"divvy" poems
Here in America,
we improvise morgues
as needed.
in the cafeterias
or by the lockers,
near the ticket booths,
and at the altars.
We divvy up the dead.
Tally them
and report the number
like an answer.
13, 20, 49, 58, 6
Every death count
a timely national shock.
Almost as if
our well-televised
monthly tragedy
was ever anything less
than a game of roulette.
anything less than a matter of time
and time and time again.
Covering them each
with our bed sheets,
we try and stifle it.
Do our best to
staunch the the sights,
the noises,
(“just like chairs falling”)
the names
that keep bleeding out
onto our thoughts
and tongues,
Far too much and
too often
not to choke on.
Here in America,
we’ve learned that
horror is level-headed.
It is debatable.
It is pangless.
It seeps, deep to the core,
perverting with a silent smile.
the steady, feverish dread
weaving itself into the mundane.
the “god help us”
annulled by the
“respectfully disagreed”
the nightmare that lies
always just underneath,
and just out of mind,
Until it insinuates itself
Again and again...
Here, in America
We line the bodies,
death slumped, and
bled out on the pavement.
We arrange them-
Side by side.
Most are missing things-
a hat, a piece of face.
one shoe, a dulled pencil
(fill in C)
phones
buzzing on the ground
lit up with unread messages
(“Please call me”)
They are missing-
an upcoming
7th birthday party,
(Star Wars themed)
They are missing-
their vacations.
their first dates.
their college applications.
job interviews.
kids.
fiancées.
Lined up lifeless,
they are missing
far too many things
to gather.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
The sky wept
the sky wept
the sky wept
the sky wept
while I leapt,
while I leapt,
well I leapt thru fire.
Gasp sigh perspire.
give me your tired
huddled and heavy laden
that loud light holds us up high
in his left hand and will be ********* man.
we'll be ********* man.
Harvest moon incited madness
granjero in a gas mask
destined
to manifest the liberation front.
watch me kiss the sun.
thirtytwo one, I am done.
canvas demon,
lower the lights &arise.;
like who wouldn't wanna kiss the sky...
Miss 'My,my,my' meet
Major fleet week
now yall dance and drink
each other's blood
doesn't that sound like fun
isn't it so sweet
wonder some
praise the priest
***** mothers ******* sons,
my lachrymose lack of passion
weighs a **** fantastic ton,
I wish someone would come &
divvy me a dole
of fresh faced inspiration
and vintage faded soul...
I am mobile homosapien.
I am not your friend
simply a lazy ally,
I reside in the unfunny pages.
Dated and bathed in flame,
given back to the air
where I came from.
humdrum funk,
under the ugly sun
feelin lovely in the slums.
Undone undone
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
People take turns inserting coins
attempting to grab plushy hearts and plastic capsules
the claws never were good at holding on for long
always went limp, dropping the trinkets, just before the finish line
only time it grabbed hold of something long enough
to flash all the lights and sing
was for children
who pointed a tiny hand
at something shiny they saw inside
parents step up to fail again and again
at winning it for them.
when the kids have a turn.
on the first try, they lasso this heart
resting firmly on the bottom
hidden beneath all the old ipods and heavy rubber toys.
would glow in the lights
when they lit all up and sang for them.
revered for their expertise and skill,
they reach in to claim their reward.
not even knowing what it really was.
but for some reason
grabbing it.
bringing it everywhere.
when the kids get older.
it was kept on their bed.
when they had their own children
handed down to toy chests
when they grew old, their children left the hearts
in hospital rooms...
they didn't think of it much.
seemed natural to lug it around.
everyone was so proud, that the machine chose them.
the prize was so soft, and familiar.
the machine, though.
could tell every day that it was missing.
held tightly onto the coins they left.
kept filling itself with junk and giving it to strangers
hoping one day they'd come back to play again.
a man comes by once in awhile to relieve him of his coin
then fills him full of new prizes to divvy out.
but the claw machine lodges some coins
far in the back, where his short arms can't reach
so he can remember
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
I heard the flutter of a thousand feathers above me,
black birds convened at tomorrow’s end
I saw a ****** of crows encircling the sky
rushing downward into a vortex
Clattering straight for my skull
aiming for divvy morsels that fell off my body.
There’s not much left of me,
their blunt bills perforated most of my skin
Unveiling the skeleton inside this closet,
Unraveling the secrets this mouth can’t
In hoping to shut my heavy eyes to rest
and dig me a bed six feet under
so I can tumble to eternal slumber.
The tears running down my eyes diluted
the colors of my blood stained hands
as I wipe them away
Raindrops, tears, and blood
doesn’t differ much from each other
For they’re all just liquid substances that symbolizes pain.
I sight these black birds
sitting by the branches of a dead oak tree,
their claws clenched against the aged wood
Bathing in the ashes that fell like snow.
But I’m just lying perfectly still,
my back flat on solid ground
Facing the bleak sun
remaining numb and frozen
This is how I picture death
like sketching a mausoleum.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
Let me inject some insight into your windpipe.
The things I'd do to you in a dim light - the sin type.
Lace, hair up, high heels, low patience.
A taste; cold hearted with warm embraces.
Divvy up my intentions to evoke your inner beast,
Rummaging thru to devour my winner feast.
Appetite for destruction, thirst for the unconventional,
Back up, head down as the walls resonate your increase in decibel.
No celestial being within these walls when the mood hits,
Deuces, I'll make you see the light more than twice; my stamina defined: ruthless.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
I was visiting my older brother and sister-in-law, when he emerged from a storage room with a box filled with family"artifacts", photos, etc. In that box was a 78rpm record, created in 1947. I was not quite six years old. This caused the eruption of a memory long lost, for it was recorded by my kindergarten teacher; my recitation of a poem titled, "My Sore Thumb", written by Burges Johnson. It appeared in a 1921 publication of a book, "Youngsters:" Collected Poems of Childhood", published by E.P. Dutton Publishing Co., which is now part of the Penguin Group. I only had to memorize the first stanza.
ENJOY!
"My Sore Thumb"
I jabbed a jack-knife in my thumb—
Th' blood just spurted when it come!
The cook got faint, an' nurse she yelled
An' showed me how it should be held,
An' Gran'ma went to get a rag,
An' couldn't find one in th' bag;
An' all the rest was just struck dumb
To see my thumb!
Since I went an' jabbed my thumb
I go around a-lookin' glum,
And Aunt, she pats me on the head
An' gives me extra ginger-bread;
But brother's mad, an' says he'll go
An' take an' axe, an' chop his toe:
An' then he guesses I'll keep mum
About my thumb!
At school they as't to see my thumb,
But I just showed it to my chum,
An' any else that wants to see
Must divvy up their cake with me!
It's gettin' well so fast, I think
I'll fix it up with crimson ink,
An' that'll keep up int'rest some
In my poor thumb!
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
all the ******* leave the party early, attired
in cackles, even though stilettos say otherwise,
they laugh and squeamish assort
a waiting line for a mongol tribe:
open all hours minus the sunday,
when jesus' ***** was dried;
got to love a mother of a culprit readied
for sacrifice and prayer lasting 2000 years.
in between the party?
a man walked idly musing his relevance,
he popped a few balloons with his cigarette,
his life flashed before his eye,
notably an error, pornographic photos
flashed before his eyes, not as bad as Gucci and
gob anna in twisted anorexia... **** actresses take
the catwalk... we all revolve around liking curves...
plus **** in *** plus **** in **** plus **** in mouth,
a holy trinity through and through;
there was no offensive image shown,
there was no offensive foghorn sound made,
but she's too eager to censor communication,
says f**k... hush... oompa loompa augustus needs the loo
to **** out the roman empire...
what entertains children breeds a fear for adults...
what entertains adults makes children divvy...
say piston and phallus in a rhyming symbiosis
of tact... welcome you, welcome i;
what doesn't entertain children does entertain adults?
the reality of a mistaken fact that childhood passed?
and of those who's childhood was orphanage?
the free distribution of wealth... or a free distribution of justice
be seriously taken along with vitamins?
burp... are we shining with sun and vitamin c?
perhaps we wished to have netted brown skin
in a spider web of self-producing vitamin d of kenyan origin?
ah i see, sneezes from cayenne peppering.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
still to ferry out depths
no petty parrot poems
to divvy up the score
nor ramp-up efforts
climb into lightning
totally unafraid of the scalding rods
feet out to sand dollars
cool as cucumbers
like walking on the spiny surface of an outer moon
crinoid wishes crumble like walls of an ancient civilisation
as saddle wrass masticates half-born ideas with Aristotle’s lantern
rendered sessile, bloodclotting measures kick in
as emergency repair kit carried on the sidelines
brittle stars are bandaged and fossilised as ambulacra pull tight
overgrown daisies fail to fly free and loosening pollenseeds are all caught
lick up that salty brave snot
and brace face to that taut wind
this urchin with star backed burden
bears no cretaceous page
just bobs on hope
in relatively quiet waters
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
my world view with a kaleidoscope lens
childish preference at it's very finest
grasping concepts and hope instead of rage
hope--of someday sharing that communal troth
my constant strife to create nothing but good
sometimes failing, but still caring, like i think we should
potential greatness freely flowing from our hands
reality's palms are full of life, death, and the in between
countless decisions of forks, spoons, or those petty knives
my--such a short cycle, but really it's just enough
to create, to alter, to change, to better, to love
crisscross applesauce and your angels much much above
rationality killed by deception
irrationality triggered by love
shot---
once, twice, too many times
i beg, take what you need, and nothing more
at the end of our time, we'll divvy up the score
butter knives, daggers, and those lifetime swords
no matter the sunny day, surely cutting bit by bit
innocent white flesh, to the bone, to the heart
a darkening of my color as the demons crawl out
it is our young desire, and not our actions, that are shared
but in hope, put to the side, so that one day we may be paired
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 11:56 PM UTC
~~~
someday soon gonna reread
the four figures of my
poems over lifetime inked,
divvy them up by what each is about,
assemblage of
the themes of me
review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
multiplying confessions
of graces and disgraces
particular to recover,
desirous of collecting those poems that:
*valorize society’s strugglers
and stragglers...humans doing the work of living*^
don't know how many will be uncovered,
but here's hoping there are plenty,
needy of recovery and uncovering the poet
and worthy of pointing too,
valuation markers of a
decent human
strugglers, stragglers,
those from all over this world
and lives that can only visualize
no-horizon-in-sight oceans
sailors, from ports unvisited,
some even, still undiscovered,
working ****** and women,
not those,
don't owners
of fancy dress whites,
topped of by jaunty angelic-angled caps
the ones I sought and seek,
grime and coal dust etched into
every ****** crevice, ink under fingernails,
in obscurity, toil in windowless engine rooms,
in the nooks in libraries hiding,
satisfied with
a moment of glory,
and a lasting
hand upon
their wracked minds
these are my mates,
sharing fates
of woeful countenances
of bruised bodies,
recipients of hardest blows repetitious,
comrades in open arms
the unflavored, unfavored of
sons and daughters,
unblessed with sobs and smacks,
who rare lift the head in hope
the sufferers of ignominy
of the
prison of their existence,
for those I write,
have, will, and willing
to do it till I see a
chin rising, white of eyes gleaming,
a hand delisted,
arms defused of black weights
come to me,
words, encouragement, perspective,
that this too shall pass
believing ain't easy,
take it from one who couldn't see
happy endings, but had no choice but
to choose to,
now prepped, ready
for my arms to do some serious uplifting,
shoulders heavy-loaded and wide of loads,
eager for honest work,
aiding and abetting
the stragglers and and stragglers...
humans doing the work of living,
deserving for valuation,
awaiting their salutation,
and relief, even if,
tiny and small,
a slim volume of poems,
that but one
poet
provided
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
~~~
*someday soon gonna reread
the many poems over lifetime inked,
divvy them up by what's it about,
assemblage of the themes of me
review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
confessions*
~~~
blind all my life,
spent my capital human,
a life entire,
asking how, how does one see, ascertain an image's
veracity
guidance counselors counsel
see like me, but there was no guidance
in seeing whys through others eyes,
here now, creeping closer, and still unlearned
in the ways of vision visionary unique,
now the eyeglass case is closed,
that smack shut noise hearing,
and it occurs to me just now,
hearing my thoughts is a kind of seeing
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
This thing—unsanctified, uncertified
(Reminiscent of an old, familiar sweater
Comfortable, perhaps a bit threadworm here and there,
Yet wholly functional)
Has become unwound,
Not in some spectacular supernova
Replete with shouting and finger-shaking,
But slowly, almost imperceptibly becoming patchy and care-worn
Until such point it no longer provides much
In terms of comfort or warmth,
A failure of evolution more than an excess of passion,
A matter of recalculation as opposed to recrimination.
Let us proceed onward, then, with as much decorum as we can muster.
Parse the checking statements, divvy up love seats and ottomans
With an emphasis on equity rather than enmity,
Leaving the plates and cups intact
Passing them on (a bit dewy-eyed, perhaps)
To begin anew in some niece’s college apartment
Or with other friends who shall gallantly attempt
To complete and compute what we could not,
Divining some math which leads not to our own aftermath
Of reasoned rumination in search of some cold consolation.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
Fine fellows ******
with rare and bitter darkness.
We've seen a bit of life
just a bit
tiny divvy of self import.
There is a trail buried in this field
left in the wake of transit
we walk like two wheels upwards
inwards
towards something whole.
Like an engine run on sweat
and trust.
My man,
this is not done.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Couldn’t get your taste out of my mouth
My tongue talks about you all the time now
Last night I just can’t contemplate
Just how you bounce, bounce, bounce up on me babe.
So can’t you wave me goodbye on the launchpad?
Can’t you wave me goodbye on the launchpad?
Yeah you could sell your story
Tell all interview
Do a podcast and be in the news
Sell your story
Tell all interview
So can’t you wave me goodbye?
Reach for the stars
Reach for the stars
Was it the cosmo’s that had you dizzy?
Thinking spaceman oh what a divvy
And now your phone has blown up now
Remember the night sky is different in the south.
So can’t you wave me goodbye on the launchpad?
Can’t you wave me goodbye on the launchpad?
Yeah you could sell your story
Tell all interview
Do a podcast and be in the news
Sell your story
Tell all interview
So can’t you wave me goodbye?
Our secrets safe in space
No one can hear the gossip
In the vacuum of space
Nothing called profit
Our secrets safe in space
No one can hear the gossip
The vacuum of space
Nothing called profit
Reach for the stars
Reach for the stars
Reach for the stars
Reach for the stars
Our secrets safe in space
No one can hear the gossip
In the vacuum of space
Nothing called profit
Our secrets safe in space
No one can hear the gossip
The vacuum of space
Nothing called profit
Reach for the stars
No one can hear the gossip
In the vacuum of space
Nothing called profit
Reach for the stars
I’ll etch your name in stardust babe
Reach for the stars
I’ll etch your name in stardust babe
Reach for the stars
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 4:30 AM UTC
i confess it's true i'm flesh not god i'm prolly the tip of "icebergs ahead!" that you totally don't listen to because yer too cool, but little did u know below rows of punctual shark teeth divvy up the righteous like pew pew pew, sans the zombie ******* and the holy ghoul to throw you a rope of c
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
amalgamated June,
you've yet again been
taken up by the year
of your lord--
furrowed brow spread
fast to the skull,
glazed in contemplative
oils.
high noon drop down
of sun's cymbal...
clanging at the rim,
in gushes of sound.
all coming alive around
you, now square the peace of
minds that seek survival.
divvy it up, bury that
parsimonious fist, and
apportion the newborn
and seasoned alike!
assure all with that snappy
blue sheet you fly and
fan a blizzard of cottonwood
seeds with.
these keynote speakers of
silence you undo the land
with, as they touch all the
right and wrong places.
swelling a lubricious humidity,
a writhing--cut suddenly free.
quicksilver fish, lightning--
kindle-coal, ****
in need of tempest's assistance--
June!
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 12:39 PM UTC
01♡04♡20
Corona,
Tears of la llorona,
Her tears never stop,
Like her ambition and persona,
She feels her feels,
Full body and heart,
So much at times,
It rips her apart,
But she don’t need no seamstress,
She’s proud of her tears,
They represent life, love, and what’s real,
Where’s the pause button?,
To divvy up the pain,
Of being alive,
And feeling insane,
Why does every moment feel like she’s wired?,
Electric, hectic, full of fire,
Emotion as dense as the ocean,
Drowning in free-flow motion,
Fighting the odds, current, and notion,
When will it stop?,
She asks as she drops,
Pleading for that secret potion,
To calm her soul,
And prevent mental explosion,
Llorona, llorona,
She quietly smiles,
Though but intense,
She knows that’s why life’s worthwhile.
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 5:14 PM UTC