"directory" poems
I've got a gravy train riding hefer
and she's ready to deliver
all the goods and the services that I never give her
cuz she's mother ****** queen absalom
in the directory's cut
of the film that won a grammy and a mammy
and made it all the way to flavortown
in the south bahaman outback of queens land
and ate all my chili beans so that I would be sad on a green day
cuz I got granades in my ******* about ready to be pulled,
and there aint no sunshine when she's gone, and there's only darkness every day, but she's never gone too long because I never learn to live without her anyway.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
Your shirt is still under my bed
Right next to your sleepy bedhead
I file and store these memories
Inside my head, used as a directory
Your blanket is still in a pile on my couch
I never want it to leave my house
It’ll stay put until you come back
Or until your mother shows up for combat
Our secrets are still locked up in my closet
I kept them there, just as I promised
They tend to scratch up the door, sometimes
But what’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
MANY things I might have said today.
And I kept my mouth shut.
So many times I was asked
To come and say the same things
Everybody was saying, no end
To the yes-yes, yes-yes, me-too, me-too.
The aprons of silence covered me.
A wire and hatch held my tongue.
I spit nails into an abyss and listened.
I shut off the gabble of Jones, Johnson, Smith.
All whose names take pages in the city directory.
I fixed up a padded cell and lugged it around.
I locked myself in and nobody knew it.
Only the keeper and the kept in the hoosegow
Knew it-on the streets, in the postoffice,
On the cars, into the railroad station
Where the caller was calling, "All a-board,
All a-board for .. Blaa-blaa .. Blaa-blaa,
Blaa-blaa .. and all points northwest .. all a-board."
Here I took along my own hoosegow
And did business with my own thoughts.
Do you see? It must be the aprons of silence.
2.2k
I’m always hearing music
so I must be listening too close
Seeking answers in the lyrics
Adhering to every word spoke
It’s said that insanity is surely defined
Doing the same thing over and over again
I always find myself wanting to go back
and again, I find the means to an end
If I tried to run away
there would be a repeated proof
The asylum is ineludible
and I’m clearly crazy for you
Trying every method to remove
what the conductor put in me
Binding strings of a puppet master
inspired to play this symphony
The end of days may not come soon
but someday, in that palace of the sky
I’ll look in the directory
for the one with celestial eyes
I’ll ask for only five minutes
I’ll try to explain in the short time
All I was never able to find words for
in the world of yours and mine
Love for only giving, could have been
but, was too often unforgiving
Broken hearts simply tried to survive
but, life without you was not living
There was no peace where there was pride
and I’m not looking for alibies
But always found myself asking why
even apart, your happiness was mine
We promised it’s unconditional
but didn’t survive dark times
Silence as our backs turned
to conceal the cries
Two things I’m sure I surely knew for sure
as I waited for a shooting star in the sky
What I gave to you is always yours
Till the end of time, this love abides
~
Scott Mitchell
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 10:25 AM UTC
Damp eyes never meant us well
They're such an inconvenience
And passersby
won't fall in line
Step aside nor
slow their stride
But we'll ignore their careless eyes
Don't want to inconvenience
Cross streets, mean streets, it's
the blind leading the blind
And maybe we're wasting our time
'Cause the map in our hands
spells out misprinted boundaries and
Who can read smeared ink
Run off the page into unknown
territories dripping purple as the bruises
beneath our fingertips
If we hold on any tighter
Our travels will be
Etched into the other's skin
A directory of streets wandered by
the two of us just
a walk down route mother, please and
Round to relapse avenue
To sip champagne
in the light of
dreams forgotten
*but darling the lines in my palms
have always led back to you*
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
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Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
Smell it I do, then thought of you
Presence comes, in wafts rose powder
Sweet dust, pinching, untainted, true
Nana's essence, remembrance undo
Faith's instinct couldn't seem louder
Than rose powder, temperance's you
Heightened fragrance, blooming sense
No excess, bought at dime store counter
Perhaps to ward off onion's offense
Her pierogies, life's past tense
Empyrean staircase, she, soul mounter
Origen in belief, source whence
Rose powder thence, spiritual encounter
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC
Not down to my shoes
They love me when I walk into a room
There's applause and shouts of MIMI
I can't help it
Party girl
I should have studied for life tonight
Instead I just left the book outside
Like the new telephone directory.
You know once, I walked past it on my door mat
For weeks until my Momma decided to come home
And read every single word in that phone book.
When I say you dont know **** about this life it's true
I'll sit out here all night to tell you so
All the time I think of that one way to escape
I always said I'd be dead before I could have this thought
I always assumed some catastrophic accident would take me home.
Isn't it up there? Because I can't find home here.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
the weatherman closes his umbrella & stands under the rain for a long time, after the taxi drives off.
earlier, he was on tv giving an update about the hurricane: the particulars on the direction, the wind's maximum speed, the storm signals - the weatherman could be reciting these from a telephone directory for all he cared. but he kept on saying the storm's name as if it was a lover scorned, yet still very much adored - like the telephone directory wasn't a book full of strangers at all; the weatherman cleared his throat several times as if it was the first name he ever recognized as being bad news. his hand shook through the tv screen when he hovered it over the satellite image of the violent winds.
what is the weatherman thinking about as he stares at his house, now? his rain boots are filling up with water & he just keeps on standing there, gathering what he can of her -
the weatherman lazily fumbles for his keys & unhurriedly enters his front door, like he is sorry to abandon the noise for an echoing quiet, like the four walls are infinitely more oppressive. & yet as droplets form into a series of familiar satellite images following him from room to room,
the weatherman will refuse to mop his unpolished floor. he will leave the water to dry & in the morning, revisit the path of her leaving by the water stains -
the most of what this weathered man can keep from the hurricane's namesake.
-j.g.
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 1:41 AM UTC
*Confusion
Oh, for the love of the younger me
Torn between feelings for my teenager lovers
Protecting my heart from the lying ********
I ran from their clutches and I spread my wings
Somehow, one of them gets to follow me
On the devil playground call modern directory
Gazing into my life day after, day after day
making it seem like getting older make us restless and hopeless. .
Oh, for the love of the younger me
Torn between my feelings for my teenager lovers
Still running and protecting my heart from their lies
Those lying ******** from my youth
Meow power does exist.*
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 8:05 AM UTC
Odin/Hashem
/
Thor/Triune Loki/Allah
/
Vikings /Valkries
Odin/Hashem (The Poem)
Loki the bad son
Thor the faithful gaurdian
for his dad
Assorted misfits
wait for the payoff.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 9:34 PM UTC
Long haired California girls wear skin tight jeans with 7' inch heels for a trip to the liquor store.
It's getting harder to tell which ones are dancing by night and spending by day.
Panhandlers and the truly insane sit outside stores they can't afford.
Asking people they don't know for help they really don't got the time or reason enough to give.
Every soldier needs an enemy or they wouldn't be any use for any soldiers at all.
All these Cops decked out in Army grade hand me downs got me wondering "Who is their enemy?"
As I look around and only see us and them.
Latch-key kids all over this city talking on cell phones while eating $4.00 ice cream and riding a Hoverboard.
Independent little adults who see no reason to respect anyone or anything at all.
You only see stray cats in the ghetto.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
Going through the files of my life,
All the scrapes, near misses, and strife,
It is a wonder I still can find my way,
To a directory full of sunshine, beautiful, everyday.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
We round the corner of that dilapidated building next to the highway
And I see her walking, hobbling, home
carrying a small backpack.
I want to walk over there
and off to walk her the last block
but I don't
and I continue on.
But I look back for a second
when my dad stops to talk to the directory of the funeral home.
She stops, thirty feet past where she had just been
looks at me
and gasps.
I want to ask her why my face shocks her so.
All I've ever been to her
as far as she knows
is a customer in the store for two seconds.
My face is not able to be traced in her memory
as her daughters latest ex,
an occurrence I'm no long bitter about.
I am nothing to her,
even though she had the potential to be a lot to me.
So I stand there
wondering what about me made her gasp.
I wave, smile and continue walking.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
~
No dial tone
Sweet the scent of never knowing
faceless fears and silhouettes
blooming on a hillside
of aqua thoughts and turquoise slippers
changing the colors from dark to light,
blending heartache with feathered features,
transparent in the scheme of these feelings
When disturbing the ant pile it is better to walk off…
then ask directions
Sitting at the table as jealous waiters
take orders from no one, casting neon signs
of daily specials on a blue plate avenue
in rush hour foot traffic, bringing detours with the bill,
expecting a healthy tip for having drawn the blinds
hiding you from peering eyes
and evil grins
Always check the silverware for evidence of previous users
before placing a napkin in your lap
Night brings with it the casualties of a day job,
lonely dreams scattered on splintered park benches
beneath a flickering street lamp illuminating graffiti poems
and wrong phone numbers…
silent as the one you hold in your hand,
wishing for a lighted screen, displaying her name
knowing it will not come
Dialing directory assistance for help in locating
the broken heart app
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
Death dresses well,turning heads looking swell and the service bell rings in the cloisters at three,
These priests are the last of the Eastern brigade who wait for salvation,and the army that was, that created a nation of sorrowful sinners,with the notion of harnessing souls with prayers for forgiveness and bible belt dinners has gone.
Each to his own and each dog gets a bone but the church stands alone forgotten,
but behind every door
something is rotten to the core and what colour you paint it ain't going to hide what's inside.
Death looking slick picks the lock and does not care what's in there,that's a shock,
but pock marked,double parked with a trailer full of bones comes Jimmy Jones the acolyte
who in this shadow world of night lights one more funeral pyre.
Underneath a palm tree that bears no fruit, a male voice choir boots out another tune and Jimmy Jones does one more circuit of the moon and there is the feeling that very soon
everything will end.
In the refectory unaware of this the priests open the directory, hoping to find that place full of love and bliss, to bring their brand of goodness to those sinners, who know but never do and to those who don't but wish they did,
who bid for auction lots,more funeral plots for Jimmy Jones to bury bones.
I defy convention
death is just another state that shows up late and not to mention stinks as well.
The bell still rings at three.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
In seventeen sixty nine a child was born
in Corsica, Genoa's former vassal state.
Prior to his birth, his land had been war-torn,
Paoli's resistance did his birth predate.
At school, his geometrical talent was inborn,
and he was tutored by none other than Laplace.
For his accent, his peers at school laughed him to scorn,
but fortune would elevate him from grass to grace.
With his much older heartthrob he tied the knot;
much to the chagrin of his own dear family.
For the heart of Josephine he relentlessly fought,
and at Chateau de Malmaison they lived happily.
Later he would choose a military career
that would take him beyond the Corsican frontier.
France's revolution saw to his glorious rise,
when at Toulon, he took royalists by surprise.
To Egypt he led a dual expedition
of a military and scientific mission.
To France he returned and sacked the directory,
taking charge of the affairs of state and treasury.
Europe did contend with him in seven coalitions;
at Austerlitz he subjugated two nations,
at Marengo, Austria on her bended knees fell,
at Jena-Auerstadt, Prussia to victory bade farewell.
At Borodino, Russia met her nemesis,
as her vanquished forces saw their paralysis.
At Ligny, Blucher like a beaten canine fled
with the terribly smitten forces he once led.
Portugal's sovereign lord to distant Brazil ran,
when like an invincible lord he came to his realm.
The emperor he feared, and made no military plan;
thus he paved the way for him to ascend his helm.
But despite his triumphs, his weakness was exposed.
At Rolica, his troops a major set back saw.
From Leipzig he did to Elba's island withdraw,
from whence in 1815 he returned unopposed.
Russia's wintry plains did his grand armee deplete,
making his troops vulnerable to a future defeat.
After the famous battles in which he gloried,
his great ambition at Waterloo was buried.
Feb 17, 2023
Feb 17, 2023 at 7:54 PM UTC
the location is a library between Oz and Timbuktu
with sections dedicated to Atlantis, Narnia, Kalamazoo
rummaging through the directory, notes tucked in my shoe
then, Off on the way to Makkah to pray, I've no time to waste in true!
Feb 22, 2021
Feb 22, 2021 at 1:12 AM UTC
To state what seems true
it's about the ratings
don't you
agree.
We shall gather up plaudits to Lord around Shoreditch and Hackney to Bow and watch as the ratings go up.
We shall sup on our tea somewhere down in Lea Green,which is South of the Thames, or as the crow flies about two beats from Lewisham,these are names that I know,places I've seen when I've been down on my uppers and up on the downers,where stories to tell are retold by the fires that burn bright in hell,but I'm well,
It's the ratings we dream,the ratings that seem to be honey,making money more money and funny how sweet it becomes,number like runs on a wheel,spinning the new deal,rating things real when they're not,like spot the ball when there's no ball to be found.
The sound of the ratings that comes through the grating grates on my ears,a whine,electronic,white noise and quietly erotic,turning me on,tuning me up,making me look good and I'm just a dwarf plant that grows in the wild wood.
Even better than this as the ratings reach up to **** on the sky,there is payment that's due from the ratings that you long to give.
Why,
I don't know how to live is a mystery to me,a case of rate it and see how it goes
and ratings are all about shows that we take,things that we break,hearts that we make full of joy.
To state what seems true
I am sated on ratings and fated to be
a number in someone's
dating directory.
Did I say dating?
I meant rating
almost the same
but not quite.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:14 AM UTC
is the way i flip my phone every ten minutes hoping that youve texted me back
is the way that i sob into my hands over a love that i had to build myself
i understand that you put all this effort into
pressing a finger over my name in your phone's directory
to bring your phone up to your ear and hold a conversation
with me that you only contributed "yes" "no" and "i've gotta go"s.
as i searched up your favourite bands and tried to tell you about
how close the date was to them coming to the city,
or how i kept trying to remind you of a better time between us
and tried to keep us alive, i tried so hard to keep us alive.
it's the way that i can't seem to hold a job to my name
or figure out my own life after school,
but somehow, i always find the money to find my way to get to
you, find the time to invest in you, although our time
had run out weeks and weeks ago
to have you sleep all day as i sit on the edge of your bed
playing trivia crush until you wake up when i plug my phone
into the outlet beside your head
"i fell asleep" you'll say 2 hours after i arrive,
my shoes are still on my feet because i was too nervous to lay down
beside your sleeping body,
and i'll smile and lie, "i understand"
and even though i do, with every "no worries" and "i get it"s,
i feel that weight on my chest grow tons and tons heavier
it's the way i want to leave school now because i want to start a life
with you, but the way i have to close my eyes to the dreams 18-year-old me meandered over with my roommate excitedly,
"hey, one day, we'll have it all figured out." we laughed
"hey, one day," you'd tell me as i cried over the phone, "we'll have it all figured out,"
"it'll all be okay."
pure ******* poetry is the way you text me paragraphs
of how much you adore me, and want me, and want to marry me,
and how you still love this mess that has been slowly and chaotically
falling everywhere in a heap of nothing -
it's the way you tell me from a distance,
"i'll still love you no matter what you are"
and i'll cry into my sweater because you don't know what i am,
you're too far to understand- that the monsters have come out
to play unfairly
i don't know where you've been and i don't know what truths
you've been telling me but
your hands on my face as you begged for me to look at you
as you pressed quiet kisses on my eyelids
and how you held me for hours as i cried over nothing
pure ******* poetry
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
I'm beautiful
Exuding soul
Protruding bold
Diluting cold
Until I fold
Once beauty is sold
Biting remarks
Made by sharks
Create sparks
Where it was dark
Displaying pain that is stark
As part of my character ark
They mug me
Until I'm ugly
Then suddenly
They're done with me
It must be some disease
Of a numbing freeze
From stunning thieves
Taking what I believe
They're not impressed
When I'm undressed
So I'm the stressed
I must confess
From this test
Of who's best
And who's less
A blue guess
That brews pests
This hall of fame
Dismal game
Is to blame
For the shame
In our brain
And our name
Fanning flames
Of social stains
I'm a coyote battling
With lonely howling
Until phonies scowling
Are all that powers me
Through what had been
Through what grew
I see you
Through the views
That light my fuse
It's you I choose
Flatter my vanity
To guard my sanity
Conjuring the man in me
More so than I planned to be
But became apparently
Through ****** gratification
You give social validation
You send a pal elation
That causes salivation
Until the callous nation
Invades my phallus station
Text me
I'm ****
To protect me
From the injecting
Inspecting
Dissecting
Directory
Next to me
That begs to see
The beggars seethe
Don't destroy my body image
With your haughty grimace
Applauding penance
An ungodly menace
You've become
Like Tim Gunn
A judgemental one
That fabricates fun
By blocking the sun
Incoherent
Interference
In the clearance
Of my appearance
Not knowing nearness
Outside your austere fence
You flippantly
Didn't see
The death of me
Or the mess I bleed
When my chest can't breathe
While you're blessed to breed
With a superior steed
The eye of the beholder
Is behind their shoulder
That keeps getting colder
From insurgent soldiers
Throwing boulders
Becoming molders
Of the boaters
With no motors
Who float through life
And drown in misery
From societal strife
Of subjective mysteries
To act on the behest of me
Say that you've met me
Say that you've let me
Enter you gently
To a centrifuge ending
For relationships pending
With perceptions tending
To be needlessly upending
By comparisons impending
No matter what they're intending
There's no way they can mend me
When my social rank bends me
To be something pretending
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
you gave me a list of everyone
you'd kissed, not arbitrarily--
I'd asked. The way you ask
where the bathroom is or
for a glass of water, but
you sent me a full directory
of names, a rolling file of
women I didn't know but
would rake through the
similarities and try to define
your tastes, *blonde, blonde...
blonde*
When I asked you how many
people you had slept with, I was
lying on the floor picking at the red
threads in my carpet while you rolled
your heavy palms into my shoulders.
you stilled for a moment, sliding down
to the base of my hips
I dunno...five? Or ten...
I laughed and you loosened.
Well, I mean...define sleeping with.
to me there are not many definitions for
one thing, there are synonyms for *** but
none of them you really need
Just four, then.
What happened to the other six? Were they only
kind-of-sort-of's? if you didn't really feel them, did they ever exist?
if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around hear it, did you really sleep with her?
Later on you would casually mention that you were worried that's how I really kissed as if a peck could dictate a whole eight years of
kissing--and I was kind of offended. But then there's that list, the list of
all the trees in the forest that fell and the six that went missing and i think about how I can count the number of people i've slept with on
my pointer finger and how perhaps that doesn't even apply, do you pump gas for twenty seconds before the girls at the counter start crying?
suddenly there are experiences that you
have stamped into your belt and none where i've pretended to be
full of lusts and talents and shortcomings
really I'm just a baby, a wisp of cotton
yellow, so yellow
and you're a full bag of burlap and wire
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
It's getting better, you get me?
your eyes though ex-directory
reflect me.
I see it in the looking through of several thousand telephone books that you are hung up on me, see
it's getting better, you get me?
The longer distance call just means there's more that I can fall and when I fall there's always that distant call, the ex-directory that means you're getting to me, you get me.
Ringing my number, with those eyes that tell me, come to bed forget about slumber, the ex of the ex-directory rumba,
you get me now and how you get me,
wow.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
ive been finding it hard to place myself
lapses of concentration
intentions dissipating in the moment of execution
staring into the root directory of my computer
unable to figure out where to go
i found something in sans soleil
a wandering drift of memories replicated in the sleepless dead
the empty motions of an enervated nation
at the brink of collapse
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 3:58 AM UTC