Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"briefcases" poems
I remember the history well: The soldiers and politicians emerged With briefcases and guns And celebrations on city nights. They scoured the mess Reviewed our history Saw the executions at dawn Then signed with secret policemen And decided something Had to be done. They scoured the mess Resurrected old blue-prints Of vicious times Tracked the shapes of sinking cities And learned at last That nothing can be avoided And so avoided everything. I remember the history well. 2 We emerged from our ******* mounds Discovered a view of the sky As the air danced in heat. Through the view of the city In flames, we rewound times Of executions at beaches. Salt streamed down our brows. Everywhere stagger victims of rigged elections Monolithic accidents on hungry roads The infinite web of ethnic politics Power-dreams of fevered winds. The nation was a map stitched From the grabbing of future flesh And became a rush through Historical slime 3 We emerged on edge Of time future With bright fumes From burning towers. The fumes lit political rallies. We started a war Ended it And dreamed about our chance. Fat fish eat little fish Big ones arrange executions And armed robberies. Our ******* shapes us all. I remember the history well. The tiger’s snarl is bought In currencies of silence. Eggs grow large: A monstrous face is hatched. On the edge of time future I am a boy With running sores Of remember history Watching the stitches widen Waiting for the volcano’s laughter In the fevered winds Hearing the gnash Of those who will join us At the mighty gateways With new blue-prints With dew as seal And fire as constant And a trail through time past To us Who remember the history well. We weave words on red And sing on the edge of blue. And with our nerves primed We shall spin silk from ******* And frame time with our resolve. ________ Source: http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
0
17.4k
On Edge of Time Future
I remember the history well: The soldiers and politicians emerged With briefcases and guns And celebrations on city nights. They scoured the mess Reviewed our history Saw the executions at dawn Then signed with secret policemen And decided something Had to be done. They scoured the mess Resurrected old blue-prints Of vicious times Tracked the shapes of sinking cities And learned at last That nothing can be avoided And so avoided everything. I remember the history well. 2 We emerged from our ******* mounds Discovered a view of the sky As the air danced in heat. Through the view of the city In flames, we rewound times Of executions at beaches. Salt streamed down our brows. Everywhere stagger victims of rigged elections Monolithic accidents on hungry roads The infinite web of ethnic politics Power-dreams of fevered winds. The nation was a map stitched From the grabbing of future flesh And became a rush through Historical slime 3 We emerged on edge Of time future With bright fumes From burning towers. The fumes lit political rallies. We started a war Ended it And dreamed about our chance. Fat fish eat little fish Big ones arrange executions And armed robberies. Our ******* shapes us all. I remember the history well. The tiger’s snarl is bought In currencies of silence. Eggs grow large: A monstrous face is hatched. On the edge of time future I am a boy With running sores Of remember history Watching the stitches widen Waiting for the volcano’s laughter In the fevered winds Hearing the gnash Of those who will join us At the mighty gateways With new blue-prints With dew as seal And fire as constant And a trail through time past To us Who remember the history well. We weave words on red And sing on the edge of blue. And with our nerves primed We shall spin silk from ******* And frame time with our resolve. ________ Source: http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
Continue reading...
76
Breathe here, stare there Gorgeous people everywhere Mind chases, heart races Breath-taking men with briefcases Black suits and coloured ties Witty minds with pretty eyes Pulled up socks, polished shoes Ink pens, all blues           Strong souls, real men Captive in a cemented den Pick one or pick seven All good as heaven Hard working, on time Romantic talks with wine One sings the other cooks Charming words, ***** looks Unexpected, unsure My boss makes me lure His Lamborghini, his yacht Finest of the lot His dimples, his hair His tantrums I can bear Surprise gifts from his side Strong feelings, stronger vibe Look here, look there Gorgeous men everywhere Single girls form a line Take them all, boss is mine. -Zainab Attari
0
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
Briefcase of Love
Standing. Windmill blades turn in the sun shredding air with ease. The man looks out of the window at the land ahead, full of aspirations he hopes to reach. His wife nearby sees the same view. Wishes on display on this balmy July morn. London, far away ticks along swathed in grey as it did decades before. The man hopes to return, sit in cafés, chuckle as men with briefcases scuttle around like cockroaches. Some things never change. That's OK though isn't it? Here with his partner looking out, content, a smile appears on his wise face. Thirty years in the past he thinks of future times. Still the same. Still standing.
0
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
Windmill Wishes
Airports I never liked them I never liked taking my shoes off to go through security I never liked the crowded and sometimes cold atmosphere I felt like a toy in a factory getting ready to get boxed and shipped out Airports But maybe I should Like them I'm sitting here in this terminal watching people rush past with their briefcases and screaming children Where are you going? Can I come too? Where are you rushing off to and Must you always rush? Someone once said to try to find the quiet in an airport I will try to find the quiet in an airport Maybe I'll find it, maybe I won't But quiet in an airport What a concept Airports I'll find the quiet Airports Maybe I will like them
0
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
airports
She rises as everyone falls Her white complexion pristine as always Men have fought for her pale face Yet, when faced with her dark side, they cry in horror A beautiful outsider She wanders alone in the stars Her wonder intimidates Her grace frightens Her love kills Under her glow men commit ****** and monsters come out to play Around every corner satin's satire drips of the tongue of ****** Adultery runs rampant Respectable ties exchanged for leashes of pleasure And briefcases for whips   He sleeps in a long sleeve shirt to hide the lashes Dinner was cold when he got home But he forgave. At church The cross burns a whole in his forehead His lips slightly stained from last night Mind not on the sermon, but on his next excuse How can he admit to losing everything to a drug test She picks up the phone with a grin on her face as if he could see her through the phone Another faulty excuse of overtime Of course the plastered smile stays But she can't find reasoning marketing should  leave bruises on his wrists Her children are her only ball and chain Her soul had left her years ago But her body stays to care for them An empty shell Selene walks into the stars once again and waves the wife over She swallows more than ever and spins to the sky Selene guides her to her soul and they walk together to watch Her son calls from his room for dinner Her daughter throws her phone because she didn't have service Her husband screams because the collar was a bit tight Selene, desperate for company, begs for her to stay And she does
0
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
The horrors of Selene
She rises as everyone falls Her white complexion pristine as always Men have fought for her pale face Yet, when faced with her dark side, they cry in horror A beautiful outsider She wanders alone in the stars Her wonder intimidates Her grace frightens Her love kills Under her glow men commit ****** and monsters come out to play Around every corner satin's satire drips of the tongue of ****** Adultery runs rampant Respectable ties exchanged for leashes of pleasure And briefcases for whips   He sleeps in a long sleeve shirt to hide the lashes Dinner was cold when he got home But he forgave. At church The cross burns a whole in his forehead His lips slightly stained from last night Mind not on the sermon, but on his next excuse How can he admit to losing everything to a drug test She picks up the phone with a grin on her face as if he could see her through the phone Another faulty excuse of overtime Of course the plastered smile stays But she can't find reasoning marketing should  leave bruises on his wrists Her children are her only ball and chain Her soul had left her years ago But her body stays to care for them An empty shell Selene walks into the stars once again and waves the wife over She swallows more than ever and spins to the sky Selene guides her to her soul and they walk together to watch Her son calls from his room for dinner Her daughter throws her phone because she didn't have service Her husband screams because the collar was a bit tight Selene, desperate for company, begs for her to stay And she does
Continue reading...
38
In little coffeeshops By the back corner, far from the exits But near the little hall leading to the bathroom At a time set by a large window The poet, his soul filled with words and reasons to say them But unsure how to convey them Can observe the nerves and synapses Converging in this single axis The windowside throne, the great looking glass Provides a view of every soul to pass Through the door to the core of any good café The front register Where they serve the junkies Their first no cream no sugar fix of the day The register girl on this sunrise shift stands tall and wears A pleasant smile Like a suit of armor For the fractures frayed and loosened pieces Of her 65 hours a week between two jobs psyche From his back corner vantage point The poet sees this early morning warrior And watches her adversaries approach The sleep deprived and the caffeine dependent The men in suits with leather briefcases Hustling and bustling through self inflicted exhaustion Work force revenants who begin to shamble through the door Out of the early morning mists at about 5:30 just as the world is shrugging of the shroud of night In his seat of power, the poet, lord of the room Can see, despite the dim lights of the coffeeshop These early birds, gaunt and hungry like vultures Standing shoulder to shoulder with the last of the night owls Shabby old things with ruffled feathers Too tired to sleep or simply without a roost. Their re rimmed eyes provide a window Through which a sovereign of the word May glance upon their tired souls Yes from that lovely back corner The poet is a king, a lord in noble regality Reshaping reality Sitting in the back of any coffee shop In Phoenix Arizona In America In the world In this whole great evergrowing span of universe And turning people into words.
0
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
The king in the corner
In little coffeeshops By the back corner, far from the exits But near the little hall leading to the bathroom At a time set by a large window The poet, his soul filled with words and reasons to say them But unsure how to convey them Can observe the nerves and synapses Converging in this single axis The windowside throne, the great looking glass Provides a view of every soul to pass Through the door to the core of any good café The front register Where they serve the junkies Their first no cream no sugar fix of the day The register girl on this sunrise shift stands tall and wears A pleasant smile Like a suit of armor For the fractures frayed and loosened pieces Of her 65 hours a week between two jobs psyche From his back corner vantage point The poet sees this early morning warrior And watches her adversaries approach The sleep deprived and the caffeine dependent The men in suits with leather briefcases Hustling and bustling through self inflicted exhaustion Work force revenants who begin to shamble through the door Out of the early morning mists at about 5:30 just as the world is shrugging of the shroud of night In his seat of power, the poet, lord of the room Can see, despite the dim lights of the coffeeshop These early birds, gaunt and hungry like vultures Standing shoulder to shoulder with the last of the night owls Shabby old things with ruffled feathers Too tired to sleep or simply without a roost. Their re rimmed eyes provide a window Through which a sovereign of the word May glance upon their tired souls Yes from that lovely back corner The poet is a king, a lord in noble regality Reshaping reality Sitting in the back of any coffee shop In Phoenix Arizona In America In the world In this whole great evergrowing span of universe And turning people into words.
Continue reading...
46
It's hard out here for an automaton the sun is hot on my metal Over heats my copper wire Causes all manner of motor malfunctions System failures In cold winter days the residual wetness I step in shorts my circuits and shocks my partners I am fond of small coffee shop nooks with outlets. I don't need to travel too far to recharge And since I'm so shiny often briefcases and lipstick come around sit their lattes on my discarded instruction manual pages To offer me oil I will let them insert the Nettie *** shaped disk where they choose it's rough being a clock work boy I set myself to operate at three hours before is necessary in case I'm distracted by some new upgrade or need to document another error message. they never write me back, bronze looks good on thigh plates I had this woman notice my key today protruding from my back the translucent panel showing into all my cogs and gears she said she wanted to turn it back, so she could see my program run it from the beginning again. I warned her, turning the key would only turn back me. I would rather let the program run on it's natural course, sure, I'll get closer to the end, but I'm a curious construct haven't seen the end of my functionality yet woman keep coming up and asking me to turn back the key and I am weak, but don't worry I said if I run out of energy, you can always turn the key back. I'll play it all over and you can remember. She didn't like the idea of doing the same thing over either she turned the key, waited for it to run out, left me on the doorstep for some other person to turn back on. it's hard out here for an automaton. the sun is hot on my metal over heating my copper wiring causing all manner of motor malfunctions and system failures.
0
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
Clock work boy
It's hard out here for an automaton the sun is hot on my metal Over heats my copper wire Causes all manner of motor malfunctions System failures In cold winter days the residual wetness I step in shorts my circuits and shocks my partners I am fond of small coffee shop nooks with outlets. I don't need to travel too far to recharge And since I'm so shiny often briefcases and lipstick come around sit their lattes on my discarded instruction manual pages To offer me oil I will let them insert the Nettie *** shaped disk where they choose it's rough being a clock work boy I set myself to operate at three hours before is necessary in case I'm distracted by some new upgrade or need to document another error message. they never write me back, bronze looks good on thigh plates I had this woman notice my key today protruding from my back the translucent panel showing into all my cogs and gears she said she wanted to turn it back, so she could see my program run it from the beginning again. I warned her, turning the key would only turn back me. I would rather let the program run on it's natural course, sure, I'll get closer to the end, but I'm a curious construct haven't seen the end of my functionality yet woman keep coming up and asking me to turn back the key and I am weak, but don't worry I said if I run out of energy, you can always turn the key back. I'll play it all over and you can remember. She didn't like the idea of doing the same thing over either she turned the key, waited for it to run out, left me on the doorstep for some other person to turn back on. it's hard out here for an automaton. the sun is hot on my metal over heating my copper wiring causing all manner of motor malfunctions and system failures.
Continue reading...
46
innocence the ticket’s too big to fit in my palm the bag’s too heavy to trail behind giants carried briefcases glued to their hands and mourners took flight to the end of the world my father’s gait was too fast to keep up to for the short length of my legs nina the yellow sheep bobbed happily along as did the pig tails attached to my head with bows despite the noise, the crowds, the lines excitement fueled the erratic behavior of the butterflies currently residing in my stomach behind the 101 dalmatians t-shirt that dressed me i never thought the airport would become a second home the planes that flew over head while i looked at the sky from my backyard would become not just a mode of transportation even if the thought appeared in my head the young naive girl that i once was would be pleased with the statement and rather excited as always she would board 1000 planes and still wouldn’t have minded experience the ticket is just an other piece of paper and the bags were tattered with experience the men with gray faces traveled with their gravestones and the loved ones were still at the end of the world my stranger’s gait was still too fast but this time his urgency didn’t appeal there was no stuffed animal to take away the dreams just the headphones that contained the remedy noisy crowds were just an other member of the family they didn’t mind that the butterflies were now dormant or dead or maybe they left when i had to throw away my 101 dalmatians t-shirt the 7 houses i previously occupied had all burned down the airport was the only one still standing it changed its face many times but held the same feeling an airplane is a calm palace in the sky sometimes i miss the girl that thought these houses were exciting sometimes i miss the sweet naivety of her father’s ways sometimes i miss the blank passport of the unknown but then again 1000 planes later i don’t mind
0
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
a i r p o r t s ;
innocence the ticket’s too big to fit in my palm the bag’s too heavy to trail behind giants carried briefcases glued to their hands and mourners took flight to the end of the world my father’s gait was too fast to keep up to for the short length of my legs nina the yellow sheep bobbed happily along as did the pig tails attached to my head with bows despite the noise, the crowds, the lines excitement fueled the erratic behavior of the butterflies currently residing in my stomach behind the 101 dalmatians t-shirt that dressed me i never thought the airport would become a second home the planes that flew over head while i looked at the sky from my backyard would become not just a mode of transportation even if the thought appeared in my head the young naive girl that i once was would be pleased with the statement and rather excited as always she would board 1000 planes and still wouldn’t have minded experience the ticket is just an other piece of paper and the bags were tattered with experience the men with gray faces traveled with their gravestones and the loved ones were still at the end of the world my stranger’s gait was still too fast but this time his urgency didn’t appeal there was no stuffed animal to take away the dreams just the headphones that contained the remedy noisy crowds were just an other member of the family they didn’t mind that the butterflies were now dormant or dead or maybe they left when i had to throw away my 101 dalmatians t-shirt the 7 houses i previously occupied had all burned down the airport was the only one still standing it changed its face many times but held the same feeling an airplane is a calm palace in the sky sometimes i miss the girl that thought these houses were exciting sometimes i miss the sweet naivety of her father’s ways sometimes i miss the blank passport of the unknown but then again 1000 planes later i don’t mind
Continue reading...
42
Cannibalistic animals Feeding off of each others pain Blood ******* leaches Reaching for their own personal gain Civilized savages Educated fools Empire of vampires Rearranging the rules Disguised in neckties Briefcases and smiling faces Cloaked in lies Spiritual wickedness in high places Coagulated rivers Calculated killers Cryptic crimes Comprised by Gifted minds Concrete jungle Play the game "or be the game The weak who stumble Are hunted down and maimed If you can’t beat ‘em -join ‘em It’s the only way to survive Stepping on the heads of others Just to stay alive Its dog eat dog And every dog has its day Today is mines- so be smart When you hear the bark Stay the hell out of my way
0
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC
Civilized Savages
Today, I was sitting on the SEPTA, on my way to work as usual. Suddenly, a Secane Bro appeared. This wasn't just any bro, it was a special breed, rare and only to be found at the Secane station between the hours of 7 am to 9 am and again from 4 pm to 6pm. These are the Indian research bros. They come in with gelled hair, starched shirts (ranging from pink, sorry, salmon, to white) and the indelible odor of Indian cooking and men's cologne. For a more science-driven bro, a heavy backpack is essential, while the cooler bros have headphones and briefcases. The bros are often self-conscious and gang together. They rarely have a female companion, since such a thing is against the bro-code. They always sit together, or at least in the same car. Most of all, the bros have hope. They are ambitious, flying fish in the dreary SEPTA morning atmosphere, zealous believers willing to jump through whatever loop and hoop to get their own piece of the American dream. Dream on bros, dream on.
0
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
The SEPTA : A Satire
Watch out as we struggle to maintain the withering roots with a dose of intolerance Blasted through the decade aged monitor that We can't afford to replace because these suits and briefcases are tattered together to call substantial and the white building you cruise to each day ain't that blinding anymore For all the 'accidental' 'unknown' and 'uncaptured' hangings you dated And the collar around your necks Got no creases in them Like those on the hand of his sister as she sits by the coffin
0
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
Sunrise
You were never meant for this Grocery cart, bags of bones, pillow case Dunking your head in the paper bags of letdown Side street, gray walk, go’s and stops Ticks and tocks You were never meant for this Fingerless gloves, holes in jeans, newspaper blankets With words of people far more successful Building money with their hands Like a distorted counterfeit where it’s the priority Above all that is breathing You stare at their smudged pictures, Their smiles full of cash, the green leaking between their teeth Their suits all straight with hands out shaking They stand around The numbers increase The excitement booms That was supposed to be you Who you once were On Wall Street, drinking the coffee of accomplishment Out of silver mugs with silver spoons But you lost it all didn’t you? The greed overtook you like a drug Messing with your brain and judgment Now look at you, Vagabond, penny cup, ghost air You were never meant for this, You were supposed to be like those men in the paper Those men on the streets With their Bluetooth and briefcases Stepping on cracks You were never meant for this, But you crashed Got caught up in the money, the games, the race Now look at you Grocery cart, bag of bones, pillow case Just jumping in defeat between the space You were never meant for this. Now look at you.
0
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 9:46 AM UTC
Wall Street
One cold morning, One usual Tuesday, I awoke before the sun, I stretched before the clouds formed, One exact moment in the morning, when the water met my face and when coffee hits the nerves, I remembered. It was breezy and gloomy, The wind blew calmly across, I can feel it in between my fingers, I can feel it on my chest in between my shirt and my skin as I board the seven o’clock train. There you were walking down before me as I wait patiently for the train tracks to roar, I saw you in your beige jacket, Your green blouse, Your black laced skirt, Your fair, fair skin, and your black rim glasses, that tried to hide, but could not, the droopiness of your sleepy eyes. I saw them all, I feel them all, The beauty, the casualness, I know them all. I see you almost every other day, In the same train, At the same time, In the same barrack of steel that encapsulates all the passion and the indifference we have about our career. But we never spoke. Your beauty, your casualness, is proof that coincidences are dangerous and fate is perhaps overrated. I always wonder why in the midst of all the hustle and bustle of life we are still hiding behind a façade, a wall, a barricade of non-verbal stimuli. Why are we, in the depths of our cover up, our ego, still not anticipating a conversation? I assure you, Our eyes met more than once, But we looked away pretending that this ardor, This obsession, This craze and zeal, is nothing more than a line of sight and a blink of an eye. But I know for sure you’ve seen me, And I know for sure you’ve seen me seen you, So what lies between us is a barrage of men and women, rushing off to their nine AM clock in. Men carrying their brown briefcases of complexities and anxieties, Women carrying their vibrant colored handbags of regret and rage, All to conceal and suppress, To obscure and to disguise one uncomfortable conversation about the hardships of their lives. Perhaps we could never find the courage, Perchance we never will. Perhaps this poem will never see its poetic justice, Perchance it should never too. But in case it did, And in case we found courage, I’d like you to know that in my train of thoughts that are propped up of complete nonsense, there is one clear emotional track that will not detour, and that is to see you sitting opposite me in that cold metal seat, and to have you meet me in the eye only to have the both us look away in sheer interest and utter ignorance. But we both enjoy the visual flirt. Don’t we?
0
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
The Morning Grace
One cold morning, One usual Tuesday, I awoke before the sun, I stretched before the clouds formed, One exact moment in the morning, when the water met my face and when coffee hits the nerves, I remembered. It was breezy and gloomy, The wind blew calmly across, I can feel it in between my fingers, I can feel it on my chest in between my shirt and my skin as I board the seven o’clock train. There you were walking down before me as I wait patiently for the train tracks to roar, I saw you in your beige jacket, Your green blouse, Your black laced skirt, Your fair, fair skin, and your black rim glasses, that tried to hide, but could not, the droopiness of your sleepy eyes. I saw them all, I feel them all, The beauty, the casualness, I know them all. I see you almost every other day, In the same train, At the same time, In the same barrack of steel that encapsulates all the passion and the indifference we have about our career. But we never spoke. Your beauty, your casualness, is proof that coincidences are dangerous and fate is perhaps overrated. I always wonder why in the midst of all the hustle and bustle of life we are still hiding behind a façade, a wall, a barricade of non-verbal stimuli. Why are we, in the depths of our cover up, our ego, still not anticipating a conversation? I assure you, Our eyes met more than once, But we looked away pretending that this ardor, This obsession, This craze and zeal, is nothing more than a line of sight and a blink of an eye. But I know for sure you’ve seen me, And I know for sure you’ve seen me seen you, So what lies between us is a barrage of men and women, rushing off to their nine AM clock in. Men carrying their brown briefcases of complexities and anxieties, Women carrying their vibrant colored handbags of regret and rage, All to conceal and suppress, To obscure and to disguise one uncomfortable conversation about the hardships of their lives. Perhaps we could never find the courage, Perchance we never will. Perhaps this poem will never see its poetic justice, Perchance it should never too. But in case it did, And in case we found courage, I’d like you to know that in my train of thoughts that are propped up of complete nonsense, there is one clear emotional track that will not detour, and that is to see you sitting opposite me in that cold metal seat, and to have you meet me in the eye only to have the both us look away in sheer interest and utter ignorance. But we both enjoy the visual flirt. Don’t we?
Continue reading...
78
7/1/2015 *"you will remember, for we in our youth did these things: yes many beautiful things" - Sappho's fragments* Greenwich Village, NYC Only the 24th of June and Simpson and i already tire of the summer weather. I always seem a little thinner these months i note, i bite a strawberry candy and show her how to light her lighter just hand me the fork no more callousness both on palmflesh and human dealings the building facades on Charles street as in the southern Chawellsss.... she explains alcoholism runs in my family, you know? i nod. no other problems i presume? the community garden nods and people who will always be richer, prettier, strut past with tuesday briefcases and their children's wheelcradles with ethiopian and guatemalan hands on the handlebars follow a block behind. *But we're from Joisey, and **** proud of it!* Lobster rolls and jimmies and johnnies and boardwalk planks Erin dreams of broadway instead and neonatal nursing, who doesn't? the only youth on the street that day we teetertotter past all the cafes and pubs and laundrymats *you know, if this was the school year we'd get picked up for skipping school*
0
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
R-Train
there you are: brown mop of hair, glasses you refuse to keep on, teal green eyes, broad smirk, thin body stretched over 206 bones a man not my little brother – no, when you were little you sat in that carriage and I read to you: hours upon hours of stories you probably don’t remember, but that I cherish and when you were little I would ask if you were a boy or a girl and because I wanted a sister you would always say the opposite of what you are and most of all when you were little, I shielded you I carried you I picked you up but now you are a man trapped inside his head I see this shell of you, my brother, but sometimes I can’t find you sometimes all I see are your teal eyes and not behind them and there are moments where I wish I could peel back your skin layer by layer and go into your mind and see the chaos like a busy city, your mind, cars honking smog emanating from the tallest buildings people milling and shouting and cursing there is no pause there is only go one man in your brain carries in a black briefcase your fears those worries that stop me from seeing you behind your eyes and this man with a grey cloud overhead, cloaked in a hood, wanders your mind and passes this fear from one person to the next until slowly, and gradually, your whole brain is filled with grey clouds and cloaked figures and black briefcases and shouting and whispering and laughing and you disappear from right here back into your mind “come closer”, they say, “why live in this world when you can live in ours?” and I hate these men; these people distributing your fears when it started, it was simply a fear of food, but then it was a fear of the world, a fear of an illness, a fear of yourself, my little brother, who smiled so brightly and vividly it was distractingly beautiful, who draws so intensely and maturely and incredibly, paints pictures of wisdom at sixteen, who has rules and standards to the depths and validity of music my little brother is trapped and my stomach sinks when I ask: “are you okay?” and he only replies “…yeah…” and I feel so helpless when he looks so tired with his sunken eyes because those men control him they take all of him away and leave only a shell of my little brother my bravest brother my inspiring brother my strong brother whom I wish I could wipe clean of all the briefcases and cloaked figures and men and fill his mind with a string of white lights, Christmas lights, and layer it with the smell of brownies baking in the oven, and screens on which are projected his favourite shows and movies and videos of him, my little brother, who fights these men every day and he deserves a medal of honour because there is a war in his mind and he battles incessantly and I know, very soon, even if only for a little while, he’ll get a break from this city of his mind and he’ll win.
0
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
Bubba
there you are: brown mop of hair, glasses you refuse to keep on, teal green eyes, broad smirk, thin body stretched over 206 bones a man not my little brother – no, when you were little you sat in that carriage and I read to you: hours upon hours of stories you probably don’t remember, but that I cherish and when you were little I would ask if you were a boy or a girl and because I wanted a sister you would always say the opposite of what you are and most of all when you were little, I shielded you I carried you I picked you up but now you are a man trapped inside his head I see this shell of you, my brother, but sometimes I can’t find you sometimes all I see are your teal eyes and not behind them and there are moments where I wish I could peel back your skin layer by layer and go into your mind and see the chaos like a busy city, your mind, cars honking smog emanating from the tallest buildings people milling and shouting and cursing there is no pause there is only go one man in your brain carries in a black briefcase your fears those worries that stop me from seeing you behind your eyes and this man with a grey cloud overhead, cloaked in a hood, wanders your mind and passes this fear from one person to the next until slowly, and gradually, your whole brain is filled with grey clouds and cloaked figures and black briefcases and shouting and whispering and laughing and you disappear from right here back into your mind “come closer”, they say, “why live in this world when you can live in ours?” and I hate these men; these people distributing your fears when it started, it was simply a fear of food, but then it was a fear of the world, a fear of an illness, a fear of yourself, my little brother, who smiled so brightly and vividly it was distractingly beautiful, who draws so intensely and maturely and incredibly, paints pictures of wisdom at sixteen, who has rules and standards to the depths and validity of music my little brother is trapped and my stomach sinks when I ask: “are you okay?” and he only replies “…yeah…” and I feel so helpless when he looks so tired with his sunken eyes because those men control him they take all of him away and leave only a shell of my little brother my bravest brother my inspiring brother my strong brother whom I wish I could wipe clean of all the briefcases and cloaked figures and men and fill his mind with a string of white lights, Christmas lights, and layer it with the smell of brownies baking in the oven, and screens on which are projected his favourite shows and movies and videos of him, my little brother, who fights these men every day and he deserves a medal of honour because there is a war in his mind and he battles incessantly and I know, very soon, even if only for a little while, he’ll get a break from this city of his mind and he’ll win.
Continue reading...
91
the ad on my kitchen table asks, would you consider donating to dolphin causes? orphan briefcases? factories for bread and water and those miracle pills that cure a country in just 3 small, prescribed, doses? would you change a child's life for only $35 a month? begs the ad rolling in with the mail. his name is roberto, five foot four, a good kid who likes baseball and summer days. a doller a day: a woman begs from channel 6, donate to the children's hospital of saint something-or-other have a heart, she says, and help the baby who has a defective one. a doller a day, or if you're feeling generous, round up to 5 cents an hour. how else will you get rid of your rich world guilt?
0
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
donation centers across america
A jump rope lisping Through loose gravel and rhymes. Resembling orchestras and rapidly Scratched-out novels, Evolution of an indifferent ****** Delicate lacework stitched Beneath the youthful And frail. Disintegrating Like a bird’s nest, once Air conditioning expires. Scampering between markets, Wavering while waiting In redundant lines, as you Carelessly caress outerwear that you Waited in line for yesterday. Placing yourself professionally On seats, beside plainly colored Briefcases. Quivering arms Tingle, as the blood Relinquishes. Wordless entities fill Empty rooms, as pressure Builds from the exterior and in. Tarnished sneakers sink and slip, Amidst cunning quicksand. Mangled and thrashed, Fabrics that used to be Accustom to merry-go-rounds, and dry Eyes. Gently laced hemming, Lacerated at the seams. Stroll down whimpering sidewalks That sting for vibrations, fixed By a stranger’s oblivious feet. Jerking outerwear closer As no emotions pass. Synthetic joy overcomes You, when droning Minds think alike. Wriggling and skulking To cease the crunching of time.
0
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
Rocks and Hard Places
I ran across the car park as the train pulled away. The wind blew into my face and made my eyes water And with it came the smell of hot oil and metal That stung my nose And it lifted me. It picked me up And placed me on the platform at Southampton station 8 in long socks and a blazer. Holding my mothers hand The station master grinned and sweated, Grime on his forehead Smoke on his breath. He pulled off the cap And the cylinder gushed A cloud of ***** steam across the concrete And I hopped back as it touched my legs All aboard! All aboard! Pushed forward I stepped up Looked up And eyes smiling he lifted me Across the gap at Southampton station Unsteady as the train shuddered My hand clung to the rail Through the door I faced a forest of legs And black shoes And briefcases People were so much bigger then. I turned And through the doorway She seemed so much further away She waved and blew a kiss And I just stared wide eyed As the station slipped sideways And the gaunt faces of the other passengers Became a blur.
0
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Departing Southampton Station
We sat anxious and low in your bedroom cupboard beleaguered by hollow briefcases and stifling musty winter clothes. Holding our cigarettes like a crucifix hunched over the ashtray basking in the lonely timid light you yanked into life with the tug of a frail string. I was ready to speak existentially ready to be immortalized by the blinding flash of the ancient pictor black and white candid but purposeful. Locked into my eyes lingering in their intensity my artistic mystery. I was suddenly pulled from my disillusionment as my wishful banter was silenced by your stern hush preferring a whisper so your parents didn't hear. I watched you take a drag like a glass of water in the middle of the desert so desperate, so agonizing. I watched you shakily tap tiny flakes of your soul into the ashtray your eyes distant, mournful. It was irreversible; my childlike fantasy of aesthetic in the smoke on my breath-- not from frigid temperatures but adolescent guilty pleasures coveted forbidden treasures-- to turn into the ashes I watched my friend flick routinely into the tray. "This is not James Dean," I realized. This is not somber-eyed bedecked in worn leather jacket leaning against a cool brick wall. "Neither is this 'A Hard Day's Night.'" This is not Ringo smiling amiably shaking his head with cigarette bouncing and dainty on his lips. This is huddled in my best friend's cramped cupboard watching him surrender himself to a caustic lord who scorches his life away in every drag that burns between his cracking lips in every ash flicked from his shaking fingers. I watched the smoke envelop his weary body I watched the ashes eulogize his fading spirit I watched him bid farewell with his tired eyes I watched him disappear.
0
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Phoenix
We sat anxious and low in your bedroom cupboard beleaguered by hollow briefcases and stifling musty winter clothes. Holding our cigarettes like a crucifix hunched over the ashtray basking in the lonely timid light you yanked into life with the tug of a frail string. I was ready to speak existentially ready to be immortalized by the blinding flash of the ancient pictor black and white candid but purposeful. Locked into my eyes lingering in their intensity my artistic mystery. I was suddenly pulled from my disillusionment as my wishful banter was silenced by your stern hush preferring a whisper so your parents didn't hear. I watched you take a drag like a glass of water in the middle of the desert so desperate, so agonizing. I watched you shakily tap tiny flakes of your soul into the ashtray your eyes distant, mournful. It was irreversible; my childlike fantasy of aesthetic in the smoke on my breath-- not from frigid temperatures but adolescent guilty pleasures coveted forbidden treasures-- to turn into the ashes I watched my friend flick routinely into the tray. "This is not James Dean," I realized. This is not somber-eyed bedecked in worn leather jacket leaning against a cool brick wall. "Neither is this 'A Hard Day's Night.'" This is not Ringo smiling amiably shaking his head with cigarette bouncing and dainty on his lips. This is huddled in my best friend's cramped cupboard watching him surrender himself to a caustic lord who scorches his life away in every drag that burns between his cracking lips in every ash flicked from his shaking fingers. I watched the smoke envelop his weary body I watched the ashes eulogize his fading spirit I watched him bid farewell with his tired eyes I watched him disappear.
Continue reading...
61
Words were never spoken or exchanged. "The GO Train is here." The only five words anyone there ever thought they needed to hear besides they weren't words they were mentality the briefcases purses newspapers click-a-clacks of heels rustling of zippers and keys scrapings of sandals rollings of bags sharp noses blank eyes all pointed at their exact target click clack click clack a steady stream of everyone and anyone men with full black business suits girls in Gouci and jeans ladies in Reitmans men in checkered shirts and khaki shorts like ants they piled into the green and white snake dreading the fatal announcement "last call! Last call!" they accelerated full grown men and women whipping and thudding and click-a-clacking the wind pushed them back to their cars the ground screamed "Stop!" but they didn't listen a woman all in blue who could raise the dead with her clacking daintily ran as fast as she could "DOORS SHUT!" the conductor's voice was muffled and he followed through in a spurt of perseverance soundlessly the doors closed At least the adults knew one thing no amount of noise could open them so they didn't try the blue-clad woman slowed to a stop the GO train had gone she slumped in the middle of the station the wind urged her but suddenly the train came again always there always gone CLICK CLACK the heels revived click clack click clack clack
0
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:57 PM UTC
The Green and White Snake
Come home, my mother's voice suggests along 2,581 kilometres of phone cabling. Come home to the hazy heat that beats off melting pavement and wilting plants, to the smell of exhaust squeezing between buildings and suburbs and rush hour and neon lights, Come home to the aggravated traffic wending its way through concrete landscapes eight lane snakes placating the clack and hum of underground trains packed with people and briefcases and beers and graffiti spilling out onto the streets like cough syrup glugging out of the bottle. You sound like you need to come home. Nah, I'm good Ma, because I don't know how to tell you the city makes me feel trapped a little creature with an anxious heart boxed in by the tarseal and the fumes and the noise. I like knowing the borders of a town that doesn't stretch to the horizon driving quietly on sleeping streets in the night time and tracing the coastline with my feet in the water I need the sky to touch the ground, not the ragged edges of a skyline to walk until there's nothing but me and the bush and the birds, and the smell of mud and dirt and rain. I like it here, I suggest along 2,581 kilometres of phone cabling, but I do miss you.
0
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
2,581 kilometres from home
Too many people have forgotten how to dance Their bodies have become stiff with Everyday life They are checking their watch and carrying their briefcases even when they are not You can see the worry in their bones They move the most in their sleep, when their bodies fight themselves - angrily restless at night because they are locked up during the day Their arms are more like pipes than wings Their legs are simply part of the machine that allows them to count Their faces are clocks Their hands are levers And their hearts? - Buried - somewhere beneath the flesh that has become less than flesh, the muscle that is less than muscle, the bone that is less than bone and The blood that has become simply something to pump - Something to keep from drying out completely. I heard a harmonica the other day- My body heard it before my ears did My arms listened so closely- my hips and my knees followed and the Air stepped aside for my body creating a tunnel of space without space for my limbs only The grass below my feet was my stage and the earth and I were no longer separate When I left, A stranger told me “You’re a great dancer” I should have told him “So is everyone else- You just have to let your fingertips to reach for the notes as they hear them You just have to train your heart to understand more than lists- They don’t matter now – They didn’t ever If there is a God, I don’t think his intention in creating bodies was for them to worry Perhaps our fingers weren’t made to always be holding something Perhaps our eyes are in the front of our head for a reason And perhaps our hearts are inside of our chest because who know what would happen if we Let them out
0
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
On Forgetting How to Dance
Too many people have forgotten how to dance Their bodies have become stiff with Everyday life They are checking their watch and carrying their briefcases even when they are not You can see the worry in their bones They move the most in their sleep, when their bodies fight themselves - angrily restless at night because they are locked up during the day Their arms are more like pipes than wings Their legs are simply part of the machine that allows them to count Their faces are clocks Their hands are levers And their hearts? - Buried - somewhere beneath the flesh that has become less than flesh, the muscle that is less than muscle, the bone that is less than bone and The blood that has become simply something to pump - Something to keep from drying out completely. I heard a harmonica the other day- My body heard it before my ears did My arms listened so closely- my hips and my knees followed and the Air stepped aside for my body creating a tunnel of space without space for my limbs only The grass below my feet was my stage and the earth and I were no longer separate When I left, A stranger told me “You’re a great dancer” I should have told him “So is everyone else- You just have to let your fingertips to reach for the notes as they hear them You just have to train your heart to understand more than lists- They don’t matter now – They didn’t ever If there is a God, I don’t think his intention in creating bodies was for them to worry Perhaps our fingers weren’t made to always be holding something Perhaps our eyes are in the front of our head for a reason And perhaps our hearts are inside of our chest because who know what would happen if we Let them out
Continue reading...
38
He perches on his black-crate bandstand, stationed between the payphone and postbox. The view from his seat never varies: a restless audience of briefcases and knees. He closes his eyes, concentrating on breath becoming buzz becoming blare, and he pictures his notes glossing Manhattan’s thunder-colored walls. Each tone fills the pavement, square by square until the sidewalk is a harlequin filmstrip, colored by notes coaxed from his brass mouth. Passersby withhold their gaze, because giving a nod obliges giving a dollar, and no one is inclined to employ this trumpeter. But he pays no mind; his own eyes secured until song’s end. As long as his fingers are jumping, he doesn’t have to be Gerard Wall– who lost his wife to cancer and mind to the War; he can be Louis, Miles, or Pinetop Smith. When he looks up once again, sun and spirit have faded, and he watches the evening embers drift out of his horn.
0
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
The 14th Street Trumpeter
I’ve got five minutes Then I must leave my verdant patch On the skirt of a wind-rustled lake hidden behind Logan's Roadhouse Five minutes to mentally finger with the fetal position In which I awoke this morning, there as the sun drew long shadows, I, a diminutive daub of nautilus, On a California King, rippled plane of sand, Sporadic shivers, beneath a chenille blanket I, the town crier of dawn as My own dreams ran screaming through the silence Pointing a finger at my sanctuary… “Here is your pearl thief!” Men in hats, briefcases, heel-toe black clicky and shiny shoes on leashes lugged, Yanked by noisy hounds passing by stop, sniff, snarl-toothed ******** then one caught my scent, “Five minutes more sleep,” I implored "Find another dreaming fleshy mess of bones!" And leave me to my pearl. But it’s a universe that simply will not wait And suffer fools for sleepers, not a moment more Yet for my many sleepless minutes after, Dusk till dawn, and still beyond, it’s always, five minutes more
0
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
Five More Minutes