"cashier" poems
The State of My Tagalog:
Stuttering.
Guess that's what you can call it.
The insecure prose that curls downward
On my notebook.
It reeks of bit
And piece
And syllable.
Singular
Because language
After language
After language
Enter my mind
And slip it
Just as quickly,
Leaving only
Fragments.
Oh, the frustration
As I ask
For loose change
From
My sister cashier.
I can't even ask for
The right amount
In Tagalog nowadays.
"Singkwenta."
"Bente."
That adds up to 75, I think.
Passing score on my
Report card too.
My self-graded Filipino class.
Don't even know
How I managed
To spell "Ibarra,"
"Tanikala," "himagsikan,"
"Liwayway..."
I'd sing and not spell,
If they never caught
At the bottom of my throat.
-------------------------------------------
Ang Kalagayan ng Aking Tagalog:
Nauutal.
'Yan ang pwede **** sabihin sa ‘kin.
Walang tiwala sa sariling gawa,
Patunong pababa ang mga salita
Sa aking kwaderno.
Ito’y sumisingaw ng piraso
At bahagi
At pantig.
Nag-iisa
Dahil wika
Bawa’t wika
Bawa’t wika
Ay pumapasok sa aking kalooban
At umaalis
Ganun ding kabilis,
Naiiwan ang mga
Kaputol lamang nito.
O, kay inip
Habang ako’y humihingi
Ng barya
Kay Ateng Kahera.
‘Di ko nga kayang
Humingi ng tamang halaga
Sa wikang Pilipino ngayon.
“Singkwenta.”
“Bente.”
Ito ay pitompu’t lima, ata.
Pasang awa rin
Sa aking report kard
Sariling pagmamarka sa Filipino.
‘Di ko nga alam
Kung paano 'kong
Naisusulat ang “Ibarra.”
"Tanikala," "himagsikan,"
"Liwayway…"
Nais kong kantahin at huwag lang sulatin,
Kung ‘di lang man silang sumasabit
Sa ilalim ng aking lalamunan.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
I was on my way to a party
Dressed in heels and a crop top
When I entered the corner store
To purchase some snacks
And on my way to the cashier
A man standing in an aisle
Browsing through peanuts
Glanced up and stopped mid-search
When I clicked past him
And proceeded to uncomfortably stare
I walked into the gas station
Wearing dark wash jeans and a v-neck
With my best friend at 2 AM
When two drunken men stumbled in
And began eyeing us up and smirking
My friend leaned in to me and whispered,
"I'm really scared."
Overhearing her, one man elbowed the other
And with a smile on his face taunted,
"Oh no, we're scaring them."
I was at the laundry mat one night
Wearing shorts and a baggy shirt
When a middle aged man across the room
Kept gawking at me from over the washers
Uneasy, I went outside to smoke
To which he stood at the window
And kept a close eye on me
I called a friend and stayed on the phone
Because I was afraid to go back
And get my clothes alone
I stepped out of my vehicle
In my sweatpants and flipflops
To grab some cigarettes quick
When a white bearded man
Was already at my heels
"Hey, how're you honey?"
I quickly replied, "fine".
And hurried into the store
Without looking back
It seems like every time I leave the house
It doesn't matter what I'm wearing
It could be "provocative" or a burlap sack
I always end up feeling threatened
Heartbeat in my ears
Cold sweat on my back
So don't blame it on my outfit
Don't blame it on my actions
Because I'm not asking for it
I just want to be left alone
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of
your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam-
ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives
in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you,
Garcнa Lorca, what were you doing down by the
watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old
grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator
and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed
the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my
Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
cans following you, and followed in my imagination
by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in
our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every
frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point
tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses,
we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent
cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?
Berkeley 1955
8.4k
SHAKE back your hair, O red-headed girl.
Let go your laughter and keep your two proud freckles on your chin.
Somewhere is a man looking for a red-headed girl and some day maybe he will look into your eyes for a restaurant cashier and find a lover, maybe.
Around and around go ten thousand men hunting a red headed girl with two freckles on her chin.
I have seen them hunting, hunting.
Shake back your hair; let go your laughter.
6.8k
She may not have been your prototype teen or hiree.
Or of the masses. Or herd.
However, she did walk into a McDonald's
approach the counter
emit an esoteric exchange for help with the cashier
and with knowing eyes
the cashier directed her to the starting gate.
Now
with application in hand
and blue ribbons in her eyes
she was off to the horse races,
nervousness riding on her shoulders.
In my eyes, she was a longshot to win,
where I could see her shoes falling off
before the race started.
And her imaginary jockey falling off her horse
from laughing so hard,
for she presented herself through the restaurant
and a job interview with a Starbucks frappe,
totally oblivious of her unwrapping.
It would be like turning up for a Yankee's job
in a Red Sox outfit.
Who would do this?
As the rubberneckers, I looked on.
Incredulous.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
complimentary.
But those jeans, high risers, with holes in the knees
with a white Bebe shirt that hugged her shape
shouted trendy but not job interview.
Oh, my.
She continued the procession
extracting info from her phone
and filling out her application.
No doubt with votive candles at her side
and prayers on her lips.
And perhaps blue ribbons awaiting.
After all, this was her foot in the door.
It was at this time
I had an epiphany moment
tears welling in my eyes
as I slipped on hamburger choices
and sipped on past life on a teether,
totally oblivious, too.
It was like looking in the mirror.
Her youth and awkwardness and my growing decadence
towards the light.
When the manager came in and summoned her
to the interview table,
which was located in the dining room,
I saw a little kitten purr inside of her,
where her eyes nervously checked her surroundings.
At first introduction,
the reddening blush on her face and Adam's apple
stood pronounced
but her low voice was choked.
Almost inaudible.
As the manager put her calming hands
into hers
the light turned on
all foreboding escaping.
All misplaces and tense faces replaced with aces.
This was a defining moment for her,
as the golden arches braced her feet,
making all the rubberneckers, me, proud.
Logan Robertson
6/6/2018
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
Machine ground days
Somehow survived by clinging to precarious plans
Die for those.
For proles are stuck in a televised gleam
but I’m barred from distractions
I’m a man of action
Spring healing:
I found a new hope to get through the day
It has a name and it’s you
Workday: animistic curses
against people and their systems and products
except animals would escape forever
as soon as they open the cage
but we stay
The beastly gnashings of overworked merchandisers
for invisible self pocket stuffers
The competition's getting to us, comrades
I feel swindled out of my labor
I was pregnant
but they sold my child before
I woke up
Addressing the solipsism of my rehab circle:
I’m Kagey, and my life is hazy
but, blunted or no, let’s get this clear:
don’t trust your senses
and that goes for all my human peers
Body is a cage full of defenses
Still, I’m suspicious of reality
whether it’s façade society
or the wooden chair in front of me
Still, I enjoy the virtual scenery
I ain’t talking about on the T.V. or phone screen
I mean the willows, buildings, and faces
But all these mushy green acres are fakers
blobs without our eyesight
Still tho,
me and the universe are tight.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
We spend one day together, in the park and now the sun reminds me of you.
It was 29 degrees and the sun still couldn’t match your brightness.
29 degrees and you were still the brightest star in my sky.
I think back to my diary, when I told her we would forge a picnic from the empty living room and yet here we are.
The cream carpet, now green grass and my heart melts in your hands.
Sizzling air beats down on our pale skin as my heart beats a mile a minute.
Sometimes I like to play pretend.
Cast myself as the role of your love interest.
So during my game I was shocked.
When we step foot in your local corner store, when the cashier muttered a “you too, together”
I thought I’d alternated reality.
Or at least I did for that second and a half.
Before you fumbled over your words and tried to find the ones that would break my heart the least.
You settled on she’s out of my league, you joked about it once we’ve left.
Then I pretended again.
I cast myself as your laid back friend,
As the girl who has better things to think about then a cashier wrong assumptions.
Reality didn’t shift this time.
— p.d.e
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
Rainy nights thinking about Rwanda,
fog seeps out of the woods.
Like smoke, it crawls across the fields.
My head lights attempt to cut through it,
as it intensifies, inhibiting my drive,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I arrive at the Mobil,
wait five minutes for the cashier to notice I’m here.
When she does, she hobbles over.
I attempt to buy a pack of backwoods,
my card gets declined,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I get in my car,
and have a fit when I can’t find my keys,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I begin to drive,
get cut off and curse fellow man,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I ***** and I moan,
an entitled little ****
but I’m alive,
which many can’t say after Rwanda.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 9:55 PM UTC
it's a friday night and i am sat at the top of the bleachers with three packs of maltesers i told the cashier were for my friends with a blurry grin and the hot chocolate in my hands lied. it's lukewarm and tastes of milk, not sweets, and the taste of it still taints my lips because i'm forcing myself to drink it anyways. the stars are yellow set against navy hues and they're blinking down at me.
there's announcers shouting something about the game occurring on the field but i'm not listening, never listening, never apathetic or empathic enough to want to. the music blares, cheers roar, announcers boom, the scoreboard flashes- it's cold enough to be huddled beneath blankets but i've only got a sweatshirt hiding my hands, hiding my fingers, hiding me. my ribs shiver and the ghosts in the spaces between them gather closer for a warmth that won't come. the moon says hello to me and i struggle to catch enough air to say it back.
my friends are nowhere to be found and i can't feel my fingertips and the flavor of lukewarm hot chocolate leaves me and i'm closing my eyes, shutting them tight, disconnecting.
there's suddenly no one here, just me and the blackness behind my eyelids. it's like i'm watching humans but never being one of them. maybe i'm meant to be an alien- maybe that one star blinking at me is a planet welcoming me home- maybe if i lay my lungs to rest they'll leave me be.
i can feel my heart giving up on me.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
He skipped and he hopped.
He popped and he locked.
He danced with his feet,
to Mcdonalds' fast beat.
He puffed up with pride;
warm in the inside.
And fresh with his lettuce;
junk food is his fetish.
He never thought what would come;
he thought it was all fun.
In a funky yellow wrapper
and into the warmer he went.
He heard the kaching of the cashier--
someone's money was spent.
He was dragged to the front line
where the lights were all bright.
Like he was sent in for interrogation;
Like in a murderer's plight.
And like that he went.
A tear from his bread skin:
the top of his sesame seed bun head
human teeth sank in.
He yelled and he screamed
with all that he got.
He thought he was happy.
But he's everything he's not.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
Saul. Babbittz.
Slight variation of the name Paul - sometimes pronounced
with the
"ah-oolll"
of Raul - to intrigue cashiers and toll booth attendents.
These words seem meaningless and even less interesting than the blank white background each letter invades.
And still I thank the God in my stomach that wakes up every once in a while to capture butterflies before I leave the house so I can turn down the sounds in my head that stir the butterflies to a frenzied mess of tangled neurons and synaptic maladjustment.
My interaction goes something like this:
cashier-"do you have a bonus card?"
me-(holding out the pad of my thumb - serious like lava)
cashier-(looking at me with a confused look)
me- "I thought thumb scans were enacted throughout the states. Sorry about that, I just got used to the thumb scan back home in North Dakota".
cashier- (dumbfounded, slightly annoyed)
me- (chuckling-embarrassed smirk) "you know, like a dystopian tracking system?"
cashier- "uh, not really" (avoiding eye contact, rushed transaction) "freak" (under her breath).
butterflies again
I've never even lived in North Dakota!
Just uncomfortable enough to prove that body heat activated "degree" does not provide 24 hour protection...
Next transaction a day later:
me- (silence)
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
"Good morning, sir" Said the cashier,
"Can I get your order?"
The man took his wallet out and said
"Yes, I would like a large coke, large fries and a double cheeseburger"
The cashier punched in his order
Took large cup and filled it with soft drink
The machine showed the total amount
and the man put the cash on the table within a blink
Everything went smooth so far
as the man took his food and went to a table
Now it was a lady's turn, as she was next in line
I had a good day, and this was the point where it went unstable
The cashier asked her in a polite manner
"Good morning ma'am. Can I take your order"
I was in great shocked with the lady's answer.
"Yes, uhmmm... I'll have an uhmmmm... hmmmm...
a friieeesss... a coke... uhmmm...
wait! I'll have Sprite instead... aaaannddd...
a cheeseburger..."
And she smiled but before the cashier could register the order
"On second thought, I'll have a Big Mac instead"
At first I kept my cool, breathe... breathe
I was still alright then, still having a chill head
When It was time to pay up, she looked at the machine
It was 27 bucks and a 60 cents, it was written in blue
She took her bag, put it in the table
And started searching for her wallet, I hope she finds her brain too
I tapped her in the shoulder gently in the shoulder and said:
"WHAT THE **** YOU'VE BEEN STANDING HERE FOR FIVE MINUTES
AND YOU HAVEN'T DECIDED WHAT WILL YOU ORDER???
EVEN JUST FOR A MINUTE, LITERALLY A MINUTE,
A MINUTE OF WAITING, WERE YOU THINKING YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE IN LINE?
HAVEN'T YOU EVEN THOUGHT ABOUT IT ON THE WAY HERE?!
AND YOU KNOW YOU'RE GOING TO NEED SOME CASH,
YOU HAVEN'T PREPARED YOUR WALLET YET?
WHAT DID YOU THINK, THE MOMENT YOU WILL PAY UP
YOUR WALLET WILL MAGICALLY APPEAR?
THERE'S PEOPLE BEHIND YOU, YOU KNOW
HUNGRY AND WAITING FOR SOME
YOU STUPID DUMB TIME WASTING ****
I left and bought some take out from other place instead.
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 11:13 AM UTC
Lettuce is love, lettuce is life.
You walked up to McDonald's and ordered a mcdouble
I was behind you in line, looking for some trouble
I said, "excuse me sir, you know mcdoubles don't have lettuce, right?"
He said, "yes, but I can't eat lettuce at this time of night"
I was getting angry at this point, not gonna lie
I was like, "come on buddy give it a try"
He started backing away, a little intimidated
The farther away he went, the more I felt the hatred
How can he not want lettuce?
This dude's real close to getting fought
The cashier interrupted my thought
"I can get who's next in line"
I said, "cool, I'll take a McChicken, it's a bite of heaven
Actually I take that back, I want eleven"
You already know i didn't buy them for the chicken
I bought them for the lettuce, it's tasty finger lickin'
The cashier says "is that all I can get you tonight?"
I turned back to her said "naw, gimme a medium Sprite"
Got my drink and my McChickens, then tried find this guy to fight
He's at a table munching on his mcdouble by himself
I caught him looking enviously at my McChicken, lettuce spewing out health
I sat down at the booth beside him
Told him how I despise him
For not getting lettuce, how could one be so arrogant?
I threw a punch to his face hard enough to leave a dent
He yelled out in pain, tryna run away
The cashier notified me that the police were on their way
My fate was inevitable, but I did it for lettuce
It's been 3 years now, been locked up ever since
Lettuce makes me happier than ever, it's my only friend
My favorite thing in the world, nothing and no one can contend
Moral of this story: get lettuce on your sandwich,
Unless you wanna go to mcdonalds and end up with a bandage
I can finally conclude, after this long strife
Lettuce is love, lettuce is life.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
/ *oh no no no... you don't get a jew artefact at this point, when the play of words comes between the son and the mother... no no no... you're target; she should be a **** a stripper, a ***** but when you do what this, "englishman" did? undermining the concept of personal property? ownership? his property infringes on your property, and somehow: my, yours, our's doesn't compute... i'm ******* craving to **** my neighbour... because all i have left to lose is... frothing at the mouth.*
at a supermarket:
within the confines
of a cashier:
- 'is this your typical
friday night?'
say it plain, chubby...
**** it: more cushion
for the pushin'...
sunglasses at 6am?
a reply:
- 'it could be'
- 'if you were part of it'
- 'what?'
i'd love to fiddle with excesses
of porky...
migrant crisis?
more like a ***** cricis...
import black ****
given the white boy lay low...
it's not even funny,
i find it funny attempting
to whistle...
which i can't,
given that i found laughter...
just don't come between me
and mt "neighbour":
cos i'll **** the ******* ****
and "he's" watching me?
sorry:
i'll **** the ******* ****
fuck-face-tard!
no, i will;
i can't conceive retaining
the anglophone aspect of comedy
within the confines
of the monologue,
with a cabaret....
i'll **** him...
next time we exfoliates
speaking to my mother,
and not... looking
into my eyes...
"englishman": spew!
you! now! clean up this
***********
******* english!
like you bred a people,
gesticulating with
a hand gesture...
new yankies...
britain: home,
of the the wankies.
p.s.
no... private property contra
private property
within this ****** vogue...
i seriouslly will throw
a **** into his garden,
and say...
not enough fox hunting,
d'uh!
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:18 AM UTC
this night was different;
there were more moments spent looking back then forward,
panic always pulsating in the crook of our throat
like some giant, out of breath beast
waiting in the hollow sweat, and gnarled tree branches
reflecting black against the slightly purple sky.
it was too quiet to mask our
echoing footsteps;
boot on pavement
no rain to soften the blow.
we made it in thirty minutes to the gas station,
where we unzipped our jackets
and let the lace show out of our drooping shirts
blinking like a warning sign
to the drugged up cashier,
words mumbling over his body,
strings mixed up.
men entered and i saw that look
that i always see
in men who look at me;
its hungry, a type of lusting mouth with no
feeling,
**** trusted more than his heart.
the kind of look that says,
“i want you feeling my biceps in the back of
my truck,
and i want to feel your tightness all over me,”
the only problem is i play along,
pretending to be seductive
and then leaving with an agonizingly frozen stare, and
a quickened pace
just to show them who's actually in control.
a pack of Newports exchanged over the counter,
another lighter;
this time with a green and red flower on it;
dahlias of the night.
exoskeletons of black jackets and tights
like some shadow riding vagabonds,
inside guts made out of
swallowed cigarette smoke
and bravery.
we smoked and walked,
watching as headlights flickered toward our slim frames,
and men leaned out from trucks
with salivating mouths like dogs,
inviting us to their burning desire
in the cold, shrinking night.
under the layer of skin
that tells the girl beside me that it would be stupid
to heed to their invitations,
i admit to myself
that all i want is for a stranger to wrap around me
and kiss my smoke stained lips
with a different fury,
so i can whisper a fake name in the depths of their ears,
and show them that i will kiss
better than all the women that have
wrapped themselves in
their limp bedsheets,
and leave them wanting more as i disappear into the night,
leaving nothing but a longing burn
on the tips of their tongues.
but i don't give into my fierce desires,
and we simply turn around,
smoke five more cigarettes,
and climb up the fence
to **** her hand,
and run across the raging freeway
like the Klamath itself.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
i am my grandmother’s small and plump tears
when she thinks of her pueblo.
i am my mother’s broken english
as she greets the cashier.
i am my sister’s abandoned dreams,
her acceptance letter is etched into my palm.
i am my brother’s path to citizenship
along with all the photographic evidence.
i am my brother in law’s laughter
when he speaks to the nephew he has never met.
i am the ever constant fear
of being denied a home.
i am the secrets carried on backs
through miles and miles of desert.
i am the pan dulce on sunday mornings.
i am the mole and carnitas at birthday parties.
i am the thick hair on arms.
i am the first bite of a burger king hamburger
after years of poverty.
i am the first item of clothing bought at a kmart
after years of patching up old clothes.
so how dare you think less of me?
you do not know what i carry.
all this pain.
all this joy.
all this strength.
i am chicana.
the bridge between two worlds.
i will not be burned down.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC
Peaches and cream
All just seem
A bit too sweet
At a run down BP
The man in front of me
With rotten teeth
Is purchasing
Marlboro reds, coffee
And a chance to win the lottery
Gets what he needs,
Then goes on with his deeds
Walks by me
Like a blind man
Who cannot see
Maybe he'll be the winner
Now I'm next in line
Cashier asks "how are you?"
I say fine
They don't care if that's a lie
All I buy
Are peaches
To feed my hunger
Peaches for dinner
I devour
Counting down the hours
Days until I eat again
Slowly becoming more sour
Losing all my power
I hide like a coward
Benith moldy skin
Rotten from within
Same as a peach,
I wither and decay
Who is to say
tomorrow is another day?
Dec 20, 2020
Dec 20, 2020 at 8:12 PM UTC
Step one:
Admit that you have a problem.
Hi, I'm so and so,
and I am anorexic.
Wait, am I supposed
to state one problem
or all of them?
Let me start over.
Hi, I'm so and so,
and I am anorexic.
I am a self harming,
drug abusing, attention
seeking, anorexic with
a penchant for seeking
out love in all the wrong places.
I'm an occasional smoker,
a complete *****
and a highly trained klepto.
I'm also a procrastinator,
does that count?
I'm self-consumed, suicidal,
and sometimes I let water boil over on the stove without cleaning up the mess.
I blame things on other people as often as possible, and never tell the
cashier when they've given me too much change back.
I know that's not all,
but it's awfully hard to remember everything
that's wrong with me right now.
Oh yeah, I'm forgetful. And terrible under pressure.
And at public speaking. I lie...a lot, and actually,
I made some of these problems up.
So I came here to get help.
By the way, when exactly does that start?
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
I twisted the dollar bill around my finger and then into a bow.
I rolled it up.
I twisted it around my finger once again,
wishing the lady in front of me would order already
instead of asking what EVERY drink was.
I just wanted my latte.
I don't want to have to wait until next Christmas just to order it.
Oh my god, lady! Get out of my way!
Finally, she turned to the man at the other end of the counter, who is waiting for his coffee.
What did you get, Jim?
Caramel Macchiato, Cheryl
She turns back to the cashier, And what's a Caramel Macchiato?
It's an espresso, consisting of milk and two-three shots with caramel syrup, ma'am
Hmm, I guess I'll have that. A small please.
Just as I think she's done, she steps back in front of me.
And a red velvet cookie...you know what, make that two.
The cashier rings her up and I'm slowly nudging her away from the counter.
Hey Abby-ONE CARAMEL LATTE, MEDIUM
I smile, Hello Maddox.
$4.23
I hand him the 5 dollar bill and he stretches behind him and sets my latte in front of me.
Thanks Maddox.
I take my latte and change and walk around to the back, up the back stairs and into the book store.
I sit cross legged in a mustard colored vinyl chair, setting my coffee on the flat arm.
My shoes fall to the floor.
My book falls open to where I marked it last.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I continue to read and taste the cheap caramel in my overpriced latte.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
I could be your lover or nimble fingered arithmetician,
serve the rice cold and the soup too hot,
make the trope I’ve made my life into a
means to ruin others.
I could be his other. All similar shouldered
as we are, pressing up against each other,
because soft bodies and soft hearts alike
call to one another.
I’m a gardener and you don’t see me
pressing my thumb to walls, convincing
ivy to climb to me over toward the other
side. I am stone and soil.
I’m smiling too much at the cashier when
she makes a joke and it never occurs to me
that my heart should be something to
apologize for.
You can’t make me, take from me,
or chip away at whatever it is
you think I am: lameness and uselessness,
inability to click back onto the track.
I could be deserted. I could be
dessert, the strays can lap up my body
and I’ll lay here where you tossed me
until I disappear.
I could have been something other
than this settlement of lies and circles,
leech demanding its nectar, mottled
voice waiting waiting waiting.
I am joy and indecipherable name,
sticky on your tongue. I’m kept.
One day you will search for me
to no avail.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
I'm a greet-you-and-meet-you professional
I get straight to the point and don't mess around.
I'll ask you how your day is,
If you found everything okay-
And if you prefer paper or plastic.
Like a superhero from a comic strip-
I'm out to make you smile in five minutes
or less.
I have the super power
To turn you away from your favorite alcoholic beverage
Or turn you on-
It all depends if you can pass the test,
the secret code to a top secret nuke shelter-
No pass, no go.
I'm like a greeting card,
Everyday; a new message.
Sometimes I'll hear about the weather,
Other times,
I'll hear intimate details which I really don't care about-
But I'll pretend I do...
Things like-
What you're having for supper,
How much wine your sister likes to drink
Or the fact that you make the best homemade sauce.
I'll get to know you the more I see you,
And like an app on your smart phone,
I'll remind you to come again.
I'll see your kids at their worst-
Moments their grandparents don't get to see.
I'll learn about your financial status,
Your marital status,
Or the fact that you don't have a status at all.
I'll take all of your complaints
And sometimes pass them someone else-
I'll hear all your requests like an overworked DJ
And if you're lucky...
Your wish will be granted.
I am a food slinger,
A cash ringer,
A handle-your-food winner,
I am grocery store cashier.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC
On an island with so much untouched nature outside, why are the prices of things so expensive inside
Is it really necessary to charge a customer for oatmeal cookies four times the price they should be
Does it really take stealing from people and worrying people to sustain a country; to fuel an economy
Molded apples and molded oranges not having sold quick enough being removed from the shelves in a store
Things are so complicated, I say to a cashier at the register about life as it is now
She shakes her head yes and says, I often ask myself where am I?
written on 12/19/18
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC
The Man
There once was a man from Nantucket,
kept all his cash in his lucky bucket.
Has a daughter Fran, who is gay,
ran off with a girl named May.
He followed them to Pawtucket,
the two girls with his lucky bucket.
She said to the man,
thanks for your daughter Fran.
The two girls followed the man to Manhasset,
where he still has his bucket as an asset.
Then May and her lover Fran,
stoke the bucket and off they ran.
The man was in a state of shock,
luckily for him he had a very long ****
No more bucket, no more money,
he walked home with his eyes runny.
Now he has a new career,
he became a Walmart cashier.
Now he is the man from Nantucket,
with a **** so long, he could **** it.
He would always have a grin,
as he cleaned the *** from his chin.
If only his ear was a ****
even he admits, it's one hell of a stunt.
His ear, badly he wants to **** it,
and save all the *** in his new lucky bucket.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
Harvey sees the sun for the first time
without history--
the worn leather, unshined shoes in closet,
the ex-girls off the telephone--
the beams blow kisses, taunt, and beckon.
Harvey folds a paper with half a sentence
and puts it in his pocket--
"I'm too callused to love, too empty to be, a void..."
he knows the end but doesn't write it.
Harvey dreams of calm waters,
salt, sundresses, and eager toenails hammered into sand.
A waitress's reflection in the coffee shop glass shakes Harvey from trance.
"Another cup?" she asks with a crowbar forehead.
Harvey stares at her wrinkles, prying for exposition--
while her voice melts over innocent questions.
Harvey thinks about taking her home.
She'd talk of her ex-husband.
They didn't have kids, but she wanted them.
Harvey couldn't give her kids,
but he could give her him--
a favor.
She wouldn't die alone.
"Did you hear me? Coffee?"
He'd make her feel tall.
She'd find new, fast-talking, book-n-tabloid-munching friends.
Harvey would nod and "oooh" and "ahhh".
Harvey would itch for wrecking ball.
The waitress pours the cup despite his silence.
"If you need anything, let me know."
Harvey nods.
The coffee shop contains the hustle of a mad race track.
Elderlies at the bar, youngsters on the tile floor,
moms and dads hoping to choke with each bite of doughnut.
Harvey doesn't pay much attention to the other patrons.
They are reds, yellows, blues, and noise to him.
He unfolds the piece of a paper and writes,
"I'm too callused to love, too empty to be,
a void in search of a void to sink and share
the blackness."
He leaves a tip on the table.
He pays the cashier.
He leaves the colors and the noise.
He crumples the paper, and gives
it to the wind outside.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC