jon-tobias - Hello Poetry

I wish the traveling circus were still around to run away to. It's not about being afraid to leave as much as it is needing a place to go. But my father was a mountain and my mother was a hole. And we're caves, mouths open and full of the cold. Been sitting so long myths have been made about the things that live inside us. The children come on dares to look in there. And yell in fear, at first only to have those sounds echo back. Then they laugh. There was never anything to be afraid of. Our bodies are full of that noise. Mostly the laughter. It lasts longer. It feels better. But is easier to forget because no one ever learned anything by laughing as much as being brave. You have to be scared to be brave. And moving from this place takes the strength of an earthquake sometimes. But you should know, your hands will never be big enough to hold all the rubble when the mountain crumbles. I remember when the cancer hit. The chest x rays from when they removed the portocath. Backlit, your chest resembles a busted cemetery gate from some ghost scene in a Sherlock Holmes movie. Broken. From letting all your ghosts go. And don't focus on all the things your hands can't hold. Your head fits just fine. Your hand. Cupped over your mouth to catch all your sighs. Can hold a cup of coffee to give to someone. Flowers. A poem. Tonight. Tonight you realize you're a mountain twice removed. A marble statue. So strong and so beautiful people will come a long ways just to see you.

0

Apr 8, 2015

Apr 8, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC

jon-tobias

Drunk Text Poem, Number Whatever

I wish the traveling circus were still around to run away to. It's not about being afraid to leave as much as it is needing a place to go. But my father was a mountain and my mother was a hole. And we're caves, mouths open and full of the cold. Been sitting so long myths have been made about the things that live inside us. The children come on dares to look in there. And yell in fear, at first only to have those sounds echo back. Then they laugh. There was never anything to be afraid of. Our bodies are full of that noise. Mostly the laughter. It lasts longer. It feels better. But is easier to forget because no one ever learned anything by laughing as much as being brave. You have to be scared to be brave. And moving from this place takes the strength of an earthquake sometimes. But you should know, your hands will never be big enough to hold all the rubble when the mountain crumbles. I remember when the cancer hit. The chest x rays from when they removed the portocath. Backlit, your chest resembles a busted cemetery gate from some ghost scene in a Sherlock Holmes movie. Broken. From letting all your ghosts go. And don't focus on all the things your hands can't hold. Your head fits just fine. Your hand. Cupped over your mouth to catch all your sighs. Can hold a cup of coffee to give to someone. Flowers. A poem. Tonight. Tonight you realize you're a mountain twice removed. A marble statue. So strong and so beautiful people will come a long ways just to see you.

1

I wouldn't call them scars. Our bodies are ancient calendars marked with times and places. Tonight, you are not real. You are the desperate ocean lapping at the shoreline trying to take back the secrets in the bottles cast off by lovers, and children, letters to the dead sometimes. They are not your secrets, but they came to you first. They are full of feelings you have once felt or will feel. The bottles glisten in the sand mockingly, beautifully, painfully, like window shopping for jewelry you'll never be able to afford. You never expect to want the glass back after it has been pulled out of you. But the stories inside are your stories now too. You cast them off in the same manner hoping somone better than the sea will find them. The story about your cancer, your mother, the love you feel right now, the love returned, the time you thought of the beauty of a flower, the flower you killed to show someone how beautiful it was, the realization of the importance of stillness. All those stories like broken bottles in your skin. Like jewels encrusted on a big brass door leading to a room you live in. But tonight, you are the ocean at high tide, finally getting your bottles back.

0

Mar 10, 2015

Mar 10, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC

jon-tobias

Drunk Text Love Poem # 1

I wouldn't call them scars. Our bodies are ancient calendars marked with times and places. Tonight, you are not real. You are the desperate ocean lapping at the shoreline trying to take back the secrets in the bottles cast off by lovers, and children, letters to the dead sometimes. They are not your secrets, but they came to you first. They are full of feelings you have once felt or will feel. The bottles glisten in the sand mockingly, beautifully, painfully, like window shopping for jewelry you'll never be able to afford. You never expect to want the glass back after it has been pulled out of you. But the stories inside are your stories now too. You cast them off in the same manner hoping somone better than the sea will find them. The story about your cancer, your mother, the love you feel right now, the love returned, the time you thought of the beauty of a flower, the flower you killed to show someone how beautiful it was, the realization of the importance of stillness. All those stories like broken bottles in your skin. Like jewels encrusted on a big brass door leading to a room you live in. But tonight, you are the ocean at high tide, finally getting your bottles back.

1

The metal in this brass knuckle heart punches my chest from the inside out The valves, a semiconductor for the static electricity of your touch Who ever thought a defibrillator could be so soft? And in the challenge of this love I wonder what kind of mettle you're thinking of now And I think patience is found on a molecular level inside the iron in your blood And love then, a stone ground down from your ashes I mean, pressure and heat are what diamonds are made from Tell me again of the struggles you shone through And through that logic, we are precious stones but so much softer than that I want to hold you like the focused light from a jeweler trying to make a sale but so much more earnest than that And what of the contradiction between hardness and softness Because there is you How can you be so hard and so full of life? How can you be so beautiful?

0

Dec 29, 2014

Dec 29, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC

jon-tobias

Drunk Poem number 86: Christmas at 1 AM

The metal in this brass knuckle heart punches my chest from the inside out The valves, a semiconductor for the static electricity of your touch Who ever thought a defibrillator could be so soft? And in the challenge of this love I wonder what kind of mettle you're thinking of now And I think patience is found on a molecular level inside the iron in your blood And love then, a stone ground down from your ashes I mean, pressure and heat are what diamonds are made from Tell me again of the struggles you shone through And through that logic, we are precious stones but so much softer than that I want to hold you like the focused light from a jeweler trying to make a sale but so much more earnest than that And what of the contradiction between hardness and softness Because there is you How can you be so hard and so full of life? How can you be so beautiful?

28

Today I did not miss the ghost parade Which always comes without warning And leaves the way your glasses do Dusting its tracks before placing itself On the counter in the bathroom I think of the pain that comes with growing wings And understanding the difference between Beauty and utility I am too big to fly We need to grow simpler things from our backs Starting with patience But I am just being silly Patience should grow from your lungs The ghost parade is a quiet thing Always manages to pass through you With the slowness of a carriage ride Through some well lit park in the evening And just like all ghosts They remind you of something you've lost Or will never have And takes it with them when they leave The parade marched off with my wings Silver feathers erupting like confetti I heard the hunters load their rifles And assumed this was a good thing

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Dec 20, 2014

Dec 20, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC

jon-tobias

The Ghost Parade

Today I did not miss the ghost parade Which always comes without warning And leaves the way your glasses do Dusting its tracks before placing itself On the counter in the bathroom I think of the pain that comes with growing wings And understanding the difference between Beauty and utility I am too big to fly We need to grow simpler things from our backs Starting with patience But I am just being silly Patience should grow from your lungs The ghost parade is a quiet thing Always manages to pass through you With the slowness of a carriage ride Through some well lit park in the evening And just like all ghosts They remind you of something you've lost Or will never have And takes it with them when they leave The parade marched off with my wings Silver feathers erupting like confetti I heard the hunters load their rifles And assumed this was a good thing

25

For a moment, right now, pretend that forgiveness will never feel like taking a bet. That the phrase, "I love you," Is not just another form of turrets. Pretend that you've got a pocket heavy with change and you walk like a wishing well wind-chime. And you've got a nickel in there for every time you cried for something. And your chance to change is as easy as flicking your thumb. Launching a coin into a pool of water. Pretend that you've got a penny melted and molded from the iron in your blood. Pretend that that wish will come true. Pretend that I just put mine down on a bet on you. Double or nothing, because ********* kid, to me, you mean something. And I don't mean any big life success. This is deathbed memories type **** Who was there when it mattered type **** Pizza on the car hood when the mice are asleep in the oven and the birds have nested in the old stove burners. Finding safety in a hammock held up by the corners of a mouth. Warmth in arms when you realized how cold it was actually going to be down south. For a moment right now pretend. That you've got a friend with a body made of drawbridge and hands strong enough to close it when you need to. Eyes like a moat. A blanket quilted from your lover's muscles. For a moment right now pretend that that friend isn't me. It's you. Forget God. Forget finding forgiveness and love there. On the inside that friend is you. Making penny bets like a Philippino woman in the smoking section of a casino. Double or nothing. 50/50. Pretend now that I'll be there too. Tossing coins in a well. Wishing only the best for you.

0

Aug 5, 2014

Aug 5, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC

jon-tobias

Drunk Text #73 Pretend

For a moment, right now, pretend that forgiveness will never feel like taking a bet. That the phrase, "I love you," Is not just another form of turrets. Pretend that you've got a pocket heavy with change and you walk like a wishing well wind-chime. And you've got a nickel in there for every time you cried for something. And your chance to change is as easy as flicking your thumb. Launching a coin into a pool of water. Pretend that you've got a penny melted and molded from the iron in your blood. Pretend that that wish will come true. Pretend that I just put mine down on a bet on you. Double or nothing, because ********* kid, to me, you mean something. And I don't mean any big life success. This is deathbed memories type **** Who was there when it mattered type **** Pizza on the car hood when the mice are asleep in the oven and the birds have nested in the old stove burners. Finding safety in a hammock held up by the corners of a mouth. Warmth in arms when you realized how cold it was actually going to be down south. For a moment right now pretend. That you've got a friend with a body made of drawbridge and hands strong enough to close it when you need to. Eyes like a moat. A blanket quilted from your lover's muscles. For a moment right now pretend that that friend isn't me. It's you. Forget God. Forget finding forgiveness and love there. On the inside that friend is you. Making penny bets like a Philippino woman in the smoking section of a casino. Double or nothing. 50/50. Pretend now that I'll be there too. Tossing coins in a well. Wishing only the best for you.

1

My father is an old truck Sunbleached red Breathes broken bottles A faulty catalytic converter throat All the smoke trapped inside But the nicotine helps his brain function Cinderblock sturdy But skinny A single pillar holding the roof up A man built in a time when you had to tell things it was time to die Leave them in a field somewhere and forget about How do you write a love poem to a car of a man Built in a time without airbags? A car of a man who crashed with you inside so many times You learned about rebuilding from experience From trial and error And how do you forgive a man who can no longer tell you he’s sorry? Trucks Don’t feel Don’t give up Don’t hurt you on purpose Sometimes something inside just breaks And no one catches it And maybe you crash Break a nose Black an eye As far as I know I am not a broken man But I’ve learned where all the parts go And if I am my father’s son A mechanic more often than a car maybe Then I will be fine The truck is dying And beyond repair You forgive it for that It is old and past its time And maybe it can’t say that it’s sorry But there is a field somewhere that you plan on leaving it To collect weeds And rust And be forgotten So you forgive it

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Jul 29, 2014

Jul 29, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC

jon-tobias

What a Mechanic Knows About Forgiveness

My father is an old truck Sunbleached red Breathes broken bottles A faulty catalytic converter throat All the smoke trapped inside But the nicotine helps his brain function Cinderblock sturdy But skinny A single pillar holding the roof up A man built in a time when you had to tell things it was time to die Leave them in a field somewhere and forget about How do you write a love poem to a car of a man Built in a time without airbags? A car of a man who crashed with you inside so many times You learned about rebuilding from experience From trial and error And how do you forgive a man who can no longer tell you he’s sorry? Trucks Don’t feel Don’t give up Don’t hurt you on purpose Sometimes something inside just breaks And no one catches it And maybe you crash Break a nose Black an eye As far as I know I am not a broken man But I’ve learned where all the parts go And if I am my father’s son A mechanic more often than a car maybe Then I will be fine The truck is dying And beyond repair You forgive it for that It is old and past its time And maybe it can’t say that it’s sorry But there is a field somewhere that you plan on leaving it To collect weeds And rust And be forgotten So you forgive it

42

Today I wanted to buy the copyright to the process of hallelujah ******* in joy the same way whales eat krill You just bottle it up inside your lungs until you have enough Inside my fridge I have vacuum sealed jars of hallelujah There’s nothing religious about that Jars labeled things like Loss of virginity Rob lived this time The homework is complete Hallelujah It’s the same way prayer works Backwards Pulling bits of god like an inhale I want to hyperventilate on your hallelujah Like a gospel choir on speed It collects Over time For instance It was maybe a month in to sleeping at Delia’s and Toffer’s house Before I realized I didn’t have to sleep in my car anymore You go into the bathroom to **** and realize Hallelujah A jar labeled Found a Home for now I know science can do this For the sake of all that is a monument to a single life So that on your death bed, or at your funeral Everyone there can hold a jar Cold and warm at the same time Vibrating in their palms In violent joy Like mozzletoff cocktails They are thrown And when they shatter there is a song That has been collecting for years The same word in different tonal joys Your life Every good moment Hallelujah

0

May 18, 2014

May 18, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC

jon-tobias

Hallelujah Copywrite

Today I wanted to buy the copyright to the process of hallelujah ******* in joy the same way whales eat krill You just bottle it up inside your lungs until you have enough Inside my fridge I have vacuum sealed jars of hallelujah There’s nothing religious about that Jars labeled things like Loss of virginity Rob lived this time The homework is complete Hallelujah It’s the same way prayer works Backwards Pulling bits of god like an inhale I want to hyperventilate on your hallelujah Like a gospel choir on speed It collects Over time For instance It was maybe a month in to sleeping at Delia’s and Toffer’s house Before I realized I didn’t have to sleep in my car anymore You go into the bathroom to **** and realize Hallelujah A jar labeled Found a Home for now I know science can do this For the sake of all that is a monument to a single life So that on your death bed, or at your funeral Everyone there can hold a jar Cold and warm at the same time Vibrating in their palms In violent joy Like mozzletoff cocktails They are thrown And when they shatter there is a song That has been collecting for years The same word in different tonal joys Your life Every good moment Hallelujah

40

If god were real When he’d appear It would be out of nowhere In mysterious ways God would be dressed as a clown His front top teeth are missing And he slurs like a drunk Sometimes you can’t understand him He does this on purpose God was never cryptic He just had trouble enunciating DON’T BE MEAN TO PEOPLE JESUS CHRIST You have trouble looking at his face It is hard to take the message of a clown seriously So you look down at the globes of the tip of his shoes Red shiny bulbs Inside the reflection You are ant sized You feel small in that moment God says something but you are busy looking down You see other ant sized people walking behind you Towards work To get food To go to school God makes you a halo Out of balloons It is white because he ran out of yellow Before he puts it on your head Turned sideways It looks like dangling handcuffs He makes you a sword and belt too You have just been turned into an angel A human angel armed with the necessary tools to fight on his behalf You don’t feel strong in that moment You still feel like an ant God gives you a holy water balloon Just in case things get hairy You decide you might be able to surprise baptize someone with it Then god walks a way But you totally feel better because he just gave you a halo and a sword You cry that night Because you have never felt so small and helpless in your entire life You never felt so silly Wielding you faith as firm as a balloon sword Wearing your blow up halo as a badge So you throw them away Not your faith Just the balloons DON’T HURT ANYBODY God says His tongue pressed to his gums to prevent lisps Then he begins to pump up another balloon He honks his horn And you are so confused

0

May 18, 2014

May 18, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC

jon-tobias

Meeting God

If god were real When he’d appear It would be out of nowhere In mysterious ways God would be dressed as a clown His front top teeth are missing And he slurs like a drunk Sometimes you can’t understand him He does this on purpose God was never cryptic He just had trouble enunciating DON’T BE MEAN TO PEOPLE JESUS CHRIST You have trouble looking at his face It is hard to take the message of a clown seriously So you look down at the globes of the tip of his shoes Red shiny bulbs Inside the reflection You are ant sized You feel small in that moment God says something but you are busy looking down You see other ant sized people walking behind you Towards work To get food To go to school God makes you a halo Out of balloons It is white because he ran out of yellow Before he puts it on your head Turned sideways It looks like dangling handcuffs He makes you a sword and belt too You have just been turned into an angel A human angel armed with the necessary tools to fight on his behalf You don’t feel strong in that moment You still feel like an ant God gives you a holy water balloon Just in case things get hairy You decide you might be able to surprise baptize someone with it Then god walks a way But you totally feel better because he just gave you a halo and a sword You cry that night Because you have never felt so small and helpless in your entire life You never felt so silly Wielding you faith as firm as a balloon sword Wearing your blow up halo as a badge So you throw them away Not your faith Just the balloons DON’T HURT ANYBODY God says His tongue pressed to his gums to prevent lisps Then he begins to pump up another balloon He honks his horn And you are so confused

55

It's on them nights I drink alone. Find myself thinking of home. These beers bottle bones empty and shatter. Liquor lung sigh. Chest heavy like a white trash wind chime. Like a six pack of bud ice hanging from some fishing line. Hear them low notes bouncing of the lips in the wind. And maybe you worry, but **** I'm fine to drive. And on those days when my gut isn't a gas tank for beer refilling at a pity party pit stop, I drive on love. Write love poems on phones before the ***** knocks me out. And sure, maybe my love makes as much sense as the words I slurr. And maybe my love is as unique as the crackheads needle in the haystack, but I'll still love you serious as a heart attack. Like a stroke... of genius... an epiphany about the realness of God. That maybe the story is flawed, but you're welcome to believe. And maybe I'm drunk right now, but I never meant to deceive. So kiss me with your break lights, while a pray to the slow light that I can live life like an old man feeding birds on a bench in the park. Got nothing else on his mind... just love... you maybe. And whatever you might think. I promise. I'm fine to drive

0

Nov 21, 2013

Nov 21, 2013 at 4:32 AM UTC

jon-tobias

Poem Number I'm Drunk With A Phone In My Hand

It's on them nights I drink alone. Find myself thinking of home. These beers bottle bones empty and shatter. Liquor lung sigh. Chest heavy like a white trash wind chime. Like a six pack of bud ice hanging from some fishing line. Hear them low notes bouncing of the lips in the wind. And maybe you worry, but **** I'm fine to drive. And on those days when my gut isn't a gas tank for beer refilling at a pity party pit stop, I drive on love. Write love poems on phones before the ***** knocks me out. And sure, maybe my love makes as much sense as the words I slurr. And maybe my love is as unique as the crackheads needle in the haystack, but I'll still love you serious as a heart attack. Like a stroke... of genius... an epiphany about the realness of God. That maybe the story is flawed, but you're welcome to believe. And maybe I'm drunk right now, but I never meant to deceive. So kiss me with your break lights, while a pray to the slow light that I can live life like an old man feeding birds on a bench in the park. Got nothing else on his mind... just love... you maybe. And whatever you might think. I promise. I'm fine to drive

1

This song ended like a dry heave halleluja Like the auction caller ran out of breath Like we both had nothing to sell and nothing to say And I've been waiting fo that gasp So this song can come back. Been adding gunpowder and tobacco leaves to my coffee For voice like the earth To sing a song written like dust kicked up in the ways we walk away In dirt brown cursive And choke on your harmonica inhale You left me speechless With the things you said to me Your rusty bear trap dentures gnashing Spitting out the venom you ****** from your own wounds Your music tastes bad when it's lost it's tune When Captain Morgan set your soul to sea Poppin' pain killers because the pain aint free And momma's got a new song now Long after the men have left to the stairs to smoke And the women wait with them to be walked to their cars You sit on your piano alone Still singing Warped wreckord throat A song all slurs I leave with the men too And it's just you In your tiny room The door slowly closes behind me and your song is cut short And I catch myself singing along in the silence And realize I'm out of tune

0

Nov 12, 2013

Nov 12, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC

jon-tobias

Mother's Song

This song ended like a dry heave halleluja Like the auction caller ran out of breath Like we both had nothing to sell and nothing to say And I've been waiting fo that gasp So this song can come back. Been adding gunpowder and tobacco leaves to my coffee For voice like the earth To sing a song written like dust kicked up in the ways we walk away In dirt brown cursive And choke on your harmonica inhale You left me speechless With the things you said to me Your rusty bear trap dentures gnashing Spitting out the venom you ****** from your own wounds Your music tastes bad when it's lost it's tune When Captain Morgan set your soul to sea Poppin' pain killers because the pain aint free And momma's got a new song now Long after the men have left to the stairs to smoke And the women wait with them to be walked to their cars You sit on your piano alone Still singing Warped wreckord throat A song all slurs I leave with the men too And it's just you In your tiny room The door slowly closes behind me and your song is cut short And I catch myself singing along in the silence And realize I'm out of tune

33