#superbowl
It’s a chill and rainy Saturday night in New Haven - it’s Superbowl eve! My roommates Leong, Anna and Lisa and I were playing a game of Upwards - it’s a scrabble-like word game and we’re all strangely super competitive.
My phone went “dunk!” A happy ‘Water jug’ sound messages make when they're from one of my favorites. The message was from Charles. He was at the front gate with a package that came to the house where Charles and Mrs. Charles live (about 600 yards from the dorm). He passed me the package through the bars at the main gate, “Thanks,” I said, “ga-night,” and he was gone.
Back in my room, I ripped the box open like Christmas morning. The word game could wait - this package was from Paris. The light beige, Jacquemus, ‘Les Ballerines mary-jane pumps’ I’d ordered (forever ago) had arrived and they fit like soft leather gloves.
“Ooo! Glampse!” Lisa pronounced.
“Aren’t they?” I agreed, swiveling my hooves to show them off in the full length mirror.
When I rejoined the Upwards game, talk had shifted to tomorrow's Superbowl.
“I read yesterday that Taylor’s on her way (to the Superbowl)!” Leong declared.
“I like that she likes the NFL now,” I said.
“A lot of people hate her for it,” Anna countered.
“She was on camera twice, for 11 seconds total, in a 3-1/2 hour long game. If that upsets you, you’re bringing a lot of your own baggage to the plot.” I updogged.
Leong wants to order vegan “wings” for the SuperBowl.
“What, exactly, are those?” I asked, apprehensively.
“You’re the girl who talked me into trying buffalo-frog-legs in Paris - ney?” Leong enquired, sarcastically.
“Yeah,” I admitted, guiltily, “but they were delicious,” I said in self defense.
I’m picking the Chiefs 30-20 over the niners.
Feb 10, 2024
Feb 10, 2024 at 11:48 PM UTC
Please Pogo music, wake me up. The night, now reduced to warm laptop light, is inching toward dawn. I pray to the patron saints of writers - is it Neri or Ávila? Whichever is on call I suppose.
“I’ve indulged in reprobation,” I confess, openly to the fuzzy, waxing, crescent moon. “I need that alchemy that turns coffee and a rough outline into an actual paper.”
I yank off my hoodie, fling my window open wide and hang myself out like wet laundry. Have you ever tasted ***** Vile stuff really.
The forty degree breeze feels like heaven and my eyes begin to focus. I peel off my leggings to let my entire skin tingle with cold.
My Keurig beeps confidently. I found a couple of peanut energy bars in my bookbag and rip them open like a ****** who’s discovered a forgotten stash. I devour them so quickly it’s like a magic trick - then I brush my teeth.
I take several slow deep breaths. I can DO this, I assure myself, but my outline looks adequate at best. I need this done so I can relax with a super bowl party pizza Sunday.
The song “Data & Picard,” sets me to dancing, “It’s better to have loved and lost..” Patrick Stewart as Jean-Luc Picard pronounces, perfectly auto-tuned to the music.
I love this song. I love the night. I love the challenge.
I set myself to the task and finish, three hours later, as the sun breaks into morning.
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 7:28 AM UTC
I re-post this most every year on Super Servile Sunday:
Super Servile Sunday
O sink not down to that corrosive couch,
Docile before the Orwellian screen
That regulates the lives of the servile,
Dictating dress and drink, demeanor, dreams
Declare your independence from the sludge
Of vague obedientiaries who fling
Away their empty lives in submission
To harsh, diagonal inches of rule
Poor weaklings chanting tainted tribal songs
In chorus hamsterable, huddled, heaped
While costumed in their masters’ liveries
And feeling little while thinking even less
The very model of the State’s non-men
Predictable and dull, submissive ghosts
Crowded, herded through cosmic cattle chutes
Reflected in dim, noisy nothingness.
But you…
But you, O you, be not of them, but be
A wanderer in the moonlight, one known
To God and to His holy solitude.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 11:03 PM UTC
Minding my own business
Hanging out with Irène
I heard “you’re perfect”!
What does this mean?
Don’t think much of myself
Bumpy hard skin, scars a plenty
Someone thinks I’m awesome
Fine with me just let em
I had to be cut open and gutted
To see my true beauty
Had to say goodbye to Brad
Been there for me, it was his duty
Look how beautiful we are Irène!
Creamy, soft, luscious to the taste
I’m so happy we are in the bowl
Did I just hear many yells of praise
Grown men with helmets on
Throwing around a ball
Everyone wants some of us
Yelling at their screens over a call
Who’s that Irène? He’s something!
That’s Chip! He’s handsome I say
Strong perfectly salty and built
I hope I can meet him today
Now it’s me and Chip forever
Irène set her own sights
At this Super Bowl party
Crunchy smooth love at first of many bites
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 12:38 AM UTC
O sink not down in that corrosive couch,
Docile before the Orwellian screen
That regulates the lives of the servile,
Dictating dress and drink, demeanor, dreams;
Declare your independence from the sludge
Of vague obedientiaries who drowse
Away their empty lives in submission
To harsh, diagonal inches of rule
Poor weaklings chanting tainted tribal songs
In chorus hamsterable, huddled, heaped,
While costumed in their masters’ liveries,
And feeling little while thinking even less
The very model of the State’s non-men,
Predictable and dull, submissive ghosts
Crowded, herded in cosmic cattle chutes,
Reflected in dim, noisy nothingness
But you, O you, be not of them, but be
A wanderer in the moonlight, one known
To God, there in His holy solitude
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 8:33 AM UTC
It's that time of the Patriot's year
Postseason playoff games are in full gear
The road to the Superbowl, I cheer
But not for the big, bad grissly bear
That takes every opponent's fate without fear
That's right the big bad bear without peer
I'm snickering the Patriot's to cry a tear
Nothing would make me so happier, I swear
Fricken, dicken, bitchen Patriots beware
To see another Bostonian tea party, I glare
I do show respect at the Patriot's lair
Brady and Belicheck what a podded pair
Steady, stoic and simulcast, condescending I declare
You see a Patriots playoff loss is so rare
Their team profile is beyond compare
A well oiled machine that wear
Goliath close over David with regular fare
The road to this year's Superbowl Sunday, I say a prayer
That the other teams flag is flying patriotically in the air
Logan Robertson
1/11/2019
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 5:05 AM UTC
The miasma and the spectacle
come, and yet, now gone
another year of football dreams
another winner, drawn
Home to ol Liberty, the bell
having hit the super high note
apex of every football dream
contracts to negotiate, and quote
as is, with every
team
Sleep well, Dallas cowboys
sweet dreams to Viking kings
another year, football dreams
of trophies, and the glories
and not just, another
ring
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC
It's football night America
no one, took a knee
the day is done, we know who won
Eagles, flying free
It's football night, America
no known controversies
the game is set, never fret
Patriots found, the key
We'll know, when the dust settles
just what, and who, will be
living in America
on football night
we'll see
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
Eagle's flew out of the night
something, too observe
stretching, straining, every flight
requiring, every, nerve
The Vikings came, and went
unable, to procure
a win, a victory, tonight
unable, too, endure
We'll see, two weeks hence
which symbol will surpass
Eagles or the Patriots
who is first, and who
is last
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
It's Amendola
not Motorola
not Penszola
or Pepsi-cola
Pat's on a roll-a
to Super Bowl-a
It's Gronkowski
not a Jetski
not a concuss-ski
he'll be back, see
Pat's on a win-ski
to Super Bowl-ski
It's Tom Brady
no way is shady
not like a lady
history made-y
Pat's not afraid-y
Super Brady
It's Belichick'ed
no defects
not a speck
stuck out his neck
Kraft, Pat's exec
what the heck
Yes I've said it
I'll take credit
SB LII
Pat's live
not die..
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC
Superb Owl sat in front of his TV.
The more he ate, the more touchdowns he'd see.
The more he drank, the better did his team.
Let's all share Superb Owl's superb scheme!
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
The broncos won And I'm still at a dead end job
Didn't even watch the game, I was too busy
washing trash cans.
Heard about it through some magic rectangle.
The kids call "social media"
about all the different things
Lady Gaga looked like when
she sang the national anthem.
Heatmiser,
pizza rolls,
Dolly Parton
Because one time Dolly Parton wore a red suit, Which I thought was kind of a stretch.
I saw a commercial saying that more than
400,000 babies are born 9 months after the super bowl.
You know what else is right around that time in February?
Valentine's day
I don't think I've ever been less ****
than during the super bowl.
Nobody looks at their man
Half covered in Beer and nacho grease stains
And goes "oh baby,
that buffalo sauce gets me so wet"
"I just wanna grab a fist full of your hair
bend you over these pizza boxes an~"
"No"
"No"
"N~I mean, I'd be into it"
"No"
My girlfriend is in Florida working for Disney right now.
They have her doing laundry in a musty basement with
middle aged Mexican woman.
It's apparently awful.
"Ruins the magic" she says.
Seeing cinderella scurrying around half naked
doing her make up
Wig cap and undergarments.
Snow white with her nose up
asking for kombucha
Won't even make eye contact with the laundry vets
Let alone my intern girlfriend.
Who says these princesses
would sooner **** a man covered in nacho grease.
Then show her any respect.
I asked how the magic wasn't ruined before that.
After watching the play hairspray
when they yell
"CUT! "
and the actors go back to their miserable lives,
I figured it out pretty young.
This middle class manifesto
Where making a livable wage is our life term goal.
But she is the faithful type.
Loves her a good miracle.
Like when she found out she was pregnant.
Was
She had already lost him.
Or her
I was over 3,000 miles away
With another man
she was drinking herself to sleep
Praying to some porcelain god for me to stop
I'm sure the morning sickness didn't help
Her depression
Or hangovers.
Or the will to tell me, The man already greiving over one lost daughter
we had lost another.
Before we even knew she was there.
I only tell her I love her.
She says she needs me around
because I’m a taurus.
I have no idea what she means by that.
But I love hearing stories about mexican woman yelling in spanish at their iphone screens
half naked princesses doing their makeup in hair nets.
And her still believing in magic.
She gives me something to dream about
while I wash these trash cans.
Like watching hairspray together
Her bending me over some chicken wings.
Our little Princess.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
1. You could not wait til halftime to check your poem or add one.
2. You wrote a sonnet about pretty horses. (Broncos)
3.You wrote a poem about kittens.(Panthers)
4. As the ball soars through the air, you are reminded of a bird in flight.
5. A Superbowl commercial inspired a new poem.
6. You paused the game with your DVR to write a piece.
7. You think the referees look like majestic Zebra on the African plains.
8. You ponder the coin toss and wonder of chance and philosophical questions as to whether life is like a paradox, then write yourself a poem about it.
9. When a tackle is made, you think upon the animalistic nature of humanity and write a haiku about it.
10. There is a notebook and pen right next to your remote and munchies.
11. You have a neck ache due to looking at your hellopoetry site and then back up at the t.v.
12. You write Peyton Manning farewell poem.
13. The commentator of the game makes a poetical statement and you use it in your latest poem.
14. The crowd boos a player and you feel compelled to write the pain of number 94 in a poem.
15. Last but not least, you might be a poet if you are reading this and the game is on.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
For us,
The Super Bowl
Is poetry
In legal motion.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
My eyes might scan bookshelves,
but I search for Blankets.
I wont say a word,
because it's already quite warm in here.
My friends are yelling at each other,
about bad politics,
while there's testosterone on the blue screen.
I sit on the floor and flick comrades
off my lap.
Little dark bug- I was quick to slap.
It's clamorous, a broken plate,
a blame game,
then silence.
Everyone else is on a smoke break.
I sit on the sofa while we wait.
I keep looking at Blankets.
The warmth and comfort of Blankets.
You know you fix heartbreak-
by filling it up with empty cotton?
so the blood soaks up,
and the space is cramped,
so those mushy feelings have no place to stay?
I cover myself in the forms of Blankets.
I am just one soppy broken heart,
surrounded by the same on Super Bowl Day.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Hello Super Bowl Sunday,
I don't really know you
I know I should be attentive,
but I haven't got a clue
You are a holiday to many,
a really big deal
But to me you are a mystery,
and an excuse for a meal
A game to watch, I get it,
and some really pricey ads
I can watch what others scream about,
and pick up on new fads
I feel I am outside looking in,
on others' joys and sorrow
They will hype all day beforehand,
recapping all tomorrow
After all, its just a game,
Not filled with reason and rhyme
But I will get my revenge next month,
when it's Oscars Time!!
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
I have seen the bliss
before the morning's dawn .
I have taken kiss from a woman
as she slept like a new born fawn .
I have seen the sun and moon set
together in a western sky .
I have seen all the reasons now
as we let our loving die .
I have seen the fog at times when
there was nothing one could see .
I have seen eternity from the mountains
all the way down to the sea .
I have seen love's kind embrace and
felt it's breath upon my skin .
But I don't even dare to dream
there will be another like you again .
Oh , I have seen paradise through
The yellow of the glass .
Tasted it upon my tongue
And it was so very nice .
I have smelled the rose's fumes
And it permanates the air
For evermore I assumed
But now face cold realities stare
I have seen the petals fall
one by one by one
I have seen the fingers slip away
until there were none .
I have this empty feeling
at the bottom of my pit
God it is so unwilling
I think I'm feeling sick
Our love has evaporated
After summer's rain
Leaving steaming memories
Heat and searing pain
But I have not seen
Nor think I ever will
See a love again like this
Forever that's so real
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC