"brunches" poems
Panasonic and Sony beeping
in custom made Reid & Taylor pockets.
A trade for a Rolex throned on his wrist in lieu of
once existent dreams, in now hollow sockets.
Adrenaline pumping before
high stakes meetings and brunches.
Calculating the dose of his choice of drug,
penthouse suites and timeline crunches.
Dizzy with ambition, painting
******* bleached canvasses.
Narcissistic laughter aimed to beguile others,
he, for whom his relaxants are stresses.
Dealing with the Devil himself,
power tainted and ill-gotten,
the realization that humans are not beyond sale;
in markets, mergers and acquisitions.
Recessions, Inflations, cruel overdoses
of risk, of danger unspoken.
And when he surfaces again to consciousness,
profits, losses both taken and broken.
Lost in the sewers filled with;
stock brokers and agents alike: the pawnors,
a haughty expression with green bills,
to score his ecstasy, capital owners.
Another dollar, another hit
never enough to sleep remembering the day.
A Corporate ****** scouring for riches,
a high, a trance not soon before long will sway.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
I open the blinds and see the world - in return, what
does the world see? It sees me, and all my splendid, split
personalities, living these amazing times, of amazing
pleasures, in which we tweet tweets, and post posts re
ego-trips and copyrighted links, videos and things; and,
as stray dogs, we ramble randomly, and all the time,
living in our infinite worlds, of infinite lanes, till infinity;
yet we suffer so much pain.
Our Shih Tzus take us on extended walks, firmly leashed
to our Koss plugs, as we drone cool tunes on multihued
iPods, iPhones buzzing ringtones of tittering babies,
stolid kings and hyperactive frogs, which would all make
my eighty-six year old dad want to gag; we fly
ultralight megaplanes at the sonic sound of speed,
through virtual and real space, connecting dots at low-
cost prices, while we belt-up, gear-up, gulp Gaga and
gorge heat-inducted meals of deer, horse and over-
promoted crap; and then, wow surprisingly, we are all
so unsatisfied.
We consciously all move-in together, and **** on end,
like statistical sheep, pre-married, unloving, and broken
up, and justify it all, to ourselves, with our fully
stretched spandex morality, over low-carb brunches
@Starbucks, two 14” screens of separation; we paint
pornographic images of virgins, all called Mary, in the
name of art, and, white-clad, **** babes and alter-boys,
and penetrate each other, first with our fingers, deeply,
then superficially, without even wondering, for a
zeptosecond, why we can’t stand one another any
longer.
We crank-up dependencies, like high street mainliners,
shamming and slaughtering for neurotoxic fixes of
smileys and Crystal on billion-dollar Kogo yachts, while
we all just pedal on, dispassionately, down and over
interior canals, to the core of our hocked, abbrev lives,
chronically connected and severely distracted, in
aromatic polymer bubbles, heedlessly cruising through
comic-strip farms of mock vegetables, surely to nowhere
and towards no one; and quite frankly, the world laughs
at all this, and sobs, and so do I.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
Come in all you children and dance upon the sea. The coastline tides are dancing and gallivanting on the breeze. The elephant seals are floating in their carcasses, warm blood lakes thicken on the foam, dancing in the ripples the shivers of Leopard sharks party's throw. ***** slugs and combatants, early hours send cries through crustaceans of the spine, and glitter muscles entwined with porpoise to drink their brunches with new recipes of the brine. Fairy starling, aching heartache, shapes each coil of the coast, and tears apart the stardust of starfish sliding up the coast. Drinking from the salt licks that falling waters move, inside the bay the bluefins escape the hunters in their shoals. The itsy bitsy great white, crept into the beaches cove, but orca and dolphin chased him back into the deepest azures where the fur seals pup and milk.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
Doubled over Stella cans
crawling from last night's 10p home.
Late brunches for the new majority
waking within a block who's characters are now alone.
Previously untouched by the new,
the heavily worn and stained wooden
chair now longing for stories of the few.
The old exacerbated, they couldn't
see it coming. Their home.
Now a haven for the new.
A new Mecca for creativity with no retreat
For those left behind.
Doubled over Stella cans.
This used to be free the old fuss.
Now there's no home for them.
Their 10p shelters gone with a gust.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 9:04 AM UTC
In my father’s cosmology, God rose late come Sunday morning,
Having wreaked His vengeance by proxy the night before,
And it was a given that we greeted the Sabbath
With whispers and sock-soft tiptoe,
Knowing that his belt (black, wide, thick with implicit warnings)
Hung within easy reach of the bed,
Though sometimes, with no more explanation than
Man alive, what a beautiful world it is today!
Cold cornflake brunches would be postponed
(Our wonder mixed with consternation and rumbling stomachs)
As we would be whisked into the car
In order to sing His praises, our father all but jumping from the car,
Heading toward the preacher at a trot,
Invariably greeting him with *Devil’s on holiday, Father,
So here I am* (the church was Lutheran,
Though it could have been a mosque for all he cared.)
He’d sit through the sermon, rapt and at attention,
Alternately scowling and smiling, knitting his brow and nodding,
And then he would corner the incumbent occupant of the pulpit
(He’d have scarcely noticed, if at all, that the leadership of the flock
Often changed hands between our cicada-esque appearances)
Backing him into a wall or against a railing
While he jabbered away, pointing or grabbing a sleeve in punctuation,
Gesturing like some latter-day Prospero, arms ****** Heavenward
To embrace the air, the sky, the whole of the cosmos, amen,
While the pastor’s gaze varied from bemusement to outright horror.
Such occasions were outliers, of course,
Father being much more inclined
To spend his Saturday evenings in un-Christian pursuits
Then stagger home singing a litany of done-me-wrong songs,
And his search for a joyful hundred-proof clarity
Ended before he glimpsed fifty, that being time enough
(So the pathologist noted in his final judgment)
For his liver to become elephantine, his kidneys mere pebbles
(Those effects, be they deleterious or otherwise,
Not listed explicitly nor in the footnotes
Which accompanied the post mortem.)
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
Trips to Shanghai taking photographs
of junks that were full of bones
Forgotten pixels stashed in the cover
of shade in the corner of the room
drawings in pastel paint brushed on the walls
You fell from the sky and crashed into my eye
I flew from the ground and landed in your thighs
Crucifix Sunday's and brunches in mobs
We drank the nectar of Pine trees
and redeemed our throbbed wrongs
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC
"All walk the path of life,
But only fools attempt to walk alone"
My thoughts echoed as I sat
In my head a little light shone
It grew until it was blinding
And then I realized I was a fool
More so than I previously accused myself of
I was on the right track to lose
Up until now I thought only the weak
Needed others to use like crutches
But the older I grow, the more it is known
It is nice to have someone over for brunches
Not just a friend or a confidant
But someone with which to share a deeper comfort
That slick combination of chemistry and attraction
It's always two more than one that life is fun for
To share and to care and to be there
For each other when the darkness rears it's head again
And for when the light decides to show it's face
I've said it before and I'll say it again
Won't you stay here, with me, in this ever-changing state of place?
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC
I’m going to warn you
That all I need is a promise
That I will never turn around
And wonder where you went.
You are going to promise me
That you don't plan on
Going anywhere
Anytime soon.
I am going to trust you
I am going to let you
Inside the part of me
Usually reserved.
I will show you all of the
Broken pieces left by others
And you will promise that
You can fix them over time.
I will let you show me your side of Boston
And we are going to go to brunches and museums and piers
And I will wake up in your arms, watching your smile
And I will laugh at you as you laugh at me laughing
And I will finally see how I can be, how guys can be
And I will fall deeply and crazily in love with you.
I’m going to warn you
That all I need is a promise
That I will never turn around
And wonder where you went.
You are going to promise me
That you don’t plan on
Going anywhere.
One
Day
Chaos
Ensues
And you will need to leave.
You will shut yourself away
Because you will feel the weight
Of the world fighting against you
And who you want to be for me.
And I will miss you greatly.
You will hide from the world
And from the love I want to give you.
I will finally see all of your
Broken pieces left by others
That you hid so well.
I’m going to warn you
That I can make you a promise
That you will never turn around
And wonder where I went.
I am going to promise you
That I don't plan on
Going anywhere.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Sometimes I miss my family so much, the weekend brunches, the shopping the laughing the fighting. When is missing too much? And when do we choose what's right for us? How do we know where we are or what we are doing is right? Sometimes I wonder if would be easier back home but I enjoy challenges, but maybe I'm starting to recognize that I have family. Some who have passed and I know what life is worth. The beauty of someone you love living is so precious and I believe should be cherished. But to what degree? If we all stayed near our family would we be consumed by comfort? Is that a bad thing? Or Oder all left the nests. Would that be selfish? Would then be the regret we hoped to not have in life when we choose to leave in hopes to never regret not leaving. What's right? We will never know. 4 years of a precious souled nephew I have has passed in his 6 years of age. And the niece well she's two. Sometimes I'm the one who feels like I'm missing out. On life. As it unfolds and grows. And for what? I am lucky. I am grateful. I have a serious need to search and find happiness. My sister once told me places don't make you happy whose around you does. Guaranteed she and I don't make each other happy all the time and thinking of going back to be able to hold her each day makes that thought worth all the loss and gain. I love them. That feeling is real and true. Something I have taken for granted. But could I live? In a small town once again? I could for the love of my family. But I fear my boredom. Because being around ppl gives me an undrugged high. Something that I crave. I crave the ppl who don't know me, the ppl who shouldn't matter but for some strange reason I have a strong comfort in that. My family, they know everything. They can see right through me. And yes they call it out; as they should. Going back home can be exhaustingly draining, but I appreciate the reality check, and I appreciate the love they give without hugs, I know it's there, because they know the real me. The real me who has such troubles no one could ever see. The real me no one in this world would wish to be. Drownding in an ocean. Floating on a wave. That's the peace I feel in the small towns. With slowly driving by faces pass I might know from the tiny tiny town, a daze I have from the years I spent drained and weak, literally unable to speak. Those memories stay when I go back. But the memories of real love, real friendship, real happiness, real music, real health, that's all there too. And so is my family. I wish they would move. I suppose I'm just not ready to leave NYC yet. Time will tell and I will remain comfortable by that thought. But the more I visit the more I miss them. Family is everything. I believe in that, and I'm thankful for the little family I have.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
There is a table with five chairs.
It’s always stood in the center of the room.
Connections made by meals,
A place where a wood maker envisioned happy gatherings and Sunday brunches.
So he carved 5 thoughtful chairs,
Each with a different occupant who sits in their own chair every time.
I bet the wood maker imagined orange juice being poured upon that table, and people tapping their fingernails against the side of their wooden seat.
His envisions came to life, for there was once a time where a mass of a family gathered there each night,
With a dog licking up scraps.
The tragedy is that his dream has died now.
The lit conversations have blown out,
Just like the candles that still remain set there each night in desperation to restore the old times with remembrance.
Don’t worry wood maker,
Your 5 chairs and table still indeed remain,
But only three remain occupied.
Your chairs didn’t do well enough for the others not to desire a new table.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
maybe love isn’t passion
and flaming fires
and stolen glances
maybe it’s choosing you daily
and giving unlimited
chances
maybe it’s early brunches
and evening dog walks
rather than secret car meetings
and drunken late talks
maybe love is 9 mile hikes
when it starts to rain
and maybe it’s not messages
that cause everyone pain
maybe it’s me and you
maybe it’s you and me
maybe the love we have
is how it’s meant to be
maybe
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 11:43 AM UTC
she watched slowly as her mother came later in the night
and her father no longer came home after work
and her sister sleepover at her friend’s house
and her brother lock himself in his room the thumping of the bass vibrating both their walls
and she saw as no one showed up at their weekly sunday brunches.
or when no one was there for breakfast
and no one showed up for dinner
and she never saw her sister anymore
and when she knocked on her mother’s bedroom door in the morning there was never a response
and she missed it,
she missed sunday brunches with her family and no one missing out because her father was the best cook in their family
and when she baked cookies or a big coconut cake for just the five of them on friday nights,
because the were watching the james bond movies or the lion king series all in one night
and she missed it,
because now on sunday mornings she got takeout from ihop and sat at the table alone
glancing at the clock till it read 1.00 and then she picked up the other four plates and washed the clean plates anyway, and on friday nights she’d bake a cake anyway with no one there to eat it.
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 8:39 PM UTC
that stupid saying
how does it
go
if he loves you, he’ll try
if he likes you, he’ll call
if he likes you, he’ll make an effort
why do women analyze this **** so much
why do women spend their days, brunches, dinners, date nights analyzing every single detail of their relationships
i was once one of these women
oh
maybe it means THIS
maybe it means THAT
if a man is ****** he’s ******
sure he’s conflicted, holding onto trauma from years past that’s making him act like an *******
but that’s no excuse to deal with someone ******
tell that ******* to see a therapist and find yourself a man that makes it clear the way he feels about you
simple
resolved
no more days, brunches, dinners, date nights wasted
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 6:28 AM UTC