"clothespins" poems
skyscraper man on seattle time
looms in the corner of swan lake and fry
untouchable denim untouchable blueblack plaid jacket
he's put together with clothespins
he's put together with stipends
he's crammed between taxi cab book ends
skyscraper man on seattle time
stoic as the jet engines roar by
all his friends are magazines all his friends currentbrief
he's got a little future
he's got a few dimes
he's got no father to call out the lies
skyscraper man on seattle time
watches smog children kick ***** on concrete
vulnerable under trees writes his novels in purpleink
he's married once before
he's read crucifixion lore
he's returned his money to the store
skyscraper man on seattle time
looking through spectacles of ***** and brine
the rain falls hard the breeze sweet on the leaves
he's emptying the soul of modern rock n' roll
he's emptying the tray of ashed thought
he's emptying the bank account cold
skyscraper man on seattle time
sheds crinkled skinmemory like the cicada
a twin-sized deathbed deathbed in apt. 203
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
carbon copied and eternal as saltwater as rust
invisible and tapping at the runrain window
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
climbs himself to the cosmos lightheaded perfection
ethereal visions of fullbloom love and legacy with measure
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
Burnt toast and
a spot of blood.
Father dresses for work
and leaves with a wave,
his gabardine suit
the exact same shade
as the storm cloud blooming
on the back of his left hand.
After breakfast, mother pins
his undershirts to the wash line,
clothespins clenched
between broken teeth.
From my upstairs window,
I watch his shirts stiffening
in the flinty December air,
a chorus of white flags,
obsequious and clean.
Mother recovers in the laundry room,
where the floor is dusted with feeble
grains of spilled detergent.
I spend the afternoon
preparing for the sound
of tires crunching on gravel,
for the sweep of headlights
across the lawn.
There are plans
and maneuvers
to arrange.
Counterattacks.
Even now, the snow
on the side of the road
has turned to the color
of my childhood.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
tiny wrists made up of clothespins
sharp hips made up of awkward wingspans
held my smile like a knife made up of coffee stained teeth
walked me home like a dance with the broken sidewalk
kissed my scared hands with a scarred mouth
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
he steps forward to bless us with song
benediction’s serenade
binder clips and clothespins weaken wind
as sheet music tries to take flight
with each strum he was fighting it
emoting with sad lips and blue eyebrows
taking deep breaths let out with heavy sighs
but holding steady
singing and crying come from the same place
as he sang the sun sneaked out
shadows surrendered their stronghold
a moment of warmth shown upon our gathering
near the pine tree at our father’s grave
Terence’s ashes to be interred with dad
a musician, an artist, a writer of songs and poems
a technician, an electrician, a wood worker
his many gifts now only spoken of in past tense
a son to two, a brother to eight
an uncle to many
a father to one daughter
his passion relived in his writings and works
his essence reflected in her eyes
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
The wind blows, while I wind my clock,
It blew the clothespins off, hurting me, leaving a wound, while I wound my clock.
Tears trickled down, falling onto the wound; tear the contract!
They left it behind, in the desert. Deserted.
They said the had agape love, and that left me with my mouth agape.
Aye! They said they had for aye.
Bless them, the blessed. Blessed they are.
The wind continued to blow, the sands to buffet me, I could only think back the the grand buffet.
What to do? Could I sing? From do?
I opened my mouth, then spotted a dove, a dove in the desert? Then it dove down into the sand.
Will it? Can it? Lead me out of this desert? But my feet were feeling as heavy as lead.
A market… Where to get some fresh produce… Who will produce them? In a desert.
And I presented myself with a map and compass, a present from me to me. Happy birthday, I wished myself.
In that minute, I had learned so much. I was a learned man, in a giant desert. I was minute.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 10:23 AM UTC
After a neat little bite
She slid his sandwich into its baggie
And smiled,
Never tiring of her little joke.
“See, it’s alright. Im here with you, having a little fun!”
After the bell he peered into the bag.
And there it was
And a note:
“I love you, Aaron. “
This morning’s mixture of boredom and fear punctuated by her love
Then he daydreamed of helping with the clothespins,
Sheets snapping in the wind
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 12:51 PM UTC
HANDMADE CHRISTMAS
Do you remember back when
Christmas was making things
Out of stiff colored paper
Like chains of slim paper rings
That were so long we took them
And wrapped the a few times
Around the tree as pretty trim?
We made angels and snowflakes
From something called shirt boards;
Cutouts covered with aluminum foil.
They didn’t need extension cords.
And Mom showed us how to starch
String we dyed. We wrapped it
Around some inflated balloons.
When each dried, we popped it.
We made reindeers and Santas
Our of wooden clothespins
With pipe cleaner antlers or
Cotton beards for Santa’s chin.
Mom dyed an old sheet green
For under the Christmas tree.
Prettier than the store-bought kind
It has always seemed to me.
In school we made Gifts too
Things knitted or made of clay
To give to Mom wrapped up
With great pride on Christmas Day.
And that wrapping paper was
Was all Christmas color tissue.
It was inexpensive to buy, so
Using a lot was not an issue.
Some gifts were appreciated
Some maybe not as much
But in every case, we were
For the most part very touched.
You knew for sure just by looking
What care and love went into
The handmade presents that were
Made totally and especially for you.
Brent Kincaid
12/12/2015
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
Nothing gets crossed out -
A collection of the worst jokes you ever told (something about LSD and shellfish) rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls into dust bunnies (whispering my secrets) snatched up and molded with vegan butter until a collective comet increase, increases, IGNITES into flames and is suddenly the rising sun you rose up underneath from six times in my bed where the butterflies in my stomach shivered and shook and made their way to the walls at eye level with your tiny ears
-
Tie a tin-can telephone to the door of your own personal world from my mailbox and I'll leave a message on your carrier pigeon (answering machine?)
I'm confused.
"Jennifer wants you to know that she wants you and her to move into a postage-stamp house in a postcard of Italy - she says to make sure you know that the house has no walls and lots of ladybugs."
-
I think we're breaking up - "What do you mean, you know what I look like without my face? Jesus, Jenny, you're ******* nuts."
-
It's okay though, I got like, ten cents for recycling those cans. Anyways
CRASH! From behind a junkyard ~
Sounds that I will drown out with my erectile-dysfunction pills.
-
There's a candle from something called (Ireland?) here and I can't ******* blow it out, there's like twenty, or twelve years probably, you are repeated here doing sunrise stretches in fluttering orange flames
Green slime oozes from the cracks in your shower tiles and I try to pin it back up with clothespins; just in case it helps you save the world. By the way - I will write my name in the unethical fog left behind an Indian-ocean's worth of water and say I fell asleep, wasn't me, astral projection did it (!!)
-
(Are you still with me?)
-
The last chapter - the Queen of England will buy your burial site under a fake name and I will fingers crossed decompose into one looooong-winded aperçu.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
- Start by caaaaarefully removing your outermost layer of flesh - lather generously; rinse passionately; re-evaluate your life with a fine-toothed comb and carefully remove the parasites of your predetermined partiality
- String them up with clothespins to wither and flake in a badly scorched sky
- Acquire an ice pick of high quality, frosted on memories of all your ex-lovers and their numbing tongues. Begin to chisel at your own very delicate bone structure. Cease action only when the jawbone resembles the claws you disregarded in your 3 AM awakening punctured with crrreeeeaks and hazy in a soft red fog
- Dust your eyelid with arsenic until they're heavy enough to crush a small child. Tell a good joke, or two - which part of a vegetable are you not supposed to eat again? Might as well eat all of it, him, her, them - but not the wheelchair. In retrospect, pull all of your eyelashes out as well - no sense in prolonging the sought-after blackness
- Tie your lover's ruptured spleen around your waist to add a few pounds - god forbid you get too twiggy and crackle and fall into an inevitable pit of self-loathing. Stick straws through puke green nostrils and **** maggots out of gaping eye sockets. Line your lips in borrowed blood.
- Embroider your initials onto my skin and never forget where you came from.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
in Ohio, Mother
hung our laundry humming,
clothespins in her mouth
in Texas, she made my father
buy a dryer after angry wet sheets whopped her face
more than one blustery afternoon
scarcely a score before
Panhandle winds were often roiling clouds,
black as charcoal, laying waste to everything
that grew and breathed
old men at the feed store talked
about the dusters from back then
and about every drop of rain,
every white flake that fell
I missed going barefoot
and fast learned to hate goat heads,
and all thorny things that thrived
in that flat land
Mother despised the hot winds almost as much
as the cool stares she got from the church women
whenever she opened her mouth, revealing
she wasn't one of them
Mother ended words
with “ing,” the extra consonant considered
superfluous at best, blasphemous
to some
men and women both
sounded to me like they had grist
from the silos in their mouths
my father had lived there
as a boy, swore he would never return
the dreaded dust still clinging to his clothes
when he left for the war
oil money brought him back
but only long enough for his skull
to be cracked dead by hard pipe
his insurance settlement
bought us a place in the Buckeye State
as quick as the lid flapped shut
on our mailbox
Mother wept little
until our first night back
in Ohio, when a blizzard knocked out
the lights, and our two candles burned flat
in the cold
my uncle brought bread, butter
and warm soup, which we ate in the gloom
while Mother told my father's favorite brother
how much we loved the Texas sun
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
Rope
and
Clothespins
Need I say more?
Collars
and
Gags
The excitement like a bullet
Blindfolds
and
Cuffs
Shh, the rest is a secret
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
Dripping from the half-tied knots,
Pinched firmly with clothespins,
Like hands that hold together,
These clothes hang from thee,
Like cliffhangers,
Literally.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
i'm warmly lost in the absence of that aspiring red light,
as your heartbeat is still a stabbing pain in the side of my gelatin femurs,
losing visions of the rigidity necessary to live this life of ambivalent autonomy.
--
steel strings and fibers of teeth eating this flesh like a false promise of love,
i am a windowsill covered by a nebulous, translucent shade,
clothespins existing simply to taper my eyes from the pain.
the stars take no mention of this cynical cycle of self-doubt,
for they're lighting our hearts long after they've burnt out.
and your hazel kitchen recipes are hanging over the paint-chipped railing,
giving meaning to this heart,
a blood-stained peach in constant mourning.
break this furtive glass,
there is no light pointing home,
directionless map
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
It seems you've prepared a room in your heart for me
I guess I will stay awhile
I will unpack my things
There's a big window
Where I can watch the sunrise
and feel the light tickle my face in the morning
the same way your lips do
There's a room in your heart for me
I think I'd like to stay awhile
I'll put up posters of our favourite bands
and tape the pictures on the wall
hang postcards from you on a string with clothespins
Make a fort of every book we own
Don't forget your Bible.
There's a room in your heart for me.
It's beginning to feel like a home.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
my life is on the line,
at least my clothes
are being dried
Aug 9, 2022
Aug 9, 2022 at 10:46 PM UTC
.
Whining, it happens when blizzards come calling
Grabbing a jacket I walk down the stairs
Beside the window where winter is lurking
Waiting about as if nobody cares
Coating the trees with a cottony fabric
Not quite as warm as the heater detects
Here in the handbook of problems and answers
Only for masters to come and inspect
Grabbing a scarf from a shelf in the corner
Pouring a cup just to dance in its steam
Maybe some sugar so life can be sweeter
And just a dash of your half and half cream
Kicking the mud from the boots made of rubber
Purchased on sale at a shop on the beach
Next to the flip flops and lotion dispenser
Low to the ground and so easy to reach
Those were the days when the sun wasn’t hidden
Blanketed white like a sheet on a rope
Held up by clothespins of wooden construction
Seeking a breeze with the fresh scent of soap
Shoveling sidewalks and not chasing seashells
Feeling the cold as it bites through your skin
Running a faucet to thaw every finger
When will it be time for all this to end
I guess I will go out and trudge through the weather
Deal with the snowflakes, the slush and the sleet
Before too long I’ll be sweating the summer
Probably whining about all the heat
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
We arrive at the motel I sat next to the window
Soon he closes the drapes with clothespins in tow
I know what's about to come
I hurry and slam two shots of ***
At a split second I get a fist right on my face
I knew it was coming but I didn't get myself braced
He yells b---h you know what your supposed to be doing
As I **** in the tears I pick myself up off the ground stooping
I opened my bag the last pieces of items I own
I'd wish I'd gone and found a comfort zone
I change into my clothes mini skirt , tight shirt, no bra and high heels
I'm afraid to squeal
While I'm leaving, you know what to do or your family will be black and blue
I stroll down the long road a car rolls up
I get in and guide him to the stump
I go back to the motel
Hand over the cash, and I get hit, kicked and told to go resale
Realizing that I'm just a minnow
swimming in a fish tank
With no way out cause I'm out ranked
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 9:08 AM UTC
Thunder grumbles in my stomach
almost louder, certainly
more insistent
than clouds gathering
across the yielding sky.
I pretend God hung them there with clothespins.
Kneading ashes into the days dough
I treat it as a tithe
though I've not pinched any off.
The pennies in a jar by the door
catch my eye.
So many little disks.
So many little lies that we become
and twist about to believe because the believing
is easier that way. We are not dying.
Or so I whisper to the ash
as it succumbs to my hands
and forgets the oven.
© Amber Dawn
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
Keep puffing poisonous clouds
I feel stress decrease
Lost like my former self
Keep searching for inner peace
Things are so out of place
Been ****** up for awhile
Try to keep my mind right
Hosting self-blame and denial
I obstruct noise with music
Block distractions with volume
Worries barge in large groups
Interrupting speakers loud tune
Nothing quiets my ever-screaming thoughts
No sound drowns my troubled brain out
Tried but am incapable of
Changing what I think about
Sometimes I lose control and cry
It's the only thing I can
In bed dreaming happy futures
Hope to get there but have no plan
Fall asleep before pillows dry
Fall apart when dusk creeps in
Negativity held in place by lies
Like laundry hung on clothespins
Love is our ultimate weakness
Only great fools believe otherwise
We escape life through others
That is our true demise
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 6:51 AM UTC
I am from the past, who didn’t quite know when to grow.
From locked doors to the grassland below.
I am from the barrier that guards dangerously.
But within, carelessly.
I am from the smears,
that obtain memories
within a frame.
Where these lay on the shelves of revival,
containing hope for the unknown prospective
that we yet to see.
I am from broken flesh,
mourning to be stabilized.
I am from colours, aimlessly falling from virtuosity,
controlled by ferocity.
Where fanfares erupt into paradise,
and hallucinations rupture.
Where I’m from, emotions get merged into blackness,
struggling to reach the vivid axis.
Now, I embrace my differences,
letting go of references,
grasping to the importance of life itself.
Where I'm from,
none of this occurred.
I now cross the line,
that never was yet to make,
and find ambition within the space.
It's my calling to surrender the actuality
to the mentality.
To unchain the affliction
from the prediction
all teens are held to.
Where I'm from, makes me who I am,
without the destruction,
and the scramming effect.
I am from a war,
that has just conquered love.
In this exact moment,
my quest has not been completed.
The revision of the universe
still holds within my time slot,
gradually fading away
with every step I take.
On my wall,
I clasp to the movement
that wasn’t fully satisfied.
Swinging from the clothespins,
clinching to what was left behind.
I am from these callings,
yelling to break the norms,
that my past had inforced.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
you tell me i'm your best friend but sometimes i feel more like a laundry line
you hang your emotions on me like clothes, swinging back and forth from happy to sad and back again like steady wind
i hold you up with clothespins, stretching myself thin, tying myself to cast iron hooks to make sure you don't fall and get yourself soiled in the muddy dirt or the wet grass
you tell me i'm your best friend as if it makes everything clean, as if the things you say hurt you don't hurt me too
i listen to you tell me everything wrong in your life and i feel myself getting heavier, like instead of drying in the breeze, there's a sudden downpour and the clothes are once again dripping wet
you don't understand that i am frightened that every last word you say to me might be the last and if you leave, who will i be? i'll be a line without clothes, like a skeleton of what i could be. i would be a shell of a best friend, someone who once was who might never be again.
i am afraid that someday you will give me a piece of clothes that i cannot handle. you will give me a shirt so drenched and sopping wet that my twisted line of rope and flimsy wooden clips won't be able to hold it and we will both tumble down together with one gust of terrible wind
they say don't bite the hand that feeds you, and yet you run at me like a ravaged animal. you are never direct and yet every bad word you say against me hits in a precise way, like the blow of a punch only five minutes after your fist comes in contact with my face.
"difficult," was the word you used. "you are so difficult." was what you said to me when you knew it hurt, when you knew i couldn't cope with the thought of being a burden to even the flies. you called me difficult when i had every right to be as difficult as i wanted to be because this was my story, my secret, my reason for fear and yet you made it sound so simple, so easy, and so yours.
it was not yours to tell. it will never be yours to tell but you still act as if you will. you won't purposefully, but still sometimes i am afraid the wrong choice of words will come out of your mouth at the wrong volume and every human being in the world will know what i so desperately want to stay mine.
you tell me i'm your best friend but i feel more like your laundry line.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC
i think i have shed myself of you.
for years i felt you stirring inside of me like a caged animal,
spitting on stale bread to make it soft again, hanging up your underwear with clothespins on my small intestine,
so innocent and sweet and painful like
how a cavity forms.
i sat slow and bleeding like a ball jointed doll,
i wanted to press my thoughts into your skin like thumbtacks.
i wanted to feel your breath on my skin just once,
just once,
maybe once again just to be sure of the smell im destined to avoid and i
will never, ever, never not ever ever let you hurt me again because
some things can’t be forgiven and
some things will always be forgotten
whether you have a choice in the matter or not
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC