"denny" poems
I drive a truck
Which makes me a manly man among men
To those sissified 70's
I never caved in
Heck yea, that's country not disco
You hear blaring in the back
Which sometimes rattles the triggers lose
On my shotgun rack
And yes I do live down South
But not a redneck per say
My camouflage leisure suit
I only wear holidays
Or out to special dinners
Say Denny's or Huddle House
You know those fancy places
Where there's no spitting allowed
So getting anything more outta me
I wish you good luck
Now where was I going with this?
Oh yea...I drive a truck
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
Sometimes
I think about everywhere we've been, and the innumerable unreproducible moments
But then I remember quietly fighting about homeschooling in a Denny's
Sometimes
I feel like I'll never connect in the same way with another person
But then I remember that I am dramatic and each intimate connection is unique
Sometimes
I finally am finishing watching our last show that I just haven't had the breadth to pick back up again
And I remember the exact way in a specific moment of the show that you laughed
And how many times you laughed that same way through the years
And I feel pain,
deep in my heart
But then I remember,
pain never really fully leaves
Jun 20, 2022
Jun 20, 2022 at 7:45 PM UTC
Ray LaMontagne - Hold You In My Arms
"I could hold you in my arms, I could hold you forever."
In this hidden corner of my world
Anything
could happen
woven Guatemalan Frisbee
with a lonely older man
talking about dank and his ex-wife
sweet vanilla coffee with a shot of something fruity
smoking in the wind
bot support Ashe
I use a trackpad
fingerless mittens and fuzzy knit earmuffs
they double as headphones
metal and country and sappy romantic pop ballads
gauges piercings tattoos flannels beanies band tees and scene girlfriends
gossip about the bar next door
bashing the outer world
this is utter peace
catching the eye of an attractive stranger
in the mirrors behind the bar
My stomach feels tender from too much coffee
my head buzzes with nicotine
caffeine
My purging week of healthy choices ended
with hash browns, french toast
too much ketchup and 6 packets of sugar in my coffee
Denny's
skeleton string lights and chalkboard walls
abstract photography and everyone plugged in
this is my escape
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
Hard as nails
A man of steel
But ,under that outside shell
dwelled a heart as strong as well
He did not take any slack
He expected your best and that's a fact
But , he would always have your back
He helped the family become stronger
because of that
He would joke around the campfire's light
That notorious Mooga Mooga bird would take it's flight
We would all laugh , for he was a true delight
He was his softest on those campfire nights
My Uncle Denny , He was a good man
Never afraid to take a stand
Protecting us all each and everyday,
from people who would put us in harms way
My Uncle Denny, he sure could cook
One taste of his chili and you were hooked
His beef barley soup was truely devine
And his Barb-Q creations were one of a kind
He was a good man I say it again it's true
One of the best I ever knew
He will be missed more than I can say
We must celebrate life each and everyday
For I know in my heart he would want it that way.....
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 5:27 AM UTC
My dad lost his arm to cancer.
He was 61 years old,
did he let that get him down?
Heck NO...
The day he came home from the hospital
minus one shoulder and arm,
he jumped on his bike and rode
it down to our house,
which was a long block away.
balance, how did he do it?
Dad was always included in
all our neighborhood parties.
if he was sitting in my backyard,
he would be drinking a cup of coffee
with Jim, my husband.
If he was sitting in my neighbor Dennys backyard
he would be drinking a beer
with Denny.
Dad worked as a machine repairman
with out his arm for two more years.
Because he was good.
Dad bowled two times a week with one arm,
and he walked out at the Park
the days he didn't bowl.
My amazing dad, with one arm and no shoulder,
built my kitchen cupboards,
put up a ceiling in the basement,
build doll houses for my daughter
and the neighbor girl,
and also one for a church raffle.
My dad went to church every Sunday,
and when he was so ill,
the nun would visit dad and mom,
mom would play the *****
beer barrel polka,
while the nun and my dad danced.
He was known by many, taught kids
how to bowl, including my son.
AND HE IS MISSED BY ALL....
This is a tribute to my daddy
named Fritz....
HAPPY FATHER'S DAY...
by ~ judy
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 6:34 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
Isolated faces paradoxically surround
Bound by wants infinity
I strayed away from banks
Cause greed was just to trendy
The idea of friends and numbers
Threw me to the ground
Figured we'd crown 4 quarters instead of 100 pennies
Swede shoes, silk shirts, and bentleys
By some is defined as plenty
While little Lenny with stomach empty dreams of Denny's
Or some water or a Father would help immensely
Afgani blowing and Hennessy gulping MC's
Take their aperture and narrow it densely
Make millions off the Emmys some how erases Memories
Of pennies struggling in this world
Mother fiend'n they're just fending
Against the many
In class they're considered lowers
Below us they just a penny
I say our morals need reordered
cause no doubt that they're all Quarters
And deserve entry into this bank of respect
That has become run by hoarders
Loving to build borders 3 times the size
Of their self righteous shoulders
This is a disassembly of a culture surrounded by sentries.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 12:32 PM UTC
so there they sit,
drawing like idiots,
without a care in the world.
drooling, coughing, smiling
laughing, shrieking.
like life is an all you can eat buffet.
the things they have to look forward to:
heartbreak, health insurance, taxes, rent, a tedious
job, a loveless marriage, the death of a loved one - and then their own.
so I walk up to them and break their crayons,
to warn them of the evils of this world,
and they cry.
now they know how the world works.
but then then the pretty blonde waitress brings them another crayon.
they stop wailing, get distracted,
move on.
and I'm bitter because a pretty blonde lady isn't handing me any crayons, or paying my rent, or laying in my bed.
and those kids
never worked at Denny's, got evicted, or got their car stolen.
- they have earned nothing.
and those kids
have never had *** drank beer, climbed a mountain, or carried their lives in a backpack
- they have lived nothing.
and the waitress hands me my receipt,
and I smirk,
because she scribbled a note on it:
"415-555-3827
call me,
Stacy
PS that was the last crayon."
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 3:42 PM UTC
I spent Easter at Denny's.
It was 11 at night.
It was crowded and noisy, a baby was screaming.
There was a fly in my water, it tasted metallic.
I drank half of it.
Across from me was a table filled with adolescent boys and girls,
they were laughing at their own faces.
Next to me was a pair of kids, one of whom was freaking out.
"I can't sit here! I need to move! I don't feel safe here!"
They moved.
A pair of rugged, poorly dressed Mexicans took their place.
One sipped ten single serving creamer cups before his decaf
coffee arrived, where he added three more.
The other kept looking at me, and shaking his head.
I got the jalapeno Grand Slam.
There was nothing Grand about it.
The eggs were cold and the taste of jalapeno gave me a headache.
The whole place smelled like loneliness.
The whole place felt smelly.
I haven't been back since.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 5:34 PM UTC
freckle-faced
jug-eared
left-handed
skinny as a fungo bat
loose-jointed
like a string-puppet
in sports
not great but
scrappy and fun
long distance runner
played hard
no grudges
nobody’s idea of handsome
voice like a scratchy record
married straight out of high school
drafted
101st Airborne
everybody had a dumb nickname
Denny, Little Old Lady
nobody remembers why
Thua Thien, South Vietnam
hit by an RPG
August 5, 1968
smithereens in a body bag
days later, a letter
informs
he’s a daddy
Denny, if you’d lived sixteen more days
you could’ve legally bought beer
I’m sixty-seven years old
you’re forever
almost twenty-one
Memorial Day 2015
We've lost them by the thousands.
We grieve them one by one.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
I once had a friend whose great-grandfather was a partner of J.P. Morgan. My friend had grown up in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He was a good man, and you wouldn't have known he was heir to a vast fortune, except for his anamnestic autos. In fact, he eschewed the affected life. He was an organic farmer outside of Lawrence, Kansas. I mean he really was a farmer. He was up at 6 and drove a tractor til sunset. He and I would get together from time to time eating tapioca pudding at Denny's and, of course, chatting. The one idiosyncrasy that gave away his untold wealth was anamnestic autos. To the side of his modest farm house was a field within which were old antique cars spread out as if they were cattle, but they were not. There was an Alpha Romeo, a Horsch, a Lamborghini, a Maserati, and a Ferrari. My friend would get an impulse to buy a certain antique car, and because he had the money, he'd buy it. But then after enjoying it for a time, he literally put it out to pasture. The scene reminded me of a painting by Salvador Dali. He never talked about his fortune, but he often ordered a second tapioca pudding.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 6:16 PM UTC
I've gained ten pounds
in the past thirty minutes
just watching the tube.
Pizza Hut, Taco Bell,
Denny's, Burger King,
Wendy's, Chick-Fil-A
& Coca Cola have
fattened me up
clairvoyantly.
My appetite is raging,
gonna hit the 'fridge
and eat all my leftovers,
consume 2000 more
calories than I need too.
Geez, the power of media!
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
Hurry waitress to the lackluster pancakes of the restaurant, your fingers smelling from its bacon.
Past my dingy silverware, vacuous plates, a cup of dead coffee grounds, your watered eggs. Your hair-tie snapped like a bomb exploding on the cover of a paperback Hiroshima. Let us go, waitress, and learn all of the reds in that sunset. The crimson sun hovers over deep cornflower waves. The ocean’s mist blinds us from ketchup-smeared napkins fallen onto waterlogged tabletops. A disaster zone you hope to be rescued from through an exit sign door.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
All alone
in the dark
listening to old Martin Denny LPs
I drain my last bottle of bourbon,
extinguish a cigarette that tastes nothing
A single tear falls gently from my left eye
I blow my nose in my left sock
and fall asleep on the sofa
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 6:12 PM UTC
Once upon a time
There was a turtle
His name was Myrtle
And gargled a splurtle
Spurred and purdled
He danced for fine jig
Made love
To the bees
Mated with pigs
But pig wasn't his fancy
He made a duck
And chit chat busk
On tusk
One day he shalt die
But won't quite yet
Money not spent
Sharaded on dents
Liggett Mary
Smoked to her shallow
The rocks kept his secrets
And movies did follow
This turtle was suited
Booted for pie
Ate rivers from monkeys
Took notes on the side
A whimsical ride
His story didst hold
Made children from swings
Made ghosts into souls
A freaking concor
Or feasting memory
Halfway jackfast
Splendor of many
Denny and witty
Screwy and tooly
Tulips of muley
Pine pepper tongue
Rabbits do meet him
In brink bank and bims
But myrtle the turtle
Is a sinner
He sins!!
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
I stopped writing
because I was happy.
The part of me that wanted to rip my heart from my chest
like the jaws of life just to watch it writher on the black top was gone.
Gone with it my desire to slash the caverns of my mind for some inspiration, bloodletting pain into something that could resonate with myself and maybe someone at Denny's at 4:15 a.m.
Yet like an addict I always seem to slither back to an old friend.
Oct 3, 2022
Oct 3, 2022 at 9:07 PM UTC
She smelled like an old Denny's restaurant
Her breath was a battle of the stench of
Cigarettes reeking from her
Smoker's Only Section from the 80's
Against the stench of her addiction to caffeine
While I was trying to tell her that
My peers, my role models, and even
My voice in the back of my head
All tell me to become a teacher
Even though that is not my plan,
She said through licking a thin piece of paper
Over stuffed with nicotine that she just poured
Out like how I pour out questions on life
Through my lips
"Kid, stop thinking what others think for you.
For your age, the best plan is not having plan.
So you wanna go outside with me while I smoke this?"
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
Some nights I spend sleeping
Other nights I’ll spend resting my head down on a keyboard
Drowning in updates and refreshing pages
Trying to find reasons for being up
so **** late
Lately, these nights that I worked a long eight hour shift
Waiting to escape retail in hopes
My friends aren’t busy, wanting to retell some stories
The nights my friends hop restaurant to restaurant
“We have no place to go"
We’ve been riding these desert streets for hours
Resurfacing our stories to heal our wounds
Or maybe our laughter only masks it
And we like to think it’s both
You can ride these streets as fast as you like, trying to forget,
but tonight,
we write
we ride
we eat
we share
tonight, the moon plays catch-up with us, it’s desert wonderers
the sun, tonight she’ll rest
tonight, the roadrunner
walked
crossed the street with a lizard in its mouth
looked me in the eye and swallowed it
The desert bird didn’t serve its name’s purpose
We’ve realized that sometimes, society, doesn’t serve it’s intentions
but when so
"we have no place to go"
We’ll turn parking lots into neighborhoods
Cars into homes, with kickbacks and house parties
Turn songs into poems
Become poetry ourselves
Become trilogies of our most battered loved lives
Find excuses for where the stars lie
And sometimes we’ll swear they lie in our ex’s eyes
And we’ll become what we don’t want to be in the dark
vulnerable
walking roadrunners
poets who don’t write
but in that moment, were just teenagers
"with no place to go"
We swear this summer is ours,
That growing up doesn’t have to be synonymous with change
That human beings aren’t equivalent to seasons
That poems actually can be never ending
if only we have the courage to
write the beginning
That Denny’s will always be a hotspot
Cafe’s are temporary
Dollar Menu’s are forever
We’re everything but hungry
Only starving
For inspiration in a wasteland
Unquenchable thirst for dreams of doing
something in empty parking lots
Trying to fill voids.
Tonight,
We replace our heartbreaks with these nights
The nights we walk across roads
Unknowing the other side, with lizards halfway down our throats
Tonight
We write, without looking both ways
~
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
The wind rushes the sound of
Horse powered hurricanes into his ears
He is silent as he drives to the beach
He is silent on the pier
He purposely gets himself lost sometimes
Tries to remember he parked his car at a nearby Denny’s
The boats bob helpless
But safe with their tethers
He eats a hamburger that he buys for 2 dollars
While walking by a company fundraiser for heart health
The man standing over the barbeque asked him if he was hungry
Neither said much else to the other
He eats slowly
Drinks slowly
Understands that everything happens slow when he is lonely
He characterizes himself through sighs that all say
Yeah I guess I should go now
He knows he shouldn’t be here
As if the salt air might rust his moving parts
But he sits on a bench eating a burger
And in his own silence creates osmosis
A space around his head so his thoughts dilute themselves
somewhere else
He plans on leaving them there
He thinks how this is an oil change for his soul
So he can slide back into his daily grind enough
To keep his pistons cool
How some days he needs the noise so much
He becomes obnoxious for laughter
And hungry for laughter’s love
He drives home perfectly empty
Gets lost along the way
Thinks about what it truly means for him to go home
Thinks he should have been there hours ago
Thinks of what it actually means to be better
And says to himself
People are never really lost
As much as they are
Arriving where they need to be
Just a little late
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
Swaggering daggers swaddling swatches
Winning spinning machine-like linnens
Having stabbing grabbing suits
Never ever silver-tounged seluths
On a journey? go to Deluth
Stop at Denny's, sit in a booth
Order a super bird, hot and delicious
Into my belly, full and malicious
Leave in a hurry, stand up then scurry
Back to the car but don't go far
Light up a spliff and head for the cliff
Jump just in time, land on a dime
Goodbye to my auto, is my new motto
Can't get back home, at least till tomorrow
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC
If I grow old and find myself alone,
I will take my breakfasts slowly
At Denny's.
I'll sit quiet at the counter
On a swivel chair and
Wait for a waitress' hand
On my shoulder
As she fills my coffee up.
I'll make small talk and hope to hear,
"How was your breakfast, my dear?"
And I will remember my wife
And miss my family,
And wonder what's left for an old man...
Knowing better times have come and gone,
But thankful, for a little while,
The comfort in a waitress' smile.
(Props to Tawnia and her crew, Breakfast at Denny's, Billings, MT, August 12, 2012)
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
Im in love with an idea,
She knows her place
Drinking beer from a can
In the bed of a pick-up
Youngest of seven
With eyes like a cat
Darting back and forth
Playing with a pocket knife
Cigarette smoke and she knows
Better than to let me in
Green eyed waitress
Pouring cups of coffee
Putting her hair behind her ear
Letting it all come
One day at a time
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
The
Authorities will shut them down again
Each in its turn: The Brick, the Stray Dog Cafe,
Foxy John’s (Beer Wine Good Food Low Prices),
Cafe’ Zanzibar, Joe’s Eats down by the piers
And Denny’s past, before the blood-crazed purge
Exiled us scribbling hippies to the street
To search again and build again a space
Where verbs and nouns and smoke are flung about
Because we are colonialists of the heart
Who build up empires of beauty and truth
http://www.visit-petersburg.ru/en/restaurant/196278/
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
"You don’t go to Denny’s.
You end up at Denny’s
when it’s 3 in the morning and
you’ve lost control of your life.”
Sigh.
Son of a *****
Well, it is the middle of the night,
and I am sitting in a booth
over a cup of coffee that tastes like regret,
but why am I here?
I’m sorry.
I needed to get away.
I needed to get away
from the way your voice
ticks in the back of my mind,
I raise the mug to my lips and pretend
that the coffee trailing down my throat
is still your promise,
still warm, and tinted with sugar.
I needed to get away
from the words you sent on my phone screen
swimming back and forth across my eyes,
I’ve dreamed about you so often
that your smile is burned into
the inside of my eyelids.
I’ve made it a game to see
how long I can go without blinking.
because while I don’t want to see a world
where you and I don’t fit together,
waking up from a world where we do
is so much worse.
(Summer 2014.)
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC