"cincinnati" poems
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer
was leading a lonely life working nights
at the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory
where he was in charge of loading crates
full of fukfoorfiffenfimmers, onto cargo cars destined for the city of Cincinnati.
There was such a huge demand for fukfoorfiffenfimmers in the city of Cincinnati,
poor Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer worked his hunnyhush to the bone.
On one of his few holiday weekends,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer went to a hair salon for a trim.
Here he was attended by a hairdresser named, Henrietta Huckhellopolis.
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer instantly fell for the husky-voiced hairdresser.
Gaining enough gumption and gallasisgoppingguff needed to bypass beating around the bush of courteous courtship,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer asked Henrietta Huckhellopolis if she wanted to leerlumpaloomp later that evening.
"I would love to leerlumpaloomp later this evening," she replied, batting her long lashes lustily.
And how those two leerlumpaloomped!
They leerlumpaloomped long through the night.
They leerlumpaloomped so loudly,
the neighbours ended up sticking stuffystoils
into their sensilivities, in hopes of drowning out the noise.
Nine months later,
the lovers were blessed with a litter of lullaloonillies—wot with the loud leerlumpaloomping and all.
But, of the seven lullaloonillies, four of them had two lumpalots instead of one.
Bolstering himself against drowning in despair at the prospect of having sired freak lullaloonillies,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer helped design fukfoorfiffenfimmers especially meant for lullaloonillies who have two lumpalots instead of one.
As the double-lumpalot fukfoorfiffenfimmers
were Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer's idea, the owner of the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory gave Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer
a forty percent cut of the royalties.
*Fortunately some fairy tales come with a happy ending, because the city of Cincinnati was hit with a record number of lullaloonillies
born with two lumpalots instead of just the one.
The high sales of double-lumpalot fukfoorfiffenfimmers,
enabled Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer and Henrietta Huckhellopolis
to quit their jobs and buy into the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory.
Yes, after getting married,
Harry Heironymous and Henrietta Huckhellopolis-Huffenhoffer
lived happily hever hafter.
So did the lullaloonillies....
including those with two lumpalots instead of one.*
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 6, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
I realized that your area code
Was the same as one of my friends
Did you know her?
Or were you some stranger on the other side of a swiveling bar stool?
Was it abnormally warm in Cincinnati when you ordered the second beer?
I imagine you remarked about how fast the year was drawing to a close
And pulled the knit cap tighter on your head
And loosened your grip on the beer
The cliché draft you order that doesn’t fit your eyeglasses or your astronomy career
It would be nice if beer was cheaper than water
But it isn’t
And you’re still a stranger on the other side of a swiveling barstool
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
Look at us, I'm carrying a basket made of trash
and you're carrying a mouse, well
the dog chewed up your glasses
but you're still rockin it
you have a single drop of coffee on your nose,
we're ready to go to D.C.
I had another where-are-we moment, it was fun.
Good, that's downtown Baltimore right there,
****** capital of the world.
An elaborate mural graffiti.
Wall after brick wall.
A rustbelt city like Grand Rapids
Detroit Cincinnati.
Did you sleep well?
Yes I woke up feeling like a clam in a cocoon.
A sea creature inside of a forest insect, okay.
I've wasted too much time on both desire and regret.
Yellow bridge.
Blue-green supports.
Singer on the radio saying, we're young right now.
There's a healthy and an unhealthy way of dealing with pain,
I'm sorry for my selfish behavior in the islands.
I want to go back and leave a better legacy.
'Word.'
Last night to come see you I drove I-95 N, the overpass
and though the rest of the city was really moving
I was all alone up there, it was like
driving in the sky.
We pass signs saying: Icy Conditions:
bridges and ramps freeze first.
And a billboard: Learning Kick Flips
Takes Work, So Does College
We listen to our favorite island song:
love the islands, love the islands, oh.
You look like a rasta snowboarder girl
There's something really right
about having you in this car
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
I'm a fan of Vontaze Burfict
Though he may not be perfect
For he gives players concussions
To continue the daily discussions
Of the power of his percussion
To receive a hall of fame induction
That is where his value is derived
So what do these penalties imply?
That the referees have a preconceived notion of him
And are preemptively looking to treat him grim
Which gives his team a lesser chance to win
Which makes the biased referees grin
We are a country that idolizes quarterbacks
Every other position we're quick to attack
We only care about who has the ball
And laughing at others when they fall
We worship that which is shiny
And view everything else as grimy
Quarterbacks become celebrities incredulously
While everyone else is treated impetuously
The NFL is like America
Politics makes it harder to watch
The Patriots are boring and plain
They win constantly
The Bengals are entertaining and rough around the edges
They show promise and potential that is never realized
In a nation
Of provocation
I'd rather proudly call myself a bengal
I know that seems an idealistic angle
But Cincinnati provides no coziness or protection
You must always avoid discriminate detection
Of those that call themselves patriots
That drive blue and white chariots
And penalize players unnecessarily
For African Americanning
We really fumbled the ball
Because of the ref's call
That treats us unequally
How they have fun evilly
They can arbitrarily treat whoever however
But a concussion will make them less clever
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
It’s 6:47am on a Monday morning on I-71 south towards Cincinnati and I’m driving in the middle lane entirely surrounded by semis and service trucks and out of nowhere, like it was some miracle act of God, it starts pouring down rain so hard that all of the traffic stops in the height of morning rush hour, everyone’s radios playing morning talk shows so loud it vibrates the ground our tires are on and everyone’s coffees move back into their hands from their cup holders, I guess we’re all just trying to wait it out right now
I guess I have no choice but to wait it out right now, he says, hoodie wrinkled, two all nighter’s deep and still no passing grade, standing outside of the campus Starbucks, as it’s pouring down rain
I guess we’ll have to wait it out, says my sister to an 8 year old me, as I wait on the curb of our neighborhood for the ice cream truck, no matter how disfigured the spongebob popsicle’s face looks by the time I get it in my hands, and no matter the fact that I never understood that his eyes were bubblegum
I guess I have to wait it out, my father says, watching my grandmother lying in her hospital bed, getting tests taken for her potentially and what would be proven deadly, lung cancer,
Her eyes glossed over and her lips still yearning for the pull of her usual afternoon pack of cigarettes
You just have to wait it out, says my grandpa, standing next to me in his garden, after having helped me plant my first tomato seeds,
The summer has felt like forever at 10 years old, I wish it stayed that way, and I wish I liked tomatoes
I guess we just have to wait it out now, the head of police says to his crew of swat members, after having everything fail towards coaxing a young high school boy out of his boarded up bedroom, the shotgun he killed his ex girlfriend with, still in his arms
Well, we’re just going to have to wait it out,
I think to myself as I sit in this traffic at what is now exactly 7am on a rainy Monday morning in the middle lane of I-71 south towards Cincinnati, entirely surrounded by semis and service trucks
The rain will stop eventually
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
Cincinnati is a family
town where cookie cutter
houses are bunched up like
sardines painted in pastels and
white. Where East and West
only meet in the
middle of downtown.
Orange barrels dot
the potted streets and
neon clad men work
in 90-degree humidity
just to earn a lower class
income.
The Queen City’s throne
is the revolting Ohio River,
a murky green waterway
filled with monsters and
dead bodies.
Polluted streets are
flooded with homeless caravans
mimicking
sewer rats and everyone
wants a smoke.
People worship a Bengal tiger here,
Oh, and pigs can fly.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Last year's version of the mind-body problem:
my mind gives orders that my body won’t obey.
It’s a problem.
The body’s warranty has expired and
spare parts are scarce. Plastic tubes
To help me drain have become part of my day.
So there’s still a will. But sometimes no way.
I am now my sister’s age when she died.
And some nights
as I lie down in darkness
there’s a moment of wondering
could this be the night
of the Great Reckoning
when everything I’ve said and done
goes mute and I am gone.
And crawling over me like a slow stain
is dread that everything important in life
has already happened. I remember some days
less than my dreams.
But friend, not this tone!
Let us write a history of now.
Body and soul, stand up and shout
“Baseball road trip!”
Car: check. Best friend: check. Nostalgia for a simpler
time. We can fake that one.
The red zigzags on our map turn into places:
Six ballparks in a week.
Detroit haze, gasping Chicago wind,
Milwaukee self-serve micro brew
Cincinnati chili and watering eyes,
Cleveland’s defiant self-love,
Pittsburgh’s Primanti brothers monstrosity sandwich—
Burger, coleslaw, and fries on toast.
The American dream tastes like fast food,
But the mystery lives between the lines.
Thwack of fastball into catcher’s glove,
Whock! of line drive into the gap,
Ball rolling free across the green
While the runner speeds for home.
Home.
Let’s keep going, friend.
There’s another bridge up ahead and
a ballpark’s lights shining somewhere in the dusk
of the upper Midwest and the open road
unrolls toward the setting sun.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 7:16 PM UTC
Rigid, with tears trickling down my spinal column
and escaping any other way they could,
crushed up chrysanthemums in my hands,
without moving a muscle, running away
any other way that I could.
One meaningful conversation
with my father in my whole life,
it was after I drank half a bottle of gin
one night in Cincinnati.
He raised me the best he could.
Once, in a dream, I ordered a ****** mary
and now I wonder if that means anything.
If it means anything good.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
Big Daddy
They call me big daddy,
two soft buns with an extra long patty.
Bacon, lettuce, tomato with extra mayonnaise,
women say it's the latest craze.
Tastes so good, it melts in your mouth,
I just love when a girl goes down south.
A foot long hot dog with a bulging vein,
there is no one higher on the food chain.
Some use ketchup, some use mustard,
either way it comes out custard.
Whipped cream with a cherry on top,
if you're a ****** I'll give you a pop.
They call me big daddy,
it's so big, I had to hire a caddy.
I put all **** stars to shame,
they're not even playing the right game.
Even a loose girl feels so tight,
women think I'm black, but I'm really white.
I can't wear shorts it hangs so low,
my third eye just loves to grow.
They call me big daddy,
all my pants are extra baggy.
Girls pay me just for a look,
it's more thick than the New York City phone book.
Don't be jealous that it's so big,
women hire me for their *** toy gig.
Mom must have had a three way,
with John Holmes and Nick The ****
girls pay me just for a lick.
They call me big daddy,
I've had every girl in Cincinnati.
Sorry to say but this story is fiction,
brought on by my sudden *** addiction.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
For years
the square inner courtyard,
surrounded by sky-reaching apartment complexes,
accessible only through brief
openings
between the buildings
whose windows looked down
soullessly upon our child's play,
contained my entire world,
and I did not perceive any difference
in the hands, faces, and seasonal limbs
of my friends--
But when I returned
the openings had closed,
the courtyard inaccessible
to an unrecognizable Cincinnati child
whose white face and green eyes
brought only memories--
1884, 1929, 1944, 1967,
and angry April showers
that drowned disapproving windows
in curfews of 2001.
And I do understand.
But,
Would the windows open if they knew
there's black in my line,
way back in my line,
from a time when ships like the Delta Queen--
sailed the Middle Passage
monikered in false virtue
granted by titles like Henrietta Marie--
brought African queens instead of slot machines--
when the fields of mud ran with blood
hemorrhaged from Makhulu's
innocence forcibly stolen
by Grampa's lust.
Now I must window
watch my own daughter,
recalling the lesson
on the names of the week:
You know daddy,
someone just made those names up.
And I can see
beyond her blonde pig-tails--
the darkness of her eyes
recalls the act of shame--
coupled with the sharp wit
of a chained matriarch standing proudly
on the auction block declaring:
These waterways are all connected.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
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Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
Please accept the attached the original, as yet not published work written by G. David Schwartz - the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish
Appraisal of Dialogue and Midrash and Working Out Of The Book
Currently a volunteer at the Cincinnati J Meals on Wheels, Schwartz continues to write.
His latest book is Shards And Verse (2011, Publish America).
Names are not real people
G David Schwartz
[email protected]
Four For Glory
The Night Was Cut Off From Smiling
G David Schwartz
Oh, I will not die
The night was cut off from smiling
I sat there crying
Broken Wings Fly Upside Down
G David Schwartz
Whether red or brown
broken wings fly upside down
Do not touch the clown
I Hear The Firer Frying
G David Schwartz
I hear the frier frying
I hear the burgers burning
I also here the wind
Early out this morning
I Am Not Ashamed
G David Schwartz
I am not ashamed
I will do anything with you that you wish
except of course
eat some uncooked fish
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
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Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
The Polo Grounds, when first seen,
are a most magical shade of green.
Hand in hand, me and my Dad
head for our seats in the right field stands.
It’s the Cincinnati Reds in town
to play the New York Mets.
There’s a double header scheduled,
How much better could it get?
Cincinnati took the first game
by a score of three to nil.
My hot dog was delicious
Dad had a beer to swill.
The nightcap was a wild affair
The Mets won thirteen- twelve.
You could look it up, as Casey said,
if you should care to delve.
We rode the subway home that night
side by side, me and my Dad.
We reminisced about the game
Like the most knowledgeable fans..
The Q44 from Flushing took us
up Queensboro Hill,,
past Carvel and Booth Memorial,
I remember it well still.
My father turned to look at me
as five decades creased my brow.
Making us the self same age-
What he was then, so I am now.
Thirty years, about, it’s been
Since last I saw my Dad.
The dead don’t get to baseball games,
Which I think is rather sad.
He can’t enjoy a summer night
on the wrong side of the grass.
And an ice cold beer is greatly missed-
He can’t pour himself a glass..
In memory, we still can walk
With those who came before.
So I took my Dad to a baseball game-
What was I waiting for?
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:28 PM UTC
PATSY’S POEM.
(Composed while in Bloomington jail)
While sitting in this silent chamber,
And nothing else to do,
I thought I would compose a song
And write it, friends, for you.
I am not much of a poet,
Though I’ll do the best I can
To try to keep my courage up
And bear it like a man.
I was born in Cincinnati
And in Ohio State—
Little did I think, my friends
I would ever meet such a fate.
I was brought up by honest parents,
Who thought the world of me.
And this is the first time I’ve been
Deprived of liberty.
It was on the fourth of August, in 1879,
From house to house the news was spread
That Aaron Goodfellow had been shot,
And soon he would be dead.
Suspicion pointed toward me;
They rushed upon their prey,
And I was forced to prison
To await my trial day.
They took me to the station-house;
From there to the county jail,
Where iron bars surrounded me,
There my troubles to bewail.
I never did the cruel deed—
God knows I’m not to blame,
Although I have been convicted
And must suffer all the shame.
A word to my old mother,
And my sisters kind and true:
Remember I’m innocent
Though I must part from you.
Any you my kind relations,
I know you wish me well;
But my feelings at this moment
No human tongue can tell.
Before I close this rhyme
I’ll not forget to mention
My good jailer,
Mr. Franks.
And now, my kind friends,
‘Tis all that I can do
In sending this, my song,
To bid you all adieu.
Patsy Devine, in a Bloomington, Illinois jail, sometime between 1880 1882
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
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Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
Drown Cincinnati, drown!
We sang from the balcony,
Give up your blood and sweat and be cleansed!
And as they drowned below they called to me for help,
But I'm sorry brothers, I have looked in to the gaping jaws of Hell and I cannot go back!
Euthanize your idols, burn your high fashion statements!
Build a bonfire of your vanities!
Your ancestors ***** the Native American people and now you bear their graven image on your T-Shirt
Oh but how they were HOLY
Holy is the slogan sewed in to the denim
Holy is anarchist ideal held together by safety pins and hairspray
Nursing at the breast of punk's decrepit corpse,
You read the eulogy, screamed "Anarchy in the UK!"
In to the microphone
Although you never left American soil
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
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Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
Cincinnati Opening Day
It's a regional holiday
The Finley Market parade
America's first professional baseball team does it the right way
Excitement is in the air
I like to go downtown and pick up freebies on the square
Everybody is dressed in red or Reds gear
Bands are playing, if you want to have fun; you got to go there
The start of baseball season
You know warm weather is near
Everybody has high hopes that this is the year
Opening Day in Cincinnati, come on down and have a beer
C
O O
g0 Reds!
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC
I still get my news from my hometown.
And I do not respond to my new friends.
And I cursed November when he came.
And I told myself my existence was feeble.
And I got all the movie quotes wrong.
And I was coughing all the **** time, craggy inhales and spittle in my tea.
They were all phonies then.
Except the boy
I met who
ended every sentence with
"I don't really know,"
so
everything he said could be true.
And I was running all the time in my sleep, then.
And ******* too.
And the same boy was always in my dreams - but not the right boy - the boy who was important to me only ever in sleep.
But dreams seemed important then, too.
Oh, I remember!
5 a.m.
when I yanked you out of bed, come, I am going
MAD!
(you were going mad, too,
just last week.)
The fog was not rising at all
chain smoking in respect to my lungs
and their strike on air
my strike on a way of living whose sole purpose was
to stay alive longer
what's all the yap about?
I was not sure I wanted to live
you kept on talking about dogs.
I do not want to live
you started talking about cars!
I have death in my fingertips, you fool!
You supposed heaven was real
and I thought over what I had heard:
heaven is all around us
(yes, we were in a cloud.)
And I supposed you were right
but I kept silent,
I could not put my world on you
and its godlessness.
There was a green flashing light
on the other side of Cincinnati
but you did not understand that reference yet.
But we counted all the
churches and rainy cars
They couldn't grasp at God either.
Godlessness!
it will make us all mad, then.
but it was science who spelt of protons and electrons;
and when I am GOOD
he shows me his twisted, gnarled little black heart.
and when he, angelic, comes--
I am the Darkness.
We supposed this was how God talks, anyways.
And the sun curled up again
we drank coffee
in bad lighting
over silence
the insanity
soggy waffles
night shakes leaving me and...
It took you hours to respond!
Grappling with insanity for hours!
the kinds in wavelengths
static
feeble
hours
glowering hunched electric clock in the corner
cracked windows
pane
I could not stop thinking over forgiveness
and if I forgave my father for forgetting my birthday
nine years ago
so mundane.
And if it mattered anymore
And if I forgave God
And if I would ever apologize to Him
there was a green flashing light in my baptismal basin, too.
I do not call myself Gatsby anymore.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
I am alright
is what I say even when I have flashbacks everyday of the intimidating looking paramedic carrying me into the ambulance car as if I’m shattered porcelain.
We’re alright
is what my mom says even when she leaves the house she constantly calls and when we aren’t in the same room she repeats “Kelly? Just making sure you’re alright”.
I am alright
is what I say even when I have to look away when the clock strikes 9:27 am because that’s when everything suddenly went black and then spotted white.
We’re alright
is what my mom says, a single parent paying MRI scans, emergency room bills, antiseizure medication, the neurologist, the neurosurgeon, the epileptic neurosurgeon, without a cent from my father, and her worry lines are piercingly more clear to me.
Does anyone really wanna hear the truth?
I rub my fingers across my head imagining ripping out the millions of neurons lighting paths across my brain. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to worry anymore.
I’ve kept my mouth shut because it’s polite but I want to tell everyone who’s pretending to be my friend because they feel sorry for me to **** off because my health is none of their business.
It all catches up to me when I sit in the hallway at Cincinnati Children’s and I watch kids with tubes down their noses and needles in their arms and think to myself:
I can’t be one of them, can I?
This can’t be real, can it?
But I guess I’m alright.
The meds make me feel foggy, like I’m somewhere between awake and asleep.
Where my mind feels like it fell through a trapdoor and into a vacuum.
If it was up to me I wouldn’t leave the house. The only places I feel safe are in the nurses office or in between the 4 walls of a hospital with my mom holding my hand.
That’s what seizures do. Turn an 18 year old girl into a 5 year old, wanting to run in a closet and slam the door so nobody has to see it happen again.
No going down stairs alone, no locking the door when showering, no getting drunk at parties, no driving, no living your life.
So you wonder if I’m alright? If alright means seeing my mom cry for the first time in years, if alright means sleeping 3 hours a night, if alright means having to rely on others because I can’t do anything by myself..
Maybe I’m tired of lying.
Maybe I’m not alright.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC