"billboards" poems
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
I'll be eaten alive one day:
one day, i see it in my mind
so close to closure along an empty street
late at night
(owls just retired and birds
not yet up),
orbs of light tethered to tall electric poles
cast dappled circles on cracked pavement;
illumination and safety
(for that two metre radius).
Stepping between them
like a girl child on stones
across a garden,
I anticipate each missed step
as sinking into sand or frightful waves.
Singing drunk back-alley lullabies
i'll soothe the skelebabies in their sleep,
their poor crusted noses snuffled against
a cold shift of air
(their private torment plastered over billboards
with corporate logos and dim colours,
suggesting the city's lights have gone out and
the local government is in frantics.
That is, after all, what you'd focus on)
Girl child games were so tipsy and magic
(and so close to real coldness);
between two orbs of light i'll slip
through the cracks
in the pavement.
THE END.
(eat me alive,
eat me alive,
eaten alive by the
wolf at the door)
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
Porous asphalt,
And bandaged, quilt
Homes puncture the
Neighborhood,
Which reads like a tattered
American flag; all
Coke Ads and weight loss
Billboards,
Half-burnt houses slant,
Like the hills of San Francisco—
Our own makeshift cable
Carts, limping up
And down the inclines.
We are slowly being burned
By our once golden sun—
Having been taught to
Bleach ourselves
Pale, tucked shamefully
In the shade.
Makeshift shanty towns
Which smell of mildew
And processed laundry soap,
Flimsy tin roofs
Tied with Kleenex and
Pizza Hut tarpaulins.
The fact that this neighborhood
Was christened "Freedom"
Strikes an empty pang.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
Limbs littered the earth, her negligee no longer lay in his soldier’s
world; he would do anything to smell her perfume
once more. What day was it? Ahhh…Monday,
the perfect first date, a moon-
lit walk on a beach. He felt like a train
about to crash and nobody was dancing.
She felt alien alone in their home. Dancing
was impossible and she stared at the photo, a soldier’s
face, not his own. Limbo was a train
journey that never ended. Billboards advertising perfume
and the never ending sun, the never ending moon.
The name of the days changed but Monday
was no different from Tuesday or last Monday.
She wondered if disabled people thought dancing
ridiculous. He could return disabled…the moon
was full tonight, she wondered if he in his soldier’s
uniform would be admiring it remembering her perfume
and not side stepping dead bodies feeling like a train
wreck. How many poor driver’s of trains
were haunted by suicides, faces looming out, the Monday
blues? And some women will never afford perfume
and would never be taken out dancing,
it did not console her. She was one of thousands of soldier’s
wives all gazing wistfully at the unhelpful moon.
She dreams of werewolves howling at the moon,
of him passing through a dark forest on a train
coming back to her, having thrown his soldier’s
gun, stamped in the mud, rejected. But she was the gun, Monday
and no letter had come and her nerves were dancing,
she knocked over her most expensive bottle of perfume.
He was dead, she would never replace the perfume.
She would smash bottles sticking her tongue out at the moon
throwing herself around in life, dancing
like a boat in a storm, occasionally consider suicide by train
but she would never do it. Saturday, Sunday, Monday
all days trooped past like the heavy march of a soldier.
The word soldier stank of cheap perfume and
everything was mundane especially the moon.
People hurry her by like late trains, only a few whirl past dancing.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
I come from New Orleans where the swingers hook up with the singers, and the boxes have a person inside who speak to you through a thick horizontal slot in the door. You come from Minnesota where the most aggressive sentence is “Hi, how are you” and you’ve attended church every Sunday of your life, even though you don’t really believe in god.
We came to the West to skate with the surfer junkies. But then the harbors got bombed and we moved out East to see the hipsters and the artists beggin on the streets. We went to the South with the racists and bigots were dying for a good show. We moved up North to escape from the 70s, and with the 80s on the rise we figured we’d best stay away.
The 70s were rockin’ with **** and LSD in parks and concerts, and on benches on the streets. The smoke in the air was everywhere, from the slums in Wisconsin to the cities of Dallas. Even the poor were lost in the haze.
When the 80s arrived with Rock ‘n’ Roll and techno beats from windowsills upstairs. The music was groovin’ and the ladies were fine. We saw billboards of our names in neon orange lights. The *** was replaced by coke, and the LSD with ****** singing and swinging with delight in our eyes.
When the AIDS broke out we were sick in our beds listening to Pink Floyd and Elton John, and still we were singing. The 70s got us high while the 80s made us die
We lived through wars in Vietnam, and Korea; we fought back the communists with red ink on our hands. We broke down the door into China and got them to arrive in the present and join the world. Although their chairman sits on a chair of lies he leads them with an angry fist in the air pumping “three cheers for Mao”. “Three cheers for Mao”.
When the Soviets launched themselves to the moon we responded with our money and flashed our shiny new machinery in their faces. We marked our territory and claimed triumphantly that “We’re the best”. And we launched our war nukes and pinned them into intimidation. Then the Cubans sought revenge for the death of the Pigs on their Bay. With rifles in hand we stormed the beach and unearthed Castro and his regime.
With our beds soaked in blood, and our dreams covered with fog, hand in hand we lay. We recalled the dances in the backs of old Cafes where the passwords were as simple as three quick knocks and two slow ones. We remembered the guns that pierced the heavenly chorus for the negros in the south. And we thought about the music of the 70s and the death in the 80s and I thought about you for a minute more.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
In a sermon, the preacher says:
*"The Lord created us in his image,
all who desecrate themselves
too destroy a part of God."*
I've murdered pets and
alphabetised people by
sense and style and laughs like
a rack of dresses.
I've kissed girls just because
they said they could never like me
like that
as if their lips were some
sacred maiden's blush and not
a pair of fleshy rims.
As if I couldn't read their
***** little lesbian fantasies
underneath those
angel faces.
Susan from accounting thinks I need
to see a therapist. I think she needs to see
a mirror. We don't really get along, but ****
maybe if drink enough
these clocks
these blue collars
these billboards with the pearly white teeth
won't look like straightjackets anymore.
I have this thing where
sometimes I'm just so tired
of being a body.
The world's a ******* advertisement,
Everyone with their scripted
good mornings and
chemical feelings
down to the last **** t.
My skin is a cage
and I'll strip it off like
a *****
Why be happy when you
could be interesting?
Love like a bluejay,
Fists in our stomachs-
The headlights of a car coming
at 80 miles an hour straight at you,
pummeling in a stream of light.
The taste of a cigarette after
it's been on someone else's lips.
Don't you dare tell me you understand.
When I tell her this
my therapist only smiles,
Darling it's only purgatory.
Allen knew. Nietzsche knew. Woolf knew.
In all our hearts-
We've already killed God.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
claude: battles tabletop.
reaches for maple syrup, into breakfast,
& breaks down puking.
the girlfriend/abortion situation.
the cash
& cream corn.
smells of deeper spring.
grandma & her bible.
to pray.
to eat lunch.
to television &
honey blunt the relief of a sunday night.
lily: into decay.
into dark days of her america.
detox: she breathes on vapor. sweet leaf.
sweats the heat & dead-dreams off. off on wavelengths &
resonance::: sound therapeutics,
at 528.111 hz,
enhanced dream frequency. she falls
into bliss. into
unopened codons & the rigor
of vibrational analog.
love cassette.
achilles: wheelchair-bound & boning
still. gripping ***
the girl & couch.
the couch & modern warfare.
old warfare: harvest of limbs.
he crawls across the lawn to pick strawberries.
thumbs the dirt for entrance
to another world. smokes a jar
of roaches, as monument
to his second generation revival.
cool.
wallace: & the zebra jeep.
red rock monkeywrenched billboards & the ****** of flame upon milk factory.
chemical factory.
fertilizer bomb///return/
to town & grotto.
porch-light wood & breath of bong-rotation.
the babylon journeyman,
embroiled in plots against the order.
to simply disappear.
to portal away.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
I look at the fractured streets
littered with broken promises
peeling billboards peddling luxury to the wrong audience
the contorted vertebrae of this country's spine
and I mourn
the death of the American Dream.
I see it lying at my feet with every step
like the broken-winged bird from childhood fables.
"Fix me," she wheezes.
I tried once, but it died in my hands.
Apparently,
"The Dream" used to be two cars
but now it's two good fists
the wisdom to know when enough is enough
and the strength to say it.
I was born too late to remember anything else.
Here lies the American Dream,
bruised and battered by those who vowed to protect her
doused in oil and set aflame
by misdirection
misdemeanors
and Miss Universe.
Here lies the American Dream
who was born from revolution
and died in its absence
who waited for a day that never came
who lived long enough to see the fruit of her labor
become a raisin in the sun.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:36 AM UTC
Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away
Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery
Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways
Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face
Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty
A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive
Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
One of the many forms of hate, racism is a monster that stares in the eyes of men and breathes fires of destruction,
Racism is another ism like classism is all about hate, it swallows men and women like each other,
It’s Satan’s child and devours races and classes, a black cross painted in my room,
Their tears reflect the haunted memories in the corner, of american blacks and apartheids I heard as stories,
The walls are blackened with their wails and weeps, but racists partied in the boulevard,
Billboards get fingerprinted by some hands, displaying the monster’s play - a stare kept alive,
The curtains unruffle at dawn, still the sun chokes the atmosphere with the slogans
Peace out haters !
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
Girl, you're already
A walking genocide.
Armed with your
favorite prescription
and all the reasons
why
you wanna escape
the inside
With a bomb strapped
and wire tapped
to your heart beat
to the only constant
of grace
that you stepped out of
in the stutters you gait
Steady your impulses girl
you don't need another slip-up
some emotional trigger
Blowing you
out of proportion
out of your body
The one you were
never comfortable with
From what you saw
should be beauty
the red herring
of reality distortion
the magazines
the billboards
the Goddess abortion
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
Smoky air, fedora and billboards,
testosterone-fuelled dreams.
the purest of all male forms in its finest
yet darkest days.
Who run the world? Men.
The sweat pouring off of the masculine brow
that controls what we are prohibited.
The lights of Morris Minors flooding the
streets.
The watchful eye that sits upon the ashes.
They’re in charge. Them, and only them.
A red right-hand to those anti-them.
They will tear you apart
if you decide against pledging allegiance.
Or you’ll end up in the sand.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
I wonder if other lifeforms
have Twitter & Facebook,
watch You Tube,
or if they are more advanced
& use other forms of social media,
like anti-gravity billboards,
clairvoyant message boards
or mind-implant videos?
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
The bus rumbles on,
it is an over crowded one -
not an unusual sight -
she stands in the space
reserved for women,
there's hardly any room
to breathe.
The broadcaster on radio
shows off her gift of the gab,
a popular film song follows;
a gush of wind
through the window
brings along smoke, dust
and other such components
of 'city-air'.
She looks out to see
impressive malls,
entrances to which, witness
beggars pursuing well dressed gentry,
in the hope of a penny or two;
billboards advertise
latest discount offers
appealing to her consumerist instincts;
constant honking of vehicles,
music blaring from an auto nearby -
these are common sounds
she is accustomed to.
The bus halts with a jolt,
she steps down,
tries to make her way,
through the crowd
avoiding hawkers lunging at her
from every side,
eager to make sales;
the smell of
pakodas fills the air,
autos carrying seven or eight passengers
limp away, surreptitiously,
at the sight of khaki clad men.
Out of the blue,
an elbow knocks into her chest,
she turns to look at the lout -
lecherous eyes mock at her impotent fury -
she mouths standard abuses,
walks away as if unruffled.
For this was not the first instance,
"Won't be the last either.",
she thinks at the back of her mind,
her heart chooses not to agree though.
She moves on,
pushing, shoving, cursing
her way through
'Battleground India'.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:08 AM UTC
The 23 of the month came
and breath entered my body,
I remembered my name.
Billboards with my face
People cheered me on,
overnight fame.
11 months of living with amnesia,
I'm alive again.
With pride I can chant, I AM LIBRA!
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Walk
Down cracked sidewalks but forget where and why the going started.
Lost in the chaos of moving feet whose unity lies in their organic flow,
Perspectives shift to some new truth: experiencing its constant displacement.
Here
As bodies carry me forward, they rush to the rhythm of those who desire our desires:
I smile and laugh at voices screaming out from billboards and TVs
“What you need is need itself! Don’t look within, but to ME!”
Drift
Down the street and pause at the window’s reflection.
Behind the still face staring back lies the world’s movement:
With purpose distorted by its realization, the present bursts forth out of nothing:
Pushing
Onward from some inconceivable lack,
Towards a resolution that will not resolve.
Here I close my eyes.
Here there is the silence between thought and its realization:
In which the meaninglessness of boundaries can be discerned.
Here I find myself fall away into everything.
Here I find only Love.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 4:44 PM UTC
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
Facebook, Twitter, Vine, Gmail, and Instagram.
Shampoo, soap bar, toothbrush,
toothpaste, temperature, and time.
Shaving cream, razor, running water,
advertisements, sensitivity, precision, and cuts.
Burned tongue, empty stomach, loose tie,
missing shirt buttons, beating the clock,
wallet, briefcase, and car keys.
Ballpoint pens, scented trees, fast food wrappers,
loose change, lighters, citations, ***** clothes,
CDs, and napkins.
Red lights, pedestrians, homeless people,
newspapers, billboards, pets on leashes, sewer
grates, crosswalks, skyscrapers, and garbage.
Faxes, printers, memorandums, break room,
prestige, cubicles, customer service, paperweights,
filing cabinets, stocks, and corporate.
Wipers, streetlights, rain coats, dive bars,
and home.
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
The wingless angels of demonic races
Are watching from the wings
With blood-stained faces
Like a wide open road spread out
Between a million trees
I see them kissing with their masks on
A glass of scotch in hand
And I can't trust anything so far
From this century
So far from light in these
Disassociated states
Thought goodness was a solid
But their halos fade by day
And your scales have turned into paper mache
As we fight for the reins on this
Sleigh ride into obscurity
Poor by way of three
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:20 PM UTC
I walk, I am a lone,
Limp feet lift upon dead ground
Left,
Right,
Onwards
I jest this failing body
Onwards towards what is the end
"I carry my weight"
"I carry my bones"
I wish to walk upon those before
This road of the dead,
Life,
Passing,
Rest
Is the only sombre thought,
But I walk on, I walk over,
I walk past upon those who
"Came before"
Billboards overhead, rest here
,Silence,
Peace,
Death
Is what waits upon those who
Stop,
I carry on never faulting.
Then that moment before, as all have stood,
"The end of the road"
"There is just barren land"
"This road of fallen"
"It is a road upon the bodies of the fallen"*
White tiles,
White dreams,
White bones
That my knees rest upon.
Tears of anger penetrate, for nothing,
As I succumb to this Road of death,
For I am but another few cobbles
For the next one too fall upon. To further this road,
This road of white covered in dust.
This road of hope within its white gleam.
"The road of death"
Has paved another slab on its
Passage to nowhere, but death.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
I'll be on the front lines
Fighting fireflies on a Golf Course
With a butterfly net
Collecting ghosts in mason jar
to plant back on the cemetery
The crows are making nests
in the skull of your family
They accidentally put
the wrong name on yours
And in Latin!
It's ok though, because you're
(were) Are? a nihilist
The river Nile is the
best stream of consciousness
Known to man and of
Course that's where you drowned
your metaphorical thoughts
While you hung yourself above
a treadmill trying to pretend
you wanted to be a better
man
But you only ran away
The Stonehenge is the front gate
to your home
It's made from
billboards and
Pictures of static
When you're dead you
Live in White Noise
You're turning my lights
on and off
as I'm trying to sleep
haunting me in
my over easy eggs
making the yolk run
in words "Miss me?"
And of course I do
But you are as good a my imaginary friend
When I'm walking in the
park with all the scarecrows
you make the dandelions
float, no amount of
wishes is bringing you back
I know boards of wood are
easier to you than the termites
eating the tumor in my brain
from the insanity you're causing me
So instead I paper mache my
room with love letters from you
that got lost in the mail
because you stole them for me
A banksy bankrupt in original thought
I'm building a tiny forest
of matches
If I can't sleep I'm joining you
So you pack your bags, hobo
style but with
Picnic baskets and dead leaves
Seancing yourself
With the crystal ***** of my eyes
I lost you in some newspaper ad
about a Home for sale
Does it come with a family?
How is that legal?
But I lost you because I bought the wrong copy and couldn't find that one blurry word that was you saying
Good morning
I lost you at sea
And in my dreams
And to your own hands
And to my own memory
I'm dancing with wolves
Called Alzheimer's
because I'll die
with a disease of age
Instead of house burning, building leaping
Front Page
Then we'll go live in abandoned
amusement parks with creaky
Ferris wheels turning
Like you in your grave
And me with the Cycle of Life
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
I kneel before you though you are no God
I give you my shame, lonliness, hopelessness and pain
You take it all with no argument, no hesitation and no judgement
When I kneel before you I feel the world staring down upon me; disappointed and accusitory
What would they say if they saw me in these moments?
The world, friends, family.......what would they say?
I can't stop spending time with you though I have tried
Unfortunately, it only takes a thought
It use to be harder to give it all to you
Forcing myself to bare those things to you.........it use to be so hard
Now it is easy! And I hate myself for it.
To keep myself sane, to keep it all inside, I run my tongue across my gums to feel the missing molars, the hole in the bicuspid, the degraded bicuspid and think in my head......
"Fight the urge. Fight the urge. Fight the urge to kneel and purge."
I go silent. I go numb.
I beat it, I hope, at least for today
But, I see you and feel the need to give it all to you
And in that moment I am beautiful, or, at least I hope to be
I made the mistake of listening to society
They told me to be the way they dictate on tv, in magazines, on billboards, and bus signs and newspapers and the radio
I tried because they said it wasn't ok to be me
To just be me
I wasn't enough
Why can't I be enough?
Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts! It's too easy!
I kneel before you though you are no God
I give you my shame, lonliness, hopelessness and pain
You take it all with no arguments no hesitation and no judgement
"Fight the urge. Fight the urge. Fight the urge to kneel and purge."
FLUSH!!!!!!!
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
My brain has been torn apart
Crumpled together
And smeared across the billboards of my timeline
My heart shredded and trampled on
My body has seen torments and tortures
That parents fear and
Don’t understand the possibility.
I was told it was my fault.
Every action had its cause.
Every act of terror had its reason.
Me.
But it was never my fault.
I wasn’t the reason I hated this thigh,
Or this skin
Or these bones.
Or this brain
This way of thinking.
Nothing was ever wrong with me.
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 4:14 AM UTC
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hands dangling onto your belt loops
as if they were in the middle of a hurricane
You, Coppertone Baby, didn't know any better
you were minding your own **** business
vacationing on the beach
when somebody had the audacity to snap a picture
of your ***
Sweet little girl,
you are us.
You are society's expectations of innocent women
so easily willing to publicize our bodies
printed on billboards
sold in magazines
You put your hair up for vanity
but we tie our hair back to avoid
violent hands
You, Coppertone Baby
will never be known as Cheri,
just like today,
we are branded into the clothes made to hide our bodies
but couldn't do it enough
we are the voiceless
We are the shadows hiding behind anatomy
we are nip-slips
we are on the front cover
of ******* magazines
You grew up not expecting it
merely existing
only knowing the words,
"mommy and daddy."
Welcome, Coppertone Baby,
to the present, not so much a gift
where your first words are now,
"thank you"
the camera is constantly pointed
constantly asking you to sit pretty
you will learn to avoid beaches
and only buy the clothes
that suffocate your skin
I know you were meant to sell sunscreen
but how can I ever buy your product
if I can't even hardly
go outside.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
A Woman of Many Words
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am drawn to all those places
That words congregate:
Libraries and bookstores
Road signs and billboards
Ticket stubs and subtitles
Nametags and license plates
Each one a journey driving inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
I love the way the shapes feel in my mouth
The skittle taste of syllables
I am drawn to especially long words
With their phonetic entities stretching out like tentacles to reach new corners of pronunciation
Words like
Bibliophile and flippant-irreverence
Evanescent and Insouciance
Mellifluous and Effervescent
Mondegreen and Labyrinthine
Words like
Onomatopoeia and Tintinnabulation
I appreciate their weight on my tongue
The way my hands appreciate the thickness that is a fat book
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am attracted to their multitude
The space their figures take up on a page
The calligraphic punches
Typed up by keys
The carefully constructed
Brush strokes
Spouting
What is sure to be, nonsense
But I do enjoy the sound of nonsense in the morning
I am a Woman of Many Words
I cling to the lettered skyscrapers wherever I can find them
Because the familiar scent of scribbles across parchment is comfort food for me
I find them
On the backs of cereal boxes
And in Popsicle riddles
In fortune cookies
And alphabet soup
From magnets on my fridge
To junk food logos
And I hold on to them for dear life
For fear that silence should find me
And leave me empty
For fear it will take away the music of maracas
Made by words
Dancing the salsa inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
because Words
Answer my Questions,
Soothe my fears,
and Humor my Whims
They are not always Right
But they are always Constant
They are not always Honest, in fact,
Mostly
They Lie
But ever so often
They tell such a Beautiful Lie
That you wish it were true
They sing from the rocks
offering Escape from
Terrifying,
Suffocating,
Mind numbing Silence
that echoes off my skeleton
I am afraid that silence will hollow out my insides
and leave me abandoned
with nothing between my Bow and Stern
my Forecastle all torn up
I am afraid of the skeleton inside me
So I am a Woman of Many of Words
For fear of silence
And contempt for truth
Because my words are sirens
And my shipwreck is home here
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC