"fourths" poems
I pull open the door
And hunt for food in the dim orange light.
"There's nothing inside"
Well, actually,
There is something:
Months old cream cheeses precariously stacked atop each other,
Several mysterious bottles of brown sauces,
Dried out leafy vegetables,
But nothing
This lazy *** can eat without preparing.
I push close the door,
Leaving my stomach rumbling and empty,
But filling my mind with
Dreams
Three-fourths of the dull gray door is covered
With colorful ceramic magnets
From my dad’s corporate adventures
To Batangas, Bohol, Bacolod, Davao,
Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, Macau,
Nepal, Vietnam, Sri Lanka, China,
Dubai, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia
Sudan, Egypt, Ethiopia,
Canada, Greece, and Australia.
I examine each magnet’s contour and shine,
Letting its foreign dust seep into my fingers.
I dream that soon
I will return all those dusts to their lands
And bring home more magnets of my own.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
Time rolls
its mossless stone
slowly tonight.
It is as though the
tic
has lost it's
toc.
Seconds have become
thirds, fourths, fifths.
So slowly does
the smallest hand
move upon the cracked face.
Minutes no longer tiny minute things.
But now gargantuan wedges
of pie.
So large as to feed
history's poor twice over.
Hours are unpowered,
flacid flat balloons
without breath or form
smothering all thought.
The grandfather clock
in the hallway
has embraced senility
and no longer
completes it's
pre-ordained
preambulation
around the
captured sundial.
It has now given itself
airs and graces.
Believing in heart and mind,
and cog and pendulum,
to be a jazz percussionist
banging, tapping and ringing
in an off beat tempo
somewhat lacking in
basic rhythm.
So time runs
with the scatterd
predictabality of the Tardis.
Bigger on the inside.....
Slower on the darkside
of the grandfather clock.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
"I hope we last. I hope we do.
But if we don't, this is how I want you to remember me:
I want you to remember me curled up, listening to the sound of your heartbeat and tracing maps across your skin. Remember me laughing at your jokes even the stupid ones. Remember me in hysterics for absolutely no reason and in tears because one time you made me so sad neither of us thought I'd recover. Remember me brave, that time you held my hand and I thought I was going to die; remember me scared and gentle and delicate and breakable - only for you though, only for you.
Remember me happy, and all the ridiculous ways I tried to get your attention. Remember the way I was too stubborn to talk to you and how absolutely insane it drove both of us.
Remember all the firsts and how they were so delightful we went back for seconds and thirds and fourths. Remember the songs you couldn't stop listening to and the childish dreams you allowed yourself about the future. If it's any consolation I allowed myself to have them too.
If it comes to it I don't want you to remember the ending.
Remember the beginning. Remember the first time you knew."
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
This eraser is my trust,
huge isn’t it,
there’s so much to give
I have given it to you, now be careful
the more mistakes you make
the less there is,
the more you play with it,
the more it breaks,
the less you care for it,
the more that you lose it,
follow these guidelines,
you’ll be fine,
One, don’t draw on it,
it’s not a paper it’s an eraser,
it can get forget your mistakes,
unless they're written on there,
Two. don’t let anyone borrow it,
I’m trusting you, only you
to care for my eraser,
to be sure that you can handle it
Three, don’t break it in half,
or in fourths, not even eighths,
may seem like more but really,
it’s just easier to lose,
and once it's gone,
you can’t ever have it back.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
The way water pellets run down
your tan firm body
like light nimble fingers
caressing your edged jawline
makes me wish those fingers
were mine.
The way the sun reflects off of
your white brilliant smile
like many bright little stars
inside your lips
makes me wish your light could shine
into me.
The way you walk towards me right now
your muscles tensed and eyes locked
like an animal going in for the prey
makes my heart race and skip beats
a little kid on a sugar high.
Which I am.
Looking at you is like feasting on
Halloween candy
eating the entire pillowcase-full in one night.
Gazing at you is like going back for
seconds
thirds
fourths
on dessert
and not feeling the least bit guilty.
You are my secret stash of
eye candy.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
do you ever wish your body just wasn't your body?
that every cell
of every square inch
of every limb
over your entire body
was completely different
that every cell
of every square inch
of every limb?
do you ever wish that nothing about you was you?
and you know that if your mother knew of your sins
she would cry
and there's nothing you can do
to stop those tears
you know
your mother would cry
if she knew of all your sins?
do you ever wonder if your friends would be your friends if they knew
the awful horrible things about you?
do you ever wonder if they'd stop calling
if they knew all the times you swore
you pleasured yourself
you killed them in your mind
you let something awful
horrible
terrible happen
that would make them never
ever
want to see you again?
do you ever wonder if God gave up on you?
do you know He always gives people second chances?
and thirds?
and fourths?
and fifteen thousands?
but do you wonder if after five-trillion-
four-hundred-billion-
-two-hundred-thirty-seven-million-
three-hundred-thousand-
and-eight
He finally said
"You know, I gave this guy
(or girl)
plenty of chances,
but they messed it up five-trillion-
four-hundred-billion-
-two-hundred-thirty-seven-million-
three-hundred-thousand-
and-eight
times
and that's just one too many."
i do.
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
The job's rotten, still.
So many days past writing on pages like these.
Hoping for the best,
full of angst towards schooling and lowly positions.
Now school's over, and I left old jobs,
but the lowliness takes new form.
I left so many of yous there,
but don't look at me all forlorn.
I finished my share of the toil toll;
I went to school, I went into debt,
without even buying a home,
and most important of all,
I only climbed a rung.
I wish I could walk into that retail barn with unfake flair.
Show everyone I'm doing something I loved
and always talked about;
museum work, teaching, or traveling.
Even those "choices" are too general.
Getting over 12 bucks an hour's half the battle.
I'm only almost there, again.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
Nervous. Boot heels click clack up steps. Walk around back.
Step in. People in pockets everywhere. Swerve straight to cooler.
Take a beer. Cracks open with crisp click. Drink drink drink. Ellipse of friends block out world.
Finish beer. Talking a little louder now. Confidence enough to walk to cooler
alone and grab more beers. See Steph and stop to chat. Move on. Keep on drinking the whole way back.
Two and a half beers and I’m starting to feel it. The excitement, the loosening of social limits. The loosening of myself. Boy whose name starts with a “C” but I just can’t remember starts talking to us. He’s kind of cute.
My fourth beer drains down my throat and I’m laughing at a joke. I’m friendly, people are friendly. The world is all kindness.
My sixth(and three fourths) beer in my hand, my head starts to droop and my hips are swaying of their own accord. It’s like the sky has puppet strings, twisting me side to side. The beat controls me, the world whispers my movements. Who whispers to the earth is beyond me.
…am I on my seventh or my eighth beer? People walk off to dark corners, hands on hips and ******* and chests. Still I dance somewhere in the vast dim basement. Still I twirl, rhythm gone but gravity still clinging to the movements.
But where am I? What am I doing here on this dance floor, on this city-planet floating or falling or patiently waiting on the ice-slicked footsteps of space? The world is spinning as it pirouettes around the sun, the sun circling a superstar, that star swirling around the center of the galaxy, spinning like a top in the rest of the full dark silk of space, stars clapping and nebula soaring and supernovas shattering, guests all to the raves of light years. I dance on earth’s doormat drunk and spinning, feeling a giant in my world and a broken bottle in the worlds of others. Oh god, in the words of that song that’s beating in the bones of the earth and the air in my lungs, can we get much higher?
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
You run into the station as I'm pumping gas and come out with a gigantic cup of coffee.
"I know that usually by this time you've had three or four cups, and this was the biggest they had."
I take a long swig, and it's the perfect combination of caffeine, dairy, and sweetness.
"I love how you know exactly how to make my coffee," not knowing if you realize how much significance I place on this small act.
"About three-fourths coffee, one-quarter milk, and a shit-ton of sugar," you say while smiling at me so casually.
It's not a big deal, and yet it is. You pay attention to the tiniest of details, take notice of the most seemingly insignificant parts of my day.
You have no idea how much it means to me, how much value you have added to something such as this cup of coffee.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
Your absence has drawn
fractions on my belly. It's
bisected the axis of my
heart; it has split me apart.
I am charts and statistics.
I'm percents. You were sharp.
So was I; when I left, I cut
those halves into fourths.
I left one in your bed, now
I'm three quarters saved
and one quarter spent.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 9:07 AM UTC
I. there is a sort of ephemeral longing
you can only find in the heartbreaks of grown-up girls
(old tracks, cleaned room, messy hair, simplicity)
thinking back on the glowing days of adolescence
when bad flicks brought you places
IV. back then, the anticipation of being older was
almost tangible enough to cut
in halves, fourths and one-tenths
now the mere thought turns you off;
lemon cakes taste as bitter as the sugar
poured in your third afternoon coffee
V-III. your love of chocolate was left at the beach
along with pink heart-shaped sunglasses
(i rented that semicentennial-old russian novel
to convince myself that dreams aren't real
and until the skin breaks, your past stays intact
at least that's what H.H. taught me)
VI. looking back, your childhood was not as bad
as you make it out to be, truth be told
fascinated by your infatuation with the
place where you always belonged;
II. today the world is cold, punctuated
by the sore troubles of reality
that friends, majors and late-night talks
both compose and mend
and heaven knows how much you have to say.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
That dark patterned line
crossing straight the moon,
centering the frozen sphere-gate
of a misty autumn night-sky,
is not a cloud to sink down on only
and float subtly for a while
< so I can feel the aura of your skin mixing with the mine >
but it is also a five line staff
and tells me an aurally perceived absolute secret so that ,
through my hearing ,
you will
rise,
glide,
twirl
and cross
other lines,
tune my gaze
and engrave a mystic score beyond your shine,
plant each of ‘you’s,
note by note,
in ones, halves, fourths, eighths , sixteenths and ‘pi’s
in the heart of each
<beyond the clouds away from my reach>
twinkling star
so that anyone that could look up with a heart,
<maybe on a clear night sky>
would see a commencing song-
singing the dance of an ever weaving light-story
visible to those eyes with a knowing only that
<the knowing about a wish is
a wish that shall eternally be kept a secret>
has the enlightening technology to recreate a reflecting galaxy
with an authentic memory
that expands infinitesimally
<which we in our terms would say it expands by love
but in truth would not really know how
unless the terms are lost and we have got no time except to > - be now-
be now
be now with me now
and now and only now
be now and with me now
and only now and now
Would you come and meet me then?
there?
but I don’t know where… just there?
wherever all these sky lookers are
and be one of them, again ? as we did once– on a terrace
one summer night, we watched our own story under stars, among crowds while I asked for your light and you kissed me awake for eternity and so
would you let me kiss you this time - one more time
just for the last time and forget that eternity eternally this time?
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
Late at night I am creative
in the form of a fizzing soda bottle
pomegranate deep purple liquid
poured into a glass tumbler three fourths full
standing on a chair moving cereal boxes
that tall glass bottle in the back of the cupboard
splashing it in the tumbler clear and sour
half a teaspoon of sugar and a squeeze of lime
mixing until I see the pink froth on top
drinking it down before I realize what I’m doing
Flash back to a few hours before
“you smell good” is what he said to me
leaning in, whispering it in my ear
Well how do you like me now?
breath full of fruit and something sharper
I can’t say you’d approve of the way my brain buzzes
but I know, secretly, you would understand
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 1:34 AM UTC
I exit my door and enter the corridor
The walls begin to collapse as
I grow twice in size
I make a left and turn the corner
As the walls expand I shrink
Three fourths of my size
As if I'm in a fun house
And the hallways are changing size
Yet they've been consistently the same
All those many years
I make my way back home
As I stare at the walls melt.
Till I fall asleep
And wake up thinking it was all a dream.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
She told my dad he was “kind of an *******
the first time we had dinner with him,
at this place called The Pear Room
but she was disappointed that there were not only
no pear decorations, but that there was not a single dish
with a pear included. She ordered a dry martini
with three olives on a skewer,
but she never took one sip. She gulped.
She came at me like an avalanche in jean mini skirt.
I tried to run ahead of her, but she picked up speed
and tossed me right into her path with scratch marks
on my back to prove it. You’d never know it
by the way she twirls her hair into a bun at the top of her head
just to take her make-up off, how she laughs
instead of getting ****** or how she sometimes
orders her dessert before her meal, but she’s just a girl
who puts on her toughness in the morning like a slip.
She folds
her dollar bills into fourths before she puts them in her wallet,
and she strings herself like paper chains
against the sun every day as she drives to a job she hates.
She listens to Miles Davis on her record player,
asks me to dance at half past eleven on nights I need to sleep,
but I get up anyway. I pour us both a glass of Coke
and try to capture the reflection she doesn’t see of herself,
mirror it in my eyes, just so she knows that she
is not just another item on the menu.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
Give me..
**Give me that good ****
You know, *that good ****
We're handed pipes instead of pills.
Told to smoke pain away something that's been breed 4 generations deep.
A poverty in the sheets.
An allergic reaction,
nuclear,
biochemical -
skin abrasions, lacerations -
3rd degree burns on our hearts.
Drink away the pain to sooth the burn.
To silence the scald.
No one even teaches you to hold yourself.
Instead they tell you to find someone else to do it for you.
Make you unable to be whole.
To be three fourths **** up.
Bandaging your own self inflicted scars in the bathroom sink.
To be metal jackets made of sorrow.
To be blacked out Saturday nights, too hung over to go to church with your family in the morning.
To be so high, you never even get low.
To be light bulbs busted, stayed bright too long.
That good **** ain't good **** when it turns you into the kind of slack jawed, numb monster your mother is ashamed of.
We are a generation self mutilated - no, no - self medicated.
Raised by television sets, they made cigarettes look ***
They made suicide look pretty,
And binge drinking look cool.
They made it normal for kids to pass around bottles of liquor at 14.
You're too young and too fast, and **you're trying to not ******* feel ****
I've been you.
I am you.
So no, it ain't no good ****
*I don't have any good ****
Cause nothing is good, if it's never been bad first.
If it's never been broke, and broken, and sick.
If it's never cried itself to sleep.
If it's never seen its own reflection in broken pieces of glass and felt akin to the shatter.
You have to feel every inch of the low to make any high worth it.
And let it be a homemade one.
Let it be love.
And lust.
And the sun, and good art, and loud music, and jukebox laughter, and your family telling you, you matter.
Don't let it be synthetic and manufactured. Don't let it be bought on street corners, let it be home grown, and natural.
Raised in the corners of your mother's smile.
Let those good moments be you.
Let those moments be life.
Let them be the warmth before the scald, let those be the moments before you fall.
And I know it hurts.
It hurts to be a volcano victim.
To be so irrevocably in love with life when it can burn you so badly.
Believe me, being numb means nothing.
And yes, I know it's hard.
Hard to be 14,
And 17.
And 21,
And 45.
I know it's hard, so ******* hard to exist every single day.
I know the bouquets of heart break, feel like chainsaws and forest fires.
I know the boys hurt your feelings.
I know your parents don't understand you.
I know your teachers don't listen to you,
I know you hate yourself
And I know you shouldn't.
Because baby,
A pipe,
Or a pill
Or a bottle
Won't ever do any good **** for you.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
He still felt deafened by the terrible noise
From the huge field guns that both sides had
Been firing hour after hour for four days. You
Could be scared to death just from the noise.
An eighth didn’t seem like much
Two sixteenths
Four thirty-seconds
Eight sixty-fourths
Sixteen one hundred and twenty-eighths.
Following his recent promotion to Colonel
He was sitting in his new office at his new desk
Hesitating to put his pen to paper
Resisting the inevitable sorrow to come.
He was writing down the numbers – thinking
Thirty two two hundred and fifty-sixths
Sixty four five hundred and twelfths.
Now the numbers looked much bigger.
When he reached
Five hundred and twelve as a
fraction of four thousand and ninety-six
He stopped.
The number now seemed insurmountable
Yet it was still that small fraction.
But he now had to write to that number
Of wives, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters
And tell them that their boy would
Never again walk through their front door.
An eighth is so much more than just a fraction.
©JRW2014
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
J.
U.
N.
E.
With each letter,
It's divided into fourths.
With each syllable,
You fade away.
As the days and hours
Tick on and on,
I feel you.
Dripping
Out of my pores.
Scraping
Out my guts.
Packing
My heart,
And taking it to go.
Now I can't
Look you in the face
Can't
Find comfort in your embrace
Can't
Stand in one ******* place,
Because my paycheck
Is running out.
I knew in the beginning
That this time would come,
So I'm not saying
That this isn't fair.
But when you leave,
My love will be lost.
Maybe I should have looked first,
For how much
You cost.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
Like his Mother Nature,
Forest is full of life and magic.
He is the keeper and protector
of all of God's creatures.
With roots for feet and tree trunks for limbs,
he towers over all;
and feels everything
that moves in his soil.
He has eagle wings to fly over the mountains
and owl eyes to watch over the night,
that when humans come to visit,
they get lost in wonder and awe.
On the other side, there is River;
who is pure and powerful.
She heals and restores life
in all of God's creatures.
She flows to the seas and oceans
and fills three-fourths of the Earth
and half the human body
to nourish the world.
She brings calmness and peace,
like how the Forest provides an oasis;
and together, they hold the secret
to our blue and green planet.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 5:18 AM UTC
Caulk like chalk lines
Drawn on a brick wall
draws blocks together
like ionized particles;
and so the dust whips
up from the pavement,
onto the flat mast
of a tricolored flag
which rests in public space–
but not without movement,
but not without tension–
would fall without knots.
And so our good people,
held by conviction
prescribed by no doctor
swallow a large dose.
Fellow faces they crumple, yet
it’s poor taste to mention that,
and so the tongue is tied;
we speak not.
White cloth like chalk lines,
Red strips like bricks fall
Three-fourths down a half mast;
good people feel sad.
Hands over mouths breathe
through cracks in the radio feed,
like freckles on a sunburn bleed
when cancer starts to spread.
Good people see the bad
and so white faces turn red,
the tragic intrudes on public space
and yields nothing said;
With chalk drawn in broad lines
Knots in arteries tie,
And so I share in death
with all passers-by.
Chalk traces human shapes
—hollow forms on the street—
a dream in waking,
immutable quaking,
beneath a a flag where all colors meet.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
so tell me was it my fault
or was it yours
because I said I wasn't sure how to love
didn't think I had ever felt that before
or was it your greedy heart
gluttonous for seconds, thirds and fourths
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 11:29 AM UTC
Heart beat- rhythmic,
Sleeping- poor.
Not even for a second did I think
we'd be less
than more.
Crack me wide open,
scream to my lungs,
bite at my muscles,
cut out my tongue.
Burn all the ropes down
keeping me up.
Not once in my own thoughts
have I been enough.
I've slept in far too many beds,
too many hands have touched me.
I've tasted far too many boys,
made love just once under the sea.
You're beautiful but I am not,
I am three-fourths used up.
I know I've lost a lot.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC
I
kept saying “I’m just glad no one got hurt,” last night when
I crushed a car driving a semi.
Just about to sleep
on the road by the sugar factory in my hometown
when I heard a horn honking and people yelling at me.
Before I heard aluminum bend at once.
I recounted it to spectators after the fact--
IN MY DREAM--
it was this
yelling, this
honking
inDICTED the victims in my
mind.
That road was endlessly wide.
Their car could have moved enough to miss me; they wanted to
get hit.
For the insurance, maybe.
Who knows?
IN MY DREAM
people get right out of smashed cars.
Below your driver’s side door giving silent, dis-
approving glances within seconds of your palm-
shielded face;
After it had started to get dark
I remember how my dad had
our truck down filling up
on the corner with
scraps of steaming
food.
I noticed potatoes
cut into halves and
fourths piling in and flowing through the broken
tailgate. I knew
where that truck was going:
back to the country.
Where I was told to park my truck and RUN. in-
stead of
crash into the city. Then I saw the insurance adjuster, ask-
ing him,
“hey,
how much will it cost.”
“Some
number that doesn’t surprise me.”
I walked to the corner, past a car
dealership which doubled as a
firework
stand
in the summer
when I was young
and still does.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC
from full to three fourths, to half, to quarter
then from darkness back to new
all the moon’s phases in mere minutes
I’ve seen pictures on the internet
a beautiful sight to behold
to watch her silvery bleu cheese
turn into a reddish cantaloupe
perhaps her face is embarrassed
to admit its heavenly glow
is but the sun’s reflection
perhaps she’s forgotten her place
in the earth’s natural order
she is not less, but equal
yin to sun’s yang
lost in the moment
she changes her mind quickly
emerging from earth’s shadow
she feels contentment in sun’s warmth
once in January’s wee hours
so very long ago
I spent the night outside
as backyard astronomer
telescope at the ready
awaiting a comet’s promise
a party of others crescendoed
suspense’s energy and excitement
but their numbers quickly waned
with the fogging of my telescope lens
coldness prevailing over patience
I sat alone for hours hanging on to hope
in the company of trash cans
sitting in silence as solemn sentinel
they said it would light one third of the sky
ONE THIRD!
a sight never to be seen again in lifetimes
I waited for its brightness and brilliance
until dawn started to peek out
over the eastern horizon
just then a sparkle of light preceded the rising sun
is this it?
could this be Kohoutek?
it seemed to slowly climb into the morning
as it approached and grew bigger
I realized it was just an airplane
what a rip off
what a wasted night
I was robbed
cruelly cast in the role of Kohoutek’s fool
nothing to do now
but bring my frozen telescope inside
and jump into a nice warm bed
will she be kinder?
will Luna eclipse that memory?
will her heavenly glory
be worth the cold and the wait?
I sat on the edge of my mattress
gathering the covers upon my shoulders
should I go?
nah
maybe next time
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
This cup of joe
never lies.
Sip,
as it drowns
my mouth.
Wash me whole
but filled with holes
punctured previously;
Coffee flows
freely.
My second cup,
the third drop
tastes familiar
and stale.
Three-fourths sugar
but bitter,
made sour by spoon.
Dangling,
stirring -
I shall finish my cup
soon.
And what have I learned?
It takes a little bit
of German
and sweet-sounding French
to blend the Irish,
Mexicans;
when I stare,
I leave a welt.
I leave a welt.
I do it so well.
I leave a mark;
it creeps up your neck.
It strangles
then spits venom
on your face.
It will wipe,
it shall lick the scars
left by Grace.
Your saving grace -
amazing grace -
coined by days, years
6 years,
perhaps,
5.
Count to 7,
down to 8, 9, 10 -
the 11th,
you die.
And my cup,
it overflows.
It overflowed,
caffeine-sweet.
The bitter had gone sour;
the sweet,
sweetened by spit.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC