"backboard" poems
How do you explain
to your children that the
horrors of the world are real?
How will I tell my son, We
found a place you can call home but
your bus might not make it to school.
Do not look too Jewish in this part of town
Do not play in the train station
Do not get used
to the weight
of a machine gun.
Or look my
daughter in the eye and say, someday
you might say “no” and someone stronger than you might
not listen
You will not tell me
Know that this happens a lot
Know that your wrists pinned against a
backboard will
echo in the way you move your hands
for as long as you let it
But
human hands aren’t as heavy as metal shackles
And I’m so sorry
but I won’t be able to
take the weight for you
You’ll wake up in the morning
That I can promise you
You’ll wake up
and your lungs will fill with air
whether you tell them to or not.
One day
I will hold someone
small, with my face
and they’ll cry and I’ll say,
*I know.
I know you’re tied with little yarn strings to the last life
I know it hurts to be here and
(honestly)
you’re never going back
But
the older you get the less you’ll remember
what it was like
before you had a body
when you were made of ash and infinite light
You’ll convince yourself you live here and
that your hands are you,
But remember that once you were boundless
Inside my body, without yours.*
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 2:34 PM UTC
Head against the backboard
Sinking into the blue
I wanna save you
Before you sink too
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
Falling stars make chandeliers and I wish upon each piece
To hope among a million dreams that my chances may increase
Within the creases and cracks of time as future becomes present becomes past
That you won't count me out even if you count me last
My hand, it reaches out for you like many a lover before
Closing my fragile, feeble eyes and opening my hearts door
In all and all in with the wager for a hint of you
No promise to be found in the stars or in the cosmic hue
Love is written on the blackboard of the universe
While passion's written on bed's backboard, gifting touch like verse
And as I lay in roofless rooms I look towards starlit skies
I wish for you and only you to stay eternally
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 9:08 AM UTC
Eve held two cigarettes in her lips and lit them. She passed one to Mark, beside her on the chaise. Thomas was with Delilah in the bedchamber getting a few lessons in life. They were making noises like a slaughterhouse as Mark tried to focus his thoughts.
He left the couch and went to the phone, dialing Satan’s office. Eve watching him with heavy lids, her arm stretched across the curved backboard. She inhaled forcefully, making thick clouds that obscured her face, then her head, and then the whole couch. He was watching her too, wondering what she was up to as Satan picked up the line.
“Yeh?” said the devil.
“Satan, Mark. We’ve got to talk.”
Satan was silent for a moment, then said sharply, “Look, they’ve got wire-taps.
Why don’t you come over here? We can talk in person. It’s safer then taking a chance on them listening.”
Mark thought that was smart, but if they were listening they’d already gotten an earful, but he had to take that chance.
He hung up the phone and fanned the air with his hands. The girl was gone.
He heard chuckling from the bedchamber and realized there were more voices than before, loudly squealing and giggling. He heard Thomas moaning in utter delight and decided to leave him there. As far as Thomas was concerned, Purgatory never felt so good.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC
Seagulls hit the horizon's backboard
off the sands of Pacific Beach.
In my lungs breakers burn out
some forty feet from shore.
They will return.
This jetty'd be a monolith
if this ocean were a sky.
Silt on this deserted
coast scene is encumbered by
bits of driftwood and sun-bleached glass.
The living in this town
are accustomed to the weight. And
tidepools are their hearts:
shallow, mossy, little things
fending for breathe.
This jetty'd be a monolith
if this ocean were a sky.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
Silent and alone, I solemnly gaze at the aged court.
The hallowed roar of a steady stream
Suffocates the atmosphere
Like decrepit statues, they silently stare
The deflated and beaten sphere in my tiny hands.
Bitter tears, from the blackened surface
Prickling my bare feet.
Swish, thump, swish, thump.
The rickety backboard half-heartedly
Gives off a rattling cry.
It's tattered net cannot take much more.
An ashen pit, with stale passion
Surrounding bushes gag
On bleak sunlight.
I dejectedly make shot after hopeless shot.
A taunting figure cackles and booms.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
The basketball says thump thump thump to the concrete
Two black kids play a hoopless game. The rules? Intuitive.
The top stair railing of the apartment is a three pointer
Both of the walls along the side are an approved backboard
The grass is out of bounds, the door opening is a time out
The constant rattle of the railing assures without doubt
That they’re draining those shots like Ray Allen
It is the first day over 60 degrees all year and the boys
Smile like the sun granted permission for happiness
They are young and carefree and pulsing with life
But they will grow out of that fickle, temperamental joy
And they’ll rent a room or two in a brick apartment
With a red railing on the third floor, so they can listen
At times annoyed, at other times enchanted, I know this,
Because I am in a brick apartment, and I know the rules
(c) Marty Schoenleber III 2013
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
I see reflections everywhere.
Brick walls reflect the shimmering green blade summer days,
with 4-square games in a gated yard- wherewithal a Huffy backboard and bent rim- I was LEBRON JAMES!
Glass window panes reflect the exit of dad's leather silhouette.
Tie-dyed walls reflect blue/red splatters traced with a syringe paintbrush.
And you reflect me, because I am you, and you I.
You are more than a piece of me.
You reflect everything I ever was or wanted to be.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
D is for dinosaur who walks in the rain
C is for canary. she'll never be the same
E is for eskimo
F is for functional - she feels quite insane
G is for girlfriend who is never to blame
B is for backboard I should have never came
M is for meeting he couldn't postpone
L is for license, or rent to own
P is for pretty
All of your Alphabet stepped out of line
couldn't arrange them, there just wasn't time
instead they're all jumbled- but it's gonna be fine
oh oh oh
So if you're spelling with plenty of vowels
means the wind's still blowing in, something's afoul
you're late to the blackboard, best just throw in the towel
School's almost over, this isn't a start
we've all got you, this won't stop your heart
Fall back and trust me, you won't come apart.
XY and W just weren't the same
after they learned that Q had stolen her name
the rest of the letters just did not care
That's why we're ending- so I'll just stop you there.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
I believe in who you are.
I double back the circles on your skin from the scars.
I believe in who you are.
I render myself speechless
your face gets stuck in my jaw when I try to breathe
through all the things I'm scared to ask you,
but already know the answer to.
I've trusted the luck that brought me to you.
I've been wrong.
But your soft look is enough to make me think
I've never been more right before.
I smashed your honesty once.
I captured it between an endless night and a short coming morning,
let you have what I told you to take.
Gave up the strength I structured.
I broke open my mouth so the cacophony
of all the missing you I'd be doing,
all the loving I always had,
could be heard through your covered ears,
could be listened
by someone I always thought recognized me.
Then you ran,
and I was here waiting for you to come back.
But I can't ask you about that.
You're lips splice the seconds I have to interrupt
your pleading for my discontinued existence in your life.
You make me afraid to be somebody,
because I've become so passionate about losing you
that I'm scared to be who I am
without you being a part of it.
So I'll keep being that backboard,
keep ******* back my confessions.
and I'll always believe in who you are.
I double back the circles on your skin from the scars.
I believe in who you are.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
Nothing in this alley to crow
about—backboard and bent hoop
leans against an old refrigerator.
Over at McMillin’s place
bags of garbage pile atop
a turquoise Chrysler.
I’d give the family a pick
and shovel if they bury
their old basset after it dies;
it’ll probably keel,
the first cold day
of 2017.
My boots like this alley
even if my eyes don’t,
it hasn’t seen
a snowplow this winter
and, why should
it?
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 9:50 AM UTC
A basketball game is like a well conducted, beautifully written symphony. The tip off, a conductor raises his/her hands to motion the beginning of sound. As fingers reach for the orange ball and slam it in a favored direction, music takes flight and volume rises, the crowd roars as a basket is taken by the home team. Rapid pace movement of the squeaking shoes are multiple violin’s strings and bows at work, consistently changing and controlling the tune. The blare of the brass section, the scream of the fans come together in perfect unison, adding texture to the piece. The slam against the backboard, the bass drum sounds off, the dribble of the ball, a high hat’s tap-ity, tap, tap. Music is created in every pass, jump, shot, foul, score, and aspect of this game…from the smallest move to the loudest upset, from the softest flute to the biggest percussion instrument…music is present here and now
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
I recently unearthed old photos of me
with a mop of scraggly black hair and
a ***** smile on my face, the kind of
smile I used to give before sinking into
myself, twisting my face up to disappear
and reassess my insides, how was that heart
workin' out for you, sweetheart?
And years later I still feel the familiar jolt,
manage to think that I am too sloppy for
loving, I've always been a pallet of nudes
a swarthy child waiting to be as blue as
the sky, holding myself to a standard
physically impossible, people tell me
I'm beautiful and I still wonder why
if this is as easy as loving myself then
I want to know how, I say thank you
with a hand over my heart to hold in
the little girls, who still wait in the middle
of empty classrooms for a partner, who still
envy the women that grew fox-glove petals
in the golden hour while I crouched in the
curly willow branches, semi-dormant
perpetually brown with too much skin
standing off the side because I was too
afraid to touch others,
too afraid of an olive complexion. Too afraid of being in this body.
When someone loves you, how will you know?
what will they do when they see my scars, the ones that only
show at certain times in certain ways? Under hot water and at
noonday? when will I be okay with a broken heritage, with a mexican
daddy who cut the ropes back to the village where I was supposed to
return to? And why do I feel like the winds and hot sands when boys hold my hands? Like I am burning up the rivers or smoldering beneath
the dry autumn brush in San Isabel, where only beetles and lizards congregate, a backboard baby with
an overprotective mother, carrying the strings I've tried to tie to others--
direct me home, sir.
direct me home, ma'am.
Tell me who I am.
tell me who i am
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
relinquish your anguish
tearing fears of queers
from broken enigmas running
sideways through your flaccid fears
fears of being crushed
the life you live coming
will make you feel rushed
quicker than their needs
clutching to the new grounds
dreaming of distant horizons
burn the remnants bleeding
then all your old plush
can drag to the floor with
pearls, curls, swine before twirls
your life will never be some
toy in another mans flush
flicking twisted sheltered
enigmas into quickened glances
erupt, don't get taken
by your grandparents ideals
their luxuries and ***
blooms and brooms
a diamond-induced numb
the cure for AIDS isnt
in some gun-filled crumb
liquefied dollars injected
into magic johnsons thumb
ball your body into a swish
they send you to space
and backboard back for fun
but Koch wont let anyone
but themselvesilluminatirun
so you run, from
stairs getting taller
and eagles getting balder
until youre flat on sunken
ground dripping like larder
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
am i so wrong for wanting to feel right?
am I so wrong for wanting to feel right--
to go without an ounce of distress, to feel
like the corner of a couch was a cove and
not a prison, or that the slope of his nose
were the side of Humboldt and not a cliff
edge I want to throw myself off of
because i feel trapped.
because I feel trapped--
i alluded to a rabbit in a cross-hair
when my mom asked. The rabbit knows.
The rabbit knows it's been caught, it doesn't
feel right. She freezes. She tenses. She's unsure.
She's grounded amongst the long weeds and bulrush,
is he waiting? is he watching? When he touches her
shoulder, what is he saying? When he stands between
her and the door, is he a threat? Is it presumptuous to
think he can enter without invitation? how many
doors in a house require a request to entry?
just the front? the bedroom? the heart?
I feel small.
I feel small, like my body has shrunk and consists of
significantly less matter, less much, less stuff
which is scientifically impossible, matter can neither
be created or destroyed--but I can certainly be rearranged
in space, so I melt into the backboard, become one with
the paisley pillows, find solace in holding my own hand
solace in my unassuming nature, in my rapid bunny
heart--
and
therein
lies
the
problem.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
You walked through every tornado
So you could say that you made it alive
Through wind and rain, snow and ice
Did you bother acknowledging the
Warmth of the sun in your two melted brown eyes
And that you don’t always need to be
Struggling or fighting or competing
With something bigger
Than yourself to win
It might look like glory
Because it tastes like fresh clouds
And small lights hung in the middle of the night
But you’re tougher than tree bark
Put together stronger than bricks
Your cement must be the opposite of an escape
Only, you’ve trapped yourself hunting for a release
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
I have this new beginning
To this end
I've been writing
To this wall
I've been fighting
To hold up
And now all
The biting
All the loose pen
Writing
Is holding up
Some lighting
In my mind
I see that the backboard
Has always been
A closed door
Waiting for something
Waiting for more
And it's strange
I've known you
All along
And you've never
Really gone
And now
You're hear
Slowly cracking
Down the door
That I only
Knew before
As a dark space
A bad place
That hid
Behind my head
Now your lying
In my bed
And instead
Of deceit
And picking off
My meat
You tuck
Me soft
To sleep
And kiss
My broken
Feet
I finally have realized
That you are full
Of no lies
No disguise
And now I'm glad to say
You are all mine
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
I'll play the tinker toy,
You play your game.
Use me, abuse me.
For boredom, I'll take blame.
Emotional backboard
My role and my place.
I'll keep you happy
Til you forget my face.
My role as your keeper,
One of tarnished brass,
Is full of rewards
Seldom worth all the gas.
And please hear me beg you,
A toy of my own,
To fill in the space,
That you just leave unsewn.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
The springs groan and the backboard sounds a sharp crack under my weight.
It’s been doing that ever since some friends and I used it
As a trampoline on my eleventh birthday.
I slouch in the middle of my safe haven and look at my life decorated on the red walls.
I marvel at all of the roses I’ve ever received hanging upside-down along my ceiling.
My favorite is the dyed-blue bouquet that my dad gave to me years ago “just cause”.
Sometimes their dried, cracked petals fall to my floor, but I save those, too.
I notice the posters that have tattooed my walls since I was a kid,
An old James Dean portrait, Abbey Road, and Kissing the War Goodbye.
There’s my record player sitting underneath Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors,
One of the many vinyls my grandpa had given to me growing up.
Over there is my massive bookcase, holding well over two hundred stories.
I scan their spines until my eyes spot my two favorite books,
In Memoriam by Tennyson and Stephen King’s novella, The Body.
This is where I go when I need time to think or when I just want to be alone, safe.
But then I look behind me at the black cityscape my uncle painted on my wall
Just a few months before he hung himself.
I remember the hole in the wall hidden behind my door
That I made with my fist the night I first told my mom I hated her.
Above my record player is the last picture of my sister and me before I lost her
And scattered across the floor are the many journals that hold my darkest thoughts.
This place is me.
It is my Heaven, my haven, and my Hell.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
Entwined like three snakes
7 to nine, i feel the Waves
little kisses on the backboard of stored
memosas
"just for love"
whats the name of that song?
each riff like a blade, cutting salt and ice
it made the sea, it made the Tides
Whispers
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
T*here was plenty cats who could ****** a quarter offa backboard,*
They used to say up at Happy Warrior,
*But the Goat was the only one
Who could float so long that he could leave change*,
And then they’d slap each other on the back,
Laughin' until they couldn’t breathe.
Some folks still tell the story, old timers—hell, old men now,
But they don’t laugh much no more, because they all know the story;
Ain’t one of those things where people ask Whatever became of...
Like a Boobie Tucker or Funny Kitt, because Earl was a myth, see,
A neighborhood Icarus, but one with moments of doubt
The pusher, all loud clothes and soft smooth voices,
Played Earl and played him to his weak hand.
*College coach ain’t gonna push for no brother
Who ain’t got the grades,
No matter how much lift he got.
Then what, man?
You gonna hang outside the park, leanin’ on the fence,
Some old man whose name used to get you respect?
**** man, you think you can fly?
Man, I got somethin’ make you fly.*
The pusher baited and Earl hit the hook hard;
Wasn’t long before he was noddin’ on corners
Like some old **** wino,
Pretty soon a stint Upstate after he botched robbin’ some bar,
Then a long slow slide until he died.
The Hawk, Alcindor, The Pearl—they knew he was the man,
Best ever according to Lew, and man how he flew,
But the streets have their own peculiar physics
And the rim ain’t nothing but ten feet off the ground.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 7:46 AM UTC
Got home,
kicked my shoes off,
and removed my jacket
as I strolled toward
the dear refrigerator.
Got beer,
sat before the computer,
and banked my weary brain
off of the backboard and
it swished into the garbage.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
I am calmed by the soft petals of the lotus
flower, the same petals of the same lotus flower that
rests upon the shoulder of my yoga teacher, whom I
see every Monday and Wednesday afternoon.
I am calmed by starting out in child’s pose, hips back,
arms out front, stretching shoulders wide.
I am calmed by the cool water that runs like a river down my
parched throat during our first break in the practice.
I am calmed by the soft sounds of the music that plays in
the background and the tiny thuds from the basketballs
hitting the backboard, in the court on the other side of the wall.
I am calmed by the turquoise blue of my yoga mat and the
matching towel beside it, which I never get sweaty enough to use.
I am calmed by all the warriors teaching us strength, endurance, and balance.
Warrior one: arms up to the sky, Warrior two: arms out to the side,
Warrior three: one leg held up high, and Warrior four: arms are spread out wide.
I am calmed by all of the cats and cows and tabletops and chairs
that we become, and all of the forward folds.
I am calmed by savasana, or corpse pose, at which we arrive in the end.
we lay on our backs, legs out wide, arms flat, facing up, and eyes close.
there we stay for what seems like an eternity.
Then, when we’re ready, we roll over onto our side-body, into a fetal position.
Then, we slowly rise up into a seated position with our eyes still closed
and our hands folded softly at heart’s center.
Finally, we stretch our arms out as if it was the first grand stretch of the
morning, and it’s usually followed with yawning yogis.
I am calmed by shavasana, the death and rebirth between classes.
I am calmed by the blank space my mind becomes when I close my eyes and just exist without a worry in the world.
I am calmed when we bow and say, “Namaste.”
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 1:46 AM UTC
there once was a calm certain celibacy
a timeworn truancy of ******
verve substance , a quiet self serving
noted subservience to not all were satiated,
the duly noted societal
quiet under the table
observance of tension
quick and taut still,
unnamed
but in the darkest alleyways,
now , these days
the revisionists the purveyors
of common law hold
jurisprudence over moral
things
sin is sin by the way
**** are **** and should not be jiggled
callously,
***** to the wall I jockoundly
bounce my three ***** and hefty scent upward
to a backboard
it just makes no sense.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 1:49 AM UTC