"handrails" poems
Willets cull the seawall
snapper on the grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade
Plovers dance and flutter
handrails frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from a high
noon sun
Thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in front line march
pillar cracks form
under rust brown scars
Elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above Tentaciones
Striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand
Heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under a dusk light cheroot
Six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in a rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wares
Rooster house for swordfish
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
La Ropa bay
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
The concrete jungle.
Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who lie in plain sight for the world to see
Crouched in marble ledges, twisted in metal beams
Wrapped around handrails, perched in their cemented trees
They laugh at those who cannot perceive
Because they don’t believe.
And who am I,
Yes possibly me
To find my identity
In removing my wooden sword from its sheath
Placing it beneath my two shuffled feet
To answer the alluring call of the beasts beckoning
To my hero’s heart, for my eyes to blink
To suddenly see them as they were meant to be.
In a world between
Real and imaginary.
For it is I,
Yes I believe it to be
Chosen to find my destiny
In a single push
That propels me
Into the path of the snarling beasts
Approaching their stairs and rails, ledges and beams
Gaps and bumps and ramps with speed
And as they stare at me hungrily
Opening their mouths expecting me
I will stand strong on my wooden sword
As the wheels of fire erupt beneath
And the scenery blurs in the flash of the rapidity
I bend my knees and grit my teeth
My eyes narrow and the drum in my chest crescendos its beat
A shout explodes from my chest, a primal scream
As I press on
In the concrete jungle.
Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who quiver in plain sight for the world to see
And whimper at the sight of who they now perceive
Because I do believe.
And it is I,
Yes undoubtedly me
Who will find my destiny
Conquering the concrete jungles of the world unseen
Surfing the concrete waves of the world between
With my loyal vessel being the wooden sword from the sheath,
That remains steady in the face of danger beneath my feet.
I am alive
In the concrete jungle.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Mike and I were best of friends
and we drank together
and walked home together
And we’d walk along the railway tracks
and Mike
was always the more observant of us two
Yes, I always looked up to him
He’d be first to point out any irregularities
and so he’d say:
*“There sure are a lot of steps
along the way”*
And I’d concur
and I’d say:
*“Yes, Mike…
And the problem is
the ****** handrails
are so low down”*
And you know what
Mike is gone
and I still walk back
along the railway tracks
and the ****** idiots in charge of the railway
after all these years
they still put a lot of steps all the way
and worse –
they still put those ****** handrails
so low down…
Some people never learn;
they never change
I shout these things aloud
And I look up to Mike as I say these things
as I walk alone
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
Something awful happened late last night,
And here I lie awake at six AM
Upon the sand of Santa Monica.
The cars drive by, but I don’t notice them.
I used up all my gas to get away
From the ****** pond on my bathroom rug.
It’s more than bleach can handle and I’m scared
That I’ve found a more seductive drug.
Fish intestines line the pier and I
Feel no misery for gutless souls.
The rocks are caked in birdshit, kelp and shells
And, as if in mourning, the cormorant calls.
Upon the rusty handrails, seagulls gossip
Just like feathered girls with brains, persisting
To trumpet my depravity in savage squawks,
And to harass the rest of us for existing.
The white-wimpled, cruel, sadistic nuns
Choose an injured sea lion as their prey.
Cowardly, they flee at his sharp barks–
It’s guts that will decide who wins today.
***** creep over the brown-furred body.
Fighting for its life, it bites the shell
And kills its fellow lifeform. When given
The chance, I’ll defend myself as well.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
You can't safely have a cigarette outside of the bus terminal
without a couple of folk asking for one.
You can't safely have a cigarette in general.
But, if five of them have to last you a night and a sunrise,
you don't really mind turning down a few nameless hands.
Some of the bus drivers like to talk about football, weather;
others complain about management or the patrons;
a few don't say much at all, avoiding sympathy.
They're probably the smart ones.
They don't want to learn the sad stories in between stops.
I usually like to just sit in the back and ride out the best bumps.
The handrails jiggle and crash with every pothole.
-
The men who work at the metal scrap yard
usually get on in front of Debbie's Diner on 22nd street.
Bundled up for warmth and firm of face, they only speak to each other.
Small talk about who almost missed the bus, broken crane joints,
and who moved the most barrels of copper piping fill the blocks.
They tend to pick on the guy who runs the aluminum can crusher;
big guy, they call him "Boose" and he couldn't be much older than I am.
His hands and lips are dry and cracked from exposure,
but his face still shows ember of teenage years, though jilted.
There is a bar that serves three-dollar chili across the street, spicy.
The workers go there when they miss the first bus, have a beer,
down a bowl of boiling chili, and catch the return bus in better moods.
-
The railroads on Brush College road tend to hold up traffic.
The ADM plant doesn't really mind if a few twenty-something mothers
are late to their practical nursing and phlebotomy classes,
but they voice their complaints out of a cracked window to the side
of a ten story soybean silo nonetheless; steaming ears and all.
I stare at the graffiti on the laggard train cars, each unique
in color, quality, style, and message; the industrial Louvre.
These waits sometimes last a half hour or more.
In the days before Pell grant rewards come in,
when students still feel like they're working toward tangible cash,
the seats are all packed with heavy breathers.
The air becomes thick with community college carbon coughs.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
When I was eight years old,
I overlooked a moment of compassion
And challenged the will of a fellow third grader
Compelled by my ignorance
She gave the most astute summary of my life ever uttered.
When I was eight years old,
A frizzy haired girl asked me an impudent question
A question of infinite importance:
How do you sleep?
How do you sleep at night, since you know yourself?
When I was eight years old, my arrogant mind brimmed with resentment
Reaffirming that I,
I, apart from my arrogance,
Was the best person I knew.
I was eight years old, and a prophet had spoken.
Eight years later,
I long to be swallowed by the sheets
Eyes stare mockingly at the dormant ceiling
Clinging to the handrails
As my train of thought
Careens off the tracks
Exploding in a cloud of terror and regret
Eight years later,
I long for the simple arrogance of my eight year old mind
I long to close my eyes
And remember nothing
Because today,
Today I am sixteen
And tomorrow I will be twenty-four
And the next day I shall be eighty
When I'm eighty,
I'll stare at the bleached walls
Succumbing to the force of the past
As it consumes the present.
When I turn eighty-eight,
I'll look to the end of my starched bed
And He shall smile
Saying, "Well done!"
I hope I lie, when I'm eighty-eight,
Because If I am honest
If I tell the truth
I do not know who he is
And I never have
I will be cast away
because, eighty years before,
When I was eight years old,
I was arrogant
But still innocent
eighty years from death
and eighty years from shame
I could have heeded those words
The words of the frizzy haired girl
When I was eight years old,
I could have decided
I could have had him sing me to sleep
I could have died entirely unlike myself.
Now that I'm sixteen,
I still do nothing.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
solitary howl
growling trial chill ridden
tightening chest and pain
behind one eye
stress reduces
jelly legged machismo sulking
regression completion
seeking seclusion revolved by a reflection
churning bowel Elvis hip
flipping tripper gripping imaginary handrails
rising heat to hot spit gurgle
sweat breaking head spinning grasping
grinning
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
we find ourselves crumpled like paper
my nosebleed acts like glue
you smell and taste like pixie dust
my eyes roll around the room
ascending towards heaven
i grip your ribs like handrails
you stop me short -
'i'm going to...'
and like a napkin under the dinner table
i’m falling off your lap
you'll remember me when you need to clean up
when you need to wipe your hands
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
We were ledge-sitters.
We understood why birds perch themselves on penthouse patio rails
And why airplanes sigh with breaths of relief when they are defying gravity.
We would hold the crooked hems of our dresses while we climbed metal stairs like mountains.
The urge for heightened perception of depths, distances, and the disarranged built in us like skyscrapers we hung ourselves over.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
| |
a bridge
boards spread
firmly
but rickety
more holes
than a strainer
uneven walking
handrails
required
spanning a long
distance
. =_-_=~==_--=_-
sometimes the wind
or fog
can block
or sway
our distance bridge
| |
build on love
in our hearts
for only
our souls to cross
the fog is blocking me
from being able to see you
our bridge needs repairs
at both ends
\.|. /
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
she wrote words in
between the cracks of
sidewalks, so people wouldn't
step on them
she scribbled in notebooks
and left them at bus stations,
where strangers took
them home
she wrote her words in
aquafresh on the bathroom
mirror, and the next
person would have the
arduous task of
cleaning her mind off
and flushing it
she wrote on the stalks of
wheat, which baked into
bread fed rich and poor and
stealing orphans who became
trancelike
she wrote in red sharpie ink
across the train platform
and up the handrails and across
the 90's patterned seats
she wrote pieces on the graffiti
boards in skate-parks
because they were covered
by *** leaves and ying-yang
signs that are anything but balanced,
smiley faces more crooked
than the person who painted it
she scribed phrases into
candy given to children, sitting
in stomachs and spit on the
ground
she wrote everywhere so
someone might remember her, and
they didn't
they remember words across
their cheeks, maybe a glimpse
of beauty in the
twirling joy of a child in the rain
they do not remember a girl with
cropped hair and eyes
that pierce, they do not
remember a writer, only a
book that spans the entire world with a page
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 11:20 AM UTC
Concrete beneath seats
of listeners
Chalk artists
creating frames for the
next rainfall
Wash away
sun burnt big toes
beads of sweat
on sunglasses
Spoken word next to
handrails
The river below
huffs the wind
Spits it
to the current
of artistry
waving back from shore
Cancel the 12:50
replace the interruption
with impromptu colors
of the rainbow
Let children wander
under bridges
and pop balloons
filled with water
Color paint
Let the world
around us drink
water of guitar strings
and gaze at
ambient light
with star-struck eyes
Let the world
revolve around
lightning bolt revolt
Protect sacred
performing stages
Say yes to
Art-spired revolution
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
I feel like
I say it with
every word
and it tastes stale
on my tongue,
it sits at my doorstep
hanging from the handrails,
scratches at the window pane
keeping me up at night
despite my weary lids,
it lays in the empty space
next to me
weighing like a stone,
permeates my walls
telling me over
and over
a single word
Alone
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 4:01 AM UTC
Once mingled,
free-floating piano tunes
and
sun-harshed highway
could be a match.
The Light Rail
took its time on the causeway,
I am a passenger,
safely guarded from the
unapologetic summerness
like tourists from the safari park.
I am a outrageous punk,
perching onto handrails
lost in his romantic dream of an
impossible summer. Romeo and Juliet in my hand.
Vehicle garages rusting
along palm trees lined
railway.
This is Yuen Long. This is the outskirts
with gated dogs with feral barks,
this is a compromise between bungalows and nature.
Piano symphonies morphed into
eighties tunes
in the Call Me By Your Name soundtrack album,
and the eighties synths
draws the archived mystics,
out from avenues
that leads to villas similar to those I have sojourned.
And the world as I see it, it is beautiful.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
there is an aimless sense of
wandering, a trip on an empty
train, floor awash with foot prints
streaked under the seats and here
I am clinging to the handrails, but
like a dream the corners of my vision
are fuzzy and I fight to be unaware
and somewhere from the end of
the car, horses stamp their
hooves, all lined up
behind red stanchions
they aren't bulls but they
breathe like I am red, and
somehow this is all curiously
distant, sauf pour the speed of
the train, the only thing that is
unnerving is the ways in which
I move and blink and how i am
made up of seven billion billion
billion atoms but this number
seems so inconsequential and
small compared to how lost
I feel and how many times
a day I ask myself what
I am doing.
What am I doing?
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
The ending to your voice haunts me
Late at night when I'm tearing into my flesh
with words I've cut from train wrecks and false hopes
I can hear the echo of your presence creep onto me
with my numb heart beating pacedly
and raptures of flesh rupturing,
my spine tingles in sensations I've longed for years to grasp within me,
these fleeting moments fleeing my wanting arms
turning me inside out, spilling this ink on splintered handrails
exposing my ribs for you like a delicacy you have yet to enjoy but readily dig into
my cavities craving, devouring languidly from your wistful whispers
the faintest sketch of your ghost whistling past my ear
like the way I've known how you could laugh all along
these splinters scriven into the palms of my hands
as Dawn rises with practiced perfection on the outside world
the coldness of breath overtakes me filling my lungs with icy lavishness
The ending to your voice haunts me from worlds I've never known
and from worlds I've longed to be a part of.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC
you will learn to shift your weight around
You will learn to lean against things
To always clutch handrails
You will learn to rate things from one to ten ten being the worst you’ve ever felt
You will learn loss
You will lose functionality
You will lose what you used to love doing
You will learn not to partake in barbecue games, bowling nights
You will learn to politely decline invitations
You will lose friends
Hobbies
Muscle memory
You will learn to accept it
You will learn that it is unacceptable
You will lose sympathy for others
You will lose track of things
You will learn that there is always something more to lose
You will learn to hold just a few things sacred
to cling only to that which you cannot lose
You will learn that those things too can be lost
You will learn to hate god
You will learn how unobservant most people are
You will learn not to disclose
You will learn what not to say to avoid their suggestions and advice
You will learn to be alone
You will learn the difference between NSAIDs and acetaminophen
between hydro and oxy
the difference between SSI and SSDI
between deductibles and out of pocket maximums
You will learn to cry in hospital parking garages
You will learn the limits of modern medicine for the working and middle classes
You will learn to lower your expectations
You will learn the definition of the word palliative
You will learn to live with it
You will learn to smile for pictures
You will learn to claim a seat early
You will learn to summarize
You will learn good days and bad days
You will learn sorry I know this is last minute but I have to cancel
You will learn to love deeply
You will learn to apologize profusely
You will learn how successful other people will become
You will learn what it means to be a body
You will learn so much
You will learn so so much
Dec 1, 2023
Dec 1, 2023 at 5:04 AM UTC
first glance
penetrating blue
hostility
embodied
embroiled in inconsistency
irregular heartbeat
palpitates
facilitating fallacies
like ‘health’ and ‘well-being’
beings damaged goods are sold on clearance
shouldn’t the mentally ill be sold into slavery
eliminating national debt
by selling the sick to Chinese factories
sending those who drain our health care system
the **** outta the country –
broken records repeat 16 bar blues
supreme court embraces homosexuality and marijuana
while removing campaign donation limits
and the woman’s right to choose
maintaining balance
is often ugly for the masses
passing gasses for solar fuel
poisoning the producers
creating cancerous lesions
attempting to save the sky –
dangerous liaison as the corrupt
meet with the condemned
concentrating on collusion and coercion
of the community at large
so as to better control the carefree
bleeding calluses hold broken handles
handcuffed to the handrails
hanging on for dear life—
beaten seals stain beaches
furless
representing the future
freedom looks like death
sprinkled with red, white, and blue
candy
at least in my homeland –
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
Welcome to Landfill where they bury your free will,
please
hold tight to the handrails we're all going in.
Passing through fallen arches past the smashed dreaming warriors into abandoned stone quarries,
taking time for a tea on the way.
Welcome to Landfill where they still fly the standard although at half mast.
Reserve a place for the saviour
he's playing a card game unaware that his fame has spread out like confetti and is whetting the appetites of Satan and his acolytes.
Here in dystopia where hope's hoping it's fooling ya the lights are being turned off one by one.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
worn-out marble floors
hard against black high heels
gleaming in a fifty shades of grey
under the heavy strip lights
rows and rows of cheap clothes
expensive junk for poor fools
contaminated handrails
a shocking blur of different colors
bloodshot eyes screaming
everywhere red lipstick and lace
attracting young women
smells overlaying each other
advertisements and hushed words
surrounded by general noise
pillars crumbling under pressure
faked smiles and aching feet
tired escalators
elevators that have given up
a raging headache
'exit' sign shining green
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
At the end of the corridor
the ceiling light had burned out
one of 6 on this floor
this made the last 10 feet extremely dark
until ones' eyes adjusted
and when the remaining light
slowly allowed her to see shapes
she noticed the still shadow
she wanted to use the stairwell at this end
as the elevator had been jumpy
and in her mind,
unsafe
she paused and considered what could make this shadow
other than her silly imagination
and as she continued to focus
the shadow became clear,
distinct
it was that of a man
tall and broad
and as she watched
he turned, ever so slightly
and began to move towards her
no window, no furniture nearby to cause this oddity
her inclination to find explanation
quickly dissolved
and fear was now the emotion that guided her
that led her to the elevator without a thought to look back
'OUT OF ORDER'
the sign screamed in large red letters
now she had to look
and there he was
in the lighted area now
the shadow standing out like black on white
and he was looking at her
no eyes, no face
but she knew he was looking at her
she ran to the other end of the 8th floor corridor
damning her insomnia along the way
opened the stairwell door and glanced ever so quickly
he was within 5 feet of the door
her scream echoed up to the 12th and down to the 1st floor lobby
loud enough for the single front desk agent to hear
followed by the sound of her body thud against the 1st floor stairwell concrete
first bouncing off several of the metal handrails on its way down
"Obvious suicide" said the first investigator on the scene to the hotel manager
"No signs of a struggle"
"But why would such a beautiful young lady like this want to take her own life?"
the manager queried
"That is not for you nor I to understand, my friend.
Only the shadows know"
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
On the third day
She clung to the handrails
Near the door
All the way back
Zigzagging in knots
Shining incandescent
With the sun
Chained to a swing
Piled in drifts
Of faces
Marching on and off
Almost invisible
To the way she
Clung herself
Constantly trying
To get my attention
Like tapping on
A ***** window
And only successing
On the way out
Like a feather on the wind
Breathless in an unfinished flight.
(From the ongoing series of 30 ghost poems. Get in contact if you want to read the rest online)
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
what an unsuccessful dream
got me imagining i’m metamorphosing into some queen
gag me with a torch, not liable for these factions
don't put this on me, i was born into royalty
polish the handrails,
don't forget you can't be late.
fashionably late at best, when everything in reality is such a mess
curtsy my dear madam, or else you might be ******
"twirl around let me see those perky curls!"
why do i put you on a pedestal when all you do is drool over another's way
desire doesn't lay here with the underpaid service maids
father i'm so much stronger than the curtains or the drapes
hear me out for there isn't much time
i'm afraid the clocks passed nine and tea is in due time
i understand your master plan
it would be grand if i had a say in the upper hand
seems like you're golden
does it seem like you're weak oh because it does to me
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC