"conditioners" poems
It's the first day of summer heat.
Temperature is one hundred and four.
The junkies and drunks hit the street,
shufflin' towards death's door.
Freon raindrops fall from air conditioners
that hang from windows on the third floor.
I think "this day couldn't be finer",
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Bicycle tires roll over broken glass
from the shattered window of a store.
The prostitutes all congregate beneath the overpass,
as they shuffle towards death's door.
**** smoke fills the air
as I finish off beer number four.
A chance to put my mind elsewhere,
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
the coolness of the Atlantic hits us like an epiphany
you tuck a willow in my hair
as i taste summer in the air and insanity on your tongue
those nights when we felt like fireflies trapped in mason jars
and we watched all the others follow the lifeless lights of city streets
enduring the foggy-eyed mornings that follow with a blanket on the floor with you
a forest fire ripping through my head
(i loved you)
a bass drop of a song in the backseat of your friend’s car
my heart flutters like sparrows to the sound of thunder
and the sun trembles over the horizon
i know how this will end, just like i know you
but for now we are young
the wind hits our broken pieces and fills the holes
i count up all our mistakes and they seem beautiful
as we wait for the fiery effervescence of violent waves
i hope we remember how they sound when we get old
we let the meaning of everything cloud over us for a while
(i loved you)
broken air conditioners and laughing out loud for no one to hear
and we wonder if we exist at all and i think how strange this is
as phosphorescent waters swish and spill
i scream inside so there is no echo
my sleep took over slowly that night
i used up all my colored film on you
and i found the pictures in the glove compartment today
i love(d) you
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
to her thighs....
my taste buds
so eager to say hi,
if I was asked to describe
I'd say just look
outside, Around the
time... when the moon
was destined to hide and
air conditioners kidnapped
the space windows and their
sills used to collide
While i strive, tongue
kicks a lure for her
sweet surprise.... That
collapse in time mimics
the anticipation of a
hydrant's refreshing
jolt when it's hot outside
her satisfactions
introduction feeds me
the thrill of that last
day of school during
dismissal time, freedom
for what seems like forever
it's two month limit always
fled past your mind
When she divides
and reveals the treasures
her structure was built
to hide... My taste buds
reunite with the flavors
of summertime
taste like summertime
© 2014 viewtifulink
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
The days are becoming hotter
The sweat does not appear
But form into crystals of salt.
The bitumen laid roads are boiling..
The concrete jungles are oven baked..
For those who are well off,
The air conditioners roar day and night..
Either at home or at office
Or during the transit in the car..
For those who are not so lucky,
They manage it ..
For they have no other choice
Rather than to sweat it out..
Is it the climate change?
Or is it my feeling?
Or both?
Or..
Neither?..
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
O Hair, o Hair, wherefore art thou dear Hair?
You stuck with me since I can remember
How come you’re leaving? Why do you not care?
Why haven’t you grown since last November?
What did I do to make you love me less?
I’ve always given you the best shampoos,
Conditioners, hair cream- why are you distressed?
I wish you could talk- for I have no clue.
‘Stress’- the doctor says that you can’t bear it
It hurts you, it makes you sad, angry, weak
How I miss your happy, active spirit
You lit up my days when the world was bleak
You were obedient, made me look good
Introduced styles of your own I didn’t know
Growing fast into a shiny mane you would
Falling tantalisingly to my brow.
You used to cooperate with the stylist
So I tried new things, innovatively
Fashionable styles I never could resist
But you danced brightly, never plaintively!
Alas! I can’t possibly understand
Why you fall away to the cold hard ground
As I brush you, in the shower, strand by strand
The sight just shocks me as you make no sound.
You don’t respond to new-fangled oils
Bought online for you in desperate attempts
To make you grow again, healthy, unspoiled
But you stare up at me with harsh contempt!
Do not desert me yet, my darling friend!
I will change myself for you, make it right
Ensuring your precious life doesn’t end
I will put up a victorious, mighty fight.
I’ll meditate to reduce stress on you
I’ll stop shampoos to use homemade products
I’ll take the required medicines, oils too
Baby, for me, increase your good conduct!
I’m so sorry for all that I did wrong
All the things that then made you want to die
I’ll take care of you now, you will be strong
Work with me now, sweetheart, don’t ever cry!
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
There's a great owl
outside
my closed window,
hooting
to the rhythm
of air conditioners
kicking on and off.
It's melody seems askewed,
as if it's toxicated
on the technology
of finely tuned thermostats,
seemingly
out of whack.
And when I think
about those places without
controlled climates,
I wonder if the songbirds there
sound better than a drunken
bird of prey here.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
It's summer here in Miami, Florida. The Jacaranda tree has violet flowers that fall and float on the tops of the moist jade grass. The Gardenia bush with bent branches is heavy with fragrant white flowers. Parsley, basil and dill are tall and flowering with bees pollinating them.
Numerous plump cherry tomatoes, with all their tingling flavor, hide among the leggy bushes. Green and scarlet bell peppers, smooth and crisp, hang on neighboring branches.
Several new baby birds are fledgling from nests while their parents protectively hover nearby. Two families of scarlet Cardinal birds greedily eat from our outdoor feeders. A flock of fifty Cherry Head parrots with their crimson shoulders and heads crack open black sunflower seeds.
Toads at night call to prospective mates sounding like broken air conditioners. Black wiggly bodies swim in clusters in the canal feeding on algae waiting to grow their legs and hop through the tall grasses.
Global mangoes growing and ripening on trees are large enough to sweeten the palette .
The sun is smiling warming the earth--the animals, plants and people. Steady rain quenches the thirst of all creatures. Nature is here for us to enjoy.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
My muse, my muse,
She’s here right now
She just took a shower and her hair is still wet.
She's wearing a bathrobe, she walks up to the bed and sits
When she crosses one leg over the other I catch a flash of her thighs
Inviting thighs, long legs
She has pretty feet
And pretty ankles,
I always look at feet.
She has delicate wrists
She has long thumbs, here she is
Now leafing through a magazine
With those long thumbs,
Long fingernails.
Her shoes are on the floor, shoes that she wore last night
They've fallen over on the carpet,
My eyes find my way back to her
She seems to have found something interesting in the magazine
Here she is, concentrated on it, her back is straight
In this light, this natural light,
Without make up,
She looks impossibly lovely,
Renoir would paint her.
I get out of bed and walk into the shower.
There’s something strangely intimate
About taking a shower in a girl’s bathroom,
Shampoo bottles and hair conditioners all around me
Water cascading down my bare chest
Recollecting and replaying scenes from the night before:
Unbuttoning her jeans, pulling them off
Seeing her Hello Kitty underwear
And laughing, and thinking it was cute
And saying, umm… so how old are you again?
Humour always works, yes, humour always works.
I love ********** this girl.
It seems as though I'm always ********** her.
At night in the living room, on the sofa
Unfastening her stockings and slowly rolling them off,
Next her skirt, then her underwear…
Sweet parting flesh
I begin thinking of how it’ll be, how it’ll go down
She's always in something classy,
But man, it seems as though I'm always ********** her.
Sometimes I strip everything off her body,
But I ask her to leave her earrings and heels on; they confirm her nakedness
Hoop earrings
Red lipstick
Red heels
I lie in the middle of the bed, lights are dim, she climbs onto the bed
Curls up between my legs, begins by kissing on my stomach...
Great lovers lie in hell, the poet says.
Great lovers lie in hell.
I'm falling asleep afterwards, but not her
*** invigorates me,* she says, tying her hair in a ponytail
This girl, she has the effect of lighting a matchstick in the dark.
She lays beside me and begins to read Jeanette Winterson
And just before I succumb to a deep slumber I remember something and tell her,
Baby, baby, baby, your Morse code interferes with my heartbeat.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
Whatever!
Poets get their ideas from stories but my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon(
A poet is someone who looks for adventure and there I was
On the back porch enjoying the Island breeze
The surging wind made it way through the tall propaganda trees
The trees act as obstacles to wind, somehow those propaganda trees made the
portable air conditioners seem useless in comparison
A family of monkey kept up their appearances daily: jumping from branch to branches
Breaking off bunches of oval-shaped young’s apples, like a morning ritual
while keeping a close eye on me: I capture the moment as it presents itself
Meditating and thinking about making right choices in my life:
My Nana once told me that propaganda leaflets were good for brewing tea to lower one’s blood pressure.
How many times can someone test the cold, cold icy water to realize that it wasn’t suitable for bathing?
That was my was way of dealing with difficult seasonal romance
I am now getting to understand Amy Winehouse struggle with love, relationship and commitment
Going to rehab may mean having to deal with difficult people, however, my addition is far more complicated
Making right choices is my life mission.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
OK, I can no longer say
I’ve got a receding hairline
and sure everyone can see
the plain fact, the bald fact -
but there are pleasures, you know
I’ve saved heaps on hair gel
and shampoos and conditioners
(enough I think
to fund my retirement)
and I can actually feel the cool air
(no one can call me hot-headed)
and the great thing now
is everyone says with all honesty
I’m **** as Sean Connery
(what they actually think
or say behind my back
is none of my business)
but the best blessing of all
is I never need to look for my comb
(I confess I was always misplacing it)
and so I don’t need to reach for my wife’s comb
and so she lies as still as a cat
and she doesn’t need to roar
like a lioness
first thing in the morning:
Don’t you dare touch my comb!
Ah, the blessings that linger
like so many halos
in eminent baldness
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
im dead asleep
dreaming
looking at the surface of your feet
fly ahead of me
ill glide in your tail wind
gushing and inhaling
those sweet perfumes
conditioners and soaps...
zoom on
im RIGHT behind you
where are we going?
not the flower patch
over the overlook
above the kite
under the tree house
around the floating kayak
amidst but not stopping
the stones in the drive
just to float then?
oh
now youre ringing
uh, hullo
use your phone voice
and tell me im awake
pinch me through the receiver
to tell me this is no dream
to let me know that i
should wake up again
from beneath this tree
to fly
once again
this dusty old kite with you
as long as you are holding one end
im jumping straight up
hop to
scratch the bottoms
of hobbit feet
to make you smile
just one more time
IM UP!!!
run and pull and so on.
**** right this has nothing
to do with kites
this is about us
i find you in both places
among the darkened ether
enchanting me
and under our star
and then all the others
beckoning me
sometimes more than others
but never
never
more than when we are floating
wax paper
above trees
power lines
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
Puddles in black asphalt make for perfect lagoons
murky waters stirring, kissed with light bent from the sun
air conditioners brace the ledge, ready to jump
marlboro in the air, sunday morning is a holy sight
unanswered questions on bus stop benches,
basketball court with boys who have sprouted like weeds,
too fly for high, or too high for fly,
all background music to the thumping of ball on concrete,
Elders on rocking chair thrones atop of stoops,
witness to all that plays out,
from corner store ballets and 3 a.m. shootouts,
The beauty of it all, an orchestra of bodies,
awakening from slumber for yet another day
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
A Round table.
Dinner.
9 Goddesses Sit.
A chocolate Angel with aphrodisiac saffron, almond honey bars of bliss 2 squares enough to get you as high as you like, heart racing, body tingling, a silly silky kind of euphoria kissing the inside of my capillaries
and cacao energy bouncing across my hyper sensitive pathways.
A Smart Cosmic Cookie giggling with winky eyes
A flamenco beat with ideas to translate movement into music
A silver haired tarot reader from Peru, yellow beads strung round her neck, her vibrant skin glowing earth brown-red
her energy sung out luminous.
At least 3 generations are co-existing in pleasant harmony,
All of us : healers of a sort,
None of us : hold only one job or skill,
Two of us : are currently in nomad travel phase ( Youngest and Oldest)
When two men pass by and say hello
I feel our energy say hello in unison but with some nonchalance, centered more upon the union of grounded,
clean and compassionate energy exuding from us all,
We laugh and are present
love is abundant.
We joke that they don't know what they've let into the festival
"exorcisms and stuff" as a few of us fake laugh an evil cackle, erupting in giggles.
There's talk of herbal medicines and herbal hair conditioners,
I sit and maintain my conscious space by not thinking
being aware is my mode of being
acting upon feeling,
using mind to restrain all words from exiting my mouth,
not mindless babble.
I smile to myself and inhale the fragrance of light workers living.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
I didn't know, I told my friends
I only saw the odds and ends
Littered over his garden.
I didn't know, I couldn't see
The person that he used to be
Before his confusion.
We used to call the council too
They'd charge him for the work, it's true
...though he hated them.
The blow fly problem abated for a little while.
The rats had nowhere to hide until he provided more accommodation.
I couldn't see, I told my friends
A garden full of odds and ends
Obliterated the man.
I couldn't know, I didn't see
He once was just like you and me
Before his confusion.
The council took his stuff away
It took them more than half a day
To move it.
We asked what he could possible want with second-hand garlic presses
and a pair of boy's shorts.
I didn't care, I told my friends
How many men the council sends
It will not solve it.
They'd need to know, they'd need to see
The solution's clear enough to me
He needs to go into an institution.
The council tried to talk him round
They never gained an inch of ground
He was intractable.
The junk helped him live his life
Old air conditioners and wood for healing was an unusual approach....
I didn't see, I told my friends
I hated all the odds and ends
Gathered with love.
I wouldn't know, I wouldn't see
He needed care from you and me
To cure his confusion.
The council only saw the crap
Only television saw the chap
Under the junk.
Even then, the hurts in his life were only diagnosable
Using the encrustation outside.
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
My shirt smells of you tonight;
like maroon sheets and air conditioners,
but I'm still blowing my nose in it,
filling the crevasses with little pools
of shiny slime, reminiscent of old
nail polish.
Maybe it's because I'm too cheap
to buy tissues, or toilet paper just isn't cutting
it for me anymore, yet I'm pretty sure
that I needed to find a legitimate
reason for my nose to be intimate
with the gentle cotton fabric, without
giving away too many inappropriate
notions of affection.
I've found a way I could press
you against my face,
like the way my nose normally fits
in the nook of your neck,
when I'm nuzzling you at night.
It smells the same as you, minus
the cigarettes, and it still makes me want
to graze my teeth over your earlobe
and tease my fingers along the edge
of the elastic on your boxers,
even when you're fifteen minutes away
and you passed up ******* me to spend time
with Brian.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 1:54 PM UTC
His guts swirl to the beat
of the marching band.
His hands are nothing
but earthquake rumbles
that he tries to control
and his veins turn into fault lines
pouring sea water onto his palms.
His name hangs on
the screen like a ticking
time bomb ready to explode
into bits—into tiny grains to spread
around the world.
Every step to the stage
is one minute closer to
another day coming to a close—
like an old book that needed
to be returned to the shelf.
Pearl crusted croissants moons
greet him for a consolation—
a congressional medal of honor
he’ll be proud of to hang on his body.
Sugar filled tears fall
like river—one tear at a time.
And finally…
he can smile with ease…
There was no them and there was no stage;
it’s just the broken
air-conditioners’ noisy hums
that need to be fixed;
it’s just the annoying squeaking
chair that has been too old to be sat at.
It’s just an empty paper
whispering that
he will die today…
His dreams still
hang on,
*but today…
he is just another
selfish prayer
that God forgot
to hear…*
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:51 AM UTC
My uncles are good men.
They can run businesses and
fix air conditioners, but they
lack a certain compassion.
For example:
My uncle-the small one
is angry about a problem
only encountered in this
land we call free.
He had to tell 100 people
not to shop at a certain
store because he is a
spoiled little brat.
Suddenly my brain starts
to drift into the other things
I could tell 100 people.
I could tell them I love them.
I could tell them there's a sale
on at the mall, but why do you
have to tell 100 people that
they shouldn't buy anything
here because you have
Napoleon's problem.
His mother is dying in the back room.
Tell 100 people about all the things
she did in 82 years. Tell them
she should be sainted for all
the injustices she faced so you
could tell 100 people how little
beauty you see in the world.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 11:16 AM UTC
Whine, b*tch, & complain.
It's what I do best.
What about all the rest?
Well there's not much to say.
Lunatic goes ballistic.
You all don't understand.
To damage someone's mind, heart and body. Damages their soul.
I hate this life.
I can't remember any of my past lives.
To know if I ever hated them too.
Was I ever did rich?
Did I ever matter to someone?
Was I a better person?
These questions will never be answered.
How many tragedies have I suffered?
Do I care?
Does anyone care?
Before cars.
Before airplanes.
Before trains.
Before ships.
Before birth control.
Before electricity.
Before plumbing.
Before technology.
Computers, phones, stoves, fireplaces, heaters, air conditioners, toilets, water filters, tar, glass, paint, plastic, steel, fans, furniture, music, coal, fuel, rubber, & cement.
Did cave men and women care about religion, politics, government, education, economy, rights, justice, careers, gold, slavery, crime, morals, family values, security, love, beauty, stress, depression happiness, pain, celebration, tragedy, skills, entertainment, logic, science, history, math, reading, writing, spelling, drawing, fashion, reflections, diet, exercise, nutrition, development, inventions, ideas, language, speed, health, illness, death, sin or revenge?
Anything?
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
Christmas trees
Old air conditioners
Musky airports
Nanna's house
Ski lodge's wood
Appalachian lavender
Lighting matches
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 2
Would You Like a Downgrade?
I.
“Everything I own I’m carrying on my back,”
A shipmate said wonderingly that last day
In the recruit barracks. And it was so:
Two sets of dungarees, one pair of shoes,
Two sets of Undress Blue and then one set
Of Dress Blue B, one pair of sneaks, one pair
Of this, more sets of that, a ditty bag
Of Personal Hygiene Articles,
Officially and carefully approved,
All in a new seabag.
It was enough.
How much does a man need in order to die?
II.
And now we carry mortgages, jobs, books,
Televisions, cars, hunting rifles, clocks,
Lawnmowers, bills, Sunday suits, Monday shoes,
Plastic boxes that light up and make noise,
Fences that need repair, cats to the vet,
Air conditioners, chainsaws, queen-sized beds,
Closets that need sorting out, chests of drawers
Of things we never needed anyway,
Cameras, clawhammers, pens, reading lamps,
Scissors, and writing paper.
It is too much.
How much does a man need in order to live?
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
I count the grass on the ground.
I count the clouds in the sky.
Summer is happening.
People are complaining
about the heat and humidity.
Air conditioners are conditioning.
Aeroplanes are flying overhead.
Other people are occupied with
their own dramas and situations.
Me, I am just being quiet. Not
looking to talk with anyone.
I am thinking of how matter of
fact the Doctor was when he
shared his professional opinion.
As if he was talking about the
hot summer weather; as if
the temperature was crucial.
I listened to every word he said.
Shook his hand and thanked him.
Strange how we fall so easily
into the habits we've been fed.
I count the grass on the ground.
I count the clouds in the sky.
I will never reach the end.
Will I ever reach the end?
Will I be sitting here, next
summer, counting anything
at all? What do the clouds
do when the grass turns
brittle and darkly brown?
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
Air conditioners and taxis and fake smiles,
Drinking and smoking and everything vile,
An entourage, photographers and this world senile,
Its all so plastic, everyone so greedy, needy and futile,
I feel like the only sane degenerate, trying to make life worthwhile.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
October 1
Autumn’s arrived so suddenly
her colorful blush upon leaves
soon to fall amid ripened gourds
lying in our small garden
where strong trunks of
brussels have begin small sprouts
beneath giant leaves.
At my feeder, birds no longer nibble
daintily, but gorge, filling for southbound flights
rain beats against my roof
in the now chilling air.
Where summer with its warmth?
Tomatoes too late to ripen, remain green,
bumble bees sit heavily on the few remaining flowers
hoping for warmth’s returning beam,
while honey bees finding my Cimicifuga racemosa’s
white scented floral spray
busily gather its last remaining nectar
for their winter nests
somewhere in my woods.
And I now out of my Bermuda shorts
and colorful short sleeved shirts
don long legged corduroys, an old sweater
smelling slightly of moth ***** to
begin the chore of gathering the garden
furniture’s pillows, turning off the sprinkler
putting away the hose.
It’s time to remove the two ultraviolet lamps
from my ponds water pumps lest freezing break the bulbs.
Koe fish, less interested now in my daily feeding
rise to the surface in the cooling water
more slowly as if preparing for sleep.
I marvel at their ability to simply
lie under the soon to be frozen water
to await spring.
We humans don’t have such patience.
We gather logs for our winter fires
remove screens and windowed air conditioners
check the furnace’s pilot light and search among the eves for
boots and scarves and gloves.
Autumn soon to be Winter
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
as my neighbors air conditioners blaze
someone has to sit outside
take long mental logs
of the reluctant halfmoon
behind such white cotton candy cloud formations
this cerulean filled july afternoon
cottonwood shade, swirling breeze
ample enough for me
to find grace
ample enough for grace
to find her voice
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
Hinged
It's a feeling of bulkiness
Gathering up the strength
But also the coordination
In front of the mirror
A certain Goliath effort for
Planning, detailing, getting affairs
In order, all in orderless care
Carbon planes rattle the
Hotel air conditioners on the 2nd
Floor below the outside balcony
Smoky white dancing lines trace
And replace a clear day view
Like so long ago when all the world
Was just a moment, just a day,
Just a boy and his thoughts
I made all the right calls to
Make sure it all goes smoothly
The plan in place and ready set
I slip off the Adidas shoelaces
And place them to the right hand
Side of the bed with the night stand with the magazine the hotel
Put out,
The Kardashians' latest baby story
About giving birth in designer high heels
The eyes all white and faded in
Too much light
The cord in place, I move the
Desk chair closer to the center of
The room, the wheels squeaking
Like the raising and lowering of the crab traps from the shore house, Long Beach days shine on
Forever ago
My feet wobble as I climb onto
The chair, that few-second elevated vertigo
Feeling obscured further as I slip
Off my glasses one last time,
Blind and blurred to all the world I cannot see
Tears heap to vapor and disperse with a weary glaze down
My cheeks as
Life seeps away into mortal corners, boiling goosebumps on my arms
Drowning nevermore,
I feel the thresh of the cord
As this world turns to the next
And a soul quietly exhales
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC