"hotbox" poems
Memorized by a vacant lot. At the edge of an abyss. Darkness is solitude. Solitude for a crowded my mind. There is no break for a mind. Constantly crunching away at what is reality. The concept of nothingness makes the mind clock overtime. Are we creatures of logical limitless. Or finite beings who cant grasp that nothing is infinite. We are here to observe. To learn. To yearn. In search of a purpose. In search of anything that keeps us from thinking we are worthless. We are creators. We are makers. We are breakers. We are fakers. We are individuals. We are imitators. I am you and you are me. One in the same. On an even plane.. on a round earth. We are haters. We are lovers. We are creatures of similarity. We are creatures of contrast. Idiosyncratic nuances that make us a so far apart but so alike. The performer with a mic. The crazy man on a soap box. The angry in jail. The stoners in a hotbox. The gated community members. And the thieves breaking pad locks. The rich and the poor. The nun and the ***** The killer and the doctor. The lover and the boxer. All so far apart yet always united with a common theme. One in the same. He is her and she is him. Cell by cell. Limb by limb. United until every atom that we were connected through is torn away into nothingness. Vacant lots at the edge of an abyss.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
over the summer
I had a brief romance
with a boy named Ty
whose tennis shoes
were six years into
a can of Grizzly
Wintergreen
on the Kansas
plains. I thought
about kissing him
a couple times when
he told me about wanting
to go to college but his
interest only went
as far as my arms
could reach, the
length of my
hair down my back
and the 5 minute drive
up Skyline that I never took
with him because he only wanted
to hotbox in my car to breathe his
past down my throat. And after
that, he told everyone I was too
much of a good girl and
left.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
Twenty-one years of what exactly was I taught? I believed you two to be super heroes, or so I thought. Turned seventeen realized life's nothing but a thought.
I'm thinking I'm alive, but really I'm not.
I saw past materialism, chose to sin.
Now I hope I can be forgiven, look into the mirror I'm afraid of my reflection.
I'm not who I was.
I'm not where I am.
I don't know who I am.
I can't find where to stand.
Miss the days when blankets were stronger than Fort Knox, and money had one meaning: to buy train stations, and the chances we took were cards in a box and we didn't use our cars to hotbox but we matched a lot.
While momma was tryin' to teach me don't monopolize the TV that's just greedy. Noweverydaygoesbyspeedy and I don't have an effort to make myself peace treaties stuck in my self pity, wallowing like a wallaby with abstract gynecology Twitter-less no one follows me I hate my top eight. I've ruined the recipe but I still eat this teaming plate so I'm just left with a bitter taste.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
I'm a tool pondering skyscapes.
Fondling a memory
Left behind
On sunset marquees.
It raced into the horizon like
A toad on the road.
A neon dream waving farewell.
Exploring mindsets:
An act in caressing
Bloodbath tesseracts.
A roundhouse rollercoaster,
Spinning at velocity of perfume
Hitting nasal perforations.
Core memories surface along spine cutlets,
No longer intrinsic
Doubt.
I'm settling for more.
Time is a moment
Too long to endure.
Hindsight is
A parson's lake passage;
A mad monster yet to be tamed;
A grain of salt to a fresh wound made;
Moments of grace from a fake great ape.
Blue morons slide
Into Mormon jovial footsteps.
Derided ice forestry into
King's cloaked ancestry.
A sad fisherman sailing
Ceaselessly out to sea.
And yet here I am
Talking to you,
Eyelight through obelisks
In hotbox barricades.
Hiding behind
A past of newspapers.
Headline reads 'ONLY DEVINE'
'TRADE REIGN WARNS JEWELS'
'PRINCE THREATENS ECONOMY
... AND CROWN.'
Wipe the frown,
Draw the sword.
Don't be ignored anymore.
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
The dog who watched us take off our shoes
on the steps before the laying Buddha,
this is for you. You were at ease,
not guarding, panting from the heat, warming
your belly on Bangkok’s stones.
Our shoes in a bag, passports strapped to us,
photographing the twenty foot high
resemblance of the man who asked not to
be praised - cast in mother-of-pearl the
man who shook off possessions - I
suppose to a dog looking up,
gods and humans are the same, barefoot idols
shuffling through a hotbox corridor
looking up at another barefoot
human with an immobile face,
downy eyes and nearly a tear.
Later you found shade beneath an
archway at the end of a long
line of Buddhas, almost identical,
decreasing in age towards you.
Some ideas are so respected
they need repeating in the same
manner every year, the same sculpture
carved beside the last, an echo,
a silent chant, and you lay there
at the end, the chant becomes your
visible panting. For a moment
you look into my eyes because
you recognised my feet, because
you know you take the place of the
next structure, you know that busy
hands will build upon where you sit,
that where you go, humans follow,
as they do with gods, with shadows.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
Hair whips your face
as you cruise away from life,
from ******** from internet & TV.
Thank God the windows roll down automatically
in your hotbox of a car, because
You don't have time to waste thinking
about rolling down windows -
the weather is hot and sunny,
You need to get on the move.
And besides, your music is too loud
to even manage thinking about
well, anything. Blast off.
Sun-scorched leather burns your thighs,
sweat glues you to the seat.
It's not glorious,
it's swamp ***
But I'll take it.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
What if the war machine
was a tarnished memory
and the void between
the pillars
Why there is not contentment for the content
but and endless series
of Roman pillars inside celibate convents.
The pillars of the Panthéon are bars in a demented prison
fermented with the stench of a rancid batch
of torrid dreams.
A palace of pain an pleasure,
a hotbox of sin for the devil's leisure.
Leapt to every level of Dante's hell
and up again
No knowledge have I aquired,
but confusion, a quiet
illusion, and I am tired,
oh, so witheringly
tired.
"We are drawn to the concept of escape"
Nietzsche said.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
in the hot hot hotbox where the
interlude first dug in its feathered heels
(the ************ now, it being
gone with the wind, the wellsprings
reflexively engage because the wind
is hot and here I'm not unused to you yet
and I sure don't miss you but here
I nearly want to
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
if we would've met at 16 our lives as teenagers would've been worlds different. we'd meet in the parking lot after school and we'd drive for a little, then hotbox in front of the pacific ocean. i'd play you all the stuff that i played on my weekly radio show and i'd ***** to you about how i was done with the world and every single lululemon wearing, frozen mocha drinking girl who thought i was inferior to her because i wasn't conventionally pretty, listened to anti-establishment punk rock of the 1970s and refused to straighten my hair even if my curls wouldn't quit that day.
i didn't know you four years ago. you were the exact opposite of me, and honestly you probably would have avoided me - you put gel in your hair and you played sports, but you seemed like you might've been angry and sad for no apparent reason too. you were the same as you are now in some ways, you had the 24/7 off-duty model thing, you were smart, you bumped old school tunes, you knew old school sitcoms. i would've 100% been in love with you but i never would have done anything about it. all i wanted was someone that i could tell everything to, but nobody cared. knowing you could have eased the pain of the period of time in my life where i spent all my money on dime bags and twelve dollar packs of cigarettes and stability was the last thing on my mind and all i really wanted to do was dig a grave for myself. you probably would have never talked to me, but we would have been the coolest kids in the parking lot.
and can i tell you like, the cheesiest sounding thing in the world? yeah? okay. i can't wait to run into you on a beach on the north shore of kauai in 50 years. "shawshank redemption" style. i hope we're friends forever.
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
he stares off and inhales slow death
green lungs
red eyes
his soul reminds me of the sun
older than time and burning slowly
his halo hangs undecided between his body
and his aura
deep purple,
guess that's why his voice sounds like purple haze
with green lungs
red eyes
here I come, baby.
and he starts walking like there's no star in the sky that could stop him
walking through the clouds,
riding through the sky
he's the chosen one
gold streaks running through his long hair
Samson, your time has come.
you don't know who you're talking to.
I long to know the secrets woven into your dreadlocks
yesterday's broken song
and the beginning of the universe
what your god sounds like
and what it's like to have god running through every vein in your body.
I'm a cute little heartbreaker
with a tar black heart
let me take you over.
back roads, cold night
inhaling poison
blasphemous hotbox in the house of The Lord
clear mind
tainted soul
green lungs
red eyes
you're enticed by the darkness shining behind mine
unintentional seductress
with unholy motives
so I get you to the backseat of my car
inhale the smoke dripping from my lips
the cyanide laced flower you cling to
the light fades from your red eyes
as realization hits
your last thought asking why
seven inch bloodstained blade torn from hearts of the many before
pulled from my belt
I cut the purple haze from your soul with every strand I steal
the gold fades
I can hear your god
see the secrets of the universe woven in your dreadlocks
watching the universe begin
mesmerized
I don't know if it's day or night anymore,
or if it's the end of time
but I've taken you over
oh, samson.
and then he rises, his hands on my throat
he sees me standing over him
gets up and screams
his voice brings pillars down,
the house of god obliterated
in this moment I'm all his
his rampage beginning.
in the midst of his purple haze
green lungs
red eyes.
the revolution is mine.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
I'm staying in this Friday night
Don't need the parties to get high
I've got a party all on my own
So **** the fakes and stuck up hoes
I don't wanna hotbox the car
Or run crazy through the yard
I just wanna trip in my room
And dream of the things we could do
Inhaling the good
Exhale the bad
You never understood
It's all I ever had
I'm staying in
Don't hit me up
Call me a flake
I don't give a ****
I love the silence
Where I can make up
A very own world
Just me alone
I'm not going out
I'm staying at home
Just wanna trip
And be alone
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
Wither, weary eyes
Come seek me here at high noon
Blind, in the sunlight.
------------------------------------------
Silver light sings now
Shadowing the night so deep;
Called, I answer.
-----------------------------------------
Down where mischief keeps
Its uncertain ***** laughter
I build my garden.
-----------------------------------------
***** and stick, the thorns
Growing lovely now, the leaves
Rarer still, the rose.
-----------------------------------------
Icy crystals of frost
Lacing the window like lattice
Fading in the sun.
-----------------------------------------
Whisper, quiet touch;
Your skin, soft and supple;
My world, beside me.
-----------------------------------------
Wheezing, hacking hurt
That torments me like the plague
Springs sweet gift to me.
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 11:10 AM UTC
Oh happy Sunday hour
after five and before the tea-time tide
when those who filled the beach
with grubby toddlers, toys and spades
return to roasting hotbox cars
and stow the cool-bag in the boot,
along with salty dogs who want to sleep
creeping under blankets kept especially for them,
farewell they wave,
with lollypop sticky, sun-touched infant hands
a tired last goodbye to the sand
that battlefield land of dug-outs holes and hollows
a ruined castle landscape
that the sea will fix tomorrow
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 10:02 AM UTC