"gerber" poems
The deep sighs of fall
send chills across the daisies.
My compass is sick
and there’s a sense of urgency in my eyelashes,
feeling around for the blisters on my skin
searching for a bed to sleep.
Facets of sleep
encourage the rain to fall,
cold weather raising capillaries under my skin.
I wrote the history of the Holocene era on daisies,
microscope lenses tickling my eyelashes;
dim lighting makes me home sick.
My mind is sick,
I dream of oceans in my sleep,
medicine labels printed on my eyelashes
pill bottles coloured like fall.
Tattoos of purple fringed daisies
cover my shoulders like skin.
Teeth full of apple skin;
asking God how not to be sick,
wondering if a sacrifice of daisies
will get my blood to sleep.
My hair is like the leaves during fall;
I hope I get to keep my eyelashes.
There’s snow in my eyelashes,
landscapes of frost form on skin
the cold air begins to fall,
I decide to call in sick
preferring to hide in a hot sleep
until my breaths sprout purple daisies.
How to grow Gerber daisies,
without losing my eyelashes?
My fingernails are full of sleep,
hot tea grasps at my paper skin.
The panacea for the sick
is a perfect concentration of wool sweaters and fall.
You eat daisies in the fever of fall.
Through my eyelashes I am morally sick,
but yesterday I finally let sleep settle into my skin.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter.
I'm probably not fighting it.
It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade.
Second, keep my death off the internet.
Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions.
Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long.
Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot.
You are not to allow this.
A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving.
Not permitted at the funeral:
Gerber daisies
poetry
blue jeans
any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.")
Encouraged at the funeral:
Hugs - everyone must hug
lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?)
And make sure they bury me in the blue dress.
Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring,
make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building,
or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade,
or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason.
Remember me as I was.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
Gunmetal Christmas socks pulled
past the calf like go-getter high school
girls "rocking" rainbow ******** below
the belt loops. I never went a day
without seeing short shorts and socks
replacing pant legs with a gap at the knee
to breathe. Downplay X-mas with black
jeans thinning 'bove the knees. I guess
it's payback for all the surly Santas
paid per nervous child lapdance
that got ******* out of $1.50
because I walked away.
For all the St. Nicks breathing pressurized
bourbon on little kids' wishlists.
Thread through a burgundy belt frayed
by the buckle teeth. And I'm sure this is really
burgundy, probably the only burgundy I never
questioned much, unless the manufacturer's
lying to me. Unless it's really a flexible case
for wild circuits and tiny open mics in bars
going on 'round the clock. Not just Tuesdays.
Fiber optics around my waist transmitting
telephone transmissions and cybernetic ****
monitoring my hips and what my **** does.
And my thoughts; they're ******* taking
my thoughts. Precious poetry lines lost
to the scarcity of pens in my car, when I'll
shave next, whether or not I want a burr grinder,
if I'll break glasses at work and have to drink
the glitters like iced tea from the hardwood floor.
Maybe I'll cut my gums. Maybe my tongue'll
become a chandelier butterfly and carry
me to Coudersport or Elmira or Nowhere
to watch pregnant teenagers push flat-tire
shopping carts heroin-shaking in the newborn
section. Their babies are spitting up Gerber plans
Mom has never considered. Baby's just a rock rolling
down the birth canal that may someday end up
a boulder in a state park.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
I wish I could breathe
in free poetry
It'd make it easier
for me
to pick locks with
diamond corkscrews
and drown my veins
in the sea
*I never chose to be
a prophet
Lucky for me that
I'm not
and I'm too busy
shooting dynamite
in an overcrowded
lot.*
I don't believe in
Angels' rib-bones
or self obsessive
killer whales
I only picture
sonic-boom clouds
and some lucky
monkey tails
Hey there, kid
look in the mirror
You've got some gerber
on your face
"wipe it off
with my corset"
said the Queen in
all her grace
The knights abandoned
all their fresh blood
and the courtesy
of blades
for the sake of a single ruby
to be run through
by four spades
I hid my eyes
from the man
who covered himself
in tattoos
like a demonic
kind of blanket
and twisted letters
in a noose
May 9, 2011
May 9, 2011 at 3:53 PM UTC
Aww, how sweet,
You always knew
What to do
To make me feel like
Garbage stew,
To make me eat
The poison glue you spew,
To make me drag
My ragged feet
Wherever your
Poisoned heart
Leads you to.
With mine on my sleeve
I keep in tow
And leak from head to toe,
From every swollen pore
The saline flows and
Drips down in
Rivulets to sow
Sterile seeds
And offset
The burning scent
Of cigarettes
In the hair that keeps
Whipping my face
With the pace
Of expanding internet.
Oh well,
I'm all set
With the ********
I'm fine with your
Sense of entitlement,
I'll get by
Without your
"Enlightenment,"
Call it what you want,
It's still just
Getting bent
Getting ******
Getting exactly what you love,
And I bet you'll recount
To me how it went,
With no regard for
What it meant to me,
But my energy is spent
So get to gettin',
Take every cent
From my memory bank,
I'll burn every brain cell
That might have lent
You the time of day
With forty two
Glasses
Of chardonnay
And a few pressed pills
I bought from Kid A,
Don't worry, just chill,
That's not the way
Out things ever play,
More likely I'd wake
up to see your face
Open its mouth
And ******* say
Some ****** up ****
To ruin my day,
But hey,
That's the cycle
I perpetuate,
Cuz Michael
Loves a sparring mate
I guess, not sure, doesn't
Really make much sense,
Especially since
A running mate
Is closer to the figure 8
On it's side that I desire,
Instead I get a cut rate
Liar who equates
Love with
****** desire,
He might make you scream,
But I'll set you on fire.
Either way it seems
You just like to perspire,
Just don't forget that I
Can make you expire
With a call down
The telephone wire
To my Styrofoam supplier,
Nah jk, just being a clown,
Just trying to acquire
Enough sounds and frowns
That I can use for
Funeral pyres
For me and all these new hires,
Unknown girls I can use
To forget her,
The higher the better.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
It is hard to say father;
the thought of you stumbles through me when I see
a Gerber baby food jar or a wooden pop crate.
Once you came to mind when I saw a Polish flag
on TV; that is humorous because
the only Pole I know is a pale man at the gym
whose left eye is shaped like a rotten pear.
Do you still burn your fingers when you
fall asleep smoking in a recliner? I hope
you still do not trim your fingernails while
sitting on the toilet stool; that seems so un-American.
Today is your eighty-fourth birthday;
I hope wherever you are you do not think of me.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 7:34 PM UTC
Se llama Blanca Novoa
La conoci un jueves
Fue mi amante mi pasado
La puse a un lado
Tenia un corazon sencillo
Estaba lista bien al tiro
Pienso mucho de mi hijo
Cuando lo miro, yo suspiro
Profundo, respiro auxilio
Mi ex novia, un dia fue mia
Me trato al cien, muy bien
Machin, sin fin los dos,
Felizes, pero el cielo triste
Me viste, despues te salistes,
Nunca supe de ti,
Me dejastes al olvido,
Bien ahogado y undido,
Solo pido, ver a mi jemelito
Chikito, el que carga mi
Pito con gran sonido,
Y mi wuebos colgando, volando te mando si sigues chingando, la neta dejame ver mi chamaco, hoy lo veras te aplaco y te trago como un taco, soy loco no naco, pinchi parajo opaco, regresame a mi nino santiago, lo extrano mucho pero ya es muy tarde, lo secuestraste, te lo llevastes y guardastes, para hirte bien lejos de mi, llevandote mi papi chulo, y despues darme una patada en el culo, me abandonaste, al suelo me tirastes, y me rebatastes mi vida, luego fuego me hechastes, y con lumbreme cuemastes, pero yo se que eres un angel, fuistes dulce como miel siempre fiel, pero bien herida de los golpes de la vida, del mundo llenando tu corazon oscuro con lagrimas y dolor, tu sangre se lleno de ardor, y te convertistes en serpiente, no fuiste tu tenlo presente, perdiste, lo tengo en mente, eres buena pero al fin el mundo te tumbo a lo profundo rapido en segundos, nomas te pido a mi squinkle, para comprarle su favorito chickle, y darle de comer su gerber, cuidarlo en mis manos, estar con el todos mis anos, mi duele un chingo solo me chupastes mi energia, dejandome una gran herida, fui solo tu bebida, gatorade laid & paid tu emergency aid, me dejastes dormido sin energia, con tu saliva, tan viva, como una divina diva, me sentia bien arriba, pero mas adelante no encontraba salida, perdido escondido super prendido, dame lo que me pertenece, dios me bendicio con mi gallo damelo o sino te lo arrebato!!!
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
The day started at quarter to 7, am...
I did not feel like getting up
For the week before had shown me the joys of sleeping in;
but this day was different, this day was
Christmas
Until this moment the break had been fulled
with happiness, love & the Gerber's cookies
now tho, that had all changed, now it was
different
like the dark thunder storms that roll across
the ocean skies, so too did my heart darken
to a deep empty black
even the moon did not shine that morn'
with 'its light' that it only steals from the sun.
I hate waking up early...
even for presents
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 11:14 PM UTC
the most beautiful day
brings impermanence to mind,
the sunshine won't last,
the wind will cease...
joyful memories
will eventually be forgotten
and the gerber baby
died a long time ago,
so how can anyone
smile?
I miss the days,
when monsters
were tearing apart my closet,
and happiness
was for no apparent reason,
I miss the curiosity
I had in the world around me...
but now I know it all,
I know of my own mortality,
my heroes have fallen,
naivety shattered,
we have no control,
over life,
over death.
so how can anyone
smile?
I found my smile
in you.
death by your side,
makes a life fulfilled.
and this lack of innocence,
is lost in your eyes:
they make the sun shine again
(even at 2 am).
they cause wilted nature
to spring up in endless beauty.
and force the wind to blow again
a warm and calming breeze.
they cause all that's been exposed,
to revert to how it was,
when there were monsters in my closet.
simple innocence.
Jan 25, 2011
Jan 25, 2011 at 1:14 PM UTC
I was having a conversation with the Gerber baby the other day. You know, the one on the jars. Interestingly enough, he simply would not stop giggling. You know and here I am trying to get an answer out of him. But, he would not budge. "What's so funny, baby?" I inquired. {giggles, giggling and more giggles.} Well! What is it? He's not talking. Maybe it has something to do with the peas and carrots or the applesauce. I just could not understand his incoherent dribbling. I guess the joke is on me. I just hope he doesn't make me wear any of it. Oh boy! is he a happy camper.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
you hold him,
black hair against cold skin you hold him
even though youre still in blue spring
and he's somewhere else. somewhere over hills youve only seen pictures of, flowers and tall grass tying around your ankles.
like an ocean, when the wind runs through it right
he laughs on top of the hill you were supposed to walk up,
when its sunset by the lake
(the place no one would find, not for miles of blue water)
you were supposed to. you were supposed to sit under the little tree and sleep over rocks
supposed to cry little words into his shoulder,
supposed to hold him. supposed to hold him and stay there until flowers grew from your ribcage,
little twisting vines blooming gerber daisies
so you do. you reach your arms across oceans, scan skylines
walk across realities until you get to the picture of the hills,
the one with the oil paints your mother saw once, in a town with no name
and when hes not there you wait until they find you first. (it takes till summer)
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
Baby red...baby red...
I can feel your pain
Baby red baby red...
I see the tears & it tastes oh so sour...
Baby red....
Why must you be in such sorrow?
You walk with demons
And their claws are the pacifiers
To your unearthly cries...
Baby red...
Why must you be so rude?
You laugh and are very evil,
To the angels who are here to
Protect you....
Why must you cry and bleed tears...
Why do you walk on fire and spit on love....
Baby red baby red...
Who created you?
Who concieved and made you?
Who put their evil love into a Gerber baby?
Who put the hell's sins, into the roses of your skin?
Baby red, don't be like them...
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
I come to every little town
gonna kill gonna kill gonna ****
I'm gonna gun 'em all down
gonna kill gonna kill gonna ****
Big News! Front Page
That is what they'll say of me
and all those other words
Those words Those words Those words
They'll say of me
Old school kickin'-misresenting
Don't go to a big screen box
Rent it - safer - don't go there
Madmen gunmen everywhere
Welcome to hell in the 21st Century
It started that way at the turn of the century
Turn around and be shot dead
by a bozo reject doctor with some crazy hair
or when you are buying gerber groceries at the fair
What a world What a world What a world
Some parts are just so sad
Hey ya gotta live- ya gotta hide
Stay inside, stay alive
They're bombing everywhere
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 9:41 AM UTC