"ambulances" poems
this is how it happens
it's the last day the temperature will be
above thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit
until February
you're not looking at the date
it's just the end of November
the middle of the night in the middle of a road
at the end of November
the hum of this small town hurts your ears
you're stuck in a dream where everything you see
turns into a weapon
this is how it happens
you knocked back sharp, amber liquid
to make this place feel a little more okay
and it only worked halfway
no matter how soft the edges are
you bruise your hips when you
run into them in the dark
you're ******* on your fourth cigarette when
a police officer pulls over and asks
how you're doing today
in the too-bright white of the headlights
the sick taste of Red Stag sticks to
the roof of your mouth
the mouth that you're moving into a smile
the mouth exhaling plumes of smoke at the ground
you're okay
"i'm okay."
you don't tell him what you're really doing
you're really taking all of your
thoughts about stopping your pulse for a walk
you don't tell him you've been
chasing ambulances all night long
please, officer don't leave me alone, you don't say
he tells you to have a good night and drives away
and this is how it happens
the moon smiles at you with every single one
of its tiny, sharp teeth
nobody but your cat finds you in that bathtub
nobody but your cat watches you rise from red water
watches it drip drip drip
from every chasm carved in your left arm
nobody but your cat saw the soft animal of your soul
shiver from the cold that day
it's the first day the temperature
dropped below
thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit inside your chest
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 9:48 AM UTC
I have been in the moon
In search of love all noon
Searched through deserts
Even through garden of Eden.
I have Searched beneath the sea
Travelled wide even to overseas
Still could not find love.
I went to Vatican
Even to Mecca
Driven through the romantic sites of Paris
Bath in the Brazilian beaches
Flown across the Atlantic
Pitched my tenth for few days on the Antarctic
Spend some more on the arctic
Still I saw no love.
All I saw was lust
Angels with broken hearts,
Rotten roses,
Withered lilies,
Death faiths and monsters on beautiful faces.
I saw bullets in church offering boxes
Just wedded on number plates of ambulances.
I saw wars in diversity
Pain and mourning crowding all cities
The devil celebrating the dead of peace.
I saw three wise men
Where went love, I asked them
They said love has been nailed on the cross
Buried with trust
They are heading to Galilee
To await his return.
I followed with dreams
I met many returning with smiles of frustration
From where I was going with pregnancy of expectations.
We arrived to the scene
Like a nightmare, I witnessed higher sins
I saw men taking pleasures with men
Some with animals, some women with women.
Gun everybody walking sticks
People feeding on people flesh
With human blood the thirsting ones quench their thirst.
Is this where love is expected to return?
The wise men retorted,
Yes, the saints have been raptured
And his seven years reign has just began.
Then in a flash, I remembered that I have been taught
Taught about this dreadful end
I had also taught kids
Under trees at nights
Just to threaten them to live right.
What I thought was a mare threat or a fallacy
Has been awaken against my fate in reality.
Oh! We are among the leftovers
Left to reprove ourselves or be doomed forever.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
Night is for the hours
Cowards,
Let a man of God speak or night
Will continue to burn flowers
It's been said napkins are the greatest currency
For it holds the food spittle of man
Like how ambulances sit waiting
To clean up after misfortunes
And make fortunes for the fortun-
Who Ate paragraphs of spider webs
And patted weaves like black men seating at the back of the limited luxurious Q46 bus nodding heads to the noise of Toyota cameras they couldn't afford in the land where they spend $300 million to part the seas for summer entertainment
While they only spent $40 on California cuteness and walked on water with 13 Jesus' and ate at the bottom of the sea with only three tokes from the plastic bag
Let a man of God speak or night
Will continue to burn flowers
For we graduated from 30 hot nights of mathematics
Only to find that the future will always be white and in the *******
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
your body, the drain plug,
that climactic days of a day
murky sweet strawberry milk water
ebbs and sways
around, surrounds, and surmounts you
Your body the dumping ground
for pretty poppy seeds
seep, steep
seeded somewhere deep
as
synthetic stinging metaphor rain
pours on your mistreated singing skin
spotted, dotted, synaptic rule
akin to lemon poppy seed muffin tops
your head- a top
spins round
and mimics
never-ending bath drain whirlpool
ambulances and ambivalences soundtrack
this nocturne
night of a morning
mourning already
my poor lost sister
a little less than intact
lost in her head
I'm loosing her
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she nods
and grumbles,
fumbles for words that aren't there
four words that aren't there
forward isn't there
because what do you say
about matters
when your high
and breathing last breaths overlapping
in humble showers
in heart crumbling nakedness
your faithlessness trapping
murky sweet strawberry milk waters.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
My Sunglasses
I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses
I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands
I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes
I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades
I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow
I use black plastic as onyx shields
So Tucson, I see you.
There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon
I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands
They tell us we’re wasting our time
Telling the roadrunner to run back home
When its nest was here since the beginning of time
Tucson.
I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days
I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms
Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere.
I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper
In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences.
Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see.
Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast
They tend to only record your overdoses and murders
Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds
The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching
It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business
Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs
Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far.
Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving
Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets
We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist,
Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in.
I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways
And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds.
I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown.
To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you
On walks home I photograph your murals.
Listen to the poets in the hallways.
Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph
I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’.
I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses.
Framed your mountain ranges in my frames.
Took cover in your shades.
Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow
Tucson
I see you.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
Closed like confessionals, they thread
Loud noons of cities, giving back
None of the glances they absorb.
Light glossy grey, arms on a plaque,
They come to rest at any kerb:
All streets in time are visited.
Then children strewn on steps or road,
Or women coming from the shops
Past smells of different dinners, see
A wild white face that overtops
Red stretcher-blankets momently
As it is carried in and stowed,
And sense the solving emptiness
That lies just under all we do,
And for a second get it whole,
So permanent and blank and true.
The fastened doors recede. Poor soul,
They whisper at their own distress;
For borne away in deadened air
May go the sudden shut of loss
Round something nearly at an end,
And what cohered in it across
The years, the unique random blend
Of families and fashions, there
At last begin to loosen. Far
From the exchange of love to lie
Unreachable insided a room
The trafic parts to let go by
Brings closer what is left to come,
And dulls to distance all we are.
3.4k
Here neatly side by side these rotted steels
Cancerous rust peeled off paints lay idle
Progress put halt these **** grown wheels
The sad pale ghosts of once was tireless angels
In unknown graveyard of ambulances
There's silence. But whistling birds in a tree
Not like sirens blared heard far distances
Cut through traffic like ships divide the sea
Wings on fire ferrying perilous load
Sick and dying dire need to hospital
Mother's in labour mishap on the road
Saviour of lives young, old and critical
Where mankind employs, mankind destroys
Hollowed vans left to whims like broken toys.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
.
The menace emerges from the shadows,
a barked order, but unintelligible.
Then the soft steel kiss
slicing through flesh into entrails.
A fist connects with a crunching face,
legs buckle with pain and blood-loss.
And the Darkness of Death takes me,
like a comfort blanket of soft wool.
My Temple violated and de-sanctified,
the blade withdraws with a whisper.
Darkness cuddles
and welcomes me with a smile.
The morphine haze
keeps me inert and motionless,
but makes my mind giggle.
It wanders aimless
through psychedelic chapters …
This place is sterile, white, drab.
My eyes move slowly left.
There is something in a doorway.
The door.
… my head flies to a Poets Banquet,
where I am the bones thrown to the dogs.
And the wood grain in the door moves,
a cascading chocolate fountain,
over and over again,
flowing, melting like molten lava.
They taught me to write,
then cut off my hands.
Obscurity is purity;
fame is pain.
So I penned a letter to the dead.
My eyeballs are all that move,
floating in mid-air,
but still connected and transmitting
drug induced images.
I remember the assassin, the blade,
the darkness, the sirens, but no pain.
Images but no feeling.
They move right to a cold bedside table,
and then I think I cried.
Somebody Knows me.
No chocolates, no flowers.
Somebody Knows me.
No fruit. No magazines.
Just …
a pen and a pad.
Somebody Knows me.
I did cry, someone remembers me.
And each teardrop contained a thousand images,
a thousand stories, a thousand poems.
Inspiration. Illusion. Insight.
And the Darkness of Sleep takes me
like a comfort blanket of soft wool.
The morphine haze retreats
further into my mind and I dream …
of ambulances and white walls
of green gowns and bright lights
of scalpels and scissors and surgery
of needles and nurses and nightmares
… I dream of Poetry
in colour.
I see worlds in the sky
and words painted on clouds.
A kaleidoscope of teardrops
dripping images into my mind.
A fountain of mist cascading,
seeping into a memory sponge.
And I feel; somebody who Knows me
gently wipe away the tears.
© Pagan Paul (04/06/17)
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
beep beep go the cars
beep beep go the SUVs
beep beep go the trash trucks
beep beep go the busses
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the fire engines
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the ambulances
beep beep go the shovelers
beep beep go the snow trucks
beep beep go the Fed Ex guys & UPS ers
beep beep go the watches
beep beep go the alarms
beep beep go the microwave ovens
beep beep go the washers & dyers
beep beep go the beepers
that are driving me beep beeping insane
beep beep
beep beep goes the Road Runner
but that one does not
drive me beep beeping insane!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
Okay, now, really,
you have driven me beep beeping insane.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
I counted the ambulances as they glided swiftly by
screeching painful pitches at the cars who were now anxiously parting the pavement sea for the savior's convience or just because they have people that they love & the possibility of a home hitting tragedy shocks their entire bodies.
I sat all pensive and overwhelmed once I got to number ten, recalling all of the times the bad news was delivered nervously to me by a man in a truck lugging red sirens just like the ones flashing before me. That desperate ring, too identifiable to us all creates an eerie silence like a funeral song. Not because of the way it cuts the airwaves but because of the memories it instantly plays back to us.
We all know why an ambulance comes & none of us want to be the one curled up in bed a week from today, crying at the light as it pours through the shutters, sick from a void that aches with every move.
Everyone is reaching for their cellphone.
"Please I need to hear your voice. Tell me
you're okay" & then you see the panicked
lady in the lane beside you who
was directed to voicemail.
I'm so sorry
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
when my boyfriend
rests his head on my chest,
he listens to my heartbeat.
I wonder if he knows
what is in the blood
that thumps beneath
my rib cage.
I wonder if he can hear
fists smacking chins
and drunken yelling
and noses bleeding
and children crying
and pill bottles opening
and ambulances blaring
and parents fighting
and skin slicing
and screams muffling.
I wonder if he can hear
the ***** music
and funeral speeches
and lives ending
and hearts breaking.
I wonder
when he listens
to my heartbeat,
can he hear
where I come from
and what I am made of?
can he hear
who I am?
and I wonder if
he could hear
all of those things,
would he still be here
with his head on my chest?
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 5:51 PM UTC
It's a beautiful day,birds singing as I'm walking Mill Lane,
listening to a few Me Fein Refrains,
I'm whistling,feeling pretty fine and dandy,
with my eyes red rovering all the eye candy,
when I hear it,brakes shriekin'-women Shriekin',
a mans voice-Hoarse, "Jaysus Someone do somethin",
I spin on me heel,eyes centred as ****
wishing this was all a dream-A runaway Truck,
tires peelin' brakes smokin' rubber burnin',
A runaway load,it's not gonna make the turn and it's
**THEN that I feel true terror in me soul,
I see a little boy playin' at the edge of the road** ,
he's a sturdy little lad,stick in hand,
pokin' at the grasses growin' up from the path,
and he's right in the Path of the Truck from hell,
Theres no decision,I'm runnin' like a bat outta hell,
and it's then that I get a feeling it's a Lucid dream,
languidity covers me,no more screams,
theres a Figure in my way that's wasn't there the last breath,
then I'm literally starin' in the face of Death...
and I FEEL his thoughts as he turns blank Orbits,
on me and his words are like this "One Obit,
uary in my Ferry is my Task today,
do you really want to be the one who gets in MY WAY?(way way way),
and he can HEAR my thoughts,just as I heard his,
"get out the fuckin' way you long streak of ****
"you said one has to go,well that's fine with me!",
"I've got coins in my pocket if you need your fee!"
and with a glint in his eye and a plangent refrain,
he touches me centre forehead and declaims "NO PAIN"
Then things speed up and I'm off fists pumpin',
feet slappin' on the pavement head down, heart jumpin,
I'm not the Flash,but I can move it when I need to Run,
and the long drawn screech is a Hell of a starters Gun,
I'm across the road like a bolt from the blue,
grab the little Man and throw him,then BANG there I flew,
its all earth,sky,earth,then a terrible jolt,
but no pain as was promised as I come to a halt,
then his Mother is there(he's on her hip) and she's holding my(only)hand,
tellin' me theres ambulances and I'm gonna be grand,
but theres a Grand Piano layin' on my Chest,
and no pain,but to be honest here-I'm not at my best,
and just as I start to think of family and friends,
before Distress can manifest too much in my mind,
a tall RATHER BONY figure stretches out his hand,
and intones into me bones,"OFF TO THE NEXT LAND(land,land,land)"
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 9:01 AM UTC
When
my body starts to
shake, I imagine the
worst thing that could
happen. There's a riot
in my heart, ambulances
speeding along the
veins in my wrists.
My blood can paint
firetrucks that
hose down the cities
and bridges I've burned.
My lungs: a house on
fire, smoke floating out
of mouths and charred
skin pealing away
like dandelion seeds
on a summer day.
This is chaos and I could
find beauty in it. I could paint
a picture for each of my nightmares
that I dream in color. I could call
empty streets Home
and I could pretend that thunderstorms
are really angels crying for me
and that the mud I roll myself in
is their wet mascara.
But sometimes its easier
to be compassionless
to myself, and sometimes
I feel better after imagining the
worst, because I'm not there yet.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
what happens to you if you have been out of touch,
no television, no computer, no cell phone or such n'such,
working in the remote parts where very few care
to tread, waste their time, staring at rolling terrain,
with trees twisted by winds that blow and reign,
animals pass by like you belong and none are afraid,
if I lack social graces and look right in their eyes their faces,
no ambulances sirens, no engines boasting horse power,
and an hour is just an hour and there is no hurry,
why do you worry,
I will not take away from you, your news,
I will not remove your technology, your views,
I will not, I cannot do that,
For I have experienced the freedom,
the pure taste of living on my own,
by any means, survival
deep nature is my rival,
and I will not take what skin deep social circles
you have, that is not in me,
for I know you know the hypocrisy,
and see,
as I present my scrawl, on hello, poetry
that is all.
©ClemC082013
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
I went and saw and lost myself and never thought it would happen to me
like a car accident with fire trucks and ambulances and police
and stretchers and pour souls waiting
that will never happen to me
Until down into the abyss I go and time seems to slow
and I surf without getting wet
pathetic just like the rest
An addiction nevertheless that freezes thought in an instant
and replaces them with endless searching for meaning and fragile connection
Circling around, look here, no direction, life on hold and desperate without risk
spinning out of control on the internet.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
makes me grumpy,
no, not because I don't delight
in strings of coloured bulbs
and the flavor of lip chap and hot chocolate sticky,
and the bright eyes of young magickers
but because it seems that whatever the occasion,
any revelry that involves thousands of people
destroys the city, belches post-apocalyptic refuse,
and shoulder-shoves old men, knees small children.
The reason I don't like the Santa Claus Parade
is that once it's over
everything that happened
within the anonymity drug affect of invisible hordes
and the ambulances pulling away
is nobody's fault.
Merry Christmas.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 3:52 PM UTC
There are two tonight-
two ambulances,
red lights illuminating the dark neighborhood
as they make their weekly trip to the old folks home
at the end of the street.
This could be the end of eight decades for someone
for a neighbor of mine.
Could be one less crazy old woman
walking down the street shouting at the neighborhood dogs
(and mailboxes).
The lights fade from view as they cross 9th.
A tear falls to my desk
as I wonder
"who was that?
what ended tonight?"
and as I lay down and roll over to stare at the wall
I imagine who they could have been.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
We'll never move forward as a society as long as our children are left to die from abuse , sold for *** like a piece of meat , bullied by their peers and killed on our streets ..
Depression misdiagnosed by primary physicians and medicines that only help half of the affected , high suicide rates amongst our young civilians and soldiers alike , addiction rates that continue to spike .. When the nails rain down again we'll most certainly be caught off guard , zealots hung by their thumbs and water boarded will lead the charge .
Martyrs in shackles will fan the flames at the base of the tower once again ..
Woefully few ambulances will be available to minister to the dying , not enough heroes to answer their cries , political parties will begin their denial , those that remain will swear revenge against "the Cowards .."
A faith will be declared illegal and guilty , this time the Eagle will have zero pity ..
She will pursue the same mistakes of previous nations , attempt to firebomb the very soul of a civilization . The Crescent Moon has endured many military occupations , defended a long list of potential aggressors , their bones lie in antiquity , across her deserts and within her cities while the Lion , Eagle and the Bear scar another generation who will in turn castigate her enemies silver cities with relentless terroristic abominations ..
I witnessed the carnage in a dream , hate bursting at the seams , flowing like a river down city streets , sweeping the innocents into the storm sewer , oblivious to their screams .
We worry so much about nuclear weapons as we wipe each other out with pipe bombs and pistols , we fear chemical weapons while drugs are destroying our nation ..
I wonder how far the funds for one missile would go towards treating children with cancer ? The cost of one grenade could feed a homeless man freezing on the street .. The price of one Humvee could provide shelter for the forgotten society tonight in this misguided nation of ours ..
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
I plummet down.
Unthinkable, unreachable speeds
In your worst nightmare.
You catch me;
for the millionth time.
Your hands lace over my delicate heart
–Reassuring.
You form another safe landing:
“It’s ok to make mistakes”.
I bounce, rebound,
Listen to the melodic sound
Of your laugh.
We sit in your office–
lost hours... Sacred memories.
Balancing on safety pins,
Paperclips, broken cups, sips of tea.
You and Me.
We talk like we always did.
–We talk so well.
You understand like you always have...
Blue chairs, a windowsill full of cards,
I cleaned it once.
No sugar, out of date milk, lunch, salads, cake.
All these things make;
us.
Car journeys, new opportunities.
We grow –
a bond.
Our knowledge increases, our time
Decreases.
An Elvis cup, a calendar, a boiling kettle.
Bins overflowing, tears slowing.
I’ve cried on you so many times.
– Photographs, drawings, a telescope.
Candles, notes,
I wrote –
An inbox full of emails
A sent box bursting
Full to the very brim.
Advice, nice, kind
Your never did mind
my presence.
Up and down
Like a bouncy castle.
Hospital trips, ambulances,
Short breaths
–Not to mention the rest...
You never fail to astound
Me
Your control and empathy
In situations that surround
You.
Worry, anger –
Forgiveness.
Thank you cards,
3 from me
–You deserve more.
A door with a window,
A miniature water fall.
Jaffa cakes, singing
That’s not all.
A red coat with roses;
A pink laptop case;
A smile
Trapped in space
–between us
Footsteps, metres.
A walk on the field,
A meal.
Memories, stapled, pinned, sewn,
Hooked, fastened, locked, glued.
–Engraved.
Always remembering, treasuring
Every moment,
Day.
The first of the twelfth
Two thousand and eight
The date
We made this.
Thank you.
2011 ©
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a brave warrior's jawbone or armor.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
The hospitals full
The ambulances all gone
My heart empty
My trust gone
The hospitals full
The ambulances all gone
The doctors and nurses maxed out
Can life still go on?
The hospitals full
The ambulances all gone
The morgues and mortuaries over-spilling
In the City of Angels and lost souls
The hospitals full
The ambulances all gone
I wear two masks, a smile and one of cloth
Life must go on
The hospitals full
The ambulances all gone
As ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three
Happy new year?
In the City of Angels and lost souls
The hospitals are full
The ambulances all gone
as we ring in a "new" year and life must go on
The hospitals remain full
The ambulances still gone
as one, two, three, four, five, six friend and family we bury
as living death still stalks on
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 10:58 PM UTC
a month ago, i got in a car accident that totaled my car.
i was making a left turn at a stoplight
and the driver of an suv was paying no attention to her red light.
she barreled into the front end of my car at full speed before i even saw her coming,
and then everything was shattered glass and metal colliding and screeching tires
and suddenly my airbags were puffed out like sinister clouds and my engine sounded like a death rattle.
when i opened the door to get out, the hinges grated like a scream.
but i wasn’t hurt.
i cried for six hours that day but i went to school the next one.
everything was fine.
it's just that since then, everything in my life resembles a car crash.
i smelled burning for weeks.
i still blink and see spiderweb patterns of broken glass.
i cried for two hours when i realized i lost the cd i made
just so i could listen to my favorite songs in the car.
when i hear the song that was playing, i have to turn it off.
my father picked up the shrapnel still on the street a week later
and gave me my charred, crumpled, unreadable gravestone of a front license plate.
he straightened it out and put it on my new car when we got it.
i broke up with my boyfriend three weeks ago
and as i left i heard sirens from inside his house.
the day after that, i was talking to another boy
and his promises sounded like ambulances with no paramedics on board.
last week there was a fatal car accident half a mile from my house
and i couldn't breathe for the rest of the day after i heard.
i have to turn left at the stoplight where my own accident happened every day
and when i turn i clench my fists around the steering wheel
like it wants to tear itself out of my hands and maybe it does.
i still check left and right and left and right during turns
even when someone else is driving.
call all of this a reaction to trauma,
but honestly i don't know what's wrong with me.
all i know is i cried with frustration, immature, pathetic,
when my mother and my father couldn't find a new car.
all i know is i grieved for my ford focus
like it was my only friend in the world.
all i know is i keep talking about this accident
even though i’m even getting annoyed by myself
and my fingers on the keyboard sound just like the policeman's as he wrote up the report
as i perched on a plastic backseat, shaking, face covered with tear tracks,
waiting, alone, for my father to arrive so i didn't have to be an adult,
waiting, alone, for an explanation of why this happened to me.
all i know is everything in my life resembles a car crash,
and there are sirens in the distance,
and i'm still waiting for the smoke to clear.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
I am going to write you a poem that rhymes
I'm not sure how I'll get it out of me but I will
I just hope it's not as bad as an oilspill
Or that haircut you got last Christmas
The time you almost punched the glass
And I was laughing
I am going to tell you about how I dream
Of a big brown house, kids going "Mommy, Mommy"
And a border collie, and a handsome man
And you'd be living next door all alone
I'd be laughing
Okay I swear I am going to stop joking
The truth is
a) Your smile is like the candy cane
A kid would **** to ease some ache somewhere
Or like the cake the fat person is eating to
Cheer herself up (on a separate note,
The fat person is me)
b) Your voice is like ocean waves
Pulling, crashing, rushing,
Tripping; beautiful and brave
And your voice is like birdsong and ambulances
Yes, that much of a mess
c) Your company is the floater I'd grab
Before jumping off a boat
Your company is the lifesaver.
I'd get tossed by the waves while the thunder
Roars to state that life is unkind,
You're still keeping me from sinking
And d) you're the prettiest boy I've ever met
And I'd be in love with you except
You make me laugh 'til I'm crying and my vision blurs
So instead I just love you
I hope you love me too
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
Police cars and ambulances,
Pills and alcohol,
If you took one, you take them all;
No concern for your daughters,
No concern for your wife,
If you said your sorry, you expected it to be alright;
Failed liver,
Stomach full of pills,
If you wanted to die, you'll succeed it;
All alone,
by yourself,
If you would of kept your promises, it wouldn't be this bad.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 10:17 AM UTC
Ashes on the ground
what was lost would never be found.
Thick, dark smoke
swam in and out of our guts,
the searing pain at the sight of it ingrained in our hearts.
The buildings were razed to the ground.
Early hours of yester years
christmas period, he recalled
at the stroke of mid-night exactly
the disturbing sounds came.
Voices and chatter was at its loudest,
sirens blared
he curiously stepped out of his apartment.
His sight was greeted with smoke,
his nose awoke fully the rest of his half-asleep senses.
Fire, he saw.
Walking people on fire
He froze,
stood still and stared
unable to run forward and help.
His ears vibrated at the sounds of the approaching foot-steps.
He could see people pouring buckets after another
on people and the buildings.
Soon, the police
and the fire men came.
The fires vexed.
The screams we heard from those inside the buildings ceased, those who worked late into the night.
Hose after hose
Ladder after ladder
till the second hour
when it flamed out.
It grew higher and higher,
darker and thicker
till the third hour
when the white smoke prevailed.
Yellow stripes made by the police contained the curious crowd.
Ambulances struggled to revive the fainting people.
Some where in the crowd the man stood.
He kept his head down
a tear trickled down his face.
He had seen fires kissing flesh
and properties transforming to ash.
He witnessed live death
and fires blazing bright.
He saw what he saw.
The National Business Center would be greatly missed.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC