"announcer" poems
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set
orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
spring"
the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
too much insufferable
having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit **** u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
concurrently
there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
failed
of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
men
maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted
where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
immediacy
heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
smothered life
but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a **** you
mirror
there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
I have been going to the track for so
long that
all the employees know
me,
and now with winter here
it's dark before the last
race.
as I walk to the parking lot
the valet recognizes my
slouching gait
and before I reach him
my car is waiting for me,
lights on, engine warm.
the other patrons
(still waiting)
ask,
"who the hell is that
guy?"
I slip the valet a
tip, the size depending upon the
luck of the
day (and my luck has been amazingly
good lately)
and I then am in the machine and out on
the street
as the horses break
from the gate.
I drive east down Century Blvd.
turning on the radio to get the result of that
last race.
at first the announcer is concerned only with
bad weather and poor freeway
conditions.
we are old friends: I have listened to his
voice for decades but,
of course, the time will finally come
when neither one of us will need to
clip our toenails or
heed the complaints of our
women any longer.
meanwhile, there is a certain rhythm
to the essentials that now need
attending to.
I light my cigarette
check the dashboard
adjust the seat and
weave between a Volks and a Fiat.
as flecks of rain spatter the
windshield
I decide not to die just
yet:
this good life just smells too
sweet.
9k
The Horse Race.
The announcer says the horse is at the gate.
There is wee ***** on your just silly;
Patty shes riding cupcake bite.
**** hes on hiccup.
The gate open and they are off. It's **** on hiccup, cup cake and wee ***** on just silly.
As the get to turn one it's ***** on just silly,Dick has hiccup at second and patty riding third with cupcake.
In turn two it's just silly,hiccup and cupcake. Turn four its cupcake,hick just silly
And now at the wire you got hiccup just silly and cupcake.
People we have to stop the race. Wee ***** on just silly ate patty cupcake which gave him the hiccups.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
here I sit
again
as the radio announcer
says, "for the next
3 hours we will be listening
to a selection of?"
it's now eleven p.m.
I've listened to this man's
voice
for many many years.
he must be getting quite
old.
his station plays the best
classical
music.
I don't recall how many
women I have lived with
while listening to that
announcer,
or
how many cars I've
owned
or how many places I've
lived in.
now each time I hear his
voice I think, well, he's still
alive, he sounds good
but the poor fellow must be
getting very old.
some day
he'll have his funeral,
a little trail of cars
following
the hearse.
and then
there'll be
a new voice
to listen to.
he must be very old now,
that fellow,
and every time I hear his voice
again
I pour a tall one
to salute him
happy that he's made it
for one more
night
along with me.
4k
loving you wasn't an innocent kind of love,
it was guilty and achy in a way that felt so good i couldn't even talk about it.
and when we finally decided it was time,
i lost my best friend.
i felt you forget me every evening before we became strangers
and i still wake up in tears in the middle of the night because in a dream, i remembered what it felt like when you held me
eventually, you become numb to the pain that is no longer constant
the feeling of nostalgia becomes muted by the louder sounds of life:
like the ringing alarm clock reminding you that you’ve still got a job to show up to,
like the radio announcer's voice telling you that we're expecting clear skies.
there are moments throughout the day when you forget to think about them, forget to stare at old pictures, forget to cry in bathroom at work
there are milestones that will take place and they won't show up;
like your graduation, or your brother's wedding
and you almost don't notice their absence.
almost.
you think you won't be able to go on without them,
but you do.
you find there are new songs stuck in your head, even if you never forget the lyrics to your old favourite one.
you learn to let go in small parts -
you hear his name and your body doesn't flinch,
you walk past the liquor aisle without thinking to pick up his favourite brand of whiskey.
and one day, without even realizing,
you notice how straight you stand without the weight of their world pushing down on your shoulders.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
On a long journey across the night of an America
I drove into the desert landscape and beheld
Elvis and Morrison, Hendrix and Dylan
In a ditch to the side of the road, with trash bags in their hands.
They seemed to whistle while they worked,
But the notes just wafted into the night, not nearly fast enough to catch my speeding
Cadillac.
In the morning, I stopped into a diner
With my breakfast and coffee,
I saw a newspaper that was guaranteed by the Andy Warhol himself
to be one hundred percent truthful.
I didn't read it. Had to get back on the road
The desert went on forever, and in the oil fields
I saw Jackson Pollack, standing by a gusher,
Wearing a cheshire grin.
I smiled back at him, secure in the knowledge that I would have enough gas to get
where I was going.
The announcer's voice blasted through my car's radio.
He said Poe had solved overpopulation,
and that Emerson, Thoreau, Uncle Walt and Miss Em
had got their hands ***** and fed the entire continent of Africa.
I shut him off and bore my eyes down on the asphalt ahead.
I passed a drive in theater on the left side of the road
and caught a glimpse of Scorsese accepting the Nobel Prize for Peace.
Someone told me later that he and DeNiro had stopped genocide.
I politely nodded and got back in my car.
Out there was America and I was going to find it.
Out there was industry and capital.
Out there was ingenuity and hard work.
Out there were my own bootstraps waiting for me to pull them up.
Out there was
America,
and I was going to find it fast.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:49 AM UTC
I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.
Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.
It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.
The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”
What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.
We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
I noticed the System on how we relate
For every Plus a Minus you return
Yet this Gnawing Event nailed to your Gate
Were your Foe's Doomed Plagues; Yet left me unspurned
Which made me wonder why you chose to mum
Yet for this Announcer a spite you blew
Why? Was it to boost your Public Aplomb
And cheat your way with the people you knew?
Like your First Partner. Whose Rabbit Remark
Asked for Improvements whilst stuck on his phone
Then came Black Letters asking for his bark
When all he did was to leave you alone.
Diver! Enough with your Cosmic Abuse
Don't wait for the Witch to cast her Spell loose.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
(Ain’t “They” Great!)
Now watching 13 year old grandkid live-on-streaming-Internet,
playing Little League baseball in California, pleasantly surprised,
No, not by the amazing technology, or his super great play,
but the laugh-out-loud accommodation to the “au courant”
Game announcer, a soulless robot machine, stupid-smart, without exception, employs THEY pronoun for all, which after 10 seconds thot,
of serious reflection is a brilliant deflection, a solutionary salutation!
We come to see kids play ball, care not a whiff (double entendre),
re identity politicized insanity, machine makes everyone truly equal,
robbing stupids of a phony, proclamation of self-righteous “individuality”
God Bless No-Brainers!
Ain’t They Great!
~Postcript~
Introducing a newly Recomposed Natty:
still an OWG
(old white guy)
but now a Proudly, a gaily machine-made, in the USA
They.
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023 at 10:46 AM UTC
4:11 am - The nighthawks are starting to resemble pigeons.
Train station is deserted.
An employee checks the bins as the tunnel fills with the ringing of a distant bell, heralding the arrival of the morning train.
42 minutes till my train.
I can smell the acrid fumes of the Ferny Grove train.
The behemoth pulls away-
empty.
At least I'm not existential anymore.
There is an installation of a coffin made from old bits of railroad,
"Not everyone makes it across the tracks"
This reminder of mortality is strangely fitting in a place of transit.
The true face of memento mori is shown.
Remember that you too will die, and everything will come to pass.
It's times like this that make me wish 'The Sound of Silence" was never written.
For its perfection in this moment comes as a burst of pure divine bliss.
The kind you wish would never fade away. But inevitably does.
And all we are left with is a memory of that bliss,
everytime we hear the song (after the first time).
As if we are recalling the curves of an old lover from the shadow of yesterdays gone.
Dancing beneath our fingertips, always out of reach.
Memory is never as divine as the moment that burnt it in.
----
4:29 am - It was ephemeral.
The trainyard announcer has a cultured voice.
----
4:41 am - I fear the muse has left me, beauty fled.
DEAR GOD - PLEASE LET THERE BE A CAB AT THE STATION FOR ME.
Selection 11 gave me the water i desired.
11 minutes till the train.
D.O.B. 11/2
Aquarius, 11th sign of the Zodiac.
Will I see the dawn rise from the train?
There is no light at the end of the tunnel from where I sit.
Inexplicably: I recall the cool river air that bathed us as we lay naked in your apartment,
the smell of cigarettes on our skin, the evening peppered with
scurrying, fighting possums
that danced upon your balcony.
I recall being inside you.
(Then I imagined you being eaten out
by a woman
her lips inside yours,
her curled tongue
inside your hot, bald
golden ****
And I came.
Warm and glorious
my children of pleasure
caught in a latex coffin.
Your heaves of pleasure pushing against my chest
with the rhythm of waves.
----
4:46 am - On the train.
Fluorescent lighting is the devil.
Everything is garish yellow.
We pull up to the station near where you lived.
Your blue rose lives in a Chinese vase
and no longer smells
of Marlene Dietrich.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
sometimes i feel like i am in the midwest
sitting in queens
dyslexic
listening to Jessye Norman (who listens to her anymore)
sometimes i am flying over the sea
algae deep,
crashing mountains, ocean green
its the same every night when you are not here
i get home
do dishes
heat rice and dahl
open a beer
wait, wait, something on the weimar republic is on tonight
that's not new
the same questions
why the jews
how could so many
die in broad day light
while He walked the earth?
biblical tales that still
need interpretation
who is the weaker of the two
before now or after?
Jessye now sings Samson and Delilah,
the announcer announces
the singer sings,
"my heart opens to your voice like a flower
my dearest let your loving words dry my tears
tell me you are returning to Delilah
repeat the vows you made long ago
the vows i used to believe in"
the vows of heaven on earth?
the vows of justice?
who stands to inherit the earth ... the meek?
c'mon!
by G-d she could sing
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
She hits his heart all the way out
To left field
Where dandelion lies have sprouted
And mounds of ***** secrets form
She rounds first base
Smashing her cleated soul
Into each chalky fine line
Reminding her of the
Boundaries she's crossed
one too many times
She digs her heels
Into each swelled base
Inflated with promiscuity
Racing, fleeing from each opponent
With men's hearts stuffed in her polyester pockets
As she arrives to her destined home run
She doesn't feel a bit at home
Her weary body slides in
Hoping to be burried
Under the loose infield dirt
Hidden from
Hungry raging fans
And critics
Forever
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
The television announcer sprays
rapid-fire syllables
with voice booming sells
the unneeded to the unsuspecting
while wearing a smile
which surely would break
an honest face.
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 8:48 AM UTC
when he shows interest in any lady
he is often avoided, mistreated, or misjudged.
He wants to love and enjoy beautiful kindred -ship
why is the stereo station tuned
to type "his age and outer shell"
as the announcer broadcasts ads for "the better gentleman."
He has become "everybody's fool"
His favorite song details this soul near ruined...
"Actions are speaking louder than words"
Deaf ears cannot hear, however, they see the words
His motives are questioned as "absurd."
what is it that he must do to pass the "social equality test?"
As he tries to simply "show his true and lovable self"
and enjoy being accepted
and allowed?
to be in social groups
with all of the accepted rest
of society
who passed such requirements?
He studies for the exam
another try in the morning
Will, he beat the odds?
and meet all of society's
acceptance through presenting the right "prerequisites?"
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
They said your name on the announcements this morning, but you weren't around to hear it.
They spoke it just like anyone else would, but the tone they had was all wrong.
The curves in the letters of your name -much like the curves of your hourglass figure- did not drip off the announcer's tongue like they should have.
They were summoned from the front of their brain rather than the inkiest depths of their heart.
They said your name flat, grim and thin like dull graphite.
They read you prayer, but I'm not quite sure what it contained, because the moment they spoke your name on the announcements this morning, the floor rushed up and up and up until the crack of my head met the vanilla scrubbed tile.
The room blurred and the room buzzed and the announcer continued to talk in his unsharpened pencil rasp, and I hoped and hoped and hoped some more that they played our song at your burial.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
As I stand there preparing I'm wearing a face staring off into my own world
The board flexing and bouncing the announcer announcing its my turn
In my head I'm thinking will I succeed or will I burn
As I walk I think of every correction, all directions my coaches gave me
I go and it went well but you still can't tell with the judges opinion
But as I dive deep into oblivion everything fades..
The dive the meet how I should compete my team my coaches the approaches the world around me, everything
As I'm in the water looking around I forget everything. I feel the peace I have tried to reach and as the calm comes I am finally at rest
There is no test in the water deep below, you can be whatever you wish nothing bestowed
That is the reason I love to dive, that's why I strive.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 8:46 AM UTC
The train stops in front of me
first of the morning
get on the last car and walk quietly to the end of the row
a lone passenger sits in the aisle across from me
they wear only a thin coat even though the morning is cold and damp
It takes a moment to notice that the only foot prints down the aisle are mine
made of slow melting snow, it clings to my shoes
I wonder about that for a second...
but it’s early and the thought is brushed away leaving only the silence
No one else gets on the train with us
just the lone passenger and I
sitting silently
an impossible silence
The train runs along the track and I chance to look over at the lone passenger
they are looking back at me
unblinking, their face is weather worn and tired from life, long and hard
I want to look away, turn back and watch the darkness passing outside the window but they smile before I can
been worse, they say it softly as we look at each other
they nod slowly both to themselves and me
yes been worse they repeat
we sit again in that impossible silence
I open my mouth to question the statement
question the words of this lone passenger who passes through the world without leaving any foot prints in slow melting snow
but my words die before they have passed my lips
The automated announcer calls out my stop and the train slows
I get off and turn to look back at the lone passenger with the weather worn face
but the row is empty
There are no foot prints following mine out of the train door
No other foot prints in the slow melting snow
Again they have passed without leaving any
I stand on the platform watching the train pull away
as I stand there alone the words echo in my mind
Been worse... yes it has been, so much worse
but not anymore
I still leave foot prints in slow melting snow
not too worn to smile
Been worse...
but not anymore
not anymore
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
I have this announcer
In my head
Speaking through a mic
broadcasting my sensational endeavor
I decided to do that year
only to follow up half way
Because of manic episodes
Composed of unorganized perfection
And useless, jumbled words
That often didn’t make sense
But the announcer never failed
Using their echoing voice
Overpowering all other thoughts
Would debut some idea
Unfinished
Making me feel
infinite
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
Her lips pursed to the microphone and oh, what sounds escape them
A song ensues as the spotlight shines, a coal mine holding a gem
Her dress glitters with sequins red as she sways to the band
And I look upon her with heavy breath and sweaty, quivering hand
Her lips red and ever so graceful as the lyrics jump from her tongue
A sultry lullaby telling me of fantastic loves
And I see in her eyes a glint that is all her very own
Inside a smoky, crowded club and yet I feel we're all alone
I loosen my tie and take a swig of beer in anticipation
She looks at me and winks, therefore binding my inebriation
Her earrings hanging pearls that I'm sure match the smoothness of her skin
Blonde curls trickle down her shoulders with flowers neatly tucked in
And here I am, seated, for I don't think I could stand
As she sings and sways gently, the mic caressed in her hand
As she ends her song, the crowd erupts with my heart for this wonder of a dame
The spotlight fading as the announcer tells the world her name...
And I fall...
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
heartache
for the blood smeared
cue ball.
the announcer
singles me out,
knowing my middle name
[rhymes with decay].
*and any day now
i will win something*.
the announcer laughs;
says my body
is the dumbest corpse
he's ever seen.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 4:31 PM UTC
Today the radio announcer said,
Some lonely man was now so dead,
That in his last time on this Earth,
He soon become the opposite of birth.
He lived alone in such a dingy place,
A long time gone from the human race,
Lost in the crowd that rushed him by,
The radio didn't say how he died.
Of course, the clouds and rainy day,
Precluded his trip to this darkest way,
That on the train to the heavenbound,
He finally realized he was no longer around.
What such a shock to find you're finished,
When lived a life so dull and unblemished,
With no glorious feats or races to run,
He lived his life and on purpose had no fun.
Who cried for him and pretended to care,
When not even the priests and nuns were there?
No relatives with hands held out for money,
So they could live in the land of milk and honey.
So, all his so called treasures he held so dear,
Was tossed in the gutter and trash I fear,
For value of things are really not of use,
When someone is dead you silly goose.
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 4:43 PM UTC
Coaches giving their good graces
As the runners approach the painted asphalt.
Memories race through past races,
Through every failure. They're all my fault.
Sweat drips past my timid eyes
As I see the confidence shine in everyone else.
I ready my stance with stomach's butterflies,
And the announcer screams alongside school bells,
"GO!"
The others run with all their might,
While my ankle is bound by the starting line.
I struggle with the racing track's fight
As everyone passes for their second lap's time.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
A new beginning, a change, a challenge to be welcomed or just the next step in the metamorphosis of this creation?
Phoenix rising from the ashes or swept away to be forgotten.
Nevertheless a change of identity a re-invention, some would hold it as a cyclical change, a repetition of the same problems or continued existence, is this the reality or is it the reality of the announcer?
Relinquished from the material world albeit temporarily. an opportunity presents itself to cherry-pick from experience and once again to cast one's net to the proverbial fishes and feast on the vast riches therein.
To open eyes that were once clamped shut but now yearn to feast again, to grow and absorb that which is there for absorption, to "live again" awakened by the splendour that existence brings.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
I don’t rightly know
What there is to say
About truth, justice
And the American way
Except it’s never
Fully been on display
Ask the indigenous people
Who are here today
Ask ‘em about the treaties
That were never kept
And the opportunities that
They might have had, but slept
To insure that their land
Was fully swept
Of those invading varmints
They learned to regret
Truth, justice and
The American way
The Superman announcer
Used to say
Before we started chasing
Immigrants away
Or we started treating greed
Like it was okay
God blessed America
With a gift
But the American dream
Is becoming a myth
And what the rich have
Can be taken away swift
If the people of this country
Keep getting stiffed
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
Listen to the radio
Talk of war and famine
Then they play a cheery tune
From a manufactured band
Then an oldie I remember as a teen
Realise I heard it when I was 16
Life is like a highspeed train
Until it goes a miss
Then it's like a freight train crash
Then it's all a mess
But in reverence to grammar
The announcer makes it all
Sound like the weather
No emotion at all
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC