"catalogues" poems
For Connie, a Friend Indeed
There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
The health certificates make for dull reading
And last month’s issue of Texas Monthly
Has not the old cache’ of Field and Stream
There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
Among the snaps of Baby’s First Haircut
Children and grandchildren in cute little frames
And lovely young girls all styled for the prom
There are flowers and scents and catalogues
But –
There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
Woof!
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
How long the day,
Delivering letters to friends,
And cranky, bald dog feeders. Home
Is forward, past those poplars.
Always I’ve been in love with
Their almond scent, just as I catch
Past, dragging feet and who knows
How many heartfelt "Thank-you's".
Home is... where the wife is sitting.
She's not keen on laundry, but,
I’m an exception.
Always are my blue shirts blue,
She likes to make sure. Just in case I meet
With him; that carrion shaker,
Mr. Reaper.
“Hello.” I'd say, and tip my cap,
Along my silent nightly rounds;
Perhaps he'd humour me, if he could
See me. He's searching. For me? No.
That’s not right.
The lamps are thickest
In the dark, and that's just how
he likes it.
Even if I tip-toe, tip-toe, tip-toe around
Him, he'll still turn his hood toward me.
A courteous, creaking greeting.
That chill I get.
Matches only the fear
From losing fingers, as I push envelopes,
Catalogues, and restless dreams
Through many metal slats.
But even I, can't quite see,
When the sky turns milky-grey...
That perching, questioning hand
Placed gently on my shoulder;
Pushing down as I bend my back,
Kicking over milk-bottles, sometimes
accidentally. I shake it off.
Get to bed! I say to myself, mostly
Always, to myself.
Slap on some cream
And
Get to bed.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC
The lads
Are streaming ****
Don't be too quick
To scorn;
To understand my monologue
Know Sears stopped publishing
Catalogues
Of women in their ******
And Geographic
No longer shoots
******* Amazons.
I don't claim it's right,
But boys are boys,
Night follows night.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
The Holy Family?
In a box
with the angels upstairs
Shepherds?
In search of their sheep
lost in newspaper
Somehow I sit on a bag...
of glass Christmas *****
“Must get my vacuum!”
That dead animal, coated by dust
and buried in laundry--
has tangled itself in its own cord
and tumbled headlong to the basement
Crooked photos of daughters
watch me...
smiling (Can it be?)
from a hundred miles and years away?
Waiting for me to make
that miracle again--
What moms do at Christmas
Phone rings
“Jing-a-ling, are ya listening?”
It's the bill collector's recorded
“This is inexcusable!” message
Charities are legion
I say, “There is a line”
Later--
seen only by the peaceful stars...
the donkey of Bethlehem
stumbles in-- laden with groceries
dumping them on the bed/couch
...and back outside for the next load
...and back to the bed again
Why bother making it?
Not as if the cat cares
He likes his blankets niched and lumpy
Not as if some modern home magazine's
planning a photo-shoot!
The mailbox, meanwhile
is preggers with glossy catalogues
...and bills...and
“Wouldn't your whole family enjoy a sunroom?”
Dropping the bags
searching for a light
turning up the heat--
gas bill
sewer bill
“Tis the season for a new Toyota!”
I try to understand the point
of a Christmas card with printed signature
Can I stuff myself in with the recycling?
Then, back outside for the single-woman drama
“Hauling in the Tree”
Storm door catches the hem of my coat
Pine needles, leaves, snow and mud
mark the end of the trail
On my belly twisting screws
“Son-of-a-bitchin tree stand!”
Knocking my daughter's picture off the wall
“Serves 'er right fer laughin!”
**** thing's crooked and dripping
with melted snow
It's 8:30 PM
The cat is hungry and crying
I hit the bottom-- and the button
for the background of a human voice
Three naked chickens are waiting on the counter
At some point, I will take off my coat...
Right now--
I drink a beer while standing
To get a better view....
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
I had the good fortune
to visit it twice,
the first time
it was like the Marie Celeste,
dark with blue doors
and old coffee dregs shining on the base
of deserted mugs,
a full perfume bottle of Narcissus
glowed on a mildewed window,
for shame I thought , sketches,
letters, catalogues
all congealed together
in sodden shop boxes
I wasn't supposed to be there
then again in a dream,
all the walls were dark pink
and shelves were filled with treasure
trinkets for sale, I stopped at a pair
of silver earrings
and crystaline figures
that danced in unison
gold and black drawings
hung the walls of a bedroom
with roses for a carpet
a melancholy light
stilled the air, I wondered
how in god's name
did he fit there,
that tiny bed
I paused here,
others came in.
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 3:27 PM UTC
Please come over. I’ll have a tea set, my clavinova dusted off, Apples to Apples, Bananagrams and a fireplace for philosophical talk. You can keep telling me how the regions of the body have different tones and pitch different notes, and how the ridges of your bones show like ripples in a desert. I’ll wallow in your catalogues: all the warcraft of WWII, the chemicals that preserved the cats we dissected, and the steps to dissolving the puzzle of calculus. You will master the Rubik’s cube over and over again just to amuse me. And deep inside, I hope your poetry isn’t as good as mine. But I’ll still dance better and I’ll still cuddle with you in our home theatre, and I’ll pay you a piece of my mind once I’ve made it up.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not
~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~
the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
***** has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.
Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.
thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.
Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.
The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis” which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC
In the dream Ginsberg tells me I am beautiful,
he moves his stool a little closer to mine
to see me in the dull glow of the bar.
I sip at my cocktail as he takes Howl from his briefcase,
tells me Jack loves my baby-blue eyes.
Somewhere at the back of the bar
I can hear the jazz men munching sandwiches,
chatting to the girls who bring them empty beer glasses
for coins to be dropped into, for requests to fill.
The old poet with his Buddhist waistcoat
wants to change the world with his masturbatory atom bomb,
wants the President of the United States
to be silent, to be silent, to be
silent.
So Ginsberg calls the barman Moloch,
wants him to find himself in a wounded page
filled with Christmas catalogues that make the children sing.
It’s a bald-guy thing he tells the beer puller,
‘Look at the jazz boys **** the metal,
sweet sounds, Jimmy The Joe makes , sweet sounds.’
The barman wants the music to end
just long enough for him to miss the woman he loves.
‘So get your heart in a sonnet,’ Ginsy tells him
‘Get your heart in a ******* sonnet, gypsy caravan boy.’
I put my fingers to my temples, try to bring the poems together,
try to imagine the perfect microphone in the Kaddish hand.
Tell me another three line joke, Alan,
tell me the one about the Arabic love call you never heard
when your papyrus was just desert dust.
You know the one, Allen. You know the one.
The jazz boys find their lips as Ginsberg finds his tear ducts;
I want him to chant his evolution into the mind of the sax solo.
‘It’s just us,’ he tells me, ‘we’re saving the world, Johnny Boy,
the greatest minds of my generation were ****** up the ***
so you ungrateful rhyming ******** could put colour on your book covers;
you see Lawrence throwing his spanners into the printing press?
That’s our little revolution: cherubic haiku page numbers
just waiting for the computer evolution to do something worthwhile.’
So Alan sorts his papers and gives that little attention-seeking-cough
the barman has been waiting all night for.
He pours the drinks, cuts the lime,
lets the poets supply their own anecdotes for this one-night-stand
that’s going to set every ******* pulse racing,
every heartbeat breaking for the goatee beard going grey.
In the dream Ginsberg tells me I am beautiful.
I tell him his spotlight is shining.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
The fifth poem I put on HP; few* read it so I resubmit as Lost In Space III.
I tinkered with it slightly... O yeah, based on a true story....
Multi-tasking your body
Kissing your eyes,
Sense the tipsiness of your
Trembling lashes,
Drinking a poem from
My poetry birthing place.
Between kisses and rapido exhales,
Stutter and lisp
Uttered word-wisps,
Shockingly bad love poem stories.
Right hand strokes thy chest,
sensing/sending heartbeats upon my palm to the
Forever keep part of my
Treasury memory chest.
All the while my left finger
Catalogues, indexes.
It, mesmerized, it memorizes,
The curvatures of thy face
To be stored in the
Never-forget, always-place.
My tongue restless to participate
Goes wherever it feels like,
For the tongue is the only body part
With a mind of its own,
And enjoys getting into
What it calls, the best kind of trouble.
My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory....
May 19th
Laguna Niguel, Ca.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
36 stories tall stands this condo block , on it's left stands one 47 stories tall
Each story harbors as many stories as there are rooms
Windows that encompass the whole floor showcase this life to the world , from where i stand
i can see below me , a man walking into the ally way to wash from a bucket and a bowl ,
i can see someone watching tv in bed , vest and boxer shorts on whilst his partner sleeps
i can see brothers laughing at smokes , lying on air conditioning vents
i can see a western woman put her washing in the machine
i can see taxi cabs and motorbikes
i can see shopping malls and banks
i can see progress
i can't see progress
i can see sadness
i can see fear
i can smell the nights allure of alcohol and lust
i can see all this from the vantage point of my 15th floor balcony
i wonder who see's me ?
can you smell my sandalwood incense as i light a prayer ?
what satellite passes above my head? who catalogues this internet usage? where do these words exist apart from on a screen?
where have we come from? where are we going? what do we expect?
Humanity has choices to make , break free from the jail keepers handmade jail cell.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
Boy meets girl.
Girl marries boy.
Baby comes nine months later
— blessed little killjoy.
Boy neglects girl.
Girl henpecks boy.
There'll be hell to pay
for slighting Helen of Troy.
Such an elegant fear,
this alliance, and yet,
when it's held in selfish hands
it merrily dissolves,
turning as tedious
and drab as Shakespeare.
Boy annoys girl.
Girl leaves boy.
It takes a special kind of madness
in building to simply then destroy.
Turn the other cheek
and Judas will kiss that one too,
reduce the bairn's fever
by visiting daddy's igloo.
Weekends are pay toilets
and happy meals,
frustration is a word all too real.
When did antipathy begin to rule?
About the time diplomacy was forced
into playing the fool.
The good times no one catalogues,
this life has gone straight to the dogs.
The Iditarod Trail extends
from Seward to Nome.
Run the race and make believe
the kids are tucked in safe at home.
According to Dorothy
there's no place like it.
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 6:50 AM UTC
The Holy Family?
In a box
with the angels upstairs
Shepherds?
In search of their sheep
lost in newspaper
Somehow I sit on a bag...
of glass Christmas *****
“Must get my vacuum!”
That dead animal, coated by dust
and buried in laundry--
has tangled itself in its own cord
and tumbled headlong to the basement
Crooked photos of daughters
watch me...
smiling (Can it be?)
from a hundred miles and years away?
Waiting for me to make
that miracle again--
What moms do at Christmas
Phone rings
“Jing-a-ling, are ya listening?”
It's the bill collector's recorded
“This is inexcusable!” message
Charities are legion
I say, “There is a line”
Later--
seen only by the peaceful stars...
the donkey of Bethlehem
stumbles in-- laden with groceries
dumping them on the bed/couch
...and back outside for the next load
...and back to the bed again
Why bother making it?
Not as if the cat cares
He likes his blankets niched and lumpy
Not as if some modern home magazine's
planning a photo-shoot!
The mailbox, meanwhile
is preggers with glossy catalogues
...and bills...and
“Wouldn't your whole family enjoy a sunroom?”
Dropping the bags
searching for a light
turning up the heat--
gas bill
sewer bill
“Tis the season for a new Toyota!”
I try to understand the point
of a Christmas card with printed signature
Can I stuff myself in with the recycling?
Then, back outside for the single-woman drama
“Hauling in the Tree”
Storm door catches the hem of my coat
Pine needles, leaves, snow and mud
mark the end of the trail
On my belly twisting screws
“Son-of-a-bitchin tree stand!”
Knocking my daughter's picture off the wall
“Serves 'er right fer laughin!”
**** thing's crooked and dripping
with melted snow
It's 8:30 PM
The cat is hungry and crying
I hit the bottom-- and the button
for the background of a human voice
Three naked chickens are waiting on the counter
At some point, I will take off my coat...
Right now--
I drink a beer while standing
To get a better view....
Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC
Spring upon the one that least expects it
because that pounce might start a reaction
not known in this lifetime, let alone in those books,
science papers, and coffee-table-I'll-read-it-later
catalogues. Those outlets, paper thin and tidy,
rely
on
fact.
Without fiction, and it's faux-character diction,
minds wouldn't wander, instead they'd be stuck to
statistics, tables, and those graphs awkwardly labelled.
Without fiction, we'd be thrown out of the poet-halls and reading clubs
with NOTICE OF EVICTION printed notes around our neck,
when all we had done was read what we thought.
Without fiction, there would be a fraction of me and you and us and those
missing, lost to somewhere not known here or mapped correctly, hidden underneath
the dirt, frozen water, the crust and snow.
Without fiction, we'd all be alone. Because that figment narrative
can either hide us when hunted or surprise us when confronted
with the one we wish to be with.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Ever since I can remember, Barbara has been coming to our home
With her poofy hair and her powdered cheeks, all in a cloud of pink perfume.
She would speak in the fragile, broken voice of a woman well beyond her years,
And Mother would beckon her cheerfully to sit at the table in our dining room.
With whatever coffee was in the *** and whatever Danish found,
Mother would prepare the table and invite my older sister and I to gather round.
From noon to three they’d gab and chat and flip through the catalogues
That Barbara the Avon Lady had brought.
My sister and I would thumb through glossy, vibrant pages
Of blushes and eye shadows, eyeliners and mascaras.
But I, I would thumb quickly and tire even faster
At the conversation of the table that awaited me, inevitably, after.
With feigned interest, I would sit there a bit
And watch as my older sister would, more patiently, fake it.
I’d grab a cookie and then leave
Mother with her checkbook and her bitter black coffee,
Barbara with her perfume cloud and cheeks all porcelain powdery,
And my sister, with her blonde hair, which was just like mine,
But which tried, much harder to grow much faster.
Yes I would flounce away with my neck-length locks,
And go play with my younger brother.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
From a kind North Alabama family
Traveling north across the Appalachia hills to settle in neighborhood built for Mr. Dupont's industry.
Your mother - the child of a sharecropper,
Father - a soldier and a baker.
Raised on Sears catalogues and baseball fields.
Instilled with a obvious desire for peace.
Fell in love with my sister,
Treat her like a queen.
Always taking good care of my mama and my wife.
You have searched for wallets in the rain,
Gave your winnings to my mother for a set of new tires.
Always casting a net to the lost who are in some pain.
There was many times you are the spine that held the pages of this families strength together.
The silent voice that calms the wild,
Your actions are worth a million words.
Thank you for the plane tickets home,
Thank you for the bed to sleep,
Thank you for the food on our plate,
Thank you for picking me up as I was stranded on the side of the road.
Thank you for your punch to the lip when I had stepped over the line.
Thank you for the calming of a family that sometimes is out of control.
I admire your selflessness.
I aspire for your faithfulness.
We all endure through your peacefulness.
In the end, when all ideas have alluded me,
I sometimes think of what your action would be.
An amazing father you are to your daughters.
A father you have been by action to your honorary son.
Some say a pictures worth a thousand words -
I hope these words are a picture of appreciation from me.
Thank you! I am honored to have known you Mr. Davidson.
Happy Fathers Day.
Ben
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
I threw a leaf off.
It waltzed itself in the air
without fear or despair.
The little green dancer dropped
dead slowly,
taking his time in the wind,
taking his pleasure with plastic bags and supermarket catalogues
admist this harsh and frosty gale.
My brave leaf seemed to ascend at times,
but mostly plummeting.
It might have reached near-mach 1 in a second,
but I could not be sure. (and I think it didn't know)
As I waved
(either to say "goodbye" or "come back")
I looked up and saw
on the balcony above me was a ***
of plant with other leaves, waiting.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 3:43 AM UTC
the beings who float around in outer space
will never come to reside in this place
they've observed our warring ways
and from them they wish to stay away
they seek a residency of peacefulness
not a planet of ugliness and cruelness
their craft keep whizzing past here
our planet is so wet with so many tears
their way of life is founded on harmony
they are beings who live for amiability
our weaponry would make them so so sad
as they know that they are so very bad
they are ever watching us killing each other
and they'd never do this to their brothers
they believe in the power of dialogue
not of conflict and deadly catalogues
so fear not earthlings about space beings
they are steering clear of all human beings
war fare shall not assail us from space
the beings from space are a placid race
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
Watching people compile the data of their lives.
Projecting and archiving information to stimulate cultures of us
when we give ourselves space to be about what makes us us.
To lose sense of myself is to
castrate
my own vitality
and why I fall in love with the toils of another’s expression.
The catalogues of souls that stand like sentinels in the arteries of the human race.
We were here. We know this moment.
We share it with you and you know the moment in your way,
in the language of your life
and you are heard while being spoken to.
Living to be romanced in this way,
to be understood in the ways we know
with the words constructed on top
of the emotion which was constructed on top
of a moment
now a memory.
A mortal drive of creation in evolving consciousness,
immortally moving another.
Now theres no going back.
I’ve challenged narcissism to grow from nasal gazin bathroom mirrors
into seeing yourself in it all,
to sense the language;
Lust
and fleshy aspects wrestle urgently in the song of your life.
Sorrow
and the audience retreats into the cushions of their throes
or runs from that back alley full of discarded mental furniture.
Love
and their minds explode with connections blossoming into each wonderful and terrible memory that grows into a mesh of a net cast out into the ocean of their heart.
Each memory connecting in a timeline of our moments.
The lines of our lives are filled in with dead words
masking all life to ever show its face.
If only we gave those dead symbols life
in the way life gave them to us.
The language of you while being born with the stubborn disposition
of restless curiosity of our being that begs the questions
of where our lines could go
and with what we could fill ourselves with.
Possibility bursting at our s e a m s ,
spilling over into our realities.
Aligning our minds towards considering perspectives;
perspective being one thing that our paradigm of truth does not demand more of.
So eager to settle into a home in our head,
we chase the walls and roof of one truth and forsake non-sense of what has yet to make sense
when maybe the bigger picture
and all the multitudes of its non-sensical parts are waiting to hold hands together
in that same portrait,
framed on your nightstand
where you can see how it makes sense,
so the sense can put the weary wights of the unknown to sleep,
so that you may dream with certainty.
So then, what makes more sense than non-sense?
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
the beings who float around in outer space
will never come to reside in this place
they've observed our warring ways
and from them they wish to stay away
they seek a residency of peacefulness
not a planet of ugliness and cruelness
their craft keep whizzing past here
our planet so wet with so many tears
their way of life is founded on harmony
they are beings who live for amiability
our weaponry makes them ever so sad
as they know that it is so very bad
they're ever watching us killing each other
and they'd never do this to their brothers
they believe in the power of dialogue
not of conflict and deathly catalogues
so fear not Earthlings about space beings
they're steering well clear of all human beings
war fare shall not assail us from space
the beings from space are a placid race
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
Anxious,
It's new, it's vibrant,
It's so me!
Must have it.
Anxious,
It's cheap, it's art,
Won't fit!
Can't have it.
Anxiety born of greed,
Selfishness, social need.
Not one or two but all!
A bag, a coat, some plaid!
Obsessed beyond capability
Want all over budget,
"It's human nature!"
It's a sickness
A disease, born of riches.
Tired of wishes.
Photos, bookmarks,
Catalogues, webstores.
I am a victim.
Victim of need
Obsessive wish lists
To compensate
For a lack of attention with years
To go back.
-Kathia M. Landeros
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
I’m naked again, why I am always the naked one?
As I shift back and forth and listen to my joints pop,
And feel my muscles strain and spasm like an internal tick tock
Measuring how long I’ve been sitting here with each twitch.
White paper lining is crinkling under my ***
And all I can think about is the number of *****
Of all shapes and sizes that have sat here before I did,
Waiting for the doctor to come in and interrupt
Me reading all about how to tell if I have a hernia
Or looking at a distended bladder diagram.
“Hello miss, what can we do for you today?”
Oh I don’t know could you maybe give me my pants back
And pretend I’m not the thousandth **** you’ve seen this week.
Just some stripped down body you examine like a mechanic with an engine.
I watch as she catalogues the winces and delayed reflexes,
Searching for sensitive points and any patch of skin
With the telltale rough marker of Auto-immune.
The medication conversation lasts a while,
And she mixes up a new cocktail for me for the fifth time.
We talk about my life habits, “I’m totally quitting smoking.”
But I’m not. I febreezed myself before I came in.
We talk about how my body is doing like it is separate from me,
Like it’s some entity that ruins my day and hers on purpose.
It is always the same **** I can practically quote her.
“Well, the test results were inconclusive.”
“Another cautionary breast exam.”
“Lets try the strength test again.
Are you even trying today?”
I am, and I can tell she’s worried, but in an abstract way
Like you’d worry about whether or not war will break out in Dubai.
It’s always the same scene, and I am always the naked one,
Whether I have my clothes on or not.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
I have found a new companion to take my morning coffee with.
He’s sharp and very observant – and he’s honest.
So honest, in fact, that I’m often stunned into reflection and reverie.
Mr. Whitman’s words coax from me a surprising intensity of feeling and joy,
and at the same time, cause me to have to pause and write unknown words
in my notebook, to be discovered later.
Walt is a most engaging fellow.
I picture his halo of white unruly hair and beard,
and understand more what he means as he
‘… Sounds his barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world!’
My coffee grows cold as I am swept away by his snap-shot catalogues of life around him.
I sit breathless at the end of these lists – feeling as though I’ve only just arrived
after a long journey abroad!
And then his wisdom and gentle heart speak to my soul and takes away my protective wall.
He speaks of ‘god-like’ man,
‘… Whose human mind is but a gem in black decay enshrined.’
I weep to find such a companion of my heart.
A friend who keeps me company in the dark morning hours as my coffee slowly cools.
© 2012 Michael Hunter
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
Down in the depths
Of the fallen thistles of my
Jewel tree, we
Could not be baubles,
A tradition, set in chemical marble
As we smoke closer together
Blue, red, green
All the colours of a
Real crack
Don't feel for me
I think I have that side covered;
Just know,
Know what I feel for you
And how words are lazy servants.
Fly, dove on stiff wings,
Dive, depths of swirl,
Log on fire hearth and heart
Believe me,
Like I believe you
Don't feel,
Know,
Know I don't care about presents from catalogues anymore
For
You can't wrap what you feel in paper
Just in secrets...
Well no more.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
i dream you die in a car crash
your body is mangled and bloodied and i'm screaming
this loss is quantified by this massive translucent black space that occupies my field of dream-vision
i cry unwilling to believe it
and then you call me
and i am flooded with this feeling of cosmic truth,
that if something were to happen to you i would have felt it
you break up with me over the phone for a second time
but while you're doing it i can see you while i hear you
and you're saying to me: i love you, i love you, i love you
your family keeps on having parties to celebrate your recovery
and my family goes so i go too
and i sit at your bedside and talk to you
and i am always overwhelmed seeing you
remembering you
i look at your basement
and there are catalogues of all the girls who weren't me
you are bruised and scratched and ****** and stitched
and your hair is longer and wavy and i close my eyes against you
when you're strong enough you leave
and in my dreams i move on to someone stronger and taller
knowing already he and i do not work out
i tell my dad about this over coffee
and he says there is a part of me that thinks you're divine
always
always
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 2:44 AM UTC
A little girl barely fitting behind
the metal casing of the basement furnace
The wall feels cold through her t-shirt
and scratches the skin on her back
No one knows about her hiding place
Except the spiders that occasionally crawl
across her bare legs and feet
It’s dark. She tries not notice that it’s scary
Because it is quiet and it’s safe
There is nothing to stop her from existing
in the world she creates in her mind
That world has sunshine and loving words
Where she is pretty, like the girls in the catalogues
with dresses and ruffled underwear
Jesus carries her on his shoulders and tells her that she is special
So for an hour or two she is not un-bathed and unwanted
She will sit here dreaming until she falls asleep
Because no one will notice that she is gone
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC