"grammy" poems
Why do poets always talk about the ocean's waves,
about their single file march to shore,
and yet never talk about my grandmother's farts,
which arrive in time, one after the other, with equal
regularity?
Are these poets too holy to comment on anything
less than nature's flashiest gestures?
Are we going to spend another millenia searching
for meaning in sunsets and waterfalls?
Or will we finally turn our ear to Grammy's ****
and away from all that pretty stuff,
and hear that foul, muted trumpet sing,
marking the end of an era?
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
I kissed you because it felt so right
I kissed you because I knew it was wrong
I kissed you because I felt a connection that we both said we lost with our current partners
I kissed you because I knew from the moment I saw you accross the room that you would mean something to me and by something I mean everything
I kissed you because she can't
I kissed you because my undeveloped brain acts too much on emotion and impulsity and not enough on logic
I kissed you because the way the moonlight reflected your face was so beautiful
I kissed you because I couldn't pay attention to what you were saying because I was too focused on your lips and not the words coming out of them
I kissed you because it was the perfect response
I kissed you because the look in your eyes was something I couldn't explain with any words
I kissed you because I can't possibly explain to you how I feel when those sweet eyes meet mine
I kissed you because when I heard that song at work with the lyrics that I no longer remember I knew you were perfect
I kissed you because you have what she doesn't
I kissed you because you deserve to be kissed, actually you deserve much more than a kiss from me
You deserve a Grammy worthy kiss from a scene in a cheesy movie
I kissed you because I hadn't felt those caterpillars in my stomach burst into beautiful butterflies in so long
I kissed you because there wasn't anything else in the world that I wanted more in that very moment
I kissed you because it felt so right
But now it feels so wrong
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
i
you say i am honestly not the same person
i say one day i woke up honest
and i do not know how to undo experience
my own eyes and ears and nose and mouth
cannot be undone at the moment
how do you do it?
push that pressure to the back of your mind
like that
how do you all manage to laugh with a straight face
at things that you know aren't really funny
i can't fathom it. where you go
when you are stomping and ripping
and ****** and jeering
and laughing and running
it's exhausting to watch you
ii
i apologize if it doesn't make sense
that i can't play along
but playing along
doesn't make sense
i could never win a grammy
with this tight lipped smile
laughing at the expense of others
makes me feel more like a paparazzi
placating insecurities for currency
leeching off the vulnerability
you may not think i'm smart but
i am smart enough to know this is not 'normal'
and there is nothing wrong with staring at you in the rearview
and saying "i wish that was really sarcasm"
i'll tell you the truth
and you don't have to like it
and you don't have to like me
and i don't have to like you
because if there's one thing i know about myself
it's that i don't dislike anybody
until they show off their callousness
hoping it's the right party trick
to gain respect
iii
we watch comedy tv, and you are worried
by the way my spine cracks
when i let out a uncontrollable laugh
dragging on, beginning to spill, and as i try to quell it
my whole body shakes with the pressure
of it bubbling inside of me
you feel all of this beside of me
a small volcano with a bent back
quaking absorbed by pillows and flowers and cushions
not quite right for you
wondering why i couldn't laugh like this earlier
when we were not alone
everyone is looking for something more porous
more willing to let in effortlessly
and absorb tirelessly
that can simply laugh like a stream bubbles
and let go of the undercurrent
yet we are sharp and uneven and course like logs
and the weight of our actions carries much further
being shunted downstream by tides of gravity
every intention runs it's course
every intention speaks volumes
if you feel that in your core
every day you will uncontrollably think of how
every intention defines the quality of the laughter
stuck in someone else's head
and you will save it for things that are funny
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
"Stop It!" shouted the man
who was dressed in a ***** pin stripe suit,
eye glasses half askew on his nose,
ski-slope haircut sported since his youth.
My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the hundredth time I felt it's sting.
I stood there, patiently and quiet
caressing my double bass violin
my secret seventh grade lover;
she had **** curves and a deep, soothing voice.
I stood there, impatiently and quiet
waiting for Mr. Heidrich to finish the lesson
focused on the third seat violinist
whom played without feeling, again.
I stood there, overbearingly anxious
tapping on the shoulder of my wooden BFF
my rendition of the William Tell Overture
A performance worthy of a Grammy!
The man in the ***** pin stripe suit,
turned and looked at me, scornfully
his half-bald head turned beet red
body shook violently like an earthquake!
The energy released from his gullet
would have made Mount Vesuvius jealous
fiery vocals of curse and rage
would have made the evilest of demons run for cover!
My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the 101st time I felt it's sting.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
This morning, out in lightly falling snow, I heard geese
as flights of them flew overhead. Like a shot
I was ten again, Grammy and I at the lake. I’d sit in the bow
of my canoe, pulled awkwardly ashore, neck craned back to watch the sky.
I was always sad to see them go; their calls so many cold goodbyes.
Ice encrusted water slushed against the dock in slow motion waves.
It was time to seek new horizons, where waves
of Floridian waters would embrace the geese.
My grandmother said that every new adventure started with goodbyes
to one thing or another. If I were ever to have a shot
at following my dreams, there’d be farewells as I reached for the sky.
Instinct would lead me onward to my accomplished bow.
One year Momma and Poppa Goose stayed behind, a nest in the bow
of my boat. The wintery sky turned black with departing waves.
They would call out as the flying ones filled the sky.
Wounded wing grounded Poppa. (Canada geese
mate for life.) Momma would not leave her mate, recently shot
during hunting season. She would not yet say her goodbyes.
This, then, was the winter of no cold goodbyes.
Before school, pony tailed hair with ribboned bow,
blowing in the stiff breeze, I’d take a shot
at keeping ice from the edge of the lake, waves
arrowing out as they swam. The geese,
with an itch in their wings, anxious for a return to their sky.
That summer Poppa introduced his flock to the sky,
practiced formational takeoffs leading to goodbyes.
Clouds overhead gathered gray with unfallen snow as the geese
took flight. My two watching for a moment, dipping heads in an elegant bow,
before joining in the aerial ballet of strong winged waves.
Grammy’s strong hand gripped my shoulder, then-- the parting shot.
Grammy joined the geese beyond the horizon. No miracle shot
or endless love could keep her with me. Heaven was in the sky.
I knew she was watching although there’d been no time for final waves.
Her new adventure started without time for goodbyes.
Outside, snow blanketed as I cried myself to sleep. Her final bow
had been silent, but she’d been telling me, as had the geese.
Overhead the geese are shaftless arrows shot
from an instinctual bow piercing the morning sky
with their raucous goodbyes. Time waves.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
those crisp empty boxes have
been left there for the imagination to
fill up with mind stuff
for that kid in the park,
alone with a soccer ball, a good one,
one his grandma bought for him
for the World Cup
he gets past Maradona, yes, Diego
Maradona. Horton is ahead of him,
Tim Horton, in goal
charging hard, forcing his shot wide
for the goal of a minimalist poem
could be donuts, for Grammy
to take the whole team out for donuts
filled with mind stuff
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 5:00 PM UTC
I've got a gravy train riding hefer
and she's ready to deliver
all the goods and the services that I never give her
cuz she's mother ****** queen absalom
in the directory's cut
of the film that won a grammy and a mammy
and made it all the way to flavortown
in the south bahaman outback of queens land
and ate all my chili beans so that I would be sad on a green day
cuz I got granades in my ******* about ready to be pulled,
and there aint no sunshine when she's gone, and there's only darkness every day, but she's never gone too long because I never learn to live without her anyway.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
Independent Grammy
Ameripolitan Billboard
CMA Triple Play
Indigenous K-Love Fan
Austin YouTube
Loudwire MTV Video
GMA Dove iHeartRadio
Canadian Country
Stellar BBC Music Magazine
Americana Blues
Tennessee Songwriters Association
Soribada Best K-Music
Texas Country
APRA Western Heritage
Texas Sounds
Academy of Country Music
Wine Country
Carolina Teen Choice
Pulitzer Prize
Latin American Unsigned
Alternative Press
International Western
People's Choice
American Tejano
ASCAP Country Soul Train
Soribada Best K-Music
Texas Country
American Songwriting
Branson Terry
Nashville Industry
International Bluegrass
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
Another prophet who got his top knocked off,
this system’s toxic thought we’d found hope but lost it,
Nipsey Hussle shot down outside his clothing store Marathon,
live and die in LA grow up only to get shot down on Slauson in Compton,
and the irony is that he was taken out,
in the same neighborhood he had invested in,
from Proud2Pay to AfroTech Nip was a Community Activist,
in a system of force fed poisons he was medicine,
and maybe that’s why he was martyred,
just like MLK Tupac and Marley,
this is all real life in living color,
life’s not a Game but this is The Documentary,
every word true,
I mean do you,
think it’s just a coincidence,
that Nip was murdered when,
it was announced he was about to come out with a film,
about Dr. Sebi,
the herbalist,
who was also possibly murdered when,
he went public with claims of curing AIDS and other illnesses,
nothing random about this act of violence,
it makes so much sense when you think about it,
nothing senseless in the message,
I mean seriously think about it,
MLK shot on 4/4 at 39,
NIP shot on 3/31 at age 33,
why do the most violent things happen,
to the brothers that preach the most peace,
it all makes sense everything adds up,
but most will probably dismiss this just as another conspiracy,
I mean I guess it doesn’t matter ‘cause nothing will bring Cuz back,
RIP NIP Rest in Peace Nipsey another brother gone to young at 33,
and it’s all so eery it’s creepy,
all the above evidence plus,
“Having enemies is a blessing.”,
was his last tweet,
as the words of his last sound sit in my ears as they ring,
**** I wish my n!gga Fats was here,
how’d you die at 30 somethin’ after bangin’ all them years,
Grammy nominated in the sauna shedding tears,
all this money power fame and I can’t make you reappear.”…
RIP NIP
∆ LaLux ∆
LA 2019
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 7:27 PM UTC
no count-downs for birthday parties
no arm wrestles, no jump shots
no go-cart donuts
not even a snowball
where did we go?
blond hair
up to my shoulders
surrounded by jewels
some empty-paned picture frame
couple sprouts beneath a pine
saying "monkeys" for Grammy's kodak
red clay on your feet
pink frosting in your teeth
me, sheathed in my favorite shirt
"I'm the big sister!"
with a butterfly depicting
what I've yet to become
how wrong have we gone?
well, I'll be twenty
once spring rolls around
and brother
you're not far behind
I can't tell time
to change its mind
but I promise you
it won't be changing mine
from the photographs, scrapbooks
I'll forever feel your laughter
just like goosebumps
the brail I'm reading into
let's gaze past glares
straight through white sunbeams
spiking your brown eyes
twice as deep as mine
the truest shades
on the face of the earth
to this very
foggy day
this mirror, this moment snagged
before shutters snap
and capture us, splatter us
on matte paper, or cell screens
with brown hair
up to your shoulders
way to go, little brother
but I'm still keeping that tee
because the only thing
I've always been proud to be
is your big sister
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of pubis-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dogtag,
Or a dog, a colossal beast of a pet,
A humongus Harlequin Dane dog to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes.
Our boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.
We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo,” they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?
You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
Yours were the arms that held me
on the very first day I was born.
Looking back at pictures,
I can tell how much you truly adored
the little babies that commanded your attention
on that frigid November day.
You held our hands as we took our first steps,
and you held us when we cried.
You laughed when we’d take little stumbles;
you’d put soap in our mouths when we lied.
But your love for us remained,
Unwavering —
Nothing could take it away.
Before you knew it,
You were watching us walk across the stage;
both high school and college flew by.
You attended every single ceremony;
we were never left asking, “why.”
You have remained our utmost support system -
you’ve always made it all okay.
Through tough love & your strength,
you raised us the best way you knew how;
we’re quickly growing into young women -
Grammy would smile to see us now.
She would be so proud of you;
she’d laugh and shed a tear.
“Mare,” she’d say, “Look at your beautiful babies..
My god, it’s been so many years.”
She’d leave you with a slight kiss on the forehead;
you’d turn around and she’d be gone.
“A dream,” you’d think,
but she’s always here with us,
though it feels like it’s been so long.
Momma, I’m sorry;
I know that we fight.
I think that you’re wrong;
you know that you’re right.
our personalities may be
like day and like night…
but I am you, and you are me.
I promise I’m not blind to see
that for us, you have risked everything -
for us, you have done everything -
for us, you are everything.
I’ll sign off here; it’s time to go.
But in your heart,
please always know:
You are the absolute best mother
& Momma, I love you so.
Happy Birthday.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
.you want to relearn the schoolyard? are you sure you want to relearn the schoolyard?! sure... we can relearn the schoolyard... i have a theory though, and it goes along the lines of... you know those pedophile(s)? i have a theory... they're not exactly into smoking, or drinking... like... their female counterpart... i actually think women are afraid of young boys... for what young boys are, per se... well, given Muhammad, hyper-inflated interest in literacy... that covers the whole: illiterate prior, married to an older woman, not drinking, not smoking?! so what's your outlet?! to be an object of what... "subjects"... or to be a "subject" of what... objectifies... case in point, the nuance is interchangeable in the metaphor quadratic of wording... and no... not really... i find it hardly necessary to concern myself with making the sort if accuracy to give a metric unit basis of a centi-, or otherwise, etc.
it's sheryl crow
for fuck's sake...
it's not
katty perry...
that debut:
was... pristine..
seminal...
sure... my feet stink...
what? what's wrong
with Cheryl Crow?!
you better be *******
with me for serious,
otherwise
i switch to: unhinged...
a change?
***** won a ******* grammy!
sure... she married
a glorious child of
the two pedals...
who faked Paris having faked
a tourism ploy of France...
it's still Sheryl Crow though!
a trucker's daydream
of perfect head,
incubated by a mouth
of an 18 year old boy...
no... i like Alanis...
when... whatever that was that came
from a woman's mouth was...
deemed, fun...
now?
n'ah... not really.
all i really want... that sort of **** was
fun...
now? i'm becoming more and more
bemused by the fragrance of my
socks, worn, second day to count
thoroughly...
hand in my pocket...
right through you...
so... BIG daddy gonna come around
to save this teenage girl's cherry ***
the kind of daddy that could never
have a beer with me?
like i'm feeling that:
while using my right hands when typing
feels like i'm using my left hand,
and vice versa?!
no! i'm not having it!
Cheryl Crow... &...
Chrissie Hynde!
no... don't give me the *******
zig-zag argument suggesting
i'm about to see something
"better", via an X, cross-eyed...
blurry, like some reverse Freudian
fetish off Ariel, the mermaid,
blurry, under the water...
Disney princesses my ***
head over feet...
now... that's a song.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
Yo I'm tryna hear some new lines, some true lines
Maybe in this darkness I can see the Blue Sky
Like Common Sense, tryna get us out the dirt my friends
But instead, we choose to listen to those who abuse
Those that sound like an alarm clock snooze
Brainless, in ten minutes we'll hear the same ****
Y'all love to make music? That's not what it seems
Cause its apparent to the people, you had a dream
But betrayed that dream once you saw some C.R.E.A.M.
All that paper for a couple of lame joints and some haters
I wanna hear a rhyme about the government, or at least the truth
Like how it's our time to shine a light for the youth
That way, one day, they'll know that wisdom is what we follow
So they can stay away from the darkness before it swallows
Cause once you get in it, there ain't no escaping
From the sky scrapin', paper chasin, devastation, soul deflation
That can occur with the exchange of only a few words
Its absurd how so many let producers be the choosers
You may win that Grammy, but to us you're still losers
Now tell me, is that how it has to be? Cause actually,
The artist that works the hardest never get credit
What I loved so much is no longer respected
So unless you to plan to change and stop fronting
Do us all a favor and don't say nothing
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
Softly caress my ears, songs of yesteryear
Making sense of the here and now
When was your sound, you play so well?
Stunned to find you're active now.
Expectation, that song of yours
Makes me feel comfortable with break-ups
Crying my tears dry imagining,
If it ever happened how easy it would be.
If I hung out with you guys, I know
We would be like long lost pals
The music you play is my truth also
Your songs are like inspiration calls.
Vintage sound, yet ultimately timeless
I think you deserved that Grammy
Vampire Weekend, I couldn't care less
Could never imagine your infamy.
Awakened my kundalini for sure
Such a connection to your genius
Your messages loud and pure
Thank you, Tame Impala.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
Poignant prose chucked out and recycled by morning.
Turned out trick repeated til boring.
The local band just started touring.
Sonnet's blasted until the ladies are 'whooring'.
...
Roxy Music dropped David Byrne.
For Ellie Goulding and a remix of burn.
Robert Johnson's been reworked.
Ratatat rap as interest is perked.
Dylan picked up the silent game.
Making ambient noises which all sound the same.
The Rolling Stones joined the church.
After buying some of Hoosier's merch.
Nicki Minaj claps her ****
Laying down a tribute for Terry Fox's stump.
Benefit concert soon to be run.
By the played out Glee Club composing Fun.
Beach Boys dragged in with the tide.
...And Stars Collide.
NOFX has gone clean
Fat Mike's gone and become a dean.
Tom Waits stomps out to Kendrick Lamar.
Hacking up bits of blunt induced tar.
Bumping out in Steve Ellison's car.
To Captain Murphy's karaoke bootlegged from a bar.
...
Less than 10 good tapes a year
Even fewer if referring to those others actually hear.
Jack White's gone third eye blind
Getting over run by his drug free mind.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
I'm a rocker
I'm a talker
I'm a walk the walker
I'm a gamer
I'm a player
I'm a rule breaker
I'm a smile faker
I'm a mover and
I'm a shaker
I'm a questioner
I'm a challenger
I'm a game changer
I'm a grain of sand
I'm a past summer of tan
I'm a small helping hand
I'm a shower grammy winner
I'm a everyday sinner
I'm a life beginner
I'm a needer
I'm a pleader
I'm a leader
I'm a living room pj dancer
I'm a wiki search answer
I'm a hallway happy prancer
I am free
I am she
I am me
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
he sat bedside with his great grandmother
stroking a hand laced with what he saw as
tiny blue rivers, flowing from a thin wrist
dammed by ancient knuckles
boulders chiseled by eighty-four years
he read from his book while Mommy
dozed in the chair, and nurses squeaked
in and out, all with half smiles he could
not decipher, for Grammy was sick
and when his mother was awake, she cried
he hadn't seen her tears before;
he tried not to look, preferring his book
with its pictures of the sun, orbiting
planets and mazy moons
and spaces in between where heaven might hide
he understood most of its words,
and none were of heavens--unless noxious gasses
and swirling clouds of dust were the winds which
whipped through the pearly gates
but his seven wise years knew that was not so
when he turned to the page of the
penultimate planet from the sun,YOU-ruh-nuss
he discovered it took four score and four years
to orbit our star once
math's mystery may have eluded him
though coincidence was not yet
in his lexicon, and now he knew Grammy
had her times around the sun, her eighty four
equaling one for the great tilting Uranus
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 11:54 PM UTC
"The telephoto lense is slightly cracked,
But everything else is in pristine condition,"
I said, straightening up.
"She's served me well over the years."
You raised your eyebrows.
"She?" you asked, quizzically.
"Well, of course she.
Actually, Bella.
She's named after my grandmother who..."
I caught myself.
"Oh, you don't want to hear this."
"No, please go on."
I took a deep breath, and continued.
"She was named after my grandmother, Bella,
Who first introduced me to photography.
Grammy Bella gave me her old Polaroid
For my eighth birthday.
It was just..."
My voice trailed off,
"The coolest thing."
You smiled.
A picture perfect smile.
Flash.
I continued,
"My life is a series of documented flashes.
Lost my first tooth; flash!
Played in my first concert; flash!
Sang a solo for chorus; flash!"
"Wow," your voice cracked,
Nothing more than a whisper.
" I think I'd like to buy it."
I stumbled through the filing cabinets
Of my subconscious mind,
Thumbing through old flashes...
"Actually, it's not for sale."
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
Chase my voice through clouds of sulfur
convince it to let me burn it alive
parade it down broadway to light up the corners
starved of recognition
Tie anvils to the tips of my fingers
light them also on fire
it wasn't really the cigarettes
so much as the flames of sacrifice
Ignore their judging eyes
invite them into my home
whip my back until it bleeds for their religion
go to sleep with the smell of incense in my throat
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
On occasion,
I have been driven to acts of extreme nonviolence
by those who have expected the opposite of me
There is nothing quite like
the sound
of a father's dismay
at his son
who refuses to strike him
despite his deepest wishes,
Or the relief in a girl's voice
after promising,
without her asking,
to never abuse her.
I think something is wrong with me.
For I am only violent in my music.
Is grunge what life is suppose to feel like?
Is that what my best friend hears
every day he shuffles past
loose bottles and snapped belts
to crawl into bed,
hoping to not distrub the presence
which gave him life?
A presence still snoring out the whimpers of his little brother?
Did my dad hear bass tabs
when he told his abused siblings that
"there ain't no way I'mma treat my children like he did us?"
I wonder,
does he still hear them?
Are howls and chords what the boys in bathroom stalls
playgrounds
hallways
classrooms
my bedroom
my porch
my basement
hear when they make me taste the ground?
Can the violence of soundwaves really be mistaken
for the passage of time?
Does life truly deserve a Grammy for
Best Harrowing Performance?
Is life really just one big mosh pit?
...
On occasion
I have been driven to acts of extreme forgiveness
by those who deserved only a little
All they had to do was ask
and that is what scared them
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
“Daddy” she asked “Why must you leave?”
as she cried and her chest started to heave.
“I’m so sorry, my Baby.” Daddy said,
his heart started feeling heavy as lead.
“Mommy and me just can’t stay together.
Our happily ever after is no longer forever,
but I’ll still see you, don’t you worry.
Please just know I’m so, so sorry.”
“Please stay! Don’t go!” She kept pleading
as her chest grew tight with her breathing.
“Did Jimmy or me do something wrong?”
“No, Punkin, no! Please try to be strong.
I promise I’ll come get you on weekends.
Up to Grammy’s we’ll go, this isn’t the end.”
Then to her Daddy she quietly said
“How will you tuck me and Jimmy in bed?
And hug us tight and kiss us goodnight
and make the Boogieman shake with fright?”
“It’s okay, Honey. Mommy will be here.
You and Jimmy have nothing to fear.”
“But Daddy, how will I be your Princess now?
Answer me please. How Daddy? How?”
“Please, Baby, please! Try to understand
I’ll always be here to hold your hand.
It’s not like I’m leaving forever, you see.
I promise you’ll grow to like how it will be.”
“Never, Daddy, never!” she said with a cry.
“I never, ever want to say good-bye.”
“Honey, I’m sorry. I really have to leave.
Please, Baby, please! Let go of my sleeve.
You and Jimmy will see me in only six days.
If you count on your fingers, that not far away.
I love you, my Princess. Please don’t forget,
it will get easier. I’ll make you this bet:
that after a while the pain won’t be bad.
That you won’t cry so much or be so sad”
She sniffled and shook and gave him a hug.
“I really don’t think so” she said with a shrug.
“I’ll miss you, my Daddy. Please know this is true.
I love you, my Daddy. I’ll try not to be blue.”
“That’s my girl” he quietly said
as he quickly had to turn his head;
for tears were falling from his eyes
as Daddy and daughter said Good-bye.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
You're wearing too many rings,
just like me.
You're wearing glasses,
just like me. (except mine don't fix my eyes because my eyes are fixed fine)
You're calling me a Little Monster
and I'm laughing, giggling, because monsters don't exist
(except in the closet and in the basement and inside the vacuum)
and you're smiling at me and everything's gold from the fire.
You are wearing an office-shirt, with a collar and a pocket and buttons
tucked into your brown pants
almost like it's seven thirty in the morning, every morning
except it's not. It's Christmas Eve Eve, and I know that because Mama told me
because that's why Grammy and Grampy and Aunts and Uncles and Cousins are being loud in the Living Room
(which is weird because why isn't the kitchen called the Eating Room or our bedrooms called the Sleeping Rooms)
and I know that you're wearing serious-clothes because that's What Grammy Wants to See
and I've been waiting for this day for a whole year. Which is like forever.
I ask for a story and your face wrinkles a little because
I ask for them all the time, I collect them like old people collect money and bank letters and shoes
and you're getting tired of telling them, probably,
but I want the air to shimmer behind your voice
and I want to be the only one that hears it
so I beg.
And you tell me about a magic carpet you had when you were a boy
about fruit--like bananas and apples and kumquats--coming to life
about the time Santa slept late
about when dragons used to be pets and how we used to fly them like cars
and the air is still shimmering but
I'm getting sad
sad,
which I never do when you tell stories
because I'm realizing that all your stories have already happened.
They're ghosts, gone by, never coming back,
beautiful things lost, disappeared.
And you never tell me about the future
because you don't know it any better than I do
and the world seems kind of scary,
too big for me,
ready to **** me in like the vacuum.
You stop your voice, you peek at me
and see my eyes
and then you hug me
all warm because we're by the fire
and the room is silent except for the crackles and snaps
and voices coming from downstairs.
And your shirt is soft and I'm crying
hot water leaks from my eyes, falling down beside my nose
because no one knows the future and it's all too perfect right now.
And you let me go and you kiss my forehead and
say "is it all better now?"
and I nod because I love you
not that I know what love is, but it feels that way
and I'm safe.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 7:18 AM UTC
Hot box a cigarette , sawmill gravy and country ham ,
Entrenched in the morning paper , dishes scrubbed , drumming of pots and pans ! Blue collar people with somewhere to be , buoy's chained to the bottom of the sea ! Sweet black ribbon covered in fire ants , May honeybees , wildebeest crossing the wild African plains..
White smokestack dens of endless toil , black tar factories , dead fish waterway , boiling star infrastructures !
Biscuit , tobacco , hot coffee welder , plumber and electrician
Caviar , flounder , after dinner mint doctor and lawyer ..
Goody powders , soda pop cures , work induced migraines for
societies 'riff raff' , high atop steel skeletons , life hanging in balance .
Xanax , blue cheese , marriage counselor soccer moms , yoga , wine party ..Young people lie in their own blood , candle light vigils are like all others . Repetitive anguish falling on deaf ears , billion dollar football stadiums , homeless freeze to death , Good Morning America focused on the Grammy Awards or someones *** , Miley's tongue , Scientology or Donny and Marie !
Bath salt possession , teenagers are shot full of bullets , Kelley and Michael promote Hollywood garbage , their so ******* cute !
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
00:00 Valentines Day
It’s midnight,
and I’m,
alone again,
trying to fill the time,
with these words I write,
watched the Grammy’s last night,
Twenty One Pilots,
standing there in their underwear,
reminding us that we can be,
anything,
Hollywood,
my home,
so many people,
at the Grammy’s,
I’ve met and befriended,
but sometimes,
the enthusiasm seems so gone,
it feels like we’re living,
after the credits when the film has ended,
like,
what’s happened to us,
where have we gone,
and why,
do we still feel,
so totally alone,
supposed to be gone by the morning,
flight to Cabo to pick up my truck,
just flew in from Australia,
found letters from the IRS in my PO Box,
welcome home boy now it’s time to pay your tax,
met my accountant tonight,
gave him all the paperwork,
we chatted for a minute in his Range Rover,
I made a joke about having a black accountant,
he reminded me of the Basquiat photo I’d given him,
Basquiat in the 80’s,
looking awkward as fck,
holding a FroZade cup in his hand,
a crooked No Parking sign standing by,
and the ‘ol Twin Towers towering in the hazed background,
another genius gone before his time,
sometimes the art we create is ahead of us,
sometimes we have to watch our success from the Heavens,
1 2 3 4 5 6 7,
8 9 10 11,
12,
It’s midnight,
and I’m,
alone again,
trying to fill the time,
with these words I write,
watched the Grammy’s last night,
Twenty One Pilots,
standing there in their underwear,
reminding us that we can be,
anything…
∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 2:33 AM UTC