"bic" poems
an unread book,
a pair of broken headphones,
the shirt of someone who is perfect in my eyes.
a bic lighter,
a glass of water,
a succulent that i could never seem to keep alive.
condensation forms on the surface of the table
as the water begs to bring life back to the plant,
but the lonely plant only speaks of the sun
and the way it desires his light.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl
I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.
A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair
And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
If I were a cup of black coffee you take me just the way I am.
If this were a thanksgiving dinner you'd be the turkey and I'd be the ham.
I'm the water and you're the sea
I'm the sailor and what I really mean is; you complete me.
If this were a battery you'd be the positives and I'd be the negatives.
If I were a holiday you'd be the festive's.
If this were space you'd be the stars that form my galaxy.
If I were a driver in New York, you'd be my taxi.
If I a flower and you the bee, then it's clear to see that what I really mean is; you complete me.
One ways, u-turns, dead ends and yields, green lights, left lane merge and a squashed bug on my windshields.
If I were a Bic ballpoint pen then you would write out every sin.
If this were it, it would be the greatest love there has ever been.
Road signs and paper, fantasies and nature cannot help to say in such a little way that all I try to convey that what I really mean is; you complete me.
If I were a song you'd memorize my lyrics
If this were February 1990 it would be Hold On by Wilson Phillips
If I were a comic book, you'd be my nerd.
If you were a photographer I'd be your bird.
If I a cold night and you the book by a fire, then I'd be the Hobbit and you'd be my Shire.
If I a cup and you the tea then all there is left to say is...
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
I be jammin down da beach
When I heard da pastor preach
"Baatiboys stay far from we!" he yell
"Baatiboys will burn in hell!"
He take a drag from the spliff
He jam out a reggae riff
"Excuse I" I say
"You should be on your way"
The spliff be shaped like a ****
He light it with tha bic
Baatiboy wink at me
His last wink that'll be
I rise up like Jah
I smack him in da jaw
Da spliff be fallin'
Da baatiboy be bawling'
He runnin' away cryin'
But this baatiboy gonna be dyin'
Pull out tha chopper
BAWH BRAP BRAP POW drop er'
Pastor be cheering
At the baatiboys I'm sneering
Stay off me beach
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
Tuna sandwiches on white bread
Carried in a paper bag
Josh Groban on the CD player
Season Three of 2 broke Girls
Matching shoes and purses
Vacation in the Pocanos
Subscription to People Magazine
Pennies in a piggy bank
Silver-beige 4-door Accord
A little college but no degree
Always ten pounds overweight
Celebration meal at Sizzler
Artificial Christmas tree pre-lit
A mole that wants removing
Off white walls, pale green carpet
Outfits from mail order catalogs
Paydays with no yearly bonus
Jeopardy and Wheel of fortune
Polyester perm press everything
Bic Stik ball point pen
Swanson's TV dinner
Flip phone with no camera
*** two times a week and Sunday
Writing verse nobody reads
ljm
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
Late last night I saw something fall from the sky,
I happened to be in the kitchen making tuna on rye.
As I looked out my window it landed in my yard.
It crushed the pink flamingos, the wife took it hard.
I stood there at the window taking in the sight,
Bright lights flashing red, blue, and white.
Then suddenly a door slid open, I was seized by fright.
But my wife had gone out the door, in her hand a kitchen knife.
As the little green man stepped out, he was looking fine,
In a tye dye tee shirt, waving his hands in a peace sign,
Looking like he had come straight from the sixties,
I think he was expecting to find some hippies.
Thinking this guy might be peaceful, I tackled my wife,
As she dropped the knife, I yelled, "He might be nice".
The little green man then pulled out a bic and gave it a flick,
As he held two finger to his lips, I realized his vice.
As I had given that up long ago, I had nothing to share.
But the little guys face showed such despair,
I went into the house and got the beer from the fridge,
And grabbed the Nacho Doritos for this astorial kid.
We sat on the lawn chairs out under the sky,
drinking the beer, eating tuna on rye.
I asked where he was from, he just pointed up.
When we finished our beers, I said good luck.
Back to the spaceship the little man went,
his steps were unsteady, I think he was spent.
He got in the spaceship and closed the door.
As I waved goodby, the spaceship took off with a roar.
I heard on the news later that night,
That something had crashed in a field, lips were tight.
But I heard a rumor, that someone was found alive.
I guess I should have told him not to drink and fly.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
grade my writings in magenta,
no red arrogance for me teach,
blue note jazz margin comments,
unacceptable marginalizing pithy succinct notes,
always cute, hard hitting,
even in day to day black or Bic blue,
refused!
give me ochre, amethyst,
give me the colors of a new born morn,
give me words of encouragement
next to that nicely writ,
without a self-serving
high faluting exclamation point,
astride my D, my F,
a polite professorial funk you
in azure gold
leave me,
write me in colors of hope,
even claptrap deserves
a nice funeral
because gentle teach,
this thought I preach,
what color would you like me
to grade your students in,
your writs,
when next I look
twenty years from now?
will you not leave
me,
be,
in
the color of better days
enthused?
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
I thought about this long and hard
In fact I thought about it all the time
What would happen to belly button lint
If you set the stuff on fire
I collected more than enough
Over the years to see this through
So I went and invited a few friends along
The word it spread and the crowd it grew
All the folk from the town came out
They'd been collecting belly button lint just like I had
Not quite as impressive a pile as mine
I guess I'm the biggest belly button lint dust collecting man
That's (B.B.B.L.D.C.M.) if you want to simplify who it is I am
You might think that's something to be proud of
And believe me when I say that I am
After I got through signing autographs
We proceeded with my grand plan
The crowd stepped up one by one
To toss their lint onto the pile
Coming close to blocking out the moon
As the pile grew ever higher
(Finally the time had come to light up
the famed belly button lint dust fire)
It was Frankie who spoke up first
And said he'd be honored to flick his bic
That was the very last time we saw any of him
Frankie and the lint lit up like a rocket ship
When the shock wore off I turned around
And saw the whole town up in flames
I've had a lot of great ideas before
I'm not quite sure this was one of them
I now live in a hippie commune in the woods
Since my towns no longer there
It's kind of lonely without Frankie around
Although there's still that lingering hint of burning hair
I no longer collect belly button lint these days
I sure learned my lesson with that
Haven't worked out the details of my next grand idea
But I can tell you it involves a big ball of my ear wax
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
Closespacesmakeyouanxious
Thesqueezingofmyexpectations
Pressureinmyswingingmoods
Myselfishnessslamsdoors
Myheatshutswindows
I’mverytight,small
Shrinkingismygift
Iadorethatinstinct
Yourescape
Self-survival
Darwinism
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
I sat behind the barricade between the street, the bar, and the park overlooking that glistening pause-asteric of the water... my phone was clamped closed at zero battery life so I was alone with the city and the city was alone with me. as subtly as I could, I pulled my pipe from the bottom of my over-encumbered backpack satiated with 6 books (and they tell me knowledge is power, but they'll probably just drive me insane with question after question after question because the study of the world is one in which the brain falls victim to exponential growth 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256)
MY SKULL ISN'T BIG ENOUGH
I couldn't find my grinder, so I tore the bud by hand. More than half a nug was spent, pushed solid in place like a **** mound about to reach apocalyptic ****** thanks to the soft clitoral bonfire of a red Bic lighter.
blaze, set, and fade til you rise again
little stoner boy.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 2:45 PM UTC
Mike Hauser had a brilliant idea to “Pass the pen” and see where it got us. This, Friends, is the result.
**I write of the stars
I write of the moon
I write of the things
That I love to do
I write of the lies
While telling the truth
And when I am through
I pass the pen to you**
*I read the things
that went before
and add my thoughts
for you to write more
of things we love
and things we hate
so here's the pen,
now contemplate!*
*I wait like a kid
the anticipation
breaks my quiet
like a train in station
with thoughts
pouring out
like the traveling weary
so here's the pen
"now what's my hurry?"*
**While looking at this
And studying that
As our poetic peruse
Comes up to bat
With much more in store
From the writer's’ knack
I jot down my last line
Then pass the pen back**
*and now it get's fun
with my lines and yours
at least it keeps me
from doing my chores!
fingers be nimble
brain be quick
I finished this part
now here's the Bic.*
**With words tattered and torn
I have you here to mend
Don’t know where I’m going
Brain lights on dim
With little or no warning
Here it comes again
All on a whim
I hand you the pen**
*so who will care
if we make no sense
“these poets here
must have the bends!”
but all the same
we’ve had our yen
it was a good run
let's retire the pen*
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC
there are
times a man needs to be alone/
If he is flicking his Bic,
Handling his candle
lighting his wick.
Paddling his tool
pulling his tool into alignment.
Spanking the monkey
stretching his muscle
it angers his Mother
since he forgot, again,
to lock the ******* door.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
Flick the Bic
and you'll get a flame.
Ignited as if magic,
a spark, explosion,
hidden within
a hard case
cold until held by
callous hands.
You become grounded.
The earth begins to claim you
as it's own.
Vines, roots
scale your body
and dig themselves deeper,
becoming one with
the captor.
It started with
a drip.
A singular orb
of pure and innocent
water,
and soon you're submerged within
that person more
than you thought possible.
The air you had
inhaled, exhaled
together
has become more
painful than the searing fire,
hitting harder than the
most crusted stone,
pushes poisonous liquid
into your lungs
with an endless swell
and leaves you breathless.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
Sweet smoke love affair
smoke
just a poke
****** with my neck
and tickle my throat
contentment
normality
causality
Menthol lips
a cigarette taste..
flick a bic
light a lover
and flicks
Sweet smoke love affair...
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
so i have this lighter,
I love the thing
more than I love most people
It has a place of permanence in my pocket
so that I never leave home without it
the chrome box glints in varying lights
and it makes a cool click when you open it up
it's enough to feel like some sort of
John Travolta greaser wannabe
but it isn't a real zippo,
I had a real zippo once
which my grandfather gave me
it was from WW2 and it was gold
but time broke it to ****
no now I'm stuck with the fake one
just a small sized bic
in metal casing
any bic would fit
not unique
but somehow distinguished
I think that's why
I like it so much
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC
Merely a color delusion. Usually with shady conclusion.
Each lighter war starts and ends with tons of confusion.
The accusations start flying. One casts the blame, the others left denying.
However I pass most of this guilt onto BIC, who does most of the supplying.
It's merely harmless bicker. Each is only defending their own flicker.
Lay them all on the table so we can end this all much quicker.
A flammable rainbow is layed out. This will help eliminate doubt.
And isn't that really what most lighter wars are about.
Here the truth is exposed. Leaving all unopposed.
Once we sort through the evidence the case can be closed.
What makes this game so fun. Maybe you came with one.
But when you empty out your pockets you now have none.
Or maybe today was your lucky day. Things seemed to be going your way.
No need to worry, that is just how you play.
They all look the same. They all carry flame.
Your only intention was to borrow it yet somehow yours it became.
But your not a lighter thief. You'd prefer the label fire cheif.
Most are unaware they stole it and hand it back in disbelief.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
Write everyday.
Write everyday no matter what.
Write even at a loss for words.
Write down the sounds.
I make notes of the plane crashes
I've never heard, the brook trout
that never shook pond water
onto the brittle grass when I didn't
catch it, or the thunder cup coil
I keep kneeing trying to give the overcast
over the mountain something to compete
with.
And I'm not sorry.
I'm not. I'm not sorry that my
reborn Christian best friend has seen the light,
and I still scoff when people pray over potatoes.
And I only believe in plastic Polaroid postcards
from last decade timestamped in the white space
with Bic black ink.
I'm not sorry for that.
And truth is, I've never washed this black shirt;
just hung it hoping that moths' would ****
the sweat spots and leave
the fabric.
I clenched the gold cap beneath
my ring finger from the glass green
bottle occupying my lips driving
down the Marsh Creek bridge.
I wanted to relate / to be relatable /
relative to the sedans, and seatbelts
too tight to breathe, passing me.
At the end of the bridge, where there was no chance
of drowning and the road color changed, I parked
in the driveway of a wooden house. Its blinds
were up, shades pulled apart with two hands
like gas station freezer doors, leaving them
vulnerable to the hiss of semi truck tractor
trailer high beams slicing through fifty +
raindrops per second going a few miles shy
of sixty-five, yet the people inside moved so freely.
I sat Indian-style—a term I learned at four
then learned it to be racist at fourteen—
in their driveway, and ate the gravel
they walked on trying to taste security
because all I'd had in the last few hours
were plates of refried fear.
Fear of audit, of my teeth breaking off,
and of ending up like Eric Garner
when I heard that wailing
Voice of Justice
coming for me in the distance.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
I strike the Bic lighter
and flame erupts.
Like a miniature Pompeii,
Heat searing images of people,
Places, things, nouns and verbs
across my forearm on ****** skin.
Your face and words taking their place
Inbetween the small tattoo on my wrist
and the cigarette burns.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
The poem is either a confession or a rifle
It remains deadly regardless
The disorder, the struggle, the heartbreak; the criminal record, the tears, the drugs, the breakdown, the music, the suicide attempt, the riot, the midnight, the fire, the comedown and the uprising
The girl you spent nights awake over, writing poems you knew could never live up, who you were always afraid would ran like hell and never looked back if she ever saw through you,
The night you got arrested, trying to spray paint a manifesto on a red brick wall because you didn't know how else to make them hear you, and you couldn't wipe your own tears through the handcuffs so you had to let your face tell everyone that you weren't as brave as you thought you were,
The boy who died just months after his 18th birthday, who never wanted anything more than to disappear and finally got his wish except in your flashes of memory and dreams of a different life,
The day you first stood in the street with your fists clenched tight around a sign you held high as God and twice as loud, and you felt ignited for the first time in your life like you could burn up everything that held the world down with a Bic lighter and unshakable conviction
So this is where you find me,
Somewhere between the personal and the political,
From the needle in the groove to the back of the squad car
From the drunken night to the show of solidarity
From the "I can't go on anymore" to the "A luta continua"
From the relapse to the rise,
You'll find me in the poem, and I'll be fighting either way
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
My neighbors all came out to gander
At the first sign of light
I had just flicked my bic
On what was to be a huge bonfire
The whispers becoming frantic
When they saw my kindling wood
Every piece of technology that I own
Which between me and freedom stood
I had my DVR, my stereo
Even my microwave
Every modern convenience
To which I'd become a slave
My Gameboy, Xbox, Playstation3
Every system known to man
All that played the game of me
I gladly let fly from my hands
I heard someone holler from the crowd
Quick call the authorities
When they saw I went back inside
And brought out my T.V.
Before it was all over
For the coup de la resistance
I tossed in my cell phone while it was ringing
Then did a little dance
As I was standing at my front door
Waving to those who had joined me
I turned off all the lights
And did a long well needed sigh of relief
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
It's dark,
Shaun Morgan is bellowing into my ears that he's reliving the same experiences over and over,
That nothing's forever.
The flick of a bic,
The taste of tobacco and ash,
Filling my lungs and giving my brain a buzz,
And in this sleepless night I'm inclined to agree with him,
Nothing lasts forever,
So what are you waiting for?
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 1:27 AM UTC
Keep-A-Breast
Apple
OtterBox
Acu-Rite
Dial Aquafresh
Oral-B
ACT Garnier Equate
Hanes
On the Byas
Rude
Toms
Dakine
Acu-Vue
Ponds Degree
Preferred Stock
Mighty Wallet
Hot Topic
Keurig Dixie
Donut Shop
Domino
International Delight
Peter Paul's
Best Yet Great Value
Instagram
Facebook
Snapchat Yik Yak
Forever 21
Adventure Time
FSC Bic The Poetry Foundation
Staedtler Pilot Sharpie Microsoft
The Norton Anthology
Toshiba Dell Expo
Lipton
Emerica
Anti Hero MOB Shorty's
Bones Thunder
Shake Junt
Swingline
Pandora
Tommy Hilfiger
' Jill Greg Ashley Courtney
Judy
Bob
Janice
Shannon Kelly
Robert Emily Jeremy Darrin Liza
Bill Joe Dominic Sean James
Gav Jordan Tony Eric
Christopher
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
We army crawl across the dirt and patches of dying grass.
Barely missing us, they passed.
Crawl to one smoldering, watching out for broken glass.
We thoroughly examine it.
The white of the missile contrasts against the dirt.
We hear their cackles.
I hear a familiar click.
I look up toward the deck.
Curiously, I watch a finger press the button of the bic.
From the corner of my eye, I see her mother's fingers flick.
Another missile heading our way.
"Watch out!" my cousin yells to make me alert.
But it was too late.
Why didn't I hear the familiar noise of it hitting the dirt?
I look down and see another cigarette burn a hole through my skirt.
I was too slow.
It was too quick.
Now my skirt is aglow.
Through her half-witted smile, smoke is blown.
I was only six,
They should have known.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
As I Walk Through The Doors Of Not Knowing Who You Are
A Figment Of You Came Over Me
As Handcuffed Wrists Lead to A Siren Car
Screaming
And Hearing Sounds Of "Please Don't Take My Daddy Away!"
Echoed From A Distance
The Visits With You Last 30 Minutes
Cause Mommy Cried her Eyes Out Each Time She Met With You
So My Time With You Was Cut Short
I'm Looking For The Man I Want To Be
Who I'm Suppose To Be
But I Can't Seem To Find You, Daddy
I Can't Seem To Find That Man
Who Should Have Taught Me How To Tie That Knot On My Shoes
Stand Up And Be A man
Stand Up Straight And Never Fall
How To Say No To Drugs
How To Shave With My First BIC Razor
But You Weren't There
So I've Educated Myself
Because I've Always Been By Myself
And I'm Searching For You, Daddy
Cause I Want You In My Life, Daddy
I Want To Share Times With You, Daddy
A Free Place
Where I Don't Have To Sit Behind A Glass Case Window To Talk To You
I Want To Talk To You
Hold You
Look Into Your Eyes
Tell You That I Love You
Besides All This
I'm Still Your Son
Besides All This
And You Are Still My Daddy
Besides All This
And Some Day I Hope To See You Soon
Besides All This
Cause You Gave Me Life
Although You Weren't In It
So Now I'm Searching For You
Cause I Need You In My Life
And I Want You To Find Me Just As I Want To Find You
So If You Hear Me
Break Down Those Bars
Shatter That Glass Case Window
And Find Me
Cause I'm Here
Waiting
Wanting My Daddy
Cause I Need To Be A Man And Not A Boy Any More
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 9:12 AM UTC
Voices lift us higher than any
lifted high in locked bedrooms
voices of angels
steeped in risk
and pure love
I come across silly
or played out
or too strong
a beat up beatnik wannabe
with too many beer stories
of *** drugs and rock ‘n roll
but from an early age
the words of men turned me into
my own depiction of heroes
wounded warriors smiling in vain
despite the spite of the jealous majorities
they cast out fishing lines
and hooked me with hooks
narrative to musical to comedic
limelight and broken bic lighters
and way too much baggage to
take on tour on planes
they connect through the telephone poles
an ethernet port into my ear
I may sometimes come across
as thin as spread butter
but the voices are still all
bubbling up inside of me
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC