"ashland" poems
Ashland is a small town
on a small planet, in an
ever expanding universe.
The people here are bitter
and so is their spit, from
full-flavored cigarettes
and diluted kisses spun
from the lips of significant
others, that didn't listen to their
mothers, and married because of
irresponsible reasons, like personality,
respect, love, and other, 'Jesus, **** me
the **** now, so help me.'
Abstract thought is dangerous--
to the mind it's cancerous.
Alone and thinking about
melancholy shaped memories or
kisses that would echo through
your lungs, stomach, ************* soul.
Don't do it. Don't you invite the devil,
killing yourself is so concrete, it must
mean more than a concrete floor,
hovering above a rumored hell and a
definite uncertainty so delicate that it
eats into you with its sensitive meandering
disguised as beauty but, really, a violent,
violent, murderous host, hoax, fake but
eating your superficiality, programmed by
someone else, telling you it's you.
Ashland is a small town,
aren't we all a small town, inwardly.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
The sky looks like cigarette ashes in a puddle of milk,
and I, almost 22, am unsatisfied that I have not won a Pulitzer.
And I, on the borderline of delusion and confidence, am unsatisfied I am not crazy or cocky enough to submit to The New Yorker.
I hear the voices of the pastors,
telling me that God heals all.
They say 'He' is the only absolute.
The people raise their hands towards the water-stained ceiling,
as if He'll push his arms through the copper-colored scabs and save them.
Grabbing their wrists and cooing,
I am the remedy to the anxiety of death.
I am six foot one and French, Irish, Cherokee,
some sort of Anglo-Saxon,
and a lost **** in a drowning garden.
I think about all those who had to ****
in order to make my cheekbones,
eyebrows, lips, and ****
I think about how I'm good at *** and bad when it comes to forgiving too easily.
I wonder how I can sweat on another body,
but only feel naked when I have to be myself.
I watch the elderly chant words:
****** ****** **** and Half-Breed.
I study if their dry lips reflect the hate in their eyes.
Not all are like this,
but I am surrounded by tables of them,
as I pretend to be Christian,
just to get ahead.
I don't speak,
just sit like an unfilled bubble,
waiting to be marked out by graphite.
I feel like a **********
I wish I had a Pulitzer.
The sky looks like a stretched grape,
covered in kisses of ******
And I, white American conformist,
am unsatisfied
that I have succumbed to the American Dream.
I wish I had a Pulitzer,
I wish I had my mom and dad.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
Out West, we like our rifles.
Never pull your days out from the roots
'til the nights have all been ripened.
City lights are purpling blackened streets
and we can see our way to habits through
these neighborhoods...
Our sentences are carbines.
Order up a few more rounds.
I guess it's almost automatic
when the late reports all sound
like we've got
rain all week.
It's rain all week.
And you're so sick of parades.
You say you want a Summer.
One that never ends.
One that takes you back to Ashland,
brings you
sense of time and feelings for old friends.
I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket,
bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.
I'll see you in the Fall.
On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
Out here, we've got some mountains?
Never load your words into your clip
'til the shells have all been counted.
City lights rain gold on midnight streets
and we can feel our way familiar through
these neighborhoods.
Our paragraphs are Kevlar.
Knocking down another round.
When the night sky tries to swallow
you, the late reports all sound
like we've got
rain all week.
It's rain all week.
I was so tired of parades.
I'm looking towards the Winter.
Know how that one ends.
It'll take me back to Sheridan,
bring
sense of time and memories of old friends.
I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket
bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.
I'll see you in the Fall.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:34 PM UTC
Venus Ramey Murphy,
(September 26, 1924 – June 17, 2017)
American beauty pageant contestant &
activist; Venus won the Miss America
competition in Atlantic City,
New Jersey | | | |
on September 9, 1944;
Born in Ashland, Kentucky,
Venus left Kentucky to work
for the war effort in
Washington, DC, & there won
the Miss District of Columbia pageant,
& then onto Miss America in 1944;
Venus Ramey
was the first Miss America
to be photographed in color
& the first red-haired to win the title
I started listening to AM Christian
radio b/c it's funny; but on one side
of the dial is Rush Limbaugh & on
the other is Pravda in Russian; a
little further up the dial, I can hear
the latest on the record number of
undocumented transgenders running
for public office; I never thought I'd
miss dumb blondes & ****** but
happily married gay couples are the
reason a bloviating ignoramus like
Limbaugh is on the radio in the first
place;
|
[I'm not
the sort to gawk at penises, but even
that would be a marked improvement
over watching Rush Limbaugh] | [I
don't watch Christian TV b/c it's too
calculatedly stupid, as if anyone still
believed in backwoods hucksterism]
or the visible, risible conundrum of
an over-the-hill beauty queen; what
does one do after being crowned one
of the most beautiful women on earth;
Jesus, **** or homosexuality [ ]
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
Stopper of hearts,
but what have you done
to all the lads of Ashland?
Your struggling cheek
a soft delight
chaffed against a world of sadness-
The candy shop, no sweeter,
despite it's lollipops and chocolates
than the *********** alive and prideful
at the fluttering of her naked lashes.
Civil when you meet her,
she knows where the aorta's at-
Squeezing like a vice grip
at the ruddy heart attack
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
In July, I collect stardust
And text dust
I linger in Shakespeare’s shadow
And who knew
He had a home in Oregon
I walk along his stairs
Finding myself hovering in front
A trio of theatres, tall witches
Brewing a cauldron of magic
Each performance, enticing
Crowds from every corner
And I follow in suit
Getting lost in the magic
That makes me want
To not return home
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 11:32 PM UTC
Doors held open,
smiles and hellos
more often than stares.
backpacks left solitary
among the dozens of legs.
Mountains so close, I could reach out
and brush the snow from the top
Up so high, I look down on clouds.
Palm trees and pine trees,
a little of home.
Air so crisp,
it scorches your lungs.
World so green,
feet rebel against concrete.
Little revolutions every day.
I stumble over concrete,
uneven and crumbled.
Wonder how many
have wandered through
these broken roads
and felt home
beneath their feet.
Wonder how many
have fallen in love
right
here.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
A starter home on a frozen plain
Located on the corner of
drifted dreams and main
Cigarettes and old ramen
A *** for posture, a dish pile
I hear the storm coming
Have heard it for a while
Lick me like the stamps
on the letters
to your ex-lover,
Break me like the twenties
you got from your mother.
Abuse me like the creep
you wish I was,
Use me then lose me
just because.
Dec 1, 2023
Dec 1, 2023 at 10:58 PM UTC
Calloused lilies sprout into the cold air
shaking off their scales.
A moment of clarity, before they give birth again.
mercurial joy.
I find myself asking questions from letters,
gluing them into hexes upon myself
growing sentences and growing light
that hides and shivers and runs
before it can fully glow.
My stars prevail.
oh, that fleeting warmth,
I want to melt within the safety of the universe
and inhale the light
so close to the tips of my fingers
ever tipping
further away
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
Neatly trimmed hedges
Expensive cars and houses
Neighbors sleep outside
Ice cold winds blow through
Ashland, city of wonders
You wear a thick coat
Walking past clusters
Of less fortunate people
They are just background
"Not always their fault,"
"They're human," "it could be you."
Inconceivable
Walking past hunger,
You spend fifty bucks on lunch.
Insignificant
For you the world is,
Nothing more than what you see.
Sad, not uncommon.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
Frozen wasteland
Of human remains
Where there once
Were dandelion kisses
And lovers in the grass.
Now there only
Lies ash.
It coats my throat
And fills my lungs.
A copper taste
Forever in my mouth.
Left questioning exactly
Where in my life
This anxious
Wasteland of recurrent
Depression was decided.
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC