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JM Romig Apr 2014
The way Sunday sits in its secret hideaway paradise
at the end of the week
It's legs carelessly kicking at the lake,
with wet bare feet
making concentric circles in the water with its toes

That's how you make me feel.
NaPoWriMo 20/30
JM Romig Oct 2012
I'm lifted.
Floating to the place where I'm just high enough off of the ground to feel the boundless freedom
and just low enough that coming down won't hurt me a bit.
I'm seven again.
On the playground where me and my schoolyard buddies used to play tag.
I would have never imagined in my youth that two of those kids would be gone
by my senior year of high school.
None of that matters now.
Randy is seven too, and he doesn't even know what alcohol is yet.
Sarah is six again, and has yet to know that your heart can be broken.
Dan is "it", and all the girls are running from him.
but this was a time before the needle and before the germ.
Back than they ran from him because he was "it",
now they run from him because they don't wanna catch "it".
No one would have guessed it,
That this was our fate.
That we would ever grow older.
That we would ever grow up.
That five students of our graduating class would be mothers.
That two of my best friends would be dead.
None of that matters now,
I'm seven again.
We're playing tag.
The swingset is a safe zone.
No one can touch me here.
Copyright © 2011 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved
JM Romig Jan 2014
if the world was ending in 7 days -
nobody else knows it
but there's nothing anyone can do to stop it
how do you want to spend your last week on earth?

***?! Who is this?

sorry [sadface emoji]

...
I'd go looting.
break into stores, steal TVs, printers,
whatev I can get my hands on

why?
i mean, what's the point?

The **** of it.
Never been looting before
You?

nope, never been looting.

I meant, what would you do with your last week?

i dunno
that's why i'm taking suggestions
JM Romig Apr 2014
The bumper sticker
On the red jeep in front of me
Orders all who see it
to "Be happy"

Challenge accepted, stranger,
Challenge accepted.
NaPoWriMo 23/30
JM Romig Apr 2019
Scraping off
The smiling Santa Claus faces
Dim hope fading
With each metallic fleck
Flicked onto the kitchen floor

Yet, she will buy more
Always more
And always the same numbers
On the gas station tickets
She buys with a bag of chips

And gas-station humus
With gas-station pop,
In a gas-station cup -
Too large to hold in one hand -
That she fills to the brim

With hope
She never lets herself
Get to empty
She fills her soul with
Perpetual certainty
That one day, she’s gotta win
She’s just gotta

So she plays the game
Plays the odds
Fills her cup
Fills up her tank

Drives to two, three, four
Thankless jobs
And never lets her soul
Get to empty

She’s just gotta win
Fate has gotta give in
To her sheer ambition,

She knows it in her bones
Maybe not this time,
or next time
…or the time after

But soon
…definitely soon
Dedicated to my Mother In Law
JM Romig May 2013
The only thing
that can be heard for miles
is the screeching of the metal ropes
of the playground swing

and the laughter of the little boy
whose feet are just barely long enough
to push the ground away
JM Romig © 2013
JM Romig Sep 2011
There is always a breeze here
and there’s a white gazebo
in the shade of the house
it is all as perfect
as it would appear
to Norman Rockwell
In the back, there’s a flowerbed
the names of the flowers, I don’t recall
and perhaps
never knew;
but the names on the headstones that sleep there
I’ve always known
and I will remember them
until my name is worked into a rock as well
Over here used to be
nothing,
but now there is
a taller than tall apple tree
as old as I am
and twice as wise
I come here sometimes when
life gets too congested and I
need to breathe
or sometimes just when
I have nothing else to do
but think and write about things
I don’t know

I sit back in the gazebo
pretending to admire the comforting cornfield’s endlessness
like the simple man I sometimes wish I was
I imagine I believe in God
or at least, Heaven
and pretend to feel them looking down at me
I smile at myself
on their behalf

I think about all the years
my grandpa spent building that house
and the stories he told me, my father,
about the kind of mother she was
and I think it would make them happy
to know that someone hasn’t forgotten
about the place that,
for some reason, I can’t quite figure out,
always has this breeze
Copyright © 2011 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved
JM Romig Aug 2019
Lee was posted up in in usual spot
back by the stacks,
with his phone on life support.
Its umbilical cord was knotted up like a nest,
and held together by electrical tape.

It sat next to his vape
box and a stack of books
about the GED, twenty-fist century
side hustles and back issues of Ebony.

People come in and out of the library
and everyone says hi to Lee,
He is the man to see,
He asks about their lives and gives sage advice –
How you been, my man?
How’s the kids doin’, girl?
How’s married life treatin’ you, my dude?

My man, you gotta do this.
Babygirl, look into that.
Don’t wear your hat like that,
Boy, ya look silly.

Lee lives in a van
that he parks nearby
so he can job-hunt on the free wifi
even when the place is closed.

If you feel sorry for me, don’t
says Lee
I’m the freest now I’ll ever be,
so, don’t you dare take pity on me
I’m doing all I can do,
being all I can be.

Everything’s  temporary.
Tomorrow I could be you,
you could be me
we’re just one bad day,
one scratch-off lottery ticket away
from swapping places, my man.

Yeah, I live in that van
parked outside the library
but if you think I’m sad,
you’re thinking wrong,

Won’t see me moping, or doping
floating along
you won’t see me frowning,
or drowning,
singing a sad song.

I’m happy with all that I got
who wouldn’t wanna be in my spot,
I’m The King
of the Library Parking Lot.
*Disclaimer: Lee is a fictional character. Any resemblance he may have to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
JM Romig Oct 2011
The last story ever to be told
was whispered to an infant
born in an unlucky time
just moments before the end
of everything we once thought to be Everything.

Almost a biblical scene:
The ash-snow covered the ground outside,
and a baby lay in a makeshift manger.

The child, understanding nothing of the plot,
was only comforted by the raspy voice
and rough, cracked hands
of a kind old stranger.

A lance of morning light
beamed on them from a small hole
in the rusted ceiling.

He spoke just loud enough
to drown out the distant cries
of those who burned alive
for the sins of greedy men.
Copyright © 2011 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved
JM Romig Aug 2011
coffee spitting.
clicking.
fingertips stumbling ever so awkwardly
across the keyboard.
slightly stale leftover love.
making memories
drift in from the other  room.
secondhand bassline
like an artificial pulse.
incomprehensible morning chatter
rising from the carpet
tickling the bare feet.
neutral silence
running noticeably
underneath it all.
like an omen
or a prayer.
a lost soul’s secret. desire
untold, and thus forgotten

or maybe just silence.
and nothing more
JM Romig Aug 2010
I can't remember
a night when I wasn't lulled to sleep
by the comforting sound of gunshots

I try
every night
I dig a little deeper
a little further back
nothing yet

Instead I remember
the night my father
carrying the triggerman's burden
turned the barrel on himself

I dig back further
to Mom's face
her soulless eyes
and the impatient hunger of an
starving child

The first time I watched  a man die
it wasn't a man anymore
they told me
just like my mother wasn't
my mother anymore

Further still
to the newscast
warning everyone to stay
inside their homes
glass shattering
my father's shotgun
pulled from retirement

I dig deeper
a faint and fuzzy
barely breathing memory
Dad smiling
the plop of a lure in the water
a tug on the line
excitement
laughter
more tugging and

BANG

****!
I lost it
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.

Sanctuary 251 is a concept I have for a Post-Zombie-apocalypse tale that takes place ten years after the infection began spreading. People live "normal" lives in little towns with thick high walls called "Sanctuaries." There are several character poems I want to do from this concept.- From The Poetry Of Sanctuary 251
JM Romig Aug 2010
He takes in a deep long breath
and billows out the flames
on all nine candles

His mother smiles
and remembers they day he was born
the only doctor in the sanctuary at the time
had been a dentist
he pulled him out of her
like a stubborn tooth

For those first few months
she stayed awake every night
watching him
terrified
hoping
and hating herself for hoping
that he would stop breathing
in the middle of the night

On his first birthday
218 had experienced a breach
nearly everyone was infected
no survivors
she thought about taking his life then

She poisoned his sippy-cup
with the stuff they used to **** the roaches
and in a fleeting moment of weakness
dumped it down the drain

When she does sleep
she relives her father changing
into a monster
and watches the man who raised her
chomp into the forearm of the man she was to marry

She remembers how much blood there was
and how much she hated them
and loved them
at the same time

The little boy
turns and shoots her a thank you smile
she smiles back
faint and almost fake

She makes a wish
but does not dare tell a soul
and continues to hate herself
for loving him too much
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.

Sanctuary 251 is a concept I have for a Post-Zombie-apocalypse tale that takes place ten years after the infection began spreading. People live "normal" lives in little towns with thick high walls called "Sanctuaries." There are several character poems I want to do from this concept.

Be sure to read the other poems in this series as well- From The Poetry Of Sanctuary 251
JM Romig Aug 2010
I was dead for ten years
until yesterday
They woke me up
to tell me it's okay now
I'm cured

My mission
was to save as many as I could
but I failed
They tell me it's okay now
I'm cured

She was maybe ten
or eleven years old
I tapped her on the shoulder
told her
that the helicopter was waiting for us
she bit me
They tell me it's okay now
I'm cured

I spent a decade
as a mindless cannibal
I must have killed
and feasted on
hundreds
if not thousands of people
and I remember it all
in detail

but They tell it's okay now
I'm cured
like it's Chicken Pox
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.

Sanctuary 251 is a concept I have for a Post-Zombie-apocalypse tale that takes place ten years after the infection began spreading. People live "normal" lives in little towns with thick high walls called "Sanctuaries." There are several character poems I want to do from this concept.

Be sure to read the other poems in this series as well
JM Romig Aug 2010
Reruns of That 70s Show
Interrupted
by the blonde lady
who smiles too much

She says there was a breakthrough
a medical miracle
They brought one back to life

I step outside for a cigarette
already, the town has gone nuts

A group of people
standing outside the grocery store
with signs that say
AbomiNation
and
We Can't Play God

They tell me that it's wrong
to circumvent God's punishment
that only bad can come
from bringing the undead back to life

The sick *****
honestly still think there is a god
and that this hell on Earth is his will
if so, that's no god of mine

They scream at me
trying to tell me what to think
while I buy my milk
and ****
just to make them gasp

This heathen here
really don't care
I'm more concerned with whether or not
Hyde and Jackie are getting back together
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.

Sanctuary 251 is a concept I have for a Post-Zombie-apocalypse tale that takes place ten years after the infection began spreading. People live "normal" lives in little towns with thick high walls called "Sanctuaries." There are several character poems I want to do from this concept.

Be sure to read the other poems in this series as well
JM Romig Aug 2010
When the sun sneaks above the horizon
he is awake to see it
but that's the only thing in his life
that one can envy

He never dreamed of being this
although
he never dreamed of being a factory worker either
but that's what he was before

His truck stalls
he hopes it doesn't work on the second try
but it does

He drives on out into the field
the fact that the smell of rotted flesh
doesn't bother him anymore
bothers him

He spots one
a blonde girl
she might have been beautiful
at one point
but now its hair and teeth had mostly fallen out
and its skin is was covered in sores and scrapes

Its emaciated body reminds him
of those TV commercials
that used to air
about starving kids in Ethiopia
she could have won Miss America with that body
he thinks
what a shame
the corpse gives one last kick of life
as if to say
*******, dude

No matter how many times he'd seen it before
it still kind of freaks him out

He shoots it in the head
just to be sure

Then he and his partner lift the body
and heave it into the truck bed

Blood leaking from the bullet hole
gets on his jeans
**** it
he thinks
That'll take forever to get out

Later, when he lights the match
he always thinks that he should say a prayer
or something
but he never does

After work he visits the bar
spending the rest of his night
trying to forget
what he does for a living
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.

Sanctuary 251 is a concept I have for a Post-Zombie-apocalypse tale that takes place ten years after the infection began spreading. People live "normal" lives in little towns with thick high walls called "Sanctuaries." There are several character poems I want to do from this concept.

also see:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/the-poetry-of-sanctuary-251-sarah/
and
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/the-poetry-from-sanctuary-251-inside-these-walls/- From The Poetry Of Sanctuary 251
JM Romig Aug 2010
Sometimes
I think about you
and about the gun
on the table beside my bed
in the sanctuary

I think about staying up late
even though it was a school night
and macaroni and cheese

I couldn't cook it to save my life
but you never minded
you were just going to smother it
with ketchup anyway

We'd watch old horror movies
and you'd laugh
when you should have screamed
and fell asleep before the end

I'd tuck you in
kiss your forehead
and channel-surf for some comedy
to lighten the mood

I think about the day it happened
how I secretly hoped the gun would jam
or misfire
and you would come at me
jaw unhinged
looking nothing like my angel

Then we'd be together
eating the flesh of some nameless passersby
yours
probably covered in ketchup

But the gun didn't jam
my aim was unfortunately perfect

I think about how
I was probably lying
when I told you
that you wouldn't feel a thing
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.

Sanctuary 251 is a concept I have for a Post-Zombie-apocalypse tale that takes place ten years after the infection began spreading. People live "normal" lives in little towns with thick high walls called "Sanctuaries." There are several character poems I want to do from this concept. This is the first.- From The Poetry Of Sanctuary 251
JM Romig Aug 2010
You know, man
before all this went down
I used to think that zombies
were just a metaphor

Really? For what?

Yeah, like, for our struggle
to remain individuals
in a consumer driven culture
where identity is mass-produced
and we are pressured to belong
to some sort of group
or fit into some sort of mold
It’s like being the last survivor in a zombie apocalypse
it’s only a matter of time…

That’s some deep ****

Yeah, this is good ****

What do you think it means now?
You know, now that it’s really happening

It doesn’t mean anything now
Consumer culture is dead, man
People want to be able to eat and ****
and not have to worry about dying every day.
That’s Maslow’s hierarchy of needs man
didn’t you learn anything in highschool?

***** you, dude
What’s that diploma doing for you anyway?

Touché

Dude, puff puff pass!
Quit hoggin all my ****
…****
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.

Sanctuary 251 is a concept I have for a Post-Zombie-apocalypse tale that takes place ten years after the infection began spreading. People live "normal" lives in little towns with thick high walls called "Sanctuaries." There are several character poems I want to do from this concept.

Be sure to read the other poems in this series as well- From The Poetry Of Sanctuary 251
JM Romig Aug 2010
Every night I load my riffle
take my post
and wait

The waiting is the worst part
it's like fishing
you have too much time
to think about ****

I usually think about my life
and how much of a loser I was
living under my brother's perfect family home
like a troll under a bridge
distracting myself with Call of Duty
and beer

But then the world ended
and it was the best thing that could have happened
for me, that is

Not so much for my brother
who met his demise while on an evening jog
on an otherwise insignificant Saturday

I didn't know any of this until two days later
coming out of my cave to get more beer
to realize that the only one still there
was my brother's beautiful inconsolable wife
she thought I'd been dead
like everyone else
and awkwardly hugged me

She had just gotten word about her two missing children
the ******* little boy was found
gnawing on his little sister's arm
the rest of her was motionless, on a street a mile away

Killing them is too easy
way easier than I thought it would be
you just follow the rules laid out for us in the folklore
aim for the head
keep your distance
don't second guess yourself
double tap

I'm not a religious man
I have no particular thoughts about the soul
I leave those questions for the priests and philosophers

I don't care
I do my job
and I do it well

I've won
I've taken my prize
I spend my days with the woman I've always  loved
but could never have
and my nights doing what I do best
playing a game

I pull the trigger
it's head explodes
in a gust of red mist
...just like in the movies
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.

Sanctuary 251 is a concept I have for a Post-Zombie-apocalypse tale that takes place ten years after the infection began spreading. People live "normal" lives in little towns with thick high walls called "Sanctuaries." There are several character poems I want to do from this concept.

Be sure to read the other poems in this series as well.- From The Poetry Of Sanctuary 251
JM Romig Oct 2012
The sun strikes my eyes
    Violent as a sword
This holy morning
Copyright © 2011 JM Romig All rights reserved.
JM Romig Jan 2011
Sometimes I muse about the strangers in my life.
I like to pretend that some of them have telepathy like radio
and when they see me as they always do,
in the commons at the school,
jogging past me on the sidewalk,
or in the polite but awkward silence of the elevator,
I wonder if I intrude upon their fuzzy bubble of mid-morning consciousness.  
If my inappropriate thoughts make their way through the static of theirs.

I almost want to apologize to the woman who jogged passed me this morning.
She didn’t need to know that I scratched my nuts
sniffed my hand,
and the scent of that ball-sweat brought me back a time when the room reeked of sin,
in the afterglow of rough ***, and that it made me miss
Her.

And that classmate didn’t need to know
that I secretly hoped the girl
that they keep talking about on the news would just show up dead,
so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.
Or the guy I just shared the mandatory hellos with,
if only he knew that just before we talked I was pondering the best way to induce mass hysteria
- a plan involving a *** of one dollar bills and LSD -
not that I’d ever actually put it into action.
Chaos is just fun to think about sometimes, I think.

And now I’m thinking of how weird it would be,
if one of these people tuned in right now and overheard me musing about them.
Woah…that’s so meta.

I gotta write this **** down.
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.
JM Romig Nov 2010
There’s this tattoo I wish to get
if I ever get rid this fear
of making decisions.

It’s this little girl, maybe seven years old or so
she’s holding on to an aged dandelion by its neck.
Her eyes are closed and open to a whole other world -
she shoots a wish toward it
with every muscle in the body
that she doesn’t know the names of yet.

The seeds are propelled across my back
and transform into the shooting stars they always dreamed they’d be.
Somewhere below
on an otherwise empty beach
are a couple of teenagers
discovering themselves inside one another.
They kiss and tell no one.
The blanket promises to keep their secret
and the sand sneaks into places it knows it’s unwelcome.

They are drunk on the passion of the moment.
She’s lost in the stars
and wants to gently scoop those lights from the sky
seal them in a mason jar
and watch them do their cosmic dance around each other
to remind herself of how small she feels under them
and how amazing it felt to be everything and nothing at the same time.
She holds her breath, closing her eyes
sending up a wish in the music of young lust.

Meanwhile,
on my rightmost shoulder blade
There’s an older man, looking down a wishing well
at the two young lover’s play.
Smiling at his memories
which, like the ink, are fading.
A wish falls out his mouth and speeds down into the darkness
it bounces off the back of the boys head,
and is gobbled up by the greedy sand.
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.
JM Romig Jan 2014
I found the wood knife today
it was shoved in the box
squeezed between the wall and a stack of half-used notebooks.

I grabbed it by its rope-
still strung through the hole in the center of the blade -
played with the wood disks and tiny beads that dangle from both sides.

I held it up by the hilt,
the metal ring clinked against the wood disks - imprisoned.

Grandma made these puzzles out of found objects all the time -
Contrpations that were usually a clever a mess of metal and wood.
All based on designs created before electricity was a thing.
The knife was the sole survivor from a box of flood damaged puzzles
    
Smiling to myself, I held the knife behind my back, in my right hand.

"Sometimes, I wish you never even had kids"
I still recall her words to my mother
as I tip the knife and slip the ring down to the base of the blade
"Write?! Josh that's a hobby! You're twenty, what are you going to do for a living?"

I push one disk through the hole with my thumb
"What if you get this girl your with pregnant? Then what?"
I bring the metal ring up and over the tip of the blade by tilting it downwards.

"If your father had done a better job raising you, we wouldn't be having this talk"
with a flick of my wrist, I fling the metal ring
though the hole and off of the knife.

It's been four years.
I still remember how it goes.
Muscle memory, I guess.
Engrained in my mind from years of practice.

Sometimes I think of her,
and I wonder if I miss her
or if that's just muscle memory too.
JM Romig Jul 2010
The only thing I like
about nights like this
is that it gets so dark
and the skies are so clear
that they look like
the little boy who trapped us all here
decided to have mercy
and pin-***** little tiny airholes
in the lid of our mason jar

but there aren’t enough
to make a difference

Her lit cigarette burns
so brightly from the porch
against the darkness
like a lighthouse
...or a bug zapper

I don’t see how anyone
can smoke at a time like this
when the air is so heavy
it’s like breathing cement
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved
JM Romig May 2013
The only thing I like
about nights like this
is that it gets so dark
and the skies are so clear
that they look like
the little boy who trapped us all here
decided to have mercy
and pin-***** little tiny airholes
in the lid of our mason jar

but there aren’t enough
to make a difference

Her lit cigarette burns
so brightly from the porch
against the darkness
it reminds me of a lighthouse
...or a bug zapper.

I don’t see how anyone
can smoke at a time like this
when the air is so heavy
it’s like breathing cement.

The campfire is whispering
something about...memories?
I can't hear it very well
and I don't speak it's language.

The fireflies are out tonight.
I watch the children chasing them
they blink in and out of existence
like little teleporting fairies -
Proof that the little boy who trapped us all here
has not yet succeeded
in snuffing out all of the magic.

One child is sitting away from the group.
swinging alone
carving imperfect circles
with her toes
into the dirt below.
She is staring up at the stars
she looks - concerned.
I cannot help but
wonder what she's thinking.

The campfire is dying.
I watch it gasp for air a few last times
before putting it out of it's misery.
Copyright © 2013 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved
JM Romig Jan 2011
Here's to old friends, sometimes lovers, lost causes
and occasional jovial drunkenness.
Here's to vices and virtues, to living without apologies or regrets.
To breaking in order to heal.
To the lost who have given up on finding a way home.
Here's to survival.
Drink up, people. You only live once.
Eat slow.
Love hard.
Live every moment like you mean it, or you might as well be
dead.
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.
JM Romig Mar 2014
Wake up earlier

Spend less time online
Spend more time outside
Every day, do something that scares you

Take more deep breaths
Realize you can't control certain things
Dance naked to 90s music when no one else is home

Meet new people
Meet old people – they have better stories
Listen to more people's stories
Learn to see things from different angles
Learn to look for Better Angels

Walk more
Drink more water
Drink less caffeine
Don't leave the coffeepot on when you leave the house
Be more aware of your bad habits
Be more patient with others' bad habits

Seek something every day
- even if you don't find what you're looking for,
at least you won't have wasted the day

Don't start smoking – despite what you may have heard
about what it does for stress
Worry less -
about what you can change
Change what you can
Stop writing cliches

Stop blaming your inaction on your home town
or your parents
or your emotional instability
Take responsibility for your inaction

Read more often –
you have books you haven't touched, ever
Write by the water –
the white noise of river helps you think

Return more favors –
people have been kind to you
Be kind to more people

Don't small talk –
small talk is for small minds
Don't ruin a good conversation by talking too much
Make something every day
(art, love, decisions, etc)

Go to bed earlier
JM Romig Dec 2009
On behalf all of us who make bad decisions,
and worse excuses for them
I’d like to say that I’m sorry

I heard about how hard you worked on that science fair project
and how the teacher didn’t believe you
Because a week ago, someone like me used the same excuse
to get out of turning an assignment in on time.

And I’d like to say I’m sorry, for all the exams you studied for days to get a C on
and all the ones we aced without trying.
I promise, it wasn’t our fault, we’re just lucky guessers
I guess we could be little Irish
Like four leaf clovers are running though our bloodstreams.

On behalf of all of us who cried wolf,
because we fell asleep
and lost track of a few sheep.
I’d like to say that I’m sorry
that the boss didn’t accept the puncture wounds as proof
because we went too far one too many times for anyone to be trusted anymore.

For always taking the easy way out.
For every little white lie we told, that snowballed into an avalanche
and took you with it as it raced downhill.

On behalf of all of us whose dog did not, in fact, eat our homework
to you, the kid with a genuine excuse.
I would have liked to say I’m sorry.
I even had this whole apology written out
-It was cool, and rather poetic, if you ask me-

But there was this freak accident this morning
involving traveling circus, a ******* and a ham sandwich
-Trust me, you don’t want to know the details-

Okay, you got me
I guess some old habits die hard.
Copyright © 2009 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.
JM Romig Dec 2009
I couldn't sleep last night.
Something about the sound
Of the trains kept me up
Thinking of you.

That night you stood next to the tracks
As one flew past
You said "*** you oughta try this"
"It's like no other rush"
I said "Baby don't get too close"
You said "Baby, I can't get close enough."

Go back about three months
I picked you up from the hospital
Another visit with your mother.
But you don't want to talk about it.

We get stuck at the same tracks
And the train picks up.
You say, "God ****** this is *******"
"This always happens, It's just our luck."
I say "Baby, it's moving pretty fast."
You say "It can't move fast enough."

Rewind a week or so
We were laying under the stars
And amidst our Deep conversation
Another Train rolled by.

I held you you close as it scaled the tracks
In that monotonous drone
You say "I hate this town."
"It's like a black hole- that *****."
I say "We can move far away"
You say "We can't move far enough."

I squeezed your hand
To reassure you that we can.
You just smiled and shook your head.
Like I had just told you gravity didn't exist.

That day, Stuck behind those tracks
I realized that you were right
That night, under the stars
You said "No matter where you go"
"There will be tracks that lead back home"
I said "So, Tracks alone aren't going to remind us."
You said "Baby, the sound of the Trains will be enough."

I couldn't sleep last night.
It's been seventeen years-
And thirteen states-
But those trains always seem to find me.

I said "baby, don't get too close"
You said "Baby i can't get close enough."
But this time,
You were wrong.
Copyright © 2010 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.- From Destination: Detour - The Mini Chapbook
JM Romig Jun 2013
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will be live-*

The revelation will be streaming through your Windows
laptops and smartphones.
The revolution will be blogged
Tweeted, liked, shared, RE-blogged RE-tweeted
and Stumbled Upon in between
midnight ******* sessions
sandwiched between funny cat memes.

The resolution will be HD.
It's evolution will be high speed.
The whistles will be blown at with frequency.
The revolution will be commented on;
Scrutinized.
Vandalized.
Scandalized.
Stylized and advertized.
People will pay attention -
People will forget to mention
that some stand up, occupy, riot
and die.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution be streaming live
through the filter of your choice.
The facts will be democratized.
The democracy will be corporatized.
The corporations will personified.
People, objectified -
Spied on and villainized  
The powers that be will will lie, deny, and try to justify.
The people will be disenfranchised.
Prisons will be privatized.
Death drones will be utilized.

No one will bat an eye.
Because revolution will be multiplied, over-simplified,
The violence, normalized.
Lives, sacrificed
to satiate the Golden Calf's appetite.

The revolution will not be televised
but Jerry Springer will...
Go figure.
JM Romig Jan 2015
Two hours till Kentucky-
The world is on fast-forward around us
The side of my forehead is flat
against the passenger side window
Trees crowd behind guardrail for miles - 
protesting highway pollution.

Two hours till Kentucky -
On the eighth round about this CD.
about around the fifth listen, songs began to blend into one another, morphing into ambient noise
that filled the empty moments between conversation
and the struggle against waves of tempting sleep.

Two hours till Kentucky-
I pause the song to explain
the biographical significance
of a particular lyric.
You're too focused on
the nerve-wracking traffic to indulge me.

Two hours till Kenricky-
My seat reclined, I am watching the clouds
creeping briskly across the sky
through the panorama of the windshield -
a silent movie.

Two hours till Kentucky -
an eternity of moments
gone as soon as they happen.
Evaporating into the air

We'll be there
in no time.
JM Romig Apr 2013
I don't know if you remember me
I was on the jury two weeks ago
When you were being tried.

Our eyes met for a moment
As your lawyer went on and on about
Crimes of Passion.
You smiled at me.
and bit your lower lip,
all ****-like - like those women in the movies.
I smiled back.

I can't get you out of my head.
All I keep thinking is -
do you have to be married to get conjugal visits?
NaPoWriMo
JM Romig Sep 2011
I believe we met in heaven
or was it hell?

I was too drunk.
You, soft spoken and understanding,
didn't know me at all.
Yet helped me to my feet
and asked what I was doing
in the park
this late
on a Tuesday.
I told you that I was bad at lying,
then proceeded to ***** on your shoes.

I didn't know then that I'd marry you someday.
Copyright © 2011 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.
JM Romig Apr 2014
High up on the far back wall
in the back of the factory
where I sell my free time
is a constellation of dirt, chipped paint
and cobwebs
forming the shape
of a bear
lounging in a hammock

I have coworkers who insist
that it's a monkey,
trapped in a net
but they are wrong.
It's clearly a bear

Ursa Somniculosa,
or, as the layman may call it
the Little Napper

No matter where I am on the floor,
I can see him hanging there in his hammock
enjoying his perpetual vacation
maybe sipping on a nice tall beer
soaking up the sun -

not being a trapped monkey
like all of us down here
NaPoWriMo 24
JM Romig Apr 2014
I hear a voice of a guitar -
the cords to an Irish jig -
Whisky in the Jar.
I stand there a moment
listening hard and rocking softly.

I am not sure if it’s just the weight of winter
finally melting off my shoulders,
or if there's something deeper,
something spiritual happening here.

I take a nice long breath of the Ohio air,
feeling relief, release, and repair.
NaPoWriMo 12
JM Romig Nov 2013
When the light sparkles  
Off of the dust in the air
I understand faith.
Copyright © 2011 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.
JM Romig Apr 2020
It's two o'clock - Post Meridian
Time to raise a glass
Of wine or flask of gin
To the Good 'Ol Gov
And Marvelous Dr. Acton

Take action, Homebound Heroes
By extensive handwashing
And endless binge-watching,
Baby Yoda and the Tiger King

One day eventually
There will be
Cause to celebrate,
Gather outside
And roam

But until then,
For Grandma's sake, people
STAY THE **** HOME!!
Napowrimo 2020 #1
JM Romig Nov 2011
Wise words once whispered:
Only a **** eats and drinks
Granny's flesh and blood
Copyright © 2011 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved
JM Romig May 2014
This morning,
I swallowed the entirety of everything,
swallowed it in one swift gulp.
washed it down with a tall glass of Milky Way.
I was ready to greet the day,

But everything gave me gas
that (knotted up inside me) sang
so I let it out with a big bang --

and watched the particles disperse
to form themselves into a universe
with me at the center -
on my throne,
self-appointed king of this nonsense poem
JM Romig Nov 2021
A moderately sized planet,
afloat in a distant spiral galaxy
orbiting an unremarkable star,
has taken the Tardigrazian nations by storm.
For thousands of their star cycles,
they have been capturing the imaginations
of countless people watching from their pods
both Planetside and Satellite alike,
brought together by the light
of the Blue Bead –

The little exoplanet and that defied all reason
and persisted at all cost,
despite itself,
possibly to spite itself.
Millions of lightyears away from our humble empire.

This tiny little dot
and the two-legged folk walking upon it
became something of a cultural phenomenon.
We have become the cheerleaders
for a people likely long passed.
We used to believe they might outlive their star
Go on to visit other planets -
meet their neighbors, like we did.

But recent transmissions from our probes
spell a tragic end on the horizon
for our distant friends,
whom we’ve seen climb down from trees,
invent tools, and writing, and cities, and more
but they never stopped at a reasonable spot.

No amount self-inflicted suffering
they brought in the name
of that momentum would stop them.
Progress, and the comfort that comes with it,
being not unlike an intoxicant for these people.
Addicts will always justify the means.

Their world has rapidly grown warmer
in the time we’ve been observing them.
Soon it will be outside the narrow window
in which they can reasonably survive.

We watched, screaming at our screens,
"The fuel - it’s the fuel causing the rise!!"
They’d gone this long, burning the dead
and expected no consequence.
It's not their fault they’re so short-sighted
It's how they evolved.
A mere hundred years or so,
that’s the lifetime of these feeble creatures
Hardly enough to gain wisdom,
let alone pass it down.

Nevertheless, they lived, they loved,
and they thrived.
Surpassing even the most generous
of our expectations.
Against all odds, they learned, and they grew.
Eventually, we did see the brightest of them
realize their jeopardy and speak the truth.
Just in time, they would unite as they did
so many times before
…or so we thought.

Instead, they fought more.
Even on the edge of extinction,
they dig their trenches,
and they pick their sides.
The great imaginations
that helped them build the world
now affixing them in rigid fictions
of their own making
Unable to see beyond
these preconceived limitations.

It feels, now more than ever,
as though we’re seeing the
final seasons of the Blue Bead.
The fall of a beloved people.
Who will never know
the billions of lives they’ve touched
in the brief time we’ve gotten
to share with them.

But then, they have surprised us
countless times before.
Perhaps they will again.
JM Romig Jan 2013
The doctors told me I should abort.
But my mom convinced me this was for the best  

I told them I wanted a closed adoption.
They said that I'd never see you again.
I was okay with that.
It made things easier.

You have to know,
I never wanted any of this,
I never thought I'd be one to abandon my only child
That's monstrous.
Please believe me,
I am not a monster.

But he was.

Your eyes are the same.
Dark and hard...
but sort of empty too.

Your smile
is soft and gentle - like his.
A practiced liar's smile.

Your hands,
they look just like the ones he wrapped around my mouth and neck,
long and thin, but surprisingly strong.

Your voice -
Identical to the one that whispered
"no one will believe you"
into my ear that night.

You even kind of smell like him.

I don't know what you expected to get out of this:
Money?
An apology?
Closure?
Love?
I can't give you any of those things.

I will tell you this:
I could have spared you this moment,
And not doing so, is my biggest regret.
JM Romig Apr 2013
I left you
scrambled on the wall
naked for all to see.

I called it art
poetry
even, honesty.

but it was only brutality
only ill-informed and unformed mess of ideology
only the reaction of little boy
to a trainwreck.

I won't say the word regret,
because I don't
I won't say the word sorry
because I'm not.

I will say that with age comes perspective  
and with perspective
comes introspection and --

well, we've all had too much of that today.
NaPoWriMo Day 3

Last self-aware poem of the month (possibly), I (maybe) swear.

— The End —