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 Nov 2012 GreenTea
Brandon Webb
1
she taps he hand, twice.
across the room,
he stares, thinking
into empty air.
others, scattered
tap pencils or fingers
on desktops, booktops
and phone keyboards

the balding man
with black hair:
combed backward
and to differing angles
so that his head is split
vertically-
stands, above the room
his back turned

his words,
meant for the crowd
reverberate only
along classes fringe
but still take precedence
over nothing
even to them-
academics, outcasts


2
back of the room
reveals everything
to the observer
trying to see

blue-eyed brunette
glares vengefully
at no one,
just to glare

he looks up once
to watch
as another
pulls up
drooping jeans.
she laughs
at conversation
unmeant for,
and inaudible
to her


3
today, she smiles
and lets her lip fall
begging, like a puppy
But when they
lose eye contact,
she glares, again

he leaves footprints
on parallel desk
from lounging
then fires himself
to his feet
using stored energy,
and sugar from gum

words bounce along
the walls in the back,
and isolated eyes peer
towards the screen
but hide the fact
that they care


4
two week vacation
has left their minds
full of everything
except math,
so they listen
to him, while he speaks

but travel backward
in time, with
those closest them
while he creeps,
silent, around the room

she concentrates hard,
on her work
glaring at the page.
he sits a desk forward
feet on floor
neighboring desk full
today, but only physically

blue hat rests
on sketchbook,
its border
barely covering
closed eyes

blond head
implants itself
jokingly, into
smooth shining
white wall
with enough force
to collapse
accidental target

a hand raises
attracting gazes,
awestruck,
at her interest
in forgotten
material
of future tests


5
only a few eyes wander
from blue lined notebooks
though the left flank
still chatters, embodying
either a secretive chipmunk
or the breeze which starts the storm

storm clouds appear slowly
in sketchbook, blue hat bobbing
rhythmically in response to active pen

perched above the flock
reminiscent, split headed
papa bird scans the masks
of his shockingly silent chicks

random lecture breaks the silence.
Her eyes aren’t the only ones
Fixed into a steel laden glare
But the chipmunk wind ceases


6
his questioning glance lands
on uninhabited space,
exhibiting a yawn
which traverses through,
and twists, the faces of
those otherwise engaged

lecture ends with a question,
the scent of nuts blows through
mentally empty classroom
turning desks to predetermined
positions and swiftly inhabiting
three-quarters of the physical class

his steel glare has replaced hers
the latter’s eyes now soft as an infants

within five minutes, his voice
undergoes  a brutal, complete cycle
pleading, congratulating, yelling
and as always, lecturing


7
pre-test:

preparations for misery-
mundane chipmunk chattering,
jokes and laughs from random
oddities appearing everywhere

blue hat rests in intervals.
Blue coat rearranges
essay for another class

The girl in the sunny plaid
Rolls an orange along her hand

He points at nothing and asks
Nobody something without answer

The left flank, as always
Is turned away, conversing

A sigh rings outward loudly
Everyone glares, nervously,
Everywhere, reward of concentration


After my test:

First paper in, he scans lightly
Sets it down with a scowl
and yawns, twice, breaking the
silent shroud of heavy fog
which is hanging overhead

wandering free eyes witness
down-turned heads concentrating
as much on tests  as on moving
their hands wildly, excitedly
trying to communicate non-vocally

others have yet to detach themselves
from their seats and stride upward,
hopefully more triumphantly
than their sole predecessor

one shuffles now, slowly toward him
his hand shaking as he releases
that  paper, he turns away as it flutters
onto the desk- he replants himself in his

twelve others walk forward
smiling, shrinking, sometimes speaking
and always he glares, triumphant
knowing his success at our failure


later:

his near-sleeping form            
finds distraction, in waking
dreams, jumping back suddenly
breaking from his plank-like state
without speaking. excitement
for approaching weekend is
communicated in the left flank

two girls break the silence
running in from outside            
he glares at them, but laughs

everyone breaks into groups
after the conversation about
mysteriously nutty discarded sock

he runs to the forefront
forehead folded, finger on mouth
no-one notices, but still he glares

8
he smiles and glares at the floor
his legs swinging back and forth            
tan slacks rustling softly

exaggerated scores bubble in ears            
as they search for their destroyer

in front of forgotten faces falls
the page of a forgotten tome

several yawn, hoping, understandably
that their stretched lips
will pull themselves far enough
to barricade ears from his droning

he kills himself, twice, bumbling
into half-thought chastisements
of the  flittingly flirtatious students
intermingling hoping behind him
causing waves of whispers, laughter
and slightly strengthened chatter

he re-aligns his thoughts quickly
and rambles on again, always

9
he speaks to her softly
from across a sea of desks
she looks up, panicking calmly
distracted from distraction

in silence, blank eyes turn
surprised at the non-withering
state of her barely living corpse

he asks a question, looking up
a single answer is given
unemotional and short, buy ending
heavy hanging awkward silence

how talented the teacher
who gives his lecture while
still addressing unrelated
student self lectures

the still silence given
in his questioning lull
hangs so loudly the whispers
traversing the classroom appear
silent as finger wiggle
and pencils trace zeros

his extrication, caused by
distractingly thunderous voice
is met with a comment
causing a wave of laughter
starting at his mouth
and extending to inhabit everything

10
half the time gives
twice the attention
as they concentrate
on keeping him on
the undying topic
of the work we
have already done

they admit defeat
as dusty tome opens
spreading a nutty cloud
causing heads to turn
and words to leap.

from opens lips,
mischievous gremlins
sprout, dancing on
tables and chuckling
away from the sigh
of his down-turned, split
shining, globular mind

he scratches pink ear
with bone pale finger
reading unrelated words

in the center of the room
both mentally and physically
he sits, momentarily quiet
as dark eyes glare past
rumpled pink nose,
concentrating

blue hat rests on open palms
above dust covered open page
he slips into sleeping state
but picks himself up
and stares though thin borderline
toward shiny rambling forehead

a shutter cord flies forward
the hand at the end pulling hard
but with no affect to the shutters
neither lowering the physical
or raising the mental

the color of non-color pencils
interrupts the class momentarily
as she strides forward to compare
and then criticizes his care

he just sits, smiles and stares

11
eleven desks lie empty
of one form more than usual
amplifying the arm movements
of the ever ticking seconds

his obscured mouth flings seeds
which sprout into words
before even meeting the worn
blood-colored carpet below

in the main room, sixteen
sit silent, sketching, sleeping
or siphoning the last minute

12
those left awake, and alive
have come to understand
the numbers on the screen
this being their specialty
in a nutty shell, of course
splitting, as we are, large
crowds of numbers, and us
being teenagers, isn’t that
how we think, in numbers
and ratings of everything
and, sitting in the central
crowd are the talented
crowd-splitters
flattery-spitters

13
the silence of half absence
is pierced, as always by vocal
anomaly, centered around
rows of shining wood
bookrests, but only one
set of hollow, dark-rimmed
vacant eyeballs watches
well-welcomed interruption

he lets us work, standing.
Someone somewhere opens
A large container of nuts
Entire class starts stuffing
Handfuls into puffy cheeks
Absorbing sensations into
Eternally ravenous minds

The apocalyptic mix of noises
Is split again by central
Nutcracker, and those in corners
Glare, smiling, rubbing shadowed
Acne scarred faces
with raw-bitten nails

14
balding papa bird speaks loudly
transforming his voice, becoming
vocally legendary cartoon duck

the wave of resulting laughter
ends in un-given nut-break
spreading, without speech
the understanding that his
comedic digression will not
meet a quick extinction

we greet the weekend
by rising early
our excuse: competition
to devour the worm

15
three heads are downturned
peering into textbooks
as the tsunami breaks

the days end starts
and beady eyes peer
in the direction of his
moving head, colored
gothic gargoyle in the
dim cloudlight streaming
through dust coated
slit windows

the room transforms
becoming triumphantly,
grumpily, repeatedly
conversational

artificial silence
spreads like a wave
from right back corner
to left front corner
leaving behind
the half of the room
hidden behind the wall
of troublemakers
who will eventually
cause the wall to topple
with the sheer force
of assorted nuts

16
blue hat is scrunched
under the of a fist
pounding on his head,
result of the decibels
consumed, and produced
by the embodiment
of the thoughts around him
which fall from stuffed
cheeks. Bounce off tables
and spread a sickening aroma
as their shells split
exposing, revealing
nothing

17
red face glances upward
as harsh words split
the widening sea of snickers
his words stop, first time today
as whispers spread wildly
of his speed in delivering answers
seconds later, room is silent
as statement ends and lecturer
turns back to him, offering
as always, another wave
of deep felt, anger hardened
quietly whispered, criticisms

thunderous-rush-voice leads
out of habit and necessity
the minutes following
his behavioral digression
each word stabbing split-headed
pointy-nosed papa bird, their
form a walnut-wood spear
crafted from drifted thoughts
of those sitting nearest him

18
on his back lies a pile of nuts
professor’s earthquake
shoulder shaking causes
eyes to open, back to rise
and with a tremendous roar
both physical and meta-physical,
it topples to worn carpet
and the laugh-track plays on

19
silence- pierced into being
by shrill, violent, mountainous
rise, and fall, of thunderous decibels-
hangs, heavier, louder than
the quick gone loudness replaced
or, in all actuality, displaced
mere seconds before being scrawled
into eternal memory
of those whose noses
sniff, daily, nutty clusters
of letters, which exclude
always, the ever-present x
the destructive π
and that y, which of course
flies as high as forgetful
nut-bearers




©Brandon Webb
2012
This is a series of observations, and. collectively, is the longest thing i've ever written, at 8847 words
 Nov 2012 GreenTea
Brandon Webb
i always end up like this
no matter what type of event i'm at
sitting, alone, in the back
but this time, there
on the church basketball court
converted into a dancefloor
just as roughly as i also was converted
into a church dance attendee
in dark grey corduroys
and a crimson dress shirt
(missing a collar button)
not to mention a shave
(far too thorough, as i always am)
and a haircut by my uncles hand-
it was there,
that i was choking back tears,
tears caused by glancing up momentarily,
javing five or more beautiful girls
meet my eyes, and smile invitingly
(telling me to stand)
but still being unable to drag myself out of that chair
and walk over to them.
an inability caused by her,
the one i still love(d)
wherever she happens to be.
but, this inability to move
is not her fault.
we're over
and i'm a free man,
so i make my mind up,
wipe my eyes,
and stand;
rising to look at the faces
of the two who are telling me
to walk, to tap, to ask, to dance
and
without a word
i walk into that crowd
leaving them behind.
but
she's still here.
and, keeping that in mind
i enjoy myself
but every face
every conversation
dissolves,

as my footsteps do-

as the music does-

at the end of each song





©Brandon Webb
2012
 Nov 2012 GreenTea
Patience Worth
Who said that love was fire?
I know that love is ash.
It is the thing which remains
When the fire is spent,
The holy essence of experience.
Though your head is turned
I can still see you,
Facing towards the glowing screen,
You say you don't have time,
Even a short coffee break is too much,
You're a stranger to me and I am one to you,
I see the back of your head in a room of paper,
Since when did work replace family?
I'm leaving soon and you won't notice,
I see you but you don't see me,
I don't know who I live with,
Though we are related, I can only see you.
Sitting here on the cool bench
Looking at dark clouds pass over the sun
Seeing the dead leaves drift to the ground
Waves swell and become white.
I hear the birds calling each other
The smell of apples and spice is in the air
I fill my lungs with this special atmosphere
And I think to myself, it's not all bad.
 Nov 2012 GreenTea
Brandon Webb
even i will miss this place
i think to myself
as we separate our belongings

into two piles
there in the dining area
where i used to play with Ryland.
Everyone, (other than him, being only three)
has tears in their eyes
except me
but i’m still sad
not because we’ll never come back here
but because that very fact
doesn’t sadden me like the rest
even though i will miss it
but i like moving on-
i can’t stay anywhere too long.
But, i do cry-
when he runs down that hill
like he has a million times before-
a huge smile on his face
as he avoids every memorized bump and hole
and i know this is the last time-
last time to experience all the memories
we packed into that trailer-
into that farm,
where fear left us restricted and regulated.
But i pack the truck
and disregard memories,
never stopping to remember anything-
not the bonfires by the big log,
rolling boulders into dead plum trees with the tractor,
picking huge buckets of blackberries for homemade cobblers
from bushes that have been gone for months,
pulling the hose up the hill from the pump house
to water everything,
flicking mosquitoes off the screen door
at midnight, with a crowd gathered to watch,
or the smell of a sulfur shower before church.
i stop to remember nothing
by unintentionally avoiding him most of all-
more than memories, or tears
i’m avoiding the man who was my father
for four and a half years-
who we lived in four houses, a motel, and a tent with-
because if i think too long about him
all the memories i’ve left behind will come back
and as we finish,
say goodbye,
and give him parting hugs
even i really start crying-
and then we drive off,
for the last time
and he’s standing there-
crying, but not waving
and we all wave though the tears,
through the car window
the fence and the garden.
I lost a home
and a father today
and i can still barely cry





©Brandon Webb
2012
 Nov 2012 GreenTea
Brandon Webb
i'm weak
weaker than i used to be
or at least that's what they tell me-
thin and white,
a pale white, which will fade into pink.
but never red,
not anymore.
but i'm still happier now
sitting in this dark room, alone
the light from the small lamp
crammed on top of two boxes of apples
and below my fathers old, untouched, dress coats
in the right corner of my closet,
creeps past
the silver handled blade on my floor
past my pale, hairy, white-lined leg
past my empty, unmade bed
and dies, quietly, on the wall
behind the TV, which, in humming
disintegrates every word,
every word, which i want to,
need to
communicate to her
in some way
even if it it means tapping them out
on that screen slid under the TV.
it's red light is flashing, facing me- it's charging.
But why?
To reveal more **** disappointment?
To reveal the last thing she sent me?
"stop sending me stuff".
and right above all the,"i love you"s.
Right above all the **** lies,
because, if she loved me,
she'd be here,
the closet door would be closed,
the lamp, off
the knife back in my desk drawer
and my leg would be unhurt,
it isn't



©Brandon Webb
2012
 Nov 2012 GreenTea
Brandon Webb
Back room of the library
watching him make tea

out of the corner of my eye
I watch them walk in-
Six people i used to know-
There in the other room-
two couples.
One dreaming of a time when he isn't alone,
but stuck in the present.
And one

who used to love me

I turn back,
make my own tea
and, in letting the water heat, turn back

He's sitting alone at a computer.
I watch a once familiar face
peel herself from her lover
and walk into this room.

the conversation is heavy,
barely meant for me
but i can read between the lines
her subject is apparent

"she's gone"
her eyes whisper to me

the latter half of that is a dare
just like old times-
saying,"find her" or," don't"
for once, i can't tell
her preference toward my action

i hope it's the latter
it has to be

But her eyes reveal nothing

I turn back,
continue to forget
those memories

but mix some tears
with my tea
remembering everything




©Brandon Webb
2012
 Nov 2012 GreenTea
Brandon Webb
Pomegranate frozen yogurt
and a metal chair
outside alderwood mall
alone

wonderful combination-
in midsummer,
not in mid-autumn

But-
watching frozen people walk by
to smooth jazz
(coming from one of these stores-
Godiva? Panera bread?)
under cold blue skies
frozen sunlight
and the memory
of their own breath's fleeing warmth-
is relaxing



©Brandon Webb
2012
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