"baseboard" poems
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chipped wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame
rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on an iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat
bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls
whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight
sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base
cornice clipped by gully goats
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies
triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
( i )
I lucked out
on table 4 last night
window seat
baseboard heat
with intimate passages
from Ginsberg
in his purest
and most evident form
Cover-all Carl was draped
in his usual garb
(turning pages
of yesterday's news)
animating, culturing, bantering
on the fate of the
Greek barber
(in an accent of which
I'm not so sure)
His cronies
looked on
(with a twisted conviction)
countering
with their own tales
of ingovernance and woe
*did you know that Panasonic
lost 5 billion last quarter?*
The evening moved
in time lapse...
with painted winds,
streaming lights
and a host of
high school girls
running cold
Maleah passed
on her late shift
(checking the pile and trough),
patronized the boys
and called it a night
( ii )
The bald man
is back at it again
bickering at the till
(something about
a cold free coffee
or 99 cents
or the coloured guy
behind him who got it hot)
a kind Filipino
is trying to get it done
(at 8 bucks per)
losing her cool
and shedding a quiet tear
Wonder what the Purewals
or Haitians or Cossacks
would have to say
about this grim public reminder,
wonder what
this sad f*ck
will do tonight...
without his
bus pass
or sling sack
or broken Turkish stems
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 2:37 PM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
I caught Gnat
cheating.
caught her in it.
Not in the bed,
but enough
in the heart.
She said,
"Yea,
I ******
Jose,
so what?"
And I said,
"so what?
I love you,
and you **** me
like this?"
I wanted to hit her,
wanted to say with an open palm
that my heart
was a closed ******
That it hurt
when she forced her love in.
So Gnat left,
and I got bitter,
I drank
and drank
in that lonely apartment.
She had a good time
with
Jose,
but came back
when he was done
with
her.
So what is trouble,
but attachment?
Attachment that you can't
pry loose,
even when the loosest nails
are easy in a crowd of girls,
when the heart
is a rigid baseboard.
So, I felt happy
for a second,
then depression hit again
when we ******
and I knew
she
was
gone.
I'm saying this a thousand times,
but bitterness grows,
and when I find a good one,
I let her go,
because she might cheat,
so I cheat on her
and in conversations over verse
I let it be known.
But I miss
companionship,
true love.
Now it's ruined.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 11:32 PM UTC
I stood in the rows of stones
sitting in growing columns,
as the trees littered the carefully laid
orange and white wreathes with
dying leaves.
Pink chrysanthemums root
readying for winter.
I question
why must we do these things;
the dishes,
brush our teeth,
wear clothes,
paint the baseboard,
return things borrowed,
fix the handle on the drawer.
the sink may stink,
but the flies well fed.
bad breathe brings distance,
but distance breeds fondness.
and no one asks a nudist hermit
to lose weight.
These leaves within these stones tuck
a blanket over the raw Earth,
readying for winter,
keeping warm the maggots and beetles.
With the shadow of the raised
scythe looming over us all,
it’s silhouette shrinking as the sun
leaves us
I ask why,
Why must we rake these leaves?
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
All I want is a stick-up light, so I can read at night,
between my bedpost and bedside whiteboard
beside the baseboard,
outlet occupied by a black power cord,
the bookshelf, both coffeemakers,
the power strip duct-taped to the cream brick wall,
the bush outside,
the sidewalks, the brick walks,
the burnt caramel steel fences separating Washington babble
from Lyco small talk.
With one touch,
I’m lying against the wall
on acrylic-painted stretched canvases,
photo booth strips, a brick and sky scene,
gouache and ink sketches, that Giant
receipt with teal pen in the margins,
and developed photos of storm
troopers, ****** microwaves,
and forklifts moving trash sofas
around from film class.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
Two Anna's hummingbirds, dance at the door
under the pane, in a mid-morning pour
whispering winds, voices through chimes
a whimsical picture, woven in rhyme
Perched on a limb (just a few yards back)
a pileated pecker, with breast of black!
foraging sparrows, partners in crime
picking out seeds from conical pine
A weighted blanket, and dark roasted brew
sipped on a rocker, with the daily news
the stream keeper watching, fluttering high
dipping and darting, at (wild) passers-by
Baseboard heaters, comfort the room
four months to go, to the April bloom!
the afternoon passes, in dense gray fog
a sliver of sunshine, catches a log
Into the evening, a soft glowing light
gusts on the water, gulls take flight
crows at a distance, nestled in trees
branches swaying, to a south-east breeze
Patterns of nature, the rhythm runs deep
“those rich forest gems, to the soul they will creep”
an archway to heaven, with guiding raccoons
look over yonder…the quiet tan moon!
Jan 25, 2020
Jan 25, 2020 at 6:15 PM UTC
I painted the bedposts and bedside whiteboard
beside the baseboard, the outlet occupied
by a power cord, the bookshelf, both coffeemakers,
the power strip duct-taped to the brick wall,
the bush outside, the sidewalks, the brick,
the steel fences separating traffic
babble from pedestrian small talk,
then filled the wall in, gave the oak posts
enough depth to hold up four coats,
a backpack, and a shoe lace, swirled
in the condoms and coffee rings
inside the microwave, sketched a Sears
Apple-Jack-colored record player plugged
in, turning dusted Beatles records
like the cosmos, like the snow, squirrel-
hair, and leather-leaf bush outside.
I masked off the concrete, the asphalt,
and construction yard sidewalks,
penciling dead mosquitoes in the cracks
and $2.39 Rock Salt Slush along the edges.
I measured the fence, so each stake hit
the vanishing point like cigarette butts
in cement cereal bowls of cat litter.
But I ran out of paint before I could fill
the mouths of motorist **** yous*,
the car barks chasing dogs
to the chain-link guard rail,
doorbells and mailbox flags
being flipped up, pay phones
clashing on metal receivers,
church bells, footsteps,
some guy breathing,
and a red-light button Wait.
Maybe it’s for the best.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
his teeth are made of porcelain
because of a fist fight he
had in high school
& some days he's mad
at the world for no reason.
his little brother hits on me
at family dinners
& his mom thinks we
should go to church.
his ***** smells like pills
& the chemo burns holes in
his pretty skin.
i think heavy metal is ******
but he blasts it in the car
no matter the time of day.
sometimes he hits my head
off the baseboard when we're
******* & then spends
thirty-eight minutes
apologizing.
his apartment is kinda small
& his upstairs neighbors never
shut the **** up.
his roommate is his best friend
& they like to talk to each other
through the walls of their home
even when i'm sleeping.
i smile into his lips every morning.
*it's okay.
it's okay.
i love every second.*
he didn't care when
i switched my birth control pill
and gained ten pounds in one week.
he didn't care when
my acrylic nail fell off
and got stuck in his shower drain.
he didn't care that i
cried black eye liner
all down my face
and his pillow case
every night
during midterms' week.
he doesn't care that
my beat up little car
is a graveyard
for receipts and water bottles
or that my hair
doesn't always smell like
strawberries...
sometimes it smells like
burnt oil and cigarette butts.
he doesn't care that i
don't always
say "i'm sorry"
when i should be
or that sometimes my legs are prickly.
he doesn't even care
about the cellulite
under my ***
or the fact
that my left ****
is bigger than my right.
he kisses my neck every morning.
*we're okay.
we're okay.
we're gonna make it
anyway*
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
my mind is pale and drawn
thoughts spinning surreal and with washed out color
i sit on the edge of the bed
and stare into the void of carpet
i am sick
fever
numb to this idea
i make coffee and try and eat
i must venture things must be done
i reach for my cup
wake several hours later as a pool of sweating ache
on the floor several feet from the bed
how did i get here
i do not have energy to get up
but the kindle is here charging on a plug
by the baseboard
so i write
f%#kin horrid habit sometimes dont'cha think
sick as a dog and im carving up a poem
ok enough of this insanity
off to emergency i take my silly old ***
ill be fine
as soon as the room stops spinning
see you cats later
aiko aiko
:-)
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
You know that feeling
you get when
you drive at night, and you
just want to feel the car fly, so you
push your foot as far as
it'll go down on the gas,
down to the baseboard,
your engine howling like a wolf in the
moonlight,
yet somehow it doesn't feel
fast enough?
That's what it feels like
getting over
you.
Getting over you is like
sneaking home, trying not to awaken
the parents that you
left dozing,
but every
single
solitary
stair
creaks underneath your weight.
It is the
new routine with the
broken ankle;
the unanswered
correspondance;
the sailing ship on
the windless ocean;
getting over you is the
road taken and laden with potholes;
the refusal of the snow
to melt,
my feet slipping out from underneath me
on the remaining ice.
Getting over you is the
flameless fire,
the un-Happy New Year,
the series of unhappy poems.
Getting over you
is the bottle of champagne I drank
to quench my thirst for you,
the texts I sent you and didn't remember,
the tears I shed as I begged the
universe (and anyone else in ear shot)
to explain why it had to
turn out this way.
You know that feeling where
up is down,
left is right,
inside is flipped outside?
You're gone.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
Encapsulated
With thirty-six inches to breathe
Laying above matter that all stand at attention
To face the center of the room
Nothing moves and nothing changes
But evidence from soul's passing
Into an occupancy of two different windows
Curtains reach down and gently caress
The baseboard heater
That keeps me warm throughout the night
Until the bright star greets my curtains
And I greet the morning
Apr 10, 2010
Apr 10, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC
Curtains thick as carpets
shut out the courtyard, neighbors, society.
She’s a gentle, cane-walking woman.
Posture of a question mark. The cords of her neck,
withered stalks as she peers up at me.
From eye to jaw a scar like a dried fig.
The world has run roughshod over this woman.
Pointing at the baseboard heater, she folds
arms over chest, shivers in drama.
“Okay,” I say. “I get it.”
With screwdriver and flashlight I kneel on a rug
woven with exquisite patterns of dangerous beasts:
dragon, eagle, serpent. A nudge on my arm.
Holding a tray of baklava and apricots, she says, “Take.”
In a minute she’s back with a tiny cup. “Take.”
Brew so thick that if you spilled, the coffee
would not splash. It would shatter.
Soon my belly is grinding like a coffee mill.
And the heater is fixed. I kneel over the baseboard,
rubbing my hands in a pantomime of heat.
She takes my face between her fingers.
She beams, nodding her head.
It’s a thank you, but more.
Be nice, she seems to say, and conquer evil.
Opening the door, she sends me outside
with my tool belt and work boots
to the bright sunlight of California, USA.
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
I don’t like when Jane leaves the baby’s door open,
But we’re away now. This house is heavy with strangers' history,
It's peeking out of the shaded paths and gardens swollen
With verdure; hinting at the tantalizing possibility of mystery
And restorative power of air, after all, that’s why we’re here
John doesn't believe in fantastic daydreams
(Imagination is a delusion perpetuated by fools)
John says we are sleeping in the nursery for its sunbeams
But there are bars on the windows like metal rules
And it is papered in a grotesque sin of undulating chaos
It inhabits me, twirling dreadful arabesques behind my eyes
Momentarily.
Many yellowed
Almost, not quite, dead
It grows within me
Dis-
-tending my belly
No no no
This air will do me good.
I move as a somnambulist through the morning
Succumbing to sleep in the afternoon
(Moonlight brings the amber insomnia of the walls
Bends my eyes from sleep)
But it is nothing. Merely my own laziness. A hysterical tendency.
Really.
shhh..
SULFUR
Color
SULFUR
Scent
In my (inhale) lungs and
(Shoulder to the wall, follow) on my clothes
Proptotic eyes leering from crooked necks
Carious fingers reaching into-
Fireworks on the forth of July and me,
with the docile vengeance of a failed mother
Writing with the frantic purpose of a bumblebee,
…If a bumblebee was splitting
in two
two layers of the wall
One mutating concentric fungal prison
One captive-her?
(Her that creeps, her that inhabits [me] the wall)
I am tired.
But I must find the origin. Pattern. Meaning.
I know it holds someone.some memory
Hidden
My shoulder is covered in yellow pigment
My knees hurt
(faded band following the baseboard
pressure of a shoulder in orbit)
She hides, but she is mine
She who-I who shake the wallpaper-
SHE shakes the wallpaper in moonlight
I who shake the wallpaper
I who T
E
A
R
with teeth and claws
my prison from the wall
I who creep beneath the paper
(crept behind the paper)
FREE
OF-
John
oh,
J
O
H
N
You're in my way.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 2:39 AM UTC
It is nature of all the mothers
To heartily cherish their sons
To believe with worship
In the mortality of the sons
To whim and fancy
That nothing can beat their sons,
It is nature of all the mothers
To replace their love for husbands
With the love of sons,
Always to suspect
That their daughters in law
Are giving raw deals of life and love
To the precious sons,
To stress for ****** marriage of the sons
To doubt and snook at the beauties of sons’ loves,
It is nature of all the mothers
To be in nostalgia of their past love
On the look of the new beards on sons’ face
To equate the ****** tone in the sons bass
With the voices of a raw lover
On the nuptial night of the eloping evening,
It is nature of all the mothers to fault the person
Of other woman’s sons
Only to glorify the character of their own
As they project fortune for heir own
But stark fate or failure
Befalling the male neighbourhood,
To ask the powers that be
For a political treat to their sons
On a baseboard of full discredit
Unto the otherness that be.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
you told me that I resembled the battered, cracked baseboard
that ran along your concrete room
clearly suffering years of irrational abuse, and torment,
a foundational error maybe,
and chipped paint.
i can't say that I disagree.
but i can tell you that me and this baseboard share a lot in common
you see we both started out with a simple purpose,
sit still and do our job.
granted, my foundational friend had it slightly easier,
but only due to the that fact that you only kicked the baseboard accidentally;
in a drunken stumble or a game of indoor soccer.
I, on the other hand, was bruised and chipped away on purpose.
whether i said the wrong thing, or laughed too long, or wore the dress that you didn't like--
as if it mattered
you rattled my mangled bones with your lion heart and wanton ways,
my lips, red raw and quivering
you shook away any doubt of my worth
and smiled at the inflicted galaxies on my skin
you always saw yourself as a god
you watched the rustic liquid trickle down my thighs
from your own incisions
on my already scarred hips
and I almost felt beautiful
you ripped apart my innocence
and drowned out my screams with bad music with nasally singer and repetitive melodies
I thought I at least deserved better than ****** music
despite your absence I still sit
in concrete rooms
with cracked baseboards
and caving ceilings
because that's where I feel at home
among the broken and the abandoned,
among the walls that soaked up as many terror stories as me
among irreparable damage
and oddly enough i want to thank you
because now i have a home
within the vacancy
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
If I place it under my chin it might ruin the beautiful stippled ceiling Father paid so much to have put in , against my temple could quite possibly destroy the gorgeous wallpaper here in the den . Putting it in my mouth would almost guarantee maximum spread in just about any room in this haunted house ..These walls are as confused as I , beautiful artwork and photographs mingled with dark secrets within . Joy and abject terror blended together like off white walls and walnut stained wood baseboard and trim ..Two one of a kind lamps , family Bible , pure white doilies crocheted by Mother on every table ..Pine flooring and wormy Chestnut kitchen cabinets will prevent the inevitable this morning !
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
hinges creaked as the door pivoted from its frame
i can still hear the soft caressing of his cotton socks against the canvas of his sneakers
he trekked deeper into uninvited territory
the ice rattled as i poured his drink
the way he smirked at me over the glass brim is unwavering in my mind
he forced himself into my bedroom
my sanctuary
my safety
his hands groped the **** searching for a lock
the carpet rustled with every step he took toward me
the screech of a lose baseboard echoed through the thick silence
i reached out for hope
confidence that my purity will be faultless when he leaves
each time i undress myself
my conscious races back to the unwanted nakedness of that night
i lay exposed to more than just the sticky air between us
every revolution of the fan was a dagger in my vulnerable skin
goose bumps scampered across my body
his hands moved toward my ******* despite my contest
the violation began
my head fell to the side
with every blink i see the clock hands ticking
i can smell his breath in my face
my dreams are invaded by the wickedness deep in his eyes
my life has been torn apart by his vicious hands
i flinch at the sight of a friendly hand approaching my body
at the presence of an embrace, i am tense
the torture replays every time i close my eyes
the broken record never stops turning
seventeen minutes
now i am on my hands and knees picking up my broken pieces from the floor
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
Under the vynil
much of the flooring was dry,
but planks near the wall began to rot
and the smell couldn't got
rid of. Vinyl was laid here
in two layers, as the old one
hadn't been removed.
But the felt at the base
was soaked;
there was no reason to keep it.
At first, the flooring could be
easily removed by hand, sometimes
snapping off
with twinned pieces at once,
but after half of the work was done
the vinyl ceased to come off
in whole parts: either
it was constantly torn and stick
with glued pieces
or the pattern layer was
peeling off the base.
The baseboard was thrown into the corridor,
but eventually it ended up in a dump,
(like a ridge) broken in many places.
The areas where the adhesive
remained firm required a constant
flow of boiling water,
so the kettle was put to use.
Wait a few minutes after pouring it
on the glued felt. Then vigorously
remove with a scraper and a taping knife.
After that the dirt had to be washed separately,
but it didn't matter compared to the cost of the solvent.
Finally, blood-soaked planks
were broken off and thrown away.
Jan 13, 2020
Jan 13, 2020 at 3:35 PM UTC
1 1 1 1 1 Focus on one of the channels shown in Figure 1: 1 and 1 to 1 and 1: 1 and 1 below. The Lebanese Journey 1, 1, 1, 1 has arrived! But we have seen this. Tip 1 Very basic!!!!!! What are you doing? What are you doing !!!!! Long-term guarantee is a guaranteed guarantee. Long-term care People who are lazy, lazy people will make 1, only for self-employed people!!!! 1! Expected, limited!!!! What are you doing? What are you doing? When will these things happen? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When will these events take place!!!!!!! ... How do they do it! !!!!! What to expect is weak and lazy. Probation and lyrics 1.1.1 I need to go to hacker's website! Go! What have you done since then? Problems and ****** Long-term security, long-term sustainability, long-term sustainability!!!!! Long-term guarantee is a long-term guarantee. Long-term protection will bring long-term security to long-term security! !!!!!! Long-term guarantee is a long-term guarantee. How it's at the right time!!!!!!! 1 What happened to 1 1 !!!!!!! Focus 1 1 1 1 1 Figure 1: 1 and ask 1 from 1 and 1 1 and 1: 1 and follow it again. They reach Lebanon 1, 1, 1, 1! 1 baseboard 1, right ?! what are you doing? Long-term guarantee is guaranteed for long-term security. Long term assistance. He was lazy, crazy, and he wrote 1, 1, 1, had to hear himself!!!!!! Go! Of course maybe !! what are you doing? When will these things happen? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When are these events happening? When will these events take place!!!!!!! ... as they did!!!!! What to expect and what the Lazy hopes are, to the public to go. 1.1, 1, go to the hacker station to distribute it!!!!!! 1! What are you doing !! The problem is and it's he!!!!!!! What are you doing? What are you doing? Long-term security, long-term sustainability! !!!!! Long-term guarantees are long-term guarantees and guarantees. Trust, long term trust, long-term trust, long-term trust! !!!!!! Long-term guarantees are long-term guarantees and guarantees. How long is it supported? !!!!!! 1 What happened to 1, 1 !!!!!!! 1 1 1 1 1
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 8:32 AM UTC