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Monday, July 27, 2015

Pity for a Loving God




PITY FOR A LOVING GOD


It must be extraordinarily painful to be a loving God.
Omniscience would be a terrible burden, I think.
Imagine being forced to know without asking
all of the possible futures of each and every one of us.

Ponder how a God must feel, watching you come home on Tuesday,
wondering what was for dinner, planning your weekend,
content with your lot in life, a busy, productive day at the office,
blissfully unaware of what your life might have been like.

If you had gone to a different school, in a different state,
you might have met a woman on that other campus
whose perceptions and intellect surpass your wildest expectations
and thrilled you every day with new and scintillating insights.

And think how a loving God would feel, forced to know
that another man she might have found to marry
would have pleased and comforted her more
than it will ever be possible for you to do, no matter what.

Had you moved across the country, you might have met a friend
whose knowledge and insight into art fired a passion in you,
leading your life down another path, one vastly more satisfying than this.
How such knowledge must vex a loving Almighty.

The differences between what is and what might have been,
multiplied by the billions of souls under His charge,
each life reflected upon his thoughts in infinite variety,
the curse of free will making bad choices the ones that must stand.





©2015 Christopher Reilley

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Friday, July 24, 2015

More

 


 MORE

I see myself holding you close to me,
squeezing your body tight.
But for all I see as I daydream -
I know I'll get tenfold tonight.

Running my palms across your breast,
as you tremble and bite your lip.
Feeling your hands upon my chest,
the softness of each fingertip.

Tasting your neck so sweet, so soft,
and slowly lowering my kiss
over pert nipples, across your navel,
and finally into pure bliss.

Looking upon your face from below
as you tilt back your head.
Feeling your fountains begin to flow
as you ease back on the bed.

Your "innocent little devil" look,
crying insatiably with the sensation.
Lip to lip lapping up every drip
from the well of your creation.

The way you pull me up by the hair
to the heat of your mouth, on fire.
No other thoughts, no other cares,
just the quenching of mad desire.

Riding the tide of passion,
pushing my love into you
on the waves of your emotion
in slow motion, so sweet and true.

Pulse pounding in resounding rapture,
taken to the hilt, then just past.
Rhythm growing, faces glowing,
the climax coming fast.

That heated, illicit look
of ecstasy across your eyes,
echoing throughout the heavens
on overindulgent cries.

The sultry look upon your face
in reaching that gyrating gush,
the way you bite my fingers
when I try to make you hush.

Your arching back, your fingernails,
your perfume mixed with sweat.
The way you keep rubbing against me
with your insides already so wet.

Love the way when I'm beat dead and ready
to fall face first to the floor,
you put your sweet lips to my ear-
and whisper, "I want more! "

©2012 Christopher Reilley
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Sunday, July 12, 2015

The Ballad of the Ricoh Kid



OK, I am a print geek. I have pad my bills for over thirty years in the print technology industry. I read the trades like I used to read the funnies, I get excited about printing on brushed aluminum, or at blinding speeds, or in layers that build up into shapes. Both inkjet and toner, cut sheet or continuous roll, feeding a template a database to create variable data, designing hot folders, mastering books for print on demand, imposing booklets to be saddle stitched, that is the kind of stuff that is my bread and butter.

Oddly enough, I work as a traveling print workflow expert. My peers and I are the single most intensively trained force of print enthusiasts the American marketplace has ever seen. As a tribute to the war stories we have shared, regardless of the print or graphics company we worked for at the time, the trials we have all endured, the customers we have placated, I offer the following epic ode to a very, very small niche of society, the print technologist.


THE BALLAD OF THE RICOH KID


There once was a print tech, a genuine print geek,
a guy you would turn to for solutions.
He lay ink and toner on substrate all week,
and followed all the technical revolutions.

He knew color, he knew pre-press, he knew how to impose,
registration was his idea of a great time.
He fixed client files, and you have all seen those,
he preferred to do his book finishing in-line.

There was no stock he couldn't use, no font he couldn't wrangle,
no corporate network he could not handshake.
He adjusted screenings with swiftly calculated angles,
he fixed every configuration anyone managed to break.

Of course he was called on to minister his trade,
he found employment as a traveling print expert for hire.
He helped others workflow, helped them buy and upgrade,
it was not long before he set the print world on fire.

With every customer he rescued, every crisis he corrected,
his reputation as a miracle worker grew larger each day.
When he talked of solutions, his word was respected,
when he left, customers were all squared away.

Of course he had a least favorite, all the great ones do,
that one client who just never takes good advice.
The ones that try to force a new printer to run through
the workflow in place before they bought the device.

They subset their fonts, checked critical color under office lights,
never configured custom media in their trays.
Every minor issue becomes a crisis that over excites,
and every decision means countless meetings and delays.

Then one day he was called on to assist the Client from Hell,
the absolute worst, she was bad, she was the Ultimate Customer
She was the villain of almost every horror story techs tell,
even the hungriest of salespeople cut and run from her.

Until the Kid walked through her door, into printing Nightmare;
disorganized floor, humidity at max, an inefficient and repetitive workflow.
There was archaic machinery with only haphazard  repair,
stacks of unlabelled media, piled in rickety tableaux.

She took an hour to explain she had a problem she could not understand,
another hour before he understood it was one of registration.
Once he let her wind down, he quickly took the problem in hand,
and as usual, it turned out to be in the configuration.

But he knew that if he did not do something, he would be back here again
applying bandages where transplants were sorely needed.
Costly delays and additional reprints made her madder than a wet hen,
but previous advice usually went ignored and unheeded.

“I’m sorry to say, you are doomed from the start, your PDF files are DOA.
Your ADF needs TCRU’s, your AQL is low,  your DPI is totally wrong.
Your ICC profiles are beyond repair, registration drifts more every day,
at the rate you are going you'll be dead in a month, so start learning funeral songs.”

He put the fear of print failure into her that summer afternoon,
horrified her with descriptions of failure in complex jargon.
He spoke of commitments blown, how leasing payments balloon,
and then he threw destitution and bankruptcy into the bargain.

By the time he was done she had sworn to do right, she was changed,
he had overcome each and every one of her objections.
Together they toiled until the shop was ordered and rearranged,
She now dutifully followed all of his print directions.

It was not long at all before she was out of the red,
her print quality was now consistent and repeatable.
Instead of running behind maintenance, now she was running ahead,
and her color in one word - unbeatable.

Best practices make more money, saving hassles and grief,
A printer usually only fails when mis-configured, heaven forbid.
She learned lessons that would last, though his time there was brief,
she was now finally making profit, thanks to the Ricoh Kid.




©2015 Christopher Reilley
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Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Garden of Poems




GARDEN OF POEMS

Do you think it odd
that I have poems in my trees?
The birds read them
before they settle in for the night.
They make songs of them,
practicing quite hard
until they are ready to sing them.

I strung words among the branches
and watched the birds weave them
into words only they and I understand.
Sweet-smelling, harbinger words.

As the morning light bends
the birds try out my poems
sifting through them until they find one,
just one,
that says what they want to say.

With morning light
the words of the birdsong,
written on the wind in tree sap,
make poetry for all time.



©2015 Christopher Reilley 
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This piece dedicated to the Dedham Square Artist Guild 

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

A Life in Politics



It began with a weight that no one wanted.

When it kissed the ground, the dandelions rejoiced.
Go ahead, breathe life into their dreams of travel,
in a child's burst of synaptic explosion,
They do not mind, not at all.

Watching the fireworks as a soul breaks free.

A line with a radius that meets itself
is little more than a circle, 
a square with too many corners cut,
fitting in.

Serious clouds gather to discuss rain,
and so there is rain. But in all of this time
no caveman has ever hailed a cab,
no shark ever called a cop.

Two wrongs have never made a right
but three lefts do. It is not the soap that offends,
it is the soapbox.

We would all do well to remember that
the room was entirely silent
when Pilate washed his hands.




©2015 Christopher Reilley 
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