"coasters" poems
if life were more about,
trading baseball cards,
riding roller coasters,
staying out past
curfew
we would be
friends for
life
But life
is more about
ego
pride
*******
you became someones
to me, because of no ones
important to either
one now
so just like
marbles and hardwood floors,
the right thing to say at the time,
things
get
lost.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
Once, I read about a theme park
The roller coasters reached the bottoms of the clouds and
the speeds broke the sound barrier
Children went there daily
They laughed and they screamed and they smiled from dawn until dusk
They won prizes
and they were very much alive
I went to look up that theme park last month
The rides had all shut down
And they were completely still
Nobody had touched it in years
The streets of this city that were once full of life
Were dull and motionless
The windows were broken
The prizes were gone
The bright lights of all colors
were now empty shattered bulbs
The only emotion was empty
All of the happiness and joy
And the laughter and life
Was completely gone
I think of this often
How one place can hold such life one day
and the next be as good as dead?
I saw myself in this corpse
My body, decaying
The joy I would feel and the dancing and laughter has
now all turned to a blank slate of gray
My mind had shut it all away and I am nothing
I once held better days
But now I am a broken roller coaster
Abandoned and corroded
Because I once got so high
And I once moved so fast
But now I am frozen in my place, hidden away
Forgotten like an erased word off a paper
Once, I read about a theme park
And all I learned was I am empty too
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
I love roller coasters.
I love the old rickety ones that jar my spine and push me into my little sister and i can feel our ribcages collide with the
click-click-click as they slowly build suspense and propel me towards the sun.
my last boyfriend hated them. He felt that his stomach couldn’t stand up to the drop of gravity so he ran at the sight of the climb up to reason and fled the line when i unbuckled my seatbelt.
i love waiting in line for a **** good thrill, and i count down the minutes until the spill of my scream echoes into the hairspray of the woman in front of me as she holds the hand of her cut-offs husband.
i guess you aren’t one to pine for the wooden tracks of thrill, either. but last night i lay in bed, on my side, trying to memorize the planes of your face, trying to calculate the angle of your nose as it leans slightly to your right, you tell me it’s crooked, i tell you it is lovely. it is the finest architecture this side of eiffel tower and you run your hands from the top of my collarbone, down the valley of my waist to the top of my hip, and you tell me you wish you had a tiny car to run along the line.
most of all i love the fall.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
it seems my entire life is defined by drinks.
mother's milk out the womb.
(and maybe those suckles were sweet - it's not like i remember - but her words, for the rest of my life, certainly weren't.)
an hour-long debate, with my best friend at twelve years old - apple or orange juice?
(orange, obviously, is the right answer. we rehash the argument sometimes to this day.)
the day i turn 19, a beer in my hands.
(i'm sat around a campfire with my closest friends, birthdays all older than me - the beer tastes disgusting, as cheap alcohol is, but i'm glad to be there.)
yesterday, i had 1 coffee and 2 mugs of lemon honey tea, 4 glasses of water.
today, no tea, but 2 cups of coffee, a glass of milk, and 3 glasses of water.
i bite at my nails when i'm nervous, swallow down the spit that comes with it, the bile that rises.
last summer, i visited pei, had a raspberry cordial - my favourite drink to date - then bought a case of 4 more to take home with me.
last summer, when i lived in new brunswick, my friends in the same building knew me as the one who would always have a drink in hand - a milk tea, or maybe a pink lemonade, maybe that obscure korean soda i liked.
when i left new brunswick, i took a photo of my 2 trash cans, of the way they were both filled to the brim with empty bottles and cans and jugs.
i still miss the apple cider they made there.
my life is defined by drinks, sips, swallows, taking five minutes to breathe by making myself a nice whipped coffee, trawling the internet for pretty coasters and glassware for an hour in lieu of doing actual work.
Eventually, i close the shopping tabs, take a sip of coffee, and resume with the rest of my life.
Nov 5, 2023
Nov 5, 2023 at 7:38 PM UTC
but when i said
‘living on the edge,’
this was never
what i meant.
what i meant was real party all night
without parents’ permission;
not a pity party at night
with my self-destructing notions.
what i meant was real rollercoasters,
or go on life adventures;
not roller coasters
of all my life’s emotions.
what i meant was swim in the ocean,
or face my darkest fear.
not an ocean of my
darkest fears face me.
but i when i said
put ‘happy’ and ‘die’ together,
i meant to actually ‘die happy’
not to be ‘happy dying.’
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
Rusted trailers file in,
carrying pop-up roller coasters
and tilt-a-whirls. A tall man, face splashed
with paint, trips in oversized shoes.
His drawn lips smile, but teeth do not show.
A ferris wheel spins in the distance, time
measured in each rotation, the carnival's only clock.
Perched on a saddle, a small tot
rides a stallion, tangling her curled fingers
in its mane, cotton candy stained palms
shaking the reins. The steed chained
to a central post, muzzled in silence,
frozen like his carousel brothers.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
You're cute.
Adorable.
Sweet.
****
Lovely.
Amazing.
Rad.
Beautiful.
Awesome.
Handsome.
Different.
Weird.
Crazy.
In the best possible way.
You make me smile.
You make my stomach do backflips.
And 180's.
You make me stutter words that should be easy to say.
You make my cheeks turn firetruck red.
You make me want to write again.
You make me want to love roller coasters.
And horror movies.
You make me proud to be
A womyn
Gender Queer
Gay
A Confused Person
You make me want to learn about feminism.
You make me reconsider my original definitions for words some people use everyday.
You make my heart melt.
You make me happy.
Thank you.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
Scattered, splattered gold – like sunshine, once
It crashes into a dark place, a cave by the sea,
Where no one ever goes.
She can pick it up, let it slip and drip
Between her fingers, fingertips. But
She can’t put it back together again.
This girl, someone’s child, she dances
And reads books, and likes to ride her bike
To ride roller-coasters, to fall in love like
The famous people. Mickey Mouse.
She loves love.
Or she used to, she once did, not now.
When she was young, she would write poems
And she would know so, that they were poems.
But somewhere, the rhythm of her mind changed:
Syncopation, alliteration, became the sing-song
That helped her through the night.
*tonight
i don't belong here
my skin is not mine
hair like rope
up, i climb
to nowhere
tonight
pits where my eyes were
petals for lips
irises
we fall into blue
deep violet, violent blue
like oceanwater weight
i am, but not here
like kafka on the shore*
So now she stays, she lives in the dark place,
That same cave where the sea places
Her secrets, things that need to be saved.
And she’s wrist deep in what used to be
Something warm, and sweet, and really quiet –
Holding sundust, smeared
Willing it back into the sky.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
I am so sick of having to go to mass to please my family who will not accept me otherwise.
I am so sick of having to walk down the street covering myself because men can't de-sexualise normal human body parts.
I am so sick of the arguments of sexism, racism and overall discrimination.
-if someone accepts you, great.
-if they don't, grow a thicker skin and rise above.
I am so sick of being afraid of things like trying new food and roller coasters that make me feel as though I'm missing out.
I am so sick of being so extremely misanthropic that when someone says they can relate to my sadness I get angry that another human believes they can empathise with me.
I am so sick of being told what to do with my life.
I am so sick of not knowing what to do with my life.
I am so sick of acting like I know what to do with my life.
I am so sick of my life.
I am so sick of myself.
I am so sick of looking at my features and scrutinising them.
I am so sick of being alive.
I am so sick.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
East-coasters, roller coasters
Churning up my innards
I am going home again!
Over mountains
Diving straight into the ocean
Fifteen hours
Driving
But (home is where the heart is)
(home is anywhere but here)
Home drowns hate in cool water
Swelling waves pull sadness down
Salt and sand scrub the scared off my skin
I will break the surface
Sacred
Free and clean again
East-coasters, brave little toasters
Cinnamon and sugar in the mornings
In my mind pictures are forming
Of pawprints in wet sand
And your hand in my hand
My seashell bra is coming off
The surf breaks over smooth rocks
Time swims on and on
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
the fog
is home
to me.
I close my eyes,
I am still standing in Santiago Chile.
business people are
rushing back from the lunch break.
the outside restaurants
teaming with customers.
I look up,
the Andes Mountains are head of me
a weak pink fog veils them.
my mom turns to me,
‘honey, that’s pollution’
I’m glad we have the real fog
back home
I close my eyes,
I’m flying back from Atlanta Georgia.
my fellow San Franciscans and I
waiting to see our home, I almost tear up.
our water had gone out that Atlanta summer
and I remember there wasn’t a day under 105 there.
the fog looks so tasty
like I would be fully
refreshed and rehydrated
after only one bite.
I close my eyes,
I’m living in Boston for five weeks.
a storm passes by now and again.
the east coasters complain that
the fog is ruining their city’s
sunny reputation.
the southerners complain
that summer isn’t actually there.
I just smile and smoke,
I love watching the smoke drift into the fog
mingle, then disappear.
I close my eyes
I am standing in Rome
my family- taking cover in a store overhang
there was heavy rains and over cast
, but no fog ever descended for a meet and greet
on that day.
I close my eyes ,
I am looking at the tall slender buildings in Vietnam
along side the main highway of ** Chi-Man city
it is overcast- the storm last night brought down
a tree, crushing a poor shop with a sheet metal roof.
the overcast hangs, and I am feeling
a little nostalgia for home
I open my eyes,
I am back in the sunset district.
I’m laying on my reservoir,
looking out at the Pacific Ocean.
the wind blows inland
whatever weather on the westward horizon
blows in in a couple of hours
the fog sits at the horizon gathering itself up
for it’s long strut to the beach
and I wave to my old friend
it’s good to be home.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
I miss the open highway
I’m besotted with quick getaways.
What other sensation can compare
to pulling G’s with wind-whipped hair?
When my foot’s on the throttle,
I feel unstoppable.
Faster, faster, no faster,
that’s the rush I’m after.
Where are we going?
There’s just no knowing,
and no matter where we roam,
the GPS will get us home.
One thing was guaranteed,
the speed limit would be exceeded.
I adored the wide open straightaways
and the feeling of a racing-day at Marseilles.
I remember in the Appalachian mountains
the plunging, snake-like, winding canyons
as the speedometer edged past ninety
how my escort, Charles, would glare at me.
I’d let off - a little - and laugh, I mean,
isn’t freedom the American dream?
To hear the growl of a V8 motor,
as it turns rural-roads into roller coasters.
Feb 11, 2023
Feb 11, 2023 at 12:41 PM UTC
Every night is another session of inception
My mind distorts and alters my perception
What-if scenarios now a trained intercession
Is it me? Is it my views or my skin complexion?
Took a long time to reply, that's fine
It's all good, it's all good Mrs. Fine wine
Girl, I'm back for a few more rounds
No complications; this a "stress free" sound
Everything rides the windy coasters
While I try to cross life into a beautiful floater
I've thought about my golden childhood
"Why can't the world be like your childhood?"
No pain, no drama, no confrontations
Such a chilling sensation down my spine
Now all people wanna do is smoke and drink
I didn't think illusions would make us sink
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 12:56 PM UTC
Well I don't know how it happened
You just forgot, I guess
The pain receded
I kept breathing
And now...
I wish I hadn't seen that
It hurts to see you function
I hate to watch you love
...
I really hate to watch you love.
I wish you hadn't kissed me
In the wind
Genuine surprise coursing through my veins
I thought those sort of kisses were myths, all
My heart might have stopped
I wish you hadn't let me in
Serenades and rusty blades
Dreams and phone calls
Roller coasters and secret beer
The similarities bring me down
Why can't my soul mate stay my friend?
I hate the way you make me love you.
Every word, I miss the drawl
I used to talk that way.
My twangy southern voice has left and so has my love of spontaneity
You've wrecked it all
All I have is
Anger for your smile
Exploration
You touched my bones
Leave me alone.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
Like sipping coffee with cigarette in hand,
watching waves rise and fall while stepping through warm sand,
you are peace of mind.
Like smelling roses during sweet sugary May,
Laying down after a long lingering day
you are an exhaling breath.
Like the tops of roller coasters about to drop,
Watching number wheels spin until they stop
You are anticipation.
Anticipation going over again in my head
Like a pinwheel being hushed to tread
Constantly spinning.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
While introspecting
I came closer, to myself
Being distanced
I forgot the language
In which scripts were written
Became myopic
And veered farther
Enjoying being away
Lost in the din
Never realizing
I was being swept away
From myself
While my soul yearned
For a rendezvous
I was oblivious
Seduced by the glib talkers
Became gullible
And yielded to the manipulations
Was a hallucinating ride
In the scariest roller coasters
Mind in a jumble
Entangled in the web of lies
Now, I have come back
From the brink of oblivion
To myself
Once more to listen
To my soul and heart
A union
After a struggle
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
The roller coasters never used to the scare me
it was always the lines which I feared
waiting and waiting and waiting
allowing my mind the space to run wild
with images of crushed, collapsed, metal
the loops and the speed never scared me
the rickety clank of the old tracks
or the hydraulic rumblings of the new
these things never scared me
it was my own mind which scared me
the certainty with which I knew
that I was never going to wait in another line
ever again
that after this,
all would be like before I was born
the hazy dark silence
of an unconscious mind
But the roller coasters?
I always used to enjoy the roller coasters
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
BABY vamps, is it harder work than it used to be?
Are the new soda parlors worse than the old time saloons?
Baby vamps, do you have jobs in the day time or is this all you do? do you come out only at night?
In the winter at the skating rinks, in the summer at the roller coaster parks,
Wherever figure eights are carved, by skates in winter, by roller coasters in summer,
Wherever the whirligigs are going and chicken spanish and hot dog are sold,
There you come, giggling baby vamp, there you come with your blue baby eyes, saying:
Take me along.
1.6k
I used to dream of ice cream, toy stores
roller coasters and Star Wars
It’s just dregs now, bitter
A nightmare, Twitter
I dream of my mother scolding
Being more than senseless, molding
My father at his cruelest
Exaggerations, clueless
My little brother stolen
my arms not strong enough to hold him
Running, searching, groping
Falling into the ocean
Gasping, reaching for the rungs
Water filling my lungs
Great depths
Unknown wrecks
Sunk ships misery
No buoyancy
Car accidents
Missed tests
Broken hearts
Fire starts
A gunman in the classroom
A sudden crass boom
Glass flying through the air
People screaming, nothing there
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
there’s a deep, visceral anger that I seem to feel everyday
that no one ever talks about.
i wake up and my stomach roils with fury, wild and burning.
i eat breakfast and watch as my hand grips the mug, wishing I could shatter it against the floor.
conversation hurts with the acid I want to spit at my mother.
i watch action movies and ride roller coasters and go to haunted mazes and every scream I’m allowed feels like the briefest, most beautiful respite.
i look out at crowds of people and it feels like I’m breathing concrete.
i sit in my car and scream and cry and scream because it’s the only place I’m really alone and the guy in front of me stares through his rearview mirror.
i say that I’m tired but I really mean angry but I don’t know how to say angry so I just say tired and everyone is getting really tired of me being tired.
i remember when the anger was so big and I was so small and I only knew how to close the hatch of my mouth to keep it all inside because one time I let it out and then everyone knew about the anger and I came to the sudden terrifying realization that the anger wasn’t supposed to be evoked.
i am so angry and I thought everyone else was too and we were all in on some joke where we’re constantly hiding fury behind our eyes.
but I think, recently, I’ve realized that this deep, hot, painful, crippling, paralyzing anger isn’t entirely normal.
that not everyone wants to scream at their loved ones one moment and then stick a knife in their head the next.
instead the joke is on me, like I missed orientation and everyone seems to run like clockwork and I’m an angry little gear that’s rusted and out of place.
everything is so practiced and planned and poised and perfect and I just want to sink my teeth into it and rip it all to shreds, screaming and baring my throat to the sky, daring god to face me and bear witness to my unholy wrath as the blood of his creation runs down my neck.
anger grips me like a vice and lives in my stomach and I just want to have a conversation where I’m not trying to not throw the bottle in my hand.
Sep 6, 2022
Sep 6, 2022 at 3:06 AM UTC
What have we, but time?
Certainly not certainty,
And definitely not definity.
What have we, but never-ending?
No, not never, (check the negatives),
But never-ending.
Consistent elapsing of the clock.
With that we learn to experience,
But unfortunately we block out our conscience.
Oh, many are the benefits;
We mustn’t overlook ice-skating,
Hot tubs, movie premiers, roller coasters.
All the gray-toed, white socks of dating.
Neither regret/forget a night like any other,
Save for a blue bag of corn chips,
Dim lighting and a cup of hot chocolate.
But mistakes, mostly by one party,
Have dimmed the lights further,
Even clouded out the Sun (chip).
Questions remain unanswered. Stories untold.
We sit. We wait. We sing.
What have we, but time?
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 7:39 PM UTC
The monsoon moon hung close between,
Bog's abode now and his abode to be.
As all anchor's were lost in the waves,
he asked me to dig both our graves.
I told him of the signs that be,
'the signs don't care for you and me'
he said as he took me by my mind,
'symbols are ruthless, unkind!
the symbols speak of the amusement park,
and the roller coasters with caretakers dark,
and a little baby that was put upon,
that fateful ride, shall soon be gone.
The failing serpent has all venom lost,
you think you have won, but with a cost.
The serpent was to give you force,
now you sit, with knowledge coarse,
of all that the serpent can choose to do,
but you chased it away, your serpent, has left you.
But I will you, a new serpent build,
fresh from the furnace, by the light man's guild,
It needn't be strong, it needn't be sure,
but it will be an honest serpent,
that is the cure!
This blind serpent, it will help you see,
beyond this vibration you choose to be,
The symbols then would be of use,
now, till then, they will confuse,
So leave the signs alone for now,
let's build you a serpent, with the temperament of a cow.'
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
Modern and Contemporary Poetry
takes up most of the passenger seat.
Pages' edges ruffled like the balled-up polo I'm wearing. *Tommy Hilfiger'd
be rolling in his millions.* Twenty minutes till work's screen door crashes on the frame twice before settling. Three salad plates, a skillet, and two jars of unsweetened tea condensate
on the metal counter. They soak dinner bills and paper towel coasters.
The front door vacuum seals behind sandal families reeking of Chlorine
and hairspray. Beachy look. Three more families crowd in behind them, taking turns sifting through the hostess desk peppermints for discarded toothpicks. Reservations for 7:00 come in at 6:50 and demand a table. They're just like the mints packed tightly
in the lobby, but there are a few patient ones at the bottom. They're the ones that inspire stanzas in Modern and Contemporary Poetry, the college textbook waiting on my passenger seat. Three more hours.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Bite my tongue and I'll bite yours.
You want to fight with your mind.
But I will not let you make it happen.
I know you still think about her.
But we're together to heal from the agony they've caused us.
I hid the mirror so we could not see the reflection of our bad decisions.
Are not you tired of love roller coasters?
Today I want you to let the wind control your mind.
You remind me of an old love story.
Do not ask you to ignore
Will not.
Do you want to go outside hunt teenagers dreams?
You spent all night staring at the stars seeking the cure of rejection
Turn off the radio.
The time to think about broken hearts is over.
Today I just want to have intimacies with the moon.
I do not want to talk about broken hearts today.
Otherwise I'll leave.
I still hear him in my mind
I want to be naked under the moonlight.
I want to control your mind.
I want to listen to indie music.
I want to see the girls' white teeth
I want to be the poetry not understood.
I want to dance until I can not anymore
I do not want to think about wounds.
I want to feel free.
I'm going to celebrate that we're still alive.
But today I will not talk about broken hearts.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 3:29 AM UTC