"careen" poems
The elements have merged into solicitude,
Spasms of violets rise above the mud
And **** and soon the birds and ancients
Will be starting to arrive, bereaving points
South. But never mind. It is not painful to discuss
His death. I have been primed for this --
For separation -- for so long. But still his face assaults
Me; I can hear that car careen again, the crowd coagulate on
asphalt
In my sleep. And watching him, I feel my legs like snow
That let him finally let him go
As he lies draining there. And see
How even he did not get to keep that lovely body.
11.8k
There is no moral code
When time is an icy road
Where you cannot stop
Or you'll be stuck in the cold ground
When the temperature drops
Snow collects in my frosty frown
And starts to linger
On my frostbite fingers
While I keep sliding
On the line we're riding
I see icy roads
Leading to icy modes
Of acting
Impacting
The way we treat each other
The same way we beat each other
To the finish line
Of our frigid time
Time isn't nice
When it's ice
But it's all we know
Time continually goes
The challenges grow
Buried in snow
Trying to go uphill is a nasty nope
Sliding downhill is a slippery slope
If you momentarily lose your control
You're pulled over by the cops on patrol
Everything is covered in snow
Even the cars being towed
Their owners gave away their agency
And are at the tow truck driver's mercy
They rely on him to get them to safety
So they cunningly wear his jersey
There are things we want
Acquired by tease and taunt
We drive on top of bodies
To gain traction on the street
We do what is naughty
To have enough to eat
I careen through time
Without seeing a dime
Everything looks so plain
In this frozen rain
When the ordinary life
Is within my sight
I look for something more
Only to see a frozen door
There is ice on the road
There is ice in my heart
I can't handle the load
In the back of my cart
Until I decide
To abide
By the slide
And glide
On the edge of control and freedom
There are other cars and I'll lead them
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 2:03 AM UTC
Of all my misnomers,
Mistooks of arrogance,
To think I could career careen
A life
in poetry,
Extra pressure of the
Broadest of a narrowing sujet,
the scripting of poesy
on the restricted topical
of only love poetry
Must have been punch love drunk,
When that notion crazy stung
My cerebal,
Gored discor-ed cortex,
Probably just another
Post a Loving,
dreaming scheming moment,
Or reading a Shakespeare sonnet,
Or
Midst the long lonely pauses
somewhere,
*(S)under the rainbow,
tween teener and geezer,
and
Everything in between*
made myself a poet of a restricted diet
not "eating " for days at a time
for love comes and goes,
frequent departures much more easygoing & common,
than regularly scheduled arrivals,
easy go, not so easy come,
what was I thinking of?
what a she-muk,
talking about cutting your nose off
to spite your face,
Jul 20, 2025
Jul 20, 2025 at 8:13 AM UTC
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
Am I among those they write
deep in the threads of contempt?
For no one truly can be
a hero to all.
We all imagine the songs
powerful and triumphant
will someday be our own.
But what is desire?
What is the facade we wear
day in and day out
to power the most illusive masquerade?
What if the turn from my childhood
was never a turn at all?
Is it so strange, is it too far
of a line to draw
that I may be the villain?
Perhaps we're all simply searching
in desire for an adversary.
The call to arise, the call to spur us forth
from the pit too many have found as solace.
Now what if I am
not even a pawn
and barely a sheep
in life's great puzzle,
or is it a mystery
never to be solved?
I long for the moment
I'm desperate for change
I've bit the blind eye
And now I wish my own would remain shut.
So who or what is to say
that I won't snap like the thinning rope
caught in a chokehold?
My dear is the victim
and the fall is too far
to survive.
Where shall I be when
my final spin has spun?
Will I drag to a halt or
careen face-forward?
A gradual decay
or a shot to crack the wall,
either way I may merely be
the villain.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
Remember, one Summer,
street was closed for construction
We'd careen through the roads
near each other's homes.
Wheeling through dreams on our bikes
in the swelter
we'd reach for the sky 'neath the cottonwoods'
dome.
Some nights, I still walk through those
baseball glove hours--
those sweat-smelling days
and
those Kool-Aid stain weeks.
And I can still feel that
pubescent laughter
which lived in my chest
and
still pounds for release.
I've leased some apartments
and filed my taxes.
I've broken some promises
and
I've been destroyed
And I've been rebuilt, but never rebranded
Those
Summer time sunsets
tattooed on my sinews,
they just wouldn't have it.
Sep 1, 2022
Sep 1, 2022 at 1:06 PM UTC
Caught myself amidst the wilderness
Where I was neither born nor raised
It always appeared so, so strange a place
No place for a child
My heart resided in the certain and familiar
Now I wonder where it longs to take me
Desire's inbound with unflinching insistence
But perceived reasons stake me to the ground
Curious odors, pulsating flashes, prickling noises, voracious appetites
The atmosphere overwhelms me senseless
Am I here to enjoy or to observe?
My chains answer with invisible weight
Now comes the rainbow-colored mist
Is this a magician's home--a flourishing disguise?
Sparks and shadows scatter into the expanse
All I see is a vista like the blessing skybox
Desire will you take me?
Lead the boy out of his crib built by the safe
Who are one and the same
Sitting, allowing the box for forge us
A light of the mist careen's my way
Its pleasant sting spreads, boundaries finally disintegrate
Remains litter the ground, I'm finally free
I'm finally lost
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
.
*One day at a time
swings the pendulum;
only love awakens senses
too ephemeral to be restrained,
like the magic of a phonograph stylus
in a vintage vinyl groove
and the sensual touch
of skin so new
It's not easy to watch
a flock flying away
in the distance,
seeing the expanse beyond
reach of a wandering mind;
heed distracted
by the slow sway
of the treetops hypnotic careen
Doves dive on feathered canter,
silent as the winged wind,
broke free from the gravity
befallen the weight
of the world
Looking up wondering
beyond the sky,
the passing clouds
crawl across
palliating the dusk hazed horizon
Synchronicity transcends across
an immeasurably deep river chasm,
into a wordless abyss
ensconced unthought
between
here and there
Silent silhouettes
glide across
the valley void below,
wings to the sky
and, if you listen to a moment breathe,
you can hear
the silent peace .............
you can feel the prevailing wind's direction
blowing through your soul*
Jesse Stillwater
December 2017
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC
My wounds bleed war paint and
there’s an air of mischief on your tongue.
When chaos propels itself on our sweet plans
we are reminded of our wavering energy to hiss past the unexpected.
An appetite for freedom can’t sustain starving artists.
I often imagine life as a black and white silent film.
Those rust-tinted spectacles stay concrete on the bridge of my nose,
Dancing giraffe-men on stilts boisterously
taunt the congressman on his crackberry,
ask him what he’s livin’ for.
Give me your half-drawn dreams to hide in, give me your blood.
Because mosquitoes never tire of kicking you when you’re at your lowest.
Give me your childhood ambitions and carefree summer nights, and
you’ve got guts, kid,
you’ve got guts,
to careen over rooftops in search of a paradise.
Sway in narrow alleyways in the major cities and
feel the warmth of life occurring.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 5:34 PM UTC
Up from the deep
Water breaks in diagonal sheets.
The skies careen off and away
Red arrays.
Universe of musculature
A foot in a sandy detour.
Indirect to purpose
Skin and flow.
Dries on the gilded bank
Wild hair set flat.
A thousand atmospheres taken
Into a single ozone breath.
After a time, stoops
By the multiform to look.
Stones heavy-
Light enough to carry.
To the mouth wide
And bitten dry.
The water wears everything
So the teeth can split.
A fortnight of spite
And the treacherous bite.
He returns to the sea
With a headful of light.
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
i fantasize about stomping on the gas,
hitting the accelerator
as i approach the on-ramp
for the 408,
launching like a rocketship
headed straight for outer-space.
careen into the concrete
headlong—
scatter my brains
and body-parts across the wall
like a ******* splatter painting.
as lights blur together above me,
my head goes hazy,
dazed in this fugue state,
half-awake and thinking absently
of the city-lights
drifting listlessly overhead
like unidentifiable flying objects,
hovering over this interstate.
i wish they'd beam me up.
kidnapped by aliens,
taken to a galaxy far, far away
so i could forget
the contours of your face.
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 12:51 AM UTC
I was once convinced
Everything would
work itself out.
Every problem had a solution
Every fixation, an axis
Every point? purposeful.
Certainly time was an equation.
Solving the question of final age
was merely the addition of years
and the subtraction of moments
our vices swallowed.
Everything was orderly.
Numbers in a row.
Empty boxes, waiting to be checked.
DNA strands coiled ceremoniously
into my exact composure
worried about me so I wouldn't have to.
Days flaking off like dandruff,
unsightly flecks of fragility,
floating toward irreversible fate.
I would live until I wouldn’t.
I would teeter
...skid
....careen
through hours, anxiously awaiting
never taking a breath to rest and reflect.
Death was algebra.
I was subtracted from morality,
added it back as fatality.
Evening out- solving for X,
My many quaking days
having lost their grip.
~
Life is not math.
Life is trash recycled into sporadic moments that won't last.
Simplicity was never synonymous
To consciousness.
Sentient beings will always suffer.
Words will never suffice
When the feelings are out of place.
Attempts at descriptive narrative
only feel like a forced hand,
a poor play.
My slippery fingers are arthritic,
clutching at the vapors
of moments before mistakes.
I've never kept anything I loved.
I have ****** out of hate
more than I have out of lust.
I was always what I wanted to be
never was what I needed to be
And when desire ran dry
I always settled in the dust of desolate decisions.
The bell curve never helped with my grades
And this learning curve can’t help me find my place.
C.e.M. Aug. 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
The chill that crawls in the cytoplasm
and
folds in against itself damasked and dynamic
but it wasn't the climate's bite
the pea gravel stone cemented into place
boarding up the fluid monument
poured up and leveled by its creator
but it wasn't the stone
digging into my heel
pressing on the once broken bone
that reminded me that this
THIS
is not the way i ordered my hamburger
and no
it wasn't any thing growing atop
my flimsy wrapping
pale and hairy
and then nothing
inside me and resting
along the walls of my longest tract
digesting my food along side me
even still
more base
it wasn't any amount of matter condensed
shooting
firing between two neurons
reminding me of half truths
or lies
blatant ones
which can careen me back
into places better left forgotten
no
what i felt there
with wet feet and cold quivering hands
was something that
despite what i would love to believe
CANNOT be measured
that which drew me from
every one of the places
that should be connected
but aren't
to a love
manifested as suspicion
that placed both egg and seed
in the same envelope
of
both disgust and admiration
**** you Vicky
whoever you are
****
you
and all the cold
******** lice
and the pressure
the memories
they all try to drag me away
to a place where I cant see
what they desperately try to convey
one to another
and
our brilliant star moves from behind
one iridescent pink gossamer puff
sparkling for a moment
back behind another
it's warming
but it doesn't reach back
for your had
no request for your warmth
and yet
every fiber aches
for the moment when you careen
back into it
or when everything you know
is compressed back into it
that
that little moment
where everything and nothing make sense
like two dogs speaking french to each other
as long as they both know how to
howl
not just how to
how is simple.
but when
and why
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
Look Both Ways Before Crossing the Street
by Winston Lee & Enigmuse
Thoughts: they careen through my head like
cars in the midst of rush hour. I search for
one car in particular. My head is the foundation
of an unconstructed civilization, and I find myself
to be a tourist in the depths of my own mind. I
know all too well how easy it is for others to get lost
in the enigmatic chaos that is my head but I won’t
lose you. I am nothing, compared to the blinding lights
and insistent, blaring sounds, all warring for your attention.
I wander the streets with the sad, distant thought
that maybe I’ll glance up and find your headlights
slicing through the grey overcast. I’d even settle
for the looming red glow of your pretty, quiet
tail lights. But I know you’re long gone and your
lights are long out. The sad and beautiful part about
my mind is that I’m trapped here. And I believe I’d
still be searching for you, even if I didn’t want to. I’m
am a slave to my own thoughts, I am in love
with my mind’s creations. And while I’m well aware that
you are but a figment of my infinite imagination, I will do
everything I can to continue to believe in you.
I am merely a second of time, while you’re the hours
the days and the weeks; I am only for a moment and
you seem like an eternity. The people I pass on the street
know something I don’t - everyone seems to have
figured out how to live with their demons, while mine
like to play keep-away with my sanity. They look a lot like
you. Every time you cross my mind it sounds a lot like
contorting metal and the shrieks of pedestrians. I suppose
we’ve got a lot in common with a car crash.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
Scarves. high collars,
or extra mascara
hide the brownish-purple
disfigurement wrapped
around her throat.
Part of her being
is scarred with
remnant traces
inflicted from traumatic
scenes endured
during his rage.
Horrific echoes
careen around her brain
like video clips replaying
the self-hatred he
spilled upon her.
His crazed lashes
struck her
bone deep.
Musty smells
from those moments
linger among her nostril mucus.
She carries on
distracted with moments
near tranquil music
or beside still brooks
and squawking crows.
Each day she captures
views of sunrise
and sunset while chanting
mantras to unknown gods
striving to complete
her forgiveness.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
You find yourself alone at last
amongst the masses.
Out where the sunset sits
cross-legged in the sky,
staring downward through
the evening.
Such beautiful backdrop
for such ugly company,
all of it painted on canvas;
ochres, violets, varying
shades of autumn gray.
Find yourself bummed out
on the side of the curb,
sharing insults
with the passing traffic.
Even the devil has company,
but here you are alone,
sharing cigarettes and
cheap conversation with
the cement.
Night comes without urgency
and you are left in it;
bad breath and
a dense, colored
evening air that
burns the lungs
with coming winter.
The pub sign down the road
leans out from her window,
peering scornfully down
through her thick, iron grates.
Red and blue lights
blink disapproval against the pavement.
But maybe that rough pavement
can almost feel sweet
to the touch.
Maybe that rough pavement
can be soft; a woman's curve,
if you get it just right.
The old beer bottle
leans in and tells
you a terrible secret
before putting his cap
back on, strolling
off into that setting sun.
Skipping rocks
off an ocean of rubble
and asphalt
before they careen
into the grass.
Even the devil has company,
but sometimes it is
not so bad to be alone.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
Hate is so hard to conquer, every single day
When half of my hate is sent my own way
Love is hard to acquire, when I lack a face
That keeps the pride to tie my own lace
I cannot wake up in the morning
With a valid reason
So, I bide my time adorning
My mind’s acts of treason
The seasons fly
And I will be conquered
Like a fly
Beholden to its scroll of anatomy
Dissecting its brother
And niece
And now I careen
Cajole myself
Into callow hedonism
Shallow as it may be
It is profound in its posture
And depraved at a glance
I will conquer the palms
With every ligament that moves
With every rotten tree groove
While my mother approves
I can only improve
My lonely psalms
The Qabalah balms
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
if you look up in a room
the complete spectrum of light
flashing over your shoulder
like flashbulbs sparkling
first of all
turn around
the stage is the other way
if as you careen the 180
notice all the funny faces
grinding and wide eyed
flailing and stamping
you don't look too dissimilar
now the man bouncing
behind the music he
made last week
jumping
like you
wide eyed
congratulations
you are there
the dubstep show
now calm down
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
We descend gently
into the deep well
of the pianoforte
As the sun streams down
from above
the echoes of love and longing
arise from below
You and I
have not come this way before
So step gently
and have every care
A world where I lose you
cannot exist
In truth
it would be
an outrage against nature
And if
God forbid
such a thing were to happen
I would wrap the sky
in a blanket of grief
a blanket so dense
that the sun would fail
the stars flicker and dim
I would turn off every light
erase every word
There would be no peace
because I would make war
against every continent
my armies would occupy
every city
I would plant a black flag
on the moon
and place a grieving footprint
upon the Sea of Tranquility
And I would cry
that no tranquility
can henceforth exist
in any place
Finally
I would set out
with scant provision
on an odyssey
that would make Ulysses weep
Few would weigh my grief
yet the earth itself
would careen briefly
off the elliptic
as the weight of my heart
altered its comings and goings
causing every creature still breathing
to look up in fear
So stay, friend.
It must be that I go first.
And you remain behind.
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
Mother tried to be a decent mother
in the weeks ahead of Christmas.
she’d fill the month with Advent calendars,
finger countdowns and splotchy
un-successful attempts to create a
joyful face with lipstick.
In hindsight maybe the weight
of her guilt was especially heavy during
the one month of the year that God
could not be ignored.
Its different now.
God is no longer privy to X-mas,
and guilt is not an appropriate emotion
to be taught to children.
I was more afraid
of mother during Christmas
than at any other time of the year,
all that fake smiling and brittle kindness,
her strings could snap at any moment,
and you knew they would
you just didn’t know when,
or how, or on who.
“It always snows at Christmas!”
mother said as she reached
out my bedroom window to
gather a handful of fresh powder.
She’d bring it in to show me
and I’d wince and cringe because
her movements were erratic
and unpredictable
like a puppet on strings, her
arms swinging wildly
from side to side,
knees jerking up and down
across the floor
she’d always end up
spilling snow on my bed.
I think the snow helped numb
what it was that she hid,
helped her hide behind
that painted wooden smile,
if only for a little while.
My memories of snow
are quite vivid.
I’d shovel snow into
tall piles, taller than I stood
then build tunnels
to the other side.
I jumped off of rooftops
into huge snowdrifts
and come up with
sleeves full of snow.
My friends and I would
latch onto bumpers of
slow moving cars
and “skeech” through
the neighborhood,
or careen down toboggan
runs on our feet,
face planting
at the bottom where
the ice gave way
to fresh snow.
When I turned 16
we’d hide Old Style Beer
in snow drifts,
build ice forts in the forest
and spin donuts in
St. Mary’s parking lot with
open beers in our laps
and never get caught.
As I see it now
all of these things
helped ease the
burden of confusion
with my mother’s
dis- interested
wooden puppet
smiling,
but her guilt ridden
attempts at
Christmas niceties
were never going
to be enough
to keep me from
becoming
dysfunctional.
You see its all about the snow.
A life embraced by snow.
snow cut into lines,
Encapsulated snow,
spoon melted snow,
any kind of snow
to numb the extremities
and freeze the nerve endings,
a temporary escape from
the Christmas gift
of mother’s guilt.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
Nothing special left to say
but got a hundred thousand words
A hundred thousand fireflies
caged up behind the teeth
Quite a mouthful--Quit your shiver-
-ing and open up to speak
If they should listen, this time
Brand new words will greet their faces,
reinforcing fond embraces with fresh breath
and--any luck--a brace of good advice
1) Come around more often.
We care and you forget
Fast as years careen these days
the months and weeks can get
declensive,
dent you,
Deepen lines on once-young faces--
So come around
Remember.
2) Stay in lofty spirits
And surrender late debts
List off last year's enemies
Rip out that page and let
your clothes dry
dive in
Feet first if you want to; why not?
But do the diving.
Don't forget.
If not then mouth will open
a hundred thousand sparking points
Released into the night to no one's
sight or understanding
Noncommittal? Cop to mirrors
Reflection fades out grey to white
Thickly fogging breaths will empty
out a chest and tile the night air
Wield an ashy look and when lakes
freeze over, find a way across
to shining shores
the water's span, a world away.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
as you turn away
your face wanes
like the face of the moon
hair, billowing black
and white shades
enlace from east to west
love tastes like
the vastness of the
starred space above
and below
it is sound ceaselessly echoing
off the walls of a canyon
the galaxies careen
outward in the endless dark
like spores, searching
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 5:46 PM UTC
I am the emptiness that exists in the kitchen
at such hours, late and lonely.
I can operate only in this space,
at night when the answers become irrelevant
and the present tense becomes the past.
I rely on the sporadic sounds of movement of traffic below the window.
I am the scratchy sound of death cab
on the Buick’s aged speakers.
I claw at the insides of the aluminum
and seep out through cracked windows.
I shore myself against a distant past
despite better judgment.
I am born of the vivid summer heat.
I ride the train to the loop
and back out to the city’s extremities,
like blood through a body.
I sweat under layers of wool humidity.
I am the concrete paving the boundless suburban streets.
I exhale tar and forest
as the rain begins to fall, long after dark,
cooling the still-hot surface.
I crave the tires and feet that brace themselves against me.
I am the slow moving clouds at dusk, the color of tea.
I ignite as the sun slouches toward the horizon.
I consume the jets that depart from O’ Hare in every direction.
I am familiar laughter, striking ears in palpable waves.
I move most freely though vicious August heat,
But even in such passive chilled air, I proceed.
I careen toward what has been named peace,
though it’s been forgotten over the years.
I have fled the immortal city for one more ageless.
I crave the smell of the death of summer.
I pass into a state of suspension
like the bodies that surround me, never born but built.
I trace the veins and find no flesh,
but only bones beneath them.
I stretch willing to bridge the gaps that exist.
I am the tangled freeways moving among one another
in the heart of a city accused of being heartless.
I am guiltless in the face of isolation.
I hold blood hostage on a daily basis.
I am lethargic, gold-soaked afternoons
Bearing such spacious skies.
I lie beneath gilded light
like the lazy palm lined streets.
I am the trembling airwaves,
And I disarm the distance itself.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
They call me, kids, the Kool-Aid Man
Because I mix it well;
And when I mix the Kool-Aid, man,
It hits you hard as hell!
The trip's a scream; it's rotten; it's mean;—
It casts an evil spell;—
It's a fast, full-throttled, steep careen
Into the bowls of hell!
And only heroes can drink it, kids,
So, pour it down; it's swell
For erasing egos, erasing ids,
And making heroes as well!
O.O
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC