- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Traffic of delivery
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
My traffic of delivery for offset signs is your hard people,
To ground out this sliding color by hypnotic goal like flown temple,
When conditioned farms lift the public eye from leaking their finishers,
In bright advance of raging our situation near diminishers,
Your conduct of primal feelings against mine during unknown mixture,
Before fellowship of weight on that edged brink may tear approved nature.
* This is about driving in a car for most people I've met.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Traffic
Childhood under rosy stars, restaurant memories, diet confessions, food chatterbox. This is a good place for restaurant reviews! Just keep your mind awake, let the eye ride before the tide.
Translate
Saturday, April 29, 2017
Friday, April 28, 2017
Poem- "Hypnosis of Seduction"
"Hypnosis of Seduction"
She halts his compromise of a toledo with pitch on future,
To leave away high reflection at errored look through nurture,
When direction of safety is their opposite effect for stars,
As south gain from imprisoned shield is played aspect by supper jars,
Yet we dodge this early city upon sexual hints to run,
While forbidden sign evolves delicious habit behind sad fun,
Thus internal action from fast theme reveals addition of task,
Prior towards a mount so looped of rare flame against vanishing mask.
Labels:
actor mask,
ancient sword,
compromise,
early city,
fast theme,
high reflection,
how delicious,
literature,
mount,
opposite effect,
poetry,
rare flame,
sexual hints,
south victory,
toledo
Thursday, April 27, 2017
Poem- "The Windy Touch"
The Windy Touch
A fume lingers from the share at
breathing mountains near to harvest,
when her new hand makes a rumor
to make it fear over by chest,
fuel as parted on cold hunger to
gain his advance upon way, to leave
us breaking orders for pay at glee as
worthy dead may;
this real path can three profits make
time of as expired through sea, while
gift so high to play in passing choice
before sign we're at lee;
my slow hip after turns two miracles
out of color as closed, wave of fill as
angel frame prior during stock of act
as rose'd.
http://gameuniverso.deviantart.com/art/The-Windy-Touch-677507511?ga_submit_new=10%3A1493356750
Labels:
being real,
breaking orders,
breathing mountain,
cold hunger,
expired,
fear over,
his advance,
lingering fume,
literature,
new hand,
poetry,
real path,
three profits,
through sea,
windy,
worthy dead
Friday, April 21, 2017
Random Poems About the Ocean
"A Portal"
There, as it there.
Here from there, as there.
There it is, here from there.
For waiting, here it is.
It’s thee from here, here and there.
I’m coming, for there as here.
So I’m delighted, around here as there.
And there, here I am.
"The House of Sea at Hand"
A clinch has to be somewhere off west in the olive drive,
When I find our moon under the pier as green waves arrive,
To rip the fire off my dead body in pure motion,
After your ticket in the season is part of lotion,
Stretching the ground out of its miles to the hour in ways,
The trick on a mouse to withhold pleasure she has by maze;
How the green ocean in division is ever now,
Like a salad under rough bread while her dark space for cow,
To give it away all before the tide will mix color,
Becomes the expansion on reflection as quite lower;
We achieve on what turns the diamonds back into chocolate,
Then our peace create against the treats for war as moonlit,
So that more giants have those wings on pitch to disclose right,
To fast sandwich prior as we count less skin on delight.
* My family made visits to a seafood restaurant in Ventura called Eric Ericsson's, which isn't there anymore but has haunted my mind in colors that flush with my desires. It's an abstract presentation.
http://gameuniverso.deviantart.com/
There, as it there.
Here from there, as there.
There it is, here from there.
For waiting, here it is.
It’s thee from here, here and there.
I’m coming, for there as here.
So I’m delighted, around here as there.
And there, here I am.
"The House of Sea at Hand"
A clinch has to be somewhere off west in the olive drive,
When I find our moon under the pier as green waves arrive,
To rip the fire off my dead body in pure motion,
After your ticket in the season is part of lotion,
Stretching the ground out of its miles to the hour in ways,
The trick on a mouse to withhold pleasure she has by maze;
How the green ocean in division is ever now,
Like a salad under rough bread while her dark space for cow,
To give it away all before the tide will mix color,
Becomes the expansion on reflection as quite lower;
We achieve on what turns the diamonds back into chocolate,
Then our peace create against the treats for war as moonlit,
So that more giants have those wings on pitch to disclose right,
To fast sandwich prior as we count less skin on delight.
* My family made visits to a seafood restaurant in Ventura called Eric Ericsson's, which isn't there anymore but has haunted my mind in colors that flush with my desires. It's an abstract presentation.
http://gameuniverso.deviantart.com/
Labels:
chocolate diamonds,
clinch,
dead body,
delight,
expansion on reflection,
fast food,
green ocean,
literature,
moonlight,
ocean waves,
olive drive,
poetry,
portal,
quick sandwich,
thee,
waiting for you,
wings on pitch
Poem- "A Wide Crowd"
"A Wide Crowd"
There was a telephone sign with feelings away,
As less of time in blue over the strikes of day,
When a helmet was flown as much its foul to grass,
Our leave from the net at their green player for mass,
So that clock was new to me for nice play in home,
After a guy paid her visit to live by roam,
To show a few diamonds around the hands on beer,
Before that sport of throw could push my thin fog near.
*This is a poem about baseball.
Labels:
baseball,
beer at the park,
feelings away,
few diamonds,
foul ball,
literature,
new clock,
nice play,
paid her visit,
poetry,
sport throw,
strike,
strike one,
telephone road,
thin fog,
timeless,
wide crowd
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
Poem- "Patience"
"Patience"
You get two for loving each.
You buy sizes, you receive jigsaws in a banjo.
Broken into fortunes, veils remain so.
A push for a smile taunting in the stream.
Some naked drinks at the house I throw away.
There’s quite a bit of pepper for personality.
How can I shake love into the sands of time?
Bald fish can play shines museum-roar.
A lover can step a dance when stars look crispy.
I’m a masked array in a depression of pretensions.
Too much win, win, loss to sum.
Signs aren’t directions yet.
Simple pages are riding by.
A human is making inside a birth always.
I can’t tug at my charms over a canyon.
Leprechauns sure do dine at a rainbow.
My warm walk can truly sketch at psychology-colors.
Ice packs itself, cow-cup to singing.
Soda-straws are sweet if you can just imagine a horse.
There’s a temperature to lost behavior.
I’m thirsty for a looking glass from Goodwill’s ore.
The torment of lightning shocks my senses.
I live away or die near.
Teachers confuse me, but I confuse teachers.
So which teacher can I say I am?
My mom can wash songs with tealights.
Neighbors become strangers into families.
Books can wear so much ink in proper literature.
I’m a numb skull in a can of beans, tarro de frijoles.
A cookie isn’t exactly the wrong biscuit.
Customers are the cooks of life on demands for life.
I guess I’m just people again.
Labels:
broken fortune,
confused teachers,
jigsaw,
leprechaun,
literature,
naked drink,
numb skull,
poetry,
proper literature,
simple pages,
tealights,
throw it away,
too much,
two hearts,
two roads,
wrong biscuit
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
Poem- "Flying End"
"Flying End"
- - - - - - - - - - - -There's a clean equation
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - As my arrow hits the star
- - - - - - - It's a rivering orb
- - - - - - - - - - - -this beach is sharp with a coast I rub on,
- - - - - - - - - - A young ghost off the spring to your reversed pause
Color runs down
- - -: while a god sleeps in the disappearance
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -What's passing through death as closed?
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/flying-end/
- - - - - - - - - - - -There's a clean equation
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - As my arrow hits the star
- - - - - - - It's a rivering orb
- - - - - - - - - - - -this beach is sharp with a coast I rub on,
- - - - - - - - - - A young ghost off the spring to your reversed pause
Color runs down
- - -: while a god sleeps in the disappearance
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -What's passing through death as closed?
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/flying-end/
Monday, April 17, 2017
Poem- "Assumptions of a Soda Fan"
Assumptions of a Soda Fan
I take a grand taste and see everything as a watercoloring.
If I slip, it’s my fault on the ice.
The fruit needs more oxygen because that market is super.
I like the squeeze of soup, not a bowl of chunky lemons.
A mirror is simply a shadow, I can’t look behind it.
There’s nothing like a good old coffee cow cup.
I think pictures are words if you’re straight with them.
If soda-quarters would just match, I’d have a face with thirsty complexions.
Bees don’t drink from flowers enough, but they make a nice syrup.
I get island drinks from an hombre who shops at the rose.
When an actor shot a gun, I thought he spilled my drink.
Chocolate frosting makes a candy.
A strawberry has a straw in it.
Cookies are numb if they’re dry.
There are cups to cups, but people hide some of them.
Plenty of fast food places need Rose Soda with a taste from a garden faraway.
Every tea has its page.
I see candy that people may not see, but I am people.
Moxie is a noble name for its spirited vibe.
You can’t have all our colors in a rainbow.
If money is full of stars, how do we buy wishes.
I don’t live in a lock.
Gold is a color from a retired sun in jubilee.
We can make carrots with gold, but we need more oil.
Clerks know the clicks for a purchase.
Perfume isn’t old water, but I think it’s ancient.
Every tea has a fuse, that’s why they leak so well.
Nazis made drinks, but it was illegal for them to really drink.
We’re too much in a color, we have laws.
I’m not thirsty in a desert, but I don’t have a horse for burritos either.
Before I hunt for ducks, I need to feel from their thirst.
Sidewalks have lines and cracks, but I’m not drunk.
I don’t see pink elephants, but I see zebras on some chews.
I feel forgetful, but I’m not staying.
When I see jingle bells, I think of crunchy tacos.
Santa Claus drinks milk, but he’s never seen a cow.
But hey! On Christmas, why not drink something Mysterious, Magical, Mystical?
Something… Triple M?
Trees don’t grow all the food, that’s why we can be so thirsty.
If a farmer has to kill a cow, I’ll pray with Mexican Queso.
I hope there’s a wedding, ‘cause I’m up for a game!
Labels:
bundle of joy,
chunky lemons,
clicks for a purchase,
cuos,
every tea,
full of stars,
grand taste,
island drink,
literature,
Nazi,
old coffee,
poetry,
retired sun,
soda fan,
supermarket,
watercolor
Sunday, April 16, 2017
Restaurant Review, Carl’s Jr. 1031 West Avenue P Palmdale, CA 93551
Restaurant Review, Carl’s Jr.
1031 West Avenue P
Palmdale, CA 93551
Thursday, April 13, 2017
Poem- "On a Thinking Cloud to Tehachapi"
On a Thinking Cloud to Tehachapi
Tehachapi is as
away as near
in
summer romance and beyond my fresh hands.Disputes can be so brittle
since lovers may select my force
by playing blue moves on laidback beginnings.
Sure, there’s truth in motion, but lies are quick.
Who can spin the candle a little,
dancing waves in the room that lives?
I’m true to the settlements,
as roses can be quite blank,
a cinch of gravy in a basket
and
pleased
for
a pirate’s rock cold mixof springs and yellow lime.
Presently I’m busy for thirst
and I count the numbness,
dressed in macho logos
and understood by nurses who reveal,
as I come in full crush,
to be something
to Ventura’s good bulldog
and totally hit the planks again,
across from a barn wall in Saticoy
and rich in the full pictures.
I stir the vodka’s peach flavorettes
with chocolate por vidrio,
as I know the ages
I regress from in flying colors,
how enlarged in whole,
this spirit in a kindle,
leaking candy in starburst extraction,
becoming people again
with a spare for spikes,
hungry for whatever desire in consciousness,
here for there as everywhere
by the gross inferno with disgusting measures,
off the beats and eggs
for personality flight,
along mystical asphalt,
slapped with feet
undergoing as much going an exotic travel,
paying eye,
a living sum,
with a mentality for Socată and Medieval Margaritas,
numb at close quarters
with a spit of sugar
and normal dollar allowance,
taking cans of joy
with pear concentration
and citrus depression.
Sometimes I sleep while I wake
to subtle evening dreams,
taking a sip I heavily breathe
for remembrance,
imagining a considerable fusion
of cider and punches
on a boathouse in low key menthol exuberance,
and I’m becoming people again,
a patient learner of the wrong Spanish
by a divan of pinned cushions,
as I’m soft for nightmare steeds
with
plenty of fish to drink poetry from.
*This is an illustration of my drinking and cultural
interests, as well as the depression I had while being in Ventura after my
schizophrenia event, so phrases like “citrus depression” and “wrong Spanish”
are just examples of some of these corrupted feelings. Honestly, I only belong to an American party
because I have little choice; besides, I don’t think Democrats would approve of
what I do. I’m the kind of guy who gets
influenced by business names and attempts to create phrases which contain words
that don’t go together. Meaning alone isn’t
always key to good poetry; you also need visuals and textual graphics to
portray your imagination; otherwise, there’s just small talk with unpowerful
appeal. This is a poem about
drinks! Toast!
Socată!
By Bogdan29roman (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/dd/Socat%C4%83_sticl%C4%83.jpg
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ASocat%C4%83_sticl%C4%83.jpg
Labels:
California,
citrus,
dancing waves,
depression,
disgusting hell,
flying colors,
laidback,
poetry,
Romanian drink,
schizophrenia,
settlements,
socată,
summer romance,
truth in motion,
white roses
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Lime Photo- "The Skin of a Cloud"
"The Skin of a Cloud"
My phone has a breath for its song.
Calls bring me from the new wind.
There’s no bell, but the chip pops.
Skins can cover buttons with rings.
Yester-night, middle night blackness.
A pinch of thought can pour the rest.
Houses are machines since love provides.
Leave a scratch on an app, and doors find you.
Just show me the robot who believes my words.
Microwaves grill enough time to make me happy.
I know there’s a voice in my mail.
Faces are books if beauty sees them.
Gods are open before the gardens remain.
Cocktails can be made out of a can.
That’s why I worry, there’s enough pressure to play with gross food.
Candles have their own piece of sunshine.
I’m waiting for a call, waiting for a song.
If music wakes me, it’s because I’m pleased.
I own a feline cat with unknown colors.
What’s this to me, a dream of subtle prosperity?
Shadows wake beyond the floor.
There’s sleep in the air, hanging by a thread.
Of course, I can always sow that thread.
There’s nothing to do except time.
I can’t dial the screen away.
In videogames, we’re plumbers for gold.
Ah, that’s the gravy of despair!
Hats are walking, although soldiers fight.
I’m in a random house of memories.
If imagination drowns, I’ll fight reality.
*This is a poem of good quotes to complement my phone philosophy.
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
Photo Poem- "Sunnyvale Gold"
"Sunnyvale Gold"
With me beyond in work my mother sinks.
It’s free out there.
I’m coming to hold for all I can bear.
There isn’t enough cotton to make a heart any hold.
Eye that, dressed for welcome!
I’m too sleek in a stove to get my mind cooked.
I know there’s square feet for round shoes.
Maybe I can try an Animal Poll.
You know, put evolution in ink.
I’m just a Mind’s Fair,
an old fashioned sipper of jumbo straws,
brewing syrup in lots of mountain refreshments.
I’ll just keep a door in sunshine,
by push or pull with California’s strength.
I’m not one to surrender too gently.
I give lots of stars for enough visits.
First, establishments become jewel ferns under Earth’s breath.
Then, I’m a customer with the close quarters.
That’s the circle of capitalism, it’s a rose with a ticket.
*This sounds like a poem about my mother, but it’s also about my Atari 5200 controllers. The joysticks would be made of gold, figuratively, so the poem serves as talk about gold indirectly.
"About The Photo"-
A rendering of some galaxies as they nearly hit each other.
Or universes, whatever.
Galaxies can differ in colors against each other, but this is a fictional picture of reality.
It's conceptual yet surreal, colored against black.
I'm absolutely a beginning photographer, although I've had college and university experience.
Most of a person's education should have to involve that person only with minimal influence.
Trust me, getting school points from teachers for being "normal" is not good for artistic creativity.
With my work of photography here, I mix up the looks of real objects to make them look like other things, so my illustration of galaxies here is abstracted to create a glowing-sand effect.
Only buy a picture of this if it is truly what you want.
There's plenty of other works of mine that I feel are better such as "Deli Abstraction".
Enjoy!
With me beyond in work my mother sinks.
It’s free out there.
I’m coming to hold for all I can bear.
There isn’t enough cotton to make a heart any hold.
Eye that, dressed for welcome!
I’m too sleek in a stove to get my mind cooked.
I know there’s square feet for round shoes.
Maybe I can try an Animal Poll.
You know, put evolution in ink.
I’m just a Mind’s Fair,
an old fashioned sipper of jumbo straws,
brewing syrup in lots of mountain refreshments.
I’ll just keep a door in sunshine,
by push or pull with California’s strength.
I’m not one to surrender too gently.
I give lots of stars for enough visits.
First, establishments become jewel ferns under Earth’s breath.
Then, I’m a customer with the close quarters.
That’s the circle of capitalism, it’s a rose with a ticket.
*This sounds like a poem about my mother, but it’s also about my Atari 5200 controllers. The joysticks would be made of gold, figuratively, so the poem serves as talk about gold indirectly.
"About The Photo"-
A rendering of some galaxies as they nearly hit each other.
Or universes, whatever.
Galaxies can differ in colors against each other, but this is a fictional picture of reality.
It's conceptual yet surreal, colored against black.
I'm absolutely a beginning photographer, although I've had college and university experience.
Most of a person's education should have to involve that person only with minimal influence.
Trust me, getting school points from teachers for being "normal" is not good for artistic creativity.
With my work of photography here, I mix up the looks of real objects to make them look like other things, so my illustration of galaxies here is abstracted to create a glowing-sand effect.
Only buy a picture of this if it is truly what you want.
There's plenty of other works of mine that I feel are better such as "Deli Abstraction".
Enjoy!
Labels:
90's soda,
art on sale,
art print,
Atari,
beautiful locations,
canvas,
capitalism,
delicious rendering,
fern,
gold controllers,
mother,
old collections,
photography,
poetry,
Sunnyvale,
videogames
Sunday, April 9, 2017
Poem- "Dining the Galaxy"
Dining the Galaxy
In this world, cola may stretch.
We have lights and diets with enough spills for a drink.
Just listen to that little man who comes down the waterfall.
He just drowns in the fire before his destiny in the galaxy hue.
There’s too soft murmuring, chanting rap blue.
He can enter God and become, leave behind a comb in gel.
This weather needs a bath if the year drops a day.
Roses cuddle now by the coast because they’re “washed on the dial.”
Free soft-going, as I say!
The man paints his name to-hours as I recall him.
He keeps his Mexican nutrition at the giant wide-eyed coffee house of coyote lovers.
He sleeps as now sick dreams made of a fairy’s cotton.
His name has the quick sounds of Spanish bubbles in a melting pot.
Clouds have to drive somewhere if anything is here.
Storms wake when his blood boils in holy water.
I can’t swallow the soap when this tale has me.
His hombritos so strive in rusticity form on future rewind.
Modernity is Twix bars, coast to coast with other things.
The man is sleeping, but he’s not staying.
He is spicy warm with brisk sips if he seeps into time.
He’s alot love, many in Shakespeare’s tempest.
If perfume isn’t old water, why drink so much?
Squirts are frozen by the far lands of magnetism.
A compass can lead him, for God is its guardian.
So will waters away, drinks beyond orders, remain for his thirsty complexions?
His madre’s gulps of summer torrents keep him at bay.
Diners cook under His shining arches.
*About my soda adventures; more poems like this one could
happen.
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AGlass_cola.jpg
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/10/Glass_cola.jpg
By pic_p_ter (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Labels:
cola,
Dial soap,
drowning in fire,
favorites,
lights,
literature,
little man,
love for soda,
nice drinks,
old water,
perfume,
poetry,
rap blue,
soft murmuring,
sugar bubbles,
too much soda,
vacation,
waterfall
Friday, April 7, 2017
Poem- "My American Dream"
http://gameuniverso.deviantart.com/art/My-American-Dream-673600447
"My American Dream"- poetry about my mom's nursing.
It’s just storms in bubbles, with a cod open, draping that name into world out and in.
A touch can leak, movement to all sores.
A subtle finish with enough ways to stir peace in an exotic mix.
Ears can really swim if the consciousness is naked.
Truth soothes hurt before hatred to dare.
As strangers call QVC, there’s mystery in an array of lights back again.
Fine, close doors keep paths in the house.
It’s just a little way with nothing to some.
As full dare, becoming into one full glance as murderers seek.
They are as ravenous as wheels on an electric chair, and they die on it.
Hmmm, full point.
There’s much to be long and the hurt matters.
What’s this metal in a pen, like some knife in a feather or blood in a drink?
And parents would choose children to see what anyone brought.
It’s too slow to profit for these words.
It’s when we don’t gleam for the sky blue moon on correct lands.
If my dream seems to be, there might be riches we’re confused for.
You see what’s underneath the hat, a plumber for gold going an extra life.
The world doesn’t have enough to drink.
And we are old when we are young.
We pass when we stay, taking years by their cotton-tails and spilling over madness.
Suppose now, for I am much greater than meat.
Chances get closed of the hours, of the papyrus in shadowing crayons.
It’s unlimiting little readers, as sayers can kiss the glue to music.
It’s the animals for our oxygen, with flowers near the galaxy, and the gravity for our voices.
Can it really be true that we sing with certain measures?
With how my dream has come, I see the blinds of a white rainbow fall.
Jokes can be tossed or livin’, days to signatures with a heavy glance as I search for one.
This statement is in a torrent of Sacto Ice and Bako Desserts.
It’s since California quite reaches itself.
It’s when shoppers are through the gap for snickers in a melting pot with a casual decay.
Since my dream is a game, dice can count up the same as dominos.
There’s a ruler for beauty and I can’t build it.
For too long there’s mine.
It’s rather a decoration of philosophy as a rich consumer.
And besides, springs may arrive right after the fall, and I drink from my swim in this dream.
Imagination is twisting its bubbles.
And citizens are the Snow Glare.
It’s the painting in a cell.
It’s with so many relations to hike over in a feel that I adore to greatly.
Mothers are kisses in apples that melt with seeds.
I can see dads by proper anchors who wait before spilling the beans.
Skies float beside sailing clouds in vagabondage, so there exist many oceans of poetry.
Button Poetry is a drink without much influence if you consider the scarcity of extravagant tales.
But, I’m looking for giant invisible walls.
I snare as you say, a fixed tool that didn’t need tools.
I’m talking about psychology in the pressure, a sign that is to form.
We can read the weather for all that’s gone.
We can sway back to full force, come again with envy.
My language rattles along in heavy sums.
We are the mystical roars in American dreams, the cold cut of sleep that heals over love.
*This poem is an urban work of literature about a patient’s independence; I’m the patient.
Food Photo- "The Pastrami Abstract"
Food Photo- "The Pastrami Abstract"
A picture like this acts like a painting.
It's part of an abstract illustration of what colors and textures would relate to a pastrami sandwich.
Whatever house you have for preference can be interpreted with decoration and design.
If you get a recommended painting of this, make sure you have a nice wall for presentation.
Texture of sand is a promotional feature of this work, and the picture looks different by distances.
Effects include Saturday morning and religious politics.
Have a nice day!
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