"bulletins" 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
in love, in lust
in bed, in dust
we lie together
blind and deaf
mere sheep
till the day of death............
tell them i'm government
that i did came
only peace and virtue
flow from my name
and if you don't listen
it's a god ****** shame
far from fame
i cure thy lame
the youth i'll train
to die
to fight
to pillage
to plight
with pen
with knife
from darkness til light
to believe and receive
to **** that which you conceive
with anger and greed
an unstoppable seed
drug and arm these streets
the bass and the beats
under the cadillac seats
next to the stamps with which you eat............
god is online
a friend of mine
in a lighted box
with airwaves of angels
joining both you and me
why can't you see
the ******** they feed
the bulletins and tickers
lollipops and stickers
flashes and flickers of truth
but we don't see
for our eyes are covered
when we are mothered by them.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 1:55 PM UTC
The radio clicks the worn out song
of days gone by and governments gone wrong.
Its static, the rolling of clouds before a thunderstorm.
The newsreaders rustling papers,
High pressure systems on the move.
The hush of the people as they gather to listen
Breath bated, held back by obedient tongues
The bulletins are nicotine bullets,
they're so incredibly easy to get hooked on.
News comes down the wire like commuters on the tube
Jostled and shunted along.
Through underground networks it spreads
With absolute efficiency
And yet the platform on which it departs is more than often wrong.
Outside the park swings are empty,
There is nothing unusual about that
But the kids sit by speakers with their hands over their ears
The high frequency waves dance around them.
This day is marked down as one they wish they could forget.
The headlines blazed into their minds,
More dead.
Oppressed.
Injustice.
Religion.
Elections.
Disasters.
Tornadoes.
Politicians flustered.
Corruption.
Famine.
And Hollywood Blockbusters.
And now we move on to the traffic
Two hundred more just come in from Pakistan
They say there's a pile up in Europe
There's an awful lot of wreckage on the road
and now they are left with no place to call home.
The M1 is running slow again, no surprise in that
Row after row of red brake lights
Join them together to make constellations
And you have your very own metropolitan galaxy.
Because who needs the stars when we have brake lights!
And who needs the moon when we have Big Ben.
Down the telephone lines comes a battalion of lies
“Honey... I'm going to have to work late.'
If you listen very closely to the nine o'clock news
You can hear the reporters wristwatch
And every five seconds that tick on top of his pulse
Marks another slice of news coming in.
The little hand chases the big hand
You cannot tell the time with just one.
The details escape somewhere between
The real world and what's put down in papers.
The trouble with black and white
Is that you miss all the shades of grey
And if you've never seen stars
Then brake lights, are just brake lights
And disaster is just another day.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
The darkness has a way of enveloping you like nothing else can.
It's not like light: Darkness
Is not directed or sprayed on objects
The absence of light:
It is all consuming, on anything light rejects.
Darkness. It's something else
Something intangible
Like the dreams you dream:
Barely imaginable.
It's strange and scary:
Untouchable for us
Children are afraid of it
It even makes grown men cuss.
People aren't afraid of darkness,
It's been said:
Fear of the unknown,
Or so I read.
Why do we fear the unknown?
What evils can it contain,
What evils still remain?
That aren't in our lives already,
**** corruption, ******
Bulletins are full and the news beats steady.
We should relish the unknown,
Rise to the challenge
We must grab the opportunity
With both hands
Cause it might be our last strands
Of hope.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
we tracked
her gyrations
on the weather
channel for days
eyeing the graceful
pirouette of her
cyclonic spin
incessant
bulletins of
the exploding
super storm
on a collision
course with
home, piqued
fear, kindled
fascination
drove fatigue
the day before
Sandy arrived
I followed the
flight of clever
birds lofting
away to the
safety of
inland hills
the foolhardy
mistook hubris
for intrepidness
lifting beach front
margaritas to
the roiling sea
unaware their
jolly libation begets
tomorrows sober
realization that folly’s
miscalculations have
calamitous consequences
The Doors
Riders on the Storm
Oakland
10/29/13
jbm
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
827
The Only News I know
Is Bulletins all Day
From Immortality.
The Only Shows I see—
Tomorrow and Today—
Perchance Eternity—
The Only One I meet
Is God—The Only Street—
Existence—This traversed
If Other News there be—
Or Admirable Show—
I’ll tell it You—
1.4k
With those bulletins aligned, we started our quest.
And a picture attached to the message I had once sent.
It was the day I had set my eyes upon you, my sweet.
That I'd exclaimed to myself - She's out of your league.
.
So ravishing were those lines your eyes drew,
It was the hard faced reality
that made me ponder what was true?
But, with our bated breathes and a smile or two.
We lead our own world with an example,
Cause that's just how we do.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
old checkbooks
sales receipts
gas bills
insurance cards
love letters
college transcripts
repair estimates
project ideas
garden plans
teaching certificate
resignations
copies of copies
greeting cards
collection letters
red light ticket
pencil drawings
broken dreams
rental agreement
prescriptions
church bulletins
life
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
In the morning and in the evening,
Drive-time bulletins oceans away.
Between the mourning and seeking,
Gridlock still lives in yesterday.
It's all around me.
It's all around.
It's all around me.
And It surrounds.
I'm conscious of the difference in continental content,
But I'm so sensitive to casualties that will always be.
Everywhere where necropolis' thrive and crushed steel and plastic are taking lives.
Always so far away from me.
Always so far away from me.
Where we find fatal jackknives and pileups on express ways making mechanisms of bone marrow.
This is where,
The public expresses sorrow for the victims who died tomorrow.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Perhaps it's the way his colostomy bag hangs
off his waist like John Wayne's pistol in Rio Bravo,
or the trail of **** left when it ripped last Monday
from his chair to the refrigerator.
He must have noticed,
he turned right and filled the sink with feces
and called over the nurse.
She pioneered along the trail,
and fit him with a new bag.
More **** oozed
through the tube
filling a fresh bag.
I sat there and licked
my nasal drip into my lips,
hoping the sparkle of my snotty glossy shine
would catch your eye,
like your favorite **** rag
in a line up of church bulletins.
The putrid lavender like scent
swimming through the air like flying fish,
allows me to dream
quicker than any drug.
I dream of the day where we both lay naked
with our old wrinkled skin connected like praying hands
where your feces and ***** flow freely to fill in epidermic gaps.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:16 PM UTC
We sit in this room talking and laughing
No judgement, no secrets
And a large box of M & M's shared among friends
I cherish each word and every obnoxious chortle
Every anecdote, which fills this space
I cling to this moment and wish for it to endure
While we sit in our private sector of the world
Set aside from the foundation shattering headlines and news bulletins
We neglect the impending deadlines created by worldly demands
For a moment nothing on earth matters
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
She bore her second child
in a room of white powder,
cylinders of blood, and grey
masks. There was pain but
none to remember. A slab
of live meat burned in her
arms, leaving marks over
wrists and blooms of red
between her bruised legs.
It wouldn't stop crying.
The thing had a *****
It was an off-white thought
that permeated her sweat
and that smug look of concern
on her husband's face.
She was a calf born into a
slaughterhouse. Stirring to eat,
to milk; to forget, spawn,
and then lay down whatever was
left beyond bone and tongue.
It was time for balloons and grapes.
Re-printed greetings cards
from Aunt Elaine: 'congratulations
on your human function,
and here is some money
for your new kitchen sink.'
The doctors were talking over
the Tupperware cradle. They must
be able to see the symptoms
of dispensable modes of thought.
They ask if she wants to hold him
again. When she told them that
she was tired and would rather
sleep the whole thing off,
a clean-shaven man-child gave
a dark look and wrote something
down on a clipboard. He made her
nervous. She could hear his
new shoes squeak, and could count
the blisters forming over
his earnest young feet.
She could not remember getting
home weeks later. Or how her
hair was combed into shape
every morning. Mother was round
most days, sitting in the garden,
making tea with too much sugar,
and giving lectures on the
importance of breast milk. The boy
would have to get used to unreal food.
The third time she went to hospital
she returned with no children at all.
Her mother still came to see her,
bringing stories of the brothers.
It was better this way, of course it was.
It is easier to listen to the falling
of bombs behind a newsbeat vibration.
A far-off land where worry can only reach
you in off-hand bulletins, bright white
pills, and a needle to send you to sleep.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
When have I started seeing myself as insignificant?
Was it in 7th grade when I started to notice
How the world paraded a perfect image of
What a body should be?
Magazines, bulletins, billboards, media: images
Of how women should have the deep oceans in their eyes
or they'd be worth less than a pebble.
Of how their ******* should resemble the precious pearls of God
or they're not worth a single glance.
Of how their lips and skins have to be free from scratches, dents, and scars
as if they were Christmas poultry.
When have little girls started avoiding supper and saving cents for plastic surgery?
Was it in 9th Grade during health class
When Mr. Smith babbled about how thin
Was the only desirable body type and
If you were any other you're unwanted?
Text books and ideals screaming
About thigh gaps with curvy bottoms,
Delicate fingers and thin arms
And how little girls shouldn't have a visible stomach.
Did they hear about little Mary's sobs in the night
Because no matter how much she pressed down
On her tiny uvula, her food wouldn't magically disappear?
When have mothers started caring more about their belly pouch than how their babies are crying every 6 seconds?
Was it in college when I had to attend a seminar
About how the perfect body has zero fat composition and if you did, you're probably lazy and incompetent.
Mothers and fathers whispering to each other
About how my mother wasn't skinny enough
And how her face wasn't caked with make up
Little do they know, my mother worked 24/7,
As a manager and a single mother of 4,.
She barely had time for looks..
Now here I stand in front of what I've feared for years since I was 13..
And I see.. I'm not so bad after all.
I've started loving the way my messy black hair barely reaches the plains of my shoulders,
I've started loving the humanity in my charcoal black eyes despite how empty they'd seem,
I've started loving the splashes of pink and red on my plump body as if they were constellations.
I've realized that my sarcasm and silly personality is not measured by the numbers,
That my motherly nature doesn't have anything to do with how I'm not curvy enough,
That people care about the ways my eyes shine more than they ever will about how my gut is showing.
More importantly.. I've started loving people more now that I do love myself.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
We’re drift dots...
Our bodies are bulletins behaving badly, running when we feel free– [afraid of our news feeds]...
With nowhere to hide, we’re learning psychological acrobatics to climb ahead of us inside...
With half our child’s eye missing, we’re mending and pretending, eyes set on our marvel...
Here, these humble bumble bees, clumsy and dignified, redefine...
Because there is more to us than our dull diaries suggest; than these pressured, parasitical playgrounds repress...
As we’re turned into clones in these city messes, we’re reminded of home in the simplest of places...
Our hyper-perceptive, cybernetic surge is tearing through us, and we’re drift dots searching, scattering timeless new love.
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 6:11 PM UTC
by: W. A. Marshall
I made the error
of checking the news
I rarely do that - anymore
dying death and attackers flight
court case narratives
Kubler Ross provisions
to lodge suspicious elites
denial and angry bargains
a process where authorities
preach their position
the bulletins remain unchanged
but my stage of hope
dwells there
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
To aerate, babble and procrastinate
decluttering man cave *******
welcoming this temperate
(Billy me) idle March thirtieth
tooth house sand nineteen
eventually to accomplish
sorting thru lifetime
worth miscellaneous
papered material former
rainforest, I banish
to the shredder repurposing
once upon a time
stately majestic humongous
dignified cub billed bearish,
yet stern silent taskmasters
razed forest mongers left blemish -
fueling the roaring engines
of western civilization
paper products service
material world feeding bookish
appetite, sans (ironic
knotty twist) printed
hot off the press bulletins,
bestsellers inform boyish
wordsmith, how vast
treeless tracts hasten
global abomination, chopping
degradation, lamentation... brownish
blotches encompass inert naked,
torchered, and zapped
originally pristine realms
overrun by sawyers brutish
Paul Bunyanesque (sporting
as good) fellas carved
cleared, and cropped enormous
swaths back when bullish
intruders displaced indigenous
peoples crowing manifest destiny
as mantra to appease expansionist
predilection frenzied cultish
zero sum game to annex
unbroken wilderness promulgating
feverish gold rush to demolish
wantonly scorching Earth,
whereby present day burgeoning
population irrevocably establish
ruination ushering ominous augury
permeating mine mortal mutterings.
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
Palmettos
No green screen
Truth behold the gloriful
Human creation
The beginning
Controlling time
Surveying a simulation
Gave me birth
The 1st
You see alot
But you cant see God himself
Any minute or second
I ask God
Can you hear feel and see me
Thoughts in the background
Zack im here
Im true
Wat do you
Achieve to seize
By birth
You are cursed
Bask in greatness
Let these holy fields feed
Fees an greeds
Starving no bulletins
You give an will recieve
Receed believe
Cherish perish global warning
Mass surrendering
Maybe everyone understanding
Thy command you shall
Go x tinct
Belief
Apr 4, 2024
Apr 4, 2024 at 7:37 PM UTC