"cabs" poems - Hello Poetry

"cabs" poems

We're almost touching. we were walking side by side, you're talking about cabs in your hometown. I can feel the gravity of your hand, calling my fingers whispering "it's alright." We're touching but not quite. you held my shoulder to protect me from the passing cars. and for the first time in a long while, I felt so fragile. In this world where I find it hard even to breathe, you believed me. I almost said it. All I need is one ounce of strength to tell you every single thing that I have ever felt about you. I want to find home in your collarbones. Would you be kind enough to let a stranger in? I want to seep in your being because I'm cold. The world is harsh and my cracks are aching. Almost.

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Mar 19, 2018

Mar 19, 2018 at 5:46 AM UTC

This is how girls with anxiety love

We're almost touching. we were walking side by side, you're talking about cabs in your hometown. I can feel the gravity of your hand, calling my fingers whispering "it's alright." We're touching but not quite. you held my shoulder to protect me from the passing cars. and for the first time in a long while, I felt so fragile. In this world where I find it hard even to breathe, you believed me. I almost said it. All I need is one ounce of strength to tell you every single thing that I have ever felt about you. I want to find home in your collarbones. Would you be kind enough to let a stranger in? I want to seep in your being because I'm cold. The world is harsh and my cracks are aching. Almost.

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my bones stick out so much I should feel good like fat like privilege and power but these things are fleeting like my body like the conversion I had with you I never meant to bring up semi truck cabs artist’s sketch tables I only meant to move you into the city like a good friend like a walk in the park or a trust fall into the pool blues I say this is the strife they sing about and everyone loves it and eats it with peanuts allergies? no thank you. green smoothies? no thank you. a good morning text? well, maybe if I still like you if I can still stand to be in the same room with myself to go bowling to go on hikes to meditate all these things I hate and my bones they’re smooth and splinter when bitten and my bones they glow like uranium in the mirror good morning blow good morning blush good morning white boy good morning, Andrew

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May 21, 2016

May 21, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC

my bones stick out so much I should feel good like fat like privilege and power but these things are fleeting like my body like the conversion I had with you I never meant to bring up semi truck cabs artist’s sketch tables I only meant to move you into the city like a good friend like a walk in the park or a trust fall into the pool blues I say this is the strife they sing about and everyone loves it and eats it with peanuts allergies? no thank you. green smoothies? no thank you. a good morning text? well, maybe if I still like you if I can still stand to be in the same room with myself to go bowling to go on hikes to meditate all these things I hate and my bones they’re smooth and splinter when bitten and my bones they glow like uranium in the mirror good morning blow good morning blush good morning white boy good morning, Andrew

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They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving river, Barred with silver and black. Cabs go down it, One, And then another, Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. Tramps doze on the window-ledges, Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. The city is squalid and sinister, With the silver-barred street in the midst, Slow-moving, A river leading nowhere. Opposite my window, The moon cuts, Clear and round, Through the plum-coloured night. She cannot light the city: It is too bright. It has white lamps, And glitters coldly. I stand in the window and watch the moon. She is thin and lustreless, But I love her. I know the moon, And this is an alien city.

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9.9k

A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.

They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving river, Barred with silver and black. Cabs go down it, One, And then another, Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. Tramps doze on the window-ledges, Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. The city is squalid and sinister, With the silver-barred street in the midst, Slow-moving, A river leading nowhere. Opposite my window, The moon cuts, Clear and round, Through the plum-coloured night. She cannot light the city: It is too bright. It has white lamps, And glitters coldly. I stand in the window and watch the moon. She is thin and lustreless, But I love her. I know the moon, And this is an alien city.

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I yell and I frantically wave But no one hears a silent scream And taxi-cabs don't stop for ghosts

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Aug 16, 2014

Aug 16, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC

I yell and I frantically wave But no one hears a silent scream And taxi-cabs don't stop for ghosts

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Hometown girls are real with you. If they don't like you, they'll even make their ***** look ugly; pulling them in all the way to the tops of their thighs through their buttholes and you can smell the stench in your brain. But when they let you in, when they let you sit on their ears, it's like warp-drive. They smoke virginia slims, because that's what their mom's smoke, and the bags under their eyes are filled with nicotine, but they're pretty bags, purses of flesh full with the kinetic beauty of coal. Hometown girls are mostly black, mostly white, fifty-fity, but nobody's checking and when they whisper something nice in your ear it's colored with a microbrew or a wheel of Jim Beam. Sometimes they'll take you by the wrist into the bathrooms; sometimes they'll take your drink when you're not looking and smile when you catch them with it on their lips. But that smile is good even, on par with a supernova in its ability to crush and make beautiful. But most of the time, they stand around outside Casbah and Motorco --if they're bougie it'll be West End-- in the middle of the night under the porch of the sky looking out with amber slitted eyes like cats, their legs twitching thoughtfully as they wait for cabs and pick at the night. Hometown girls are sexy/beautiful because they'll watch your every move from the gallery out of empathy, knowing they've been that ***** before, knowing they've been that lonely, knowing they just want to get drunk and want to be around randoms that aren't so random.

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Mar 9, 2012

Mar 9, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC

Hometown Girls.

Hometown girls are real with you. If they don't like you, they'll even make their ***** look ugly; pulling them in all the way to the tops of their thighs through their buttholes and you can smell the stench in your brain. But when they let you in, when they let you sit on their ears, it's like warp-drive. They smoke virginia slims, because that's what their mom's smoke, and the bags under their eyes are filled with nicotine, but they're pretty bags, purses of flesh full with the kinetic beauty of coal. Hometown girls are mostly black, mostly white, fifty-fity, but nobody's checking and when they whisper something nice in your ear it's colored with a microbrew or a wheel of Jim Beam. Sometimes they'll take you by the wrist into the bathrooms; sometimes they'll take your drink when you're not looking and smile when you catch them with it on their lips. But that smile is good even, on par with a supernova in its ability to crush and make beautiful. But most of the time, they stand around outside Casbah and Motorco --if they're bougie it'll be West End-- in the middle of the night under the porch of the sky looking out with amber slitted eyes like cats, their legs twitching thoughtfully as they wait for cabs and pick at the night. Hometown girls are sexy/beautiful because they'll watch your every move from the gallery out of empathy, knowing they've been that ***** before, knowing they've been that lonely, knowing they just want to get drunk and want to be around randoms that aren't so random.

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Black cabs and ab-dabs. Dashing through London streets, High heels and crippled feet. Back street bars, wealthy sheiks, ever running, Hide and seek. Black panther's in lippy, Colourful hippies. Turbans and tunics, Kiddies in cotton, with mud on their bottoms. Big Whigs and stiff prigs. Market stalls and rubber ***** Undergrounds and all around. City beats, it's hopping on. On and off off of buses and train. London love life, kicking pain. Picks up his drink and thinks like a fish. A couple more beers, three seconds of fun. Slipped into his glass. Glass one, two three, Freedom four. Needs more. (c) LIVVI

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Mar 21, 2015

Mar 21, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC

Black cabs and ab-dabs. Dashing through London streets, High heels and crippled feet. Back street bars, wealthy sheiks, ever running, Hide and seek. Black panther's in lippy, Colourful hippies. Turbans and tunics, Kiddies in cotton, with mud on their bottoms. Big Whigs and stiff prigs. Market stalls and rubber ***** Undergrounds and all around. City beats, it's hopping on. On and off off of buses and train. London love life, kicking pain. Picks up his drink and thinks like a fish. A couple more beers, three seconds of fun. Slipped into his glass. Glass one, two three, Freedom four. Needs more. (c) LIVVI

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for Sylvia Plath O Sylvia, Sylvia, with a dead box of stones and spoons, with two children, two meteors wandering loose in a tiny playroom, with your mouth into the sheet, into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer, (Sylvia, Sylvia where did you go after you wrote me from Devonshire about rasing potatoes and keeping bees?) what did you stand by, just how did you lie down into? Thief -- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long, the death we said we both outgrew, the one we wore on our skinny ******* the one we talked of so often each time we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston, the death that talked of analysts and cures, the death that talked like brides with plots, the death we drank to, the motives and the quiet deed? (In Boston the dying ride in cabs, yes death again, that ride home with our boy.) O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer who beat on our eyes with an old story, how we wanted to let him come like a sadist or a New York fairy to do his job, a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib, and since that time he waited under our heart, our cupboard, and I see now that we store him up year after year, old suicides and I know at the news of your death a terrible taste for it, like salt, (And me, me too. And now, Sylvia, you again with death again, that ride home with our boy.) And I say only with my arms stretched out into that stone place, what is your death but an old belonging, a mole that fell out of one of your poems? (O friend, while the moon's bad, and the king's gone, and the queen's at her wit's end the bar fly ought to sing!) O tiny mother, you too! O funny duchess! O blonde thing!

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6.2k

for Sylvia Plath O Sylvia, Sylvia, with a dead box of stones and spoons, with two children, two meteors wandering loose in a tiny playroom, with your mouth into the sheet, into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer, (Sylvia, Sylvia where did you go after you wrote me from Devonshire about rasing potatoes and keeping bees?) what did you stand by, just how did you lie down into? Thief -- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long, the death we said we both outgrew, the one we wore on our skinny ******* the one we talked of so often each time we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston, the death that talked of analysts and cures, the death that talked like brides with plots, the death we drank to, the motives and the quiet deed? (In Boston the dying ride in cabs, yes death again, that ride home with our boy.) O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer who beat on our eyes with an old story, how we wanted to let him come like a sadist or a New York fairy to do his job, a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib, and since that time he waited under our heart, our cupboard, and I see now that we store him up year after year, old suicides and I know at the news of your death a terrible taste for it, like salt, (And me, me too. And now, Sylvia, you again with death again, that ride home with our boy.) And I say only with my arms stretched out into that stone place, what is your death but an old belonging, a mole that fell out of one of your poems? (O friend, while the moon's bad, and the king's gone, and the queen's at her wit's end the bar fly ought to sing!) O tiny mother, you too! O funny duchess! O blonde thing!

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neon lights skyscrapers busy streets blank faces empty pockets innocence lost in thin air. overturned truck honking cabs bumber to bumper broken rib missing tooth bruised eye. rotten flesh distant shadows scattered bullets cardboard signs wailing women hushed tones. pinch of salt freshly squeezed lime shot glass vape juice white cloud euphoria.

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Nov 8, 2017

Nov 8, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC

maine-dela-cruz

Metropolitan Shot Glass

neon lights skyscrapers busy streets blank faces empty pockets innocence lost in thin air. overturned truck honking cabs bumber to bumper broken rib missing tooth bruised eye. rotten flesh distant shadows scattered bullets cardboard signs wailing women hushed tones. pinch of salt freshly squeezed lime shot glass vape juice white cloud euphoria.

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Hare Krishna's In their Pickups Depressed Comics Down on their Luck Teenage Girls Screaming Meme's ****** Pinko's* Leftward Leaning Vincent Price Flo and Eddie Rodger Rabbit Priscilla Presley Nuns in Habits Dwarf's in Ponchos Deadbeat Dads Munching Nachos Right-Wing Nut Jobs Trading Slogans A few Hero's Including Hogan Are just a few of the sights you see At the front gates of Graceland Memphis, Tennessee Buddhist Monks With Electric Banjos Holding Signs Up Of Marlon Brando Taxi Cabs Blaring Show Tunes Pregnant Women Down-loading Soon Derby Jockeys Flying Monkeys Kool-Aidholics Skittle Junkies Bozo The Clown Bumper Stickers Psychedelic Crazed Toad Lickers Rhinestone Cowboys In their Skivvies Gothic Girls Heebie Jeebies Are just a few of the sights you see At the front gates of Graceland Memphis, Tennessee Blue Haired Granny's In pink Moo Moos Ballerina's In Tattered Tutus Mathematician's Number Crunchers Even have Some Out to Lunchers Model 50's *Do *** Daddies* One More Round Of Flo and Eddie People Sneaking Across the Border Lonely Fry Cooks Taking Orders A Few Wannabes Not Saying Much Will The Real Elvis Please Stand Up Are just a few of the sights that you see At the front gates of Graceland Memphis, Tennessee Thank you...Thank you very Much Ladies and Gentlemen Elvis...Has Left The Building

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Mar 12, 2013

Mar 12, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC

The Front Gates Of Graceland

Hare Krishna's In their Pickups Depressed Comics Down on their Luck Teenage Girls Screaming Meme's ****** Pinko's* Leftward Leaning Vincent Price Flo and Eddie Rodger Rabbit Priscilla Presley Nuns in Habits Dwarf's in Ponchos Deadbeat Dads Munching Nachos Right-Wing Nut Jobs Trading Slogans A few Hero's Including Hogan Are just a few of the sights you see At the front gates of Graceland Memphis, Tennessee Buddhist Monks With Electric Banjos Holding Signs Up Of Marlon Brando Taxi Cabs Blaring Show Tunes Pregnant Women Down-loading Soon Derby Jockeys Flying Monkeys Kool-Aidholics Skittle Junkies Bozo The Clown Bumper Stickers Psychedelic Crazed Toad Lickers Rhinestone Cowboys In their Skivvies Gothic Girls Heebie Jeebies Are just a few of the sights you see At the front gates of Graceland Memphis, Tennessee Blue Haired Granny's In pink Moo Moos Ballerina's In Tattered Tutus Mathematician's Number Crunchers Even have Some Out to Lunchers Model 50's *Do *** Daddies* One More Round Of Flo and Eddie People Sneaking Across the Border Lonely Fry Cooks Taking Orders A Few Wannabes Not Saying Much Will The Real Elvis Please Stand Up Are just a few of the sights that you see At the front gates of Graceland Memphis, Tennessee Thank you...Thank you very Much Ladies and Gentlemen Elvis...Has Left The Building

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The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke. For view there are the houses opposite Cutting the sky with one long line of wall Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch Monotony of surface & of form Without a break to hang a guess upon. No bird can make a shadow as it flies, For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung By thickest canvass, where the golden rays Are clothed in hemp. No figure lingering Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye Or rest a little on the lap of life. All hurry on & look upon the ground, Or glance unmarking at the passers by The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages All closed, in multiplied identity. The world seems one huge prison-house & court Where men are punished at the slightest cost, With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.

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3.9k

In a London Drawingroom

The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke. For view there are the houses opposite Cutting the sky with one long line of wall Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch Monotony of surface & of form Without a break to hang a guess upon. No bird can make a shadow as it flies, For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung By thickest canvass, where the golden rays Are clothed in hemp. No figure lingering Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye Or rest a little on the lap of life. All hurry on & look upon the ground, Or glance unmarking at the passers by The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages All closed, in multiplied identity. The world seems one huge prison-house & court Where men are punished at the slightest cost, With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.

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horns squawk rainforest avenues exoskeleton of cars arteries clogged with unlovely taxi cabs fat green fruit for sale five languages merge into a knot hisses kiss vowels kiwis apples pears black guys basketball debt rises like blood pressure stocks tumble but we walk brogues clop on concrete count brick after brick sun cascades over roof slates mind cracks in slabs (you say Monroe stood here) heat quivers men are dominoes suits for the office a funeral designer sneakers daddy paid for pigtails cheap thrills violet octagons on a stranger’s neck (behind the closed doors) today I drink purple water aubergine lips remind me of a Tuscany Superb list the names Houston Charlton Leroy Sullivan Perry Cornelia Dominick and Jane (ladders lead away from me close to you) and back again

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Jun 21, 2014

Jun 21, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC

reece-aj-chambers

horns squawk rainforest avenues exoskeleton of cars arteries clogged with unlovely taxi cabs fat green fruit for sale five languages merge into a knot hisses kiss vowels kiwis apples pears black guys basketball debt rises like blood pressure stocks tumble but we walk brogues clop on concrete count brick after brick sun cascades over roof slates mind cracks in slabs (you say Monroe stood here) heat quivers men are dominoes suits for the office a funeral designer sneakers daddy paid for pigtails cheap thrills violet octagons on a stranger’s neck (behind the closed doors) today I drink purple water aubergine lips remind me of a Tuscany Superb list the names Houston Charlton Leroy Sullivan Perry Cornelia Dominick and Jane (ladders lead away from me close to you) and back again

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~ dad said she'd be famous ~ *"...a doctor or diva like lena horne,"* he said he'd been doing odd day jobs and driving cabs deep into the night through these mean city streets since ella's debut at the apollo and his smile grew wider than jackie o's reservoir in central park when this bouncing baby girl made her grand debut into his world the dimples on her cherub caramel cheeks were irresistibly pinchable and those twinkling eyes knew she'd be spoiled infinitely like a fruit-fly in a box of rotten apples ~ reality check ~ ....if you look closely you might still see one dimple; but the twinkles departed back in '75 ....and the burns on her fingertips and blistered lips ....and the bones.... jutting like the bones of refugees and anorexics ....missing flesh ...and the tracks on her forearms and filthy jeans .....and the eyes.... shifting like the eyes of senators and thieves ....telling lies .....and the rotting corpse in a black garbage bag in fresh kills multiple choices removed from the doctor and diva of daddy's dreams hijacked by dream-killers: *smack crack and addiction* ~ P (Pablo) (8/1/2013)

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Aug 1, 2013

Aug 1, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC

james-g-paul-sr-aka-pablo

Daddy's Dreamgirl...

~ dad said she'd be famous ~ *"...a doctor or diva like lena horne,"* he said he'd been doing odd day jobs and driving cabs deep into the night through these mean city streets since ella's debut at the apollo and his smile grew wider than jackie o's reservoir in central park when this bouncing baby girl made her grand debut into his world the dimples on her cherub caramel cheeks were irresistibly pinchable and those twinkling eyes knew she'd be spoiled infinitely like a fruit-fly in a box of rotten apples ~ reality check ~ ....if you look closely you might still see one dimple; but the twinkles departed back in '75 ....and the burns on her fingertips and blistered lips ....and the bones.... jutting like the bones of refugees and anorexics ....missing flesh ...and the tracks on her forearms and filthy jeans .....and the eyes.... shifting like the eyes of senators and thieves ....telling lies .....and the rotting corpse in a black garbage bag in fresh kills multiple choices removed from the doctor and diva of daddy's dreams hijacked by dream-killers: *smack crack and addiction* ~ P (Pablo) (8/1/2013)

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She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt. When I first saw her smiling face It was a good old summers day She had moved down from the city And I hoped that she would stay We played games out in the haystacks We ran races through the corn Turn left and hit the river Turn right, you're lost till morn She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt. She occupied my dreams then And still does to this day Back then I hardly new her I just hoped that she would stay Short shorts and Gingham dresses made her look the country part But high heels and silk organza Tugged the city in her heart She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt. We'd go to high school hoedowns And dance like no one else was there But when she heard Big Band Music She was dreaming of Times Square She loved to go out touring In my pickup through the crops But in my heart I knew she missed The sounds of taxi cabs and cops She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt. She stayed here all through high school But I knew deep down it had to end I knew if I tried to say "I Love You" she'd say "I love you like a friend" She knew I'd never leave here And I knew she had it made If she went back to the city And stopped her country masquerade She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt. It was two weeks past commencement When I told her what I thought Then I dropped down to me knee right there And I showed her what I'd bought I looked into her smiling eyes And prayed that she'd say yes Would she choose to stay in Daisy Dukes Or go back to her chiffon dress I'll let you guess the answer By the way I end this poem But I'm still here in the country And she's waiting now at home. She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt.

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May 26, 2012

May 26, 2012 at 7:08 PM UTC

Pretty City Country Girl

She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt. When I first saw her smiling face It was a good old summers day She had moved down from the city And I hoped that she would stay We played games out in the haystacks We ran races through the corn Turn left and hit the river Turn right, you're lost till morn She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt. She occupied my dreams then And still does to this day Back then I hardly new her I just hoped that she would stay Short shorts and Gingham dresses made her look the country part But high heels and silk organza Tugged the city in her heart She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt. We'd go to high school hoedowns And dance like no one else was there But when she heard Big Band Music She was dreaming of Times Square She loved to go out touring In my pickup through the crops But in my heart I knew she missed The sounds of taxi cabs and cops She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt. She stayed here all through high school But I knew deep down it had to end I knew if I tried to say "I Love You" she'd say "I love you like a friend" She knew I'd never leave here And I knew she had it made If she went back to the city And stopped her country masquerade She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt. It was two weeks past commencement When I told her what I thought Then I dropped down to me knee right there And I showed her what I'd bought I looked into her smiling eyes And prayed that she'd say yes Would she choose to stay in Daisy Dukes Or go back to her chiffon dress I'll let you guess the answer By the way I end this poem But I'm still here in the country And she's waiting now at home. She's my pretty city country girl She's something I can't lose Is she livin' in the country or the city, she must choose You know I really love her She's the one I really want But if she moves off to the city It's my heart she'll stay and haunt.

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Cancer isn’t catchy so I can ride in cabs and Work for a While longer Try not to Resent the Unaffected Cancer isn’t catchy so I can hold our Daughter and hug her when She cries And borrow her Teddy When I need him Cancer isn’t catchy so You can stand By my side Eat with me And let me Wear your shirts And boxer shorts Cancer isn’t catchy so You can kiss me All the time Lay next to me And dry my eyes When all this pain Is just too much Cancer caught me so I’ll have to Leave you soon I want your face And hers To be the last things I ever see

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Jul 18, 2010

Jul 18, 2010 at 11:35 AM UTC

gabrielle-hamberger

Cancer Isn't Catchy

Cancer isn’t catchy so I can ride in cabs and Work for a While longer Try not to Resent the Unaffected Cancer isn’t catchy so I can hold our Daughter and hug her when She cries And borrow her Teddy When I need him Cancer isn’t catchy so You can stand By my side Eat with me And let me Wear your shirts And boxer shorts Cancer isn’t catchy so You can kiss me All the time Lay next to me And dry my eyes When all this pain Is just too much Cancer caught me so I’ll have to Leave you soon I want your face And hers To be the last things I ever see

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It’s so late I could cut my lights and drive the next fifty miles of empty interstate by starlight, flying along in a dream, countryside alive with shapes and shadows, but exit ramps lined with eighteen wheelers and truckers sleeping in their cabs make me consider pulling into a rest stop and closing my eyes. I’ve done it before, parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy, mom and dad up front, three kids in the back, the windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath. But instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette, play the radio low, and keep watch over the wayfarers in the car next to me, a strange paternal concern and compassion for their well being rising up inside me. This was before I had children of my own, and had felt the sharp edge of love and anxiety whenever I tiptoed into darkened rooms of sleep to study the peaceful faces of my beloved darlings. Now, the fatherly feelings are so strong the snoring truckers are lucky I’m not standing on the running board, tapping on the window, asking, Is everything okay? But it is. Everything’s fine. The trucks are all together, sleeping on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps, and the crowded rest stop I’m driving by is a perfect oasis in the moonlight. The way I see it, I’ve got a second wind and on the radio an all-night country station. Nothing for me to do on this road but drive and give thanks: I’ll be home by dawn.

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3.4k

It’s so late I could cut my lights and drive the next fifty miles of empty interstate by starlight, flying along in a dream, countryside alive with shapes and shadows, but exit ramps lined with eighteen wheelers and truckers sleeping in their cabs make me consider pulling into a rest stop and closing my eyes. I’ve done it before, parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy, mom and dad up front, three kids in the back, the windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath. But instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette, play the radio low, and keep watch over the wayfarers in the car next to me, a strange paternal concern and compassion for their well being rising up inside me. This was before I had children of my own, and had felt the sharp edge of love and anxiety whenever I tiptoed into darkened rooms of sleep to study the peaceful faces of my beloved darlings. Now, the fatherly feelings are so strong the snoring truckers are lucky I’m not standing on the running board, tapping on the window, asking, Is everything okay? But it is. Everything’s fine. The trucks are all together, sleeping on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps, and the crowded rest stop I’m driving by is a perfect oasis in the moonlight. The way I see it, I’ve got a second wind and on the radio an all-night country station. Nothing for me to do on this road but drive and give thanks: I’ll be home by dawn.

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fast forward three years you're living on the coast binding books and your hips together and i'm still in the small town that turned me into a sinkhole you got out though, huh? you got out just fine, you have always been stronger than me you have always been able to get well and get up without anyone bringing you bouquets of hands you sit down to explain to her that love has made you reckless, that too many people have been easygoing with your heart; let it cross the streets alone. drunkenly leaving it in cabs in other countries so for a while there you weren't sure who to give it to my dear, I know now that you were never a hotel I could check in and check out of you were in the best way possible, the mental hospital, the time I woke up with nobody but the voices in my head (they were all yours) (I couldn't leave until I got better) you tell her you fell in love with a girl who never burned your letters, who showed love in all the wrong ways, never picked up the phone, "honey", you'd say, "she was nothing like you" ... "kept her hair light to contradict the dark inside of her, didn't trust anyone to blindfold her and walk her down the street" you try to tell her my name, but you can't you can't remember what they call me, call me, call me, I never picked up the phone fast forward three years you're living on the coast making love and mixed drinks a little too strong and i'm buried near the sinkhole in town, next to the dog my dad kicked a little too hard out the door of the house he lived in with my mother i've got your name tattooed on my neck

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Oct 18, 2014

Oct 18, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC

fast forward three years you're living on the coast binding books and your hips together and i'm still in the small town that turned me into a sinkhole you got out though, huh? you got out just fine, you have always been stronger than me you have always been able to get well and get up without anyone bringing you bouquets of hands you sit down to explain to her that love has made you reckless, that too many people have been easygoing with your heart; let it cross the streets alone. drunkenly leaving it in cabs in other countries so for a while there you weren't sure who to give it to my dear, I know now that you were never a hotel I could check in and check out of you were in the best way possible, the mental hospital, the time I woke up with nobody but the voices in my head (they were all yours) (I couldn't leave until I got better) you tell her you fell in love with a girl who never burned your letters, who showed love in all the wrong ways, never picked up the phone, "honey", you'd say, "she was nothing like you" ... "kept her hair light to contradict the dark inside of her, didn't trust anyone to blindfold her and walk her down the street" you try to tell her my name, but you can't you can't remember what they call me, call me, call me, I never picked up the phone fast forward three years you're living on the coast making love and mixed drinks a little too strong and i'm buried near the sinkhole in town, next to the dog my dad kicked a little too hard out the door of the house he lived in with my mother i've got your name tattooed on my neck

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It's London, all the time, when at night I close my eyes, it's when and where I get to roam and dwell, in the city I know inside-out so well, where all the narrow streets and cobbled stones, teacups, pint glasses, and fresh scones, lend themselves into the misty English air, of London's ancient, yet so modern flair, of Piccadilly, and Hyde Park Corner's box, riding Black Cabs, or a big Red Double-Bus, evening gas-lamp walks with ol' Saucy Jack, fish and chips and shandys for a perfect snack; then the changing of The Guard at Buckingham, where native Cockney's and young mums with prams, gather for a view of Lizzy's Royal Family Show; but, my, how rich the April sun sets and does glow, over the rolling raging river Thames of yore, where ancient Roman armies marched to shore, proclaimed: LONDINIUM! -the regal rest, of civilised peoples and the Royal Crests, where lives and deaths would go and come, yet The City despite all odds has lost and won, in the hearts, souls and minds of all who take, great London as their true hearth and home to stake, and arise and fall the poet's versing nights and days, whilst Big Ben chimes his toll in the foggy haze; and alas, London from my slumber dissipates, to that of which I yearn and love, asleep or wake, knowing where my home of soul-keep lies divine: in London, my dear London; it's London, all the time. ______ London: http://beautyineverything.com/3366195864

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Oct 27, 2010

Oct 27, 2010 at 7:31 PM UTC

It's London, all the time

It's London, all the time, when at night I close my eyes, it's when and where I get to roam and dwell, in the city I know inside-out so well, where all the narrow streets and cobbled stones, teacups, pint glasses, and fresh scones, lend themselves into the misty English air, of London's ancient, yet so modern flair, of Piccadilly, and Hyde Park Corner's box, riding Black Cabs, or a big Red Double-Bus, evening gas-lamp walks with ol' Saucy Jack, fish and chips and shandys for a perfect snack; then the changing of The Guard at Buckingham, where native Cockney's and young mums with prams, gather for a view of Lizzy's Royal Family Show; but, my, how rich the April sun sets and does glow, over the rolling raging river Thames of yore, where ancient Roman armies marched to shore, proclaimed: LONDINIUM! -the regal rest, of civilised peoples and the Royal Crests, where lives and deaths would go and come, yet The City despite all odds has lost and won, in the hearts, souls and minds of all who take, great London as their true hearth and home to stake, and arise and fall the poet's versing nights and days, whilst Big Ben chimes his toll in the foggy haze; and alas, London from my slumber dissipates, to that of which I yearn and love, asleep or wake, knowing where my home of soul-keep lies divine: in London, my dear London; it's London, all the time. ______ London: http://beautyineverything.com/3366195864

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A quiet life A country life Where the grass sways in the breeze And the hues of green signify the beginning of balmy nights A far cry from the city Gone are the endless vibrant lights Gone are the 2 a.m. trips across town just because they make the best doughnuts In this place of air almost too clean to breathe They stroll A traffic jam is four cars at a stop sign Battling rules of the road with polite hat tips of "you go first" Fast feet and hot dog carts Italian ices on every corner Fifty-six blocks to a destination A world of choices A billion footprints at a time Stoplight crowds of sneakers and pantyhose Everyone is invisible and naked at once The green haired freak and the business man The limos and the gypsy cabs The excitement only felt in a world of possibilities The difference between pick up trucks and bike messengers A hundred miles for supplies Or fifty-six blocks of everything under the sun Soot filled pores and too much traffic Street sounds to sleep by and a world of opportunities Crickets and junebugs The world closes at eight Nightlife turns into Wal-Mart and Taco Bell The slow pace of growing grass The warmth of a winterless Summer Wishing for a trip across town at 2 a.m. just because they make the best doughnuts

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Apr 25, 2015

Apr 25, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC

Grass and Concrete

A quiet life A country life Where the grass sways in the breeze And the hues of green signify the beginning of balmy nights A far cry from the city Gone are the endless vibrant lights Gone are the 2 a.m. trips across town just because they make the best doughnuts In this place of air almost too clean to breathe They stroll A traffic jam is four cars at a stop sign Battling rules of the road with polite hat tips of "you go first" Fast feet and hot dog carts Italian ices on every corner Fifty-six blocks to a destination A world of choices A billion footprints at a time Stoplight crowds of sneakers and pantyhose Everyone is invisible and naked at once The green haired freak and the business man The limos and the gypsy cabs The excitement only felt in a world of possibilities The difference between pick up trucks and bike messengers A hundred miles for supplies Or fifty-six blocks of everything under the sun Soot filled pores and too much traffic Street sounds to sleep by and a world of opportunities Crickets and junebugs The world closes at eight Nightlife turns into Wal-Mart and Taco Bell The slow pace of growing grass The warmth of a winterless Summer Wishing for a trip across town at 2 a.m. just because they make the best doughnuts

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I want it to last like a hurricane of love in a drought of loneliness secluded buildings branch our ways like center parts and subways like taxi cabs full of compliments homeless people full from harvest books stacked high next to a fan a tone that reminds me that you are calling my name like a terror erased by your care a print out of your work next to a scrap copy of my own a wall full of canvas you just fill me in

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Oct 5, 2012

Oct 5, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC

briana-hailey-ferenczy-1

I want it to last like a hurricane of love in a drought of loneliness secluded buildings branch our ways like center parts and subways like taxi cabs full of compliments homeless people full from harvest books stacked high next to a fan a tone that reminds me that you are calling my name like a terror erased by your care a print out of your work next to a scrap copy of my own a wall full of canvas you just fill me in

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Remember those city nights we spent inhaling the marijuana and halal truck tinted air that fills the space between the skyscrapers? Glowing storefronts illuminated both the skies with their stars glistening quietly under coats of dust and the streets, dense under ***** and ***** spilled by boys who yell obscenities to girls who hang their heads low, ashamed to be happy to have their push up bras appreciated. It was the summer we read Catcher in the Rye religiously. We were overflowing with privilege and hating privilege. Oh god, how we thought we hated privilege back then. In June we graduated from middle school, and you found out your father was cheating on the woman he cheated on your mother with. In July you kissed a boy for the first time, even let him feel you up a little. I couldn't help getting uneasy, even though you said it was nothing. Most nights we couldn’t contain ourselves, shouting ideas fast as the taxi cabs who'd nearly run our still-growing bodies to the ground, always in a hurry to get home to their own sleeping children. We raged rebellion against the red lights. There was no time to wait around for things as unimportant as people who weren't us. In August, I took a klonopin pill from my mom’s drawer because I couldn’t stop the dread beneath my skull. It made me sleepy. We were so filled with poems and wine copped at art galleries where we’d feigned intellectuality, that we'd see a *** on a subway train and call him a vagabond. Back then we thought we knew how life worked like the palms of each others hands. By September, albeit, our fingers were calloused from the time we climbed a playground's wire fence, twisted the caps off beer bottles, and swung from the Monkey Bars.

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Jul 12, 2013

Jul 12, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC

New York Babies at Night Time

Remember those city nights we spent inhaling the marijuana and halal truck tinted air that fills the space between the skyscrapers? Glowing storefronts illuminated both the skies with their stars glistening quietly under coats of dust and the streets, dense under ***** and ***** spilled by boys who yell obscenities to girls who hang their heads low, ashamed to be happy to have their push up bras appreciated. It was the summer we read Catcher in the Rye religiously. We were overflowing with privilege and hating privilege. Oh god, how we thought we hated privilege back then. In June we graduated from middle school, and you found out your father was cheating on the woman he cheated on your mother with. In July you kissed a boy for the first time, even let him feel you up a little. I couldn't help getting uneasy, even though you said it was nothing. Most nights we couldn’t contain ourselves, shouting ideas fast as the taxi cabs who'd nearly run our still-growing bodies to the ground, always in a hurry to get home to their own sleeping children. We raged rebellion against the red lights. There was no time to wait around for things as unimportant as people who weren't us. In August, I took a klonopin pill from my mom’s drawer because I couldn’t stop the dread beneath my skull. It made me sleepy. We were so filled with poems and wine copped at art galleries where we’d feigned intellectuality, that we'd see a *** on a subway train and call him a vagabond. Back then we thought we knew how life worked like the palms of each others hands. By September, albeit, our fingers were calloused from the time we climbed a playground's wire fence, twisted the caps off beer bottles, and swung from the Monkey Bars.

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Drunken texts and phone calls at 3am Forbidden fantasies of you and me Stumbling through the city to find where you might be It's all a trick isn't it, An impossible dream. Your apartment door shakes, Oh it aches for me. Taxi cabs being forced to drive. You send me away, No. Not tonight.. Lipstick kisses and tired hearts. I always take it that little bit too far.

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Oct 29, 2014

Oct 29, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC

Drunken texts and phone calls at 3am Forbidden fantasies of you and me Stumbling through the city to find where you might be It's all a trick isn't it, An impossible dream. Your apartment door shakes, Oh it aches for me. Taxi cabs being forced to drive. You send me away, No. Not tonight.. Lipstick kisses and tired hearts. I always take it that little bit too far.

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In your next letter I wish you'd say where you are going and what you are doing; how are the plays and after the plays what other pleasures you're pursuing: taking cabs in the middle of the night, driving as if to save your soul where the road gose round and round the park and the meter glares like a moral owl, and the trees look so queer and green standing alone in big black caves and suddenly you're in a different place where everything seems to happen in waves, and most of the jokes you just can't catch, like ***** words rubbed off a slate, and the songs are loud but somehow dim and it gets so teribly late, and coming out of the brownstone house to the gray sidewalk, the watered street, one side of the buildings rises with the sun like a glistening field of wheat. --Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid if it's wheat it's none of your sowing, nevertheless I'd like to know what you are doing and where you are going.

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2.1k

Elizabeth Bishop

In your next letter I wish you'd say where you are going and what you are doing; how are the plays and after the plays what other pleasures you're pursuing: taking cabs in the middle of the night, driving as if to save your soul where the road gose round and round the park and the meter glares like a moral owl, and the trees look so queer and green standing alone in big black caves and suddenly you're in a different place where everything seems to happen in waves, and most of the jokes you just can't catch, like ***** words rubbed off a slate, and the songs are loud but somehow dim and it gets so teribly late, and coming out of the brownstone house to the gray sidewalk, the watered street, one side of the buildings rises with the sun like a glistening field of wheat. --Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid if it's wheat it's none of your sowing, nevertheless I'd like to know what you are doing and where you are going.

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im a let that bass set back to the view you been checking me at you be asking me questions like do you not love yourself? ***** better check yourself i would have taken my strap to the back of my right cheek fat sprayed my old gang with shrap the blood and my skull by the scrap so please bare with me child will you ever see we on the attack this country that we born in, is the enemy to the ones that we once had turning itself into the biggest group of bang so now that you are stuck in this whirlwind insane ready to die, bonnie and clyde , two thousand and nine when you gonna see that this dynamic duo dont make the world turn with our voodoo they dont know whats going on here they too busy across seas in the world so what we doing 85 when we ride they just wiped out a whole **** tribe two bullets holes instead of their eyes world dont even take this country seriously they have us on every angle no peers just the enemies, spitting prophecies made in their fears that we gonna collapse everyone put money in us by the wraps too many kids going to bed starved when other fat *** mother ******* grow too many vegetables in their yard turn nutrition into trash, so what if they compact all you old *** troops, still living in the war that we had were a whole planet of warriors, let alone were the home to the worst and the best of the wickedly out of the world celebrate your serial killers, and dead rulers, not even with curls so even tho it took Jimmy Henchman seven days the reaper follows me in ever track that i lead believe that I never write the realest **** i ever spoke knowing the secrets of the underworld let me bleed shouldn't have ever seaked out the truth they wrote setting all the serpents septers after me, black cats shotty caps, bullet scraps, hub cabs, and shorty tats Grim Reaper oxyacetylenes in my dreams chrome gleams Protected by the Prince of Air, setting things right first in my dreams

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Nov 8, 2013

Nov 8, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC

frances-lazarus-blackheart

im a let that bass set back to the view you been checking me at you be asking me questions like do you not love yourself? ***** better check yourself i would have taken my strap to the back of my right cheek fat sprayed my old gang with shrap the blood and my skull by the scrap so please bare with me child will you ever see we on the attack this country that we born in, is the enemy to the ones that we once had turning itself into the biggest group of bang so now that you are stuck in this whirlwind insane ready to die, bonnie and clyde , two thousand and nine when you gonna see that this dynamic duo dont make the world turn with our voodoo they dont know whats going on here they too busy across seas in the world so what we doing 85 when we ride they just wiped out a whole **** tribe two bullets holes instead of their eyes world dont even take this country seriously they have us on every angle no peers just the enemies, spitting prophecies made in their fears that we gonna collapse everyone put money in us by the wraps too many kids going to bed starved when other fat *** mother ******* grow too many vegetables in their yard turn nutrition into trash, so what if they compact all you old *** troops, still living in the war that we had were a whole planet of warriors, let alone were the home to the worst and the best of the wickedly out of the world celebrate your serial killers, and dead rulers, not even with curls so even tho it took Jimmy Henchman seven days the reaper follows me in ever track that i lead believe that I never write the realest **** i ever spoke knowing the secrets of the underworld let me bleed shouldn't have ever seaked out the truth they wrote setting all the serpents septers after me, black cats shotty caps, bullet scraps, hub cabs, and shorty tats Grim Reaper oxyacetylenes in my dreams chrome gleams Protected by the Prince of Air, setting things right first in my dreams

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in the backs of cabs that reek of stale ***** blue salt specks are dragged against their will to rest in the ridges of the floor mats. fluorescent confused cubicles of light flashing by- your mind fighting to make shapes out of the blur. it’s january, this is everyone’s mood. fingers folded into fists, stuffed into nylon pockets, catching your breath and watching the scenery swirl past like the entire horizon is made of melting wax. you’re replaying day old conversations, analyzing cryptic eye movements and body language of those people that strike you so suddenly. those strangers that have pushed and shoved every defense and nestled themselves into every fiber of your being. you sicken yourself with these sappy adolescent romantic bouts but they’re the only thing keeping you alive. you don’t know these people. you don’t even know yourself. the cab driver mumbles something over the radio and your attention is brought back to the present. he’s on the phone- that’s illegal. you’re a little concerned- your life does lie in the shivering hands of a stranger who boredly grasps and curves a wheel, after all. but you play it cool, you turn to nihilism- it’s easier this way. death is fine. the cab driver is passing your house while you’re swatting at questions. you uncomfortably raise your quiet voice for a few hesitant notes. “Here is fine!” you urge to the driver while a fumbling hand shakes down your pockets for a twenty. there’s your house- standing just as you left it through the white mystery patches on the back window. chock full of memories and problems and decay and warmth. everything seems to rest so calmly in the palms of the bittersweet. tell the stranger to have a goodnight. he returns the favor. everyone needs to hear these things- it’s january, after all.

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Apr 13, 2013

Apr 13, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC

mackenzie-j-greer

red ears / rustling coats

in the backs of cabs that reek of stale ***** blue salt specks are dragged against their will to rest in the ridges of the floor mats. fluorescent confused cubicles of light flashing by- your mind fighting to make shapes out of the blur. it’s january, this is everyone’s mood. fingers folded into fists, stuffed into nylon pockets, catching your breath and watching the scenery swirl past like the entire horizon is made of melting wax. you’re replaying day old conversations, analyzing cryptic eye movements and body language of those people that strike you so suddenly. those strangers that have pushed and shoved every defense and nestled themselves into every fiber of your being. you sicken yourself with these sappy adolescent romantic bouts but they’re the only thing keeping you alive. you don’t know these people. you don’t even know yourself. the cab driver mumbles something over the radio and your attention is brought back to the present. he’s on the phone- that’s illegal. you’re a little concerned- your life does lie in the shivering hands of a stranger who boredly grasps and curves a wheel, after all. but you play it cool, you turn to nihilism- it’s easier this way. death is fine. the cab driver is passing your house while you’re swatting at questions. you uncomfortably raise your quiet voice for a few hesitant notes. “Here is fine!” you urge to the driver while a fumbling hand shakes down your pockets for a twenty. there’s your house- standing just as you left it through the white mystery patches on the back window. chock full of memories and problems and decay and warmth. everything seems to rest so calmly in the palms of the bittersweet. tell the stranger to have a goodnight. he returns the favor. everyone needs to hear these things- it’s january, after all.

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