"countertop" poems
the daisy in the vase
sits by the window
with its feet dipped in water
its drooping head
drinking in sunshine
yet
it doesn’t stop
the blush pink from
littering the countertop
in hues of brown
leaves now,
shrivelled prunes
ripe of its
existence
love me
love me not
the daisy in the vase
remains only
a single stalk.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
Waiting for me after a long shower and shampoo
I dry my bronze silky skin and come to you,
Your smiling sweetly sitting on the edge of Marble countertop,
waiting while your loving gaze at me never drops.
I reach out my moist hands, we brush,
You shake nervously and seem to turn to mush.
Your wondering really how innocent are my fluid motions,
I'm smirking, while grasping a scented lotion.
You sit there amused blushing from Pink to rainbow,
Each angle gives you a new mellow, a glow, wow!
I'm missing something , something I pretend to forget,
You look impatient now with sighs of regret.
You sulk as I glimpse with a lean of my head,
through the frame of my door from my now made up bed,
I pull up my slacks, your sunny smile fades to dreary,
I put on my shirt, your turning the evil fairy.
I know you feel there's someone else,
Some disappearing genie or magical elf,
because you sense but never see,
Me happy in other pleasant company.
You want to be all over me that much is clear.
I want to take you too in my arms dear,
But today will have to be just that touch,
Your lingering smell on me makes others lust.
But silently you understand,
Your sealed mouth is as dry as sand,
I blow a kiss as I pick up my key,
I know in the dark you'll wait for me................
Because your MY perfume
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Her voice is strained.
Her skin is fair.
Her ******* lay on the countertop.
I **** her until my thoughts stop.
She rejects the notion of love for all,
as she leans against my kitchen wall,
with a cigarette and an unbuttoned blouse-
she wants to be homeless in my house.
She keeps me in her necklace's locket,
and I keep her in the wallet in my pocket.
Her toes kiss the linoleum,
she walks like she's made of helium.
She mumbles that I taste like mint chocolate chip,
as she rubs against my hip.
Her breath smells like Malboro Lights,
and I hope she decides to stay the night.
Milky Ways and Vanilla Cakes,
she likes the way my body shakes,
as we lay and eat our troubles away.
Hurried words slow the day.
She asks me about my stretch marks and scars,
and if I've ever been hit by a car.
And I say no, but I've been hit by love before,
and it feels like getting your hand caught in a door.
Hurried smiles and bathroom stalls,
she likes the way my family never calls.
The words escape between her plump lips,
as my hand travels between her hips.
We move until we forget
that the world is moving faster.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
The tiny, black transistor, three wires,
One two three, ramrod straight get bent,
Quarter-inch strain, needle-nose pliers and it's broken.
Instructions: look, ask what "install"
Means: to bend the leads, push in, solder
Tightly and well, no crossing, to the board.
Lumps all over the green circuit board,
Yellow blue black etc., flip-side wires
Cut short, little silver domes of solder
With the leads set up just right, bent
Just right to stay in when you flip it over to install
Them so they don't fall out, but lost is better than broken.
The one transistor, Q1, J310, broken,
Lying against the also-black of the countertop, board
Loudly near, demanding, "Just install
It already, ****** Just the two of three wires
On the Q1, last one lying lonely bent
Crying out, hollering, screaming for solder.
Look at the one straight piece of solder,
Two leads protruding from one hole, broken
Off by careless, melting hands, left stranded on the board,
Cut off from the spool, low melting point, easily bent.
It looks just like "one of the boys," the real wires.
Copper wires conduct well, very ductile and easy to install.
When you are attempting this, to install
Everything in its place (and there is one), beware excess solder;
Too much crosses from hole to hole, uniting two wires,
Shorting it out and leaving you drifting with a broken,
Useless green hunk of circuitry and electronics (a board,
A dead board), which is just as useless as your leads which are too bent.
Some of these **** parts come pre-bent
(Why not each?), real easy to slide in and install,
Just bend slightly after sliding into the board,
Slightly enough to hold for the solder
Which is to come, assuming it's not broken
Yet, and that yours are still whole wires.
On the back, at the end, identical dots of solder
Run the length of the board. If it's not broken,
Run a current through; see if you get a shock by the wires.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
The first time I saw him, it was through the glass window of the space that he moved into right around the corner. I thought it was a weird spot to move into but shrugged it off because it was none of my business.
The first time I met him, he was wearing the exact pattern of red and black plaid that I’ve been looking for whenever I shop. I stared at it and felt a little defeated that someone found it before I did! But I made no comment.
The first time I spoke to him, I thought nothing much of him at first. the words I used to describe him were “ordinary, typical, run-of-the-mill”. He was…simple. he spoke like he would steal those cheesy catchphrases like “she was like a shot of espresso” — which is what Andrew Garfield said about Emma Stone. And so I walked out of there as if it was just another Monday.
Several Mondays and cheesy catchphrases later, that little place around the corner that was made of brick started to feel more comfortable, and I saw him more often. Slowly, I realized that there is some charm in simplicity. Eventually, I stopped using the words “ordinary, typical, run-of-the-mill”, and I started using the word: familiar. There is so much comfort in the familiar.
At this point in time I seem to always find myself back at that familiar little brick place around the corner. at the end of each day, I go there hoping to find solace. And I always do. If I was into those cliché phrases I would describe it as a warm cup of hot chocolate after a long, rainy drive. It’s a fireplace during a snowstorm. But saying those cheesy catchphrases would be really lame of me, so…
If I were to put into words how I now feel about this person… This must be how it feels when people are looking for a new place to move into. They have this image of their dream house or fantasy apartment. maybe they picture a place with a marble countertop, a dining table made of mahogany, and a ceiling high enough to hang a glass chandelier from. But then, just as they had given up on searching for that dream place, they come across this little cottage made of brick and hardwood floors. There is a leather couch in the middle. They take a seat. Suddenly, they can picture their life there so clearly: nothing but the pitter-patter of the rain drumming on the window pane, the sound of the coffee machine running in the background, and a slice of chocolate cake waiting for them in the refrigerator. It was the familiar feeling of comfort after a tiring day. It was so far from what they had first pictured, but they are absolutely certain that they want to make a home here.
That is how he feels to me now. So far from what I had pictured, but certainly where I want to be at the end of each day. But the funniest part of all of this is: He was the one that arrived there in the first place. He was the one who moved into that quaint little building around the corner. He was the one who found me. And I am the one waiting here; hoping he finds a home within me.
Aug 6, 2022
Aug 6, 2022 at 1:13 PM UTC
A bill becomes a law through a process not unlike wet clay curing in the sun, seasonal labor filling the fields in springtime, a drop of sweat absorbed thirstily into a towel, a stain spreading across a tablecloth.
A bill becomes a law eventually, but often, not in time. A bill often fails on the floor, as do some people, as does, just as often,
the attempt to revive them. The attempt looks an awful lot
like a senator's face, energetic and gray and doomed and
looking for any advantage
when the needed advantage is in the ether
and still immaterial until the tenth of February.
I notice the bumper stickers, and I've deputized a Google Alert
to tell me that the popular mass is wakening.
I can also tell when it yawns,
or prods a rib for a pain that wasn't there yesterday.
I can tell when the popular mass has slept funny.
I can tell when it would rather not wake up at all
but the light is streaming in through the window
and the house is full of the sound of the dishwasher.
Pain on both sides, in both ribs, ignored
because sometimes it just happens - pain,
that is - and is a part of getting older,
like how you can't put peppers in your chili anymore
now that they don't grow on this side of the planet,
and there's nobody left to tend them.
I would like somebody to tend me, too,
but the law that sanctions that workforce
is still in committee, and mired in a dispute
about who deserves love.
This one goes out to all of those lying on their kitchen floor
once everyone is out of the house, lifting their legs and placing them on the countertop, listening to their heart ticking
and trying to discover if it reaches everywhere, if they can hear it
in their ankles.
This one goes out to their savings accounts and their kneecaps.
Here's hoping they make it.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
it's in the appreciation of a fantastic tater tot
and a shared laugh after a missed rebound in trash can basketball.
it's in risk and fear and a crazy heart
in late night car rides and "I'm not letting go"
it's at Waffle House at 6AM on a Sunday
in the sheepish grins and sweetly sticky countertop.
it's in the raise of an eyebrow, a wink, a nod
in attention to detail. listening. feeling.
it's in perfect confessions (if shared)
and in a drive thru drink (but only if it tastes right)
it's in the smallest of gestures that mean "I'm sorry"
and the nod that says "you are forgiven"
it's in a car (blue, not black) with a broken console
and in the joyous laughter over squeaky leather seats.
it's in feeling different and wild and passionate
but in soft affection and the summer breeze.
it's in August, in between my toes like sand
natural, messy, persistent
but wonderful all the same.
he holds it for me.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
there's a Heart of Virginia Festival magnet bleeding out onto the
countertop. it's been like this for weeks, i think. i've
been sitting here for weeks. letting the phone ring and
not picking up. a couple of old strawberries molding in
my palm. two ibuprofen waiting to be swallowed resting
pretty on my tongue, melted down to sulfur and acid.
i'm not the right kind of sick for you. bees buzzing inside my
skull, lazy and
sticky sweet. blood dripping from your face to the tiles.
gutted and fresh and stinking, and
you won't stop carving dead languages
into the meat of your thighs, muscle gaping red and raw
you sit in the bathroom of a Macy's and howl,
like youre wild,
like you're hoping someone will round the corner, fists flashing
and ******* stop you.
youre not a Real Boy, you say, spit it out quick and harsh.
thats what momma said- you'renotarealboy.
faster than before. like you're scared. (i know you are.)
my shoulders go up once, twice. what the **** is a real boy?
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
I sent it
At three AM
On one of those nights
Where silence gets violent
And I'm alone in my head.
I told you about the
Tiny pink pills
And how
If I took eight
I would sleep forever.
I gushed that
They were hidden
Under the toothpaste slathered
Countertop
In my bathroom.
I told you I loved you
But that
You weren't enough to stop me anymore.
I did actually consider it.
It was one of those nights.
But at some point,
As I laid on top of my comforter
And shivered under the fan,
I realized that
You weren't going to wake up
And convince me out of it.
I also thought
About how my mom was
A light sleeper.
How the floorboards would sound like
Orchestras
And the cabinet
Would be the symbals
To her.
I fell asleep
Numb,
But naturally numb,
And woke up wondering
What you would say.
You didn't say anything.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
as the coffee cup is rinsed,
the filthy little ******* lands
on the counter to my right.
immediately,
seeking a bludgeon,
his demise is envisioned.
however,
this housefly stays in
my periphery
for just a moment
longer
and
I cannot help but notice
his tiny little mitts, working
and fretting.
imagining the tiniest string
of rosary beads wrapped
around his housefly fists,
it occurs to me that he
might be making his peace
with God.
offering up his little housefly
benedictions, contritions;
apologies for all the sugar bowls,
he’s puked in during his
miniscule little life,
all the little maggots that
he might have fathered
and subsequently abandoned.
I think, without thinking really,
to chide my little countertop
cohort, saying:
“Ah, give it up little one, He isn’t there, He never was,
and if He is, He doesn’t give a second’s thought to the
likes of us.”
the housefly looks at me;
still furiously working his
unseen beads.
“You fool.” he says.
“God has obviously heard my contrition, my apologies,
and has granted me a reprieve, however brief.”
interrupting his novenas,
the housefly continues:
“You, my friend, are so great,
and I am so small,
yet you’ve heard my voice,
seen my beads,
given me reprieve, however brief.
I had asked God to give to you,
just one golden moment of
true, honest belief.
And, so He has, and now
you understand that
the prayers of a housefly
have stayed your hand.
So, it doesn’t matter how
great or how small,
God listens to each of us,
one and all.”
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC
Nails the length of javelins click on countertop
with the speed of a coked-up woodpecker
as this goddess of the night with bullets
of caked foundation sweating from her forehead
awaits her fifth free Long Island of the night.
Safe to say, she's a little high maintenance,
like all treasured centerpieces
of a local museum deserve to be.
She is your generation's Mona Lisa, trust.
Her sneezes will be dissected for coding.
Like the rust on buried Babylonian armor,
she lives sandwiched between myth and reality.
A Frankenstein of queer iconography,
door-knocker earrings designed by Adrian.
Stilts for heels clack on blinking dancefloor,
balancing a hermaphroditic echo
that charges through hieroglyphic binaries
with a four-on-the-floor precision.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
New Year’s Celebration
Among mad men in drowning corridors,
built on rusty foundations,
tethered to rotting, sugar-coated
grins, and nestled in the trashcan
of our neighbor’s backyard –
a candle we cannot see burns
out over the mountains, the
ones draped in vacation photographs,
the same set your kitten is named after,
a geological setting, a historical
lesson, a discipline of chances
strewn into another’s handshake
sweat left on the public
bathroom door handle, a smudge
of lipstick left on the countertop,
next to powder – a scene
unimagined for nonexistent detectives.
In a drunken state, we decide to play
Gunshots or Fireworks?
And we laugh when we are wrong.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
Terror-rium
We had an aquarium
A river, a lake, a sea.
On our desk—the ocean.
Our exotic fish, fished
from the very river, lake, or
sea which we have now.
On our desk—we provide forage,
food, plants, water, and fish.
The aquarium had us.
…
We had an insectarium
An arachnid, an insect, a butter
-fly. On our counter—the air.
Our countertop full of flourishing
flowers, fluttering wings of broken
butterflies, falling from feed, because
they drink—and we pluck their
wings, tape them to tapestries to
stare. Say, how pretty they are.
The insectarium had us
…
We had a terrarium.
A desert, a savannah, a floor of sand.
Our room is lit by a woodland, a
jungle, a place we’ve never been.
African violets decorate our reptiles,
all scales and shells and condensation.
It rains today—the lid which collected
our precipitation. Our pebbled floor,
formed over our marbled kitchen.
The terrarium had us
…
We had an arium,
and we destroyed it
to keep them on our desks,
nuzzled between family portraits and pens,
to remind ourselves of what
We used to have and
what we’ll never have
again, but at least they are
pretty, and no one needs
National Geographic to stare
anymore. We have our countertops.
...
This was read at the University of Kansas on May 10, 2013:
http://shannonathompson.com/2013/05/10/contest-winners-and-poetry-from-my-ku-reading/
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
you were never one for a proper greeting, were you? always paying attention to what was going on with the person in front of you, without recognizing the fact that you were next. life wasn't a one-man show then, and it certainly isn't now. but your drowsiness has long gone -- i almost didn't recognize you. and your carefulness -- i can see that's gone, too. you know what C whispered to me when i first saw you across this room? "there he goes, handling his women like he does his guns." i believed that. so don't talk to me about love and crime and money. the world has always tasted backwards to me.
oh please, i've been looking at you this way for years. only this time i don't have the excuse of it being spring. i haven't felt a proper spring since. i haven't -- [fingers drum in hesitation.] i haven't felt anything since.
i said i haven't felt anything since -- i still remember everything that happened. and you're right, i'm getting away with it just fine. how nice, to finally be able to look at someone without all that gravity happening in you!
looking outside, it feels like i've been gone for far too long, but being in here -- i don't think i've been gone long enough. [clears throat.] did you miss me, darling?
you've changed.
i know. we're both thieves -- we can only ever be thieves, don't you understand? i'm not afraid of what you've done or what you've stolen to still be here. to be speaking to me, to be breathing before me. to be like -- like this. [right hand reaches toward sleeve but wilts on the countertop, a few inches away.] i want to know what you've hidden. it happens every year. think about it: it's almost winter. it's almost time for you to start distancing yourself from everyone around you. those sad things you do, those sad things we both do, they never happen in the spring...spring is when winter surrenders it all. spring is when the bodies start to show up. autumn is dying, winter is dead, spring is when we have to clean it all up. but spring is when the light hits them just right and they look almost -- almost beautiful. not beautiful in what they were, but beautiful in their decay. beautiful that they're on their way to becoming...well, becoming no longer. ah, wasn't spring such a nice feeling?
that's precisely what i mean. so what is it you're burying from me now? why not tell me now? i'll never be younger than i am at this moment. what about now? i might just drive into the winter with you. [smiling.]
what? [stops smiling.]
i...i don't have time for this. he's waiting for me outside.
i can't say i imagined this, either.
[leans closer in silence.]
sounds to me like you still might be asleep there, yourself. [leans away, smiling.]
oh, what would you know about beautiful mornings? you were never awake to appreciate them! no matter how hard i nudged you.
you were always so tired then.
terrible. [turns away.] and so warm. [smiling.]
...i know. we both are.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
Aphrodite - Queen *****
Slouching.
Elbows resting on glass countertop -
Go **** yourself.
All you are -
Is beautiful.
All you are -
Is perfection.
Can't touch you baby,
No, not again.
Smiled and cooed,
Then playing the role of dog in heat,
Snapped and snarled -
Like I was the crazy one.
You asked for it.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
Just now, laid out like your favorite uncle
gone before his time with auntie stretched out beside,
I woke to the perfect metaphor for the too-bad,
so-sad, too-fast nature of time—or maybe
was a simile, as in: the way month upon hour slips away like…
Like…like the runt daisy in the bouquet from
the ex-lover you never wanted to hear from,
least loved bloom among a fistful of beauties
never smiled upon at all—Yes—least of all,
this wasted flower, its whole-milk petals yellowing
And (like time, lest your forget) fluttering, broken-off,
to the coffee-stained and salt-strewn
countertop…like that, indeed, or something close.
That was on my mind as I half awoke—but stirring entire
the bundle of words
of the ideal image
died (yes, sad)
in its place:
I thought of writing some clever tale
how waking up the flash of a line
of the perfect literary device
some glowing simile or metaphor
(how time is the flight plan of a hummingbird
and before we can begin to grasp the next orders
barked at the co-pilot, the captain
has steered the thrumming craft from sugar water
to sheltered branch, and what moment passed between
is one of many such ticks and tocks, the aggregate
meaning that when we wake up
suddenly 30, 40, or
deceased like your dear uncle,
it never seemed like time was passing at all)
slipped away from me—wait, I’m getting there—
and the words’ escape and time’s escape
were somehow one and the same…
But no, I thought, too precious.
Besides, it’s for sure been done.
March 30, 2012 4:02 a.m.
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
chapter one;
“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine
I keep my eyes wide open all the time
I keep the ends out for the tie that binds
Because you're mine, I walk the line...”
i was yours
the first time your fingers
burned lust
against my neck
lunch time lunch break
45 minutes stretched
to find the beats
within the beats
“Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you
Because you're mine, I walk the line.”
you grabbed my hand
hurried feet across hot pavement
a sudden coolness
my back
brown sun kissed skin bare
against rigid metal
pressure
suffused with a smoldering
you ignited
in places i didn’t know
lighting matches in me
just to swallow up the flames
“You've got a way to keep me on your side
You give me cause for love that I can't hide
For you I know I'd even try to turn the tide
Because you're mine, I walk the line.”
your hands
(how i came to love
the way just the anticipation
of their pressure
the sight of
fingertips dancing across a countertop
would make me wet)
slid slow almost slick parallel against my chest
crept slowly
upwards delicious slow race
breathing becomes optional
then forgotten
your fingertips are magnets
push back expose sweet surrender
salt kissed sugar spice
all spice
“I am not ashamed anymore
I want something so impure
You better impress now, watching my dress now fall to the floor
Crawling underneath my skin, sweet talk with a hint of sin
Begging you to take me
Devil underneath your grin, sweet thing, but she play to win, heaven gonna hate me.”
they say opposites attract
north seeks south
that is normal
this is not normal
we are heat seeking missiles
homing in one on the other
burning beyond brightness
when love sometimes feels like a fist around your throat
you command me to open my eyes
to look at you
into you
your eyes stay blazing
i am blind i can’t blink
i have never seen
more clearly
we are all stardust
mysteries inferno
your mouth tastes
i want to be the ashes in your mouth
you build my church of scars
you give me permission to be
you give me permission to
you give me permission
you give me
you give
you
fingers meeting my throat
for the first time
feels like home
our stardust becomes shrapnel
shrapnel draws first blood
i taste it on your lips
iron salt desire ***
my teeth your lust
your eyes smolder grey
so much heat
all hardness and promise
permission granted before
the question is even asked
your eyes
my eyes
close
first
round one
you win.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 3:20 AM UTC
something looks and creeps on the countertop
parasitic cyst
up on the table
a phonograph feeding me from way back
a comatose short
you made me outnumbered and sorts
a different flesh
but you feel the edge
and feel suprised but
you know just what i am
a different life
and we were encumbered
and adorned
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Inside, Your cancer's beating heart
My ******* shakes, dirt dust gone
I swipe the sand away. For every ounce of ****
Laughing out meaty red raw steaks and size zero thighs.
- For everythingsobad. You rattle my dream box with your sweet blue face and your gauges for neither being an idiot or being human. Too cute of you booboo. Captivity claws at you, you big bafoon, intolerant, shuffling your predicates back and forth during your 12am nonsensical ******** So long as it doesn't interfere with your curfew.
Like soggy altered-state popcorn. Your butter catches more flies than knives, the inauthentic gestures spattering over the rhythms and rolls of your fingertips is torture to watch. Kitchen countertop influenza. A tired dictionary of sad words, poor misfortunes, tired eyelids, silty and sandy crusty inside corners of the eyes
.rearing privilege
countertop crawlers. inaudible coos used by muses who can't keep their musings from tangling the long distance dial tone soaring through the ears like an Italian operatic melodrama. A horse, three brides, and a funeral. One woman, a sick child, blindness, blinding caused by toxins of the body stuck inside your gelatinous fishlike eyelids. Where's there an eye bib and a lance when you need one? A nifty electric toothbrush shank with extra reach and plaque protection. You're the kitchen sink they threw in, a budget meeting with a data analysis staph infection. A government where nobody wins. All the kids grow up with thin skin and an aorta with no ventricles in it. It's like the cynical prison system that we had to survive in our 8th grade basement dungeon. Thundering, curmudgeons drugging sluggishly, **** teen thugs. Preteen pornstars sluicing cash through their meaty canals, ******* the ******** and ******* the back bare in a messy afternoon of **** ******* Crusty infectious rumors made worse by brothers and moms, eating handfuls of Norco just to keep the family strong.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
My eyes click clacked
To the cling clang
Of a bottle of *** hitting marble
Ava was sitting on the bar countertop
The boy with the glasses
Folded between her spider legs
Their teeth like piano keys playing one another
She ****** his shirt
Red maraschino
Pet his cheek with her
smooth leather palm
Stroked his hair with
Comb fingers
Bejeweled with silver rings
She stretched out her vowels like taffy when she spoke
Giggles stabbing themselves into the middle of her sentences.
“I️ like the way wine makes me feel”
She purred,
Swishing the words around in her mouth before she chased them down with
Pino Gris
I’d never seen this version of Ava.
Night velvet
Black cat
Skin sheets of raw silk.
She was slippery and evasive,
Like a mermaid
Hiding behind her hair and her scales and champagne,
Because
Inside
I️ knew
She wished the boy
With the glasses and the red shirt
Was her Brooklyn boy
So she kissed him with wine lips,
The force of disappointment and pain
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
the pendulum princess taps her pen on the desk
as the dogs whimper in their sleep
and the trees wrap themselves in the witching-hour starlight
the silence suddenly seems so frantic
i swear
i can hear my skin shrinking
the wind slithers over the roof
whispering through the moon beams
in hopes of finding someone to snuggle up with
at least i'm not the only one who's sick of sleeping alone
my body no longer feels like home
my bones creak like splintering floorboards under stubbed toes
my head's busy running in circles of constant contemplation
*am i awake
or am i dreaming?
was that a sigh
or am i screaming?*
buzzing like a firefly
trapped between a ***** countertop and a frosted beer mug
three weeks of bed rest
(and counting)
and all that's grown stronger
is my understanding of exhaustion
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
Where do you stand. Now
Alone in the sun
Miserable earbuds
and backwards youme
Forever
this moment in the loneliest place in my life
suburban parking lot, USA
Covering secret hope with blankets of anonymity
Money just cools them
Freeze each other LIKEICECRYSTALS
can't even be together
Never. Even when it can't get worse
in the sillyfuck of summertime sticky countertop of hangover
Seasons without the hot seatbelt of safety
and the inoutness of us
not careful always
Sick bruised overdue goodbye
life sentence
Stealing it back with the work of no worries
Just hoping art still means something
just ******* praying it's not empty
like your neverpromises
and your didntlies
Cowering with broken heart fever
Burying strangers shrugs in coffeehouse choketears
Who-gives-a-fuck cliche misery
I hope your own shadow haunts your periphery
Like narcissus' fear of drowning
Sometimes the goodbyes are should have
A whole year of goodbyes
All I wish for is the end
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
Noon, I’m next in line behind an old man.
“I want to withdraw fourteen dollars,” he says.
The teller, a young woman with a soft sweater, says
“There’s only—let me check—yes—fifty-two cents.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She tilts her head. “Sorry.”
The sorrow is genuine.
He wears a pinstripe suit, frayed,
wafting an odor of smoke and earth.
A smartly folded handkerchief, breast pocket,
has a dark stain. His silver beard
is neatly trimmed.
On one wall above the safe is a giant
mural of teamsters driving a stagecoach.
The man says, “There might be—”
“No. It’s always the same.”
For a moment he closes his eyes,
a slow blink while indignities of a lifetime pass.
Without a word, the young woman slides a sandwich
over the countertop through the teller window.
“Blessings on you,” the man says with a nod,
and he walks away with a limp.
I cash my check, a big one
from three days of messy labor
for a matron of the horsey set.
“He lives by the creek,” the teller says
without my asking. “Under a bridge.”
Outside the bank, in the parking lot of glistening cars,
I look around for the pinstripe suit, the silver beard.
I might offer the man something.
He might refuse to take it.
Anyway, no matter:
he has disappeared like the last stagecoach.
Only the blessing remains.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
My father uprooted the linoleum tile
after purchasing the house and noticing carpenter ants.
The owners of the house before had laid down
their best pine colored flooring in the kitchen
back in 1959.
I would toddle in and out of the doorway
playing with the grout spacers,
and reaching for sourdough in the pantry.
All while stepping tiny pink sandals
around the dead ants.
I wanted to help my father, but was too afraid
to go near the oven.
The oven, whose
exhaust fan would snarl
like an animal of the night.
Incandescent, where they found Sylvia Plath.
Stained with oil
like a forgotten Jackson *******
Foreboding
of it’s adjacent countertop
where eventually would lay
divorce papers.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
Sitting by my computer
The screen reflecting blue and red light
On me and the nail polish
Sitting next to my arm
With clear gloss covering the countertop
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC