"carboard" poems
sometimes we don't agree
but you know you're forever stuck with me
we'll sit in our carboard boxes
race around the block
pretend we're super heros
forever on the clock
All of a sudden we've grown up
getting our nails done downtown
the best days of our lives,
silently flying by
we've laughed through the best times
and we survived the worst
from late nights to early mornings
from carboard boxes to pedicures
sometimes we don't agree
but you know you're forever stuck with me
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
Twenty-somethings, homeless,
but with perfect fashion,
in muted greys and translucent lilacs
sit outside Union Square.
They have the coolest tattoos
and the coolest carboard signs,
all more transcendental and valuable
than the sidewalk they sleep on.
Some are tweaking, some are sleep,
some lean and have spit dribbling
from their burned lips as they drift
into a coma, like war heroes.
I want to give them a bowl
of my homemade vegan chili.
They can have cheese and sour cream,
depending how righteous they are.
I want to speak sweetly with their mothers
while they prune geraniums
along the cracked and faded sidewalk.
I wont smoke in their parent's garage
like an outcast uncle,
or have more than one beer with dinner.
The next day I’ll go back to the storefront
to explain everything I've learned, over
instant coffee and Entenmanns.
This time it's their turn to share wisdom
as 13th Street muscles from slumber,
achy under the weight of lost bodegas
and barbershops.
I’ve been told every homeless person needs a sign,
no matter what variation or breed.
Some write a new message every day, some stick to one,
but only a few don’t write anything at all.
“Not even gonna lie:
need money for bud.”
The pulse behind the sign renders words irrelevant.
The 500 year old Chinese woman captures the room
like a drunk teenager.
The oily scarecrow with a leather hat dances,
rattling his tin can.
Only occasionally will an assertive hungry hobo be satisfied
with a granola bar in place of anything less than Jackson.
“This is what it sounds like,
when the doves cry.”
Southern church bells ringing through dive bars filled with sinners.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 12:28 AM UTC
As I tossed you in your carboard coffin
Pieces of you I loved too often
Now shelves for dust and feelings softened
By time and intrusion
And lack of exclusion
Of the wickedness in you
I marveled at each fragment laid to rest
Photographs that caught you at your best
The scent I breathed while on your chest
Now I see your smile is lopsided
And the cologne you once prided
Yourself upon now reeks of decay
An imitation engagement ring
A crass, tinfoil, pitiable thing
Your last bid to try and cling
To a disenchanted free ride
Exhibit A to say you tried
To be half of what I deserved
A love letter in invisible ink
Clear for a moment till the words sink
Like a stricken ship upon the brink
So worn and frail from frequent view
Shoddy proof that you loved me too
A poor Exhibit B
Your faded tee I found comfort in
When doubts crept in of where you'd been
Now the costume of a man of tin
There is no road for you to follow
You have a heart, metal and hollow
For you, there is no place called home
For someone who seemed so central
This tiny box makes you seem incidental
Perspective for the seemingly monumental
You would fit nicely in the attic
A burial I cannot find tragic
I won't even need my black dress
Theres nothing worth embalming to preserve
Two strips of tape and to the curb
A resting place undisturbed
Till the grave robbers haul you away
You're no ones treasure, just trash today
A garbage truck is a proper hearse
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
we stopped believing the agora of the mind
our souls empty rooms colliding
full of amnesia on incessant roads
walls of flesh we were on the edge of terror,
steel confused with clarity
souls plucked like nails inside ruins
suffocated tales & archives of illusion
the shadow is closer to the center only
in the diaries of the blind
no hole of god is dead, we ***** fresh prophets
with inviolable gaze
for the sublime and holy in our sweat
believing is seeing the most lethal duel
the one and only the fake divine
who thinks alone on a road with no views
he planted spotlights in their eyes
for everybody to see only the world in his arms
hate kept in empty milk bottles
life is this schweitzer, passers-by were saying,
it has taste but only in foreign countries,
with their fists in pain caressing concrete asphalt turbines
as in quick sands no muscle was moving
carboard smiles unprotected against the evacuation of desire
wooden language didn't invent choice
no decomposition of the edges the totalitarian thought inside
the narcosis of time merciless
the clouds lost their sound we still don't look at each other
no hypothesis of sight no discharge for humiliation
wither souls made history grappling bending
twisting nonconsensual reality
no destiny for the allegory of truth
there are no angles of sight
facts become beasts
holy cannot be anybody's name
repelling of the heart beat
Mar 11, 2023
Mar 11, 2023 at 10:12 AM UTC
Whats left from the ball game
I walk through rows of soggy buns
And deluted beer
No one finishes:
Conrad creates a trash bag pancho
Brandon finds an unopened can of beer
Stephens still engaged to spider women
And the carboard folds like a soft taco
When I stuff tarter sauce in my water logged trash bag
I under stand trench warfare completly:
My toes are drowining
Andrew thinks hes a dog
Dwain gave up drinking six years ago
Allens speaking gibberish (we still love him)
I dont know why
Were here.
Each of us wear the same caps
Like a team of washed up minor league players
wondering why were still here
Even more when we have to work for the rain.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
stil so very stil
wrapped in my coffin shelter
of carboard and wood
my sleeping bag wears me like a second skin
it keeps me safe and warm
protects me from harm
mothers , shields , hides me away
if i close my eyes real tight
i can go anywhere i please
sunny beaches
sleepovers
camping with my family
trying to cook sausages and burgers
on the disposable barbicue
laughing , joking, healing, loving
being part of something good
if i close my eyes real tight
i can even fly
swim vast oceans
climb to the top of the highest mountains
heal the sick, end the poverty
i can sing, dance, even love
i can do anything i choose
i can even pretend my wrists dont hurt
and their is not blood seeping from them
from newly opened cuts
if i close my eyes real tight
i can lie in my sleeping bag
feel the life tickle and tricle from me
i can sleep, sleep, sleep
a kiss on the cheek
not a peep
i can even raise a smile
before i die
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 6:07 AM UTC
She writes in her diary
The events that's taken place
She locks in her dresser drawer
To hide it just in case
For it keeps all of her secrets
That's she's never told a soul
Things she's hidden in her heart
That no one will ever know
Its pages tell a story
Of her sorrow and her joy
Her memories wrapped in paper
That time cannot destroy
It holds her key to happiness
And even, the meaning of life
It tells of all her heartaches
That cut her like a knife
Her diary holds the mystery
Of where she's coming from
It tells of who she is
And who she wants to become
Pen and paper in a carboard box
Becomes a little girl's past
Her dreams, memories and heartaches
For as long as the binding lasts
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 6:26 AM UTC
I pretend to move on.
I pretend,
That it's easy to start over,
Again.
I put my stuff in boxes.
And it's,
Onto the next big thing.
I am sick of cardboard.
I am sick,
Sick,
Of carboard.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC