"coolers" poems
Standing in the sand, smelling salty waters,
Of the Caribbean seas, through the cold vibrant breeze.
Watching all the tall, happy, swaying coco nut trees,
And when you sniffle a little of the bake and shark it makes you want to sneeze.
Then take a walk in our rivers and cook up a curry *** or stew,
With fish coo coo and a little calla-loo.
and you take a bite and you taste buds and glands spring water of the delicious flavors that makes you say mhmmm.
Afterwards you can visit the reefs and see the dancing colors of the under water reefs,
Of the Caribbean seas, where I'm from and would always love to be.
But tho forget, it's Carnival time so come in your costumes and with your coolers because you're coming out to fete,
And tho forget, when you step out on "D" road of jouvert morning until night listen to the Soca music,
And let it rap you up and run through your ears with melodies that will make you want to bep.
Oh yes the Caribbean dream, where every man's a king and every woman's a queen.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
Coolers of alcohol
Blueberry shisha
Blazing bonfire
I'm having fun
Who are you to judge me?
Empty beer cans
Ashy coals
Cigarillo butts
I'm a little dizzy
Who are you?
Spilt *****
Tipped hookah
****** advances
I can't move
"Who..are..."
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
We are surrounded by shatter broken beer bottles, wine coolers gone to waste.
We've gone to war inside our own heads, pulling ourselves into corners and kitchens and couch cushions where all I can think is how pretty you look tonight
I can feel my heart beat to the technicolor rhythm of your butterfly gas leak eyes
"This music hurts my heart I want to leave now" is what you whisper to me under dropped basses and stepped dubs
"I know" is what I whisper back alongside the same sad forget-your-worries rhythm
So we leave, floating over alcohol puff swollen bodies left behind by unreliable boy-girlfriends sick of cleaning ***** out of the back of their pickup trucks
And we roll our sickly drunken souls to the Mcdonalds where they give you coffee to get rid of wasted smashed faces if you're underage and alcohol-laced
we sober up over cold coffee and scalding fries
We sober up,
But I get drunk on your candy stained mouth as you pour out lies you've never told anyone before
I want to let you know all my favourites, all my secrets, all my everythings
But I don't.
And after that pretty pretty night
where we sobered up
but I got drunk on you
The only time I see you
Is past someone else's head
As I smash my drunken lips to theirs.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
chapped lips
sticky and sweet
the popsicle melts
and stains my crisp white dress
a seagull steals the french fry out of a little boy’s hands,
he begins to cry
the busker’s sing songs
of love and loss,
whiskey and wine
the boardwalk creaks
and i dream
of a cold beer on the beach,
the melody of waves reuniting with sand
like long lost friends
the soothing slap of sandals on pavement
freckles and homemade jam
midnight adventures to the park
skinny-dipping in a strangers pool
hopscotch and chalk
freshly painted toenails
the sun gifting us with golden skin and golden hair
adirondack chairs and campfires
fishing in lady evelyn and portaging in temagami
braving the falls at muskegoe
and counting the stars while lying on the bridge
catching frogs in the pond
while drinking coolers in paddle boats
sweaty palms and first kisses,
nervous anticipation
red skies mark the beginning of endless nights
i dip my toes in the fresh water
and the ripples skew my reflection
the man in the moon is happy
and so am i
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 3:26 AM UTC
The night sky lights up in a colourful array of
blues, reds, yellows, greens.
Spectators ooo and aaah over the display.
Loud bangs makes the little children flinch and squeal in delight.
Making memories with friends and family on these warm nights.
Plenty of food in the coolers and the kitchen to share
Board games on the table and lawn games on the grass to play.
Fireflies twinkling and dancing on the front lawn at twilight.
Campfires red and orange flicker softly in the dark,
warming the coldest of feet those nights.
Stories are passed on from generation to generation,
and silly campfire tunes are sung and danced.
It's summer time; ice pops to be eaten,
laughs to be exclaimed, photos to be taken,
friendships to be formed, and all-nighters to be pulled.
It's summertime, yes, it's summertime.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
i.
caren forgot about her morning. caren forgot it was wednesday. caren had an event and she was not there.
caren is a shadow. caren is an absence of space. caren is a gap that people shy away from, women in black dresses sidestepping past her memory.
caren is a woman with a streetcar. caren is a woman with an office job. caren is a woman with a social network. caren goes to functions. caren is no longer a function, but a product of her own actions.
caren forgot herself.
ii.
shattered windshields. broken glass like triangle teeth. more monsters lurk in mirrors than in the recesses of the closet. behemoths wait by water coolers, demons sit in sweaty three-by-fours. the devil wears a motorcycle helmet and caren hasn't learned from her mistakes.
iii.
run a red light. it's december and she's egging on the new year. frosted features and blinkers hide hot flashes. she's impatient for her age, a businesswoman at her best.
a shift in gear. a change in mood. road rage, road rash. a few words from a dark knight on a whinnying bike.
iv.
lane changes and unintentional nudges. motorcycle launches the devil like a dove to heaven. caren stays earthbound, blood spilled to nourish the ground. fertilizer runs through her veins, and vampire trees in city parks drink it up. bystanders drink it up.
v.
caren is a casualty. caren is the victim of her own habits.
caren is a corpse in a coffin. caren is an elephant in the viewing room.
caren is to blame in eyes and minds. caren is condemned in whispers, but caren is lamented out loud, so caren is proud.
caren got **** done.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
give us this day our daily
emotional breakdown
and forgive us our
blackout binges
as we forgive those who
starve themselves for perfection
and lead us not into
inherited obesity
deliver us from
the mental ward
**FOR THERE IS SO
MUCH ******
BREAD IN THIS
HOUSE I CAN'T
TAKE IT ANYMORE**
on mlk day i shut my eyes
and see scenes of
squishy white rolls and
pats of margarine
bread
leaden
deadened
feeling in my stomach
*i can't eat any
more bread*
but here it is
in baskets and
coolers in
toasters and
cupboards
my daily bread
made to sustain me
but turned into
the enemy
deliver me
from risen
yeast in
third degrees
a flour coated
tyranny
mind control
through sesame
*swallowing
emotions
down
down
down*
quietly settles
until spring
somewhere between
my hope and skin
you can see me
smile and stand
straight and tall
but what you can't see
is this shouldn't be
my body at all
*give us this day
our daily bread
and give us the strength
to chew meat instead*
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
We were all there
The anime girl and the flower child
Surf boy and the Queen of the Pixies
The lads with the tattoos and ***** in pink coolers
And many others with us
And many many more around us
Holding beer cans and buckets of Hot Chip(s)
Stuffed into The Flaming Lips
We sat on the hill where the sun sat next to us
Smoked grass in the grass
By our Beach House
People sliding up and down the hill like a Flume
With a Boy & Bear for company
And a First Aid Kit
And the Village Brass Band
From Pleasureland
We had to hand it to them
They knew how to use those horns in the wee hours
As we marauded around the hillside
The valley and the Enchanted Forest
With its lemmings and white tigers, kookaburras and pixies
All vying for the title of the Best Sense of Humour
Where the sun came up between the trees
And everything went pink
You couldn't tell the canopy from the clouds
In the alien sky
With the moon in dark night at one end
And the ****** first light at the other
Until the light wins and day Falls
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 5:29 AM UTC
It hasn’t been as cold lately
The train of shopping carts rattles
Vibrate my forearms
Especially as I cross the yellow speed bumps on the ground
The city put those there to trip up skateboarders
And to confuse babies in strollers
Old women on walkers avoid them
There are things designed to make us slower
More careful
I think about my last poetry reading while filling the coolers
And don’t ask myself why when alone
I take myself to the places that make me most happy
My cashier asks me when he can go home
You do everything slower when
You keep yourself company
When you’re lonely
You’re not savoring moments
You just taking your time
Because you can
I set the alarms and lock the doors
The moon has been out for a while
I will go home and write
Everyone is asleep except for me
I crack open a few beers
Open the window so the moon can keep me company
Forever I thought there was something wrong with me
But I have learned
Like the moon
Some things will only shine in the nighttime
Not everything looks like gold under the sunlight
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
The water was further away when I was a boy
and the land
it was much longer
jutting out into Sacandaga like the lone remaining tooth
in the smile of an old tannery worker
Now,
the tooth worn away by years of
spring waves
and thick winter ice,
the land is more a nub than a point
but many things are the same
the early morning call of a bird through fog
a fish splashing through his sky to ours then returning to his
car doors and the sounds of the marina coming alive
the unsyncopated drum beat of coolers and tackle boxes
being dropped into an aluminum rowboat
then strained sounds as an outboard motor pushes its load
through the water
which was further away when I was a boy
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
12:45
The sun has gone black,
the world is asleep.
In the family room,
the television clicks on by itself.
It illuminates my father,
half-naked,
covered in processed cheese dust.
The channel changes to Cinemax,
******** ***********
My mother walks in
without her glasses,
and for a moment
her screams of disgust
are indistinguishable
from the throes of passion
broadcast on the cheap
Acer dad bought at Costco.
Elsewhere,
in South America,
a volcano has erupted.
It sprays debris
and detritus
over a small village
with a long name.
Postmodern Vesuvians **** ash,
frozen not with fear
but rigor mortis.
The CNN report plays for three hours.
The world moves on.
Later,
a man explodes in a convenience store.
Guts rocket outward,
onto wine coolers
and travel packages of Chex,
and the clerk just shrugs.
If you go there today,
all that’s left is the smell of ammonia
and a dark stain on the ceiling.
At the same moment,
a toddler steps off a cliff,
spiraling into the abyss,
but never stops falling.
He’s been going for days,
months,
years.
He has kept his audience updated
through a Bluetooth that we tossed down after him.
He’s had windburn since he fell,
but the ointment we sent
hasn’t reached him yet.
His parents are now expecting.
He just yawns.
In my family room,
the woman on Cinemax is climaxing,
screaming,
pulling her hair out
while a greased-up middle aged
pizza deliveryman autoerotically asphyxiates
himself with a hair tie.
As she wails for the last time,
the TV screen shatters,
glass ejected,
blazing through the air
like Flight 93
seconds before impact.
Sparks salivate from the exposed wires,
then cackle down
into a signed black.
And as this happens,
the children on Exeter St
stop crying.
The alcohol in a small town liquor store in Wyoming
un-ferments,
and the world, for a moment,
ceases to turn.
But only for a blink.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
Stories always seem to start in the summer
Not as in
"begin"
or for the first time
be conceived,
but when they live
Winter is dormant,
all the laid groundwork
beneath frozen grass,
yellow-green ice shards
protruding from their
chandelier garden
Hopes and
wishes and
dreams and
sadness and
loves
Pent up
for the past 9 months,
emotional gestation
released in
a bacchanalian
of shameless
feelings
and ritzy wine-coolers
Drink from the goblet.
Fear of the Kool-Aid
has past.
It's immortality.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
to live for tomorrow is to
live within your small rectangular box
and to cry about the smaller things
even when the box
shows you glimpses of bad things
and the rotators and coolers
grow tired and beg for death
and breathing for another day
is the action you treat dearly
with tomorrows oxygen in your body
and the worries of belt straps
and bad shoes
and overturned glasses
running through your blood like
the rage of a toddler
whose toy has been stolen
and you will move through the day
and see the little things
but without wonder
and the big with agitated disgust
and the prices and movement and sounds
will unnerve you like
the sitting box does when it
throws dead skin at you
under the cover of warmth
and the comfort of silence
and if that box is a home
and the world is alive
then you will be alone
and earth and wind will not bend to you
nor will the songs of those
who cry outside of the structure
who wail for a cause greater than
the man who ate the last donut
or the dictionary being the only book
in the hotel
and now love
now life
now the joy and tears that yield to nothing
and the chemicals that move us to places
we can never describe
they can wait for you
because your light bulbs haven't come yet
and if they had they wouldn't be turned on anyway
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
Some dim witz, try and talk slick; I'll flip the linquistics on these limp biscuits, like it’s No body’s Business, for instance; these lyrics throw bricks at ****** that write lyrics like bones and sticks; you barely hear it, and nothing sticks. So I will put it like this; my pen dragging is a lyrical assist of my mind management that coexists with an untapped abyss capable of slick rap antics, with acrobatics, sick enough to spit dope **** to a fiend and crack addicts; the flow problematic; semi-automatic with the flips, and a-wrist-to-go craft it; now your verbal way; above average. I’m on a roll; way a head of the class ***** My Style switch like a buy chic; trying Bi **** and she 5'6 six with some nice **** kissing a ginger, same height, both wearing tights- I like it. Funny how things *** together; Good-night. Its not over; I'd like-to get it started, get it right. You like the way I write, you should see me when I am right. Now, drunk off wine coolers and sprite; and my buds' light; so everyting is gonna to be aright. Prepared for one hell of a fight; writers block, get's a hook, then a right; then in the a.m. I am, out for the night. my word play, ******* with my sight- translation, I will be so tired in the morning, the morning will be my night.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
The work was done
Everyone knew the plan
And where to meet
We'd cash our checks
Fill our coolers
And head to the woods
Good friends
Warm fire
Cold beer
Life was simple
Life was perfect
Now all I have is the memories
The friends are around its me that left
The woods are there
But life moved to the house
But not for me
For me life went away
Away from the woods
From my friends
My warm safe fire
And cold sweet beer
Life went away from it all
I went where the wind took me
Now I go were my country wants me
I miss the woods
I miss my friends
I miss my girl cuddled under my arm
I miss the jokes
I miss the smoke
I miss the woods
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
Dad brings the men into my house
My sweet daddy, who once wore a blouse
They walk in, against my will
All those snobs, who make me want to ****
Up goes the smoke and in goes the drink
Till there’s not any brain left to think
And they laugh, they laugh loud
They’re happy, that’s no doubt
But they don’t know, none of them do
That there’s a little girl who needs it too
To be happy, in every way
But all she was told to do was play
Play, upstairs in her room
Alone, and her toys went zoom
But she’d think of them laughing, and smoking their lungs black
All she wanted was to give them each a smack
She hated those men with the ice coolers
Think about it, they resembled rulers
Invasion and tyranny and all
Oh how’d they’d act superior, yet trip and fall
I didn't want daddy to be like them, you know
How they’d smoke by the carton and flaunt their doughFor grown men, their lives were nothing
And dad, he’s my everything
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
There's a time machine whirring in my head
that needs no dials or crystals.
I shut my eyes and whoosh I’m off to tour my universe.
I am five eating sherbet
nurse-brought to ease the ache
where tonsils lately flared and burned.
A sheepskin's offered at the high school gym.
Hands swirl pressing ink into paper
that binds a home to me and me to labor.
I toss Dad a curve and it snaps in his glove.
We sip Boston Coolers on the stoop.
I watch a shovel of earth fall to his casket.
Checking the mirror I escape the garage
steering past farms where ancestors whisper,
“Welcome home, son, won’t you stay awhile? ”
Glad for the offer I cannot accept, I drive on.
My machine can fast forward too
and the future beckons like Odysseus’s Sirens -
promising pleasures and hidden perils.
Next month’s journey to Anasazi lands
is already mapped and scheduled
and we are camera ready.
After some future dusk
I will join the ancient ones in the past tense,
but for now, undaunted by submerged rocks
I advance steadily toward the Sirens’ song.
There is a time machine whirring in my head.
You have one too.
There is much to see – and time is dear.
Come ride with me!
June, 2006
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
while you were eating
cherry pie that sunday
after i reached for your
hand and your fingers
didn't curl around mine--
i took to the trees behind the cabin
and stayed the mossy grove buried
in this golden scratch
the neighbor's conversation downwind
about the mountain lion they'd spotted
and the spiritual sort of fear I felt with
my eyes closed, the mechanical click
of my own heartbeat, how things
used to flow and now they only
swarmed,
always
swallowed.
i was singing songs to call you out,
like you did the first time, when you
came up around the hillside and
followed me a ways out--
softly at first and then no more,
replaced by the force that came
upon me, where suddenly I was
uprooting trees, picking the most
desolate, gnarled aspens--unhinging
their roots to press my heel into their
soft bases, hulking forward and watching
them stretch out and out and out--
I found old yarn and tied
it for later, to find, to untie
to hope for second chances
I left the copse and you were
eating cherry pie on the porch
rummaging through coolers
oil sloshing through your bones
dragon fire in your blood
hard-headed over puerile matters
over your time, over the weeks
staunchly grounded into your own
wild western ways,
The duck's back, the bear's pelt
You've been roaming alone in the forests
As the beasts do, the lost, the frightened,
Admiring the darkness of your own shadow
The way it draws and casts away,
Doubly conflicted of your nature that
Mostly takes and takes and takes
Bears and
Men and
You.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
i.
fascination
sings "tainted love"
in a los angeles bar.
tests lips
on picnic tables.
feel the bark in my
back against the tree
and the backseat
of my car.
ii.
infatuation
takes shots of tequila
in mission cantina.
eager, greedy
sliding up my skirt
in the bathroom.
follows the path
to sneak glances
in my bed.
iii.
satisfaction
sits on your couch
drinking wine coolers
in the dark.
silent infomercials
and jungle beats
your hips and mine.
rough hands fading
down my leg.
iv.
desperation
whispers by a pool
hushing crushed hearts.
not the time
not the place
a forced reality to face.
avoids complication
holding my tongue
inside my chest.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
There is nothing more hollow than the sound of fate.
We used to drink coolers in the sunlight and beam at the current state of the world;
Crystallized visions warped in everlasting time,
we dreamed.
We were unbothered, but unhinged without realization,
But we loved it anyways.
A remaining 24 hour cycle- a day by day opening first act
We stood amongst our choices and applauded.
-
All she wants is a late night whisper of confirmation.
All she wants is everyone to see her glamorous, shooting star
personality;
Make them think, under her belief,
that she was anything special.
Grappling for a sense of hope and help and laughter
A glimpse into this near-distant future
Screaming for a change in the past.
Its all left unheard and she aims for the sun-
She lands amongst the tides and sinks under.
She lays her head on her satin red pillows and cries a song no one will hear, no one cares to open their ears.
And in the morning you find her face down.
-
They call me the green dragon because I'm puffing smoke,
Filling the surrounding rooms and destroying everyone I know.
I don't know where I'm coming from and where my mind has seemed to go but
I hold dearly these emotions arising
And I can't stop this swelling in my chest;
What comes after this?
I am transported into this space of celestial fluid that consumes my thoughts
The dark matter, the voices you can't seem to find, nor grab
They disappear like a photograph over a slow burning candle,
Fading off like smoke into the air,
Nothing.
They were always something. And now they stay lingering,
Infused into this space and you are treading water
Your head almost under.
We slip into this sleepless coma, this eternal unfamiliarity of the future
Dark as night, mute noise, no one present
Your eyes slip back and remember, remind yourself of what you lost
Face the actions you've created, you've sought out
Drown.
I whisper through the tears and say I'm not the only one,
I'm not the only one,
And somewhere soon we'll meet again and drown the sun.
Some lost love, a forbidden thought,
I am apologetic but I must be leaving
And soon one day I hope to see
That things will remain what they seem.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
nothing walks better than the ‘day light shakes’
you’re working today and the briefcases are deciding,
to be hearts instead of skin
you’ve decided the night
whilst it past
not worth its sleep – the sun juices
a dead man across sand
the beers beers beers or maybe just
the previous day
a dancer in itself
was enough to keep you
awake
and moving until now;
stretching the ground
with your feet
one after another, an absolute laughter of free limbs apart;
escaping the need to run.
the sun
just another mouth openening
just;
above yours
you’re commuting and already rolling your neck like a sleeper
with a crook and a sigh
because the night was rough
and when you blink – your eyes water
and duty pulls you in
like an engorged worker
in a factory of silk
there is humour in your tiredness however
there is a rubber floor
moving
beneath your feet
understanding
why you smile quietly
(every now and then)
getting on with the daily beat
body-aching
each and every part
used up
from lip to heart
arching back
the phone rings;
you pick up
a cat sits
eating dogs
a low voice, contralto
below the voice
you hear
a piercing sound
the orchestra sings in the open office
above the 4 ft walls and above the water coolers
and again you chuckle
as the customer does
and a sweep
just enough to **** the day
a little
to open you up
enough
to let the mouse move
to let the flutes devour
politey unwashed
reacting to vermin
a savage flux
putrified by clock
quickened and quickened again
turned
so no animal speaks about the tick
no lights on
a blinding grace
which -
there already is –
the foundations laugh
and the day flys
as the window slams
and she leaves inbetween
as you return to your desk
turning your head
to watch the thing go
and disappear
past where you can see.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
Pay our dues so you can write for someone else to help you out
What a crock of dog ****
I thought these words were coming from the muse?
The cherry wine orchards where birds soar for free
Are now taxed burned maimed and *****
So you can record yourself on some 10 cent tape
Either the lines are drawn and the combines have stormed through
Or the men and women behind the pens
Have truly lost their way
But what was a way before they decided to come and stay
We are all ****** in the end
Either to the Gods above or to the men with guns
Who are we if we are not fighting for the sun?
Absurdity in the tenth degree!
You want fire to cool your soul and love to make you bold!
Shame on the service entry fees with complaints of their boss
I write these things with irreversible electronic blood!
And if you saw me you wish that you'd never did!
Pom Pom girls break their bread as the football players shine their sleds
I'm in my bed wishing she was with me instead
Ram that note up your hole **** it up and see if its any better
The hall is broken the coolers dead landlords knocking
Where on Earth are you gonna go?
Mama's done gone and daddy's already dead
Sisters got a wisher with a pencil filled with lead
Streets are searing hot
And the backdoor to your house is locked
Let me have the key
And I'll surely make you believe
Lets stay up late an' we'll catch the next freight
Spend some time with me an' I'll teach you the meaning of hate
Wooden stool pigeons leaking blood on their eyes
A sigh colored brown
When you sleep baby
You don't make no sound
Wash basic red hedonistic hearings
Crystal nail polish with agate colored earrings
When a place is a place of comfort
Thats the end of your start
Stars shine so the blind may be able to see
I got women who know me and men who hate me
When I meet you
Which one will you be?
Soft fire ******* lick was the way you kissed
Your hands warmed from the liquor you said
On the porch you said I'd doused your torch
Where I then said "Love hurts when touched"
Jun 11, 2011
Jun 11, 2011 at 11:56 AM UTC