richardlowellbryant Food for Thought, Humor, Leadership and Personal Growth, Poetry

The Late Modern Produce Machine

 

Bienvenue to the
produce machine.
I am broke do tell,
even today,
because I can’t spell:
zookene,
maters,
bale peprs,
taters,
hallo peno peprs,
or
them small blak things,
I confuse with large flies,
that look something like,
Little gray paes with black eyes.

–Richard Bryant

richardlowellbryant Food for Thought, Poetry

Riding a Smith Corona

These Keys Are Not Black. Feel Free to Grasp the Irony.

Riding a Smith Corona

I am riding words up and down,
the Holy Street called Walker;
sitting atop the shiny Black Keys,
of my only Smith Corona,
until I’m brought low,
and make the turn,
unable to shift and go,
living in lower case,
words seem so wearisome,
uneven and misaligned.
is this a poetic outcome?

–Richard Bryant

richardlowellbryant Food for Thought, Poetry

Grammar of the Veneer

the broken language of the multitude;
spoken in fragments of
mistranslated verbs,
dangling from places,
where participles work cheaply,
scrimping on rotten nouns,
adverbs given for nothing,
subject and object never agree,
sentences wait to be made whole,
matched with one another,
incomplete linguistic chains,
dependent clauses unable to survive,
families of distorted pronouns,
heard between here and there,
migrating chains of words,
stopped in sentences,
we refuse to read.

–Richard Bryant