"carpeting" poems
it has been twenty years
since i once met him in person
once
we met in las vegas
and stayed at a cheap motel
in different rooms
and that is what i have been remembering
the most lately
is the cheap motel
as if there were marbles on the carpeting
of the motel floor
and i slipped on one
the marble game, just something to do
winner wins and keeps on winning
once i am tripped
even before i have fallen to the floor
for it is certain i will fall to the floor
tiny marbles to lose
tiny marbles rolling by
he aimed his tiny marbles at me
he shot his tiny marbles at me
i laid on the floor
for many years after
an easy place to be
got up, fell down, up once more
finally fell down and just stayed down
on the floor not seeing how
life could ever get decent again
a whole lifetime ahead of me
with no *** appeal
and nothing to fall back on
just a tiny marble
for my back to fall on
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 3:11 AM UTC
Expanding, contracting, waxing, waning.
On the edge of your seat, eyes drooping shut.
Enthralled by boredom, hairs standing on end.
Three bites deep in a paradox sandwich,
Garnished with an oh so subtle hint of neurosis.
Seduced by a routine predisposition.
Reason fading away into subtle redundancy.
Redundancy
Redundancy
Redundancy
REEEEEEDDDDDUUUUUNNNNDDDDDAAAANNNNCCCCCYYYYY.
Hey, would it be redundant...
If I said redundancy?
Did I say that already?
Yeah?
Better be sure cause homie don't play that.
(Which leads to the distinct and important point that there was once someone narrating this... hey wait. Well, who's doing it now? Seems sort of strange that these words are still somehow finding their way into your- oh wait, he's back!)
Or am I? How do you know?
Maybe...
I was just an illusion this whole time!!1!!11
...and then all of the sudden, it's 5:00 AM.
Again... seriously?
HOW DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING?!?!?!?!?!
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
THESE ARE YOUR HANDS AND THIS IS HOW YOU TELL THE FLAMES YOU'RE NOT ALL BAD.
THESE ARE YOUR THIRD DEGREE BURNS TO SAY YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WITH BONES MELTING IN TRUST ISSUES.
THESE ARE YOUR WRISTS, THOSE ARE YOUR KNEECAPS, THIS IS YOUR STORY.
THIS IS HOW YOU BITE YOUR TONGUE BUT STILL MANAGE TO LEAVE THE WORLD WONDERING HOW YOU COULD MATCH UP TO THUNDER'S HARMONIES,
THIS IS HOW YOU WHISPER TO MOUNTAINS AND KNOW THE PEAKS WILL HEAR YOU.
THIS IS HOW YOU TELL THE VOICES IN YOUR HEAD TO SHAKE HANDS WITHOUT STARTING AN EARTHQUAKE,
THIS IS HOW YOU TELL DEPRESSION TO LIGHTEN UP,
THIS IS HOW YOU GRAB ANXIETY BY THE SHOULDERS AND SING LULLABIES TO ITS LUNGS.
THIS IS HOW YOU WALK UP TO GOD AND RIP OPEN YOUR CHEST WITHOUT INTRODUCING YOURSELF FIRST AND ASK "WHY?"
THERE'S PAPER UNDERNEATH YOUR PILLOW,
THOSE ARE THE NOTES YOU PASSED TO YOUR BEST FRIEND IN THE THIRD GRADE WHEN YOU TOLD HER ABOUT YOUR FIRST CRUSH.
THERE'S A PAPER THAT'S BEEN IN YOUR BACK POCKET FOR A YEAR AND A HALF,
THE ONE NEXT TO YOUR RECEIPT FOR A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY AND STAIN REMOVER,
THIS IS THE NOTE SHE WROTE YOU A WEEK BEFORE HER FUNERAL.
THIS IS HOW YOU WASH YOUR JEANS WITH TWO CUPS OF 'TODAY I FORGOT TO REMEMBER TO FORGET'.
THIS IS HOW YOU COPE.
THIS IS HOW YOU LAY ON MUD STAINED CARPETING AND AND STARE AT YOUR BROKEN DOOR,
THIS IS HOW YOU CONVERT TO HARDWOOD FLOORS AND STRONGER DOOR HINGES.
THIS IS HOW YOU WIN A WAR WITH ONE BODY ON A BATTLEFIELD,
THIS IS HOW YOU SHOW A BLIND MAN THAT YOU CAN PAINT A GOD **** MASTERPIECE.
THIS IS HOW YOU REACH HEAVEN WITHOUT DYING, THIS IS HOW YOU KNOW HELL WITHOUT LIVING THROUGH IT.
THIS IS HOW YOU UNDERSTAND THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE, BY CROSSING PATHS WITH THE GUY THAT MADE YOU HATE WET PAVEMENT AND THE SMELL AFTER IT RAINS,
THIS IS HOW YOU HELD HIS HAND THE SAME WAY YOU HOLD A KNIFE, THIS IS HOW YOU LEARN FORGIVENESS.
THIS IS HOW YOU SMOKE WITH THREE LUNGS AND LOVE WITH ONE.
THIS IS HOW YOU STUFF THE PERSON YOU WANT TO BE IN A FORTUNE COOKIE AND LEARN PATIENCE.
THIS IS HOW YOU TELL PEOPLE YOU'RE NOTHING LIKE YOUR MOTHER. THIS IS HOW YOU SAY YOU HAVE YOUR EYES, NOT HERS BECAUSE THIS IS HOW YOU UNCLENCH YOUR HUSBANDS FISTS.
THIS IS HOW YOU LOSE SOMEONE THAT NEVER KNEW HOW TO BE ALONE, THIS IS HOW YOU WORRY.
THIS IS HOW YOU CONFIDE IN A HOSPITAL BED TO TEACH YOU HOW TO LET GO.
THIS IS HOW YOU LET THE NURSE WITH SHAKY HANDS TEACH YOU HOW TO TRACE THE STRAIGHT LINE ON YOUR HEART MONITOR AND BE OKAY AFTERWARDS. THIS IS HOW YOU LIVE AND ACCEPT DEATH.
THIS IS HOW YOU UNEARTH YOURSELF,
THIS IS HOW YOU STOP EXISTING,
THIS IS HOW YOU STOP FOCUSING ON LIVING AND BREATHE FOR YOURSELF.
THIS IS HOW YOU STOP THINKING AND FEEL.
THIS IS HOW YOU SPEND A LIFETIME TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHAT 'THIS' IS.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
"I'm sorry for being imperfect...I was born this way...there's nothing I can do about it but it doesn't matter cause i'm perfect in God's eyes."
i recall the perfect sounding pinpoint on a map
a theme park and a wonderful family
the aching cavities of cotton candy
a rollercoaster in the gut
and a mother who cares too much
and the problem of being a child who is always
fading out and pulsing with the lust of being almost free
running towards the exit eternally
and i remember jesus in the golden plastic picture frame
the silicone watches your daughters wore
and the pieces of polly pockets wedged into the carpeting
you blushed when i told my mother i found a tick on my arm
after playing dress up in your daughter's room
not everything holy is blessed
not everything unsaid is innocent
the sun and god are no better than a shepard
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
Wild geraniums collected
in pocket, red painted petal stains
my feet squish, squash in this forest
the earthy mud a mossy sponge
with fern and lichen the trees are hung
upon the ground greening with maidenhair fern
my satchel filled with dainty floral sprigs
in spring the sparrows gathering vine and twig
June's an efflorescent carpeting, soft with lady slippers
in summer the wildflowers and grasses wed
when celebrates all the flying things
wooded bees and butterflies in the sun
sparkling with faceted, glistening wings.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
Follow a poet for a day,
write a sonnet or
something universally beautiful.
I cut my bangs,
count to two.
Find myself with too much
time in the morning
sand in my socks,
dishes to do.
Walking heel-toe heel-toe
through the kind of grass
that reaches for your calves and
stands to your knees.
A collection of heartbeats
melting into AM radio.
Dark velvet dreams
long enough to bury your fingers in,
carpeting every bit of the floor.
Wafting streams of woven gasps
knees touching,
appreciating green.
Top button undone
eyebrows receding into the hairline
with an ear pressed to the glass.
Fear of nutmeg
clawing at my apathy,
remembering the west coast.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
The West End wanders in my recollection
like a quiet madman. All the times we were
reminded of the War, pointed out the bullet-riddled
walls of the Old Tate, the Arch, guided through the
rooms where Churchill walked. All that aside,
we looked to keep homesickness in its box with strong
black beer or red, by wandering Regent's Park strewn with
fallen gold, or the Garden's rioting roar of flowers, apples, oranges, potatoes and
all of it turning to the ceaseless industry of men and women.
Mystery was the grey-haired Underground men, grey clothes
stuffed with crumpled paper. Once, I stumbled on a scrap
of unreclaimed, timeless London: shattered glass and rubble
carpeting the dull ceramic tile. Ghosts and dusk entered
where ceiling once had been, the silence of a grainy,
blackandwhite Blitz echoing.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC
Autumn arrives
leaves are changing
falling
carpeting the paths in the woods
The first freeze has been and gone
and now warm again
it rains
and rains
and rains some more
it will be days
before we see the stars again
as nature takes a breath
and so do I
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
"granday"
its not a *******
twang,
like a rubber band loosened up,
you're like a white sheet
with absolutely no
wrinkles no
lint no
culture.
its not a droop of letters,
like the syllables are carrying old bathwater
on hunched spines;
you sound like dusty paper
left on the shelf too long.
its
"grande"
poner un verano en tus palabras.
put some summer into your words.
fill your mouth with mid-august sweat
and belt it out like a pistol,
bullets ripping the fabric of blue
sky.
you are a flame in snow,
your tongue is supposed to be dancing on the top of your mouth
when you say it,
"grande"
roll your 'r's like you would to tamales in
corn flour,
like you would your body in mud
carpeting every inch of your soul in dark, crusted
veneer,
stuck between your toes.
your tongue is supposed to be ***
exotic chocolate,
french rain.
your tongue is supposed to be like a wild motorboat upon
the raging ocean,
hitting the 'r's with savage animosity
"g-rrrrrrrr-ande"
none of these
"grandays"
words like plummeting wrinkles
under tired eyes, your lips like dead fish floating
shallow and flaccid
in lukewarm
soup.
like rotting fruit left out too long,
squashed, useless, a waste.
do not fill your mouth with
mierda,
****
poner un verano en tus palabras.
put some summer into your words.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
Mountains hold amongst themselves,
in each of their valleys,
shared between their neighbors,
an air of majesty.
Sit upon the peaks, peering into unknown forest
as the wind buffs your face clean of all obligations;
carpeting your thighs with a buttery smooth gentleness
that caresses your mind into relaxation.
Regal pines strike back against
the enormous pressure at sea level,
raising up to thin the air
and to thin your worry.
Here you are lost
in the grandeur of something greater
than yourself,
but never greater than it really is.
In the valleys shared between mountains,
on the windy peaks,
the mountains swallow you up,
absorb you.
And share with you, too
that majesty.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
Caustic doorway blues
The fog sets in,
and the moon doesn't glow
when brick structures crumble
Rats in worn carpeting, writhing
The screaming from pensive terminals
and insects live on dead wood
trees felled in hollow rounds
This is the end of something warm
These are days of hydrogen loneliness
and grey skies applaud the tarmac
Pornographers snap pictures
of silhouettes in garages
and the playground hears no love
when gunshots deafen the trees
and the old mattress is sodden
Stale alcohol pungency
near the alleyway, dormant today
But the lights are still glowing
in the house by the canal
where somebody's memories still linger
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
Yes, we shall walk through ferns as tall as our waist
And step over the beige colored mushrooms
We'll sit down and dream beside the creek
And let the melody of a cello and harp duet
Refresh us and give us strength anew
We'll live inside that old-fashioned home
With lovely wallpaper in nearly every room
We'll sit down together on the comfortable window seat
Overlooking the dreamy farm with tall, tall grass
And rustic fences here and there in those verdant pastures
We can sip cold Dr. Pepper on the privacy of our verandah
Enjoying the silence together--me and you
We'll stroll through gardens full of iris blooms
Take walks down our flowering cherry tree lane
Walk inside the beautiful forest with wild honeysuckle vines
And periwinkles carpeting the forest floor
Yes, we'll wander aimlessly all day
Maybe walk a few dogs and ride some horses
This is our dream that may never come true
But we'll keep on wishing for it--me and you
~Marian~
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
she paces down the dimly-lit corridor of a modern day ***** den
in a corner apartment, situated on the intersection
of **** carpet and depraved junkies
she knows she was raised better.
guided over heaping masses of humans
cigarette butts
and the burnt carpeting they create
she knows it's only getting worse.
her hands are clenched in tight fists
awaiting the moment
when she can finally loosen up
she knows her father loves her.
her fingers run along the wall
awaiting for a familiar feeling
something to remind her of something she loves
she knows these walls are nothing like her bedroom.
she and he sit down before a snowy television
he reveals a plastic syringe
beneath flickering florescent lights
she knows it's late.
he flicks his lighter and burns the needle
to sanitize it
leaving a layer of burnt black butane
**she knows it's still *****
laying down, a the warmed needle is placed on her arm
she ties her little league shirt tightly
around her forearm
she knows her father wouldn't be pleased.
after leaning back
she's reminded of her last flu
by the initial feeling
she knows nothing now.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
Whispering pine bows
caught in the slightest breeze
shift gently, from right to left
with a mild up and down action
dry needles float effortlessly
to settle on the forest floor
giving new depth
to the thick carpet.
Three red ants march
single file
scouting for food and fodder
strong enough to repair the mound.
With a flick of the antennae
the lead insect turns
towards a new scent;
each ant uses its mandibles to gather
whispering pine needles
gently carpeting
the forest floor.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
The wind’s rendezvous with the trees
Playfully kissing the leaves from slumber
Even the sun comes to join the play
Weaving its rays through the dewdrops
Drops of gold hanging from the leafy cradle
Wind as a messenger, passing on the messages
Even the animal kingdom has started to play
Caressing up the trees, the young ones at play
Camaraderie among the disciples on nature
Rich exchange of inter-nature musings
Skies have descended to pay heed
And pass on the messages to the intergalactic spaces
Integral part of the universe, carpeting this celestial body
The wind’s rendezvous with the trees
As the sun goes higher, its rays cuts across the thick foliage
Giving a ray of hope to the weeds and climbers
Babies of the animal kingdom, become playful
Oblivious of the surrounding and its grandeur
Nature’s stories are never-ending
It never fails to astonish the humankind
For we have lost the art of simple and careless talk
Losing touch with each other
Nature keeps the communication open
And there is a rendezvous every day, to discuss the nitty-gritties
Wind is the messenger among Nature and its being
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
You pass the gryphon house,
mythology perched atop like Snoopy,
And pick a lemefruitange from the
omni-citrus tree, and
You cross the threshold onto the
marshmallow carpeting of my brain, and
My monkey heart leads you by the hand
to the furtive frenzy of my
butterfly garden lungs, and
Through my eyes, you watch a movie
while a unicorn makes ice cream
on the comfy sofa of my
stereophonic
laugh . . . .
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
Red spatter across green.
Ants sing.
Caterpillars pour eggnog.
A tree is raised.
Bug Christmas.
Strands of Brown tinsel lead up.
Carpeting a tan oval.
Over the ridge, and onto a bridge.
A deep, sunken hole on either side.
Devoid.
The crows have had their feast.
Lower.
Agape.
A cave lined with whitish stones.
Further, the slope continues down.
Two mirrored hills.
Gouges are ravines,
creating flowing rivers.
Down,
the red till it touches green.
Above,
the sky is mesmerizing,
drawing me in.
White clouds transform.
The sun is gone.
Blotted out, but no rain.
Deeper.
A nearing roar.
Below is celebration.
Above the blades,
severity.
Paralyzed.
You ran me over with a lawn mower
and so the lawn was painted christmas.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
She sits and types
Watching smoke unfurling tenderly
Translucent wisps
floating heavenward from her fingertips.
She stares in the mirror, but her face
is lost behind a thick cloud
That folds and unfolds and contracts upon itself
Until it is, too, lost in space.
She practices blowing smoke rings,
watches the perfect little O’s escape from her mouth
like the ghosts of donuts,
While slivers of ash
gray, silver, white, black
Fall like confetti to the floor.
Bit by bit, they pile up over each other,
carpeting the ground with fire’s dead remains,
Silent carcasses of Flame’s once bright and dancing youth.
Slowly, gradually,
they cover her feet,
Reach her legs, her chest, her neck;
Encase her frozen face,
mouth still petrified in a ring-shaped ‘O’.
Again and again
tendrils of flaking white ash flutter down,
Mount higher and higher;
Smother her flat eyes, her brows, the tips of her pixie-cut hair
until there is no sign of the girl,
until she is gone,
Buried alive in the fragile, collapsible graveyard
with all the corpses
of her own smoke.
Aug 3, 2010
Aug 3, 2010 at 12:35 AM UTC
One day this building will become old and shabby
with peeling wallpaper, ratty carpeting, and cracking plaster.
One day the only option besides the wrecking ball will be
to sit and wait to die.
To crumble and decay,
to rust and fall to pieces.
Termites will find homes in the banisters,
moths will eat at the books left behin
by the pillaging teenagers that steal the furniture.
Chesterfields and repaired ottomans
will show up in the neighbourhood,
refurbished and reupholstered, saved for mother’s day.
No one was going to use them otherwise.
Better they don’t go to waste.
The old piano with the cracked keys
will slouch alone in the empty sitting room,
savouring what little memories weren’t scraped from this carcass
like the last of the peanut butter from it’s jar.
One day this building will disappear,
making a grave of it’s foundations.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
A broken swing set.
Dust carpeting the fractured terrain.
Lost, in forgotten memories.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Betrayal or indifference
the silent killer garbed in blue
the lacy attire
i'm spacebound and here it's all blue
I keep going higher
the hands you dealt me
iron or ice
hard and cold like the truth
The desert cactus
can't crawl to the oasis
all it does is gracefully wait
and looks upward to the blue sky
Following suite i look down
hoping you'll see
i'm lost and lonely
between the shades of blue of the sky
and the ocean
The wilted cactus and me
sailing the same blue boat
abandoned and castaway
aground
the anchor drowned
This is the end of all means
to keep afloat
and also the beginning
collecting the smithereens
Like seaweeds carpeting the ocean
and choking it to death
the silent killer garbed in blue
swallowed all my words too...
Which rolled down as tears
yes i cried
when you left
though you were hardly there
even when you were around
The solace now laid to rest
cemeteries of fallen cheers
the wilted cactus died
and i'm still spacebound
awaiting the same fate....
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
Maybe "Singing in the Rain" was really first doing laundry in the rain
Easter downpour, as solid as any I remember in Brooklyn, sans lightening
Big droplets, teaspoon size, coming down in successive sheets
like a hall of mirrors or glistening water, reflected further and further through
the misty air, and it's not cold, either, not muggy like Brooklyn
the air doesn't stick to your skin, cling to your body and line your nose
but the ***** water from the industrial sky still splashes on concrete
scattered small boiling mist of filth, oil, the mess of civilization,
the foaming "hidden creek" froths out from a concrete pipe behind this place
running underneath the parking lot, paved over like the river underneath 125th street in NYC
And I haul out my laundry, dragging it first across the ***** carpeting, then down the concrete
stairs, past remains of dust and play and gum turned black
until I reach the empty laundry room because who in their right mind would
do laundry on Easter in the middle of the downpour?
And I am dressed for it in a tank top and short skirt and the ***** rain hits my skin,
invigorates me, and I rush through it, smiling, listening to the remains of the creek
a shower of ***** water from a freshly polluted sky and I know no Broadway
dance moves and there are not street lights to cling to, only the inner ecstasy of
violating convention, droplets of water all over my chest, legs, being and I wash my hands
in icy rainwater flowing over someone's balcony like a refreshing waterfall
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
It's cold in here.
It's cold in here and my motivation is broken.
It's in the corner, down in a heap on my **** carpeting.
I should vacuum but i'm too brain dead to care about the state of my floor.
I'd rather lay here, in a heap on my bathroom floor,
Listening to gypsy punk and learning about burrow owls.
Later, my creativity is flowing.
I spit sentences onto sketchy pages
Cover them with subconsciously related pictures.
I rediscover drawing charcoal
And smear a dusky porch view out.
Glass boxes whir and ripple around me.
I fantasize about what it would feel like
To have my lungs flap open and sweep with water.
Sometimes I wonder if i'm dying.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
Quayside in Chiswick
Where the sun makes a rare appearance
Her warm presence invigorating happiness
Britain-wide
She mirrors herself in a pool of algae, green liquid
Otherwise known as the Thames.
Her reflection?
A glint of the nation’s happiness, carpeting the foot of a passing cruiser-
Now water lapping against the quayside
And as the boat glided under the rough steel bridge
A reminder of industries past,
Of our nation’s heritage.
Now the sun tucks herself away among the skyline of West London
And the snug trendiness of Barnes fades away.
Yet the memory stays
Of nothing much else better than being quayside
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC