"doorknob" poems
I reached up into the top of the closet
and took out a pair of blue *******
and showed them to her and
asked "are these yours?"
and she looked and said,
"no, those belong to a dog."
she left after that and I haven't seen
her since. she's not at her place.
I keep going there, leaving notes stuck
into the door. I go back and the notes
are still there. I take the Maltese cross
cut it down from my car mirror, tie it
to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave
a book of poems.
when I go back the next night everything
is still there.
I keep searching the streets for that
blood-wine battleship she drives
with a weak battery, and the doors
hanging from broken hinges.
I drive around the streets
an inch away from weeping,
ashamed of my sentimentality and
possible love.
a confused old man driving in the rain
wondering where the good luck
went.
16.2k
Time passing -
Is not the tick, tick, tick, of the movies.
It is a barely audible, high-pitched ringing in your ears.
It is the low thrum of a distant compressor somewhere.
It is the sound of the long shadows brushing against the wall.
Time passing -
It is the fabric rustle of changing your position in a chair.
A cat padding along the oak floorboards of the hallway.
An electric cube powering a computer.
The sizzle of speakers turned on with nothing playing.
Time passing -
I hear it from a silent telephone,
From the idle doorknob and hinges.
From wooden steps leading to my front door.
Time passing -
It is all of this,
And nothing.
So much nothing.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play
____________
It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade
____________
Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit
cigarette
_____________
Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can
_____________
It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire
_____________
Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
plead
for yellow
waking
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”
Yellow ____
is
opening a car door
at the shore's
unmistakable!
Smells of life
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites
of sense
harmonics
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –
the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines
Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
Preside
reflecting beauty –
“Take your sister's hand.”
Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
I.
*“You can only fight the way you practice”
― Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy*
His lessons started late
As always, and as always
What is thrown is a question
You grip tightly
around your fingers
as one would,
as one always should.
With a branch he beckons:
“Come” he asks,
*“if a stick is struck from this angle,
what would your answer be?”*
Always, the old man taught
With each strike, each parry,
Each disarm and lock,
Each time my knuckles
Would hurt. This way
he makes it sure
that my body
remembers.
This is always
the first step.
My mind might forget.
But the body
Remembers.
II.
*“It is difficult to realize the true Way just through sword-fencing. Know the smallest things and the biggest things, the shallowest things and the deepest things.”
― Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings: Miyamoto Musashi*
With him, everything starts
The vague quality of nonwords
Taught from pain, simplified
Through science:
the fulcrum and the lever.
Each joint, each turn,
a pattern to comprehend,
all things work in context:
*A framework of the undeniable
Fact:*
*the world is separate
In only these two words:*
Taub at Tihaya
The colloquial words for
Face down and face up;
This is a pattern
of the body.
III.
*“If you wish to control others you must first control yourself”
― Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy*
Tihaya
The lesson starts
When he presses
His thumb forward
to a hand asking for alms
like turning a doorknob
too far to the right.
Taub
when I pull back
four fingers
on a giving hand
too far to what is left.
these are the means
for control.
When I know
How much is necessary
To push or to pull,
To teach or to break.
- 18 October 2017
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 5:57 AM UTC
well, first Mae West died
and then George Raft,
and Eddie G. Robinson's
been gone
a long time,
and Bogart and Gable
and Grable,
and Laurel and
Hardy
and the Marx Brothers,
all those Saturday
afternoons
at the movies
as a boy
are gone now
and I look
around this room
and it looks back at me
and then out through
the window.
time hangs helpless
from the doorknob
as a gold
paperweight
of an owl
looks up at me
(an old man now)
who must sit and endure
these many empty
Saturday
afternoons.
6.7k
Gazing within, I can see the warm light
Where I sit, the rain and cold bite.
A big coat fits but doesn’t satisfy,
On a familiar portal - my eyes lie.
Cars roar by, water flies in air
The sky pours sideways, all over my hair.
Sitting outside, peering in, eyes wide -
I view my long-lost family inside.
I jealously watch their fun
And silently pray for the sun.
Raindrops on glass in front of my face,
Oh, how I yearn to be back at this place.
The faces of my heart wave and invite me back,
Grabbing the doorknob, it breaks with a snap.
I dearly miss this house, for it is no longer mine,
I watch at the window for days at a time.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC
‘I have to go.’
She whispers and sighs into his ear.
Uncovers herself from the sheets
And slips from the bed.
*The clock reads three o’clock
The moon illuminates the bedroom
‘Why, baby?’*
He groans as he sits up
Trying to calm his harsh breathing
Wipes the sweat from his face.
*Shadows dance upon the white walls
Her silhouette moves towards the door
‘I have to return home to him.’*
She replies, her gaze falls to the floor
Reaching for the doorknob,
Filled with so much guilt.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC
I wake up. The bed is cold.
I am cold.
A gray day awaits.
I stare into the blank ceiling,
And feel an emptiness I cannot fill.
Not without her.
I stand up and shuffle across my shattered bedroom,
To the door.
The glint of the golden doorknob is the only color in this place.
I drink a tea. My mother is worried.
She's starting to notice I'm not eating at all.
Maybe...
It's time for a haircut.
A change...
From who I am. It'll do me good,
To be someone else, for a moment.
"I still love her" I think to myself, but it is silenced when I slice a hole into my head.
It is clean, a thin trail of blood which becomes a waterfall.
It streams down my face, and I keep cutting,
Blood and hair and tears falling as I stare into this broken mirror,
And the most horrible, hideous monster looks back at me.
I hate him so much, and I cut more in hopes that he will look away.
But he doesn't.
His frozen, desolate eyes stare deep into my soul,
Or rather his own,
The poor disgusting *******
He has forgotten what it is to feel anything but pain,
And even that is escaping him.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
If this were a haiku, I'd have
seventeen syllables to explain
why I'm running
out of syllables
to tell you why
the doorknob,
and not between my fingers,
is where your hand shouldn't be.
Message Delivered
If that sounds confusing,
it's because it isn't,
and you're only confused because I
proofread the text messages
and you forget words,
but it's like you forgot "you"
after "I" and "love,"
and you just never thought to put it back.
Message Delivered
I checked the date
and you missed
Monday morning in Lowry
and the morning before that in Farmer Boy,
and we've got a whole calendar
of affections that you're missing
because you opened up
to a month too far back
and now you're in love
with moments that forgot you
Message Delivered
I’m holding out for cycles of goodbye kisses
and I only got them
when you woke up,
and i’m not sure you ever did again
because you’re living
in sweet dreams
that are quietly bitter
and your ideas don’t love you
like you’ve convinced yourself you do.
Message Delivered
If I could go back
i'd give you space,
i’d break my own heart
not listening to the sound
of your breath
as you fall asleep next to me
but you're finding shelter
in broken affection
afraid to be alone
forgetting
who you are in
familiarity,
in Her
Message Delivered
I’ll fall asleep tonight,
and wake up tomorrow,
the same way I did yesterday,
thinking of something that wasn’t,
or maybe really was
and praying I could fall back into that dream
but sleep isn’t quite that easy,
and blissful ignorance
is granted only to the few
Message Delivered
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 8:25 AM UTC
Boiling blood and angry eyes
Boil over in tears that do not cry
For this idea, one last good-bye
Is a selfish notion
Proximity breeds what hearts belie
Jagged emotion
So this, our little rendezvous
I swore that I would never do
Until, of course, you asked me too
The doorknob's turning
Now, it must be followed through
My heart lies burning
Ferocity to match my own
Intensifies this time alone
The love has long-since been outgrown
There is no forgiveness
Just pleasure like we’ve never known
This time, I’ll win this
Then finally, you’ll realize
I’ve grown into these golden thighs
That seem to have you hypnotized
Within their power
And far too late you realize
You’ve been devoured
By the woman who stands glistening bare
Watching you with tainted glare
In a flash the passion flares
Drunk acrobatics
Bring forth new heights our bodies share
Now spent and static
Breathless and dripping wet
As close to hate as love can get
And this amazing last duet
An exclamation
In this goodbye lives no regret
No indignation
May 29, 2010
May 29, 2010 at 6:45 PM UTC
The next time you go home,
don't let your palm linger on the doorknob on your way out.
Just throw out the old toothbrush she hasn't come to use in months
and take down the painting above your bed
coated in colors that reminded her of ***** grass-stained knees and dandelion bracelets;
and don't pretend that homesick
is something you could ever feel without her shoes at the door.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
From nowhere with love, on the teenth of martober.
Dear madam, my darling, my sweet- but of no
Importance that is. For your features no longer,
To tell the truth, can be remembered. Not yours,
Yet no one's best friend. I salute you from one of
Five continents, which rests on the cowboys. Then
I loved you more than angles, and even "Omni...",
Hence, farther I am from you than- both of them.
Far away, late at night, at the bottom of valley,
In the town, where snow reaches the doorknob. I ,
Upon the sheet wringling, at least not as may be
Described somewhere in the further line,
I fluff up the pillow with "you" in a murmur,
Over the mountains, which have no bounds or end,
In the darkness, with the entire body, all your
Features, as would a crazy mirrow, I recreate.
Dec 12, 2017
Dec 12, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
Laying in bed you count the foot steps, 11 to your room 16 to his. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. The foot steps stop, you hold your breath, hoping he will continue on. The twist of your doorknob, the rustle of your sheets, yet another night you cannot sleep. You lay there until the sun makes an appearance through your blinds, you get up and go to the shower trying to scrub yourself clean, the water turns pink and you still feel ***** you then think, why does this have to happen to me? You collapse and start sobbing in your ****** water. The smell of him radiates off of you, you still can feel him, you remember the taste of his vile body to this day. Why didn't you fight back, or defend, why didn't you confess to family or a friend? Had his demons claimed your soul? Or was this, as well, a victims role?
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Listen to the turning of the doorknob -
Listen carefully, as though to a prophecy
Candles burning in background pose - prose - close the door,
Leave nothing unopened - not mind, not heart, not soul, not eyes, not love, not love
Listen to the turning of the doorknob -
Listen to the prophet scream obscenities in the face of God -
Screaming law to children in the playground,
Waiting for dawn to **** night, and say hello to never -
Leaving nothing unopened - not the door, not the door,
Like never before - except now, no, because because...
If an angel rode in midnight, wings out full-flight -
Would they be invisible to the mortals of planet Earth?
Or would they become best-friends with the lowest of the low?
Listen to the turning of the doorknob -
The door speaks sudden truths to the ears of the heart of wisdom and desire,
Wisdom holds no desire, just as desire holds no wisdom -
Both polar opposites in the city of Being,
Rising like smoke in the collapse of nations and culture -
No tears shed for the loss of men, in the war of knowledge,
of pride and territory and fortune and remembrance -
Listen to the turning of the doorknob,
Listen to the turning of the doorknob,
For the sake of living forever right now in this moment -
Listen to the turning of the doorknob -
Leaving nothing unopened -
Not the past, not the present, not the future, not the never forevers,
Like the wars being fought for oil and money and cheap gratification -
Short lived egos, going down in history books,
For the children to read while being screamed at with obscenities from the prophet above,
And the angels below, and the ground and sky and earth and stars and gravity and all -
Listen to the turning of the doorknob,
Please, for the sake of living forever right now in this moment, or never
Right now - because now is forever - cheap cheap poetry, meaning nonsense
Just an escape...just an escape from the turning of the doorknobs,
For a minute or two or three - just a longing to be free,
And no one can be free when they’ve been ****** to mortality -
Oh sincere mediocre heartfelt dribble - just turn around, door and all -
Fall out the sixth floor window and don’t look back - never again forever again -
Right now in this moment, forever and never and back again - looking up,
Singing to the screaming prophet, blocking the door on accident - there are no accidents in life -
So, listen to the turning of the doorknob,
Listen to the turning of the doorknob,
For the sake of your own existence and place in these here cosmos -
Listen to the turning of the doorknob.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
we were eleven years old in her childhood room.
she pulled a pink dollhouse from her closet, similar
to the color of my cheeks; i swear i tried my hardest
to hide it from her. the front door **** was
covered in angel tears, or so she called it. i asked her
where our room was and she
pointed to a red and white door.
“this is my hiding spot. i like to imagine during
school that when we run away together, doors just won’t exist.
i don’t want anything opening and closing other than your
mouth when you speak haikus into my veins.”
my heart races around 85mph sometimes but dear, you
had me going 100 and i don’t know whether or not to stop saying the words i am and my sentences aren’t haikus, but rather sonnets now and -
“just open the door, my lovestruck poet, come inside, take off the
door **** and live through me. my favorite flowers
are gerbera daisies, they come in all colors like this house, but
you’ll always be my favorite,” she whispered, afraid of her mother
hearing this midnight confession. her door was pink;
she held a doorknob in her hand.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
The doorknob to the closet
full of my skeletons is made of
funny-bone
But there are days
when honesty tugs a little too roughly and
I realize this isn't all that funny now
Is it?
As a writer
You learn presentation is key
In the bend of language
I create this man
I want you to believe me to be
And so I tell you these stories
like they are jokes
Like they are no big deal
Like the first time I got drunk
was with my friend's mom
who was a known child molester
She tried to order us ****
But couldn't work the cable
Or my friends and I used to travel our city
via the water drainage system
Near the mall
We got lost once
and while standing
in ankle high water
we saw at least 20 homeless people
sleeping on pallets
We called that place *** City
We had to get directions back out
There's a possibilty I have been an accessory to ******
Around the time in my life when I learned
How not to dwell
My body was a wishbone
My father meant to break
But every beating
left me the better half
I find so much of it funny
My brother's most recent suicide attempt
My mother's
My father's Alzheimer's
He once chased after our mailman
naked
Asking him about some letter
from some woman
I have never met before
I find laughter
and beauty
in the bend of language
When this chest becomes a broken radiator
and my heart grows cold
The metaphor mutates Campfire
Come here
I am lonely
and I have a story to tell you
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
1. Sit down and cry. Cry until you have no more tears and don’t even remember the reason for your sadness. Realize that nothing, not even misery, is permanent.
2. Close your eyes and imagine your dream home. Don’t skimp on anything, not even the tiniest details like the doorknob or the lampshade pattern. Keep it always so that whenever you are somewhere heartless and cruel, you have a retreat.
3. Discover a song you love. Listen to it as loud as possible, listen to it as softly as possible. Listen to it backwards, forewords, sideways, and upside down. Extract from it all the truth and magic you can until you’re sick of it. Repeat.
4. Try and realize who your real friends are. Not the ones who will smile at your jokes and laugh at their own, but the ones who will walk with you even in the darkest of nights and never have to reassure you that they’re there.
5. Cut your hair. Cut it as short as you can without making your mother cry. Recognize that when someone says they don’t like it, what they’re really saying is that your appearance is for their pleasure. Know that it is not.
6. Choose a day just to watch. Watch the wind whispering to the trees, the grass reaching for the sky, the clouds hanging on by a thread. Make eye-contact with the moon and see that everything is watching you back. They’re rooting for you.
7. Learn how to make your favorite food. Learn how to make it exactly like your mother does. And every time you taste those familiar flavors, know that home is wherever you are.
8. Draw yourself. Don’t look in a mirror while you do this, draw yourself as you truly think you are. When you’re finished, take a photo of yourself. Compare the two. Realize that how you perceive you and how the world sees you will always be different.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
taken up residence in all my areas and in these places
there is always a place for her
In my basement
when she rubs and soothes my toes to a numbing comfort
at opposite end her stretch lets my hands do the same to hers
Structure beams stand
and are why my calves and thighs continue to grow stronger
are incentive to be wrapped around her legs
and hers in a grip twist
throughout the curve of my hips to hold crossing
X made when I am wrapped
For entering the front porch
She knocks but not heard
for her tapping inquiries are irrelevant
So it turns, the doorknob turns
unlocking opening this abstract transition in my abdomen
Here is hers to warm her hands
and chest
when chills come over
and Level-Up in connect
with another’s rushes
through bloods chamber controller
In the hearth of my arms
is where she sleeps off stressful days
and absorbs deep breaths
given to her by the nighttime in comfort fire
that keep warm in clutching swarm
The crawl space of my mind is her cozy retreat
Where she writes to and
receives poetry like excessive pounding heartbeats
and sings and reads, is read to and strummed to
in this cave of only good thoughts drape over, outweigh
and extend
root outward
sprout upward
seeds are sewed
for and of future place
take place
This is where she speaks one line
“Millions of days,”
and falling feta paints rapid wetness across raised cheeks
grazing my chin upward, with her fingers
where we pace, follow, and race,
To more moments in place on our backs
in the yard
just to lay and stare ahead
at endless sects of aerospace
As if in bed, in their others head
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
It's been raining for months and I can't turn the faucet off – which reminds me: the sea is yours if you want it, and you don't have to be afraid of a little rainwater anymore. When you walk to your car with your shoes off and most of your sanity folded in your jeans, when your feet slap against puddles and you are remembering that you left your jacket on the doorknob, don't ever wonder if I will awaken suddenly, crying because you never stayed long enough for me to write that song to the beat of your hesitant pulse. Your car, evidently can take you farther than my hands can, but no road leading to your house and no street lamp mocking you silently knows that I hang pearls on the threads of your sanity and my stairs groan loudest when you are trying to leave quietly. If you turn around now – if you run back and tell me that you want to be sky to me and nothing else, then I will let you, as long as you promise to bleed the next eighty thousand sunrises; I will stop mentioning you to forests and looking for you in satellites and in smoldering coals, if you promise to murmur my name when the horizon is stretching and prostrating itself across the late evening. I will tell you where the sun goes when the Atlantic swallows her whole, if you tell me about the streams of cirrus clouds backing up your bloodstream. And I never ask you to search for the wildfires under my shirt again, if you give me all of the starlight under yours.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
Much can happen
In the space
Between the marks
Of the seconds
On a clock
The world could turn
Into a murky brown puddle
Of **** and shitstains
That dirties the boots
Of all the people
On the way to work
Or home to the wife
And twelve kids
The room with white walls
Slowly but surely
Turns to one with black walls
That sweat dark pearls
That melt the doorknob,
Block the windows,
And cover the door
The bubbles in the bath
Burst and leave clear water
That hold your floating filth
In microscopic specks
And the flickering light
Flirts with you
To dip your head and fall asleep
In the fading warmth
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 9:40 AM UTC
My breath is barbed;
skeletal strings shift into smoke,
drifting into the shadows
as the darkness will choke.
Pearl snow stuffs my skull;
my grandmother in an earthern womb,
sleeps under it all.
A tombstone the last thing we bought--
a report card of her life:
She is with Him in Heaven, In Paradise...
With Him, Without Pain--
is speculation but turns into thought.
The icy steps do not deter me
as I sit on the crooked concrete spine;
speaking to her, hoping the snow
does not make her cold, any more,
'I can stay a while longer...
I do not have to go home, yet.'
-
Eco-friendly light spills from under the door,
forming a pool as yellow as diseased skin.
The brass doorknob is like a girl I once loved:
hard on the outside, hollow in the inside,
unable to be moved and okay with it.
Fury from a faucet fills the bathtub
and rings my ears with its intent:
to fill a void and go away when cold.
She lays in the water
the city treats better than us,
wading in a wealth of watermelon wash;
her body flushed from fading flesh,
pores swim and stretch around
cursive carvings, kissing cursed curves--
and I sit upon a bone-white curb,
stirring my finger in the soup of her day;
watching the drain **** wondering
if she'll, too, drift away.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
Man from the couch
Looking for me
Shrinking my presence
Wishing I could flee
No place to hide
Hearing his footsteps
Looking for pleasure
In the form of ***
There’s a horrible monster
Outside my door
Always circling
Coming back for more
A haunting game
Of procrastination
Every slight noise probes
My ears with vibration
Peeking out the
Side of my eye
As the doorknob turns slowly
Inching open - I die
His mouth opens wider
Releasing shadows of fear
Dripping his venom
Whispers I barely hear
My littlest brother asleep
On the top bunk.
This man has no shame
As he shows me his junk.
I inquire after my mother
He's roaming towards me.
He murmurs his shhh!
"We can not wake her."
My head is spinning
As he denies my plea
He's just come to expect
He can steal this from me
The smell of burnt plastic
Wanders around him
I'm feeling cryptic
As my light starts to dim
He lies heavy on top
Of my tiny frame
It's become automatic
Like writing my name
Clumps in my throat
Prevent me from gulping
I can’t seem to inhale
His body hammering
I close my eyes so I can sail
Back to my unconscious
Disconnecting this moment
In my black empty space
© Jl 2016
© Pixievic 2016
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
I.
my sleeping is condensed this spring
such that two or three hours
at most will suffice for one evening.
my body is awake,
yet the wandering back alleys
behind my irises are weary,
and on the cusp of gentrification.
I see faces where there should be none
II.
and I’ve seen the lines again,
though they come far less frequently
than when I had to reach up
to grasp the doorknob.
yet they are as vivid
and bursting with clarity
as the first summer I witnessed them.
they arrive unannounced
single-hair-thick,
rotating on invisible axes,
changing color and length
within equally slim fragments of time
too small to measure in our dimension.
one summer, i recorded how often they visited
but could find no logical frequency to their appearances.
no one has ever known of them but me,
and that woman just picked up a cigarette **** to light her own.
III.
they came again yesterday,
as always, in midafternoon
at 3 o’clock, when christ died.
and i thought, not of him,
but of the time, and how
twelve hours earlier is apparently the devil’s time
a time-piece-turned inverted cross.
IV.
so, I remembered,
how at devils’ time last night,
i was adrift,
sans-sails down brick alleys
thinking not of lines,
of gods or devils and their time,
but of those pan flute notes
and how i can’t wait to hear them again.
May 17, 2011
May 17, 2011 at 7:59 AM UTC
Rapture, growing voice around the corner.
Crisp new diphthongs, sorry rounded vowels
unrehearsed. A twanging reverb. Certain
loosened phrasings shock the doorknob, like
'Clara...octaves...failings'. When I lift the
latch it's broken trailing consonants
streaming past the ceiling; bassy treaties,
sighing falling clothes and chord-crushed feeling.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC