"cruisers" poems
My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass
We linger longest over John
Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags
...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed
No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
Lost
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”
Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of crap
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--
mostly
sorta
...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
power-sawed
through the housing codes
and horror
of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...
******* crazy-- John!
He was enough for one day at a time
like when
he flung that threatening bolder
on bilco doors
for percussive effect
"Get off my fuckin' property!”
(not using his “inside voice")
“Next time, that'll be your head!!
He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
Fake-dialing
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”
My phone is set to speed dial
911
____
“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”
How we miss him now
How quiet
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
.
•a long time
ago in a galaxy far away
•the saga continues with fancy
new droids•characters in outland-
ish costumes put on display•impo-
ssible new crafts that dart and slice
through vacuumed voids•armed to
■■■■ the teeth with impressive weapons• ■■■■
■■■■■ spectacular battles between gargan- ■■■■■
■■■■■ tuan cruisers• never ending fight b- ■■■■■
■■■■■ etween opposing factions•where d- ■■■■■
■■■■■ ark and light wield fantastic sabers• ■■■■■
■■■■■ oh i love it... i love it! the day draws ■■■■■
■■■■■ near • where my childhood pangs... ■■■■■
■■■■■ **would begin to smart•in a week, the ■■■■■
■■■■■ long anticipated day would be here•** ■■■■■
■■■■■ where the sith in my veins meets the ■■■■■
■■■■■ jedi in my heart• ■■■■■
■■■■■ ■■■■■
■■■■■■ ■■■■■■
■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■
IIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIII
.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
The black, iron God arm punched
placid-blanched clouds, and dangled
cat cable down to lemon-vested men
with chalkboard faces.
*Basic algebra, today's date, daily
syllabi, God-fearing anecdotes,
and the evils of homosexuality.*
Fornicating with other dudes
is like moving Jesus' rock
with your condom'd *****
Let sleeping dieties die.
We find them buried deep beneath
**** ceramics by T.V. criminals,
rapists, murderers, buzzers, free-
lovers, angelheaded sweethearts.
They have nearly four dollar souls,
barely enough for a Wilpo dinner
at Hepburn Diner. #2 breakfast
with one cup of Columbian cartel
coffee with a pinch of whole milk
to take the edge off, so he won't
be gripping the booth vinyl when
a "freedom" flash cop car passes.
Police cruisers are just bigger bicycles
that we're afraid of, sporting cereal
box baseball cards in the spokes.
Cops were the kids that needed help
their first time fresh off training
wheels. Training academy training
them for low-speed cat chases through
flower beds.
Sweet daffodil, you didn't have to die
like this. You could've drank straight
from the pitcher at a stranger's dinner
party potluck, seen the guts of a New
York highrise, shared the coke left
beneath a woman's botched nose job.
You could have been more than this.
You could have been more.
You could have been.
You could have.
You could.
You.
You, daffodil, stamen-down
in Miracle Gro and dog ****
could have been more.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
His bike was a twilight sky, his eyes were new leaves of spring as sunlight poured through
If it weren't for us the path would've been vacant
Hearty laughter & gentle giggles would be far from the sight
The sea foam tide's beauty would be left unappreciated
I would sit alone people watching, wondering who I identified as in this world as strangers strolled by
He would lay in bed as "12:51" by The Strokes blared aloud
But that's not how the cards played out
I pedaled just behind you as you screamed your favorite lyrics
Released unnecessary angst I suppose
Then our two bikes inhabited a pebble painted beach
We laid facing one another as summer's warm breeze kissed our faces
You'd express with such desire how you saw the world
how you saw the past
how you longed for your future to be
But all that mattered now were the two beach cruisers that somehow linked us together
You sat atop your blue mountain
I hugged my lilac meadow, with you in mind
This euphoria was only transient but felt imperial to me
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
OUR motion on the soft still misty river
Is like rest; and like the hours of doom
That rise and follow one another ever,
Ghosts of sleeping battle-cruisers loom
And languish quickly in the liquid gloom.
From watching them your eyes in tears are gleaming,
And your heart is still; and like a sound
In silence is your stillness in the streaming
Of light-whispered laughter all around,
Where happy passengers are homeward bound.
Their sunny journey is in safety ending,
But for you no journey has an end.
The tears that to your eyes their light are lending
Shine in softness to no waiting friend;
Beyond the search of any eye they tend.
There is no nest for the unresting fever
Of your passion, yearning, hungry-veined;
There is no rest nor blessedness forever
That can clasp you, quivering and pained,
Whose eyes burn ever to the Unattained.
Like time, and like the river's fateful flowing,
Flowing though the ship has come to rest,
Your love is passing through the mist and going,
Going infinitely from your breast,
Surpassing time on its immortal quest.
The ship draws softly to the place of waiting,
All flush forward with a joyful aim,
And while their hands with happy hands are mating,
Lips are laughing out a happy name--
You pause, and pass among them like a flame.
1.9k
Jack Cornwell was a Boy, First Class
On the Chester’s forward gun,
There to relay the settings with
A pair of headphones on,
He’d turned sixteen just months before
Was trained for his chosen task,
And hoped for a life of adventure as
He sailed, before the mast.
The Chester sailed to join the Fleet
That had left from Scapa Flow,
The Grand Fleet with its battleships
Sailed under Jellicoe,
They’d intercepted the German codes
And knew that they’d put to sea,
Hoping to split the British Fleet
And gain a victory.
The Chester turned to meet the flash
Of gunfire, far away,
The light was poor before the dawn
And the mist was thick that day,
Three funnels of a German ship
Came gliding through the mist,
And the Chester turned to starboard
Ready to show the British fist.
But the German ship was not alone
And the shells began to rain,
From the following battle cruisers
Shattering decks, in blood and pain,
Jack Cornwell stood at his post while all
His gun crew lay there dead,
Ready to take his orders, though
The Chester turned, and fled.
The medics found him with shrapnel wounds
Steel splinters in his chest,
He wouldn’t desert his post, he was
As brave as all the rest,
The Chester sailed for Immingham
Disembarked the wounded crew,
Put Jack in Grimsby Hospital,
There was nothing they could do.
He died just two days afterwards
Before his mother came,
She’d hurried on up from London
Where she’d caught the fastest train,
They buried Jack in a communal grave
So many men had died,
Fighting for King and country
Steeped in duty, worth and pride.
His name was honoured from lip to lip
How he’d stood beside his gun,
Determined to fight the German ships
‘Til the Chester turned to run,
Such courage born of England
Where it was tempered at the forge,
Was so inspiring in one so young
Said the Navy, to King George.
‘For shame,’ then cried the ‘Daily Sketch’
When they heard of the communal grave,
‘Is this how we treat our heroes,
Jack deserves the nation’s praise!’
The coffin was shortly disinterred
And draped with the Union Jack,
Drawn on an open gun carriage
With the Navy at its back.
His name went down in the history books
As the boy who stuck to his post,
In the midst of dead and dying men
As they made their way to the coast,
King George conferred the highest award
That there was, for bravery,
Awarded him the Victoria Cross,
Jack Cornwell, Boy, V.C.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
Typically British, rather insane.
English men do walk on water.
Ha ha, jolly hockey sticks, snooty noses up in the air.
A game of jolly cricket, in the middle of the sea.
Just an annual event; as tide resides and holds up a bank.
Supporting stumps and a scoreboard.
The water got scared and bailed out.
A gang of weird cricketers stroll across the Solent.
In between the smiling waves.
A quick match indeed, for after the sea recedes, the tide creeps in, the pitch is gone.
Jolly funny posh folk, trot home for a scone and a bubbly fizz as stags and hens, they head off to the shore.
In their cruisers of pleasure, hey ** off they go!
As when the tide is in they cannot walk on water.
To hold posh debate on the final score.
To muse of experience just left at sea.
Guess no groundsman needed and pitch never weeded.
(c) Livvi
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
I am outside the circle of *** Just as well. Population control,
the biome's survival instinct. Or I'm old. Look
in mirror, skin over bones. Young girls
on bicycles, running, have that granddaughterly smile for me,
all is safe, well. Much is well.
The neighborhood safe,
the nation a non-violent helpmate among nations. Until
food shortages, weather crises, nuclear mischief apply.
Police patrols. I was proud of Massachusetts
voting to decriminalize ****** Let's go all the way:
free all non-violent offenders from their cells! Force police
out of cruisers to walk the streets and say hello.
What else can we try:
Open the border with Mexico. Let labor
flow like capital.
What has this to do with the self,
the temperamental, fragile self. The one that leaves no footprint
in eternity. No smell.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
i spent the back half of freshman year as a ghost, drifting through these halls without ever touching anything, haunting my own bones with nothing more under my skin than an echo, watery lungs and glassy eyes that couldn’t see past my own transparency. floating. i don’t like to talk about it.
i spent the start of sophomore year as a zombie, revived but not quite alive again, less like glass and more like porcelain, trailing my hands along the murals and trying to feel again. i existed, but i was still searching for existence. in january i found pieces of myself in a meteor, and in amethyst geodes and lunar eclipses i found that i was less undead and more E.T.
either way i didn’t feel quite human, like i was off by two shades, so i doodled UFOs into the corners of all my notes and wrote poems about people who smiled like stars in the halls, whose laughs made me feel like i was finally home.
i’ve spent all of junior year driving. nothing feels okay in the same way that leaving does. highways sing lullabyes with road signs, other late-night cruisers sending Morse code messages to the helicopters overhead. i don’t have to think.
i’ve spent all of junior year side-stepping every single pestering question about what i’m doing with the next ten years of my life, signing away my soul to banks for student loans, all for a degree that statistically i won’t even need down the road for anything past sharpening my job resumes, like “hey, look, i’ve got all this debt in the pursuit of a higher education, please hire me.”
i’ve spent my junior year catching up on breathing.
i’ve spent my junior year catching up on sleeping.
i spent the first two years of high school half-dead and fully awake, chugging along like a train destined for nowhere, nothing.
i want to spend my senior year moving.
i want to spend my senior year running.
i want to spend my senior year finding life through expelling the ghosts in my bones and burning the skeletons that always left dust on my conscious whenever i reached past them to get t-shirts out of my closet.
i want to spend my senior year shouting.
i want to spend my senior year knowing that i am already everything i ever will be combined with everything i already was.
i want to spend my senior year forming galaxies with my fingertips.
i want to end my high school career knowing that there is a universe of possibilities inside of me.
i spent freshman year as a ghost, but ghosts are best used as metaphors for memories,
and something i’m best at is forgetting.
there are days where i still feel like a zombie, but who doesn’t feel like that at least every single monday morning?
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
fear rose | a big choking risen by red-blue flashes and I pull over, past
the intersection under a row of street lights | thinking about my education, my nightgown waiting back home, wondering why
on earth | where are you going | where are you from | have you been drinking | who are you | who are you?? | clang in my rearview mirror,
a pair of cruisers circle in, intensity creaked in brown-nosed perplexion before black eyes, bloodshot, bothered, real country on the breeze
this balmy night and please don't hurt me,
the sound of slippers across
the kitchen floor is so hazy from here.
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 10:28 PM UTC
As I walk the streets
I wonder about Eddie
and the Cruisers, mashing
my makeup with my believe.
Have you taken the latest quiz?
It's one of the quickest
way to
drive site visits.
That and lists. People
luv lists!
Riddle me this Batman!
What kind of narrative has no quick
answers to political questions?
If my Brand answers
can't match stock candidate's
sound bites
does it mean I don't
believe anymore?
It's complicated and I have issues but no policy.
60% match with Rand, 70% match with Bernie
and the dichotomy is split.
Libertarian or Progressive?
Yin or my yang,
Always a montage of my yang!
We've come in nonsense
face, believing Third Vehicle ways,
like Tea, or Green,
or Green Tea Party Girl!
My narrative doesn't match yours.
Does it mean we can't date each other?
There'll never be a complete
fit, no
soul mate here
for our consensual policy
making.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
'It's sadly true, dear grandpa,
That the rough men are so rare
And that folks who uphold the law
Face tasks that none should bear
But I see things, dear grandpa,
That your tired eyes yet miss
And if only you could see them
It would fill your heart with bliss
For I see them in the alleys
And I see them on the streets
I see them in their cruisers
And i see them on their feet
I see them in my church
And I see them in my school
I watch them as they search
And bring justice to the cruel
I see them from the backyard
And I watch them far from home
As they take the giant's path
To places none should roam
You say the rough man's gone
But i see him every night
As my pajamas i don
He is gearing up to fight
And he stands up in my tree house
To keep watch behind my fence
And he stands there through the night
Without ego or pretense
The goons wear different masks now
But their faces never changed
And the less we choose to cow
The more they become enraged
But still those brawny thugs wait
With bated breath in thrall
For the chance to berate
And to pound and break and maul
The rough men walk among us
And they strike out swift and strong
And we'll walk home safe tonight
For I'll one day join their throng'
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
'It's sadly true, dear grandpa,
That the rough men are so rare
And that folks who uphold the law
Face tasks that none should bear
But I see things, dear grandpa,
That your tired eyes yet miss
And if only you could see them
It would fill your heart with bliss
For I see them in the alleys
And I see them on the streets
I see them in their cruisers
And i see them on their feet
I see them in my church
And I see them in my school
I watch them as they search
And bring justice to the cruel
I see them from the backyard
And I watch them far from home
As they take the giant's path
To places none should roam
You say the rough man's gone
But i see him every night
As my pajamas i don
He is gearing up to fight
And he stands up in my tree house
To keep watch behind my fence
And he stands there through the night
Without ego or pretense
The goons wear different masks now
But their faces never changed
And the less we choose to cow
The more they become enraged
But still those brawny thugs wait
With bated breath in thrall
For the chance to berate
And to pound and break and maul
The rough men walk among us
And they strike out swift and strong
And we'll walk home safe tonight
For I'll one day join their throng'
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
War is warning of chaos if the dragon is slain,
whathe-el, yes,
god, yes,
we have a myth for for this, for now,
a metaphor, aforethought, it is
that Promethean redemption,
aha, the sun goes down,
let the healing begin,
this is a classic,
not every inspiring thing has origins in a book.
Word, gramma say, way back,
-- reminds me, I put gas in the Prius today,
as I walked in to buy some papers,
in the little store where the
**** bays was, back when I first heard
Johnny Cash, thinking' he was some kinda
man in black, from assorted darkness legends,
I hear him singin'
I fell in to a burnin' rang o' fire, went
down
down,
the flames shot higher…
I was about seven… **** bays was where
hot-rodders and cruisers hung out,
if you grew up on a paved road
to California and Nevada,
at a junction in time and space,
~ 150-170 miles south of all the tests,
same winds that brang rain t' St. George…
The moment, the music, a crossover hit,
hallelujah,
like
-- reminds me,
as I walked in to buy some papers,
in the little store where the
young Chaldean manning the store hears me,
as I -- say, ********* HAHA, as I re-cogitate the first
bars of I walk the line, then I see the
guy behind the sneeze, wall agree,
I love this music, we both say,
and he goes on to say,
I wonder what it was like to be alive
when he was alive…
I swipe my card and say, it was like
being alive when I was alive.
like
-- reminds me,
mark that fact - you spoke to an old man
buying papers, this is the future,
did you never read of the last being first?
the boy bade me have a nice day.
So I did.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 8:31 PM UTC
You were drunk
I was sober
The night was nearly over
When you pulled me closer
My heart had sunk
I was tired
You were wired
With feelings you didn’t understand
You were living a dream
I was living a nightmare
I glanced at my phone
And it was nearly two-thirty
You look in my eyes
I looked at your lips
I could smell the scent of your lipstick
Bright, vivid, scarlet
In the full colouring of your lips, I could sense your glory
In the absence of my own
Upon your lips, I could almost kiss you
Your eyes were ever so blue
But ever so out of focus
You were drunk
I was sober
But you got me intoxicated just by whispering sweet nothings
Into my ears upon a head so heavy with loneliness and doubt
Your words were like the cruisers you had been drinking
I don’t understand how you can see such goodness in me
When my own faith has left me
Abandoned by a growing cynicism
Broken and torn down by myself
At the instructions of others
Your fingers brush the side of my head
A curl of my hair falls out of place so you push it back
You smile
You laugh
I smile
I swoon
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:40 PM UTC
Fish Food
They build their little tin can ships
So they can be seen to be strong
With new destroyers to take a cruise on
Along with big cruisers to fire missiles
And submarines to dive deep and follow dolphins
Not to forget aircraft carriers and their planes
Each of these shiny new ships is useless
If you put even a tiny hole in it
Down to the seabed it goes
The crew becoming fish food
Just what is needed for national progression
They should have built hospitals instead
******* Upside Down In a Blazing Avro Manchester Bomber – Poems from My Life and More
Nick Armbrister
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 8:36 AM UTC
I’m a ship prepared to sail
Through aerial gales
To live a fairytale
Above scary jails
That sadly prevail
Below my trail
I look below me
To see hatred growing
While the lights are strobing
From the guns they’re loading
That are my foreboding
If I ever start slowing
I’ll hit the ground lowly
And the bullets flowing
Will get to know me
But I have protectors
Against those who hector
They watch my vector
And disarm the projectors
My protectors are my friends
My protectors are my colleagues
And my flight will never end
As long as they will follow me
Enemy insurgents
Become a disturbance
Creating turbulence
As they herd the dense
Until they’re furious
And shoot the breeze
With RPGs
Until my army sees
They’re harming me
My friends flank me in jet fighters
To protect me from the assault
And my squad keeps getting wider
By adding those I exalt
I fly in the clouds
With my friends all around
Breaking the barrier of sound
While never going down
Foes shoot missiles
Of dismissal
With words visceral
To make me miserable
But my valiant defenders
Shoot down the offenders
With consolation rendered
In their care so tender
We employ evasive maneuvers
To avoid the pervasive losers
And the invasive abusers
All of whom are cruisers
Flying low
Dying slow
Blinding snow
Lines their nose
But the enemy fleet is approaching
Our territory they’re encroaching
While we’re somberly toasting
Seeing the numbers they’re boasting
We try to fight
With all our might
But day turns to night
As I gain a suffering plight
The hovering helicopters
Shoot distracting flares
With tantalizing offers
Leaving my targeting impaired
So I veer off course
Like a lost horse
In a frost force
Of top torque
Once my squad is separated
The enemy is elevated
Showing the hell that waited
While my friends designated
Me as venerated
Like Satan irrigated
The peers I hated
Just being patient
Until I use a spaceship
The demons chase
Me into space
Until there’s no trace
Of the Devil’s face
But I can’t eject now
With space all around
While my crew starts to leave
Between asteroids I weave
While trying to grieve
My group disintegrating
They float into the nether
Quiet as a feather
As my ties are severed
They float away forever
And I start drifting alone
Drifting becomes my home
Drifting into the dark unknown
Depression drifts into my bones
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 10:28 PM UTC
Now the earth knows your body better than I do. Now the dirt
cradles you like a new mother—two brown hands
smoothing out a blanket for your bones. I guess I met you
by accident, at Ghost Beach, where the low winds beat at
bare ankles, where the feral cats chew on easy meat, where the
cabin cruisers smack against the water like angry fists. I went there because
I noticed the bell had started ringing again. I can't abide noise, no sir, my body demands a special kind of quiet—a coffin buried so deep that god himself would forget to rapture the poor soul inside. That's what led me to the sand. I wanted a
thin coast dotted with coral, I wanted ancient shells pressed to my ears, I wanted
an orange sun and a dark body and more life. You were different. You
wanted an exit. You wanted the pearly tides to undress you, to strip your
skin clear off, to husk you back down to guts and bones. I never saw such
a sad moth as you, all curled up in the summer surf, pale as a winter foot,
praying little prayers for absolution. Tell me, O winged one, when you finally
dipped a toe into the big scary blue,
was it because yours was ringing too?
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC