw?”
A moment of uncomfortable silence
as he assesses the sound.

“Yeah, that sounds like a chainsaw.”

We both laugh,

but in a way that says, “Is the neighbor being dismembered?”

Then we laugh again
this time more heartily, because we know
EXACTLY what each other’s awkward laugh meant.

(But no one moves)

“At 9 o’clock at night?”
More laughter.
The sounds of a revving chainsaw punctuating the night air
and our conversation.

“Yeah, what could someone possibly be doing at 9pm on a rainy Saturday night — with a chainsaw?”

(– in an apartment complex?)

More laughter.

Still . . . no one moves

No one goes to a window, opens a door or even walks to the room (the kitchen) where the sound is nearest

More chainsaw —
for about 5 more minutes.

Then, nothing.

Written by Rainee Squatch

September 28, 2013 at 9:43 pm

Let Me Show You to Your Room

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locustsMake room for you.
YOU say
Make room?
What room is not yours?
What room is not drenched with your disposition?
Does not hang with the drip of your hot, wet wool?
(Let’s all check our pulses. Will we be allowed our joy today?)
What room
does not brighten with the opening of your heart and eyes and ears and mouth and mind,
ushering in the light and air?
(Let’s all gather round, arms wide chins up and soak up the beam of this ecliptic moment.) Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

September 14, 2013 at 11:44 am