forest-kvasnikoff - Hello Poetry

The kettle is a plugin, glass carafe, stainless steal base, with lights and buttons, the whole deal. A hush of cold tap water into the carafe, the weight pulls at my wrist as it fills, a satisfying click onto its base, the beep, beep, button click and we begin to boil, LED lights from white to red. I think of beginnings & electricity, how easy I have it, yawn, scratch my testicles, and my perpetually itchy ******* wash my hands. wait. stare. listen. At the start, all is quiet, a swirl of heat can be seen as the water begins its transformation. I think of my wife, at twenty-two, standing outside my window early morning, smiling at me. As the water heats, bottom up, bubbles form, water to vapor, right before my eyes. I think of my daughters, the smell of their heads, their warm tiny hands, grabbing my face. At about 160 degrees Fahrenheit the water beings to roar, the rapid creation and collapse of tiny steam bubbles has arrived. I think of the bickering, with my wife, with my daughters, with myself, I'm dark, but just for a moment. At about 205 degrees, the gaseous forming bubbles of water transition from a roar to a babble. I think of spooning my wife, my sleeping daughters, sunlight on my face when its cold outside. The kettle beeps at me, I hold it high and pour into the press, a bathtub filling sound. I think of splashing, the giggles of my daughters in the tub. The grinds float to the top, a tan froth has formed. It is 7:23 AM. I have 4 minutes until my day begins.

0

Dec 30, 2024

Dec 30, 2024 at 1:06 AM UTC

I make my coffee slow

The kettle is a plugin, glass carafe, stainless steal base, with lights and buttons, the whole deal. A hush of cold tap water into the carafe, the weight pulls at my wrist as it fills, a satisfying click onto its base, the beep, beep, button click and we begin to boil, LED lights from white to red. I think of beginnings & electricity, how easy I have it, yawn, scratch my testicles, and my perpetually itchy ******* wash my hands. wait. stare. listen. At the start, all is quiet, a swirl of heat can be seen as the water begins its transformation. I think of my wife, at twenty-two, standing outside my window early morning, smiling at me. As the water heats, bottom up, bubbles form, water to vapor, right before my eyes. I think of my daughters, the smell of their heads, their warm tiny hands, grabbing my face. At about 160 degrees Fahrenheit the water beings to roar, the rapid creation and collapse of tiny steam bubbles has arrived. I think of the bickering, with my wife, with my daughters, with myself, I'm dark, but just for a moment. At about 205 degrees, the gaseous forming bubbles of water transition from a roar to a babble. I think of spooning my wife, my sleeping daughters, sunlight on my face when its cold outside. The kettle beeps at me, I hold it high and pour into the press, a bathtub filling sound. I think of splashing, the giggles of my daughters in the tub. The grinds float to the top, a tan froth has formed. It is 7:23 AM. I have 4 minutes until my day begins.

56

I live in a trailer park, beyond a decade now. I suppose outside of here, they're called "mobile" parks. Here, they're trailer parks. There is a trailer hitch, but that ain't pulling this ***** nowhere, no-how. Trailers in Juneau, Alaska stand crookedly rectangular, with a 60s/70s "I wasn't built for this **** tiredness. Rust, moss, fungus, dirt, cat **** dilapidation, all common traits to the TP kingdom. These are rhomboids with a forceful will to be real homes, on steel beds with wheels, propped up on cinder blocks, ambition, and dreams. Modifications and additions have been nailed, and ******* and glued and affixed in every possible manner conceivable. An 8x4 plywood laid on a tarp to stop a leak is not a repair, but an improvement. These improvements make the mobile into a trailer, flirting with that trophy ***** ********** called home. No disrespect. Expensive, alluring, pay-as-you can, home **** They'll take you for all your worth. And smile. And so will you. Real people **** and make love here. They die of cancer, go through pregnancy, pick their nose, do math homework, ********** write poetry, ********** do **** mow lawns, hold children hostage, make coffee, help their neighbors, go to vote, make art, ***** their neighbors, dream. They slide their backs down the walls of their homes in bouts of sorrow, turning their guts into fistfuls of rocks and despair. Heaving out their regrets in spit and snot and fury. They all live here. And so do I.

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Mar 9, 2024

Mar 9, 2024 at 2:05 AM UTC

Where I Live

I live in a trailer park, beyond a decade now. I suppose outside of here, they're called "mobile" parks. Here, they're trailer parks. There is a trailer hitch, but that ain't pulling this ***** nowhere, no-how. Trailers in Juneau, Alaska stand crookedly rectangular, with a 60s/70s "I wasn't built for this **** tiredness. Rust, moss, fungus, dirt, cat **** dilapidation, all common traits to the TP kingdom. These are rhomboids with a forceful will to be real homes, on steel beds with wheels, propped up on cinder blocks, ambition, and dreams. Modifications and additions have been nailed, and ******* and glued and affixed in every possible manner conceivable. An 8x4 plywood laid on a tarp to stop a leak is not a repair, but an improvement. These improvements make the mobile into a trailer, flirting with that trophy ***** ********** called home. No disrespect. Expensive, alluring, pay-as-you can, home **** They'll take you for all your worth. And smile. And so will you. Real people **** and make love here. They die of cancer, go through pregnancy, pick their nose, do math homework, ********** write poetry, ********** do **** mow lawns, hold children hostage, make coffee, help their neighbors, go to vote, make art, ***** their neighbors, dream. They slide their backs down the walls of their homes in bouts of sorrow, turning their guts into fistfuls of rocks and despair. Heaving out their regrets in spit and snot and fury. They all live here. And so do I.

50

We are walking toward Mendenhall Glacier, it's 15 degrees Fahrenheit, or so, there is an inch of dry sandy snow atop the lake's frozen face, it creaks under our feet, like a wooden boat. the sky is blank-blue the sun is washing the snow, ice, and mountains in blinding white and shadows our Ophelia has questions about the ice. "what will happen when the ice is gone?" I dig my brain, inside myself, I don't really know. my instinct is toward the material, the tangible, like my wife: "we won't be able to see the glacier from here anymore." Ophelia turns this for a beat, "Does the ice get smaller?" "yep" It does. Where does it go? It melts. Where does it go? It flows in rivers to lakes and the ocean. I churn inside myself how much does a 7 year old need to know? how much do I actually know? the sun bleaches the colors of the world, the ancient ice glows an ethereal blue, the mountains tower their power. I think of the end, of all of this, to all of this. Later, we eat a hamburger and French fries.

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Mar 4, 2024

Mar 4, 2024 at 12:37 AM UTC

"What'll happen when the ice is gone?"

We are walking toward Mendenhall Glacier, it's 15 degrees Fahrenheit, or so, there is an inch of dry sandy snow atop the lake's frozen face, it creaks under our feet, like a wooden boat. the sky is blank-blue the sun is washing the snow, ice, and mountains in blinding white and shadows our Ophelia has questions about the ice. "what will happen when the ice is gone?" I dig my brain, inside myself, I don't really know. my instinct is toward the material, the tangible, like my wife: "we won't be able to see the glacier from here anymore." Ophelia turns this for a beat, "Does the ice get smaller?" "yep" It does. Where does it go? It melts. Where does it go? It flows in rivers to lakes and the ocean. I churn inside myself how much does a 7 year old need to know? how much do I actually know? the sun bleaches the colors of the world, the ancient ice glows an ethereal blue, the mountains tower their power. I think of the end, of all of this, to all of this. Later, we eat a hamburger and French fries.

36

There is a certain beauty in it. The spider-web bridges across a watery milk chocolate gateway, churning rust water, as steel ships glide through the slick like drones. The metallic twists and turns of silver pipes crisscross across roadways and itself, creating apocalyptic silver castles and causeways of itself. The fog and clouds caress every visual body, a seductive clinging, like a cheating spouse's tongue. The hum and clang of forgotten promises rumble the earth. And we are afraid. Perhaps it's not beauty, maybe, an aesthetic: Apocalyptic Industrialization

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Dec 28, 2023

Dec 28, 2023 at 1:26 AM UTC

Approaching New Orleans from the West

There is a certain beauty in it. The spider-web bridges across a watery milk chocolate gateway, churning rust water, as steel ships glide through the slick like drones. The metallic twists and turns of silver pipes crisscross across roadways and itself, creating apocalyptic silver castles and causeways of itself. The fog and clouds caress every visual body, a seductive clinging, like a cheating spouse's tongue. The hum and clang of forgotten promises rumble the earth. And we are afraid. Perhaps it's not beauty, maybe, an aesthetic: Apocalyptic Industrialization

19

a Columbine flower, a blazing reddish orange thing, with heart of yellow, a clustered tendril thing, a green stem, impossibly thin, springing from gray rocks they shiver, dance, and bow to the will of the wind’s mood unlike its siblings and cousins the Columbine stares downward earthward not to the heavens but hellwards a lonely band of rainbow a tired, knowing flower, among the forget-me-nots how like the Columbine i feel

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Jun 13, 2023

Jun 13, 2023 at 3:33 AM UTC

A flower, a man

a Columbine flower, a blazing reddish orange thing, with heart of yellow, a clustered tendril thing, a green stem, impossibly thin, springing from gray rocks they shiver, dance, and bow to the will of the wind’s mood unlike its siblings and cousins the Columbine stares downward earthward not to the heavens but hellwards a lonely band of rainbow a tired, knowing flower, among the forget-me-nots how like the Columbine i feel

22

a shadow with a need needles me each day each hour until sleep the shadow is me on the side of seeing the gray edges of myself another drink smooth the jagged edges of moonlit realities i'll be better tomorrow

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May 25, 2023

May 25, 2023 at 9:37 PM UTC

Maybe Tomorrow

a shadow with a need needles me each day each hour until sleep the shadow is me on the side of seeing the gray edges of myself another drink smooth the jagged edges of moonlit realities i'll be better tomorrow

14

i banged a goldfish we, both, were paralyzed in the end for different reasons

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Nov 23, 2022

Nov 23, 2022 at 4:05 AM UTC

In the end

i banged a goldfish we, both, were paralyzed in the end for different reasons

4

I have a young one and an old one they are four and nine respectively one night, the young one expressed her love for me with her hands the first was for her mother her arms stretched obtusely, for me, they were acute she was honest I cried. the older one brought me water We went to sleep.

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Mar 22, 2021

Mar 22, 2021 at 1:54 AM UTC

Reality

I have a young one and an old one they are four and nine respectively one night, the young one expressed her love for me with her hands the first was for her mother her arms stretched obtusely, for me, they were acute she was honest I cried. the older one brought me water We went to sleep.

15

alarm dogmatical snakebird dictator **** rooster of electro maniacal damnation wake goober eyed ithyphallic mortal yahoo yawns glacier shuffle to Midas’ bowl brush minty hairy pasty headed ******** seafoam ***** on white vanity beaches shave deceitful murderous metal cartel scraping dead shrubs from yesterday’s winter breakfast egg flour chalk smack guzzling bean kerosene work batshit bureaucratic badgers bludgeon muktuk hamsters lubricating wheels of fortune lunch butcher’s dead friend between greasy toasted cement harlot’s heavenly tomato mating cabbage cousin work taradiddle of martyrs at jargon’s temple blather babble, bumble - copulation without *********** dinner unicorn steaks, butterfly sauté, and leprechaun fingers, a side of manslaughter dolphin sleep a felon’s holiday repeat

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Jan 23, 2019

Jan 23, 2019 at 3:56 AM UTC

A day in the life of a married white collar worker

alarm dogmatical snakebird dictator **** rooster of electro maniacal damnation wake goober eyed ithyphallic mortal yahoo yawns glacier shuffle to Midas’ bowl brush minty hairy pasty headed ******** seafoam ***** on white vanity beaches shave deceitful murderous metal cartel scraping dead shrubs from yesterday’s winter breakfast egg flour chalk smack guzzling bean kerosene work batshit bureaucratic badgers bludgeon muktuk hamsters lubricating wheels of fortune lunch butcher’s dead friend between greasy toasted cement harlot’s heavenly tomato mating cabbage cousin work taradiddle of martyrs at jargon’s temple blather babble, bumble - copulation without *********** dinner unicorn steaks, butterfly sauté, and leprechaun fingers, a side of manslaughter dolphin sleep a felon’s holiday repeat

30

words are sacred salty plush ****** mean divine. they escape me. they elude me. these innocent, cosmically granular, words. i’d lick the noble chalk off the board of Bukowski and Hughes, Whitman and Sexton, Ginsberg and Wilde, for the privilege to spit life comes with its bitter calendar, shackling you to a bloodsucking propagandist, always asking for your time you take your pills of coal and lime - a father, a worker, a man, a lover - a tyrant over a narrow scope of existence called you and you live and we live and i live a paralysis of carbon and function together, a baffling empire of fire and ankle socks, destined for a hearse that someone else will pay for before we eat the dirt we wear these perverted hats that say i’m this they’re that and you’re… a writer i’ll never be

0

Jan 23, 2019

Jan 23, 2019 at 12:46 AM UTC

words gotta word

words are sacred salty plush ****** mean divine. they escape me. they elude me. these innocent, cosmically granular, words. i’d lick the noble chalk off the board of Bukowski and Hughes, Whitman and Sexton, Ginsberg and Wilde, for the privilege to spit life comes with its bitter calendar, shackling you to a bloodsucking propagandist, always asking for your time you take your pills of coal and lime - a father, a worker, a man, a lover - a tyrant over a narrow scope of existence called you and you live and we live and i live a paralysis of carbon and function together, a baffling empire of fire and ankle socks, destined for a hearse that someone else will pay for before we eat the dirt we wear these perverted hats that say i’m this they’re that and you’re… a writer i’ll never be

39