"froot" poems
We slump in mismatched chairs. Two hunches
over shame and a 3am breakfast, I think:
*There’s gotta be a reason why art rhymes with ****
If you want anything to go anywhere with any respectable…affect,
the force of pressure on the inside must exceed that from the outside.
Interrupting this genius, He asks:
How can you eat that crap? It’s so…empty.
He is flipping through his coffeeblack back pocket note rag.
It’s soiled, wrinkled concave with the ever-heaving
stomachfuls of his inky midnight doubt, and I would really
rather not have it at the table while I’m eating.
I am pouring another glorious bowl of Frooty Froot Hoops—yeasty,
store-brand sugarfuel for the lower-middle-income child poet.
He spends another tasteless oatmeal evening
reading essays about how to improve his writing.
Instead of, like, writing to improve his writing.
I ask:
If you took a knife to the edge of your boundary’s boundary—stabbed right into your life-world’s fleshy monad-sac,
glory running ****** down your blade,
As you breached forth into the well-lit unknown,
would it still be courageous, if you emerged from
your warm wet ignorance, and they were all waiting outside with mylar balloons, a banner, and "Congratulations on your Artistic Rupture!”
in blue icing on the cake??
There's still a moment there, right?
Petrified in the sap of thrill, in the momentous-stasis between
The arrow flung and the arrow fallen. A moment of
advancement …a moment of abandon!
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
I say:
Newness, originality, (birth), is purely indexical.
It points, and no one notices that all those shiny vegas lights aren't really moving anywhere—It's just utility bills and light-bulb trickery.
They're asking for genesis extended, genesis again and again
and each false gesture points only towards another
incandescent unreachable elsewhere.
(He nods along, still, not listening.)
But there's little monotony in taking a stab!
Even if it's just for them, again, those perennial spectators expecting,
Waiting outside with ***** little pocket notebooks of their own,
crowding the bassinets, ever-eager to begin another “surprise" celebration.
Gulping sweet, sugarpink milk, I say:
I happen to like this crap!
It keeps my knife sharp.
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
Today I drew a tree.
It was a metaphor, really.
Written within soil were my aspirations,
Dedications I hoped to grow.
I came back to it this evening,
And saw the gaps within the bark.
Grabbing some tools I pressed my
Self on spaces asking to be filled.
The emptiness marked was darker,
Fresher from the pen.
Adding texture to this child’s art,
I smiled and drew again.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
My son's a cereal killer.
I thought I raised him well.
He started chewing slowly
Now he's chomping like hell.
Froot Loops' his favorite victim.
Frooty Pebbles' a sucker too.
He takes them for a milky swim
Then kills them with a crunchy chew.
If his fave two are in hiding
And he's hungry for a ****
Tony The Tiger gets a grinding
And Honey Graham takes a spill.
His kills are wet and chilling.
His appetite's mean and insane
Cereality is his calling;
Cereal killing is his game..
~ P
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
Beep. Beep. The alarm, taking me out of bed.
I slowly, reluctantly raise my head.
My stupor is so great that I fear
Mona Lisa’s eyebrows would soon appear.
Oh Muse! Give me the strength to wake!
I cannot stand another minute drowning in this groggy state!
So my dear old desperate muse,
Drowning in his desperate blues,
Called on Zeus to set me free.
There came dear old wonderful Zeus,
And took some of his lightning juice,
And rained it down on me.
Oh! The pain and agony!
But it was the only thing that could set me free
From the unyielding grasp of sleep
Get up! I say!
It’s time to start your pitiful day!
I stumble to the floor,
Grasping desperately for the door,
Triumphant! The gods exclaim!
Your name shall be put up in the morning-risers hall of fame!
To the showers!
I go, with all due speed,
For a shower, a shower is all that I need.
I wash my hair till it resembles a great lion’s mane,
Shiningly shimmering in the shower-induced rain.
The soap, I capture, with a swipe of the wrist,
While it slips and slides in my strong iron fist.
Out of the shower, I sprint to get dressed.
I struggle with myself to pick out what’s best.
Pants or a skirt? I must make my choice.
No! I scream, with a desperate voice
Alas, it was gone, what I wanted to wear!
It was gone with my friends, when I decided to share!
Melancholy I was, but I did not fret.
On with the skirt I said,
And the turtleneck.
All fresh a clean, I realized my real pain.
Oh the hunger!
Oh the ravenous, unforgiving hunger.
I then set out for my next quest.
Food.
I searched in vein for some Froot-Loops.
The were gone last week along with the fruit juice.
Oh hunger! I say.
I must have food now!
But the question is, how?
Pancakes, I know not how to bake,
Oatmeal, I do not know how to make,
Boil, I do not know how to water,
(Or is it water I do not know how to boil? One can never tell)
Eggs, I know not how to create.
“Gram!” I scream with desperation,
“Please, for god’s sake, give me some satiation!”
In she comes, steadfast and true,
With some bacon, and eggs,
For her granddaughter-pooh.
“For me!” I exclaim, with honest delight,
And experience great ecstasy in each and every bite.
Off to school I say, and run to my doom,
Hoping each day, that it would me summer soon.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 8:25 PM UTC
My mama’s shoes,
Fit my feet too snug, now,
For me to look cute, still, slippin’ them on.
I’ve no need of her lipstick, nor her raspberry rouge,
To make my face look, more, like hers does.
I’m a big, daddy’s girl, who has known the world,
But, not quite enough to really fit in.
--
I still heart,
Sunshine and rosies,
And, playin’ with mah toesies -
Eatin’ froot loops and pokin’ at roly poly’s,
Makin’ colourful cupcakes, covered in sweet gummies,
To eat inside forts filled with last winter’s lights,
Too,
Eatin’ Caramel Delights, sneakily,
Stolen, in spite - of the weight,
I was fightin’ so easily.
--
Perhaps,
When the adults are all done - playin’ house, for fun,
I’ll bring my cookies from the fort, to the table.
We’ll have coffee and speak of the stats,
For the week and laugh about,
Hart's becoming unstable.
And, I shall wear loafers,
That pinch at my,
Toesies that fidget,
Crazily,
Beneath my seat.
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 4:46 PM UTC
RECORD: I LIV)E}D] ON THE MOON
FROGMAN: KWOON
RECORD: UNGODLY Froot
frogman: wax tailor
YOU'all are just like other people
We love to sting
sHe loves to trance
he admires b-e-a-utiful twoomen
Us're whoman
And most-times, twoo whomans
:Now I know my ABC'S
watch me confuse'em like the bourgeoisie:
-"but he pronounced it like Bilgemonkzees"-
( . . 3 . Oh dear, I hope you don't forget to feed me . .
2 . "I am still learning,"
and I've Dear'd to Remember to Forget my Confusions . .
REFORM: WRITE FOR SELFSE
{B-E-A-Grateful no-s1: "Read DeadHeads to BEGIN,
or Blue Tails to END"
-flips coin- }
}
1 . .
CONTINUE: DON'T FORGET
RECORD: curiosity's and imagination's
FROGMAN: selfse
program: INTROFLECTION,
I think "We've thunk it once before,
but it Bears repeating,
now"
LISTEN to us, all of you.
Que'Sera!
-caches Bit-
HA! VV !AH
S A Y
HAHAH
-Opens Mind-
"MY FROG... we're full of chars-"
- [May{jor(+/-)To}m] = E.ven-One
-- 1999-2001, a Race Ode-vent-you-See
[END OF LINE]
for those who may be hamyoung-us for the first time
{END OF MY RHiYMnE}
And Whu-may-n't be pondering what isn't going to clappin now.
(BEGIN TO /S/hEwE TiME)
It is of Coarse : Smoothing for the Mind, Body, and The Selfse of us all.
So,
SPEAK/ . 0\UP
|Whyever needs Bee? Wills Bee.|
Oh, you're di-vidend?
Oi've got these Two Mackszillery Tired Molaz, Whight.
whand day I was cwussin'a peace'a fwaery'dandy
and tay cwacked, whont down ta cagey'mentals.
now ta twooe woots is eckzpozed.
and i sding'em evewy dway
. . .-inserts troothpic-
jrus'tho da gwhothet OH's it's thrill'a jlive one up'teir
-- prole
/and the ghost speaks:
?_
/\
/
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
So I have this reoccurring dream where
I rush to my childhood home and
Open my bedroom door, immediately hit with the familiarity of the smell of day old crackers masked by Febreze.
My eyes search to find a cage full of rats.
I have never owned a rat.
Yet, there are about 20 of the fuzzy little guys
Gnawing at the bars of the cage, pink paws grabbing and clutching, exasperated squeaks escaping their mouths as if to say “Help me!” or “Welcome home!”, my subconscious isn’t smart enough to clarify which.
I open the cage,
A few of them are dead.
Stiff. Small. Dead.
Instead of waiting to mourn
I quickly scoop up the others in my arms
Cuddling them close.
The scenery changes to a pirate ship in the way that dreams do.
Slowly and in a way that sort of makes you dizzy but your dream self doesn’t even notice and it only starts to mess you up when you’re thinking about it while eating Froot Loops two days later.
The rats are afraid and hurry out of my arms
I desperately try to scramble them up
But one by one they all fall overboard.
Now, I aced AP Psychology, so I know how to interpret this
There are 3 theories on dreams.
Information processing theory says dreams sort, sift, and fix a day's experience into memories.
I don’t remember losing my precious rats on a pirate ship.
So that isn’t it.
Problem solving theory says dreams are the continuity of waking thought but without the constraints of logic or realism. That dreams are meant for solving your problems. It suggests my rats are metaphors. I love rats, and if rats are problems, what does that say about me? That I keep trying to hold my issues and insecurities close to me but can’t juggle them all? That all my chances keep falling and dying and I’m losing my sense of self. That I need a reason to be the victim in every situation so I will never have to take responsibility for my actions and I can pretend like my faults never happened. And what about the pirate ship? Like, I don’t even like pirates so why would I put myself in a place I hate and then cling to disgusting faults like they’re precious. None of this makes sense, except maybe it does and I refuse to admit it, I’m in denial, I don’t want to get better I want to stay in this awful cycle forever.
But activation synthesis theory says dreams are a product of activity in the brain. The cerebral cortex attempts to make sense of neural firings by creating a story. In other words, dreams have no meaning. So this whole poem.
Is worthless.
As worthless as a rat.
A small. Fuzzy. Loving.
Yet short-lived rat.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
The river of a spiritual judgment mind,
Your name derives from Hebrew.
Descends from the Middle East
You're sweet sounding.
Like Frosted Flakes and Froot Loops.
Good humored and good natured.
But behind all that lies a deeper you.
Rapping to wrap the rancid desolation of thoughts… Making them rapturous art.
Sick and tired of frustration,
Sick and tired of the money bent backwards,
Sick and tired of the stressful work,
Sick and tired of being sick and tired, huh?
You've been drunk over music so many times you've lost count of the melodies.
You lost sight to what was important to you…
But managed to find yourself again.
Living 18 years on this earth, you stumble upon a ability.
A ability to open up your mind more.
Fingers twitch,
Body denses,
Eyes close to an oscillate vision.
Tingling.
Every. Beat. Tingles.
Scary but a beautiful experience right?
“I wanna impact the world by saying something.”
So you continue to put the mic up to your lips so the blissful colloquies hit the hearts of the amateur.
Music. Takes. Patience.
With your young body,
Mature mind,
And old soul,
You can push yourself to grab the goal…
And sit back on it in New York.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
To me that is listening,
why such a plight?
I search through the darkness,
for that inspirational light.
Stress filled boredom is such a burden to carry,
from the ashes of suffering,
I arise like a froot loop canary.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 2:31 AM UTC
A suit of colored feather
Flamingo toucan tux
I wear my joy
For all to see,
Upon my skin
Rests dozens
Of hundreds
Of emotion.
My blue wings,
Confetti color paper,
Scribble the sorrow
In Crayola,
And I sign my name
In red,
So red macaw
This piercing beak pen
Out and out and out again,
Writing my name in red.
My dozens, my hundreds,
My span of feather,
Has meant to me
My dozens, my hundreds,
My life of emotion,
So **** your feathers,
Raise your pointed head,
Let scream these colors
And wear them so properly again,
Stand here today
To let them see
This unspoken part of pain.
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 5:27 AM UTC