"corkboard" poems
(today)he talked a whole
lot and i only listened
till i realized that stupid
satillo blanket was over
my knees and you tacked
that little 3x5 dia de los
muertos card beneath
my corkboard and
wrapped me up
(14 months ago.)
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
Late afternoon, haze hung low, heat and sky
holding breath. You’re it. No tag-backs. Asphalt
freckles our knees. Dinner is anytime: bologna
on white; Kool-Aid cut thin with tap. No hurry home
unless for the news. We don’t.
We want what’s coming, not what’s been.
Paper fortune tellers flutter open, close.
She writes the answers first, back turned.
Lift one flap: your dog dies. Another: a prince
charming. Another: best party in town,
limousine awaits. He lifts a flap: her name.
actually meant for you, her sister whispers.
Then rain, the blue-lined paper sags, ink settles
in cracks, bare feet scatter, futures wash
mid-fold into a storm drain. At Cheshire and
Green Meadows, a drunk witch swears Venus and Jupiter
will make us all rich. She leaves out how long
the sky makes you wait. Lunch money turns
to lottery slips. Rounding the corner, moving vans
idle over chalked hopscotch, our names folded under.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 1:35 AM UTC
Shelter me like I'm "homeless".......
Not be a use I don't have an address.....
Merely because if home houses your heart....
There is a missing poster on the back of your ***** bottle....
Like the mistake on the bark where I once carved " true love"....
Happiness became of parking lot no occupied by strangers
Like titles reflect the hierarchy of spots closest to your heart
Methamphetamine now occupies the spot reserved for mom, dad and best friend
But time is a magician pulling white rabbits from memories ......
Where your the only audience members and you can only ask "how?".....
But like tricks fade into logic i always see the illusion
And memories become anger against the fraudulent belief in "time"
Grief is not a one night event where disbelief could refund your happiness....
And forgive ushers who now seem more like drug dealers....
Because the best seat they could offer only got you closer to regret
Life is the greatest notice pinned on a corkboard in shady establishments
Where the small print cannot be read at a passing glance
So later on in the alley where you self medicate.....
The dumpster contains the poster you so blindly believed.....
Now you see the possible outcome to the " greatest show on earth".....
Professionals on a closed course...... trained professionals should not be attempted at home.....
And I guess like I already said if my heart is "home".....
Then as an amateur on life's stage I'll leave actors like happiness, success and bliss to wow people at a great expense.....
But like a fool I invested every hope I saved into them.....
Now I'm bankrupt and homeless staring from the alley between life and death...
But the best part about next door is its free....
And must be worth the cost... no one ever seems to come out.....
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
Time slipped away in the spring, in the muddy puddles and the rain, in the sweet-smelling flowers and the rain.
It rubbed circles into the small of my back,
whispered bittersweet apologies and tacked a sticky note to my corkboard.
“Remember to call.”
I forgot.
And I sit under the blooming tree
my bare feet soft against the grass
Time left me in the summer, in the sunny skies and the rain, in the sweltering heat and the rain.
It ran somewhere unknown, far, far, far away,
while I treaded chlorinated water and prayed that the fall would come sooner.
“You can call whenever.”
I didn’t.
And I sit beside the verdant tree
my bare feet hard on the pavement
Time was gone in the fall, in the whispered breeze and the rain, in the crinkling leaves and the rain.
But I had company in a glowing screen,
And as days turned to weeks turned to months I forgot about time altogether.
“Someone is calling.”
I hung up.
And I sit far from the dying tree
my bare feet resting on the couch
Time slept in the winter, in the miserable cold and the rain, in the blustery wind and the rain.
Numbers and names disavowed,
As “today” and “tomorrow” become “now” and “later”
“What is the word called?”
I don’t know.
And I cannot see the empty tree
my bare feet asleep on the carpet
Time has returned in the spring.
It looks me in the eyes,
profuse apologies pouring out from its lips.
“But you didn’t call.”
I blink. Didn’t I?
Apr 28, 2021
Apr 28, 2021 at 12:52 AM UTC
Don't try to pin me down. Instead,
let me flutter gently around the twinkling lights
that look intriguing to me at the moment.
Don't try to catch me. Instead,
watch me keep my distance and try to understand
that I can still exist happily in the freedom of solitude.
Don't try to predict my changes. Instead,
know that even I cannot usually do so, and try,
if you so wish, to weather with me my changing seasons and summer storms.
Don't try to immitate me. Instead,
realize how beautiful you are as yourself and furthermore,
I am not something you should immitate, want to be.
Don't try to change me. Instead,
accept me as I am. Though your forced changes may indeed be better
for me, your acceptance will make me want to better myself.
Don't try to explain me. Instead,
internalize that some things are inexplicable
and that my reasons for being this are so much uglier than you see.
Don't try to justify me. Instead,
remember that even those who are hard to grasp
make mistakes, even horrible ones, and sometimes need someone not to forgive.
Don't try to destroy me. Instead,
listen to me when I warn that many have tried, purposefully
or otherwise, and I am not so fragile as I look. You will end up burnt.
Don't try to push me away forcefully. Instead,
ask me to go. I will understand, I promise
I only want distance to be a respectfully created space, not a hidden minefield.
Don't try to reel me in. Instead,
if I come to land near you, bear in mind that this is rare
but, too, bear in mind you have no obligation to want me here.
Please, don't try to pin me down.
If you ever do., I will be a dead thing of former splendor
pinned to your corkboard, and you will finally understand me
when all of my entrails come spilling out, displayed to you
and I lay, helpless.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
I do not think it’s important to do
I think I would rather just think
I’ll think about all of the books and the arts
And even my own kitchen sink
I’ll think about how the world's gone wrong
And all the injustice I see
I’ll contemplate everything and then think some more
When I eat, when I sleep, when I ***
There’s so much to do, so little time
But there’s also just so much to read
How can I know if my actions are good
If I don’t know where my motives lead
I stare at the corkboard in university square
Ten thousand calls to action thereon
I think and I think about which is best
I’m sitting there thinking till dawn
Perhaps Marx was right, and all of these causes
Save one, economic, is right
Perhaps all the rest are just there as distractions
Keeping us home from the fight
But then again, perhaps that’s not true
Perhaps they all DO need some help
Perhaps each struggle for justice is just
Lets save all the whales and the kelp
But I think, I think, I don’t know what I think
But I’ll know when the thinking is through
And when I’m done thinking I’ll have an Idea
That will dump all my thinking on you.
I think that this thinking ‘round which I center my life
is really a tool of The Man
And I think that they think that I’ll lay down my knife
To think about my empty hand
And I think that it's working because I don’t fight
Rather, I sit here and think
I think about all of the books and the arts
And even my own kitchen sink
I think about why I think what I think
I think about why I exist
I think about why they all hate them all
I think about why they enlist
But I never stop them, I just don’t have time
There’s really just too much to do
When I finish this Zizek I’ll move on to Sartre
And then, I’ll read Heidegger too
I look at a billboard and think to myself
That’s propaganda He wrote
I give it no notice and keep walking by
Give it barely a mental sticky-note
But ten thousand billboard and ten thousand signs
Now that stops me dead in my tracks
I look at them all, and analyze each
Criticizing their mindsets; false facts
Too many opinions too many books
made far too open, too free
I sit, I absorb, don’t know what to do
As people die not blocks from me
I’m lost in the maze of my ivory tower
Trying to get to the top
To get to the cheese that I know I can smell
And regardless, by now I can’t stop
I think revolution at graffiti strewn walls
What who when how I should fight
And cries of black children beaten by cops
Go unheard by my ears each cold night.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 7:41 PM UTC
you're
crying
and as you walk
down the dimly
lit glass hallway
the faces on the walls
wave
in your breeze
of sadness and
iron oxide tears.
every surface in
your mind is
covered
in a thick layer of
concrete dust
and you wonder
how long before
your nose
takes a dive
sneezing
too often
to breathe.
there is clay
everywhere
and you can't see
the cracks
between your
knuckles
under the
thick layer of
thought.
as far as art
departments go
you're not feeling
so creative
painted or
charcoal
it doesn't matter
when there is more
brown paper offered
to you every
time you believe
you've failed.
would you believe me
if i told you that a
newspaper and a pair
of old blue eyes
reminded me
and maybe you too
that there is somebody
out there
who actually
cares.
press that
thumbtack
into the wall
slowly
pin down
everything
you've tried to
forget
and avoid
stabbing your
finger into
the perforated
abused and
continually
rotated
corkboard.
you're not
wirebound
anymore
i promise
only your
entwined metalic
thoughts.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
Movie stubs and old house keys
some of my old memories.
Cut out words and broken jewelry
and things that are dear to me.
Hung up high for all to see
pieces that are part of me.
All the things I used to be
are now just my memories.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
You're all the suffering I long to endure and I swear by your deep brown eyes that I'm going to try my best to make it through you because it is you I remember when I'm walking down these paved roads with streaking strange faces and I miss you really because I wanted to kiss you when you tucked my stupid note on your nostalgia corkboard and looked at me like I was all that matters but you did not come home and I hope you're not in trouble or hungry and I was supposed to see you because it's a Thursday but apparently the Universe does not feel a need to consistent today except with me still longing to kiss you and you still not being aware.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
I left at the time I was to make you eternal,
I left at the wake of my own disposed external.
I felt the need to conceive an inexcusable remark,
I felt but alas the notion of which I perceived embarked.
I loved from the idea of a purposeful rhetoric -
I lived an indefinite tirade of regret and pedantic.
I lied to make secure a trade inconclusive
I light a spark which time had bookmarked intrusive.
I left a token, much unappreciated,
I left a memory for you to pin in a corkboard, unabated.
I felt no need to recall the time we had together,
I felt the gnash, the anguish but I received Love way better.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 5:38 AM UTC
I want you to
Belong
To me only on
Rainy days
While my bones are
Weary without
Notice
Today I shall
Call you my
Pariah
& you will
Sleep underneath
My wings
You always had your
Right to know,
Honey
But they'll steal your
Right to
Dream
& your heart has
No place
Tacked to the
Corkboard
You hid the poetry potion
Too far beyond the
Shelf
& she still caught you
In the glow of
Green
& all the beautiful
Things
Never made sense
To us.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
The three-legged stool
Wobbles, and I have sat
Waiting to be knocked
As one tumbles a tall
Statue and proclaims
Freedom from tyranny.
Me, a demi-god,
That fed manna
For your desert sojourn
On wind-swept dunes,
Following car tracks
And the fore-prints of
Your elders.
Lift the ****** veil,
Smile at your betrothed,
Seal it with a ring.
Masters are butterflies pinned
To corkboard,
With translucent harlequin colors.
These high towers,
And stools,
Give One
Insightful perspectives.
The Monarchs
Have left for Mexico.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
How can you be so sympathetic
Watching me, a simple moth
Pinned down to a corkboard
Desperately trying to escape
I’d like to believe it’s because you see yourself in me
You were once a butterfly in the same position
But I saw you torn from the painful security of that board
And, still bleeding, I saw your gorgeous wings ripped from you
I thought they’d never grow back the same
So how can you be so sympathetic
Watching me simply pinned
So securely
While you fly so free, so deservingly
You’ve worked so hard to mend your wounds
While I’ve almost stop struggling, accepting a broken fate
So hopelessly inspired by your success
So proud of something I’ll never be
Purely because I won’t break free
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
I say, status seems pychic– How! Za-zoo! And how!
O' that brain be electric as a buzz!
I'm all a'fixin' to be boxed.
These joints are a'sprainin–
Winter wind snakes done
constricted and strainèd.
Out of place. Almost out of time, I swear:
Never enough place, barely enough time.
Korean girl's all a'watchin' to see
how I sip hot tea... Out! Get out!
I got them delusions, deliriums–
All's done. I'm diluted, sayin':
*“Medicine for my grievin'–
Aye, my confidence has been gone.
Never did speak of leavin'–
I met him at the ditch at dawn.”*
And left unsaid was better yet,
coos all a'whisperin' by waters.
Water's runnin' thin now.
Creek's gone, ran dry.
He's a man of stature,
he can't just go!
Anthills and ant
burrows 'neath
sands gone mad–
O’ bore teeth! Yea!
Where's the meter
meeting the rhyme
when your bliss'd
metronomicist
loses pace
and dies?
Slows
and slows
and slower yet
his heart does beat
and the last of his words
do run across his teak frame:
*“O' bore teeth!
Bearing ‘em all;
All is a'grinding!”*
It’s but a machine to keep one’s rhythm,
to help one maintain the desired beat.
She kisses me on the forehead.
I return the gesture on her cheek.
He whispers to me through darkness:
“There are many worlds we’ve yet to see.”
It is thoughts like that which grant me focus.
Where all’s good and wishes, like prayers, be lent.
My thoughts lag behind, weighted by you.
I strain them through hot water for tea.
She watches as I drink. I waited for you–
Drank it by the ditch in the morning.
I fend off these demons in the courtyard.
Winter spells done summoned my greyest thoughts.
Here all's good! Yea, all be lent–
I tacked your name to the corkboard.
Alas, none was meant for you–
I fend off thoughts in the courtyard.
O’ that mind be broken, still-painted grey!
Not much I can do but keep the winter at bay.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
I don't know how to let
go of people, unintentionally
maybe I never learned. I'm
okay for a day or two, week,
tops. I sort of sink into the
corkboard, cheat the air,
clean my room.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
brush your hair
comb the edge
get rid of your blemishes
upkeep things
organize
nyquil for the idle hands
know you're wrong
don't say so
arguments are a lost cause
snapback hat
novelty
time for the collection fee
walmart brand
can of worms
guilty for the selfish hearse
you're alright?
yeah, i am
throw it in a garbage can
cellophane
selling pain
dip head in the ocean plain
saline eyes
retina sees
iridescence in the trees
shutter flash
phosphenes lie
LED painted sky
thumb moves past
impulse read
why don't you stay in bed?
travel blogs
saved to note
corkboard creaks, tilted down
birdcage closed
food poured in
aluminum paper thin
fields of wheat
eyelash closed
only at the tip of your nose
dusk rolls in
pavement hides
suburbs in your alveoli
inhale once
exhale twice
chew on tepid freezer ice
Sep 19, 2024
Sep 19, 2024 at 11:54 PM UTC
Replace the memories with post-it notes.
Re-write the history that created who I am
those paragraphs of information erased from my thoughts.
I will save myself
sew and stitch my own flesh
and paint my bones
Creating new memories and paragraphs and post-it notes
Until I get it perfectly wrong
And my corkboard brain is covered in neon paper
and my hands are covered in paper cuts and glitter glue
and my heart becomes as covered
in as much barbed wire as there is stickers.
Nov 5, 2020
Nov 5, 2020 at 10:51 PM UTC
Another nail through the palm of my hand, another label for you to wrap your ghastly mouth around
The words ‘beautiful’, **** ‘love’ burn into my skin like I’m caught in an acidic thunderstorm.
You pin them into my fragile flesh like notes pinned to a corkboard of advertisements.
Butchering my body and sedating my soul, objectifying my existence, object of your desire.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
Feeling like
a calculator
with a decimal
key
that sticks.
Always incorrect,
missing
the point,
a fraction
of the
actual,
misplacing the
factual.
The letter-opener
laughs
at me.
Sees
my inaccuracy,
my inadequacy.
The thumbtacks
gather,
whispering into
the corkboard,
memos written,
regarding my
misaligned
mathematics.
The desktop
dings
the arrival
of an
email.
The office-supply
order
has arrived.
The scissors,
held
in an X,
slice through
packing tape.
Right there,
on top
of the steno-pads,
rests
my replacement,
new,
plastic bubble
intact,
decimal key
moves free,
better than
me,
no need
to see
to believe,
calculations conceived,
bourn correct.
The decimals
rounded to
the nearest
hundredth,
I’ll find
rest,
my long division
meeting measure
of
its remainder
at the bottom
of an
office
wastebasket.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
I shake and stumble
Knock down cans of pens
Spilling all over my desk
Grab a purple pen
To fumblingly make a note
A better one
That you can tuck again to your corkboard
One day.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
as a ****** on finger becomes a borrowed cigarette,
what we don’t talk about
when we do
pools into mother’s
fat shadow
and / or
pregnancy
glow.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
He said I always make things worse.
I traced our last conversation
inside my lip with my tongue,
until it burned like citrus.
My teeth still taste like that night—
miso soup, metallic coffee, a dare—
and the word “almost” said until it split.
I don’t start the fires—
I just know how to fan them
so the smoke spells mine,
so the ashes spell proof.
“You’re welcome for the mirror,” I said,
then, “You flinched first,”
like scripture I was tired of reciting.
He called me a problem
and then prayed for something exciting.
Well, God listens.
And she’s been on my side lately.
(And sometimes inside me.
And sometimes wearing red.)
You say I write like it’s a weapon.
But you brought a sword to my poem.
You heard me speak—and called it war.
I’m not the plot twist.
I’m the motif.
I’m the whisper that keeps showing up
even when you don’t name it.
Especially when you don’t name it.
You wanted a girl who could break
without getting any on your shoes.
Who called it miscommunication
when it was a massacre.
I called it Thursday.
I made you feel.
You made it a crime scene.
Now every sentence tastes like sirens.
But sure—blame me
for the blood in your mouth
when you kissed me wrong.
So yeah—
maybe I do make things worse.
But worse is where the story gets good.
Where you start reading slower.
Where your hands start shaking.
It’s not that I ruin things.
I just ask questions
that don’t look good in daylight.
It’s not that I mean to wreck things.
I just don’t know how to leave a room
without checking every exit
twice.
And labeling each one ‘almost.’
You ever love someone
so hard you forget to be charming?
Me neither.
He thought he was the mystery.
I’m the red string
and the corkboard
and the girl in the basement
with the map of everything that never happened.
You didn’t fall for me.
You fell through me.
That’s not my fault.
It’s gravity.
Or girlhood.
Or God, laughing behind her hand.
Say it again. Slower. This time, with your hands in your pockets.
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 6:05 AM UTC
he sits in that diner and he is
two point five decades' worth of emotion
compressed into a single, nervous point:
the relentless tapping
of keratin kissing linoleum.
he hears everything:
fingers curled round coffee cups
money whispering out of wallets
his thoughts clattering around like ice cubes
in the lemonade he asked for.
(his glass sweats, and so does he.)
one down. there's ice on his tongue, melting, and
he's feeling the weight of it
like the boxes crammed into his rattle-trap car,
like a pin pressed into a corkboard map,
like his signature at the bottom of a new lease.
(like a warning, and a hand on his wrist:
"you ain't gonna like it there, anto.")
last sour, pulpy sip as he decides
to pay it no mind and to play it
by ear. even now the distant city bustles
and he'll do ninety on the highway to catch it,
metamorphic in his fragile metal chrysalis.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 8:31 PM UTC
We grew up learning valuable life lessons from the people around us
We learned, for instance, to always use our manners, our please and thank you’s
We learned to look both ways before crossing the street for any cars surrounding us
We learned that even if the adults are wrong we bite our tongues and respect our elders
As young ladies, we learned that we’re to scream ‘fire” if we’re being attacked
This taught us that a burning house was more important than society having our backs
We learned that if a man catcalls you, or gropes you on the bus
You’re to politely excuse yourself to take a phone call
After all, we’re to be seen as respectable young ladies, even if respect is never what we receive
As a culture, young men are taught that it is weak to cry
To show emotions at any time, no matter what
They’re always supposed to keep their mouths shut
We never knew any different than these lessons we learned
Our hearts are scarred where the lessons are burned
Our childhoods tainted with these teachings…
So how do you expect to change as a society…when we can’t even change ourselves?
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC