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i Apr 2014
if you get home tonight,
you will find three cassettes
on the table in our living room,
where we shared kisses and
drank coffee.
on the first cassette that will be
next to the full cup of cold coffee,
it will be written "cassette for when
you're happy",
which i hardly believe you
will play it.
the second cassette will be on
top of a letter i have written
only for you, with a small
amount of dry tears on the paper,
and it will say "cassette for when
you're sad", and perhaps this
will be the most played one.
around the final cassette
will be nothing, the cassette will
be alone, just like us,
and it will say "cassette for when
you feel nothing", and be careful,
my darling, because i know
you're often numb, just like me.
and perhaps, you might get lost
in this cassette,
just like i was in you.
that is why i am leaving now,
i am lost, my darling,
and i need to find the right path,
the light, which in this case,
is not you.
*you are not my right path,
you are not my light,
and i am not your right path,
i am not your light,
but you still love me,
and i still love you,
even though i am leaving,
and never coming back
Coop Lee Jul 2014
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.

spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.

        [skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]

thrum and plum-*** the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.

this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.

dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere  of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
        [streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.

poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.

cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss
Rob Sandman Apr 2016
I’m a Polyglot Polymath, Microphone’s a Polygraph,
Manners of a Sociopath-Rhymin’ keeps me on the path,
Else I’d be hackin you up like a cannibal,
Pullin the Chianti out-serve you up like Hannibal,

Words heavier than Elephants invading cross the alps,
Under Armour over Body Armour-waistline fulla scalps,
From the Belt o’ the Celt o’ the Schizophrenic Sandman,
You’re triple teamed by -EC- Raps new Xmen.

I broke me chains,some say I went insane,
But it’s simple,all I went and did was grow a brain.
be the Bane of your life,while Mal plays Dark Knight,
A rhyme Super Villain with a verse of Dark Light,

The searchlights on-watch the cockroach scatter,
We speak Dark Matter while your brain gets battered,
batten down the screws-worldviews get skewed,
Mal and Sandman's Positively Mental Attitude.


It’s the original Irish OG rough rugged and ready,
Battling me is futile keep your hands steady,
I’m no pacifist,and if you take the ****,
I’ll clap you with a fist like an obelisk,

That’s a grave warning,-global warming,
The Dragon of Eire ,skies look stormy…
Since cassettes and disks I’ve been spittin ****,
That makes wannabee’s wanna slit their wrists,

The Sandman’s calling,come in and take a mauling,
Rappin since clappin one two and yes y’allin,
from New Aulins to saint Pauls my kin,
Are gathering for the quickenin,pulse races,air thickenin'
Highlander in a land cruiser,take your teeth out like a dentist
E.C’s BRUISER.
batten down the screws-worldviews get skewed,
by Mal and Sandmans Positively Mental Attitude.
Don't expect subtlety here,just like it says on the tin.
Richard Perez Sep 2015
I trace the memories kept behind like fingerprints.
The love we had is now crushed and swept away by a wave of  
our indolence and insanity.
I go back to the time of sadness,
Because it was the sadness of her eyes the made me
happy
happy
happy
and somewhat sane…

All I have left are the mental photographs of what happened
and of wanting what could have been. I leave now with all the
things that I traced—things that can never be erased
like fingerprints that never  
ever had changed.
I sit here alone in this disease-ridden couch, with my
disease-ridden hope. And I will memorize your eyes,
blinking to the rhythm of you heartbeat, dancing in a starlit daydream—as  
I am wishing of a memory where you gave me  
everything you had
and where I offered you the pieces that were left
of me.

I kept all memories of you in a heart-shaped box,
where it is slowly crumbling as time goes by.
I kept all your secrets,
your playbook,
your cards,
your broken cassettes and cigarettes
our now and always,
your sad eyes and the happiness you had
and which made me smile again.

So maybe fingerprints and memories share a common thing. They say  
that “good things happen to those who wait”, I’d say keep on waiting,
*******, I have been waiting, and still all I’ve traced is  
the measurements of my  
indolence and insanity. So yeah, keep on waiting.
Fingerprints and memories do share a common thing and if you can understand it then you have suffered too at some point. Hope you like this.
SS Jun 2013
Buddha (may or may noy have-its controversial) once said, “Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”  I am a strong believer in this statement.  For as long as I can remember, I have never been able to hold a grudge.  The longest timeframe that I have ever been upset with a person was twenty hours.  I counted back the hours because at the time, I realized that the anger was not worth it.  Being angered by people’s thoughts and actions is a frustrating thing, and in my opinion is not worth any of the stress. Anger is a poison to the body, and causes more stress and pain to yourself than to the person you are upset with.  As a relatively positive person, I have managed to stay as happy and grateful as I can no matter the circumstance. However, I was not always this way.
As a toddler I would get easily frustrated with the smallest things. When I would get upset I would begin having labored breaths, and my chest would tighten.  Sweat would begin beading down my face, and my little fists would contract and expand periodically.  The smallest things could set me off, such as not being able to listen to my own cassettes in the car on the way home from church, or rainy days when I would want to play outside.  Bed times and naps made me want to pull my hair out.  Controlled and healthy snack alternatives would make me zip my lips tight and had me throwing away the imaginary key to the lock that secured my lips against the unnaturally orange carrots.
On a different note, my grandfather on my mothers’ side was my babysitter/partner in crime/best friend as a child and he could bake the best sugar cookies on the planet.  I kid you not.  I always loved having them, and whenever I spent the day with my grandfather, we had to bake sugar cookies.  Days spent with him were always good days, and I loved listening to his stories he would make up about grand princesses and strong princes in far off lands.  My grandfather had been diagnosed with a severe form of diabetes and had several heart attacks and seizures as I was a child, and he was told to stay away from all unhealthy snacks and things with high sugary content.  My mother soon turned into a mother bear and would carefully watch over my grandfathers’ diet, because she was frightened she would lose her father.  As a child, I did not understand their conversations fully and never realized that my grandfather stopped baking and eating snacks because he was not allowed to eat these things.  I would throw the biggest tantrums for his cookies, and generally he would give into my constant bickering and give in to his cravings for sugar.  We would bake, and in the end my mother was always upset with my grandfather for eating sugar, and I was told that sugar was bad for Poppy (that was my nickname for him).  I did not understand how sugar could be bad at that age, because it tasted so good.  I constantly craved the way that the cookies practically melted in my mouth after being taken out of the oven.  I did not mind a temporarily scorched tongue if it meant getting my grubby hands onto those cookies as soon as I could.
One Sunday evening, Mommy and Daddy had a church meeting to attend to after the main service, so Poppy was in charge of me for the evening.  He took me home, and was asked to take care of me for the day.  I begged, screamed, twisted, and shouted for the heavenly cookies that I had not had in what seemed like ages to my childish mind, but Poppy did not budge.  “The answer was, is, and will forever remain to be no, pumpkin.” He calmly spoke to me. I could not wrap my mind around the fact that my Poppy had said no to the cookies.  I remember my chest beginning to feel tight, the labored breathing, and the light headedness that came afterwards as if it was yesterday.  Hot tears streamed down my chubby face, my bottom chin popped out, and my lower lip accentuated until I had a full on pout formed.  ‘No’ just was not in my vocabulary, at least not for that day.  I became so upset with my Poppy and my chest began to hurt so badly that I could not bear to see his face any longer.  I shouted at the top of my lungs, “I HATE YOU!”  I ran up my stairs and locked myself in my room for the remainder of the day and did not bother to come out until the next morning. That next morning my mom received a phone call at 7 AM.  My poppy had gotten a heart attack at about 6:20 that morning and was pronounced dead at the hospital at 6:54 AM.  Help was not reached in time to heal him.
The last thing I said to my poppy was that I hated him.  I will always remember that.  The fury I felt over something as trivial as cookies makes me so frustrated with myself, because in the end I only upset myself more.  Being angry with people does not hurt them nearly as much as it hurts you.  People are not always out looking for intentional ways to upset you, and in fact most humans nowadays only seek acceptance from others.  Whenever I am upset with someone, I always try and look through their eyes to see where they are coming from and what made them do such a thing to upset me.  The girl who called me a mean name? She had been abused at home and the only way she could uplift herself was by putting others down.  The boy who did not like me in the seventh grade?  His mother walked out on him as a child, and he has not trusted women since.  People constantly think that the only opinion that is right is their own, and if someone upsets them that person should disappear forever and feel incredibly horrible about upsetting you.  In reality, we should try to realize why they are thinking the way that they do.  Being upset with a person does you no good.  Forgiveness is always the answer, because you may not realize it at the time, but people generally get upset over the most trivial things that they will not remember anything about twenty years from now.  The anger you feel for a person is not nearly as strong as the anger they had for you when they did whatever it is they did to upset you.  
Anger poisons your body and never makes the other person feel any less sympathetic about what they did.  It only makes you worry more about the past things that you can do nothing about.   “Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”  It has been twelve years since my Poppy passed away, and no matter who actually said it, I am still a strong believer in that statement.
This isn't really a poem.  I just needed to let this out somewhere.  Thank you for reading, who ever you are.
Juliana Feb 2013
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.

Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.

Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.

Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.

Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
This is written only using the first half of the dictionary.
http://poemsaboutpoetry.blogspot.ca/
i Apr 2014
i found
old cassettes
of my bitter past,
and twisted childhood
under my broken bed.
i couldn't stop those
unwanted memories that
flooded through my mind,
images and flashes
of blood,
and screaming echoes.
I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides -- what a bargain -- no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.

Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.
X Jul 2014
When I was a newborn, less than 4 days old, you bought as many stuffed toys as your car could fit and surrounded them around my crib, ignoring my grandmother who kept telling mom that newborns don't know how to look at objects.
I moved my eyes and looked at them.

When I was a toddler, you encouraged me to watch Beauty and the Beast and Aladdin and didn't want me to watch Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty because you "wanted your daughter to learn a lesson, not just waste time".

When I was 7 you took me everywhere with you and didn't mind me listening to your friends' political arguments. On our way home though you always told me "Don't grow up to be like them.  Don't let people lead you."
And I didn't. I pushed a girl because she wanted to be the group leader in our science project.

When I was 11 you started discussing books by Stephen Covey and made me listen to Zig Ziglar cassettes. "Don't blindly follow the crowd," you said. "Always raise your neck and look around. If you don't like where they're going, take another road."
And I did. Girls my age were giggling about boys and bras while my eyes were wide open and excited about all the facts I read from my science textbook.

When I got to middle school and got my eating disorder, I refused to eat the apple in algebra class so that I could take my quiz, and didn't mind my teacher calling you to pick me up for my "resistance".
I got in the car waiting for you to pat my back and tell me I did well for refusing to give in to her ultimatum. I waited for you to tell me that I didn't need help anyways. But the drive back home was silent.

When I was 14 and went to my brother's school to beat up the kid bullying him, you called. I thought you called to give me a pep talk, or give me some tips on how to break his nose. All you said was "stay in the car. Leave the beating for the boys". I came back home confused.

When I was 17 and told you about my goals, you said "When you're young, you have unrealistic dreams. You feel like flying from your positive energy and like you have the whole world in the palm of your hand. But you grow up and realize that you need to be realistic."
I opened my mouth but closed it right after remembering you telling me "Think before you speak. If the outcome of what you'll say is useful, say it. If it'll hurt people, don't." I don't think it would've been useful. What use would it be to scream in your face about how that 'unrealistic dream' was the only goal I had, the only distraction from suicide. What use would it be to tell you that I don't remember the last time I felt like I was about to burst from the positive energy that I had?

You taught me how to be different. You taught me to love math and science. You taught me to be my own person and not let people decide what I should do in my life. But what you forgot to do is teach me how to feel okay. You didn't teach me how to reply to people who tell me that I watch too many American shows and that I let go of our traditions because of my opinion on marriage. You didn't teach me how to not feel lonely as hell when it's 3 am and I'm spewing out everything I binged and wiping my tears away while my throat bleeds and the music is playing to cover up the sound of me choking on the last words I screamed at myself and the gasps of relief when I purge out all my feelings and lay on the floor feeling numb. You didn't teach me how to pretend to blend in when the girls my age would take boys' phone numbers and I'd ask them questions like "but how are you guys together now? You don't know each other's personalities. You only just met." You taught me how to be smart, educated Belle and rebellious, going-by-her-own-rules Jasmine..

Daddy, you taught me how to be my own person in a place where you're supposed to be everyone else's clone, and I am forever grateful.. But sometimes, just sometimes, I wish you had taught me how to pretend to be like Aurora or Snow White.
Anonymous Feb 2013
There are many of them --
Life as it happens gets recorded
in my hard disc of a brain
(I'm always in 'save by default' mode) --
some are like
harmless, even pleasant, butterflies
some like
stinging bees
I store them all
in cages
in the posterior of my mind
even as the Present engages me
I often catch snatches of
sounds of buzzing,
or, of the flutter of wings
never allowing myself
to get a full blast of them
(I don't usually dwell in the past, you see, it's the future that causes worry)
except in occasional moments
of mental peace
when I let the cages open
and they swarm into my head -
the bees and butterflies -
diffusing colour
into my monochrome mind
making every bit of it
bloom alive --

it's like listening to old cassettes
you know
dusty, old cassettes that were lying
in some drawer, locked away;
like turning the pages of a novel
read long ago,
getting re-introduced to its characters --

and a gamut of feelings
rushes through you...
spysgrandson Mar 2013
in the quiet  
between the metal madness
of flesh being ripped from young bones  
the watching and waiting  
the stinging eyes
the flaring nostrils filled
with the sounds
of ****** painted flesh  
there is a cool liquid silence  
that comes with
the token tokes we take  
as we pass the golden bowl  
those times when we forget
we could flick a switch
and rock and roll
rock and roll
with ******-delic cassettes, or  
full metal jackets, though  
neither allows us to see
there are times of senseless silence  
and lost lizards lounging
on dew dappled leaves  
in mornings after  
the crushing steel  
the fatal fingered agony
we sewed and reaped,
there
is
this
quiet,
this still green scent  
the lizard and the fruit  
the green promise of tomorrow
that we may erase
with our screaming toys
and deadly ploys
but only after we awake
from this smoky drifting dream
I have not smoked marijuana in many years. Once, someone asked me to describe what it was like, and I replied, "Watch the movie, 'The Scent of Green Papaya'--it is like that." The movie takes place in Vietnam, though it is not about the war. Here, I tried to blend the silky images of that movie, being ****** and the experience of war.
there is so much about life he does not understand powers influences insights secrets repetitions patterns relationships mysteries so many things to learn remember so many things to forget every morning he wakes with hope faith no matter how challenging threatening or bleak the odds he feels confident in the possibilities optimistic in his abilities desires believing in his quest for love success happiness yet every night alone in his empty room he comes undone again

Dad’s dying generates beginning of Odysseus’s awakening from his long deep stupor Dad was so heavy-handed intimidating his reign of terror is done next several years blow by like chilling numb wind off lake michigan dreams seem more real than existence Odysseus continues painting writing bartending drives Farina to beach daily it takes a while for him to realize he is freed of shackles Dad’s tyranny and it is all right to answer to himself alone in june 1994 news reports genocide of 800,000 people murdered in rwanda in july Odysseus feels trapped in identity he can no longer endure after struggling for years to achieve stature as accomplished painter he realizes he is nobody perhaps simply troubled artsy son of well-to-do Chicago socialites Jenny and late Max Schwartzpilgrim his discontent goes beyond family he feels shame disappointment with himself desperately needs to make changes to his life knows he cannot do it in chicago weary of all the sins damage he has made suffered in that city he wants to find somewhere less corrupt stressful more down-to-earth knows all to well how to get in trouble wants to find someplace where there is no trouble somewhere quiet dull preferably beautiful Odysseus liquates ashes to ashes clears altar of every dust flake sells paintings art supplies books music cassettes clothes vintage collection other possessions at sidewalk sale makes out with nearly $6000 whatever he does not sell he gives or throws away he is used to giving or throwing himself away he is 44 Mom protests but her disapproval packs no punch without Dad he says his goodbyes to family friends packs up toyota and with Farina steers away from chicago he leaves behind many destructive friends acquaintances people who will never dig their way out of wrecks they are buried in leaves behind history of minor misdeeds abuses disappointments scenes happenings he feels shame regret about he leaves behind practice of familiar patterns certainties faces names who recognize his talent problematic self never again will he benefit from questionable reputation nor will phone ring many times daily and never again will there always be someone to meet up with or gathering to go to he leaves behind support system of loving family friends fans whom he will miss greatly he lets go the character he was to become someone different hopefully better they drive on aimless odyssey without thinking searching with no place in mind listens for scenery to call to him inwardly the journey is the meaning he drives up streets down alleys through 4 corner towns bypassing most cities whenever he sights a lake he pulls over treats Farina to a swim sometimes swimming together they sleep in tent or stay at inexpensive motels that allow dogs while driving he often feels overwhelmed by diverse raw beauty of American landscapes lush forests spectacular mountain ranges sweeping valleys winding 2 lane highways along coastlines he points out sights to Farina but ultimately he wishes for another pair of human eyes beside him
Corina Helm Jul 2012
You know,
they had type writers,
We have computers.
They didn’t have cell phones,
We have ones with touch screens.
They had board games,
We have X-Box, Wii, and Play Station.
They sent letters,
We send emails.
They had to use books to research,
We have the internet.
They had records, cassettes,
We have i-Pods.
They had stick shifts,
We have automatics.
They had concerts,
We have YouTube.
We realize these things
Are still present in today’s society,
But we over look them and go to the
Newest thing.
We are Generation @.
Joshua Haines Apr 2017
It's dark and the light leaks out
like the change in my pockets;
like the blood from her nose;
like knowledge from my head.

And I can feel myself being
  swallowed by this systematic
long dark. I cannot remove myself,
  a gut-worm in the lower-mantle
belly. Watching video-cassettes of
  my birthday. I don't know what
happened to my birthday video.
  I don't know what happened to
my parents or what I did to happen
  to them.

The light leaks, again, and I
choke on my celebri-thoughts;
mentally-******* to the
waves I'd give on a book tour
or studio lot. Talking about some
movie that made some money,
somewhere in Santa Fe or L.A.

The news is channeling my president:
a swollen man that is the physical representation
that a lot of American people are parasitic;
lovers in racism, xenophobia, transphobia, Islamophobia,
homophobia; scared of everything except the 'straight-talking'
magnate they put in office. Not playing president; playing God.

I'd hate to get political, though. I'd hate to ramble on
and on about something I don't know enough about to
**** myself over. I can feel myself picking up steam.
I can feel myself getting redundant but embracing the
bruised ego and poor technique. Loving the entrails
spilling out of the splits of my fingertips;
more beautiful than the brains I bashed on the sidewalks
of old Morgantown. Morgantown, a town so kind you
are gently destroyed by its over-crowded masses,
dying to be different or drunk -- I suppose that's not very
different than most places.

But let's get back to these trees that I haven't even talked about.
Let's get back to the kitchen table with the hollowed hard-drive,
with wires and cords flopping to the sides, like a
gutted spaghetti eater with poor stomach acid.
How terrible. I'll never forgive myself for that last line.

I feel so rudderless. So cynical with a touch of cliche.
I keep pushing back that age for success, thinking
that I have the luxury of choosing. My vocabulary is
limited. My intelligence is assumed; probably a void,
where delusions manifest and asian **** rewinds and plays,
  rewinds and plays.
Shalini Ray Dec 2013
Are you here ?
Stepping on the fallen autumn leaves with your worn out leather boots
Smoke rising from your lips which entangle themselves in your hair
And then free themselves in one stroke like the paintings you paint
Or the songs you hum and cassettes you buy
They remind me of us,those cassettes
The world does not see how beautiful they are but you do
So you play them on rewind, like those mornings where we hold each other
Maybe too closely,in bed cause we are afraid of what it will be like
If we fall apart
Slipping on broken glass
On that old dial- phone that you refuse to throw
Oh I love to hear you voice,and your silence
Your breath drawing me to a close proximity of what peace would feel like
And then you smile cause you know
And yes,you love me so
Any suggestions for the title?
anastasiad Feb 2017
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Martin Narrod Mar 2014
I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
*There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss
Mary McCray Apr 2015
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 25, 2015)

The tendency to judge harmful actions as worse, or less moral, than equally harmful omissions.

The tendency to persuade oneself through rational argument that a purchase was a good value.


It's late at night and I'm forty years into a very thorough and consumerist collection of the vast ouvre of Cherilyn Sarkisian, 60s street urchin turned enshrined Hollywood A-lister -- iconic up there with Halston, Bianca, Liz and Jackie.

Paper and vinyl and electromagnetic tape, discs and cassettes and books and blankets and dolls and perfumes and magnets. Words and music and ideas every one purchased from corporations and strangers and seven 7-inch picture discs bartered online from a friend I didn't know I would one day meet.

It's late and I've been the Wrecking Crew premiere, sitting in the middle
of an Albuquerque scene of sorts,  the documentary opening at the local art house with me wedged between California-Sound fanatics. I'm sitting next to an oldies DJ everybody in town seems to knows but me.

The DJ laments how political the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is, (but then aren't they all?), and how Chubby Checker has yet to be inducted. As I see Cher self-depricate through the movie, I know she's an outsider to even this outsider culture. And if we peruse the halls rosters, we can easily make her case. But omissions always mean something. My basement full of memorabilia tells me what ain't right. But that's the bias talking. The same bias that gets The Byrds inducted, those who we've just learned didn't even play on their own records, or the theatrics of Alice Cooper, or the season of Ricky Nelson, or the artifice of KISS, Madonna....I've spent a fortune but just wait until the book comes out.

Post-purchase rationalizations, aren't they all?
Go see The Wrecking Crew movie. Went to the Q and A tonight to listen to stories of directory Denny Todesco.
Cameron Martin Aug 2012
he used to fit in my hands, when we got him.
I remember him huddled in the corner of a box,
how I tried to soothe him on the long trip home.
he was a basement rabbit – he would scurry back
to the safety of the stairs when taken outside in the yard -
the very finite grassy patch and open sky more than enough
to incite that inclination of all rabbits to panic and run.

he loped slowly, bumped into doors and haphazard stacks
of cassettes, chewed through live lamp wires and otherwise
fulfilled all the duties of a rabbit – their natures are kind
and constantly seeking peace and stability, a trait
I greatly admire. he was my velveteen rabbit -
even the most timid visitors would stroke his oreo fur.
he liked this, I’m fairly sure.

he wasn’t the pet I was expecting – too dim to train
and too dangerous to leave unattended, exemplified
by dozens of feet of frayed wire and that nervous jitter
he never seemed to shake as a result. he was quiet
and possessing of a personality it took all eight years
to define – too subtle to state but easy enough to glean
if you watched him, followed his eyes as they stared
into space – listening to the dark corners of the basement
for whispers of that rabbit wisdom.

I wasn’t home when he was found in the morning
splayed out on his side – never one to rest
it was a sure sign something was amiss. he was interred
into a shoebox – a temporary vessel while the hole was dug,
dead weight in my hands while I watched and thought on him.
more poignant than my foolish scraps of disappointment in him
is the very real disappointment in myself – adopting him to my family
for all of the wrong reasons, leaving him caged for stretches
of time far too long & too often – an eight year hurt in my heart
and a nervous jitter that I’ll never shake.

out of the shoe box and into the ground – my brother
placed him down reverently, the curve of his back to me
as the dirt was replaced on top of him, a smooth flagstone
placed on the bare patch of earth.
we joked half-heartedly all night, finding it hard
to mourn for such a quiet, simple creature.
but as we walked inside the sudden finality of it and
his peace was a momentary balm to the ache I carry still.

he died an old rabbit, his duty fulfilled – hops and leaps
executed flawlessly, quick playful sprints across the carpet.
it was not in his power to meet my selfish teenage expectations
but it was in mine to provide a better life – a hard lesson
taught by one of the simplest of creatures, and
a bitter blessing that I will never lose sight of.
Allen Wilbert Jan 2014
I'm Forty Three

Lines form on my forehead and neck,
lines form on my upper and lower deck.
I'm middle aged without a plan,
I'm thirty something, I'm an old man.
I'm forty three, no idea what I want,
going blind and needing bigger font.
Forty three, gotta get away,
I've been straight, I've been gay.
I've gotta get out of this place,
my parents want me out from the crawl space.
I've gotta thirty something brain
and an old geezers heart,
I blame the dog, whenever I ****.
Took forty three years to get this far,
still listen to cassettes, when in my car.
Don't always know what I'm a saying,
Uncle Sam, I keep on paying,
not gonna tell ya, what I'm a weighing.
***** swing low from the left and the right,
silly kids always ask, Mister was there always light.
Every bone in my body cracks,
rolling in sand, I leave wrinkle tracks.
I'm in the middle age of my life,
I've been a boy, girl, husband and a wife.
I'm thirty something and an old geezer,
I listed to Elvis and also Weezer.
I'm forty three and I like it,
I travel around with a Depends kit.
Yes I like it, I love it, I like it, I love it,
I'm forty three, forty three, forty three,
and all this yelling made me ****.
NewCaleBoy Mar 2014
Not what you think,
The shrinks, the drugs
Wore out, me and them,
Now we just exchange regards,
Used crying towels
All agreed,
So much the better
For me and the State

Nobody's fault,
These fault lines,
Run so ******* deep,
From California to New Caledonia
Where I've gone to hide from
Lunacies, visionaries, one pill cures-all-defeats
Laugh tracks and reruns,
Death defying boring English documentaries
On gardening and milking cows,
Video cassettes, lunettes
The Internet,
Might as well do it almost all

The conclusion reached,
Strained from an armada of words,
Tankers, tugs, cruise tours,
Man o' Wars,
Totals cannot be reach,
Too many words,
Saying the same but different,
Saying the sane but different,
Saying you sunk to the bottom,
only up, the only autoroute

Almost laughable,
Heal thyself,
The End,
So here I am
Twixt any two continents,
A continental on a rock island
Far from mon pays natal,
Here, I am unnoticed
Midst the stones of Noumea,
Talking to myself, one last time,
Hoping for kind words en Anglais ,
Pourquoi pas?

This then the conclusion,
Strained from a life diluted,
Writing Poetry in English,
Looking for just a few-more words,
Kind, gentil, let me try this
Genre,
Why not?

Heal Thyself
The conclusion, strained

March 2014
Justyce Regular Sep 2013
I listen to Keaton Henson when my head is spinning
My head is constantly spinning
There are 124 moments in a day where I have to close my eyes
because all I can see are his hands
I hated his hands, five fingered noose
When I was eleven my goldfish died
I cried for seventeen days straight because I wanted nothing more
than to take my life back
just so he could have his
I used to keep my closet doors open to the idea of monsters
my feet off the edge of the bed as I slept
so when they reached out for my child toes
I could ask them to save me from the real monsters I saw every day
When I was 14 I recorded my final words on tape cassettes for my family
so I didn't have to breathe anymore
it was too much work
I was too much work

Now, I drink red wine to awake my soul
and I kiss the lips of the wind when I walk
so I don't have to see it as anything but a lover, a friend
Now, I miss the way his hands enveloped mine
and his body felt like beach rocks under my soft water tongue
and I needed his truths but I couldn't look at his bright suns anymore
I'm a lover of the night
and now, I sit up and write about him instead of sitting next to him
because I'm afraid of the music and I'm afraid of perfection
It doesn't seem right to have things handed to me so easily
in tightly wrapped packages with bows and ribbons string
so beautiful like a journal
Now, I leave my light on when I don't sleep
I don't sleep
He was the only part of me that made any sense
but I wasn't used to making sense
so I threw him to the lions
and prayed he'd never let me love him again
One day he'll know he's better off
M Violante Feb 2012
Puking on a vest made of argyle
Passing out on kitchen tile
A checker board mattress after
Chatting with a girl, whose *** is fantastic
She's hotter than struck matchsticks
Playing chess with her chest
Moves are nothing short of the best
You can pull on 3 leaf clovers
But you can't push your luck
King me, Crown me, Get royally ******
I've got the wood she's got the chuck
How much?
Bedside Manner is enough
But she'd rather talk about being stuck like cassettes
With a useless boyfriend
And a ton of financial debt
Had I mentioned this was turning into a drag
Minus the cigarette  
The size of a rolled telegram and gazette  
Has it become clear yet
I'm not looking at you
I'm looking past you

Transparent
Like a ghost
It's apparent
I'm into you like a foreign host
It's hard to tell
When the air is hazy
She's blind to the fact
Like her eye is lazy
Choked on words that she never learned to chew
Why don't you call Sherlock, boo
Get yourself a Clue
If I had a mix tape
It would be thirty one hours long
Get the cassettes ready
Poetry was something I chose and we're going steady
Sometimes I draw details out tediously but sometimes I like to get with the program already
They say Rap is Poetry
But I didn't compare my work to the McDonalds bathroom floors
The disrespect towards women, money and drugs
It's a dog but it's not as cute as a Pug
Someone end this concert, pull the plug
We used to have a standard and kept it snug
But even the Snails are laughing
We're too slow to realize
That were accepting bile with our eyes
And we're encouraging it
Why?
I have a mixtape
But I'm no legend
But neither are they
I just hope my influence is here to stay
Because as the clock arm sways
I get older another day
And I want to be sincere in a way
That will dramatically improve your day
I hope you feel the warmth of my heart hotter than May
Because it burns for you
And we don't need to pull out the other thirty mixtapes because I only need one
Let the repugnant trends come undone
I'm a song that's been left unsung
But that's okay
Because I want you to sing it
It will be more resplendent than the harmony of the Mockingbirds
And it tunes out the geese
That make me act the opposite of PeeWee Reese
And pull out a shotgun
Ernset Hemingway was relatable in that way
Pixievic Jan 2016
Everyone has baggage
A suitcase from the past
It's how we choose to deal with it
That decides if it will last
Me - I have a steamer trunk
Bursting at the seams
Full of bits & pieces
Broken hearts & shattered dreams
Stuffed full of self objection
Self criticism & blame
Cloaked in dust & cobwebs
You can barely see my name
But now I shall unpack it
From the attic of my mind
Pull it out into the light
From the place it's been consigned
The lock is old and rusted
Battered from the sea
From the ashes of emotions
But I have a brand new key
And so I delve into its depths
Retrieving from the embers
Fragments of my past - that
It hurts me to remember
Old books, cassettes & letters
Hankies soaked with tears
The crumbs of old injustice
The mammoth bones of fear
I lay them out around me
And soak up all the pain
Seeing them with new eyes
Before I shut the lid again
Lurking in the darkness
Hidden underneath the rope
That I put there once to end it
Is a polished gem of hope
I grab it with both hands
Clasp it tight against my breast
This tiny piece of energy
Undetected in the chest
I shall put it in my pocket
And stroke it when I'm down
When my world closes in on me
It will soothe away my frown
Because now I own my baggage
It's no longer in the past
I have hope, self love & guidance
And this is set to last
Be un afraid my friends
Of those suitcases of old
That weigh you down, drag you along
Sheathed in grime & mould
Unpack them & rejoice my friends
Find the hope submerged inside
And love yourselves, like others do
And do it - with a sense of pride

(C) Pixievic 2016
C S Cizek Jan 2015
I forced my razor knife down
into an anniversary coffee cup
crammed with pens, pencils,
two pairs of scissors, and one
roll of color film I'm afraid
to develop. I jammed it in blade-
up so I'd have to deal
with the hard part first
like a blank page before
an accidental tongue slip
drips ink and makes the page
pretty. Some tree I've never met
and some pink dye died for me
to cover this pressed pulp
in illegible squiggles;

and I'll be
                  ****** if I let it down.
'cause I'm drawn to things
without opinions. Sketchbooks,
inkwells, rubber band bracelets,
a mixed-nut dragonfly rested
on my trampoline net. // Cut it
free // cut it loose.

Find a brick behind the shed
and smash it dead,—preteen me—
young Wordsworth me.
I pulled the sepia tape from Queen
cassettes and finished the glossy
plastic off with a vise grip in Dad's truck.
Old Brucey had mustard pinstripes
down the driver's side, all the way down
to the Germania General Store.

He was a blur to me before I could buy
my own Dreamsicles. Passing the chicken feed
and the resident, caged dachshund couple,
I saw his face for the first time. Seventeen-years-
old, staring at my grandpa through picture
and plate glass panes.

The angels he swore were real—the ones he payed,
praised, and prayed for every Sunday and everyday
the sun shined and everyday it didn't—

were now less deserving of heaven.
JP Apr 2016
a teaser
the way men look
at the tape in cassette
was like a monkey
checking the unknown object
Fiona Guest Apr 2013
My mother's love got taped on reels and spools,
Cassettes she threw on on an old-school deck,
On wheels that spun straight through our lives and went
Unbreaking. What played in us played there on that
Machine, so we were soundtracked to her old-school
Tunes, to folk stuff - sixties hippy **** -
That pulled our radar-hearts around and made
Our souls attend. We'd be bouyed-up on soundwaves,
Beats her hand MC-ed, her finger soft
On PLAY, and sometimes, when the mood was right,
We heard her too. Who knew that half a world
On, on some late night slot, some other tune-in,
I would find her track, and be rewound?
Her sonic reverb tells me, “dance now, dance”.
Sana May 2018
The broken Glasses and Plastic Plates
The broken mirrors that tell the tales
Of life I once spent in shadows
The lingering fears I silently swallowed

All the birthdays never celebrated
Tools and Knives contemplated
Hidden in the boxes, never to be found
Pistol in drawer with empty rounds

The music played but there's no sound
Within the walls of the haunted house
I knew that place,  I knew it well
My only home, we had to sell

Bitter memories, I try to forget
'Hide away , records and cassettes'
Take down the frames, hide the pictures
'He'll tear it all',  said my sister

The calls for help, you may not hear
Don't listen to the music, don't cover your ears
One cloudy day, I came back home
To find her face, in a bluish tone

Pretended that I never saw
Raging pain in my fainting heart
It was a brick, he intended to use
Changed his mind, just punched and bruised

I loved that record, I loved it much
He threw it away, it melted in the sun
I loved that picture in golden frame
He tore it apart, it was never the same

The life went on like this forever
Sky sees light, that our hearts could never......to be continued...
Looking down at my young clear skin
full of energy and hope
innocent not seeing any fear around
a life time ahead of me
then no internet or mobile phones
robots and human clones!

Less complicated not the pressures
vinyl records and cassettes
shops closed Sundays families spoke
safe for children outside
being able to grow in natural stages
not endless exam pages!

Today I look down at my ageing skin
struggling to keep warm
nobody calls or ever bothers to visit
harder to pay rising bills
families split lacking close support
respect no longer taught!

The elderly are considered a burden
in this faltering society
where corruption affects everybody
greed no compassion
services shut for lack of funds its said
on egg shells we tread!

Life may have been hard but people cared
kindness and help freely shared!

The Foureyed Poet.
An elderly person reflects on the past and the present! The Foureyed Poet.
persefona Apr 2015
its a blur.
I enter the video club and so does my dog after me.
the whole ******* place has been screened by monumental steel animals equipped with cameras down to their *******. monkeys, giraffe, flamingo all ruled by a lemur.

the video club holds an exit.
they require some german skills which somehow i avoid. we drink some beers.
a rabbit whole- thats the way out of the video club
from digital to analog. they say a new system came but their cassettes keep them safe.
M Harris May 2017
Transitory Light & Supernova Streaks,
Her ****** Hues Blooming In Rhythmic Techniques,

As Her Elemental Vanity Circles The Clones,
She ***** My Sanity With Her Illuminated Tones,  
Euphoric Comprehensions Etched In Her Holographic Moans,
In Seductive Dimensions She Reveals Her Pornographic Unknowns,

Serene Luminescence Of Her Prodigal Demise,
Procreating In Her Decays of Her Astral Guise,
Psychotropic Debris Caressing Her Reprise,
Stardust Petals Confessing Her Eyes,

Sulphur Promises In Her Trapped Desire  
Vicious Bouquets Of Her Nocturnal Fire,
The Carnival Flirts In Her Melodic Choir,

Futile Rage Gracing In Her Satire,  
Tranquil Stitches Glimmering In Saffire,
Encrypted In Cold And Catatonic Bonfires,

Illustrious Grandeur In Her Chimerical Verse,
Rudimentary Amour of her metaphysical universe,  
Blows of Blues Metamorphosing In Floral Curse,  

Entropic Cassettes & Blossoms In Her Cigarettes,
As The Process Resets & She Mutates Into Velvet.

- 06:24 AM
Vamika Sinha Jun 2015
'What shall we talk about today?'

Spin, spin, spin the conversation
into loops and recapitulations.
Cassettes were my sustenance but
a vinyl record spins on the turntable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
Rests, then
    block chords, then
          swing-swung rhythm.
Then,
unexpected concords.

Where did those blue notes come from?
And colour our red, some supposed red, into
purple?
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

I grew up on the clarity and
gravity
of soft pink time;
pearl-notes to the steady, steady,
steady
beat of a metronome.
But now,
                now?
Syncopation.
My  
      beat
against your
                beat
and we make a violently violet
bossa nova.

Suddenly the classically trained flautist
has time-travelled to her very first lesson.
Because no sound flutters out of the mouthpiece
and her fingers can't keep up.
Swing-swung
            syncopation
and she doesn't know to breathe anymore.
Where did those blue notes come from?

Silence.
Have we reached the final double bar?
The cadence is imperfect,
                                             unresolved.
Listen, a cold snap of instant jazz
knocked us over.
Arms clasped, teeth chat-chat-
                                              chattering.
1,
     2,
3 -
A not-quite waltz.
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
I think we know what it is but can't figure it out.
And so Cole Porter and Billie Holiday save us
from
     fading out.

'Let's do it, let's fall in-"

I don't want this song to be over.
I don't even know what it's called
but
don't let it end, don't let it,
don't
        don't
don't.

I can't cook but I think
I can make  
                   instant jazz.
And you,
        and you...
You'll write dizzy like
a Coltrane solo.
As you do.
And I'll lay down my flute,
struggle out of my red minuet and
                                               wonder:
Where did those blue notes come from?

But jazz has always been unpredictable.

'What shall we talk about now?'
anmey Sep 2014
I am from piano keys
from steel strings and sticky wood.
I am from the sheet music under the stairs.
(Crumbled, torn,
it felt like old age.)
I am from the vinyl shelf,
The stack of cassettes
whose voices I remember more clearly
than my own.

I’m from van Gogh and Klimt,
from paint spills and ink stains.

I’m from sketchbook enthusiasts
and color pencil hoarders,
from More contrast! and Less lines!
I’m from stacks of canvas
with pastel faces
and a charcoal line to connect them all.

I’m from Grandpa’s radio and Grandma’s paint set,
vanilla melodies and citrus colors.
From my sister’s hands over my own
on the keys,
on the brushes with bent handles.

Between my fingertips are a
slew of eighth notes,
an abundance of contoured figures
to slip in my mind.
I am from these things—
painted and composed through—
a casualty of family art.
This was an assignment for English class. Our teacher had us emulate the style of George Ella Lyon in her poem "Where I'm From".
ShowYouLove Sep 2013
Foundation Meditation


When building a new house, the first thing that happens once the plot of land is surveyed and excavated is the planning and lying down of the foundation. The foundation is the base and has to support the weight of the house. It needs to be strong and able to serve its purpose for a long time while taking abuse from the weight of the house and conditions below ground. The foundation could be the difference between a house that is safe and strong for many years and a house that is dangerous to the people living inside.

The foundation of a house is hidden underground. Although it is not noticed or seen, it is an essential part of the house that we appreciate so much. Without a solid or stable foundation to support and anchor it, the house would not be as strong or secure. A building cannot stand (well) without a (firm) foundation. The Bible tells us that: “We are temples of the Lord.” Some of us may remember a song we heard as young children during Vacation Bible School or on sing-along cassettes about two men and their houses which illustrates the necessity for a firm foundation. One built his house among large rocks high on a cliff, while the other built his house on the sand. The house on the sand was destroyed and swept away when the wind and waves got strong, but the house on the rocks could not be reached by the waves and the wind could not move it from its secure place among the rocks.

When we meet people along the road of our lives, we have the chance to share Jesus with them whether through words or deeds or faith. Sharing Jesus may include but is not limited to: giving a lecture, having a discussion, or preaching. No. Sharing Jesus could be a hug, a smile, opening a door, helping someone in any way either big or small, listening, giving your time, or saying a prayer for someone or something. There are so many ways to share Jesus! Every time we do something to share God with everyone we meet, we are building a foundation and potentially creating (or helping to create) another temple of the Lord. Like the foundations used in houses, that while underground and unseen are essential to even begin to build and later to support and secure so the structure stays strong and firm, so too are the times we share Jesus with others we meet in our lives. The thing we did may have built or helped to build a foundation in Christ and they too may do likewise. Just because we may not see the impact we had, or perhaps there is no impact at all, does not mean we have failed. In these times we pray: “God, grant me the courage to accept the things I cannot change, the serenity to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

God has his reasons for what happens even though we may not like, or know, or understand why. For this, and all things in life, pray. Pray. Pray. Never stop praying. Don’t be afraid to ask. Ask often. It is said: “Seek and you will find, ask and you shall receive, knock and the door shall be opened. For anyone who seeks will find, anyone who asks shall receive, and anyone who knocks the door shall be opened.” Listen. Make sure to listen. He will speak, but he will not interrupt. He is patient and will wait for you to stop. Pray for wisdom, guidance, courage, strength, faith, hope, love. Ask Him to open our hearts and see with His eyes. Help us to love like you. Help us to be humble and remind us always; it is not about us, it’s about you. Anything we may have done or accomplished was not us, but you in us. And always Lord: Your Will Be Done. Not our will or what we want, but yours!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
eating breakfast in a long time,
half a teaspoon of sugar,
coffee black, three marzipan
nuggets coated in chocolate,
two cigarettes...

and wondering where did the time
go since silverchair
released their debut frogstomp (1995),
or what happened to the offspring
after americana (the song *pay the
man
still wasn't a commercial song),
or the sudden thrill of red hot chilli
pepper's reunion with john and
californication, deftone's white pony,
or when buying the mortal kombat
soundtrack, and someone nice enough
at our price putting a different c.d.,
not the score, but the soundtrack
with actual songs: type o negative
(subsequently ****** kisses),
monster magnet, k.m.f.d.m., and beside,
days with cassettes (m.o.d.'s mr. oofus
ha ha) - and gigs, tool in glasgow
with that awesome german girl
who i gave water to in exchange for a kiss,
wolfmother in edinburgh, a few gigs
in london (papa roach, disturbed,
type o negative, iron maiden, the offspring,
american head charge, rammstein,
slipknot, korn, red hot chilli peppers -
when that arena at canary wharf was still open)...
but then there was verdi's  la traviata in st. petersburg,
and aerosmith in hyde park, and boy
did depeche mode rock hyde park too...
i mean, most these influences came from
my uncle, but i can't give him credit
for king crimson, jethro tull and other
prog bands (early genesis, for example)...
or the jazz...
but it's just annoying to not have seen
the holy wood tour by m.m.,
or not seeing slayer when jeff hanneman
was still alive - after all i pledged the
tribulation of growing long hair in school
to him, one day, looking at the band's poster,
i was 15 then and became known as chewbacca
for a while.
Emily Sliver Nov 2014
The wooden swing underneath me,
It creaks as it slowly rocks to and fro to the tempo of the blowing wind,
My feet refuse to touch the grass,
For they want to disturb neither the surreal silence that courses through me,
Nor the perfection of the dewy grass under my being.
Another gust of air caresses my hair,
It lingers before it escapes and leaves me almost in despair.
The weather yearns to reach true summer,
But it never quite does.
A rusty bike leans on the late wooden fence,
A single white undergarment lies draped over a bright blue string,
A filthy watering can positions itself,
Next to a meager patch of small purple flowers.
These small flowers are so trifling,
They’re so insignificant.


When I enter the house,
I know I’ll take in the sweet aroma of berries,
Heaps upon heaps.
Up my nose, the scent will creep.
Oh the smell of the freshest most delectable summer fruits.
The kind that make sure they leave their mark,
No matter how careful you are.
The kind that leave juices dripping down your wrists.
The kind that make my tongue a canvas splattered with red dyes.
I’ll look into my Mummi’s bright blue eyes,
I’ll stare at the lines on her face.
There will be something so young about her,
But underneath the creases, stretch marks, and wrinkles,
I won’t be able to tell what it is.


I’ll imagine her meeting my grandfather,
Way back when he was a handsome young man,
At least from the photographs.
Her blue eyes would admire him.
They’d watch him light a cigarette,
Turn the page of a fresh novel.
She knew she was in love.
At the time she didn’t know,
One day she’d bear his seven children.
Her spouse and her firstborn son would have left before she had the chance to.
She’d live in this house alone,
It’d be the only thing she’d known,
A time capsule stuck in the nineteen seventies,
It’d be littered with old cassettes,
Sepia photographs,
Refrigerator magnets.
She’d sit on her rocking chair,
Until her mistakes could no longer be repaired.
Letting the days languidly slip away.
She’d listen to the chair’s unchanging creaks,
And the murky sounds escaping the radio,
The one with the fork planted into one of its antennas.
She’d watch those old sepia photos
Begin to add only the reddest reds and bluest blues,
Until finally she’d witness wedding pictures,
Communion snapshots,
In the most vibrant colors.
The television would add channels,
Whilst the old library truck would forget her address.
It didn’t matter,
She’d read every book anyway.



Life would have left without her.
She’d have neither traveled much nor loved enough.
She’d watch her oldest daughter leave,
Trying to grasp and hold onto those cravings her mother never could achieve.
She’d say,
“Mummi’s little girl will fly high as the sky and run quick as the August wind.”
But I know that when I enter that same, humble home,
And smell those same aromas I know,
She’ll say oh so simply,
“Emmi, muru, would you like some more strawberries?”
Inspired by my Summers spent in rural Finland.
Anthony McKee May 2013
They are found in
empty houses
sepia tinted photographs
dusty video cassettes.

They loiter around
graveyard Sunday masses
hospital waiting rooms
frequented shops.

They linger through
old songs
a poem or two
anniversaries.

They stand at
the foot of the bed
watching, waiting
for some company.

— The End —