"congratulatory" poems
self-congratulatory nonsense as the
famous gather to applaud their seeming
greatness
you
wonder where
the real ones are
what
giant cave
hides them
as
the deathly talentless
bow to
accolades
as
the fools are
fooled
again
you
wonder where
the real ones are
if there are
real ones.
this self-congratulatory nonsense
has lasted
decades
and
with some exceptions
centuries.
this
is so dreary
is so absolutely pitiless
it
churns the gut to
powder
shackles hope
it
makes little things
like
pulling up a shade
or
putting on your shoes
or
walking out on the street
more difficult
near
damnable
as
the famous gather to
applaud their
seeming
greatness
as
the fools are
fooled
again
humanity
you sick
************
13.9k
Iridium fastball pitches
from Zuni serpent mound,
bottom of the 9th walk-off homerun
over 30ft diving moai.
Slide to home base in volcanic lava
to congratulatory ***** Gatorade bath
from Kubla Kahn forefathers,
chanting psychedelic clubhouse anthems.
Levitate from home plate
and land atop Pyramid of Cholula for victory dinner;
for since we’re all artists in our dreams,
true dreams never come true.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
the quality of quantity is unmerciful,
prodigious production of
wine improperly aged,
pours soiled drops
spilled without craft,
care or taste,
poured too quick to be
nothing more than
less than waste
born in reckless unrestrained
than every thought a golden gift,
bestowed upon the masses,
droppeth like the harshest hurricane rains,
gives no moisture sustenance to the world,
only floods and lays waste in dazed hazes
blesses none but the one who
cannot but cant,
measures his own demeanor in the mirror,
unsuspecting the mirror mirrors
the ides of ego,
seeds of self destruction
the throned monarch
who giveth
but does not take,
thinking the king he is,
his own best,
even better than his creator
and tho he carvo's his retno critiques
upon the brows of his subjects,
he cares not,
for it boring brings
more mastubatory page views
his addition of success,
his edition of self congratulatory
of writs and snits,
which adds up to a whole lot of
****
but you may put you pen down now,
for the world needs only
need one poet,
and it ain't me,
and it certainly ain't
you
.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
there are times
when the meaning
of a word
is asked
one that
has been read
and regurgitated
used regularly
correctly adopted
as part of
an apparent
well-read
or pretentious
vocabulary
however upon
being asked
its meaning
there is only
a blank
vacuous
addled
unable to provide
a succinct
or even literate
definition
to save face
to re-establish
the hubris
of this
abashed lexicologist
analogous alternatives
will be offered
oversimplified
synonyms
carrying a little
less gravitas
a layman's explanation
to maintain
position on his
self-congratulatory
podium
Oct 13, 2022
Oct 13, 2022 at 11:42 AM UTC
They call you MY ******
I have a mother; my mother
A sister; may be a daughter
Or a son.
My father, my brother, my friend, my classmate, my lover
My people.
Where do you figure?
Yet they say you are mine.
Mine.
Their impassioned pleas
Echo in courtrooms, in police stations,
On stark black letters staring out of newspapers;
Crisp saris and well-fitted suits, their accented comments
Drenched in arrogance, tumbling out of flat-screen television sets;
Smug families discussing me (and you) in bright living rooms
With unblemished walls bearing paintings of enigmatic women.
They all say
You are MY ******
I can see you.
I can see you glowing with pride.
Feel the shroud of admiring glances
Cocooning you wherever you go.
For every sigh of cuss, there are a hundred
Congratulatory nods.
They giggle
As you hold my mangled soul
Up above your head,
Like the tattered flag of an enemy country.
Why, you have silenced another of those
Who dared to rear her sad, ugly head.
Or a happy, pretty one.
What difference does it make?
You never saw
My eyes
Eyes screaming out loud, and going dry
Wide open, yet blind.
You didn’t feel
Tired, shapeless lumps of my being watching us
As my body stopped being mine,
But an amalgam of ******* ****** and a
Deep long scar across eternity.
While I no longer have a name,
You possess one more: ‘My ******
Oh yes, I invited it upon myself
I have chosen it,
I have chosen YOU.
It was predestined. A given.
Since the time I was born.
So you might as well be mine.
My ******
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
Arresting artificial bloom from a make believe garden,
Oh! magalomaniacal face of ill gotten glamour,
ribald queen of the kitsch, with endless variety in store,
age, cannot wither your, unmistakable garish taste-
or sadistic delights, each you do organize is outrageous,
than the one before, no doubt, how do you manage?
I'll forget all those in an instance, but, that kiss, oh! that,
the one you gifted, to show you were pleased utmost,
stealthily away from the eyeshot of your posse of lovers,
other cannibals and party animals, under the darkened staircase,
was the last godforsaken straw;
what a poor camel can do? if you so desire,
beggars, never were the choosers, you'd tell yourself,
in a self congratulatory note,
that much I am aware, my dear tormentor!
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
The Process
There is the notion, the urging.
The first spilling, the self-congratulatory
Commencement ceremony for
The process.
Then there is the first short-pause,
a quick-freeze hibernation. Then,
The bubbling,
The querying, the special fear,
What have I started?
Where is it taking me,
Am I properly undressed for doing
T he process?
A new vocabulary,
an arm extended, but distended,
Words are all angled puzzled,
Capable of unity, but first,
Unshaped but swollen,
By the process.
Hatching, head-aching,
words arrive rushed, but disordered,
Confused by the process.
*{The exception has it own character.
One kingly, run-on sentence birthed,
After silent labor, a full poem, fully dilated,
A shocking head of hair, full developed,
So fast does "it" fall onto the paper
The obstetrician arrives too late
To process.}*
The exception, exceptional.
The normal, normative.
Twenty four hours of labor,
False starts, much screaming,
Painful joys, hardly seamless,
This process.
Distractions the enemy,
Compulsion the master,
As you choreograph the work,
In loving servitude to
The process.
You the doctor, insert probes,
Looking for the tumors, the out of ordinary,
For normal flesh is not of interest as part of
The process.
Finally, you do exhale,
With unique the pleasure, of the longest sweetest
Female ******
The breathing less labored,
Tho whole, sensing a diminish-meant to convey
That completion is the end of part of you,
The near-end of the continuum, lessened but continuing
The process.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
I should have skeletons in my closet,
but they've yet been stripped of their flesh,
and I've let them loose in this small town
for a game of hide 'n' seek.
She returned a set of my pajamas, unwashed,
her intoxicating scent lingering on hooks in my closet
where her aroma constructs an illusion.
I bury my face in them,
feeling my damp cheeks pressed into her *******
reaching down below where my hand grasps her posterior
where it takes a firm shape in the loose garments.
I dig into the scent until I go crazy;
I tell myself I'll wash them next week.
I should have skeletons in my closet,
but she's taken it on the road,
in a small town parading it down empty streets
where I can see it clearly,
her oblong sunglasses darkly obfuscating
what I perceive to be her pejorative gaze,
over a narrow ivory face,
sandy blonde hair flowing in the wind.
(I still feel, yes, that smooth pale face cupped within my trembling hands, that sandy hair tangled around my fingers reaching up the back of her neck, pressing her face more towards mine)
I look for the shallow dent
in her ubiquitous red minute two-door seater
on the passenger side, where she was gently T-boned
by a student driver practicing their three-point turn,
and the smiley-face lemon-scented air freshener
dangling from her rear-view mirror,
having lost its freshness years ago.
(I still see, yes, us in that hardware store parking lot,
in the closed evening hour,
sitting cramped in the passenger seat,
her knees on either side of me,
our shirts off and skin warm and sweaty, nervous,
trembling, trembling, lips aching and souls yearning--
where were we headed to again?)
I look for it so intensely,
I forgot my goal was to never see it again.
Young love looking for little things in a small town.
For years I play this game of hide 'n' seek,
and part of me should realize
that at some point she got up from her hiding spot
and moved on with her life.
(and no, I won't look at her engagement photos,
nor the photos of her newborn child,
nor the Happy Anniversaries and the congratulatory sentiments--
I can see them without social media's derision)
I still scan the streets
like a vulture over roadkill,
yet I thought I was the one
engraved into the grainy streets
where she commutes over my remains.
I should have skeletons in my closet,
but I let them walk out of my life
so I can chase them all over town.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
Before you know it, the week is over.
Some bills paid. Meetings attended.
Congratulatory cake sliced into two
dozen squares for an engaged couple.
When suddenly, suddenly you discover
that a certain reticence has breached
the comfort and security of your partner.
Followed him to the coffee shop. Wedged
itself between his breakfast sandwich
and speech. Followed him to the city’s
public square where a large group of
suburban mothers dressed in loud colors
practiced yoga underneath spotty skies
in itchy grass. Where sunlight appeared
and disappeared from his brown skin
and wind upturned the corners of the pages
of a novel he read from as the reticence said
more to you than he had all morning
and the bees’ only agenda was to land
on the wavering yellow petals of sunflowers
and then take off into a day that would become
tomorrow's news and next year's history.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
I have never written a single poem
that my lovers could understand.
In truth, all my romantic verse is simple,
self-congratulatory applause
for not falling victim
to the virus of sentiment.
I am a gifted liar.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
you ******* with your
smirk and your bow tying fingers and your
****** classic ******* rock music:
who let you in here, to lumber
about the lambs like
Putin and Crimea ??
why do you bother
introducing sophomores to
Oedipus and pronouncing the
center O (like it
******* matters; linguistics are
more organic than
carbon-based chemistry) or
teaching seniors of
Two Vast & Trunkless Legs of Stone
standing alone in the desert,
artifice of arrogance just as
graduation and self-congratulatory
partying and revelry and diploma-framing.
I think I know:
masochism is your middle name, and
maybe, after all, it is worth it,
when a collegiate who barely remembers
your face and never remembered
the color of your eyes, or his homework,
name drops Hemingway and Faulkner
to a college professor, blossoming an
argument, and later, a companionship.
maybe, after all, it is worth it.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
Everything is temporary
Your hurt
Your home
Everything
Except for me
You'd smile while I cried
The unwavering voice
Of everything being alright
It was boldly defined love
The ability to assure the paranoid
Of their biggest fears escape
Permanence
You dug the word love into my frame
A sink hole impossible to rearrange
Or place anywhere other than my chest
It tattooed me painlessly
Our promises etched into my rib cage
We were an ecosystem within ourself
Our commitment a maze only we managed to navigate
I was so accustomed to your hand in mine
I'd began to think our roots had entwined
Our respiratory patterns had synced
Or was it that your breath shallowed
Like my own
From the deforestation leaving me to sink
As I watched you turn from man to stone
Lighting the match burning our home
You dropped so many hints
Just hard enough not to break
Me
But in the shards of glass and ruin
All I could see was your flaunted happiness
And my disintegrating memory
My inability to feel alone
Without feeling lonely
And I don't exactly know what I want
Other than little less empathy
And a little more apathy
And possibly a day of recovery
Spent in sobriety
I only know that I'm tired of crying to sleep
Over a man that says I'll love you like he'll stay
And cries when he leaves
My ribs promises want to scream
A congratulatory You Broke Me
But in my deterioration I'm stuck with only a memory
You were the only one that told me I smelled amazing after a cigarette,
And that is why the time I spent with you I could never regret
But you'd always hated that I smoke
Because you said I took our time and shortened it
But that's now proven irrelevant
Because I can't shorten what's meant to be permanent
But the ashes of your disappearance
Now fall on your conceptual forever
And within a matter of minutes we were consumed by the great inevitable.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
who holds the leash
of the pigs in the streets?
follow the paper trail:
dead presidents
never fail to be the culprit.
it's not who
but what.
the police always
serve and protect
capital and property.
why else would they block
off a jewel store
during a peaceful rally?
they may not be
our enemy,
but they
certainly
aren't our friends.
they are the strong-arm
of the State,
fodder on a frontline
devised by fascist elite.
the boys in blue
with low IQs
are oligarchs' favorite tools
for bludgeoning
dissent and pummeling
free expression.
useful idiots—
truncheons designed
with punishing dissidents
in mind.
we may well be
the 99%, but they have badges,
guns, and a license to ****
emblazoned on the blue shield
slapped on their chests,
stoking overzealous
racists to respond violently,
a cacophony of bloodshed
seems to be the only language
they know how to speak.
smash the fraternity
that acquiesces to criminality.
white men in pressed suits—
who's speculative spending
lead to economic catastrophe—
get off scott-free
while black men are imprisoned
for possessing an ounce of ****
not even the blind would fail to see
the "just us" system excludes
the majority of humanity.
all lives matter?
only ignorance could present
such a fictitious narrative,
a self-congratulatory hyperbole
disregarding contemporary reality.
private prisons designed for profit,
institutionalized bigotry instigating
a new form of slavery.
when mass incarceration
lacerates our communities
and exacerbates the conditions
of the working class,
the only dignified response
is to stand up, fight back.
we no longer
have a need
for this blatant idiocracy.
if we truly want to call this country
"the land of the free,"
then we must say,
loudly and clearly:
abolish the police.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
The check comes
Clean, thin and crisp
Stamped in the rectangle
Are the numbers
That are either too high
Or too low
I stare at the lines that make these numerical symbols
Depressed and curious and foaming at the soul
I inhale in bubbled air and flame retardant love
Weighed down by how much control these lines have
Dish washer's bend their backs like they always have
Their eyes waxen and woeful staining a cracked mirror
Echoes of the ten o'clock news and banter over power lines
Force me to recall simpler times when youth was not so fleeting
Clean
In my back right pocket
The salt of the ocean
Burrows into my hair
Tempered face with lines resembling ravines
She chose not to play the radio so we could talk
In the back of my mind
I envision
Miles
And miles
And miles
Of backed up cars
All stuck
For the same reason
Madness can only be accepted by the many if framed Perfectly
Cream spilt moon
Mother Nature's con
Ocean blue hue
Dangling forfeit desert
Snow-covered saloon
Living and breathing
Bending and dying
Unable to tell the difference
Between Midnight and
Noon
There, the money is put away
Taken out of the right
Into a place where venality is imbued
With congratulatory undertones
Out of sight
More numbers, more signs, more papers
All to be saved up
Used only for emergencies later
The payday
The big pay off
All the "Just another day" sayings
Burning to ash
To the wake-up call of a ****** off alarm clock
What is next?
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
Do wager these untoward
motions--that what errant way
of soul they spend be sanctified.
By God's pin-up sun...whose
overtly apologetic moon shall
bear its skull forever more.
We that reared head...over and
above--shallow and below.
In keeping with us--Coming has
fulfilled itself.
What more to ask the God of our
begetting?
That the thing that God left, is as
God left it...a promise to a promise.
The way of light, way of dark--never
went back on their word, we attest...
infinite and self-congratulatory.
...Let us pray...as we pray in our
keeping, effortlessly so.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
I've had my eyes on you
Don't ask how long
I just know you've got it all wrong
I can see in your eyes
You use your smile as a disguise
In every congratulatory gesture you make there's a cry for help
Yet you don't let anyone know your true self
Run away or learn from your past
Hide your demons with a laugh
Why let yourself long for breath when there's a hand to pull you out of your suffocating bath?
Trust is a knife you sharpen with every word
I promise this blade we hold will not dig into your back
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
We’re shape-shifting, my roommates and I. Transitioning mentally from freshmen and sophomores (nobodies) into juniors (somebodies). We’ve been around, we’re not the new kids anymore. We’re being seen and appreciated. It’s a mindbang.
There was a coolike girl, Kathleen, who was a senior when I was a freshman. I had a mad, mad envy-crush on her. She was everything I wanted to be when I was scared and unsure about things. Kathleen was perfect., an example of success that, like a fulcrum, lifted our confidence.
When she was around, I’d watch her, discreetly. She had this unconscious habit of touching her chin, with her index finger, when she was thinking. I swear, I found myself copying her, until Leong saw me do it once and said “Kathleen!” I was embarrassed. You can’t get away with anything around here.
Kathleen graduated last year. I saw her once, in her graduation gown, from afar. I got emotional. Part of me wanted to rush over, give her a huge, congratulatory hug and tell her what a role model she’d been for me - even though we’d never even talked, but I was afraid she’d think I was a stalker.
May 7, 2023
May 7, 2023 at 12:06 PM UTC
Surrounded by darkness
Shadows after shadow
All in stealthy movements
Looking to devour the unknowing,
Cataracts of murky waters unfolding
To cultivate an abysmal knowledge of possession
Laying in wait
Surrounded by shadows
The unknowing gullible prey
Gallivanting in the coolness of the shadows
Traveling on unpaved roads
In company of the unseemly
Glorying in a flowery mask of gloomy interactions
A facade capturing the mind of a dunce
Sounds of laughter in triumph
Emanating from the shadows
A perfectly planned possession
With full-on persuasion
Fastidious dressing on a palatable decision
Congratulatory claps and smacks
At a job well done
Oblivious of an impending failure
Coated in a ray of light
The sun rays stands at attention
Catapulting its existence
Into the murky waters
Shooting its rays through a pinhole
With boundless powers
Seeking a limitless entrance
With the unknowing gullible prey at the door
Holding a key, in a game of indecision
Salivating over the promises in the shadows
And the fulfillment of lascivious desires
The sun awaits your attention
Banging at the door gently
With healthy promises
The high heavens can checker
With words spoken larger than life
Saturating every nook and cranny
With light, life and love
And a thundering presence
Annihilating every shadows is its path.
Doors open
A pinhole becoming a tearing limitless ****
The sun rays stretching forth
Inciting a dance with its panther like gait
Over-powering the sniveling shadows
Punctured deceptive walls left behind
Emptying shadows filled up with light
On its face a triumphant grin.
In the shadows
I opened the door to the light of the sun
I was the unknowing gullible prey,
Now, I AM THE SUN.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 6:26 AM UTC
He died...
Truck slammed into
An off-road approach,
Thrown clear,
Head folded back
To touch his spine,
Bruised and scratched,
But unable to breathe,
Unable to bleed.
No longer able to regret,
He made no attempt
To take a long look back....
No use reminding him
The futility
Of driving drunk,
Even in celebration
Of graduation;
No need to send
A congratulatory card...
No need.
The Monday after,
I stood in a classroom,
Hands upon the lectern,
Voice tense and low....
"Don't ask me to cry
At your funerals
When you die
This way....
"I spend too much
Life and love in my students
To waste my tears,
To howl in rage,
To whimper in disbelief,
To wrack myself with grief."
The class sat,
Numb as I...
Until they saw me
Cry.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
Sterile white cast a sharp sillhouette
Againt burgundy--
That swam with shadowy velvet
And creamy blurs of silk
Each so like a soft brush stroke
Save for that sterile white
In its clean geometry;
And the carpet installed short and durable
By hopeful design it would last
Through years of dance-worthy occasions
Ballroom turf bled into my hiding place
Stippling my palms pink
As my weight shifted
And I leaned into the wafting scents
Of ladies' perfumes and catered delicacies
Every time the table cloth rippled
Out of fear or respect from passerby
Even shimmied with the clinking of glasses
Above the dull congratulatory murmur of guests
Later they would all be drunk
And murmur would turn to ruckus
But then, only indistinguishable voices
Too they were far away, drifting almost
Enough
I imagined nothing but that white
Sterile still, pure
And matrimonially sweet
The tiny bride and groom testifying from atop
But a plan was already in motion
To hide and wait;
The waiting was done
So young, as I was
Finding nothing so sacred I couldn't soil it
Found the oppurtunity to touch my tongue to it
That white, I wouldn't say sterile
But oh so sweet.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
A young girl dreamt of being a dancer
She is a wonderer of movement
A soloist of rhythm
A listener of tempo
She gracefully lands her toes
Swirls and twists to show
An expression of owe
For the gift from her soul
But there was a time she landed
A terrible fall she shouted
Her legs were shaking
Her feet was aching
She lost track of time
Every beat was denied
Tears were flowing in her eyes
She felt left, betrayed and lied
But she recalls her first few steps
To why she started to count from
5..6..7.. and 8
To up, down, leap and have faith
She stands up and tries
Wiped her tears and smile
Swings to the music and reach for the aisle
Bows down with shinning light
Applause is all she hears
Congratulatory cheers
She felt loved and peace
Whenever she moves her 2 left feet
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 2:39 PM UTC
Surrounded I feel more removed than ever. In a trudge thru a large crowd with my head down I see cracks in things. Yes my eyes are open. You have seen me on the bus or passing by at night. I was listening as you berated someone for twenty minutes on your phone at the back end where the lights don't shine and nothing seems real. I observe manic ego-Kings in dilusional splendor. Self congratulatory disciples of conditioned fear.
But there is music running through us all.
Every week I see towering redwoods and hovering skyscrapers; feel love and pain in the shadows abound. It's a constant meander, is it not? Up and down I'm here but where exactly? Instabilities act as isolation fuel. Floating around in a dream world unable to articulate how it feels. Memories pile up like old tires in a vacant lot beneath flickering neon. Some rot to the bone while the rest grow wild, continuously. The future stacks up as it tends to and we ask if anyone is out there, silently to the dusk within.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
Why can't you read me like a book?
All is here for you on a plate.
As plain as this piece of paper upon which I write,
may be an ode to you, a love song of a kind.
Talking about the fact you doubt the amount of which I've fallen for you.
After all love is just a test for two.
You knew that would stir a reaction.
You wanted it to.
Craving drama and adrenaline.
It's what keeps you going.
'Cause you're destructive, cold and lack compassion.
That's how you see yourself.
But I see a girl whose lost in need of comfort, patience
and stability.
A girl whose head needs a calming tranquility
whose unique as snowflake, who looks at me in
ways that haven't been seen
What we've got,
how intense it is,
isn't understood by judgmental eyes.
Eyes of those who matter most to me.
Who only want the best to be bestowed upon me.
Only now am I worthy of their praise.
Their hardy well done and congratulatory claps.
I proved them wrong, showed them up,
did what was unexpected.
Sometimes I ask in my inferior head whether
if I hadn't turned that beckoning leaf they would still hold
the same opinion, bare the same anxieties and
give me that look of derision.
They can read me like a book.
But unlike you they tip-toe on eggshells around me
I'm hot headed and short tempered.
You know that though don't you?
You say these things to fire me up
'cause it's easier to push me away than to let yourself give in
to how much you love , need , have to have me!
To put you heart in my hands
To trust me more than you trust yourself.
I don't ask for a lot.
An easy life, love and laughter
Nice views and a pint of cider.
Long talks, surprises and Birthday wishes.
I wish we could see ourselves from one another's eyes.
because then I think you'd understand.
You'd stop niggling at small picture details.
Stop making me focus all my energy into fighting
for us. When even then you question and disbelieve
in my plight. My heart's a ticking clock, the second hand is
fast approaching and my heads about to dock.
This is not how it's supposed to be,
'Cause we're not that different you and me.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
Skin buzzing
Face red
Soul unbound
Dry mouth
Mind bout
Storming loud
eyes meet
breath leaves
hearts agape
storm cloud
floored out
hansom date
congratulatory ****
friends estate
borrowed make
big mistake
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
Seriously though,
I see no point
In writing sad poems
About a girl who will
Never even read them
Never even care again
That I put my heart on the line
While she looked at other men
So instead, I’ll write something happy
Something about me.
Today I drank a bottle of wine,
Kept a smile,
And pet a dog.
I feel congratulatory.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC