topacio 3d
i haven't come out yet
and i don't know how else to say it
especially to
my mother, the nurse
my father, the electrician
my brother, the politician
my sister, the wise ass
i don't know how to say that
i have an affection for words
i have been hiding the paints under my bed
and staring at the guitars from
outside the window
unable to resist how hard
the urge is to touch

i am a closeted artist yet to come out
and admit that i've had an affair
with a few museums and paint brushes

that i have been memorizing poems
from before i could read
committing some verses to memory
as my mother recited them to me softly before bed

and as i stand here waiting in the closet
im sketching a small butterfly on the wall next to my coat
ill most likely wear to the off broadway show tonight.
zeebee 4d
sometimes i'm too easily amused
by the things that should bring me down.
i laugh at the thoughts
that should make me uncomfortable.
(i'm being dramatic. really,
they're just thoughts about
humanity and reality.)

an example;
the other day, i had a thought.
a silly thought. a simple one.
i thought to myself,
"i'm running from the responsibility
of knowing
that i'm running from responsibility"
it wasn't an intelligent thought.
it wasn't even that dramatic.

i laughed anyway.
Jack P 5d
for the plenty that proffer
"write what you know"
i'll have you know
i don't know much

pursuantly, here is my poem:

...
Ahhhhh.
  Falling asleep to the dulcet tones of
    My screaming baby,
      My snoring husband,
        And the Roomba sucking up what sounds like an entire box of Cheerios.
Your top knot,
It looks so cute.
My top knot…
        Does not.

Your top knot,
It makes you seem young and fun.
My top knot…
        Does not.

Your top knot,
It’s a little messy but not too messy; really just the perfect amount of messy.
My top knot…
        Looks like a sad, wispy rat’s nest.

Your top knot,
It’s fucking perfect.
My top knot…
        What top knot? I’m wearing my hair down. Who’s talking about top knots?
“Happy birthday, kiddo!
We got you this drum!”
Were the last words heard in my home.

Now it’s:
Bang bang bang.
Boom boom boom.
Bang boom. Bang boom.
Boom bang. Boom bang.
How fun.

What a fun fun fun toy.
So much darn fun.
He bangs the drum.
We hear the drum.
The neighbors hear the drum.
Strangers walking past our house hear the drum.
People who live down the street, around the corner, across the highway, right next to the construction zone hear the drum.

You can’t not hear this drum.
It’s. So. Fun.
So so so much darn
          -- BOOM BANG BOOM BANG BOOM --
                    Fun.

“Happy day-after-your-birthday, kiddo!
We got you this very soft and incredibly silent stuffed hippo!”

Let us never speak of the drum again.
Last night I had a little too much to drink.
How much is too much?
Hmmm, lemme think...

I.
     Got.
              Bangs.

I got bangs! Did you hear me?
I got fucking bangs!
But this wasn't a pro job...
I gave myself bangs.

Are the bangs a good haircut?
Do the bangs frame my face?
All solid questions;
It depends on your taste:

Should bangs be all jagged?
Should they move on their own?
Is it cool if they’re aflutter,
Like I’m always windblown?

Should bangs be greasy, and stringy, and frizzy?
And this here bangs cowlick, does it make me look pretty?

I was going for Taylor Swift, circa 2010.
What I got was a late ‘80s George Harrison.

These bangs are a problem,
I’m starting to think.
Maybe I can fix them,
After another strong drink.
Purge mode! Purge mode!
Everything must go!

I haven’t worn these pants in at least twelve months.
Purge!

This was my go to cute top in ‘07, but it shrunk.
Purge!

These shoes are embarrassingly loud, they go “THWUMP, THWUMP, THWUMP.”
Purge!

Once, in this dress, someone mistakenly thought I was knocked up.
Purge!

Cool expensive hat from Anthropologie I’ve worn not a once?
Oh wait, maybe keep that one.
Nah, just kidding, PUUUUUUUURGE!
Hey there, Blue Apron,
We need to talk.
Come into my office.
Have a seat, big shot.

No no no, this time it isn’t
About all the pots.
Although those are an issue.
For sure. There’s just a lot.

Today I’d like to chat with you
About your clock.
Do you own one? Have you seen one?
You’ve heard a “tick tock?”

That’s confusing because you say here
The Glazed Chicken with Apricot
Should take 25 minutes.
But I can assure you, it does not.

I spent half an hour
Just giving the shallots a chop.
Not to mention mincing ginger
And making the chicken stock.

Maybe if I had a team of sous chefs
Or ran a kitchen sweatshop,
I’d get this shit done,
In 25 minutes tops.

So, while it pains me, Blue Apron,
I’ve given it some thought,
And I have to let you go.
This really needs to stop.
Because I simply have no more patience,
For this Glazed Chicken with Apricot.
I dig when you like my poems
And I’m really glad you know them
But you are being too critical
If you demand I not be political.
I’m not the most passive poet
You have ever heard or seen.
I am rather an outspoken
Liberal-minded poetry machine.

I’m not patient with ass-kissers
Or those who applaud crooks,
And flashy overspending creeps
Who got rich cooking the books.
I’m not impressed with how well
They behave at flashy photo-ops.
If they’re criminals, I really think
Someone should call the cops.

Nixon and Reagan, taught us
Being famous doesn’t get it.
If that’s all they have going on
Then, no thanks. Just forget it.
I don’t want to give them keys
To a worldwide nuclear disaster.
Kicking their asses off the throne
Should be instantly if not faster.

So, if you came here to read
Of flowers, June, moon and spoon,
You’re bound to be disappointed
And it will happen very soon.
As I am in love with words
Not just the sound they make.
I try to move souls and hearts
And shake some people awake.
Next page