"fishbowl" poems
Soft melodies of the deep sea echo
Moonlight dances on my pretty scales
And icy bubbles whirl under my chest
Through my slippery hair
And down into my lungs to clear the way for overflowing foam
Laughter splashes behind my lips as my anticipation rises
Waiting for a night of twisted fairy-tales and uncalled for surprises.
Shimmering bodies swarm in spirals
Grinding in unison with the waves crashing at the surface
We're anxious for overflowing foam and hidden treasures
Purple light pierces the dark like shards of crystals
Casting a ghostly shade on bulbous faces
Pressure rises as each wave surges
Whirlpools of hot breath suffocate our gills
But the sidelines are shallow
And stragglers float motionless
Hair like seaweed at the nape of his neck
Unbuttoned linen soaked and dripping
Her hollow eyes glow green
Like the jelly orbs of a fish under florescent lights
She’s pressed against a boy who has hooks for fins
Searching for the parts that are edible
Tender, Scale-less, Slippery
Nothing wrong with being the catch of the day
Right?
Bubbles rise and pop as the last melodies drown
Schools of us are begging for shiny hooks and bad decisions
A handsome boy has been smiling all the while
He’s caught in a fisherman’s net
Craving salty lips and the spell to make him a man
But fisherman don't care for little mermaids
With hearts like sea glass and no hidden treasures to steal
Sweaty fins splash and cheer
The fishbowl shatters
Sea glass spills out onto sand
We squirm and flop onto land
Gasping without air to breathe
As our mouths and ***** thoughts dry in the sun
Leaving behind fresh meat without mouths to feed.
Rainbow confetti was stuck in the grooves of my scales
Wet clothes left on the floor of a steamy bathroom
Gasping and moaning into tile
With the face of a handsome stranger
Because this meat shouldn't go to waste
And I'm drunken with desperation
For overflowing foam, jewels, and shiny hooks
But I'm just another fish in the sea
Tumbling in the waves with my rainbow confetti scales.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
* * *
Absorbing dust and Golden heat,
living more openly than I do,
he shimmies to Billie Holiday
The year is not 1957, though
he lives in a San Francisco fog
longing to play the piano
The time in not 11:57pm, though
he orders a ***** martini & swims
in the fishbowl bay
Escaping to Telegraph Hill
to drink moonlight jazz & vermouth
he pretends to live
Way back when
* * *
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
yesterday, I caught my words crying
not out but within.
cryptic and concealed no more
as the rain poured up
and the ice melted shut. The muscles
isotonic strain kindles heart filled
hurtful strength as
endurance accelerates.
Wasted ones and fives
on groped lonely women.
The ******* forgot the fishbowl
and his keys on government steps
but remembered the leaky wineglass.
Total recall enforced
the key ring's silhouette rolls on by
looking for the keys
to grab a broom and clean up this mess
of market debt and ajar markets.
Ceiling tiles mist and swirl
and wait for mercy to strike again
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC
the urban ecosystem
breeds the urban beast;
the two-legged feral brute
they board their clockwork motorcages
the young ones in predatious packs
the old, too weathered to care
animal autonomy
born from sweatshop routines
i imagine myself
as a metropolitan jane goodall
observing and assimilating
taking note of the cacophony of
hoots and and hollers
the city-born mating calls
the high-topped courtship dances
******* civility born from enslaved mindsets
a young, dark-skinned boy
let's rhyme flow freeformed
to the rhythm of a young girls dancing feet
stomps and claps excite the celebration
of abandoned social etiquette
and of my foreign presence
i resemble some exotic missing link
a mix of this, that and the other
my skin, a rare quilt
and this draws more attention
than a gold-dusted african queen
i place myself in the back
peering through the windows of this transit jungle
feeling my heart skip beats
boom...boom...shhhh...
i must've left my rhythm in my other heritage
because i can't catch the ancient flow
but my neck leads my head in bobs
my brain rattles with old soul memories
and i see these young folks on the train
held back by centuries of black struggle
but forever rejoicing in african pulse
forever embodying our ancestoral pride
and i think, how peculiar
on the outside looking in like a fishbowl
exiled from my own brown-skinned tribe
with my oppression fitted like a glove
my blackness a mere disguise
my blackness camouflage
my blackness
not quite
black
enough
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
a ribbon of fire
a curl of lace
and your eyes swimming
in the fishbowl
of my heart
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
we're just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl,
year after year;
running over the same old ground,
what have we found?
the same old fears,
wish you were here...
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
I like to make lists,
of things I've lost, assignments I've missed,
Of people I want to meet.
And I admit, most of those people are poets.
And I know how typical that might seem,
aspiring poet looks to understand a greater inspiration,
be enlightened by the sound of their voice as humans,
not the voice they use on stage, a made-up persona, a super hero.
And all of that? Is true.
I want to ask questions, I want to hear about their triumphs and their regrets and try to match each one with things I've heard from other poets, relate it to myself.
I'd think maybe I can be great one day, display one of my own poems on a trophy shelf.
And for every person on that list I have another someone,
on another list labelled People I am Proud to Know.
And all of these people are poets.
People you will probably never hear of,
And if you have, you still can't possibly understand the origin of their stage names,
The inspiration for their concepts.
And I will try, with every ounce of my being to spill out the trivia into a fishbowl as if these people were goldfish. As if I could ask you to stick your hand in and try to grasp the idea in your bare fingertips with my muck of explanations as your only net.
But its hard, because not all poets have pens, not all poetry is built with words.
It is built with sweat and and laughter and pride.
In name calling I wish I could go by on stage.
There is poetry in the way she kisses her boyfriend,
There is poetry in the way Malawi still sparkles in her eyes,
There is poetry in our long nights and jokes and the way they tell me to shut up simultaneously.
There is poetry in our dances on the sand.
I will forever follow in their footsteps.
When we were little, they they used to make me cry just so they could be the ones to tell me it was okay.
There are still days I cry. There are still moments I feel homesick no matter where I am and feel like it'll only get better if they let their baby sister crawl between their sheets.
I follow in their footsteps because it makes me feel like I know where I'm going,
through sand or snow or mud,
there will always be poetry there.
I feel it. Its all I've learned to know.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC
I get the hunch that the ashes of kindergarten,
Lunchboxes, the national anthem
Are floating from the edge of us
So many sophomore stars from a cigarette’s tip,
Somewhere down the mountain we lost our winter coats
And bicycle summers, and plastic sailboats,
No puddles and rainboots, or slick soft dogs
And paper flowers, captured fish and frogs
We try to jump in puddles, and we float
Deep-bright and hissing in the city chill
Childhood traded for strange soft skin
Grumpy cats and boardgames for mixed drinks and casual ***
And the cicadas gaily chirping fall away like
Fishbowl-helmet astronauts, lost without gravity
Mercury, Venus, Youth,
Maturity, Jupiter, Saturn
We are never kids again,
Nor adults until we die
wait until the phone rings
and the teacher goes inside,
under the slide at Recess:
you can put your lips on mine
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 11:28 AM UTC
i’m not sure how artists have the patience
to sculpt marble slabs into gods
or why they feel it’s worth their time
but i do know that
the nights i stay up until 3 a.m. are usually the worst
and the mornings i wake up at 8 a.m. are usually the
best
and that it’s worth the money to buy a decent mattress
instead of losing sleep on fiscal responsibility
and i feel grown-up having wrapping paper in my closet
and extra birthday cards in my desk
and i might always be crazy
always holding on to pieces of the past
tacking them to my bedroom walls
and pretending it’s okay that i still think about it all
but i won’t forget that some people are brave enough
to put on big white suits and fishbowl helmets and leave
their families to go walk on the moon
or that i flew on a plane by myself even though i was
absolutely petrified of being alone in the sky
or that spring exists,
and that winter cannot, and will not, last forever
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
*swimming through my head
searching for the words you said
sometimes upwards, you try to swim
but i’ll always push back
when you wanna dim
why you’re so far away
all these things we’ve to pay
why can’t we be together in the rain
or just somewhere else, somewhere
on a hell-bound train?
it seems that’s the place to be
at least for us, not totally free
why do we deserve this
i’m asking myself all the time,
but i know today it’s fine
you’re living in my head
and also tomorrow won´t be bad
as you keep swimming around
i´ll prove it, once i’m a fish too
i´ll prove, you’ll be found*
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC
My living disposition leads me to assert that I am not dead!
Yet, my silence screams ancient transcriptions across geographical contour lines which are considered to be far removed from the metaphorical grid of contemporary societal norms, where the seductions of the vampyre and her haunting dynamics cast their eerie spells within this captivating fishbowl of galloping horses.
The Prince of Wallachia is able to explain.
Let us converse with The Count.
Whenever there is emphasis upon specific detail in this age of certain vanity, I find that, in 1456, I am truly bereft of valedictorian and flamenco odours, because this royal prince of acoustic arrangement has generated a harmonious expression which humbly corrects my intrapersonal assumptions across the mountainous regions of Transylvania.
Conflict resolution is therefore a mere figment of sociological and anthropological constructs, which fornicate with the façade of egocentrism and fabricates vain attempts to maintain social elitism within a blanket of darkness.
How do we find ourselves in the position of being so diametrically opposed to reality?
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
It seems that I am indeed
Just another lost soul
Perhaps Floyd was right
Maybe the world is a fishbowl
But you see, the trouble
In all of this nonsense
Is that I still hope to see
You hop over my fence
Please tear down my wall
Oh, won't you come in?
I've been feeling comfortable
Yet numb, dismissing my sin
So what are we?
Essentially good, or not?
Do you find favor in Socrates?
Is Nietzche's idea the one you bought?
Let's question, let us wonder
Should my thoughts go assunder
Don't tip or toe, or go tumbling under
Nevermind the noise, it's just thunder
Get caught up in the spark
The rigid structure of light
Because you are alive
So live this gift of your life
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
I am existing in a fishbowl, which I bid to be my life
Exposed to every eye that wishes to see
Several random bursts of emotion and personality
And swim here in my fishbowl with me
I swim here in the swift current of my feelings
No holds barred, for all to see
Expressing what so many of us feel inside every day
Not ashamed one bit, to reveal the inner me
If you ever freely choose to reveal your soul
To swim out in the open water free
You may come on and jump right in my fishbowl
And openly swim through life with me
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
Five foot by five foot
Just space enough to stand
Not any decor in sight
The feeling old and bland
The water never cleaned
It seems nobody cares
We try to break the glass
We're not ours, we're theirs.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 11:21 AM UTC
afternoon hanging heavy,
caressed by a tomato soup fog,
tired carpet, fleshy velvet couch
both aching for validation.
ten photos of the same dog
speak Latin all at once
a desk in utter disarray,
fishbowl walls slimy
and coated in shame
a bookcase crammed with
stepfather books,
trying too hard, too much, too soon
giant cilia lined lungs swing from the ceiling,
******* in and out and in and out and in and
all of the oxygen and
it has already been an hour,
$150,
a check is fine,
see you next week.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
From a cold Shoulder,
Sharp honed Tongues speak barbed with a silent whisper,
Emptiness under fine silks and cosmetic canvas,
This chosen heard gambles in the dreamy bliss,
Illusion of choice saves the Shepherd staff from the dirt,
Living in this fishbowl where the fish act like sharks,
Lured by the shining bait of glitter,
Already we know,all that glitters............
Learn quick what fish act the same in a rising net,
Lose time for those eat the others.
Good evening ladies and gentle men!
Step right up....step right up and marvel at its reflected glory,
See how it glows when the sly dizziness covers the vista.
Who dare goes where the great unwashed go?
Gaze in amazement as the crock self exaltation simmers.
Try see like the blind.
Know that when she sings you wont be ready,
Hold reserve and smile as she fades back into the soft flowing tide.
Become accustomed to her song,
Like a well fed dog lying in the sun, problems are forced into small spaces
and nudged into open water
Shadows become old friends with familiar voices,
The odor of the Summer Sun wafts by,
Even if you hide in the Winter cold,
The Trees do the dance of spring,
She dines feasting on the edible Star Drops
He is happy melting at the thought of nothing
They all toast the Cosmos as it waves back.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
before i left seattle, and long before i made the mistake of returning,
i was babysitting a fish in a fishbowl,
for my brother's kids.
the water in the bowl was cloudy,
unclear, ***** because of the fish
so of course the fish died,
the bowl just sat on the counter after the fish died
but before my brother's kids came back from california
anyhow, moving back here was a mistake.
the cost of living here is ridiculous,
there is no room to be a middle class person here
only a little kid who works at amazon
whose mom found him his job.
these little kids work for amazon,
their moms type out cover letters and resumes
so their kids can get jobs at amazon
i am looking for a new job because i can't afford to keep the job i have now,
the little kids who work for amazon have it pretty good though,
they can bring their dogs to work with them
they can jack up the rents, no problem
mom is always looking out for them like that
tonight i applied for a job at amazon
i typed in my first name to submit my application
"jeffbezosisacunt", i wrote a quick cover letter
telling them i was qualified for the job because
my mom didn't have to type out my cover letters for me
and because i had a dog that hadn't been trained yet
that i could take to work with me, then i attached a pdf file of a quick reference guide for aol 9.0 as my resume
it felt good
but not for long and not good enough
mark zuckerberg makes me sick too,
i can just see him running for president one day,
needing a good slapping
the little **** has never known any form of adversity
so he just keeps on being a little ****
he has a lot in common with kim jong un
when i first moved back here, there were all these orange and white umbrellas every morning. those orange and white umbrellas had already taken over.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC
Life is the prattle of an old lady.
She squawks either too loudly
or makes you crane to hear.
as she sits rocking,
her senile nonsense numbs your intelligence
until you sit bleary-
gaping at the air
like the fattest fish in the aquarium.
your every comment drowns
in the mush
of her tapioca voice.
you sit uncomfortably in her fishbowl world of
cottage cheese,
faded floral print- lace doilies
and contemplate your deft superiority
as her denture clicks gnaw on your sanity.
as soon as you think
a vague plotline surfaces in her mumbling
a new great aunt’s third cousin’s baby
weaves its way into the conversation,
and you are hopelessly thrown
like a reused dryer sheet
back into the colored load.
occasionally you attempt to establish a connection
between you and the venerable wrinkled smile
but she mishears and begins another
disconnected strain
featuring Bobby, the lad turned soldier.
but
just
as soon as you gain confidence
that you know how to handle this doddery senior-
she slams you with a small token
of sage advice
that shatters your naïve sphere
with its mind-wrenching validity.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
It feels as if I’m drowning,
Waiting for someone to come and aid me,
But time keeps tick-tick-tocking away
As if it’s in a race.
I wonder if my soul is racing against other souls
To see who could outrun the other
Or who could swim more
Than the person next to them.
I wonder if my soul is determining
Whether or not
This fishbowl is worth
All the fight and struggle.
Because I like to think my brain and my heart
Are battling each other for dominance.
Battling each other to see who could outsmart the other,
To see which ***** is needed more.
They say there’s plenty of fish in the sea,
But who’s to say
That there aren’t beasts and sharks
In the tank either?
A hundred miles below the horizon
Lie creatures that haven’t been discovered.
Different,
Yet so similar to our minds.
The grey matter that nurse our ideas
And cultivate them
They hide our innermost thoughts
And dreams lay hidden under them,
Waiting for the right moment to spring up.
My feet are straddling the edge of the cliff.
My heart’s racing,
And my mind is telling me to jump,
But I’m afraid of the unknown
And I don’t know what to expect
Once I dive in.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
Your heartbreak is as cozy
As the fishbowl I still get dizzy in
After you took me off the back burner
And placed me on the counter to cool
I have to remind myself that
It is not an earthquake when you
Slam the kitchen cabinets
Even though
My world shakes
The thing about fish is
If you don’t put a lid on their bowls
They tend to jump out
Not that it is an attempt at suicide
Just that some of us were born
Without the capacity to understand
Our own limitations
Don’t tell me I can’t breathe on dry land
*********
I am a man
Which means I am too dumb to understand that
Unless I try
How am I supposed to know
That I can’t protect you from everything
Unless I try
How am I supposed to know
That I can’t love you forever
Unless I try
How am I
supposed to know
That duct tape
can’t hold everything together
Unless I try
How was I supposed to know
That we would eventually be
Nothing but gasps of air
On a damp cutting board
When the lashings of love
Have denatured the thickest parts of our skin
Maybe I don’t know how to fix everything
Or love you like a normal person
Maybe saying every thought I have out loud
Makes you uncomfortable
It makes me uncomfortable
My face isn’t always this red
My skin isn’t always this hot
I am not always this dumb
But I am a man *********
And maybe I just
Haven’t learned that yet
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 4:33 AM UTC
Looking out the fishbowl;
The bumbling bees, buzzing to serve the ravenous queen.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
Bodies moving in the glass
But, alas, the snow falls
Outside the globe
Who knows?
While inside
This side, like flowing tide
Points and pirouettes
Reflect in shapes like snowflakes
More unique
A picturesque finesse
But bleaker in the light
Than under glow of moon
Because they know
The show
Lacks something from
The airport shelf
Becoming
Something greater than the self
Silent ballerinas dance
Underwater glitter
Fancier than windows taller than the sky
And why
Can't they appear
And here
We disappear
In light among shadows
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
Today was interesting. I primed my walls. They used to be pink. Now I'm painting them grey. This is symbolic, I think. What would the girl who picked out the pink paint ten years ago think about her choices now? I don't know. It's pointless to ask. She won't answer.
The paint can looked like my fishbowl. My fishbowl is empty now. My fish died. He was purple. Until he died. Then he was grey. I poked him with a pencil. He felt funny. Definitely dead.
The fish was purple and then grey and dead. The walls were pink and then grey. Are they dead? Is my room dead? I think it might be. Or maybe I'm dead. I don't really know.
I feel dead sometimes. Today I ate a lollipop. I think I went numb because next thing I know the lollipop is gone and so is half the lollipop stick. It tasted like cardboard. It hadn't hurt me so far so I finished eating the cardboard-flavored lollipop stick. It made my stomach feel funny. But I wasn't numb anymore.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC