Poetry Collection Five: Talk More Often

by Nojo


Nojo Nashville, Tennessee

I'm Nojo.
You're Nojo.
We're all Squidward.

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Track Name: Tourism
You'll always be a tourist,
with a fresh mindset of young love,
designing yourself,
with a perfume-scented hug.

You'll always be a deist,
with charcoal-colored eyes,
and the diner's floor,
your death bed in the night.

You'll always be a narcissist,
with lust taking off it's clothes,
and the crowd,
mouthing the word, "Go".

You'll always be a romantic,
with beauty, the candle of your fate,
and a tour guide's smile,
being all that it takes.
Track Name: The Churchyard
9/11 girl,
staring at your future's grave.
The headstone's slowly cracking,
with your epitaph engraved,
as "There are two towers,
where one day we both shall sleep."
The Children gather around,
as you, sweet Julie, start to weep.
The church bell rings the hour,
while you envision what it means.
The wooden doors are closing.
The church choir starts to sing.

August '98,
The leaves, the color of your hair.
The scent came off the bonfire,
and filled the crisp of autumn's air.
The day felt so romantic,
but I sensed your hidden tears.
I asked if you were fine,
and you told me about the years,
by leading me to the old churchyard,
asking me, "What could this mean?"
I scoffed and kicked the headstone,
saying, "This doesn't mean a thing.
Track Name: Our Name
The teacher calls my name.
I look up to see,
he wasn't calling me.
Each name sounds the same.
I look down and think,
we're not worth a thing.

From then I became depressed,
the love of mankind,
for each, $8.99,
but then I began to suggest,
they're charging for envy,
and love shall remain free.
And then I began to request,
my name to be changed,
to something deranged.
Track Name: Truth Isn't
You may think that I'm strict,
but it's just that I care.
You may think I'm a bit harsh,
but that's only because I'm fair.
By now, you must think I'm obnoxious,
but really, I'm just a bit loud.
I'm not even that conceited,
only a little bit proud.

The truth is,
the truth isn't.
Just opinions being fought.
If no one cares,
then what is it,
but a truth that's never taught.
Track Name: Wake Me
Wake me when we're there.

No point convicting.

Who's your conductor?

No use in second guessing.

My mom's a narcissist.

She won't let me hide.

My father's a nihilist.

He makes me hard to find.

Liar, Liar.

Your hair's on fire.

The elitist is drowning.

The deist has expired,

Wisdom and truth.

The capital's head.

Roman Architecture.

Wake me when we're dead.
Track Name: Stoplight
I'm at the stoplight.

When the light turns green, I need to get over one lane.

The meeting is in 26 minutes, and I'm about 30 minutes away from the building.

It's raining harder, I need to turn the windshield wipers on a higher level.

This coffee is decaffeinated, plus it spills every time I press the brake.

In 17 miles I will run out of gasoline.

I left my credit card at home, and only have twenty two dollars on me.

The radio is playing a worse selection than normal. Where is my CD case?

My tie is too loose. It looks sloppy and unprofessional.

The light is green.

It's cold inside the car, and the leather seats just make it worse.

There is a man walking across the street.
The car is skidding.
Track Name: A Short Film
In my mind, I'm sitting in an Imax theater.
Alone, watching the film role.
The clip, a collection of seven blurry pictures,
taken from the cell phone in someone's glass eyes.

Each time, the pixels are slightly changing,
making everything less realistic.
And the film is blurred and altered,
until the people are plastic, the cars, wax paper.

And the film is silent, except for the sound,
of a clock-ticking backwards to escape,
the shelters and blockades preventing the nightmares,
that keep my from going to sleep at night.

In my mind, I'm sitting in an Imax theater.
Alone, watching the film role.
The clip, now completed,
as an animated short film.
Track Name: The Caretakers
Arrogance, a religious aftermath of anxiety.

Ignorance, a religious stone-path to society.

Intelligence, the useless epitaph on a wooden headstone.

Present-tense, the nation's wrath adapting to a cell phone.

The narcissist insist on a design.

The nihilist consists of red wine.

The antagonist resists her open mind.

The catalyst, she sleeps with mankind.
Track Name: Lo-Fat
The saturated savior as a marionette.
The poster sells a thousand words to a silhouette.
The patriotic nation,
emasculates fornication.
The king preaches a parable reducing regret.
The narcissists and Nihilists debate on the stage.
Confidence and overkill evolve into rage.
The crowd begins to murmur,
the paparazzi's rumor.
The preacher is descending in a gold-laced cage.
Track Name: The Absence of Words
I asked a beautiful bird,

for the wisest thing she'd heard.

Her eyes glistened.

She whispered, "Listen,

to the absence of words."