"infomercial" poems
I am the crushed cereal at the bottom of the box
Your last clean pair of underwear you only wear on laundry day
The popped balloon left in the balloon seller’s hand at
The end of the day when he goes back to his
One bedroom apartment and warms up soup in the microwave
I am the last thing you want to watch on TV
An infomercial or a re-run re-run of a show you don’t like
I am the bit of soda left in the can
That’s mixed with saliva and has no taste
And most times you don’t drink it, so
You just toss away the can with me still inside
I am the wallpaper in a dentist office
That no one buys except to paper dentist offices
I am the crumbs you sweep under the rug
I am that thing on craigslist that would be
Perfect except for that one little thing wrong
I am all those lonely things.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:38 PM UTC
Outside of a bar in a North Carolina strip mall, stone cold sober because I am scared to use my fake, I feel drunk as you sit next to me. Perhaps I am. I'd have to be to think maybe, maybe, maybe, when I know, I know, I know.
Your hand brushes against mine, and you're saying the most beautiful words I've ever heard, and the fire in my heart spreads up, down, left, right. But it cannot spread just four inches outside of my body. It cannot set you on fire, too.
We listen to each other and hear two very different things. You are birdsong outside of my window that I am eager to hear; I am traffic outside of your window you've learned to tune out at bedtime.
If there are nine million bicycles in Beijing, then Beijing is my insides and bicycles are your name, because it is written on my insides nine million times. But there are no bicycles on Antarctica. There is no use for them there, just as there's no use for my name to be perched on a straight girl's ribs.
You tell me my weird hobby of listening to French rap music is awesome, that it's so cool that I'm teaching myself three languages, and that you want to be me when you grow up - I laugh, because you're several years older than me. Selfishly I catch every droplet of your praise. I ruminate on it for hours, for days. It means more to me than it should.
My name sounds like a compliment from your mouth. I try not to say yours too often, so you don't grow tired of me being around. If I can't set your insides on fire, I want you to want to be my friend. Even that feels like I ask for too much.
In every scene, I see you in the foreground of the narrative. For me, it would be on honor to be one of your background characters. Narratives are richer with them anyway.
I look at you and you are the Harry Potter movie marathon I wait months for. For you, I am the 2 am infomercial you fell asleep to. But I don't mind half as much as I should. Even white noise has its place in someone's life.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 10:17 PM UTC
people find it hard
to believe happiness
because for many,
it’s much more of a myth
or a hazy recollection
than it is something real
and rational and
to be aspired too
love and hope
and dreams
have taken on this air of
imagination
in recent generations
for a brief moment,
they were truly believed in
by the adults
by the people in charge
by the whole wide world
even as everything they knew before
had crumbled and wrecked
to a state beyond
their power to
repair
but it was that desolate place the world was
that drove the people to believe in such fancy
and frivolous thoughts
because if they had not,
the world would’ve withered
and died, like a cow so old
you know there’s no hope
or a flower so far gone
that you don’t mind to let it
wilt
those times went though,
like a leaf upon the wind,
as the children began acting
as the adults and followed
their dreams to a land so
few actually reached
and as the adults saw their failure
and the children saw the adults flee
the belief in love, in hope, in dreams,
in morals, in rites, in traditions, in
togetherness, in family, in belief-
failed
and
sunk
the last tip of the ship leaving the surface
with the first person who believed in the
infomercial
we do not know what we can do
because we do not believe we can
do anything
happiness, as I started this all out with,
is not a bed-time story
it is very real
and it is very
powerful
but in each average person’s life
they get to experience only once
or twice, seeming like a random
occurrence, and thus cementing
in so many people’s minds that
it is
but it is not
happiness comes from knowing how to be happy
it’s not about sacrifice
or faith
or hard-work
or dedication
it’s about knowing who you are,
what the world is,
and how you
can make
the best
of it
this is not some secret art
it is a simple idea:
that happiness can be controlled
and it’s execution is even simpler:
how can I be happy?
how can I be happy,
forever?
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 8:28 PM UTC
The dried petals of a once green love
snake through the beige carpet--
along with potato chips,
along with icy *****
along with grey ash of cheapshit incense,
my empire soles trample in after work.
Susan smiles and tries to reheat the leftovers.
Our bulging bellies match from a marriage of coping strategies,
stretch mark'd and daydreaming of
other seasons; sweat on foreign sheets,
other napes; Mediterranean baby's breath,
other scents; a choice between gardenia and gasoline,
Susan's a liar.
Of deceit--I've grown tired.
Newspaper, newspaper bring me a bullet.
Doorbell, doorbell bring me a blushing nomad in need of bruising.
Ringtone, ringtone bring me DHS and an actual Friday.
Susan tucks me in to the Lullaby of the Infomercial,
her fingernail seeps into my lower lip.
I roll onto my side.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
The sky is solid, gray, motionless.
Shuffling bodies with obscured shadows
Make haste for shelter
From the stark, lifeless outside
With its grass that only lives if watered,
The always leafless trees,
And the carcinogenic air.
Looking upward,
Through the smoggy haze,
One sees the neon silhouettes
Floating in the sky,
Atop the glass and steel monoliths.
They speak to those below,
Of subtle, clandestine oligarchy.
Subconsciously belittling the anonymous masses,
"We are Titans, you are rats."
Say the towers,
As the populace quietly passes over stained concrete and asphalt,
Wearing breathing masks,
Saying not a word to the thousands they pass.
We make haste in this world.
We cannot afford to help a stranger,
To make a detour with a view,
To get your child that gift they really want.
So fiercely we have been strangled
That empathy is illogical.
"What a world" we all say,
As we avoid eye contact with the hungry;
As we change the channel from the melodramatic infomercial
About starving, disease-ridden children somewhere else;
As we console ourselves with hollow entertainment and intoxication,
To keep the guilt at bay,
To keep the thoughts at bay,
"Just do what's best for you,
Don't step out of line,
Shuffle in,
Follow the queue.
That's all you can do."
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
My first-aid kit drys up in the sun, but everything important still works after I shake out all the love.
The words I need to release next can dance a seizure in your chest.
A prom of the heart.
It feels strange to whisper caving secrets across a desert.
Like how I fear that I'll run out of skin before patience.
How lots has been bleeding since we last spoke.
And how it feels better to rain over an aqua covered Monday, than to drown my lobes into infomercial.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 2:42 AM UTC
I wanted to write a poem
about the incessant discomfort
I always feel in my left eye
whenever my contact lenses
become old and dry
I thought about how it tickles
but scratches at the same time
and starts off alright
just a minor annoyance
but quickly, overtime
becomes almost unbearable
like my pre-school bully himself
is folding down one of my eyelashes
just enough for it to poke me
at the slightest movement
then I thought about how
I'd sooner write a poem about my life
and how it started out equally alright
and quickly, overtime became almost unbearable
as if my pre-school bully didn't do it right
so I found him in his adult life many years later
wife, two kids and a mortgage
yappy staffy-cross, two cars
and an alright job as a graphic designer
his garden full of gorgeous flowerbeds,
a full head of hair and a fading right hook
"MAKE ME FEEL **** LIKE YOU DID THEN."
a puzzled look on his face,
garden hose flooding his drive and the yappy
staffy-cross still yapping away
at the living room window
"I'M DEAD SERIOUS ANDREW,
NOTHING HURTS LIKE IT USED TO."
so he called the police
and I never got to feel young again
unless you count scurrying away from
a council estate under the threat of
a poor meal at Parkside police station
the rekindling of my youth
so this is my infomercial poem
about how not to confront someone
always be fully clothed
that's very important
avoid being drunk
any mind altering substance
is best avoided in my opinion
remember just because you care
just because you remember
does not mean anyone else does
oh and
don't eyeball craft beer when
you still have your contacts in
you know what?
-just don't eyeball craft beer
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 6:02 PM UTC
I come with an empty bottle guarantee
Take all of me.
If you're not happy with what you received
send me back empty
no questions asked.
And I'll return all our memories.
Eating hot dogs in D.C.
Late night breaks at truck stops
during our 28 hour round trip to see what made me.
You can play me like a violin
or use me to wipe your tears away.
If I am out of tune
or if I'm not absorbent enough
send me back used.
Treat me like a balloon
I'll be there when your kidneys fail
with a message of hope just for you.
But if that is not enough
send me back deflated.
I'll pay the postage.
Unfortunately, if you order now
I come with nothing else.
Just me, and what you see.
If I don't fill you up
send me back empty
and I'll return all our memories.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
A well worn path in the grass
A permanent smudge on the bell
Both put there by U.P.S.
Bringing me more of which I delve
Whether Infomercial or Shopping channel
Maters not they're both the same
I have both they're 800 numbers
They have both my number and name
My family thinks I have a problem
It's plain to me they don't understand
Shopping and T.V...the best of worlds
With remote grasped firmly in hand
And the deals, why they keep on coming
3 easy payments are done in a snap
I might have a bit of a habit
But it's not like I'm addicted to crack
Of course I only purchase what's needed
Though every so often I do have to splurge
But only if the object is shinny
On that you do have my word
Now if you'll pardon me, here's a new item
And they're getting ready to spill the deal
By the way, I'm also expecting a package
Would you kindly listen out for the bell
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
leave the tv on switching channels every minute
for something you have not seen,
then lose the remote somewhere in the bed,
now, you stuck on an infomercial for fulfilling
a need you did not know you were needing
play ka-glom, an older version,
of candy crush
while not watching tv,
but hearing the sounds as warmth, comforting
read poetry, write some,
trivial sit puff stuff,
like this or
stuff about suicide - argh
and every pandora ballad
rhymes with everyone sad
poet up to take a ****
visit the vast emptiness
of the refrigerator cause
you ate it all, and was
consumed thereby
The two concessions to
Pretend
is you leave her side of the bed
undisturbed
and the lights off
and when she calls
and asks how ya sleeping,
you say fine, for what else
can you say,
you already wrote
so exquisitely,
re life without her here,
sad mad bad
the boss knocks into your chair,
around three in the sleepy afternoon,
thinking
"that boy, what a party animal!"
ain't that the truth...
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
Real life isn't like T.V.
It doesn't cut away to commercial.
It doesn't end always end in resolution.
Real life is messy and it's loud.
Its watching a marriage of several decades
Snuffed by the end that takes us all.
It's being more empty then you've ever felt.
It's music played loudly and substances abused.
It's poor choices and poorer results.
It has more problems then fit in to a thirty minute slot.
Life doesn't get resolved at the end of the season.
Sometimes it breaks you.
Real life isn't a hero saving the day.
It doesn't get a clear antagonist.
The villain is the never ending eternal grind.
Real life is full of broken promises and lost dreams.
Full of half people and drifting hearts.
But every now and then, as it will
When the chaos adds up just so
and the events cascade in the right way
Real life is just like T.V.
Once in a moment
You find everything you need.
Because long after the reruns turn infomercial
Real life continues on.
It lasts forever but for us,
It's over in the blink of an eye.
But that's not scary.
Endings are ok.
Because if you have that someone.
You never have to fear closing your eyes.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:29 AM UTC
Tonight in front of the early AM infomercial,
I overturn,
And flip through a few times more
Finally, to attribute self dialect
Still watching images on a soundless screen,
mimicking their actions,
One thought only fills the mute void
___________________________
Our leering fog days under freeways
Waiting all hours during school weeks
to hear you fill the mute void
___________________________
Technology, I claim,
Surprises the electro brain currents at such hour
Given the right two and a half hour sleep schedule,
A lack, made proceeding day event sheering
___________________________
I just wanted you to realize that before your double self died
That monster we both made in unison
Is my death of a hideous past
The thought of him at this hour
Always fills the mute void
Puts me to sleep under fluorescence glowing
from the early AM infomercial.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 1:18 AM UTC
*
I've scoured off my skin needing to scrub it out
I've exfoliated to the bone wanting to rub it out
I've been used and abused hoping to love it out
I've put on twenty pounds trying to grub it out
__BUT__
(Who doesn't love a big but?)
There's no infomercial-Oxy-booster to clean this stain
(Your absence a dark blotch in my sight)
There's no late-night ShamWow-savior to absorb this pain
(This displaced grief and fright)
There's no thought deep enough to wash you from my brain
(Nor the contrail of confusion behind your flight)
There's no shower cold enough, it weathers even this caustic rain
(Love's inexhaustible light)
*
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 6:16 PM UTC
Our love was like an infomercial
The closest we came to connection was the wifi we once shared
But what can I say
I'm yours and my heart waits for the day the torrent will guide you back to me
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
I will be okay
If for Christmas I get what I want,
I don't want an iPhone, those new boots or any of that infomercial junk.
I want to be together again,
I want to be a family,
But I don't think that is something Santa can bring me.
It used to be okay, I mean, it was never great,
But it was definitely better than this.
You were supposed to be family, always there for me,
You used to be there for me and I want that again,
But I don't think that is something Santa can bring me.
You haven't talked to me in over a month and I wonder,
Where are you Daddy, why haven't you called me?
Call me, Dad
That is what I want for Christmas.
Forget those neon guitar picks
Because that is something Santa can bring me.
I want you to call and be honest
Honest
And to be honest... that is something Santa can't bring me.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 7:08 PM UTC
ive dodged bullets bigger than my head
fired by guns in the hands of the lost & lonely
by all rights i should surely be splattered, dead
the gray matter lodging in my skull is my one & only
my neuro-circuits are a circus blaring classic jazz
emanating from my ears and causing a regular razzmatazz
my heart, i know it beats only for a limited time
like an infomercial, superficial in the way it teases me
but my head, it knows the differences between reason & rhyme
money equals madness and the line between land & sea
at the same time, i feel it disintegrating as it sits worriless
and I ask myself, "could you really care less?"
but when the day comes when my heart & head agree
i know it will be near the end and i'm okay with that
no longer will i scurry like a hungry squirrel, endlessly
i will not walk around with the curiosity of a newborn cat
looking for my head, examining this hypothetical ****** mystery
for it won't be dead like my heart will claim it to be
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
they tell us from a young age
to be ourselves
yet we're expected
to be like everyone else
I made my own
snowflake world
special to me
yet others found strange
they stalked their celebrity crush
and listened to rap
while obsessing over shoes
expecting others to do the same
why do I get looks
for being in my own world?
bzzrtt
-here comes loud obnoxious infomercial voice-
stop diverting
hide yourself
conceal away your desires
you are flawed
we can help
you're just one payment away
from sheep like happiness
bzzzrtt
falling under their spells
i was doomed from the start
i'm like every other teenage girl
dealing with this lipstick chaos
now I am jejune
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
If i was here to make you happy
Then we should probably cancel this infomercial because you're never going to be convinced to enjoy my existence
It's in the way you speak
Trying to pillage the core
Make me feel weak
That's the best you got?
We're about to reach extra innings
Come to bat
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
I have a switch.
Won’t someone turn me on?
Push my buttons.
Listen to me hum.
How lonely I have been
upon this counter top.
Remembering a time
when my motor never stopped.
Once so indispensable,
saving money, space and time.
But my faded almond housing
says that I am past my prime.
I curse Ronco and Popeil.
I curse China and Taiwan.
I curse the girl who had to have me.
Her fascination quickly gone.
Can you hear me crying?
Where is my infomercial now?
My three-easy payments over.
Guarantee void anyhow.
Won't someone push my button?
Won't you listen to me hum?
Here I sit, just waiting
for that yard sale sure to come.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
and saying,
"You signed up for this."
I only speak to myself.
Like most artists,
I barnacle stories out of friends,
without any return discourse,
until they are deflated.
I discard them and search for
the next inspiration.
I go for walks with a dim moon
and shy stars for company.
I see faces through apartment windows,
lit by infomercial-spouting television sets.
I pass neighborhood after neighborhood
bearing rustic names, Pine-this-or-that,
Cedar Bend, or some similar ****
yet the natural world hasn't been tangible for sometime.
Joy is a mirage that passes with the night and the liquor.
Sunshine turns it to vapor,
as readers crash cars into fellow readers to
better understand empathy.
My collection of the arts does nothing aside from gather dust-
a conversation piece, an aesthetic to allude to-
but nothing of worth or personal weight.
We write to change the world,
to melt swords; to further the slaughter,
but the blood in my mouth has left a bitter taste.
There are always too many mirrors,
and I'm sick of my own face.
If all is vanity,
how is it all capable of breaking me?
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 9:33 PM UTC
each night
he would enter his boy's room
Bobby's tomb, he had come to call it
and turn the TV off
before remotes, 24/7 programming
and the infomercial, plump with desperate promises
the tube gave a final hail, the stars 'n stripes whipping, the national anthem screaming, and an anonymous promise
to return tomorrow in a perfect world
it would not be perfect for Bobby,
no matter how much thoughtless Thorazine,
hazy Haldol, or mesmerizing Mellaril
they shoved down his throat
now and then
before flipping the **** to off
he would sit with his sleeping son
stare into the screen, listen to its hissing;
he would swear he saw something
in the gray ocean of static
not trillions of senseless electrons
busy bouncing, but a lone sailor, rowing away
in a foaming sea, riding raging swells,
bound for a black horizon
one his tormented son
had reached long ago
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 8:22 PM UTC