"chevron" poems
at the chevron hospital to settle nerves opal squeaky teeth and mint clear nose of mint
at the chevron hospital the doctor comes to check my winter tongue
my eyes are soggy bark
a cloth is being wrung
a sightless worm is having a seizure in a washing machine filled with teeth, a sightless worm is having a seizure in a moist cavern clicking carbonation, wringing over saliva to hiss, not saying a word
just ringing mouths
blinking at the chevron hospital through tangled
help, my eyes are soggy bark a cloth is being wrung a sightless worm is having a seizure and my nerves opal to mint and clear me
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Like the V shaped pattern
of wake lines
behind a boat
the angle
between us
has stretched out far
The two arms of a chevron
have been forced
to let go
and I dream of the vertex
all of the time
When you are not the woman
of anyone’s dreams
Fridays become best
for cleaning
and folding
clothes
from three months ago
They become best
for dreaming
incognito
of serving
a man’s conscience
in bed for breakfast
It is the type of silence
that has carved the ******
back into my body
It’s left the fingers
searching
for what stifles
the neck
I comfort
my *******
pressing hard
on the button
below the belly
Until I am a sour fox
without blood
And what good is that rug
than to wipe your feet on
Stationary
I’m dead and
Swaying
like a rocking chair
in my bed
And for the love of god,
I cannot soothe
the cry after I
******
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 7:03 PM UTC
I found you between touches on screens
through swiping on pocket machines
and I met you in the long shadow of sunset
you smoked a cigar and I a cigarette
We put the stars in our eyes
and found ufos and Russian spies
and gave ourselves to the not knowing
but knowing this wanting to keep going
So at one am we kissed at Chevron
with a smirking cashier looking on
and I did so without a second thought
because, honestly, how could I not?
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
Energy, obedience, sociability with others.
The molding of man.
Who came first man or mothers?
Impossible it seems, to be next to our brothers.
Like we’re made in a tube by the chemist Carothers.
Through my own scrutiny our leaders slide effortlessly by.
Chevron. Monopoly . Then multiply.
Micky D’s. Big Mac with cheese.
OH and a large order of fries.
I’ll take a viral video over surprise or goodbyes.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
My first recollection of the sea
was not the water but the sky.
How could it be that if I could
walk the waves I'd reach the clouds.
It was an illusion of which I had
no idea how to explain or even ask.
And why, if it was tilted towards
the coast, did the surf spill in?
There was a lot about the ocean that
left me wondering and then the beach.
Where was it, and why did we have to
drive so far in a Morris Minor to see it?
Or why did my father bring a shovel
and three bags to bring home the sand?
We had a grainy garden which the snails
avoided because of the saline grit.
'Good for the aeration of the soil,' he told
our neighbour, who was leaning on the fence.
When it rained heavily for days on end we
had puddles, small lakes and tiny Atlantics.
I don't ever recall going back. The Morris
Minor rusted; they blamed the sea for it.
It became a chicken house, they entered by
the boot floor that the stolen sand had rotted.
OIK 603 was the license number, it was green
with orange indicator wings on the door posts.
There were six of us, all as pale as the white
chevron in the centre of the Irish Tricolour.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 7:22 AM UTC
You often told me that
I was your Queen of Silk
and Maid of Lavender Island
and I would tell you that
you were my King of Chevron
with kisses as sweet as
Cyanide
infused with a bout of
Ethanol
and sweet Cherry *******
You kissed me once
and I prayed that I would die
for I would love to die
wrapped in the taste of
your bad habits
and
King of Chevron sway.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
Late at night,
My blue smoke floated
Away; running from solid things
Like jars, that would hold me.
The red pulsing sky
Throbbed meaningless tremors
Before being swallowed by the midnight blue.
The chevron path
Of my blue smoke
Is haunted by antique kings.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
The dark second floor passageway
celebrates its one blessed feature,
a sash window, tarnished panes,
pixels, lit in colours beyond RGB.
An ordered scene of chevron gables,
an art deco arrangement, apex
clasping serpentine rust red pantiles,
pitched protection for the action below.
Steam escaping kitchen windows,
conveying today's menu,
while shining expectant plates await.
A clustered community,
mutering togetherness,
jealousies beneath the breath.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
When all the world is a giant burden,
Banerji sir, my colleague, a true SST Allen.
“Maan ki bat Modi ke Sath; rest other shun,”,
Says always my friend Banarji, never stun
Or stagger or startle, never remains barren.
Best friend who teaches Dhruvi and others Balkan,
Or India with psychology, without an apron.
Kenil, Hari, Bhavin, Shivani had some unban;
With Favourite dish of Dada, a fish; talks on Patan,
Sings hymns, buzzes about Mahakali one.
Says, “Your age is less than my profession.”
Scolds us, “Worst batch of year” – a Pun?
He is Bangali babu, wears dhoti, kurta even,
Talks about SST, and about doors wide open.
He is a Brahman, takes plausible action,
Wearing a chevron, is our Divine’s lion.
Meshwa, Diya, and Pitambar are clearly won,
With Aryan, Harsh, Nupur, Dishal and billion.
Let it be Shakespeare or Keats or Byron
He is through with all, has a great fortune.
Appreciates my Monorhyme and region
Never keeps quiet, but is pure bullion.
Dear to my students, Esha, Jeet or Rohan.
Prosper a lot is my wish, Oh! Aaron!
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
of tossing the chevron throw pillow
from my bed to the floor
even on nights I’m sleeping alone
I stretch across the entire Queen size mattress
press my body against the cool white of my other pillow
pretending it could be some body, your body
perhaps, sometimes finding myself
thankful that it is not. In my mind
we have already dated –
showered together, read books, cooked dinner.
I’ve eaten macaroons with your mother
taught your sister how to knit.
In my mind I’ve already imagined
you let my dogs leash drag on the ground,
I get jealous of your best friend,
you think Bukowski was a feminist.
We’ve broken up, blocked each other’s numbers.
I already made a spotify playlist of heart break,
have already tired of the songs.
So when you come after midnight,
and toss my throw pillow to make room for yourself on the bed
I already know where it will land on the floor beneath my window.
I’ve already practiced picking it up
to place it back on the bed in the morning.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
every other time
i have defined myself by aiming at what i want to be
and then moving towards that.
i have sketched definitions in murky biro
on rumpled pages of my notebooks
and then taken my aim.
i have written long-winded histories
describing the stories i want to unfold
the way i would want others to speak
as they told the story of how i was when i walked in.
i have used evocative words:
"creator" "badass" "gypsy"
to describe what i am, in some cases -
my race and the race
that i run, but also
the way that i want to be, and the navigation of
the path that i want to find.
but now there is no defining
no definition will do
because this is not me sculpting myself again
out of lumps of clay that i pushed back last time
and now am causing to reform.
i'm not even made of clay anymore;
i am not malleable, but stripped raw -
pulled down to the most basic of essences,
and yet i do not know
what that is.
perhaps in time i'll find out,
but for the moment
i don't even know how to try.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC
If I met myself in a gas station in ten years
it would be in Laramie Wyoming
The fog forming a translucent lavender blanket
Drops of hail hit the gravel
like shots raining down on school campuses
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
If I was asked to put
the world right, here
is what I would do.
I would remove the
equator, it should not
have been put there.
It’s as insignificant as
Egalite, in the French
trilogy of 1789, or the
white peace chevron
on Irelands flag between
the green and the orange.
Cork stops, the Atlantic
Ocean flooding our planet,
I would give Ireland an award.
Finally, I would ban the use
of le, la, une and un, in the
French language, ils sont sexistes.
Ps.
Bon Matin Tout Monde (without the LE)
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
Bottles of alcohol squat on the counter, and cigarette butts
like yellow dead June bugs on the floor.
Bottles of shimmering reasons to not care about a hangover,
to leave prom early and rejoice in your parent’s absence.
Glistening necks, elegant glass nubs with no cap
tipped up into mouths screaming proud and hoarse,
We are STUPID! And CONTAGIOUS!
our ***** voices breaking under the radio sound
to a loud song whose generation no longer cares.
But we do, dumb boys and girls in a truck, rolling around town
like Haylee’s bottle of Jack Daniels in the trunk—
aimless, optimistic, and looking for reasons, so
buy a pack at the Chevron and let’s go smoke!
That’s enough, after all, isn’t it?
Reason enough to crack the windows, find a Carlyss backroad,
waste away midnight and half a tank of gas.
Still, as I drive on, a 90s rock station stimulating rotation of the spliff,
that smell puts my mind out of guitar solos and into placid hallways,
Smells Like a night in my dad’s apartment,
the stubbly couch with the nicotine blanket,
the Marlboro tone in the air, concrete crumbs and a lighter’s grating chrrt.
Divorce sounds like alcohol—
a word that burns, something sterilizing and for adults only.
But I don’t care, it’s my turn on the spliff,
and the backseat of my truck sounds more Alive
than the old horror movie rentals he would put on.
And why should I worry about what sobriety means
when we’ve been planning this night for months now?
All stocked up on Bacardi and Smirnoff Ice, Captain Morgan’s, Svedka, Mike’s Hard,
Swisher Sweets wrapped up in the **** bag—
We shoot our *** soldiers eager to start the war,
that war against a domestic unknown enemy,
an enemy dangerous and subversive, like sober-minded aspirations.
And while Zack rolls the blunt, while Jack finds his Camel pack,
while you ask for a hit of Haylee’s cigarette,
I fill a glass with water, my intention to hydrate
exactly as genuine as my intention to forget about it.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
That time I was helpless and broken hearted
crying my eyes out the side of the highway at Chevron
of all places.
I think about how you drove out to pick me and all my
pieces up.
That was nice.
No one else would have ever done that,
just you. I hope that I remembered
to thank you between the tears.
Every now and then I think about that time and
how that's probably the nicest thing that anyone has
ever done for me...
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
As geese
In chevron
Flow through
Sky
Let me be
In each moment
In each beat of wings
And depart
Without a trace
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 3:08 AM UTC
shades on
looking cool
covering up my red eyes
tears staining my cheeks
yet I sit in the Chevron parking lot talking to people as if nothing is wrong
casually scrolling through my phone, asking people about their plans
as if I care
yeah, I smoked a cigarette today
or at least a couple drags
I thought that it could replace you
but no such luck so I gave it up
I wish for death, but death by smoking takes too long
now you feel gone and I need something to take your place
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Sur les tuiles où se hasarde
Le chat guettant l'oiseau qui boit,
De mon balcon une mansarde
Entre deux tuyaux s'aperçoit.
Pour la parer d'un faux bien-être,
Si je mentais comme un auteur,
Je pourrais faire à sa fenêtre
Un cadre de pois de senteur,
Et vous y montrer Rigolette
Riant à son petit miroir,
Dont le tain rayé ne reflète
Que la moitié de son oeil noir ;
Ou, la robe encor sans agrafe,
Gorge et cheveux au vent, Margot
Arrosant avec sa carafe
Son jardin planté dans un *** ;
Ou bien quelque jeune poète
Qui scande ses vers sibyllins,
En contemplant la silhouette
De Montmartre et de ses moulins.
Par malheur, ma mansarde est vraie ;
Il n'y grimpe aucun liseron,
Et la vitre y fait voir sa taie,
Sous l'ais verdi d'un vieux chevron.
Pour la grisette et pour l'artiste,
Pour le veuf et pour le garçon,
Une mansarde est toujours triste :
Le grenier n'est beau qu'en chanson.
Jadis, sous le comble dont l'angle
Penchait les fronts pour le baiser,
L'amour, content d'un lit de sangle,
Avec Suzon venait causer.
Mais pour ouater notre joie,
Il faut des murs capitonnés,
Des flots de dentelle et de soie,
Des lits par Monbro festonnés.
Un soir, n'étant pas revenue,
Margot s'attarde au mont Breda,
Et Rigolette entretenue
N'arrose plus son réséda.
Voilà longtemps que le poète,
Las de prendre la rime au vol,
S'est fait reporter de gazette,
Quittant le ciel pour l'entresol.
Et l'on ne voit contre la vitre
Qu'une vieille au maigre profil,
Devant Minet, qu'elle chapitre,
Tirant sans cesse un bout de fil.
427
Like the dead, I stood
In the dark and storm.
My blood flowed through,
In chevron, the cold soil.
On that night,
I rued the days,
That, as the broken heart,
Perished in the dark through.
How would I know,
That you remember...
But you too like me, stood there,
In the dark and the rain.
A tear drop, which fell with the blue,
On your red face.
And the warm embers were next.
Mar 27, 2022
Mar 27, 2022 at 10:06 AM UTC
Control
My Mouth
> My Voice
Chevron
Piece
Steady
My Pace
> My Walk
Confidence
Talks
T
O
O
M
U
C
H
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
Just a Preacher's son from Barnstable in Devon
on the outskirts where the country roads have no chevron
had a gal called Mary who sang in a choir in Avon
The years went and mama and papa grew old and passed on
Bid farewell to Mary packed my bags and moved on
To London I came a large bustling town that is a top one
Got a job found a place settle in and life was right on
Made friends had a laugh and learnt to talk like Klingons
Went to a party and couldn't tell the girls apart what a rave on
Met Simone with short hair who said I don't do weave-ons
We danced and drank and soon she became my favourite one
Says come home with me we'll have a blast with the lights on
But see that chick over there in yellow she's such a turn on
I'll go get her to come with us and we'll have a *********
Hey Sim! I spluttered, hold on a mo what has brought this on
I'm just a Preacher's son from Barnstable in Devon
I'm green round the gills new in town and not very right-on
She's my lover she said, let's go, get our ******* skates on
Me turning green, papa's rolling and mama screaming 'hold on'
I married your father for forty years never ever such a carry-on
It's a new world now, it's London and everything is full on
But cut me some slack I am just a Preacher's son from Devon
Even if the dogs do this in Devon I never saw, they never let on
Oh said Simone, take a hike, you're a Tory with a small one
Well said I, my work is done, I can leave now, I will move on!
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 4:58 AM UTC
am i here, in these
chevron evergreen stockings
with little grips all along them?
I find a lightness
in my strides,an almost
floating feeling
I cheated death.
It seems;
my body left behind,
I possess
spirit autonomy
freed from the corporeal
I was forced to reside...
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 11:55 AM UTC
The May sky
held a long awaited
invitation to dream.
My mental steam
had finally reached
the atmosphere.
Behold,
a choir of squawk
was released.
Extraordinary,
was the wedge of geese.
Impressive
in their shifting
chevron flight.
A few rebels
fly off
to seek the naked night.
May 14, 2025
May 14, 2025 at 11:20 AM UTC