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About Varied / Hobbyist Premium Member Cindi AmmeenFemale/United States Groups :iconunknown-photography: Unknown-Photography
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His Bark to my tree

Journal Entry: Thu Mar 26, 2015, 10:12 AM
This one goes out to :iconbark:

Ron, you made DA special for me. When I first started coming around, I was a kind of a lurker, not really interacting with many people, but that soon changed after I stumbled across your path. Thank you for taking the time to get to know me.  Thank you for all the feedback you've offered and the kind words that you always had for me. Thank you for being an active member of this community. Thank you for entertaining me with your words- You had a true talent for creating captivating and imaginative poetry and prose. 


You are missed my friend, so very much.


Installation PieceIron thorns push through skin, I’m part of an installation piece
Flesh and bone, metal and stone, electronics
Wheeled in on a cot, phones for eyes
That never ring
But I see how they look at me; (they’re thinking)
How lonely it must be to slowly die alone
They smile anyway, good at faking it
After all, it’s their job
One day the artist will be able to push a button, and I’ll spin
My speaker-mouth will sing about snow
Only one more push allowed
And I’ll spin into space
My last human thought will not be of you, but of us, together
Sitting in the cold morning, coffee and cigarettes
Back before they began assembling us
One at a time
for departure
Memory Remember that day we sat in the open field? No? Well I must have been alone, thinking of you. I remember your presence there. The field went on for miles and miles, becoming a blur of brown, sienna, yellow ochre. When I stared at it for too long, I lost my balance in the waving grasses. I had to find the tree to right myself again. One lone stubby tree in a million miles of dreaming field.
 I remember the light coming from the left somewhere, because it struck the tree in a most magnificent manner. Its shadow stretched long and thin, finally fading into blurry little fingers. I don’t know the brand of tree it was, it was unfamiliar to me. Short, stubby, gnarly trunked, with large bushy leaves over little pods. Well actually, the pods and everything else must have been bigger than I remember. I was a very long way from the tree.
 The sky was malevolent blue that day, with long rust-and- grey clouds sweeping sideways across it. A thin strip of pink on the horizon ga


I Can't Remember What You Used to Cook AnymoreSummer ended with a phone call
“You need to come to the hospital”
“Is it bad?”
“Yes, it’s bad”
The storm had passed, it was quiet now
But the world had shifted, warped
Everything was out of place
Unable to keep my footing
I fell into the darkness
And I
howled,
and howled
and howled
WickedMorgana, in the cowering darkened city; neon is dead. Theatres all play the same movie, over and over again. No one watches; they’re all in their basements or ancient fallout shelters. Morgana’s heels clack pavement, and the echo goes on forever.
Feast on your tins of peanut butter and crackers; Morgana feasts on minds. Minds like yours, soft like veal. Everyone said this night would come, but no one believed it would be now. How could it be, when just yesterday the playgrounds were filled with sunlight and laughter?
Lightning cracks sky and illumes devastation, wretchedness, emptiness. Lions have escaped the zoos, and roam the streets hungry and fierce. The wind howls your name as you sit in the darkness wearing your foil hat. Morgana laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
And the echo goes on forever; like carnival music at a funeral, like a grave robber’s laugh, like handbills flying down an alley for a play that was never produced; like a child lost in the crowds, like t


StringTiny green spots on winter-dead branches
A holocaust, a death-march, a tiny string of hope
Braver souls than I have retreated, phoned it in
Fascinated by that string, I want to pull it, I
Want to know
Close to the borderline, red drops, white snow
A stench hovers over the city, mad yellow cabs
Ray of sunlight glints through broken window
I begin to pull the string towards me, heartbeat;
The string breaks
Old fallout shelters revived, black planes fly
God isn’t here today, playing cards with Buddha
I look for you in the empty Wal-Mart, still hoping
That none of the blood on the barbed-wire is yours
You’re not there
Out in the field of old televisions, night falls hard
Sleeping beneath cardboard by the blue-screen light
Tomorrow I will find you in an abandoned garage
We will find the string, follow it to freedom, I think
It will happen
WrongMy mouth works fine, but my brain won't allow it to speak
I feel all used up, dried out, disconnected, mind weak
I say things like "Cool, man", when I know that I've a lot more to say
But it's under my tongue in a rusty bucket, pressed beneath the bootheel of grey
Greyday you sonofabitch, you've robbed me of my humanity
I'd be more useful standing here, if I was a bareleaved winter tree
I can't connect with anyone, I should go back to bed and just stay
Until the bluesky drives away your stranglehold on me someday
Screamin' out what I can't say is making me feel all loose and frayed
Punch the wall, punch the clock, punch through the freezing rain
Kickin' and fightin' and biting off chunks of the loss that's taunting me
Write the wrongs down on a piece of shrapnel and let 'em bleed
Damn, I got lost in the third verse looking for a chorus
Give me the medication that they give a lame horse
Writing wrong won't stop the song that I'm still tryin' to sing
Is that chicken you got there, I'll t


Breakfast At Connie'sSmall birdbones, brittle
Large eggs over easy
Tiny dogs yip and nip at the feet
Under the table
A lock of hair in ashes
A crow cawing from the bookcase
Breakfast at Connie's is always
So damned surreal
Last chance for a smoke before the show begins
Light 'em if you got 'em, or just light a candle
Italian Catholic grey-eyed girls
Love ceremony
A pumping heart dessert
Hidden in plain sight
Ignored by all as proper etiquette demands
They leave softly
Marching in softshoe-step rhythm
Crunching small bones beneath their feet
Wondering why it's still dark and why the
Show still goes on
A Blazing HatA blazing hat, a tattooed heart, he walks through the crowd alone
Today was going to be a good day, but now the sky is green
and everyone is speaking a new language
Whitebone orb over the merriment, his clothing reeks of sadness
Too late for the releasing of doves, or for happy farewells
when strangers wear blinders and greet shadows
The newest tattoo reads "poet", which may as well read "isolation"
The simmering stew of vaguely familiar faces in plots of earth
waiting for burial, or arrival, or knowledge
These are the days of broken-down carnivals and fly-away balloons
The days when your face is not in the crowd, not anywhere at all
when sidewalks crack like spines, and eggs, and minds


Sunflower Field BurningStalks of sun ablaze turn heads down, shriveling;
Smoke filled sky, blotting out the very thing they would see;
I pound the wall in helpless rage.
A Night With Teeth Night fell like damnation over the town, black and starless. The neon on the streets feebly attempted to bring some life and light to this long winter’s night. Wednesday, January 23rd; it was failing miserably. Headlights, stoplights, streetlights, all weak under the heavy-handed sky. Watching from my apartment window, I was surprised at how quiet everything seemed. It was like watching television with the sound off. A city of dreams, broken. The cars crawled by like a funeral procession. Strange how they all seemed to be headed in the same direction.
 I lit a cigarette, coughed, couldn’t breathe, and put it out. Goddamnit. It reminded me of a song I’d written long ago; ‘Pleasure Always Has Its Price.’ If I still had a guitar, I’d play it for you. It was a damned good song. Could’ve been a hit at the time, if I’d known how to market it. But I digress. Once I caught my breath, I re-lit the cigarette. Traffic on the streets below


WizardYour guts are itching on the inside, impossible to scratch. Outside of your neighbor’s house, it’s Christmas. Wipe the snow from a window pane. Mash your face and palms against the window; look inside at everything that you can’t have. Let the moan come now, from way down deep in your soul.
The wife is chattering on and on about nothing, telling you some story she’s told a hundred times. You just want the noise to stop, stop, stop! She turns the TV on and you walk into your room and pull the gun from the drawer. You’re not sure yet whether it’s for you or her.
They say cigarettes will kill you, but you’ve been smoking forty years and still waiting. Waiting for all of this to end, to go somewhere else, to be someone else. You put the gun back in the drawer and get a beer instead. C’est la vie.
Christmas morning, after fourteen beers, you fall into bed with your sleeping wife. You wake her stroking her from behind. You press her face deep i
Random Thoughts From Longwood StreetIt’s cold now, but the large toboggan man still sits outside yelling at god. He’s been here since spring; I wonder if he’ll sit there all winter as well. I think he might, at least until he gets an answer.
We had to get cheap cat food this month, money was tight. The cat sniffed it and looked at me as if I’d slapped her in the face. She eats it anyway, though, when she gets hungry enough.
A car just passed by with a white light blinking on top, maybe the lead car when they’re moving extra-wide loads like mobile homes. It was all alone, though. Maybe the driver just wanted to feel important.
The sun is pale and sickly looking today. Like an old weak man. But in the spring, it’ll begin to grow strong into the roaring adulthood of summer. Still, it’s not a matter of death and re-birth. It’s always summer somewhere. And the sun never goes cold and drops from the sky. Except for that one time, when you died.
It has been four years and four mon


This Journal Skin was designed by Night-Beast

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prettyflour
Cindi Ammeen
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
I am an artist. Enough said.
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Hey there, Prettyflour here on behalf of :iconpoeticalcondition: with the critique you requested. Wow… what a stellar poem! I think it represents Aspergers well- there is a sense of independence and hope behind an otherwise bitter feel to the poem- a cool juxtaposition. Normally I am not a huge fan of rhyming poetry but ...


I'll start by answering your questions. Is the layout okay? Do the paragraph breaks or format need changing? I think the layout works- the breaks are right where they should be and they provide a good flow. Does the theme come through well enough? I think so. The questions posed are thought provokin...

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