"flanneled" poems
They're piled in an Amazon box of almost never-
(that is, all not-quite not-ever-
but sometimes twice- and most often a mere once-)
worn clothes destined for another,
bigger green metal box proclaiming itself
charitably fashioned for such donations
as these nearly pristine shirts,
jeans and sweaters that have only those holes
their makers intended but still lack the want
I've wasted for arms, legs and torso to fill them.
What they don't have is shabby stitches
or those counterfeit claims mocking
a public thread-lust for luxury labels,
but they are mild misfits of the well-meant
gift or of my poor-choice selection
and they carry an ill-suited look,
whether it's fleeced too loose and loud,
or flanneled too bold and blousy,
or otherwise woolly with any too fuzzy
je ne sais quoi that puts me off.
Too's had grown too many as if the clothes bred
while tucked in nice 'n cozy at backs of drawers
rarely drawn or stacked sleepy on the bottom
of a closet's clutter-topped shelf,
and if proved it would be a miracle
on par with Christ's gospel-touted cloning
of the loaves and fishes, but it's not,
so I can't compare my parlor-trick sharing
of two dozen hand-me-downs carelessly passed-on
to his magic of multitudinous feeding.
After all, the real comparison is,
I could have accomplished even more
than this speculative giving,
had I been retrospectively better
in my retroactive accounting
and made the significantly less sinful
omission of never (not just once or twice,
but actuarially quite not-ever)
accumulating so much always
not-needed, however tasteful, stuff.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 8:59 PM UTC
I sleep on sheets covered in beer and carry boxes of bottles to the trash room, boxes and sheets and smells that could get me in trouble with the people who wear uniforms
And I put my head on the shoulder beside me and everything is sweat and stale alcohol and three am and I was supposed to do more homework tonight. I was supposed to get more done and go to bed so much earlier.
But here I am, tired and lying beneath Kenyan blankets, atop Blue Moon covers, lightly taking your phone off your chest and setting it away as you slip into sleep beside me
Here I am, bringing you trash bags I bought with my own money, carrying a box of illegalities I didn’t drink to the recycling, leaning into your flanneled embrace in the Sunday morning quiet of the hallway
I will take care of you, no questions asked
I will always take care of you
Before sleep’s waves, in the dark, holding my hand to yours and telling you that I am here to talk— and knowing you will never take me up on it.
Asking you questions because it’s my job, and you say I do it too well, and we both know that that avoids the question in the first place.
I will take care of you, asked questions unanswered
It is 3 am on a Sunday, and I will take care of you
Always.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 12:00 AM UTC
In came I at the end of the storm
Soaked through to the skin with icy rain
I six or seven weeks old abandoned once again
Too young to believe in the spoken eventuality of spring
Of which the elders told mystically the unseen shifts would bring
Too young to conceptualize the marsh grass
dry, the blue skied sun ablaze in the sky
Too young to believe in clouds of butterfly
Driven forward by the simple wish not to die
Came I to the door and mewling stood
Until it opened and into gargantuan
Heated arms lifted and I folded into them apparently for good
Was I wise?
When in I came
Warmed in those flanneled human arms
Dried with a towel from icy rain
I lie on floors polished to a shining glow
warm, clean and fed I see myself grow
Outside the glass the wind howls
The trees now iced and bare
Would I have lived to test the mythic spring
I know not that, know only this one thing
That should the time actually come when
All outside transforms to warm, scented green
It will through 'pain' of clean impenetrable
Glass by me, safe, ensconced, separated,
Looking out from within - be not ever felt, yet ever seen
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC