"bulletin" poems
so like
i know this isn't the classiest way of doing things
and i apologize in advance for posting my proposal
on the bulletin board
of this skeezy coffee shop -
no offense to the owners
please don't throw this letter away -
but last week
you stole my bike
it was a great one
not shiny or fancy or anything, but it worked well for me
worked for the past four years
and the twenty years before that
when it was still my dad's
and he rode it to the post office every day to
help letters get where they belong
(maybe letters like this one, isn't that romantic
maybe he's guiding this
thanks dad, you're the best)
and passed it on when his knees froze up
and i rode it to this skeezy coffee shop every day -
sorry to the owners
(again)
but i buy your ****** lattes every day
least you can do is let me propose -
but then last week
i left it outside
and didn't lock it
(fate, see)
and you stole my bike
i think
you were probably walking by -
maybe about to come get a ****** latte
from this skeezy coffee shop
(sorry)
but then something caught your eye
i think you saw all the emotion invested in my bike.
two decades of getting letters where they belong.
four years of ****** lattes.
and well
who can resist so much meaning
spread out in the open for anyone to take?
and i mean
since you saw it there,
didn't just say 'oh'
'a bike'
like everyone else,
you were probably meant to have it.
it's a piece of my heart
(the bike i mean)
and now you have it
or maybe you just liked the color
and like
i do too
green is a great color
i like green
you like green
you wanna go out sometime
we could go on a bike ride
except
you stole my bike
anyway
i don't think the bulletins are supposed to be this long
but it's an important one
so maybe it's okay this time
so if you see someone with an old green bike
tell them i'm in the skeezy coffee shop
i'm the one drinking the ****** latte
and holding a jewelry box
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
Gold glitter
Only stays on the ceiling
When the upholstery is gray.
Church gyms are suddenly
Piggy banks to play
Basketball upon.
I will draw a city on
The bulletin board
And owl pushpins will inhabit it.
My mind is no longer in a
Casing of gray rick-rack
And suppositions I do not feel.
It is a precarious thing to
Play a solar piano
Under the midday sky.
Have you ever heard
A pumpkin-flavored
Volkswagen van?
It happened suddenly
That everything I could possibly
See became a photography contest.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
man who wears a hat sits still near the back unmoved by the world or the exposed breast of a statue (brain waves do not discharge through a fedora)
tag attached: bald is sanitary
oranges have more delicacy raw smelly and afterward singing allons enfants de patrie ding dang **** like that, all frog-ese so we don’t understand chanteused stiff basso profundo to excite to let us see with the clarity of a dream curled with hate set firm, firmer in the arms of a sleeveless girl then slung to sea level white as a leopard’s eye
remember its peroxide bathed, bleached inclined on the pillow just at the angle of expectancy without a hat sideward glance and the crippled heels of angels sparking down the hall
bulletin: young man willing to wear false beard to ease the pain for all
or trumpet blues broken played horizontal touched by seaweed hands in the light of boats (unfurled)
slowly
and the memory dies slowly half-forgotten, half-remembered
halved again
slowly
only
to begin
again
grim molecules of love
4.9k
Just because it's suggested doesn't make it right.
In the hands of teachers, other staff.
What other purpose could this directly serve.
To defend our institutions.
To further endanger those around.
The knowledge instilled from book to teacher a different practice.
Now holstered, hidden in the drawer of a desk.
What goes through the mind of the victim that's been bullied.
What training can be set in place to stop the next bulletin.
Shooting across the screen.
The kid in 10th grade that carries the weight of the world.
Sitting all day staring out the window.
Mother in hospice.
A fragile thought swallowed by deafening silence.
It no longer becomes a listening session of encouragement.
The after school sessions of comfort sped up.
Another bulletin of hysteria fired across the screen.
Teacher student affair.
15 year old student found with 42 year old man.
When in reality she was seeking help due to a troubled home.
Afraid to sleep knowing the door would creep open.
Leaving her terrified to close her eyes. The relationship between step daughter and father without boundary.
Where's the specialty training for those who care.
The proper resources that extend beyond that of a pamphlet.
The dark skin kids that's made fun of because they look different.
Stereotyped as aggressive.
The dope boys, the baby mamas.
The light skin girl that's made to feel inferior because she turns red with every hit.
Her hair is longer than theirs so she wants to cut it.
Aggressively forgetting all the beauty she possesses.
The active shooter managing to make it pass the metal detectors.
Rallying the attention he didn't get at home.
The debate carries on across every wall except the right ones
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
I could fill my hands with wishes.
Vials of fairy dust tucked deep in my pocket.
one day,
I might need it.
But that day I think may never come.
Prayers whispered on red stained lips,
but they drop sincerely,
with to much heart.
Silence says to much in ways I can't comprehend.
Wind says that it can take me to a place, where shadows can't haunt me.
Sorrow can't sit on my door step,
reminding me of things that want to consume to much of me.
Monsters grab me in the night.
Profanity and ****** don't mix well with whiskey.
My stomach is always twisted in knots of strangled butterflies.
I could be a runaway.
Just another face on a milk carton,
or those cluttered bulletin boards at Walmart.
I fade away so easily,
flowers in my hair and feet bare,
sunshine warming my face.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
We are a global society
When we want oranges in the fruit bowl,
When we want out of our rut
Just long enough
To brown in a patch of Spanish sun.
We are a global society
When the Japanese car breaks down
And we are in need of a cheap fix
To keep food on the table,
Some Latvian mechanic
Who helps us find our way home.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When the zeroes run low
And there are spaces,
Foreign faces,
To which we can point
And blame.
We are a global society
With our sweat-shop chic,
American coffee chains
Selling Colombian ground beans,
Frappuccinos in plastic cups-
Made in China
And served by a Romanian barista
In Italian heels.
We are a global society
When the demand is high
And the payment is low.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When hands reach out for help
And our pockets are too shallow,
Our time, too brief
To commit to a unity
We feel is dragging us down.
We are a global society
When the football is on,
When the lager is Belgian
And the supermodel, Greek.
When we cradle that bag of Cheetos
After smoking too much ****
We are a global society
When oppression is overt,
Caricatured in bulletin posters,
Threatening to land
Upon our own front door.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When poverty seems contagious,
When we have to clean up
Someone else’s mess,
Still we scar the Middle East
Only half-interested in an exit.
We are a global society
When we get sick,
When we borrow another doctor
For our ailing NHS.
When cities of white people burn,
We are a global society,
When Africa is divided,
We are nowhere to be seen.
Prime mover of the commonwealth
Yet we fall beneath the breadline
And living easy is so rare.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
Under the false flag
Of a golden age
We were conned to believe in.
Our nation, our island nation,
Lost amongst a sea of misinformation.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
If only I was a crayon drawing
Where each smiling face looks the same
Where stick figures and three fingered hands
illicit the smiles of adults and adoration
of how beautiful the picture is
of how artistic the drawer is
Despite the fact that the people are purple
and everyone has a beautiful smile.
If only I was a crayon drawing.
With the sun always shining,
though I hover off of the blob of green grass
Though I am taller than the house beside me
At least I am happy
At least people tell me I look beautiful
though I am a blue colored person
and have no feet or hands.
At least the sun is always shining
at least I am happy.
If only I was a crayon drawing.
With no need to worry about how I look.
With my family in a line beside me,
clumsy names written above us, barely readable.
But then I would be tacked to a bulletin board.
Then i would be fawned over, Oh how sweet.
See, look at the smiles on their faces! Look how
happy they are! How cute, how adorable.
See how artistic, how true to life. See the smiles?
If only I was a crayon drawing,
I could never grow up.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
A Valentine's Card dressed
With Steve Buscemi's face,
photoshopped onto a child,
disturbing and hilarious,
tattooed on the inside
with once-true truths.
Flammable.
A severed chunk of
35 mm film,
cut in a rhombus,
or trapeze or whatever,
highly flammable.
A piece of cloth
I brought with me,
And the part of
the belt I had to cut
off so it would fit
my skinny ***
Flammable, slightly.
A dead and dried up leaf,
Impaled on the bulletin board,
From a tree I don't even know what,
That sometimes crinkles with the wind,
If she were alive still,
She would comment on the
Cold thumbtack spear
In her abdomen, and
Sniff regrets at the sweet,
Artificial Vanilla waves below.
I keep my wall of
flammable memories
Above a lit candle,
Every day, I wish the flames
Would reach a little higher, but
Every day, the wax sinks,
low, low, lower still.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand
A slip of paper
Assigning him
to English 11b
English words
Thick in his mouth
He whispered his name,
Jaime Chavez
Jimmy Changa!
someone mocked,
Had one of them for supper
Nice to know you burrito boy.
Jaime Chavez smiled,
And remembered.
He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand
A book
Shakespeare
Carefully noted
In Spanish and English
Jimmy Changa
Someone mocked
Whatcha got there?
A book?
You don’t need them to cut my lawn.
Jaime Chavez smiled,
And remembered
He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand
An award
Superior achievement
English 11b
Jimmy Changa
Someone mocked
You didn’t earn that,
******* ****** ****
Jaime Chavez smiled
And remembered.
He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand
Full scholarship
Princeton University
In English Literature
And something else
A bumper sticker
"God Bless America,"
Which he carefully
tacked to the bulletin board
My name is not Jimmy Changa.
My name, is Jaime Chavez
And he smiled.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
The Church and the Pub:
I.
No One was Before the Blessed Sacrament
Between the Hours of 8:00-9:20, 10:20-11:45, & 1:10-1:50
-the parish bulletin
And yet we are always before something:
A pint of beer, a tv football match
A darts game where the plastic feathers fly
Miss Swivelly-Hips in her kinky-boots
But still, the small red lamp alone in the dark
Shines on for us, for Miss Swivelly too
Throughout the careless hours when we neglect
Duty for the fellowship of the pub
“No one was before the Blessed Sacrament…”
And yet we are always before something
II.
“No One was Here for the Weekly Darts Tournament”
-the old geezer in the corner
And yet there is much to be said for the pub:
A pint of beer, a tv football match
A darts game where the plastic feathers fly
Miss Swivelly-Hips – but we have mentioned her
That fluorescent beer ad’s a kind of red
The old geezer’s cheeks shine, especially when
Miss Swivelley-Hips flirts him for a beer
There is an honest joy in fellowship
“No one was here for the darts tournament”
(Maybe they were before the Sacrament?)
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 3:51 PM UTC
The clock stopped on pause
News Bulletin with a cause
DMX was announced dead
His life being full of promise
It was a Rapper in artistry
But Heaven called, and he was lifted up too thee
DMX lyrics were words in helping him survive
It was his inspiration to strive
DMX felt his tomorrow could end at a given moment
Yet he was a Rapper determined
He made a name for himself
It was a Rapper not like everybody else
DMX had problems in life with the law
He conquered and saw
DMX will always be remembered
Now sleep in Heavenly peace
You are free and are with the Lord at least
His spirit descended
Now he is home
DMX new life is in Heaven to roam
His Rap days endured with a conclusion, “If I be lifted up”
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 2:42 PM UTC
Thinking about the meaning behind things and how people hear them differently, like how ppl hear them differently, like how people heere them differently, like how people hear dem differently, like how people hear them diffrinly.
and see them a little more unclearly, like yesterdays crystal-future-seeing-glass orbs
and thinking about teammates and how they work together, but think alone, and there's nothing there in the air or to wear and tear at together anyway
and thinking about teammates and their roles and their lines and their act and their heights and how all of these futures are lonely
thinking about strengths all tacked up on a bulletin board of connect-the-dots exercises
thinking about connect-the-dots stories and who is listening
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC
he once wrote on my bulletin board in animal crossing
"you're precious"
May 13, 2021
May 13, 2021 at 10:15 PM UTC
What’s so funny?
I was remembering an Army Barracks day.
A day before Boot Camp graduation
We get our first set of official orders.
Assignments posted on bulletin board.
Striking me now so hilarious;
How the dumbest among us,
Got picked for Intelligence Corps.
Amusing the thought that
Thugs with lowest class standing
All seemed G-2 bound.
Jesus, the anchorman, got Fort Meade,
Considered The Bigs by talent scouts.
Although I was 6 foot-one,
In this or that corner
Weighing in at one hundred & 95 pounds,
My Yerkes scores too high for NSA duty.
They sent me to college instead,
Doing COINTELPRO field
Campus surveillance of
Jewish intellectuals,
John Birchers and
Radical, anti-Castro,
Cuban exiles.
The University of Miami,
Known as “Suntan U” back then.
Miami: the eye of the storm in 1972.
A Republican Convention in progress.
New wine in old wineskins;
No thing to write home about.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
Resolutions are
supposed to be
constructed from broken staircases and
antique chandeliers to
sand away the rough patches on your
wrist bones and
the scabs on your elbows;
they're meant to
declaw your demons and
file down your teeth so you
stop ripping the Band Aids off the
wounds that have been trying to
heal since the day you
gave up on
morality,
they're meant to take what you have and
polish it until it's
pretty enough to put behind the
glass in the living room where
strangers can
"ooh" and "ahh" and
pretend like they actually
give a ****
they're made to fold you up into a
paper crane as a
reminder that
everything can be art if you
strip away the titles.
However,
my New Years resolution is to
write a poem every day, to
finally post the
For Rent sign that's been
gathering dust
in the attic, to
staple my heart to the
bulletin board in the
bad part of town.
Is it more ironic that I'm digging up the worst parts of myself to make my art better, or that I think writing some ****** metaphors is considered a resolution?
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
That kiss that burned one Tuesday, four a.m.,
Won't make it into any bulletin,
Nor that flicker-flash of bird, that garden time,
Nor his shameful need, nor the white wine
Left in the glass, obituaries of hours
Unmourned at cards, some ode to spring
Her blinking heart sang, nor childish chores
Of Sundays drained. Not light. Not anything.
No and no and no. Dim and dim,
A vacant voice pronounces prayers at him
While worlds wane small as words some woman said
Meant hope or love. Then no one else is there
Who peers through dark. Who weeps, or blanks of care,
Or hardly knows him, writing he is dead.
Apr 16, 2011
Apr 16, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC
Could you kiss me?
Remember when we used to hate each other?
I think I might have loved you
Did you like girls?
I loved being your son
I still have that Footloose pamphlet you gave me
Thanks for being nice to me
Carrot-top Kelley
I tacked that picture on my bulletin board
scratch my back?
You were my first step outside kid
I still think you were flirting with me
I was surprised when you swore
Can I get a towel, please?
I was writing poetry when you found me
Paul really is great, huh?
can I sit with you one more time?
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
Radio news bulletin in the car
the last item read in those mellifluous tones
is about a seven-year-old boy
struck and killed by a car
in a poor suburb of Wellington.
The protocol around the legal and privacy issues
means it’s “no name, no pack drill”,
but he was someone,
someone’s son, grandson
perhaps even great-grandson.
He had probably had siblings,
definitely friends and playmates.
Somewhere in a house with
inadequate winter heating,
where the household income is
constantly under siege
and life never rises above a struggle,
there is a mother and a father
who bear this greatest grief.
Andrew M. Bell
May 15, 2022
May 15, 2022 at 12:48 AM UTC
I knew you wanted out
So I gave you the gun
And told you to shoot.
Your hand was shaking
So I held it and pressed it
Tightly against my chest.
Do it!
I closed my eyes
And so had you.
It was empty.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 4:08 AM UTC
i keep a red
second place
ribbon on my
bulletin board
to remind me that
i wasn't good enough
i keep defeat in
my back pocket
and failure
on my skin.
*(i didn't realize
how nice it was
to actually be
good at something
and i didn't realize
how easy it was
to stop being
good at something)*
took the things
i was good at and
cashed them in
for a quieter night
i can't eat
can't sleep
can't write
can't design
bake a pie
write a poem
cross stitch
crochet
i'm not
bad at it.
i still have
hobbies but
it's not like
it used to be
i'd rather
be cleaning
at least i can
do that well
*(isn't that
a little odd
considering that's
exactly what somebody
a little bit too close
to me was feeling
when his world got
turned upside down?)*
i'm just not
good at anything
not anymore
but it's my own fault i'm sure.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
When will I see you again?
It may be this fall or many years after.
When we reunite,
I want to take the metro with you to D.C. again
Just like we did last winter minus our bulky attire
We would still converse fondly with the volume that
The old man frown upon but can't complain.
We would still intertwine our fingers affectionately , and you would still rest your hand on my lap.
But this time,I'll put my head on your shoulder.
When I see you again,
I'll take you to Ted's Bulletin
They have the best brunch in town
You would still add some extra ketchup on your omelette,
We would still order something to share.
But this time you're not in the rush to head back.
When I see you again,
We should go to Cuba and some tropical isalnds.
To Italy and Spain
I'll introduce you to Michele,
My Italian friend.
When I see you again,
We could go to Baltimore,but no
This time I'm not here for Oriole's game.
When we reunite,
We would do everything,
But this time,
We will fall in love with each other and
No one,no one is leaving again.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 2:32 AM UTC
The first time you saw her,
she had drifted into your apartment
on the tail end of a gust of winter wind.
She was just tagging along as a friend of a friend.
Her starry eyes and half smile
were what got to you,
and they were enough to keep you around.
You caught a glimpse of her
reckless nightmare
almost immediately.
She was stuck in the middle of a
downward spiral,
and she took you along for the ride.
You couldn’t seem to find a reason for it.
She was just sad.
Her body was made up of
howling heart attacks
and incandescent suicide notes.
She was bad dreams,
a fractured spine,
lips hemorrhaging secrets,
and two fingers shoved to the back of a throat.
She was laughter at four in the morning
and daisies in a hurricane
with dark hair and darker eyes,
all wrapped up tight in a skeletal frame.
She was your bulletin board of best kept secrets
that you covered with love notes.
You were always trying
to glue her broken pieces back together,
but her edges sliced your skin to shreds.
She did not want to be saved.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
it's ok to:
1 prefer tea over coffee
2 say i don't know
3 have off days
4 have days off
5 ask questions
6 work how you want to work
7 tidy desk
8 messy desk
9 hand messy phone calls to me
10 depend on the team
11 forget things
12 use the bathroom when you need to
13 wear sweats every friday
14 have quiet days
15 have loud days where you joke and laugh
Have a good hump-day. We almost made it to the weekend!
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC
Poems about women,
spills of passion
flow from anger,
burst from love,
fill libraries,
find homes in billfolds,
back pockets,
or bulletin boards.
Counting poems
composed about women,
for women,
by women
becomes one futile task
for this list is endless.
Reams of new works
billow forth
from crazed minds of men
hourly,
daily.
Small wonder
for this gentle ***
is incomprehensible,
enticing, enchanting.
Fill pages with thoughts of her
and dreams that dampen cotton sheets
Ease all tension,
write tonight.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC