"dropper" poems
She was a hellaciously hard hittin’ heart stopper
A semi-sophisticated mother/daughter
My complex candy coated no-LSD dropper
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
Restless hungry, found a tiny scrap of a brownie in the back of the refrigerator, wrapped in plastic about the size of a large 35 cent quarter.
Gobbled up and gone.
Eye had purchased it a week ago, maybe more.
Actually it was more like eye was held up at gunpoint by a sad young face for a large and green single dollar Bill.
In return, was bequeathed said brownie eye dropper-ful.
The apartment I live in a big city, many apartments were recession empty for a long time. But in the last few years, the empty apartments in the building were almost all sold to foreigners.
Now the bldg is an amulet melted of the lucky overseas fortunate, those overseers overseas seizers, who come to reside in the most fabulous site in these United States...and buy a piece of the dream away from the be-headers, secret police or governments that decide you are now an enemy of the state, as of this morning. No judgement.
anyway, this doe eyed child of estimated six or eight years of age accosts me in our large lobby, proffers me the brownie scrap for a Bill.
me a sucker of a salesman myself, and an eye affician-doe, well those doefuls, those eyes, no one could resist!
so eye asked her name,
but all she could say in
Anglais was...
"Brownie One Dollar?"
laughing out loud for no apparent cause,
the hanging about lobbyists looked at me staring...
Why was eye laughing?
laughing cause eye realized
this elfin child had become
fitfully but fully Americanized.
and I loved her eyes in mine, and when I see her periodically, I say:
"Hey! Brownie One Dollar, How are ya!"
and everyone snicker smiles at the old man with the even stupider grin upon his eyes.
That would be eye.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
this is not a ten stepper essay. You are, and you admit it, full stop. Addicted to HP. No help here.
but to answer the question...
the writing of a poem,
no matter what your style,
eye dropper word selection,
slow methodical,
or furious expelling, frying oil
until crescendo is achieved
is clearly a fulfillment of
a ****** type of need.
Afterwards,
after words,
when you repeatedly
check the number of likes,
it is just you asking me
was it as good for you
as it was for me?
Usually, eventually,
the answer is a
quiet, soft spoken,
very few reads version of:
"Uh, just let me sleep"
which means you will try again
in the the morning suncomeforth.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC
Waking early in the morning and stepping out to see
The sun rise to begin, the day so beautifully
The sky was free of clouds and red off to the east
Dark blue toward the west. For my sleepy eyes a feast.
"Oh a flock of little birds flying overhead."
I couldn't help but watch them, so I tilted back my head.
Flying with great skill right over top of me.
I couldn't help but ponder "How wonderouse a thing to be."
And looking up to watch them, their beauty made me sigh
But then one bird, dropped a terd, right into my eye
It burned like a red hot poker, my eyeball was ablaze
I let out a painful cry and wiped it from my face
I tried to open my eye but the burning was too great
And now those little frikin' birds, I really began to hate
I swore to get revenge on that nasty little bird
That had the gall to bullseye me with it's frikin' terd
So I went to a store and purchased me a gun
A semi auto twelve gage, that should get 'er done
I purchased fifty shells each one filled with bird shot.
And hoped to **** that little bird and watch it's body rot.
So later in the evening of that very day
With a patch over my eye to keep the pain away
I formed the perfect plan to get my sweet revenge
And blow away that flying band in a ****** killing binge
I got up extra early and went outside and stayed
Very quiet so as not to ruin my vengful killing raid.
And just as I had hoped, like yesterday at this time.
"Here they come!" I thought with glee "Vengence will be mine!"
And just as they did yesterday, they flew right over head
And I chuckled to myself, "That sucker's gonna be dead!"
And as they came within my range, anticipation grew dire
Jumping up, I started yelling, and with my gun opened fire
"DIE YOU LITTLE TERD DROPPER!" Insanely I exclaimed
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! seven lives I quickly claimed
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! I Fired and more did fall
I looked again, and checking, I saw I'd killed them all.
And as I stood there looking at the little birds I'd killed
I asked myself, "Was it worth it? Was my revenge fulfilled?"
And as I contemplated these feelings that I had
A certain guilt came over me and I started to get sad.
But suddenly, in my eye, there was an awful burn
And I then knew I was right to **** them in return.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
"I don't know just where I'm going"
Arms encircled around porcelain, clean,
wavering strength, and eyes closing feebly
"when I'm rushing on my run, and I feel just like jesus son"
There are many more people than I want to see.
I pull up against the wall and, for balance, I lean
"and I guess that I just don't know, and I guess that I just don't know."
whiskey, for the Father
marijuana, for the Son
prescriptions, just for me
"I have made the big decision, I'm gonna try and nullify my life"
Still though, Lou Reed isn't dead, just clean
and so, this night, just won't bode well for me
"it shoots up the dropper's neck, when I'm closing in on death"
It is hard to remain dignified when in a wasted state, vomiting.
"You can't help me now guys, all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk"
It is hard to remain dignified when someone attacks my integrity.
"And you can all go take a walk"
It is hard to remain dignified when I am acting so senselessly.
*"Oh, and I guess that I just don't know,
oh, and I guess that I just don't know "*
I try to sleep through,
while foreign fingers swirl softly on my sides, to feel my *******
*"And that blood is in my head,
then thank God that I'm as good as dead"*
I try to sleep through,
while a small ring lies atop of a postcard, with an Indian head.
*"then thank your God that I'm not aware,
and thank God that I just don't care"*
I guess, I just don't know.
*"and I guess I just don't know
and I guess I just don't know."*
after the echo, I need to leave.
so I go, again, and press repeat.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
it's visual anthropology, I swear.
it's everything can't you see!?
I'm on my bed.
I had a great dream about you,
I'll even say it, you said you'd make love to me,
so I anxiously listened to Pull My Daisy by Allen Ginsberg afterwards, he certainly was mad but was genius but I do care about my health, though.
So, I ordered the speeches of Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King. Lincoln said a lot, he advanced a conversation but appeared to lord over the common man, the man who works in the field, the man who goes to war to fight. Martin Luther King didn't say much, although Common says freedom is free.
I smoked a cigar and poured some orange juice, too. I can now smell the cigar and enjoy orange juice. I saw a white bug outside and felt deep. The specific kind, unknowable. I'm nervous tho' about today. I have to be up at five AM. I could sleep more but I won't, instead I'll write a clear and coherent prose-poem about the circus because I do care about my health. I will love myself and maybe take a shower because I do care about my health. Molly Casey, who knows, I forgive you if you forgive me, and if whoever said "ugh" apologizes, I'll be happy. But first, or later, we'll have to accept that life is unfair, and that you have to be professional to make it through.
Here, look it, I'll tell you everything and more, and all the time, if you tell me I'm sane and beautiful.
How badly do you want bad? I want bad, sometimes. I want good more often that's why I do this dear Molly Casey. And when you said you'd sleep with me, did you think? No, I don't think you thought and I don't think you mean it. No, when you said you'd make love to me, in my dream, did you think? No, I don't think you did. But know, you inspired me. As a conciliation for my inability to be profound, or for being too profound, or too much of a thinker, or for being overly cautious, I want you to know that biology is interesting and that when I write several words down in my poem book and in my phone to use later, I think I'm working.
Here are those words:
1. faced
2. changed
3. is
4. cognitive
5. multiple
6. vision
6. droplet
7. positive everyday experience
8. I lie
9. ought to listen to that song
9. cause
10. zeal
11. prudence
12. in the dust
13. self-criticism
14. work
15. chill Castro
16. not SA - SF although SA isn't bad
17. me
18. my friends
19. All encompass dropper
20. Only human
21. All too human
2:38 AM December 12th 2018
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 6:54 AM UTC
for Beau
this mixte bag of nutty facts,
compote of this's and that's,
fragrant but yucky tasting potpourri,
sordid assortment of
seemingly unseemly
random collection of
facts, whoppers,
recipes and formulae, and his 'n her
stories (my fav!)
useless motorized drivel,
running around my head
that you have with me creme-filled,
data conglomerated,
transformed by mongol hordes of grey cells
urged on, nay transformed,
by **** and beer into
a magnificent miscellaneous mile of jumble,
virtuous and verifiable grab bag of
ever so humble,
tuneful melodies of a medley of
snatches and patches
of Jagger and Liszt,
a verifiable pastiche of
vital and downright dumb
Factors and Factoids,
I thank you suchly muchly
musta taken years, maybe even
decades to collect and codify,
this assemblage of verifiable factoids,
after-all, took you twelve to
feed me in eye dropper ingestible quantities!
though with Wiki this and Wiki that,
I coulda save us all some time,
and since it is all on the Internet,
and any way 99% I forgot
like a cell phone number
no matter, I can reads and counts
and writes term papers downloaded,
but caught my eye you wrote
of a mutton stew denominated as
hotchpotch,
but we variant truants,
ici, aux Etats-Unis, on dit
and spell our salmagundi as
hodgepodge
but in summary summation,
thanks for teaching me creative thinking,
for without this skill,
I would but be,
a tool
of Wikipedia
and not its creator
P.S. It's gadzooks,
not gad zooks,
according to Wikitionary,
even them Oxford fellas agree,
tee hee,
you could look it up
on the internetsky,
Teach....
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
I think I just needed
some Space to myself
so I snatched up the Telescope
off of the shelf
Fogbound, an Envelope
Packed with Parched Paper
Periwinkle Periscope
Crepuscular Vapor
permanent figures
a vial and dropper
kaleidoscope lens
a beaker and stopper
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
Hvis du dropper
historien om,
at noget er svagt,
og noget andet er stærkt,
så er der ikke noget,
der er bedre end andet,
og du kan være dig selv
- ligesom du er -
hver eneste gang.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
I once robbed a post-box,
& looked through letters, small & scented.
Of someone's aunt with chickenpox,
And bills handsome, from the rented.
Love letters, I had to read!
Which in boredom, my mind would feed.
Some which made my heart bleed,
An urge to send, a nervous need.
A good doctor's prescription pill,
& injections, with dread did me fill.
Thankfully illegible, so not my joy to ****
But now, I must stop,
For reasons purely confidential.
As I catch the Postmans' beaming top,
His light bag filled only with what's essential!
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 7:53 AM UTC
we’ll start here, turtle.
this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to.
the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement
is life
during wartime.
I conceive of a dropper
but hold it empty
above my eye.
because it is the one word without a beginning
suffering
because it is the one word without a beginning
is not limited
by its
vocabulary.
we wanted a sophisticated god
but in immediate
unison
called it
god.
this is the grey cream
that gives her privacy.
I am drawn to a sort of journalism
by association, a campestral formlessness
attached
for example
to the term
carpet bombing.
how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn
she is not ahead of?
she has to stop, turtle.
to declaw an electrocuted kitten
she didn’t
electrocute.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
As Sunday wakes, I watch the sunrise
Peaking over the yawning Sawtooth Range.
Idaho's Rocky Mountain loving arms wide open
Stretch to embrace the East fork of the Salmon
It’s at this bend I feel the need to take in
All the wonderment, that emerges to take my breath away.
I load my rod and chart a path for my line,
As I spot two survivors, drifting in and out of the undercut.
Feeling good about this, I offer up a clodhopper,
It drifts by unacknowledged, not even a balk.
WTH I think to myself, as I tie on a dropper,
And make one last presentation…………….
“Well I’ll be ****** never seen a trout yawn.”
- K.E. Carman 2017
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
He had to get it anyhow
But the sleepy Sunday afternoon
Found all the shutters down
He had to get it anyhow
But a sad figure on the empty street
His sighs in himself drowned
He needed to get it anyhow
But it seemed fortune didn’t care
It couldn’t be ever found
He needed to get it anyhow
But his tries ended in despair
A life could bow out
If only he could get it anyhow
That small thing now priceless
He would forever treasure
If only he could get it anyhow
It would prolong a heartbeat
Reviving drops he could measure
On the sleepy Sunday afternoon
In search of a one penny dropper
A man a poet a philosopher
Was thwarted came a cropper!
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
i saw the little bird flutter
dance from dropper to dropper
and the image fades in the clouds of smoke.
Nay, the lines show on my worked hands,
the trouble in life,
where i stand...
this line i drew in the sand is nothing like the life in lines
read in palmistry
or the scars emotionally
those that developed, enveloped and disappeared
as a decade passed into another year.
my reflection in the mirror changed,
the migraines are no longer the inspiration that drives me.
on auto pilot, driven by fire, flames were fanned and told to flourish.
now there will be a change in the line up
because fuck-up-to-fuck-up there is no other way
i could say how much more in less than the 8 hours a day--
of work, of solitude, once i which came of use to?
well life, if you are a mirror,
then **** you! i was told i was done too...
with the ashes settled, i'm at home.
he is still a little wobbly, a little toddly, and oh the "NO!"
into the cabinets i find, a flicker of life,
desire,
**** i am sold.
i found out what in the world...
i am here for.
Sixty, Sex-ti.... i cannot form a single thought,
a heartfelt thought and ones of revenge
as the heater went out, and it being colder than the fridge--
i saw that little bird, fluttering,
Still
life seemed to start again,
with a push of a button
go
with all the carnival rides
flavors, and gimmicks.
i cant quit.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
I will do my best to remember in order these the prayers satan has returned to the adult me...
(please help me to absorb the paranoia of my uncle who
after putting a clear piece of tape on his belly button
drinks
too much)
(please make her hair fall out)
(invisibility)
(tell god but take your time)
(a secret brother. a brother I can beat on.)
(power over girls I want nothing to do with)
(a job my mom can turn down)
(muscles that make me high)
(pain in the useless privates of my guardian angel)
(the best birdhouse)
(a grandfather or a frog, or both, with teeth)
(a nativity scene built around a piece of spat out gum)
(comic book with ************ scarecrow)
(a baby sister
to radio
my mother’s
coma)
(messenger stones)
(a double
where my hands
can sleep)
(the last dropper
of dinosaur
woe)
(Eve whose ears have amnesia)
(you, from my past)
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Rainy days and Mondays
Piloting my car like a
river boat captain
on a shiny Mississippi
It is morning but still dark
an eye dropper of blue has
been added to the sky
and what was once black
has now slowly spread to purple
A purple macchiato in the atmosphere
I pass by a convenient store
It looks like an oasis in the dark rain
Soft blue lights reflecting on wet asphalt, illuminated marquee
an old cinematographer trick
This is my time
This is where I live
This is me.
My true self
before,
I am stained by work
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
You marmalade dropper, you.
You cause an enfilade with the briefest of your words, my love.
You cislunar beauty.
Let me watch you. Make me your auspex.
Stravaig through my heart.
Be your flagitious best with me.
Noctivagants, you and I.
Steal a pimpmobile. Let's run away.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
there's a syringe filled to the dropper with ******
and a blackened spoon on the kitchen counter.
he was in the bathroom shooting up and left this one for later
but in a daze
forgot to consider
that others would be home early.
i didn't care.
i've stepped on many ***** syringes before
and as a child
poked myself by accident
a few times as well.
i don't have hepatitis luckily
but to me
it was just an annoying prickly receptacle
full of enough intoxicant to be
lethal to any person
without a tolerance.
i just banged on the door.
''hey if i see this ****
again
i'll break your arm''.
i heard faint mumble from within
and left him to get high.
he was going to leave within the next day or two any way.
must be fun,
and millions are having fun,
why bother them?
they know what they're doing
it's just
the lack of respect i don't appreciate.
and the fact that they get to **** themselves in plain view
while
we die
oftentimes in slower subtler ways
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
"Turn around,
Shut your mouth,
Sit up straight,
Don't look around.
Be a lady,
That's not ladylike,
Don't dress that way,
You look like a ****
Hold your chin up,
That's not high enough,
Now that's too high,
Don't make this tough.
Just do things right,
Won't you learn,
Do it perfect,
Or you shall burn.
Don't let this scare you,
Just be proper,
If your eyes get red,
Use the eye dropper.
Brush your teeth,
And brush them well,
If they aren't white enough,
You'll go to hell.
Comb your hair,
Get all the knots out,
Just listen to me,
And I won't have to shout.
Just be pretty,
Just be perfect,
It's not that hard,
And it's definitely worth it.
No one likes,
Girls with braids,
Or buns, or ponytails,
Those aren't cool these days.
Powder your face,
Oily skin is a no-no,
Leave your face bare,
And you'll look like a hobo.
Stay in fashion,
And in style,
And you'll fit in,
For a while.
Until they notice your personality,
Sad as it may be,
You need to be different than yourself,
Heck, be more like me.
The more alike we all are,
The better it will be,
Because we'll stop being, him and her,
And we'll start being we."
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014)
(available on Lulu)
duologue
we’ll start here, turtle.
this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to.
the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement
is life
during wartime.
I conceive of a dropper
but hold it empty
above my eye.
because it is the one word without a beginning
suffering
because it is the one word without a beginning
is not limited
by its
vocabulary.
we wanted a sophisticated god
but in immediate
unison
called it
god.
this is the grey cream
that gives her privacy.
I am drawn to a sort of journalism
by association, a campestral formlessness
attached
for example
to the term
carpet bombing.
how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn
she is not ahead of?
she has to stop, turtle.
to declaw an electrocuted kitten
she didn’t
electrocute.
isochronal character
the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is
is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming.
impossible beast
the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
It use to be the color of the sea
At the surface, it was light as could be
Calm, like the sky, the sweetest high.
Did it make me see or did it make me believe, the difference is so little it's hard to concede its existence without a little futile resistance. Go deeper, go darker, more intense, feels a little starker. This is the middle, where the cat plays the fiddle. It looks like velvet but feels of familiar cotton. Smells just comfortably rotten. You've almost forgotten the color of the sky... Was that really the sweetest high? Here you can't even feel the time go by. It does however, have quite an annoying why It's festers and pesters occasionally but I cage it with my in sane ity. Pulse drops, blood stops. What happened? I was coming up for air and .... I got pulled deeper into its lair. You look around for he who dare make you victim, with boiling anger the beast gets sicker. You want to hear the heart stopper? The jaw dropper? There is no monster. You weren't pulled in, you fell in. You were blind this entire time, why is reality so unkind? Days turn into years, fear forgets those tears. So unsettled, living a lie, the blackest of kettles. You are at the bottom of the ocean, drank Ursulas potions, thought it was wine ? Now look what you've left behind. The fruit of life has become a rind. Now what? Will you hold onto your breathe and swim to the top, or is this where it stops ?
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
each dawn I rouse
increasingly light(er)
like midnight realized
she dosed me improper
siphoned back sludge
in the IV dropper
and daybreak snuck
pre-op biotics
that kick in as
I flutter
I feel
the veil
lift.
and guise of years inside
you’re sanitized from the outside
custom toxin bubble confined
pop
and deflate
I’ve been guarding me
for so long.
after you live in prison
upon your release, you still
put walls around yourself
don’t trust don’t trust don’t
believe
anyone
is.
safe.
your create bars
to stay that way
just like home
penitentiary
that tucked you in
told you howwherewhen
you didn’t get to
make decisions
you didn’t
belong
to you.
then when on your own
you still don’t feel you
belong to anyone
I was so used
to playing small
I kept shrinking me
habitually
but
I. am.
uncontainable
and part always
of the all
as love culture multiplies
in open air beyond
illusory bars
I look up so high
level with my own
open eye
realize I’ve been
sitting under a table
in the broom closet
when I coulda been mingling
in the party just outside
where lights don’t chase, just
reflect iridescent cocktail dress
and there is laughter
with not one nanosecond
false, forced or choreographed
for the bones just know
and move
in song
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC