"bandanas" poems
I’m sorry I wrote you.
I’m sorry I’m as weak as I told you.
I’m sorry I wasn’t lying.
I’m sorry I never lied.
I’m sorry for all the broken nights
I’m sorry I couldn’t fix them.
I’m sorry I couldn’t fix myself
I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.
I’m sorry I messed everything up
I’m sorry I couldn’t take it anymore.
I’m sorry I got tired of being alone
I’m sorry the permanence makes it easier.
I’m sorry you can’t write anymore.
I’m sorry I never could.
I’m sorry you couldn’t see yourself how I always saw you
I’m sorry you can’t see what I still see.
I’m sorry I loved you.
I’m sorry I loved you harder than I’ve loved anyone else
I’m sorry you made me question myself.
I’m sorry it ended this way.
I’m sorry I kept writing because I didn’t know how not to
I’m sorry you told me I could.
I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you said I should stop
I’m sorry I didn’t listen when everyone said I should stop.
I’m sorry I took all those nights seriously.
I’m sorry I believed every word you said.
Well…not every word.
I’m sorry I became such a problem
I’m sorry nobody listened to me.
I’m sorry for being right.
I’m sorry the permanence makes it easier.
I’m sorry I failed you.
I’m sorry I took the hit
I’m sorry I asked you to do that
I’m sorry I let you
I’m sorry you didn’t listen.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stand seeing the bracelet anymore
Or the pictures
Or the letters
Or the poem.
I’m sorry I can’t touch them without getting nauseous.
I’m sorry the permanence makes it easier.
I’m sorry I don’t even hurt that much anymore.
I’m sorry I don’t think of you as often as I should
I’m sorry you’re not sorry that I don’t think of you as often as I used to think I should
I’m sorry it ended this way.
I’m sorry you don’t care.
I’m sorry I don’t believe your goodbye
I’m sorry I don’t believe any of it.
I’m sorry I don’t care.
I’m sorry I sort of wish it was different
I’m sorry I think this is probably for the best.
I’m sorry I can’t be there to fix it
I’m sorry you let me go.
I’m sorry the other side of this coin is gone,
Your half dozen of these tacos are still here,
We never watched Finding Nemo.
You never finished renaming the constellations.
I’m sorry I never finished teaching them to you.
I’m sorry bandanas are now out of your life
I’m sorry you never wear sports bras.
I’m sorry my hands feel empty and naked
Now that yours are gone.
I’m sorry your hand was the best thing that ever happened to mine.
I’m sorry that was such a cheesy line.
I’m sorry I want a hair-cut
I’m sorry I want to chop it all off.
I’m sorry you’ve ruined that side of town for me
I’m sorry I’m no longer allowed.
I’m sorry it ended this way.
I’m sorry I would want to forget me too.
I’m sorry I kept writing letters
I’m sorry you never read them
I’m sorry I never will again.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:30 PM UTC
she wants to make babies with sunshine and call them buttercup or maybe even [ol' sunny] boy. her mind is filled with flowers and fantasies of {forgetme} not's that make her half naive without a chance of bail.
she pulls wings off of lady[bug]s and collects them in mason jars made of innocence and g[rape] flavored caprisun's. without her faithful pen, she is nothing.
she prays to every deity that man has ever created and every one that will be. she wants to create her own but knows s[he] doesn't have enough faith. her every step is shadowed by something darker than her fairytale brain knows exists.
she dreams of prince charming and wakes up with[out] a thousand smiles and no [less] doubt. her heart is made up of yellow bandanas and sun babies all wrinkly from heat. she wraps a bracelet around her left wrist to remind her that there is [no] hope for the fallen.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 11:27 PM UTC
Oh daffodil, you are not what I had hoped for
but you are alright now. Do not weep,
and please, do not wilt on me,
this fertilizer is a necessary evil, to devour
your bad things
in a basin, or howling at the moon –
dogs you left empty-bowelled,
sunken as a level cloth in the rain, still fat
but darker than smoke haze at dusk
not better of what mothers feed the precious
stuck, and stinking sons. I love men, I do,
just not the boys I have been handed
in their snotty noses, copepod backpacks &
bandanas for the laboratory. Promise, though
to make chloroform for your head
as if the sun could slap your eardrums,
what wonder would it be! A yellow plague,
bit the toenails of your baby’s feet,
said to injure petals among tall, lusting slopes,
hope you will die as a blonde woman,
and dye, daffodil, goodbye.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 7:27 PM UTC
To Certain Poets About to Die
Take your fill of intimate remorse, perfumed sorrow,
Over the dead child of a millionaire,
And the pity of Death refusing any check on the bank
Which the millionaire might order his secretary to
scratch off
And get cashed.
Very well,
You for your grief and I for mine.
Let me have a sorrow my own if I want to.
I shall cry over the dead child of a stockyards hunky.
His job is sweeping blood off the floor.
He gets a dollar seventy cents a day when he works
And it's many tubs of blood he shoves out with a broom
day by day.
Now his three year old daughter
Is in a white coffin that cost him a week's wages.
Every Saturday night he will pay the undertaker fifty
cents till the debt is wiped out.
The hunky and his wife and the kids
Cry over the pinched face almost at peace in the white box.
They remember it was scrawny and ran up high doctor bills.
They are glad it is gone for the rest of the family now
will have more to eat and wear.
Yet before the majesty of Death they cry around the coffin
And wipe their eyes with red bandanas and sob when
the priest says, "God have mercy on us all."
I have a right to feel my throat choke about this.
You take your grief and I mine--see?
To-morrow there is no funeral and the hunky goes back
to his job sweeping blood off the floor at a dollar
seventy cents a day.
All he does all day long is keep on shoving hog blood
ahead of him with a broom.
2.3k
You wore bandanas
like a ripened vigilante
& oh those darling bikinis
you wore
made Rio
look Mickey Mouse.
No words can ever describe
your baby blues,
I'll just say chilling.
And your swollen-buds
is what the romantics write about,
they use words like succulent.
delicious and tasty.
They were
very succulent,
delicious
and tasty.
We were the perfect fit,
I'm glad
you were honest,
but so sad to see you go.
******
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Relax.
I know your instincts are screaming to fight.
This is a mistake.
You will only hurt yourself.
Just relax.
You are frightened, confused, and angry.
This is only natural.
You will tell yourself to not feel these things.
This is a mistake.
Feel them, own them.
They are yours.
It is only natural.
You are being dragged backwards through a hedge.
You say,"Stop it!
The branches are tearing my shirt!
This is my favorite shirt!"
This is a mistake.
**** your shirt.
Tear it into bandanas,
sell them on Etsy.
Just buy more shirts.
Pack of four. $9.99. Wal-Mart.
Tell a stranger a story
about the scars the hedge gave you.
Maybe he'll trade you
a shirt for a good story.
But you say,"My pants!
The hedge is covering my favorite pants in grass stains!"
Stop that.
This is a mistake.
Cover your pants in new and interesting stains.
Paint in them.
Spill food on them.
Comfort a dying animal,
let it bleed on them.
Do too much *******
**** yourself.
Get bored, cut them into daisy dukes.
Try wearing a skirt, a sarong, a loincloth, the wind.
Calm down,
they're just pants.
"But what if I break the hedge!
The Homeowner's Association will **** me!"
This is also a mistake.
**** the Homeowner's Association.
You did not choose the hedge.
The hedge did not choose you.
And once you're on the other side,
you won't to answer to them.
No one will find you, and
you don't have to come back.
Unless you want to.
But that is your decision.
Yours and the hedge's,
no one else.
Remember that.
"But who is dragging me through this hedge?
What kind of hedge is it?
Why is this happening to me?"
These are the wrong questions.
You are being dragged backwards to through a hedge.
That is all that matters.
Concern yourself only with what matters.
Making it through.
Landing on your feet, or
barring that, getting back up.
Seeing what's on the other side.
So you ask,"what is on the other side?
What if I hate it?
What if it's a parking lot?
What if it's all sticky?
What if everything's on fire?
What if it's just more hedges?"
Relax.
You're looking at it all wrong.
Maybe your friends are all there.
Maybe it is all sticky.
Maybe it's a combination liquor store,
ice-creamery,
minigolf course,
and you can pour whiskey on your face,
and eat Rocky Road,
and finally get a hole-in-one on that ******* windmill.?
Maybe it's the way home.
You're still looking at it wrong.
This, too, is a mistake.
You were dragged backwards through a hedge.
Dragged.
Backwards.
And you made it.
While you were worrying
you didn't notice you already made it through.
So now you're here,
on the other side.
Now it's your call.
You can do as you wish.
Watch the sunset.
Or dive into a new hedge, maybe
headfirst this time.
Or walk home.
Or make a new home.
It's your choice.
And really, who's going to stop you?
Some puny ******* bush?
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
Dandelion braids
watermelon picnics
bees in our bandanas
and toes in the mud
bicycles at dusk
sailing down paths
built for fireflies
out feet have grime
because who
wears shoes
in the summertime
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
The hoods go up, the bandanas come out.
Their day really starts, when the sun goes down.
Geared up with paint, backpacks are full.
Armed not only with colors, but triggers to pull.
No stops in the stairwell, it's straight to the top.
Hope you grabbed your inhaler, in case of the cops.
The last couple steps are slathered in ice.
Their will to go higher it really entices.
Reaching the rooftop, the flashlights go off.
But the rooftop itself just isn't enough.
Steel rails to trail, the water tower is their peak.
Their names and their tags, voices to speak.
So when the city looks up, from I-75.
Their beacon of art, is kissing the sky.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
What country is this?
Not mine,
What kind of people allow its people…
What kind of bigotry promotes this
What color is blood?
Your gun is shiny and sticks out of your pants,
It rubs against your *****
and fits perfectly In your hands
The sweat in your palm
Is made of gunpowder and ***
Jizzle juice monsters
Preying on our streets,
Spraying your ball-bearings
over baby carriages
between the eyes of grandmothers
silencing the singers who only want
to sing.
Can’t you all go somewhere?
Meet somewhere in a desert where
Your bandanas can fly
High on poles of braided bones
With skull dust and snake bile
and maps meant to lead you to
the utopia of your sick wet dreams
There, Jizzle man, you can have it all
Blow up your rivals and your friends
Bleed yourselves into the rhapsody
of bullet holes and death.
And then
let the rest of us
move on.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
Twenty men stand watching the muckers.
Stabbing the sides of the ditch
Where clay gleams yellow,
Driving the blades of their shovels
Deeper and deeper for the new gas mains
Wiping sweat off their faces
With red bandanas
The muckers work on... pausing... to pull
Their boots out of suckholes where they slosh.
Of the twenty looking on
Ten murmer, "O, its a hell of a job,"
Ten others, "Jesus, I wish I had the job."
1.3k
skater kids doing flip tricks
motion of a jelly fish
they glide
they move faster then space and time
in thier minds
there rulers of this city
and how they make it look so pretty
they tremble with excitment
carvin there names into history
twish twish the sound of there shoe laces rubbin the pavement
they roll front and center
spray paint cans in hand
tag there names across the land
bandanas cover there faces
they leap the staircases
they are merely a imagination
swoop in grab a few cases
drink while they ride
taking pictures of the night sky
with no camera
but plenty of eyes
oh how they move
the wind carries them in a silent groove
how do we understand this nature
of kids kicking and pushing into a future
full of trial and error
they have there own flavor
a taste of danger
aromas of marijuana lingure
in the crisp air
the wind flows through thier hair
they have not one care
they have there own melody
metal clinking
wheels scrapping
car horns screaming
as they come flying into traffic
because that gap could've been tragic
when they land it
they know that it was some kid of magic
they kick on pushing
wheels creaking like floor boards in the attic
tired they ride till the sun brings its shine
when all there wonders can be seen by any traveling eye
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
remember the days
when it all seemed so far away
and we could drift lifelessly
into a warm haze
of blissfully amenity
and pointless laughter.
sippin' on pink lemonade,
wearing bandanas and sandals,
and daydreaming about when our lives might begin.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
West side house.
By: Hayden Mills.
When I was eight, seven, six,
The older boys and girls who lived in my area,
Had tight cliques,
Most of the boys Latino, Mexican,
White, black,
Listening to 2pac and wakaflaka,
"Let ya nutz hang" was the matto for some,
Brother vs. Brother one was ended with the sound of a gun,
One bullet made the heart go numb,
Now this doesn't mean any of us lived in the streets,
Yet a lot of kids my age claimed to be,
Most of us had a warm place and hot plate to eat,
No ghetto,
But the older boys in my area still dressed in black sagged geans,
Black shirts with the white one underneath,
Shaved heads or hats or bandanas,
A chain and a watch,
So the pretty girls would watch.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
With our heads over the starboard of the boat trip we took taunting tropical storm Fay on the port and our dresses in the wind.
He watched from the captain's chair, pistol in his hand. Salty seas hinder our vision of the man in the watchtower turning him into a blur on the vast expanse of grey skies and rotting wet wood.
Angry crew-children with their bodies touched, banging on the stained glass door to his room where the little girl looks through the marbled blue with tears on her cheeks. Laughing at the confrontation, sent back to work.
Gathering lobster and lost time, both of them scream in the boiling *** Escaped breath from incestuious embraces return to lungs and we find out that we can scream too, the boiling *** is overturned dripping off the starboard where we stand.
Lightning bolt touches the flag above his head causing chemical reactions to develop into a spark. Flames at the back engulf the wheel the children blister their hands grasping onto the lines as Fay rolls through, lightning after thunder rain never ending. Chaos perspiring on the ship he calls the battalion to secuestrar the children.
The battalion is overturned at the punch, bruise left on grey skin. Captain blubbering with lies the fire heat on his back. Rotting wood is burning, we cover our noses with bandanas and letters marked for Groton. The tide rises waves overtake the port, splashing onto the starboard where the victims jump into the black water uncertainty chilling them.
Swimming to Key West with the dolphins on our back the fiery ship burns in the distance the captain tied to a chair of ********** and lines untouched, denying allegations until his heart is charcoal and all that's left is a charred body smelling of ****** and aftershave. The starboard side is empty causing imbalance to the ship.
Dripping tears and sea water, walking through the streets, we lower our bandanas and hold the letters close to our hearts. Searching for the sun that will lead us home.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 10:40 AM UTC
Your childhood dream
Your teenage dream
Your 20s dream
Your 30s dream
Your 40s dream
Your 50s dream
Measure them in decades
Transfixed before a distorted hall of mirrors
A cycling fun-house
While presidents come and go
Parachute pants, bomber jackets, bangs
When you’re drifting off to sleep
What feeling awakens in your heart?
What small feet run across your translucent landscapes
Cubists blocks of what might have been
Twisting , reforming…, parallax
Like Etcher in motion, Inception
Dark cities floating overhead while eclipses burn red
Do your hands tremble with rage or with despair?
Or do you lie perfectly still, resigned
Practicing for your casket
Selfies of your head sinking into starched pillows
You’re responsible now
Clerks and coroners pat you on the back
The least you can be is responsible
Hunting down dreams in dreary forests
With bow knives and bandanas
Is foolish
Better to fill out your W2s
Calculate your interest and help with homework
Don’t be selfish
Let others burning with madness, desire and discontent
Dream for you
Shape the future for you
Preferable to be content
An anti-pioneer To Nest in paperclips and razors
Satisfied with consolation prizes, Ms. Congeniality
To sink silently down the toilet of trivialities
Floating listlessly like a ****
Flushed out into the polluted ocean of time
But let us not dwell on dreams
Let us drill, let us dance, let us down
Korean BBQ and snap-shot sunsets
Never mind the shadows swirling
Through you, deepening with every tock
Civilization calls - You must be integrated.
Not like days of yore
On the hunt
But wrenched into a mechanical maelstrom
Input into a coded vision
An alien incubator zooming through metallic tubes
You are an app
Of Aborted dreams
Of pragmatic passiveness
Fingered by millions of strangers
To **** time and hope
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
Mint green nails, trailing across your faded black tattoos.
The ability of bandanas to cover up out grown roots that I'm
too broke to touch up.
Long showers when no one is home to yell at me for wasting water.
The way your lips feel against mine, so safe and familiar,
and how your mouth tastes like a bad habit.
The white of battle scars against my summer tan.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
She loved lace and red bandanas,
had eyes like blue ice warming
& always wore a grin,
the kind that Cheshire cats wear
to hide secrets.
The feather she occasionally
hung in her hair
could change my bad day
into a festival.
It was as if
she controlled
the very wind itself,
would tame it to suit my needs
& in doing so,
show brought love
into my tiny world,
Meow,
meow!
The texture of
her precious skin
was sublime,
its fragrance genuine ecstasy.
It would send ripples
down my spine
everytime she'd
let me touch it
& she loved it,
would go out of her feline-mind
when I unhaled her
beautiful flower,
O Kitty, Kitty!
But she disappeared
like she appeared,
quickly and without drama,
it was much too fast,
was a perfect sad testimony
that nothing was ever meant to last.
And yet I know,
though I miss her immensely,
where ever she is,
good karma lights her path
& that comforts me.
Purr, Baby, purr!
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
there is blood in the streets
and dripping from the slick soles of shoes
of the smiling old men
who sell souls and buy lunch,
who never see and who
never stop smiling.
there is blood in the streets
and flaking like rust from the walls
of the banks and the prisons,
staining the palms
of the rich and the ruthless.
there is blood in the streets,
a graveyard full of my friends
and a holy battlefield
where kids with bandanas and baseball bats
fight for their lives and for those
whose guts stain the whole city red.
there is blood in the streets,
and the rich white men build themselves bridges
so far above the red running river
that they can call this peace.
there is blood in the streets,
but all you can see is a trash can on fire
and the scattered shards of shattered glass.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
Ribbons and bandanas
go hand in hand.
Whenever I see one,
the grief that I've
learned to control
finds a way back in.
They remind me of what
bravery and true fear
really look like.
They remind me of
the sound of buzzing
hair clippers.
And the quiet sobs
from both of us as
our tears fell to the floor,
just like your hair,
that you loved so much.
They remind me of that terrible
oncologist office, that always
smelled like chemicals.
Where I sat with you
as we waited to hear:
" The doctor will see you now."
They remind me of the goodbye,
that hurts me to this day;
When your fight ended,
and the angels took you away.
Whenever I see a ribbon or bandana,
I'm reminded of you.
Life isn't fair, but you were a fighter
all the way through.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
As rough and as difficult
life may well be
it's still so deeply beautiful
down in the
philippines
The beauty of the village
might not be apparent
at first glance.
What deters at first
might be the killing
and the nature of a life
dictated by chance.
But once you start accepting,
adapting and reflecting,
you'll notice that it's just
the island way of living.
Nurture nature's native nest,
share what yield the fields have held,
food to feed for feeling folk,
care about your neighbors health.
Live in tune with natures wrath
but don't exceed her measure
stick to filipino paths,
thus warmth and generosity
will provide you with pleasure.
Red Horse Strong for everyone,
Tuba, Tanduay and San Miguel.
Menthols, **** and beetlenut,
you just have to treat us well.
Sabong's not for the soft,
it's difficult to watch.
Roosters duel over
who avoids the cooking ***
blades fly through the air
and blood adorns
the sand with spots.
The winner stays a champion,
the loser's in a plastic bag, granting us that evenings dinner
and we've just made our money back.
Wet markets aplenty,
with fish you've never seen before.
Smells of seasalt, blood and gore,
mix to form a memory,
akin to sobering melody.
Watch out for the Aswang
and do not break a mirror.
Keep the deadbolt shut at night,
to avoid unpleasant surprises.
The ocean's at your doorstep
and so are the bananas
and the coconuts.
Skinny teens disguised with bandanas,
strapped, riding through the village.
Don't worry they're just cousins,
standing vigil, chasing cops.
Fistfight near the fish ponds,
neither one backs down.
Tilapia watch eagerly
for who'll sink to the ground.
Their brother came by earlier
selling pastries with his friend.
Buy three each for everyone,
your total's fifty cents.
Everywhere there's laughter,
music, sun and food.
Really nothing better
than the filipino mood.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 10:00 AM UTC
that week in Indiana
a 16 hour drive
Indiana bound
the road before
me wound here
and there as I
drove the day
the night filled
with anticipation
and lust for the
farmer and his
chickens cows
and an old brown
dog I was as free
as the wind
following the map
to the small town
that led me to him
that early dawn
and he was there
by the side of his
ramshackle
house in his army
fatigues and his
long brown hair
with a red bandana
oh god was he as
true to his photo
even better
and I did what
farmers daughters
do with handsome
men
in the hay loft
where mice ran
scattering
and the chickens
clucking and the
cows mooing and
the dog was barking
as we lay moaning
under an orange
moon-it was 18
years ago and I
dream of him still
we loved and lost
but the memories
stay and linger
still
there is a lot to
be said for Indiana
country boys with
red bandanas.
ana christy
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
I have a secret,
but I'd like it to stay between the two of us,
I used to smoke
like twelve cigarettes at a time,
because I thought it would impress you.
I used to wear jean dresses with cut-oust in the hips,
knee high fishnet socks,
and wear my hair in one of those bandanas
with thick black eyeliner
because I thought it was your definition
of a rebel.
I used to scream really loudly,
and drink ***** out of shot glasses
with glitter at the bottom
listening to something toxic on the radio
telling me to get high,
because I thought that's what you wanted.
I used to steal things from convenient stores
with a bunch of boys in thermal jackets,
things like bubblegum and alcohol
late at night,
because I thought it was cool.
I used to move from place to place,
the speed of a lonely heart dragging me,
after I just made love to some guy I met
who was dancing up on me in the mosh pit,
because I thought somehow it would get me to you.
I used to **** around like it wouldn't catch up to me,
I used to bury my skin in lies like it would change the truth
that this love is a drug
and I'm addicted to you
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 4:14 PM UTC
you never really know
the love of a grandmother
until her life is at risk
you see her hair fall out
and her wearing bandanas
frequent doctors visits
and no energy
grandma I'm sorry this happened
to you, of all people
I hope you know
I wish it was me instead
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC