"hanes" poems
There's something about that itch
that you can't itch enough.
I feel like when I put on my
Adidas or Nike ankle socks
they just don't do the trick.
My Hanes crew length
feel so comfy on my itchy legs.
They keep my legs warm
when I spend eight hours
in the cold box stocking drink.
However when I wear those
high socks with shorts people stare.
I guess it looks goofy
with my pale skin
that people have to double take.
I bet they ask questions like
"Is that his leg or is he wearing socks?"
I smile though when they stare
because it makes feel noticed
and it reassures me that I'm here.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
"Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"
Billy Joel lyrics from
"Piano Man"*
~~~~~~~~~~~~
when I was very young
I wore Levi jeans and white
Hanes cotton T shirts
my mother bot me,
my feet, Ked clad, red
from the kid's "department" store
on Central Avenue,
the Main Street of my small town
when I was a young lad,
I wore workingman's cargo jeans and
white Hanes cotton T shirts
under red plaid
wooly shirts, itchy affairs,
that I bot for myself
in a real Army Navy store,
desert colored suede boots,
laced up high,
upon my feet
when I was of middling years,
my jeans were khaki pants,
Gap supplied,
and my Gap T shirts,
faded like me,
a non-descript color,
made in a gap of pale pastel colors
from Bangladesh or Vietnam,
pale pastel, like me
so as I slide~decline into
my nursing home years,
I wear unbranded jeans and
white cotton no name T shirts
with matching white disposable slippers,
that the Purchasing Department
bot for me, cause they know,
I like,
a younger man's clothes and
the memories that play all day
lost in day dreaming of a life
well dressed
2:01am
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
Grubby little hands
and sugar encrusted mouths
leaving chocolate hugs and kisses
on a white Hanes t-shirt
in a late summer sun
the man in the stained shirt laughs
telling stories until you laugh too, so hard
you roll in the grass with your brother
streaking your denim knees green
and you beg him to play with you
just one more game, please!
because he is the best at everything
as close as you can get to invincible
and when he picks you up at the end of the day
tickles you, herds you inside
you can smell the lawn mower grease
and the shellac from his shop
and the peppermint, always the peppermint,
from the gum that snaps! in his mouth
then before you know it
you’re sitting shotgun in his rusted pickup
the radio singing classic rock
like always
windows rolled down
hat perched back on his head
whistling through his teeth
like always
but you’re on a new road
and your boxes are packed in the back
and when he hugs you
you feel like the little girl
that you’re not anymore
and you’re not quite ready to say goodbye
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
my body is simply not conventional
to the clothes I wear
there are dips and hills plastered on my figure
hanes doesn't take into account
my weight or my height
so pulling up the waistband
drills the cotton into my skin
with no room to breathe
but I've gotten comfortable
my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
the hunch back of Notre Dame meets
a protruding belly that widens my waist
when I wear shirts
fabric strangles my hips
displaying my grotesque body
but I've gotten comfortable
my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
aged binders do their best
pools of skin are dipping out the sides
my ribs ache and it's hard to ignore
when my body wails a cracking chaos
pain and overstimulation have crept into dreams
but I've gotten comfortable
my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
my body is not conventional
but it doesn't bring despair
my body is not conventional
and you can't begin to understand it
because it's too crippling to bear
it's staggering to peep into a mirror
seeing my being labeled unpleasant
with the unnerving urge to rip my eyes out
and splatter my blood on the glass
why don't I just break down and sit there
it's heavy to carry my weight and be hyperaware
it's easy to not care and maybe I'd take that route
but I'm not conventional
so I'm taking another way downstairs
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 2:53 AM UTC
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect
no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap
me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants
which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then
morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing
over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall
with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:
forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles
blessed and cursed I thought!
too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it
and never let go
6/23/18
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
Blue jeans worn for days,
slick with grease and filth
hung around the
hips of my step-father,
Caterpillar-brown boots
coated with dust
Hanes t-shirt hung loosely,
sweaty and smelly,
his big ears and balding
head that would
reflect the evil
light of his soul-less-ness,
blue eyes glazed over with
lust for helpless
12-year-old girls
and a smile that
could coat my heart with ice
Now he is old
Afraid of death,
My icy smile gloats.
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 5:35 PM UTC
Keep-A-Breast
Apple
OtterBox
Acu-Rite
Dial Aquafresh
Oral-B
ACT Garnier Equate
Hanes
On the Byas
Rude
Toms
Dakine
Acu-Vue
Ponds Degree
Preferred Stock
Mighty Wallet
Hot Topic
Keurig Dixie
Donut Shop
Domino
International Delight
Peter Paul's
Best Yet Great Value
Instagram
Facebook
Snapchat Yik Yak
Forever 21
Adventure Time
FSC Bic The Poetry Foundation
Staedtler Pilot Sharpie Microsoft
The Norton Anthology
Toshiba Dell Expo
Lipton
Emerica
Anti Hero MOB Shorty's
Bones Thunder
Shake Junt
Swingline
Pandora
Tommy Hilfiger
' Jill Greg Ashley Courtney
Judy
Bob
Janice
Shannon Kelly
Robert Emily Jeremy Darrin Liza
Bill Joe Dominic Sean James
Gav Jordan Tony Eric
Christopher
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
tired of my drooping Hanes,
my slept-in choice for greeting
a new morning tad overexposed,
my weekend breakfast table
body's accoutrement,
"coverup" she deemed accurately
as in-suffice,
my nighttime slept-in choice for
welcoming the new morning
as a single continuum,
exposing my true colors,
thus declaring biblically,
"Let there be night, let there be day,"
in a manner of speak
she-woman wryly declares
over her slim sizing
yogurt Greek and half of a laugh
of a banana downsized,
"You need some loungewear"
pondering this ponderosa-sized ponderosity,
grasping its monstrosity insulting me,
coffee pouring, Eye, a
first responder
contemplate irresponsibly,
thinking to reply with bravado,
that on said day,
when Eye accrete
such a class of clothing
so nomenclatured as
"loungewear"
upon my person,
or in my ward-so-unrobed found,
unasked for,
Eye will require transgendering
but my tongue bites me,
so instead
draw down on my John Donne,
on the subject of
food, good taste
and being unclothed,
and instead
He-poet
bequeath the she-woman
this riposte...
*"Full nakedness!
All joys are due to thee;
as souls unbodied,
bodies unclothed must be
to taste whole joys.*
wisely retreating than be
defeating,
not wanting
a world war conflicting,
with coffee mugged, Eye return/hide,
under the bed's blanketing comforter,
thinking of the taste of whole joys
of her body unclothed,
when later, she creeps in next to me,
to practice the serious art of
lounging...
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
Membranes, wings and rains,
Think brains, pull up them Hanes,
Dress yourself in scarves and silks,
Drink some warm milk,
Remember… remember, cuz tonight you’re only feelin’ ill.
Broke out of that chrysalis, colors all a-flyin’,
S’a little intimidatin’, cuz it’s my first time bein’ this high ‘nd,
Little scared to take the plunge,
But I’ve got these wings so I must be invincible.
Let’s go let’s go let’s go even higher,
Fly cuz the tip of your wing’s on fire,
I’ll light you up my Moonlight Flower,
Dream and see it’s a good way to be,
Don’t worry about it, you know you can trust me.
Membranes, wings and rains,
Think brains, pull up them Hanes,
Dress yourself in scarves and silks,
Drink some warm milk,
Remember… remember, cuz tonight you’re only feelin’ ill.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
1. Stuck in a room built by terrifying numbers – big numbers. The front door marked 130, 125, 120, 115… Mom’s hand reaches and pulls the door open. Twenty seven bones shut it tight.
2. Blueish glow from a sticker encrusted Dell. 500 sit ups documented on screen. Twenty four ribs transferred into megapixels. Hundreds, thousands, millions of skeleton sisters silently screaming. Intertwined by sharp edges.
3. One pile of 206 bones fast asleep under a magenta comforter. Three sets of arms pulling the bones back to Earth. Too many tears to keep track of.
4. Zero smiles at the breakfast table. There is a 92% chance of precipitation by the looks of moms quivering lip.
5. One fiery ball of hot gas. 206 bones soaking in the ultraviolet rays. Nineteen ribs poke through a white Hanes t-shirt. One wrist full of red shadows. Only one scar remains and I can’t even remember it.
6. 52 bones- three steps forward, two steps back. Forward, forward, keep moving forward.
7. 1 New York style cheesecake. 707 calories. 117 per slice.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
Wow!
and I only need one thing
Excuse me, where are the cameras?
Aisle fourteen?
Okay...
Lost,
in forest of clothes
Lost,
in parallels of furniture
Lost,
in children's dreams
This place is so foreign.
Lost in this store.
Signs, language, so difficult
everyone stares
Why do they stare?
I dress appropriately?
Levi
Nike
North Face
Hanes
I'm dressed appropriately...
Where are the clerks!
Why does no one help you in America?
And this sign, it makes no sense?
Points...
pointing to what?
This place is so foreign.
Ah, here is a lady,
Get your hands off me Arab!
Arab?
I'm not Arab
This place is so foreign.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
he had gray vans
and khakis
and a gray jumper
and brown eyes
and brown hair
and tan skin.
but all I wanted
to see on him
were those
dark blue hanes.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
I still love you even though you dropped out of school
because your taste in music and the way you make everything feel like spring
outweighs any doubts I might have.
I still have a pair of your Hanes in my dresser drawer where I stored
you away for so long as well.
You have the upperhand.
You still have every bit of
emotional pain I've channeled into you over
the past year.
I still stuck by you through the neglect and ignorance, you still loved me
despite all the doors I broke off the hinges.
You saw through
all the anxiety attacks and outrages.
You survived me, you conquered me with love.
They say, it's just a phase,
just a phase.
But I could never walk away.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
*****
Why does it make us stupid, huh
I wish it was a formula
But nothing’s free
Most of the guys will agree with me
Y’all will say it’s a unicorn
Y’all will say it heals
The way that I feel
It’s difficult to conceal
It’s also a meal.
*****
It confounds us, huh
Also called the puh
And called many names
I love it when y’all hide it behind your Hanes
Your Way
Was that too cliche?
I’ll stop
Hypnotize me while that puh pop
Make that thing drop
Ooh, she freaky
She can’t be stopped
*****
What it feel like
I don’t know
I just seen a glimpse
Of a girl’s bush
That made me go limp
It **** sure wasn’t presidential
She thought her Puh was transcendental
Please
More like it should be confidential
She was a **
And she knew it
And that was the moment that I realized
*****
Was a formula:
Wait until you’re ready for that curricula
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
At the LAUNDROMAT / the sign, all in Caps.
Time : Midnight at half past
It’s like a home for my home-girl
And that Chicano Youngblood
Cutie with his family duties /
in the lateness of tonight, doing laundry:
Folding his brothers’ Johns
His Tia’s Lacey skimpy's
Crumpled like tiny ****** / scrunchies.
He’s Methodical, his eyes don’t waver
From his work,
Tries to not notice mines
I feel like I’m in a rap video,
My chick being clocked by dark eyed,
She does not notice,
& while at tumble dry
I can’t quit ogling at ****
Hanes-shirt white,
Mr. homegrown boy / guy.
Headphone Speakers have his ears
Texting back at spam / females,
Smartphone shiny thick ‘uns
While I watch salivarily, licking lips
**** so Fine!
My muffled salutations—hot ****
He’s Adjusting himself front faced
my window to
Things that makes you go hmmm...
I feel I should somehow
Cater to these wiles inside
Aquiver / wrought / A high
Willowing / body admonishing
the vibrations of deep bass
like hard hip-hop rap beats from
Impalas riding way low,
Tinted windows vs. blind faith
Reality vs. perceptions from our
Fantasy / briefly close shuddering eyes
Awake not a dream spared.
(Hello there!)
Midnight at the Laudromat,
This is some reality at that!
Home grown boys
And drool drops / swimming in thought
From the corner of mouths
Words are *****
Past the late of moonless nights
In the neighborhood of Twain and
Corona beers (hold the virus)
We’re all marked by the streets
And the big empty inside us...
The hunger pangs,
Homeless outside chitchat on black
Skittering past
City Wildlife
At Midnight at the Laundromat.
Yes ****** &
Too **** at That
(In all caps.)
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 6:07 AM UTC
Hanes moves to New York a week after our meeting. I ask him why on the phone when he tells me.
"To get away from all this normalcy. I can feel it leaking into my pores like a hot honey. It drags me down...weighs me down. **** I've lived out there before, I could probably do it again."
I tell him he'll be fine. He doesn't say anything, but I hear him nod into the receiver, knowing full well we both know being fine is worse than being suicidal. At least with that, there's some risk.
We hang up and I look out the window of my apartment. It's trash day and the sun is high up in the sky, glowing hot like a new light bulb. There's not even a wind in the air. The trees that stand behind the apartments across the street are still. They bring back an image I'd seen of 50 places to visit before you die. Four trees cast in black shadows with a backdrop of hot orange rock. The sun looked to be burning the hillside with its heat. There was no life, just rock, sand, and near to death bushes that looked more like piles of ash than shrubs. Wonder was not the first feeling I had when I saw the photograph; it was abandon.
Overflowing trash cans and driverless cars are the only things on the streets. Everyones at work. Gotta' make money somehow. My desk is spotted with empty coffee cops and half empty red wine bottles. Folded pieces of paper with squiggly black pens marks are jammed in between books I've been telling myself to read for months. My gaze slides back to my window and I wonder where all the drivers are to these empty cars. Somewhere else, I tell myself.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC