"coupons" poems
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
comfrock, you **********
get up off your crazy knees
and I'll belt you down
again --
what's that?
you say I eat stem pipes?
I'll **** you!
stop crying. god ****
all right, we dumped your car into the sea
and ***** your daughter
but we are only extending the possibilities of a working
realism, shut up!, I said
any man must be ready for anything and
if he isn't then he isn't a
man a goat a note or a plantleaf,
you shoulda known the entirety of the trap, *******
love means eventual pain
victory means eventual defeat
grace means eventual slovenliness,
there's no way
out . . . you see, you
understand?
hey, Mickey, hold his head up
want to break his nose with this pipe . . .
god **** I almost forgot the
nose!
death is every second, punk.
the calendar is death. the sheets are death. you put on your
stockings: death. buttons on your shirt are death.
lace sportshirts are death. don't you smell it? temperature is
death. little girls are death. free coupons are death. carrots are
death. didn't you
know?
o.k., Mack, we got the nose.
no, not the ***** too much bleeding.
what was he when? oh, yeah, he used to be a cabby
we snatched him from his cab
right off Madison, destroyed his home, his car, ***** his
12 year old daughter, it was beautiful, burned his wife with
gasoline.
look at his eyes
begging mercy . . .
9.8k
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
new Waldorf-Astoria:
"All the luxuries of private home. . . ."
Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house
has turned you down this winter?
Furthermore:
"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel
world. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-
mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.
Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished
background for society.
So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungry
ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags--
(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good
enough?)
ROOMERS
Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers--
sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a
long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.
They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will
you:
GUMBO CREOLE
CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE
BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF
SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM
WATERCRESS SALAD
PEACH MELBA
Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.
Why not?
Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of
your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers
because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-
ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends
and live easy.
(Or haven't you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-
ter bread of charity?)
Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get
warm, anyway. You've got nothing else to do.
5.7k
Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem:
Painting a Function Different
I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic
Beyond the porch-floor
Minerva hangs her wash
making the invisible visible
Eighty two and three quarters deaf
she doesn’t notice
But this is, in fact, reality
Has always been this way—
Bent and bird-like existence
Balanced on two twigs—always busy—
Her task, is the *********** of space
Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing
The three phenomena which I must....
Things no one notices—
climbing on the abstract surface of a picture
Switching the curtains
God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…!
It figures that—
Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune
I try to fix them—
Her ankles now
And she curses at accidental quality
from the corner of her mouth
which has only one form
Clothespin or cigarette?
Long johns and animals and men in heaven
and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities
surround us translucent, contained
I decide what to get for her birthday—
We are good friends
through painting a function different
For me?
Predestined necessity.
Minerva?
forgets her manners
and eats like a survivor—
Thanks going without saying.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
Sunday's newspapers
come on Saturday,
coupons spill out
torrentially.
weekend manna
from
publisher's hell.
makes my breathing heavy,
from studious inspection,
so many needs unmet.
I fall to pieces
every weekend,
securely knowing,
I'm lacking in
so many things,
feeling my
insecure neediness
keenly.
my Target is
feverishly simple,
solution oriented.
no can find any discounts for
new rhythms,
new rhymes,
life high fivers
to satisfy,
adhere,
and revere,
that would be my
Best Buy.
but I'm clipped,
the coupons, not.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Do you know how many times my mother coughs so hard in an hour that it still surprises me she hasn’t lost a lung?
I wonder if all the money that she spends at the gas station on that tiny cardboard box was saved instead of spent, if she could manage to pay the bills before the late notice arrived in the mail.
How many times do you think she tries to quiet the change being pushed around the tabletop as she counts out the quarters, the dimes, the nickels, the pennies before she has enough to slide the coins across the counter at the station?
How many times is her anger thrown at me because nicotine is absent from the house?
I can only imagine the color inside her chest, protecting her lungs with a black tar after too many years of flicking a flame to a thin white candlestick stuck between her lips.
The house smells of smoke and the yellow filter lines the walls, around the frames that hang themselves by nails.
I clean the mirror and see the paper towel golden from the lingering tobacco. My clothes reek of a stench so strong no amount of perfume seems to be enough.
I’m paranoid that every time I’m in a room of people and someone mentions that it smells like smoke, if they know I harbor such a scent that I pour it off second handedly as if I inhale the drug too.
I open the mailbox and the temptation to “lose” the coupon booklet addressed to her grows stronger.
The business cards labeled with a barcode on the back subtracting a dollar off when you buy two packs strengthens the urge to scrabble up the silver coins or summons the question, “do you have five dollars? I’ll pay you back when I get paid on Friday.”
Friday never comes.
I often think about how much longer it will be until all the money spent on tiny cardboard boxes will be split between tobacco and medical bills.
How long can you smoke a pack a day and still be cancer-free?
And I wonder how it’s fair to watch your mother gamble with her life each time she places a thin cigarette between her lips.
Russian roulette with cancer is a game she’s become too good at.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
It was in total a fast track ticket to the moon
and I can't return to transaction dock 8 too soon
the star checkout lane at my local supermarket
tops balloons with rocket science aeronautics
that pilot's service areas binary counter perfect
exceeding expectations bent into global orbit
My items sped along to muzak her slim milky way belt
a smile beaming discount countdowns heaven sent
taking off in bit lips when her priceless item buttons
almost burst free to air with a strain of special promotions
helpfully assisting my every excess flight of fancy
made impulse buys a baggage allowance necessity
She stroked parts of her radical laser station
to fully engage hygienic wiped spills of imagination
and I felt the warp of hyperdrive tangelo engines
urging me into a dive to scan juice ripe tangerines
a last minute save fuelled by stalling flashback cavities
gyrating in tight nets as we escaped earth's gravity
With a twist of her wrist I was into fits-the-bill ecstasy
as the whirr of electronics cut loose such quality
with a lick of an index finger our mission was bagged
handled too efficiently for any danger of jet lag
no flyby chance to not exchange standby coupons
my trolley emptied of offers too galactic to pass on
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Shopping was the world first invitation to women,
a freedom to move out of her house. Initially,
Woman practiced shopping for vegetables and slowly
extended to garments/jewelry/white goods etc. Today,
the world has experiencing a better market due to
window shopping. The concept innovated by women,
the women who started window shopping has helped
the awareness of the market, The more the window shopping,
more the sales. The concept of window shopping
helped the textile industries to understand about their products.
The textile industries has developed in terms of marketing
say readymade, exchangeable, trial rooms, gifts coupons
are coz of women. Its encouraged the women to do
shopping effectively.
Facts about shopping. Customer who shop with their friends
tend to buy more costly products than when they shop alone.
Next, In terms of clothing, General advises is to buy
one garment at a time coz If you buy few dresses, You tend the use
the first selected dress more than the others. Buying 'Take Away'
in (costly) restaurant was the blinder coz restaurant charge more
for the ambience less for the food. Using cash on shopping,
you tend to spend less and you bargain more. Don't increase
your buying to eligible for discount coupon. A survey says
that 90% of the issued discount coupons are never redeemed.
Never shop on Discount Sale coz the best collection will be
taken off the shelf by the shopkeeper. The amazing fact,
If any one buy the best and costly clothes one size less than
the one normally uses, has brought down the weight
of that person.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
When I grew up my mom would cut coupons and scrounge for change in the sofa to buy me a chicken nugget happy meal McDonalds. She would cut coupons and would only buy nectarines if they were on sale. I grew up eating bologna sandwiches with kraft cheese slices and potato chips.
I think your mom had different priorities.
The man at Starbucks, told me that opposites attract and I think that is why were together. He told me a Intuitive Innovative Feeler. Does that mean that you are oblivious and emotionless *** I don't think so?
Lately I have been whining a lot. Whining about where we live, what we do, what we don't do, how you act, how you don't act, about how your mom wants us to water the brussels sprouts that no one likes and clean the toilets no one uses.
Sometimes I say things to hurt your feelings. Sometimes I mean it. I word them so that they are as hurtful as can be and you never react. Is it bad to want to make you cry? You test my sanity everyday, you break me every day, and here I am still trying to chip away at the facade, the make up you cover up with.
I think living in the mountains has taught me about all the things that I don't want to be. I don't want to be cut off, I don't want to be nice, I don't want to be liberal, I don't want to be conservative, I don't want to see the same people everyday, and I definitely don't want to spend eleven dollars on heirloom tomatoes.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches. You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.
The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation
A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.
my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found
In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.
eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend
his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.
upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.
A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.
Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
While these groupons cutting coupons I mean and croutons with Grey Poupon with the flight crew on an Islond off Moulin Rouge -- these dudes calling me rude, how I took'em to school. went from second hand shoes to licking silver spoons eating delicious grapes, in luxurious estates, and plush lagoons. Leaving the monkey business to the buffoons. Instead I'm watching CNN news being amused. LeBron making his moves on the tube, setting screens, and running schemes, on the big screen, HD clarity got me taking three, I'm catching charges too. This is the life. I'm just manifesting what they said I couldn't do -- nothing new.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
Four white walls adorned with posters.
Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd and an odd cluster
of animals and dinosaurs.
and a strange man relaxing his pores.
I could learn something from this
The wall space around Van Gogh
is lined with empty cigarette boxes.
A constant reminder of life shortening though
they encircle the skull like rabid foxes.
I've lost count of how many I've smoked
The carpet is littered with stains.
A reminder of past strains.
Even industrial shampoo
will not fade the marks scarred into.
I've been here too long
The drawers are a symbol of a cluttered mind.
Nothing is organized. but anything is an easy find.
Random thoughts make the air stale.
Only freshened by the 3pm arrival.
Its just junk and coupons
Its difficult to balance all these things out
without a feminine touch to soothe.
A soft laughter to rile the doubts.
Another pair to line with my shoes.
I'll be with you one day Caroline
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 4:58 AM UTC
You’d never guess
By eavesdropping
To the vapid colloquialisms
Of your neighbors, your co-workers
That 5 open sores fester upon our mother’s face,
5 gyres,
(even the word is disgusting),
of floating plastic,
tangle and strangle the warm wombs of our seas,
stretch out at the horizons like blankets of melanoma.
Livid and neon infection
Drips, seeps, spreads from Fukushima,
Genociding the Pacific—3,000 nautical miles
Devoid of breath or heartbeat,
Save a lonely whale with tumors
Full of hot dog coupons and carpet cleaning flyers.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
I won't depend
On hashtag trends,
On free lending,
Or poems trending,
Or coupons for hookers vending.
I won't depend
On society blending,
Or relations mending
On wending paths of truth.
Then we're sending rockets,
Bending rules for Rulers,
Tending obsequious flocks of sheep.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
She may walk through crowds
unseen
An advantage of her age
poking through products
at her own distracted speed
Feeling fruit or sniffing soap
Reading labels
fine print through two pair of glasses
turning slightly
hoping no one sees...
how gone it's getting....
She may lean on cart at check-out
just shy of your usual...
Old
who ask for double bags
Nope, she will not slow the line that way
Remembering work
assesses pain
shifting weight to other leg
to spare an aching knee
Not one for counting desperate change
Not arguing every item on receipt
Not fumbling coupons
nor writing checks
...will not slow the line...
reluctant to let go of youth
Remembering exhaustion's day
she will not slow the line that way--
Fiddles with smart phone
(Yes, she knows how!)
to pass the time
She fumbles through her purse--
God only knows
what “old folks” look for
Probably glasses, tissues, gum,
or
"Where the hell's my keys!"
Stopping by a news rack
on the way out
Is she waiting for a cab?
Who cares!
Outta way, she stops to read
The New York Times, WaPo, Journal
Thee chapters of a novel
Outside their pay-walls
The mind beneath the woolen cap
is at it
grazing once again, for free
Where she often likes to feed--
her curiosity
No one sees her watching
from the inside out
and the corner of her eye
But what to do about that cat litter?
or ½ and ½
on highest shelves?
she simply cannot reach....
Always some tall good-lookin' guy around
to flatter
his size
looking for dog kibble, “big game snacks” or beer
She plays
the old lady card so well
...and somehow
gets what she needs
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
Rattan letter rack stuffed
with hundreds of coupons
like requests to the Gods
sits under shrine
called the spice rack.
Little bottles
as dusty on outside
as within,
have no aroma left.
This temple's kitchen counter
top is mustard asterisks on
ivory laminate, so reminiscent
of ancient wonder.
These late '60's early '70's
design elements, lacquered
over with grease of yesterday's
din-dins, are only indicative
of where the resident wished
to be.
Now, even India, has lost
authentic texture, alluring space
and line, in these Internet times.
Though he can still smell cardamom,
nutmeg, and cinnamon waft from
Southeast. It is stuck in his mind.
Yet, since time of his dearly
departed's passing, no sandalwood
has been burned and he only
eats corn flakes.
America has changed him so.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
I think what makes me the most sad is the world doesn't care how good of a person you are.
You can shake hands with all the people who are homeless named Mic, who fondly remember Mel Brooks movies, and you'll still find yourself left behind just like them.
Complimenting women's nails for their sense of style or telling the cashier at the dvd store that his up-sell is really good and it nearly got you with their sense of flow.
You never take their offer of coupons as what's the point on collecting relics of a time we've all already left.
Strong, sturdy, and silent is what the past is made out of, as there is nothing left to break the illusion of today.
Sturdy for no one has found a way to bring all their passion home.
Time can only stand still, and all we can do is move on.
A kindness forgotten: soft words and thoughtful intentions are what make me the most sad.
Jun 27, 2022
Jun 27, 2022 at 5:21 AM UTC
I imagined we’d grow gray together
and take winter sun holidays
somewhere we could warm our bones
cut out coupons from newspapers
stacking up in a jam jar
next to the fruit bowl
you’d rent guidebooks out of the library
and I’d take evening classes
so that I could understand
black tied waiters
you’d find it cute and impressive
and you would hold my hand tightly
during take off
the plan was that we’d walk around
foreign supermarkets and guess
the contents of the cans
they’d be faded beach towels
and the sticky scent of tanning lotion
our antiquated skin would burn easily
if we didn't smother it
but I’m not sure it matters
anymore, fretting over factors
we already have tumors
growing like doubts in our chests
we have nurtured them,
tended to their hungers and thirst
until we have none of
our own
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
I
I’m not playing here
this is real
like looking up and wondering a little
about nothing really
clipping thought coupons
into a phone
on the backs of Denny’s’ receipts
that’ll be worth while on sale
maybe a cradle
a rocking chair for an aching back
or a shovel
'cause that's all that really matters
II
but I cannot bring myself to
do what we (brothers) have done
videotapes donutting for unblinking eyes
blurry words, maybe
faster than (the) sea
mathematical and black
reflecting (truth)
what really matters
the violence of things that mean something
that pump the kroovy
that crumple old
inky receipts
thrown
III
they warp the desk
spinning the world into the anaphora of a pale blue dot
a period
a full stop
IV
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
come one, come all.
gather 'round, gather 'round the table.
you'll find your invitations—
corporations' coupons—packed
between stories of Indigenous
People, shot by militarized cops in riot gear.
Water Protectors defending the river
while a black snake rears to poison the well.
tear gas, rubber bullets, and concussion grenades
replace ragged blankets draped in smallpox.
a tradition rooted in genocide
upheld in frigid North Dakota.
no need to ponder
the lasting legacy
of a leader who campaigned
on "hope" and "change." a hypocrite
continuing a tradition of colonial
aggression, lying by omission.
just another facet
of his presidential profession.
so drown the news of a fascist's
election in gravy and eggnog,
viscous substances to gorge
yourselves on. Nazis vandalizing
black churches with swastikas
must've escaped your notice.
vacuous, preaching
that Jesus is the reason
for the season, but i think
your savior would flip
your Thanksgiving Table over.
flimsy pretenses of gratitude
discarded hours later, chasing deals
before your stomach could even settle.
your brand new 4K TV
cost you over $4K, but couldn't give you
a clearer picture. you continue to disregard
the smoke signs and headlines,
pursuing the material.
consume!
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 11:10 PM UTC
rocking on this swing again
where I crept into the moon
so many nights with
and without you
twirling tongue spells
whispering kisses on the wind
I sat in blackness
sky light communion
praying begging manifestivals
for just the slightest uplift
in your shadowed lids
to peep ignite
while you steeped in other brew
as if I could pry you
from your own entrapments
you employ them
in places you won't let me
because you're scared
to open your hand
fully
dailies distract the knowing
and warm your frigid sheets
then you wonder why
there's no space
for we
I know I'm Sunday mornings
flung swift at your door
requiring all your insides
from turned-out pockets
but I'm also
high-gloss, full-color
edge-of-your-seat
content symph in inter-D
and every last **** one
of the funnies
plus those coupons in the middle
to places you've never been
they kick back everything
you've thrown in
10,000 folds
uncreasing dewy
unto you
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 4:59 PM UTC
In the frame time with mimes
Circling around in rhyme
Where the whispers are shouted
And the misery is publicized
In colorful banners all emphasized
Take thy front foot to the left
And they back foot gone to theft
All here on the bitter mans salute
All here on the fitter mans salute
All here on the winning mans salute
And in sticking finicky horse flies
War torn and wishing they were never born
Telling tales that now are screened as myths
Where love is prophesized in the shape of gifts
No man may enter and no woman may squeal
We are all habits in finely packed eight dollar meals
Shipped off and clipped off
Like coupons were are richly scuffed
So here lie the bitter mans salute
So here lie the fitter mans salute
So here lie the winning mans salute
With the bid that went through by the government official
Stating that all tax will be in the form of red wax
Each child must pray to someone else so to obey
Kidnapped minds that grind their kinds as thin as lines
Non-sensical quotes that drift in the minds like long lost boats
Skimming the surface of a service of true freedom
Reaching millions with a smile with crossed fingers as long as miles
And here lie the bitter mans salute
And here lie the fitter mans salute
And here lie the winning mans salute
Our timing in the black market square
Makes all who enter shiver and dare
Know not who you hate only who you love
Take a start toward the finishing line above
Inside all of this lies no secret and no lie
Your heart will be broken but do not cry
Bright in the day but dark all around me now
The farmers in the field work with no plow
She's memorized by pity pain capturing her life
Sharpening the ****** weapon a heart shaped knife
Make your way down and
See the bitter mans salute
See the fitter mans salute
See the winning mans salute
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 3:21 PM UTC
Whining about slushie stains, broken shoe strings, a cloudy tan date, a blender of crushed molding fruit and a couple of misplaced coupons dusty under the bookcase
I listen, I stay. I know I know-so awful, so unfair
Tuesday the tongue red Toms squished into the slip n' slide of a slow-paced coat on the run, splashing in the surprise and disgust but mostly drowning in the wrong point
I listen, I stay. I know I know-so foul, so raw
The pipes ooze liquid, weeping for a fix but the handyman's calloused fingertips were fired for not fitting the bill, mending the rip or driving the speed limit
I listen, I stay. I know I know-so frustrating, so disappointing
Saturday's overlap into Sunday was cramming lyrics and auto corrected notes into the bloated edge of a clicking lens snapping away, capturing a frenzy of wild memories and ibuprofen pills
I listen, I stay. I know I know- so entertaining, so amusing
Begging for top shelf truth, knee stretching for flexibility, pen scratching for a road deeper inland, holding, yearning for a meaningful entry to meaningfully look back on
I listen, I stay. I know I know- so vanished, so fragmented
Each night, the muffled light bulb all tucked into bed shamelessly stares crooked at the nightmares of an exhausted headboard wishing only to shed comfort instead of light
I listen, I stay. I know I know- so sorry, so sorry, so sorry I can't be more for you
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
Hell will be a waiting room
You’re sitting in an uncomfortable chair
With dingy magazines five months old
The couples on the covers have split
Someone has already torn out the coupons, filled in the quizzes and crosswords
Twelve letters across another word for your damnation?
The answer scrawled out in red ink
Anticipation
Waiting for the news that is never going to come
Waiting
That anticipation is worse than the diagnoses
You could have five months to live this afterlife
Five weeks
Five hours
You could drop undead in the middle of that waiting room
Where no one would do a ******* thing
Because God doesn’t dwell down here
Here the devil is king
And then it begins again
A different waiting room
The same dingy magazines
Except this one smells like a dentist’s office
You’ll just sit
Wait
The walls read
If you have been waiting more than fifteen minutes please notify the receptionist
Alert staff if you are experiencing flu-like symptoms
HAIL SATAN
Thank you for not smoking
No smoking
No talking
No texting tweeting or reading
Waiting
Just Waiting
In this ***** dusty hell of a room
Please take a seat
A nurse will call you to the back shortly
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC