#milwaukee - Hello Poetry

Giannis Antetokounmpo Drinks Ouzo In his Greek Freak Pumpkin Spiced Latte The grande size is $5.25 USD Salary of Giannis Antetokounmpo $24.16 million USD Per year One USD per meal (Meal Math) $24.16 million USD feeds 1,655 families of four per year GO BUCKS GO!

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Sep 14, 2018

Sep 14, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC

dapunnisher

Bucks Starbucks

Giannis Antetokounmpo Drinks Ouzo In his Greek Freak Pumpkin Spiced Latte The grande size is $5.25 USD Salary of Giannis Antetokounmpo $24.16 million USD Per year One USD per meal (Meal Math) $24.16 million USD feeds 1,655 families of four per year GO BUCKS GO!

13

We walked in together and from that moment on, I watched the way your eyes traced each line in each portrait. Arms stiffened in the pockets of your tight, but not too tight jeans, I wondered what it would be like to kiss you. In an art museum I'd never been to, you were the most beautiful piece in the room. I couldn't look away. While most people take pictures of the paintings they love, the sculptures that mesmerize them, I turned my focus to those carolina blue eyes as they focused on the art. I traced your jawline in my mind, and I tried to count each hair in your ****** scruff. I wondered who was responsible for such an incredible work, who could have created such beauty, and how I came so lucky to witness it. At least a thousand other people were in the museum yet I felt as though it was only you. You seemingly perfect human being, your elegantly disheveled hair, your tired yet lively eyes. I want to create something with you. I want to make art so beautiful it radiates, I want to love you so purely it never ends. You stopped to get gas on the way back. I stepped out of the car to take a mental picture of the way those iridescent lights hit your face, and as I approached, you kissed me. This moment was a masterpiece, the world should have counted my heartbeats. We broke the kiss and headed home. I held your hand the whole way. I have loved art my entire life, but have never come across beauty as pure as you.

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Nov 6, 2016

Nov 6, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC

jessica-r-falk

Milwaukee Art Museum, Milwaukee, Autumn

We walked in together and from that moment on, I watched the way your eyes traced each line in each portrait. Arms stiffened in the pockets of your tight, but not too tight jeans, I wondered what it would be like to kiss you. In an art museum I'd never been to, you were the most beautiful piece in the room. I couldn't look away. While most people take pictures of the paintings they love, the sculptures that mesmerize them, I turned my focus to those carolina blue eyes as they focused on the art. I traced your jawline in my mind, and I tried to count each hair in your ****** scruff. I wondered who was responsible for such an incredible work, who could have created such beauty, and how I came so lucky to witness it. At least a thousand other people were in the museum yet I felt as though it was only you. You seemingly perfect human being, your elegantly disheveled hair, your tired yet lively eyes. I want to create something with you. I want to make art so beautiful it radiates, I want to love you so purely it never ends. You stopped to get gas on the way back. I stepped out of the car to take a mental picture of the way those iridescent lights hit your face, and as I approached, you kissed me. This moment was a masterpiece, the world should have counted my heartbeats. We broke the kiss and headed home. I held your hand the whole way. I have loved art my entire life, but have never come across beauty as pure as you.

35

I can’t say we’re the same but I too have lost large parts of me to greener pastures Your dark bricks turn to dust and paint the snow a red maroon “The stories they’d tell” Says everyone sad to see them crumble but not sad enough to do anything about it “Someone should do something” Someone, but not they Milwaukee I too am a lot like you, if you only knew How far I slid sickly over the Kinnickinnic oil slicks Past fallen trees and draining pipes Until being caught by a shopping cart Left on the muddy banks by some poor poor impoverished soul Who also didn’t really care enough to return it to the Pick & Save From which it was taken I’ve sure seen better days and I too have come a long way Like I got on to Fond Du Lac Avenue and kept walking Until I reached Well... Fond Du Lac Like I ascended Kilbourn Park with a pick-axe Defeated the yeti on top and shoved your blue flag Through his heart, cracking it open like a Pabst or Schlitz can and dropped a quarter in a homeless guy’s jar And he told me I was just like you I can too burn bright like the foundries in the valley Or roar like railcars and rattle the south side Or be courageous like the captain Sailing to Muskegon Over choppy freshwater treachery I can shutter in peace like your factories when I fall asleep And never wake back up I can drive all my loved ones away Just like you have For the past five decades I’m exactly like you Because I too Wait for a sunnier day

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Jun 27, 2015

Jun 27, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC

andrew-dunham

MKE

I can’t say we’re the same but I too have lost large parts of me to greener pastures Your dark bricks turn to dust and paint the snow a red maroon “The stories they’d tell” Says everyone sad to see them crumble but not sad enough to do anything about it “Someone should do something” Someone, but not they Milwaukee I too am a lot like you, if you only knew How far I slid sickly over the Kinnickinnic oil slicks Past fallen trees and draining pipes Until being caught by a shopping cart Left on the muddy banks by some poor poor impoverished soul Who also didn’t really care enough to return it to the Pick & Save From which it was taken I’ve sure seen better days and I too have come a long way Like I got on to Fond Du Lac Avenue and kept walking Until I reached Well... Fond Du Lac Like I ascended Kilbourn Park with a pick-axe Defeated the yeti on top and shoved your blue flag Through his heart, cracking it open like a Pabst or Schlitz can and dropped a quarter in a homeless guy’s jar And he told me I was just like you I can too burn bright like the foundries in the valley Or roar like railcars and rattle the south side Or be courageous like the captain Sailing to Muskegon Over choppy freshwater treachery I can shutter in peace like your factories when I fall asleep And never wake back up I can drive all my loved ones away Just like you have For the past five decades I’m exactly like you Because I too Wait for a sunnier day

36

Roughly six-hundred-and-two packs of cancer sticks later, I don't feel as sick as therapists have said I am to be. That means twelve-thousand-and-fifty-three cigarettes have been consumed in the past three years by me, in which I'm surprised my lungs haven't had to be exhumed from my barreled chest. I'm surprised I haven't died, or contracted a malignant growth in my throat, or excessive tar in these lungs that hold me up, or haven't choked on the smell, or haven't wrecked a car while dropping a smoke into my lap. Now all of my cigarette burns are marks from the slight curve of smiles I've found in sad people spending their valuable seconds on letting smoke settle in. I've been using stupid cancer sticks to curb this constant anxiety I brought upon myself. In prison they use cigarettes as currency, I always say I want to be wealthy with passing away faster, it makes me feel oddly sentimental knowing I'll be closer to friends I once hid away with and shared moments over cigarettes. But back to my point, way back then, when I met you. I didn't want to smell like smoke, I didn't want you to hate it on me. I didn't need to curb the anxiety. I didn't want to taste like lung cancer. I didn't want to remind you of what you hate. It's late notice, but you were my nicotine sprinkled with cyanide, arsenic (rat poison), butane, ammonia, menthanol, carbon monoxide, and paint, but you weren't cancerous, contrary of what you always say. I was the carcinogen that would've made you die if I had stayed. You don't know I wanted to, though, I wanted you addicted, but I'm a cigarette with remorse; we both wanted more, and I miss you like eight hours away from the seven minutes I take off of my day. I didn't want to **** you, though you may be scarred, I wanted you to be alive and generally unharmed.

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Nov 18, 2014

Nov 18, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC

ian-tishler

American Spirits.

Roughly six-hundred-and-two packs of cancer sticks later, I don't feel as sick as therapists have said I am to be. That means twelve-thousand-and-fifty-three cigarettes have been consumed in the past three years by me, in which I'm surprised my lungs haven't had to be exhumed from my barreled chest. I'm surprised I haven't died, or contracted a malignant growth in my throat, or excessive tar in these lungs that hold me up, or haven't choked on the smell, or haven't wrecked a car while dropping a smoke into my lap. Now all of my cigarette burns are marks from the slight curve of smiles I've found in sad people spending their valuable seconds on letting smoke settle in. I've been using stupid cancer sticks to curb this constant anxiety I brought upon myself. In prison they use cigarettes as currency, I always say I want to be wealthy with passing away faster, it makes me feel oddly sentimental knowing I'll be closer to friends I once hid away with and shared moments over cigarettes. But back to my point, way back then, when I met you. I didn't want to smell like smoke, I didn't want you to hate it on me. I didn't need to curb the anxiety. I didn't want to taste like lung cancer. I didn't want to remind you of what you hate. It's late notice, but you were my nicotine sprinkled with cyanide, arsenic (rat poison), butane, ammonia, menthanol, carbon monoxide, and paint, but you weren't cancerous, contrary of what you always say. I was the carcinogen that would've made you die if I had stayed. You don't know I wanted to, though, I wanted you addicted, but I'm a cigarette with remorse; we both wanted more, and I miss you like eight hours away from the seven minutes I take off of my day. I didn't want to **** you, though you may be scarred, I wanted you to be alive and generally unharmed.

34

I have a blue blanket, it looks corduroy but it's synthetic polynesian cotton. Considered by some to be polyester. After the ninth year of ownership I started Telling house guests it had always been mine; but secretly knowing it came from my Ex Kristina who left it with some of her other things in 2005 in my grand deluxe Evanston Apartment. In like some really awesome way, I could fold the corners together to see little blocks Of the Universe form cubes in the fourth dimension and gain a better understanding of my own Little black shmata. Top drawer, white dresser, in the back with the leftover girlfriend underwear between My first ever stuffed animal dog/rabbit. Amazing how these thinned and frayed azure threads had held so many midnight conversations Together- maybe fifteen other girls had nuzzled with Kristina's blanket. Last year the guilt set in. You Watch a girlfriend, say, ratchet through your room naked for something soft to put over her to listen to Some half-stanza from the new Yeats critical and that, do-I-tell-her feeling comes over you. Blue Polyester really had a way with women. My last serious crush, the one of six months, the one from the place that was close to where I worked six days a week, would you believe, she had not interest in that heap of thread, under my pillows spying on us sleep for twenty-four long weeks. "Drop in the bucket" the sixty-year-olds say. I say, bring me my ******* fourth dimension blocks and cubes ************ I want to visit the existential, I want to experience the hoo-ra and Ga-Ga those kids throw around on Milwaukee waiting for $150 NBA slippers. Wednesday is my day for telling the truth. 2:00p.m. sitting in the front of her alizarin El Dorado. "I have something I have to tell you," I said, my mouth practically filled with marbles as I barely could Utter the words: it's not going to work out.

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Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Blue Polyester

I have a blue blanket, it looks corduroy but it's synthetic polynesian cotton. Considered by some to be polyester. After the ninth year of ownership I started Telling house guests it had always been mine; but secretly knowing it came from my Ex Kristina who left it with some of her other things in 2005 in my grand deluxe Evanston Apartment. In like some really awesome way, I could fold the corners together to see little blocks Of the Universe form cubes in the fourth dimension and gain a better understanding of my own Little black shmata. Top drawer, white dresser, in the back with the leftover girlfriend underwear between My first ever stuffed animal dog/rabbit. Amazing how these thinned and frayed azure threads had held so many midnight conversations Together- maybe fifteen other girls had nuzzled with Kristina's blanket. Last year the guilt set in. You Watch a girlfriend, say, ratchet through your room naked for something soft to put over her to listen to Some half-stanza from the new Yeats critical and that, do-I-tell-her feeling comes over you. Blue Polyester really had a way with women. My last serious crush, the one of six months, the one from the place that was close to where I worked six days a week, would you believe, she had not interest in that heap of thread, under my pillows spying on us sleep for twenty-four long weeks. "Drop in the bucket" the sixty-year-olds say. I say, bring me my ******* fourth dimension blocks and cubes ************ I want to visit the existential, I want to experience the hoo-ra and Ga-Ga those kids throw around on Milwaukee waiting for $150 NBA slippers. Wednesday is my day for telling the truth. 2:00p.m. sitting in the front of her alizarin El Dorado. "I have something I have to tell you," I said, my mouth practically filled with marbles as I barely could Utter the words: it's not going to work out.

14