"hartford" poems
I quivered in the arena
As thousands of people screamed at me
All because I wanted to touch the *****
I guess I play a different football
Those Hartford wailers weren't there
When I was on the ice
Trying to play goalie to the problematic pucks
All I had was my blocker
And all I could do was deflect
Yet those same people
Try to convict me in the tennis court of public opinion
Just because I wanted to make my own racket for a change
Is that really my fault?
Why should I listen to these people
When zero and love have the same meaning?
Am I beholden to those
That wanted me to kneel in the endzone?
They're the people who separated me from myself
Now that I'm running back
They're claiming they were my safety
But there was never a decent referee
Only people that wanted to see me in stripes
But here's the kicker
I'd forgive them all their past interference
If they'd just stop challenging my plays now
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 2:02 AM UTC
Ankles bobbed. Cannibal Dan executed female (gorgeous). Hartford Inquirer:
“Justice killing? Love? Money?”
“ No.”
“Oh?”
“People question rationale. Society thinks, ‘Undeserving Victims!’
Well, 'xcept you, Zackary.”
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:46 PM UTC
The iris of your eye
Is the iris of the field
Ticking to the tock of the tire swing’s
Strawberry lemonade hypnosis
The pupil of your eye
Is a pupil of the universe
Breathing in all the wisdom and the heartbreak
Like a little black hole sponge
The sclera of your eye
Is the blinking white lights of the Ryman
Illuminating Hartford’s most exquisite fiddle solo yet
Projected down from the great riverboat in the sky
The lashes of your eye
Own the sliding boards at dusk
After all the children have heeded the dinner bell
And the rains roll in from the west
The tears of your eye
Remember your dancing days
Before the war took its toll
And youthful drops of dew still rested upon the irises
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
she weaved a tapestry of notions for me
on the lower level of grand central station
it had rained that night
my jacket retained its damp warmth of summer storm
we ran down the long ramp
past the times square express
to that bench
where she sits tonight
weaving dreams
and avidly talking to friends
by the track where we used to catch the train
to that sleepy little town with the apple orchard
and blueberry farm
near hartford
we had wandered all night along the wet humid streets
and talked about everything under the sun
and a few things over it too
just holding hands and walking
laughing and whispering
i was a young man
you were a young woman
we had the world at our feet
we were everything to eachother
under the sun
and a few things over it as well
tonight she weaves a tapestry of notions for me
in the lower level of grand central
while i rock my childs crib in the bahamas
she talks to her friends
who allways are sitting just there
tho they have all long since gone
her imagination they are allways there
the notion is that no matter where you go
you will allways be loved
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
I like (and do not) listening to music that reminds me of you
for
one
two reasons
because it often leaves me ass-stranded on the blacktop in
the kamiak parking lot or dropping from heaven, hitting
the ground running without sneakers in a cold sweat on
top of Lake 22, trying to get you to sing and carving
my name into ashy wood while pine needles rain
down on top of my head. But also because of
cold apples--McIntosh candles that were
always lit in your room with windows
that were never closed, never closed on Weekends
on weekdays, in seasons. I've rolled in fake grass and
timed your 100 meter dash, of all the simple things I might
wish that the naivety could have been expanded upon so that
we might have enjoyed the trivial things for a while longer but
I can't beat the clock anymore, sneakers or not. There's no more
hartford in this soul, just chubby cheeked memories and the scent
of ramen and your mom's borderline vegan cooking.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
Is it just imagination, or
Is Wal-Mart running out of
**** to put on their shelves?
I swear.
(And I intend on cee-ceeing
Elizabeth Warren with this.)
So, you want to do something
About inequality in America?
So, you want to give the working stiffs,
A Fighting Chance,
Is that the name of
Your book, Senator Liz?
I’ve heard it all before:
It’s Hope & Change Redux, Babaloo!
(And don’t get me started on Osama Obama.)
Here’s my plan:
You go aisle to aisle in any Superstore
With a little notepad and pencil.
Every time you see some
Large plastic piece of ****
Realizing they sell
15 million of ‘em every year,
All made by some Dink-Chink in China.
QUESTION: So, what do you do, Mr. Policy Wonk?
ANSWER: Federally-subsidize the
Building & Operation of a plant
Manufacturing that **** right here in Detroit.
Or Atlanta, or Hartford,
Cleveland or Fitchburg,
Or even Oakland,
Where San Francisco poor continue to squeeze.
(Don’t get me started on Urban Gentrification.)
Trust me on this:
AMERICAN JOBS
Will deodorize everything that
Stinks about The Economy.
“Capital Flight Gone Global:
Invest where Labor comes cheap.
Export those American jobs again & again.”
QUESTION: What’s the difference
Between a middle-class person
And a poor person in America?
A middle-class job,
********
But I digress.
I was sharing an observation:
Wal-Mart’s shelves are
Not as luscious, as they once were.
Gaps left for
PINEAPPLE CHUNKS,
With only CRUSHED PINEAPPLE
Cans in stock, e.g.
So much for that On-line,
Real-time,
Instant supply-chain,
Super-duper
Inventory system, Mr. Walton.
Arkansas wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
Was it Mr. Sam?
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:39 PM UTC
Up the hills, past villas, small groves and arbors. And by the Duomo, which, I swear, moved into our path no matter where we went. The fifteenth century refuses to yield.
That giant rival, Milan, now resembles Hartford: large and gaunt. Rome, thief of the renaissance, remembers Mussolini and Berlusconi more than Leo X, who yet lives in Florence, returned to his Medici home.
Florence is the butter of civilization’s milk; nourishment of the flesh churned by hand. The art, the food, the social structure, even the soccer sated in turned, sweet cream.
Fresh oil, fresh wine. Old recipes. The bread remains salt free. The tripe looks ancient. The streets forever too narrow.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
I am from a pencil, from words, and paper.
I am from the two bedroom, one floor home.
I am from the roses, and the sun.
I am from homemade coffee and depression, from Bonnie and Charlie and Christopher.
I am from the anxiety and denial.
I am from not throwing things and not living life in fear.
I am from Angels surrounding, and Omnipotent protection.
I'm from Hartford and Greenwich, statesmen and viscounts.
From the pain in their eyes and rage they expressed, and the ignorance of men.
I am from the wall where the past hangs in frames.
From pictures of possible better times, yet maybe not any greater.
From pictures that may be of worse times, hidden behind these smiles.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
The first time I saw you,
I didn’t expect to fall for the fact that you always hold my hand first,
Before you even kiss me
Or wrap your arms around me.
I didn’t expect to fall for the way you watch me when I trace the bones in your body,
Giving each its specific, anatomical name.
I didn’t expect that every time I looked at the stars,
I’d try and find Orion’s Belt
Because you have these three freckles that connect like a constellation on your chest.
The first time I saw you,
I didn’t expect to find myself thinking about your voice,
Or the scruff on your chin,
And how it felt when it’d brush against mine every time you kissed me.
I didn’t expect your smile to become a force
That could weaken me to my core,
And fill me with warmth and a quickened heart beat.
I didn’t expect that every time I saw the lights from Hartford,
I’d be thinking of your laugh when I couldn’t stop admiring the view from your house.
The first time I saw you,
I didn’t expect I’d fall so hard for you.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 10:40 AM UTC
There are certain things in life that bring me comfort,
like cloudy days with a hint of breeze,
hot chocolate and a movie on a rainy day,
candle lit room on a thundering night,
a boyfriend kissing my eyes gently,
drinking a soy chai latte at starbucks,
visiting this town I love called West Hartford in Connecticut,
studying at Barnes and Nobles,
going for massages,
kissing my cats,
spending time with my father just watching movies,
talking to my sister and mom about life,
visiting my grandparents and watching there favorite shows with them,
seeing my beautiful nieces face,
knowing God never abandons me,
envisioning my future life and how I want it to be,
going out to a restaurant and then catching a movie kind of day,
road trips,
hoodie weather,
Christmas time,
going to the airport,
taking long walks at night,
writing poetry.....
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
Wallace Stevens
Wazzup?
With the widows and the maidens?
The name
dropping
the distancing vocabulary that
we scurry to look up
look up
train our eyes
train.
If I came into your office, in downtown
Hartford a city
I knew framed - as my father grew up in
Wethersfield always said
be careful –
downtown Hartford is
not a good place to be alone.
So I saunter, prink, and
perambulate
plonk myself
past your receptionist.
A widow?
And she’d holler:
-Mr. Wallace I asked her to stop!
And your desk which you requested almost 15 years ago
already looks out of date in too heavy oak is
caught between us, a horizontal surface filled
with paper.
There will be one sentence.
And one exclamatory remark.
-Wallace, you’re only human - you put your pants on
one leg at a time.
-No!
he says, jumping up from his desk,
-Watch!
He undoes his belt, he drops his trousers
he steps out of them –
He steps out one leg at a time.
BUT
Wallace Stevens, god bless him,
arranges his pants carefully on the floor of the
Hartford Accident
and
Indemnity Company
just so.
And grinning,
hops into both puddled legs
at the same time.
Then bends over and hoists the waistband
the belt dangling
in triumph.
Lesson learned.
Learned, schooled like
St. Ursule with her radishes
Just another lady
Just another confabulist
Just another story.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
at the hartford house
you sat on the end of
my bed and kept to
yourself.
When you left I messaged
you to tell you I had wanted
to kiss you and back to back
you said
Are you sure?
well you should have.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
*Juicy Fruit chewing gum , wren singing
Saturday , cool day tromping buck trail ,
whitetail byways
Over red hillside , wild onions grow tall over frosted -
scenery , eagerly encircling lakesides
natural machinery
Pausing by a stump to watch -
a "Hartford" jumped
Geese on the move on a course to the moon
Herons holding still to get their fill ,
'Grays' scampering from Cottonwood
to Sycamore , Swamp bunnies breaking
on the cattail shores* ...
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
Although those many years have passed
Having every bit of reason to grasp
The true message in his songs
Seen him twice in Hartford, Ct
That brother made a dent in my true memory as a young G
Spring love made me fall in love
Then it was in your eyes what a surprise
Onto Diamond Girl that's when I smoked a lot of ****
There was no one quite like the likes of Stevie B
Many young girls had lost their virginity to his soft melody
Mr. Post Man because I love you to name a few
Back then the tunes to late night high school dances
Caught up in trances with his smooth romances
Man they don't make music like that anymore
everything is vinyl now & tapes are out the door
going to the beach with the roof top down on my car
love was never so good when Stevie B was in the hood
faces, spaces & traces
beats blowing your mind
I once could see but today's youth are blind
to get your eighties groove on just leave it to the man
In My Eyes did it come at any big surprise
The music industry today is not the same everyone it seems is insane
We need a blast from the past as Stevie B
Let's see him make a good come back
cause folks today are giving me a heart attack
from the heart let us never depart until the end its just me & Stevie B
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
i’m glad the tour your band took in 2016 was successful and i hope you can still hear a crowd echoing your words
even though i was the only one who could hum them under my breath
ill take the next train out from hartford if you promise to meet me @ penn station
at least i see you in my dreams, love
they say that dreams are an alternate reality given we spend about 6 years in them
i don’t really know who “they” are but maybe they’re wrong
and if dreams are all that i will have left of you i suppose i should take what i can get
i don’t want a fall wedding anymore
i don’t want kids anymore (i never really wanted them anyway but i would have flown to the moon if you only asked)
i don’t want to keep up with the band name list and i don’t want a whole state to be surrounded by metaphorical barbed wire but i guess that’s all i can be left with since the last three years have brought me no comfort and no closure
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC