"interviews" poems
I think sometimes, about what it means to be transgender. I probe and probe for answers, because as the possibility for a new age of enlightenment and safety increases, the others want to know. I’ve come up with many answers, but I can hold to none. I don’t deserve to paint the definition of a culture with the limited experiences I’ve had. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people allowed on television. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people making news feeds and giving high profile interviews. And as my nation’s exposure to our culture increases, likely will their curiosity. Am I transgender? Do I have the right? I’ve heard doctors, psychiatrists, may refuse transgender patients access to hormone therapy based on how dedicated or convincing their portrayal of their identified gender. If you want to be a man or woman, you’ll have to look like the women and men on TV. If you want to be transgender, you’ll have to look like the trans identified people on TV. Every single one of us who has an active role as either participant or observer in our society is prey to the crisis of validity. Am I pretty enough? Am I strong enough? Am I brave enough? Mom enough? Dad enough? Competitive enough? Successful enough? Rich enough? **** enough? Pious enough? It never ends. We’re, as a nation of people, being crushed and compartmentalized by this ever present lens, looming over us, exploiting our weaknesses and fears so it may grow wider, and support itself as it follows us, seemingly forever into the future. And one of the worst fears this camera of existential torment exploits, in most of us every day, is, “Do I have a reflection?” “What does it look like?” “Do I look like me?” What does it mean to be transgender? I can’t get away from that question. But I don’t have an answer. There are varying degrees of anguish, depression, panic, anxiety, and other wonderful emotional states that creep up on you and breathe down your neck nearly every waking day. Absolute contempt for the lie of a life you’ve lived till now, and contempt for the fragments still stuck to you, in memories, attached to your body and mind. Fear of those in your own community who would purposefully humiliate, invalidate, or attack you, choosing their own universal moral code over the innate urge and capacity to support the health and continued well being of another human. A ******* neighbor. A ******* pupil. A ******* employee. A ******* sister, brother, son, daughter, mother, father, cousin, ******* blood. What is being transgender like? By my experiences, it’s just like being anyone else in the country. But with a lot more fear, death, exclusion and medication.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,"not much
chance...give him these pills...his backbone
is crushed, but it was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he's been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there...also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off..."
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he
wouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn't go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn't work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I'd had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
"you can make it," I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left...
and now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,"look, look
at this!"
but they don't understand, they say something like,"you
say you've been influenced by Celine?"
"no," I hold the cat up,"by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!"
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed he knows...
it's then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it's ******** but that somehow it all helps.
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Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Thousands of us were displaced
Started careers late
Not lucky enough to have had great jobs
So we work hard
Put ourselves through night school
While taking care of family
Finally ...
Yes, yeah, whoopee
Did it !
Once again completed school
Another certificate added to the growing list of achievements.
More bills owed to uncle Sam
Going on numerous job interviews
No one's responding
Instead ...
All this knowledge stored in your head
Current jobs pays minimum wages
Those colleges attended; mounting
When you try to get ahead -
They hold on to their employments
As if,
It's Rocket science
Looking for younger, greener admits
Once AARP comes a knocking on
Your door
You know they don't want your
Expertise anymore
What's one to do
Still strong, healthy, seasoned
Educated, no strings to boot
Hopelessly stuck in a world of
"We will call you "
So at the tender age of fifty
Thoughts of starting your own business floats in your head
Right
Now, back to school
For another certificate
A chance to use that knowledge
Put bread on the table
Feel useful
Quality of life renewed.
JRap /2016
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Here in America,
we improvise morgues
as needed.
in the cafeterias
or by the lockers,
near the ticket booths,
and at the altars.
We divvy up the dead.
Tally them
and report the number
like an answer.
13, 20, 49, 58, 6
Every death count
a timely national shock.
Almost as if
our well-televised
monthly tragedy
was ever anything less
than a game of roulette.
anything less than a matter of time
and time and time again.
Covering them each
with our bed sheets,
we try and stifle it.
Do our best to
staunch the the sights,
the noises,
(“just like chairs falling”)
the names
that keep bleeding out
onto our thoughts
and tongues,
Far too much and
too often
not to choke on.
Here in America,
we’ve learned that
horror is level-headed.
It is debatable.
It is pangless.
It seeps, deep to the core,
perverting with a silent smile.
the steady, feverish dread
weaving itself into the mundane.
the “god help us”
annulled by the
“respectfully disagreed”
the nightmare that lies
always just underneath,
and just out of mind,
Until it insinuates itself
Again and again...
Here, in America
We line the bodies,
death slumped, and
bled out on the pavement.
We arrange them-
Side by side.
Most are missing things-
a hat, a piece of face.
one shoe, a dulled pencil
(fill in C)
phones
buzzing on the ground
lit up with unread messages
(“Please call me”)
They are missing-
an upcoming
7th birthday party,
(Star Wars themed)
They are missing-
their vacations.
their first dates.
their college applications.
job interviews.
kids.
fiancées.
Lined up lifeless,
they are missing
far too many things
to gather.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
I wear the letters NYU sprawled across my chest as my individuality is asphyxiated.
Lungs choke under the weight of the added pressure.
The thought of college plus my complexion,
Equals complexed looks that ponder my intellectually-heightened direction.
Will you think a little bit more of me, with my conformity?
Attempts to better myself meet enough ignorance to even cloud the vision of God.
Segregation and alienation cause mental spasms the strength of lightening rods.
I guess you're just a product of the environment to which you were exposed.
But I'm always trying to fight the stereotype that black people are ultimately foes.
I am the ant and the kids of rich parents are magnifying glasses.
Cremating me with the solar power of son's who were taught that their existence was worth more than mine.
I lay motionless, in bottomless quick sand pits, itching to alleviate my stomach stitch, engulfed by set standards that could not be met.
I am tired of trying to be what you'd like to see.
Astute, respectable, young black man-just so you can approve of me and hopefully think that we are not all "up to no good."
Say it loud,
I'm black
And I'm,
Not going to lie,
The proud part is kinda hard to say.
Because I walk down the street and see my face in the homeless everyday.
I fill the prisons and I'm famous when the news reports crime.
And when I show up early to interviews,
they look confused to see that I,
Don’t run on Colored People's Time.
I don't hate black but I hate the fact that black means that sometimes I have to find alternate routes to success.
While other people's roads are already paved, I suffer from all the stress.
I try my best but I'm always categorized as less, then a man.
And I'm trying to change perceptions but I still feel like a visitor on American land
And the poor are physically trapped so I relate mentally.
We both suffer from the oppression and accept the hatred like it was meant to be.
Society has led you to believe that blacks are not worthy of equality
But take a long, hard look into my eyes and tell me that you don’t see my humanity.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
When you say racism doesn't exist, you are saying one of the most detrimental things you can say in our society. You are saying I know better. You are saying that it is okay. The things that you have experienced and the pain that you have felt is okay. Because I don't think it's real. I don't trust your experiences. I don't believe that you know more about what it is like to be you than I do. I don't care what history has to say. I don't care what you have to say. I don't trust you so your words don't matter to me. I don't trust you so your pictures, videos, interviews don't matter to me. When you say racism doesn't exist... What you're really saying is, "I still can't hear you."
And what then won't a person do to be heard?
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
Moved from my home state.
Got a job doing **** I hate.
Got five kids between you and I.
They are ill tempered sometimes and we are on the fly
coming up with ways to handle the stressers
of food and shelter.
Why...
can't we leave today... Enter the fray... the edge of culture...
and make our own future?
I am caught in the thought
of my hands in the dirt and the sweat in your shirt
and no relief from the work of growing our own food.
Would it be rude to say that I've had enough of the days
of "super" markets and moving targets
and job interviews that bring hope and then bad news
when you find that it will never be enough to sustain even you, alone?
And really, what do we own, but ourselves?
Can it not be shared instead of set on shelves and hidden away in accounts that have safety nets and passwords and relationships that leave regrets and bridge-burns?
Could we be all-for-all?
Is it possible?
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
I never gave interviews
There was nothing to say,
No one needs to know
What I had for breakfast
The day I made my mark
On an impressionable city.
They don't need my opinion,
It would just be another color
On their palette, and
I can't have that.
I don't want to see myself
Painted on the homes and faces of strangers.
I have lived to prove my worth,
Not to have it affirmed -
Mirrors are not worth their reflections.
Mirrors can be vacant.
I know my selfishness prevails on them
Only while I live. I don't mind.
Perhaps when I am gone,
They'll look me up.
They'll forgive my stinginess
When they have me pinned up in a glass case.
They will thank Death for transparency,
But use my name to save face.
At least I will be spared the sight;
That's all I have come to expect.
I console myself that it won't quite
Be me those empty minds reflect.
Imagination travels miles with a breath,
For that I thank the generosity in Death.
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 4:45 PM UTC
viewer discretion is advised. The following program has graphic images that may not be suitable for all audiences
The television stains my eyes
I can barely see myself in the mirror
While steady reporters shed not one tear
Don't you see the dead behind you?
Don't you feel the pain of their families
While you just "tell the story"?
27 dead, most of which young children, in a school shooting
The sickness creeps into my bones
Its impact rattles my spine
Debilitating me, confining me to a stupor
Why? Why?
Why end such bright futures and presents?
Do you not see the damage that you've done?
Do you not feel the blood pouring from
Your own body? Do you?
back to you, overpaid talking man
A three minute blurb
That's it
Hundreds of people have been forever changed
Millions more afraid
And all you can do is harass them
Beg for interviews
While they still are in disbelief?
But beyond that
You show it over and over and over
All with the political lean
Of your respective stations
Could you not stop for once
And let mourners mourn?
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
After a thoroughly enjoyable weekend
Which involved watching an animated science fiction thriller
Followed by a Football World Cup Final
Which turned out to be even more thrilling
I had to face the dreaded prospect
Of returning to work on a Monday
Yes, the notorious villain of the week
Which can ensure sleepless nights
Even for the strongest souls
Well, the day was actually not that bad
To begin with, at least
After a hot bath
Followed by an even hotter cup of filter coffee
Prepared by my dear mother, as ever
I had a simple breakfast
Consisting of a plate of chapatis
Mixed with some rather tangy marmalade
Thus, I was ready
To face the grind of work
Or at least, I thought I was
The reality turned out to be as different
As apples and oranges
It started with a few phone calls
However, the response was not flattering
Thus, I headed to lunch
In the hope of making some progress
In the second half of the day
However, I couldn't have been more wrong
The phone calls failed to achieve their purpose
As I was unable to obtain slots
For the interviews to be scheduled
Moreover, I was dealing with multiple stuff
At the same time
Which proved to be even more difficult
Than obtaining a seat in one of the IIMs
Time was playing a cat-and-mouse game with me
The closer I got to him
The more he would evade me
As the hours flew by
I kept meandering aimlessly
Without achieving anything tangible
By the time I finally got the hang of work
It was already well past 6 PM
And I felt as though I had wasted more time
Than a certain Sunil Gavaskar had done
In his infamous innings of 36 not out, off 175 *****
In the inaugural 1975 Cricket World Cup
Thus, I was thoroughly relieved
When the day finally ended
Returning to work on a Monday
Especially after a thoroughly enjoyable weekend
Is never good
Full stop
Dec 19, 2022
Dec 19, 2022 at 10:59 AM UTC
Once I met a platypus;
I took her to my heart.
We held hands by the lake at night,
And flew kites in the park.
We drank red wine by moonlight,
And closer, by degrees,
Expressed our deepest feelings;
Explored our fantasies.
And then, as these things happen,
There came a happy day:
We took an ad out in The Times
Announcing progeny.
But outrage at the outcome -
Our beloved platy-pups -
Was front page in the tabloids!
What was the platy-fuss?
We gave the papers interviews,
We gave our truth and trust -
But still my Love was slandered
Just for being oviparous!
We formed an equal rights group.
We founded charities.
To educate, to celebrate
Our ovi-parity!
We swore a solemn, binding oath,
Between the two of us
The Wedding feast and party was
Quite monatrematous!
Uncle Mallangong was tearful;
Aunt Echidna was abeam:
The Boondaburra “Moonwalking”
Was something to be seen!
There were Joeys sloshed on cider,
Wombats smoking ****
Emus snogging at the bar -
Koalas wild on speed!
For sickness, health; for poorer,
Or for great prosperity;
I will love and hold and cherish,
Through all adversity,
My nondarwinian lover;
My mutant, duck-billed Queen!
My unconventional ******
My monotreme – my dream!
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
The writer is
bound by the Oedipus
cauldron stewing can't relax
--all women are mine--
but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.
But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia
--no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.
Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars
--our fathers,
and the void of space,
--our mother's womb.
the writer
was busy staring at the girls that walked by
ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.
The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,
or they would be.
Their dreams had dirt in the mud,
they walked upon. Our Woodstock
is celebrity interviews,
reservations failing,
political satires--the last ring of change
sold at five cents a word. Period.
the writer
says it understands and writes:
"Sticks shaped from elitism
rare.
Usually a vibe too brittle,
breaking in battle.
The bass thundered robins.
The snare's firearm stabled the swift,
electrifying beat.
The brass was addiction
to the crowd's ears.
All before the elitism was born,
a symphony was constructed in the drug's head."
the writer
knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,
we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:
"Did you hear about the John Lennon poser
waving his gun on TV?
While listening to the Beatles, you
sit and watch the vagabond cry.
He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed
in a metal casket.
We need a new flame. Those watching TV
get your hands out of the basket."
the writer
walks with grandma Alice
by lakes,
thrilling dementia
"Don't tell me what taurine
and caffeine can do to my heart.
I can have alligators in my rib meat
eating away at bone marrow.
High? That's your question?
Hi...I am a float
in a useless pond
bordered by malnourished trees.
By the love of hell you better not
fertilize those ****** trees
because if I die
the alligator of my ribs
will dine and take your ****
girlfriend straight to the vet.
I thank you for asking though."
the writer misses
the syrup in the tree completely
I am not your beatnik
or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
In the morning the mist arises
but some will say it is
yesterday's hubris.
I dont have an attic
to wayleigh communications
or require windows
to twitch gingham curtains
so the deep chill
void remains.
A debutante passed by my uncut grass
but she was no better served,
a dream interview with ******* Club
turned sour, this time of year.
At least she hasn't endless dealership openings
or humoured the word "exhilarating" in interviews
when inventing a rich Stepfather.
Like me there be few visitors.
Thirty stubborn years will pass
but at least she know the meaning.
The pride of the morning.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
Dear Mr. President
This is a letter from me to you. There are many who are displeased with you....but I'm actually quite proud of you.
You helped the automotive industry get back on track......even though you had the naysayers upon your back.
I feel many people put too much of the blame on you.....especially when there are other's involved. You can't achieve success alone....you need a team. Just like Dr.King.... I know you also have a dream.
I recall your visit to my state and eventually my city. You blessed my neighborhood with your presence. I saw people of different ethnicities standing as one. Everyone was smiling even the sun.
You bellowed words of inspiration into the mike. My family was gathered on the sidewalk and for once everything seemed to be alright.
I like how you are just a regular guy and love to play ball. I admire the fact that you get to play with the superstars who will eventually enter the Hall of Fame.
Your name has been etched in history .....I'm honored because I never thought I would see this in my lifetime. An African American giving The State of the Union Address in primetime and granting interviews on Nightline.
I love the example of marriage and fatherhood that is on display. It is often stated that "we" don't commit and are dead beat dads.....from what I've witnessed you aren't doing bad. Thank you for the positive image you have provided me.....it's a form of motivation for me.
I saw a picture where you had your feet on the desk and you were on the phone....but I knew that you were a hard worker from the hole in the bottom of your shoe. You were about the people and walked where we lived..... not in Hollywood or Rodeo Drive with your finger in the air doing your redition of ' Staying Alive."
Mr. President...the thing that really gets me upset....is the blatant form of disrespect. They continue to call you by your last name....You earned the title of President yet they deliberately leave it out. I often hear Mr. Obama or Barack.....how is this cool when you are obviously on the clock.
They showed respect to President Clinton and George Bush.....both of them even though he tried to steal a whole state....but no one will discuss that issue.....I guess I'm a few years too late.
You are highly educated and intelligent more than the media would like to say. I'll make sure to add you to my list of leaders when I pray.
Thank you President Obama for the example you have been. I believe that you deserve the opportunity to do it again.
Sincerely.......a struggling poet.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
I am one of those guys
Who are reticent at first
But open up, as you get to know them
And once you've loosened my tongue
There's no stopping me
As I will go on and on
Till you die of boredom
Jokes apart, I am autistic
Which means that I may struggle
When it comes to social interaction
And can often be absent-minded
However, on the brighter side
My long-term memory is really good
And autism doesn't impact my work in the slightest
I am a good listener too
You can trust me with secrets
And I'll take them to the grave
Without a second thought
You may mock me as much as you like
But lay a finger on my close friends
And I will send you back to your maker!!
On that warning note
It's time for me to wrap up this little monologue
However, if you've attended job interviews
You would know that they usually begin like this
"Tell me about yourself"
Well, if you want a suitable answer
Then use this poem of mine as a reference
Just joking, don't even think of doing that!!
Mar 11, 2023
Mar 11, 2023 at 12:44 PM UTC
fake interviews with fake people. the wording lures them from the fattening of babies who talk early. my silent uncle dying on a bed was asked if he had any first words. I was going to slice bread but pointed the knife at my ear hole, held it with my left, and slammed it in with my right. a man writes a song and sings it to the belly he thinks houses a son. his daughter stops a bullet from bruising his wife’s spine and is delivered unmolested but in high school begins to smell like gunpowder. she joins the KKK but doesn’t tell the KKK. I wake up behind the wheel of a car just in time to kiss the driver’s neck and the driver makes a fish face so horribly a child giggles in hell and pretty soon.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
I told them, “I don’t feel sorry for Robin Williams.
He lived it. Coke-fueled, bearded trickster of ******
Well traveled and well versed, raging into worlds
Physical and ephemeral, like a ghostly bull
Goring mortals to unfeel the estoques
Sunk deep into his vital corpse.”
I had a friend who blew his brains out
While his parents were watching tv in the living room
And another who rented a room at the Marriott
Then hung himself off the shower-rod
Both early 20s
You won’t see them on the big screen
Or hear their witty banter on interviews
Chic celebs won’t eulogize them
On “Extra”, “TMZ”, or “Access Hollywood”
No 2 minute montages
At award shows, while tuxes and gowns float
Clapping in ovation behind the shimmering façade
Of golden statues
They got a few lines in an obituary, in A7
Those who knew them will speak in hushed euphemisms
No one daring to whisper “suicide”
As if it’s the ****** Mary of deaths
Like walking under a ladder, or breaking a mirror
The mirror containing, like smoke, the future
The jagged shards reflecting moonlight faintly
I love them all the same
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
It all began as an observation,
a mere innocent study,
to watch people in cars,
from cars.
First, the tired workers,
who glared and stared in the road in front,
who slumped in their seats,
who held the steering wheels in a glum manner,
who had dark circles under their eyes,
who had cans of beers at the back seat,
tired, weary, drained, exhausted,spent.
The cheeky children,
who yelled at their siblings,
who wrestled with siblings,
who sat listening to lectures,
who texted with their phones,
who went tippy tappy with their laptops,
who ignored the world; reading,
innocent, busy adolescents.
Of course, there are mothers,
who glance at their sleepy children every few minutes,
who smile at their babies dotingly,
who gave loud lectures to kids,
who smoked cigars,
who was on the phone,or was just driving ahead,
loving, fussy, unleisured.
There were the out-going,
who head-banged furiously to booming music,
who sang aloud to radio,
who chatted enthusiasticly with passengers,
who smiled the whole way through the journey,
who stuck their hands out to feel the wind,
who had nothing to worry about,
free, wonderful, liberated, loose.
Also, some were fretful,
who needed to visit hospitals,
who had their heart broken,
who got rejected at interviews,
who lost someone,
who is obviously in anxiety, who were simply drunk,
worrysome, tired, sad.
And then there's me,
who had nothing better to do,
than to watch and observe,
and felt many things should be changed,
eccentric, weird.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
Let me make a claim
That nothing is priceless
because four hundred dollars could make anyone smile
a human life wont be saved
if it costs six and a half trillion
your heart could sell for ten thousand
and your body could sell for ten dollars
or a million
you
"sell"
yourself at interviews
we say we are worthless
we say we are priceless
yet both of those claims are
wrong
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
I always thought making lasagna,
is like a religious experience for me.
And it is I mean,
it's always different depending,
on what I have,
for meat or no meat,
and vegetables,
and cheeses,
You can use cream cheese,
gruyere and cheddar believe it or not,
definitely need mozzarella though,
haha,
All those epic lasagnas I've made,
geez,
amazing what I've learned,
NO failures, ever,
and so many lessons in leftovers,
appreciating the depth of flavors
the gifts of the day,
and those yummy memories,
emmmm, boy.
When you can pause,
a -second-
to appreciate the
finer things in life,
like this here leftover lasagna.
It might be what makes you a good chef,
I don't know,
But it sure is better next day.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
She likes fashion and interviews. I like getting lost.
Sometimes she grabs my bulge,
as she drinks from an aluminum flask.
She told me to rhyme something with 'flask'.
I said, "Fine. In your life, you've been wearing a mask.
But I can see. And you can see. They can't see.
That you are a detached, blond doll
and your back is against the wall,
as I kiss your neck until you're dead."
She said to rhyme something with 'dead'.
I said, "Fine. You ********** in my head.
And it's quarrelsome
that they don't see that you're numb.
I'd pull on your lip, with my teeth.
Dig my hand between your legs.
Just to make you feel. Just to make you feel.
And I study your hairbrush
to see that there are too much
strands of memories from melodies
that lay dormant in ballrooms
and scented kisses
that drip of the misses
in your life and mine."
She said **** me with your words.
I refused because I'd rather watch her bloom
in my dreams than the seams of
a fiber noose that rings loose
the bell in your neck
that sounds until birds fly
and we die-
You look at me,
"Home."
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
Welcome to the Federal Emergency Management Agency
Crowd controling
↑Exit here safely
Caution conscious doors open abruptly
Please do not block the doors pathway
Where have i drove?
I think i made a wrong turn back on Bohemian Grove
Disabled to able let yourself wake up
Embedded ability of endless disabilities
Another general relief grief
Do not pay attention to me
Be aware and beware when the wilderness cries
The ground breaks caused by earthquakes
Your life spins away for tornado sake
No i dont hold ******* to melts your hearts pain
No i dont have marijuana so you can procrastinate
No i aint got opiates for your appropriate dosage
Say goodbye to anxiety we've made our arrival to sobriety
Interviews and insights of inside lies
Secret mysteries of the practices of Freemasonry
Symbol revealing ritual deceiving
Alternate aura while i talk at my altar
Trespass into my chamber of reflecting
The body of a text in order to preserve its meaning
Take forth my poetry of conspiracies
Note the noetic scientific technique
The attempts to extend your human abilities with a little parapsychology
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
Yesterday was my father’s 60th birthday so I called him.
How many times have I heard tears of joy at the end of a receiver?
I don’t know how to answer these things,
I do not have a response to my own age sadness
nor my father’s.
I told him I had class and hung up.
Sometimes, I wonder why god does not give me a phone call.
It seems everyone has been hearing from him lately
and I wonder if it is because I do not brush my teeth
in the morning or if it is because I spit on Ricky’s pants
in third grade. He called me foxy
I just wanted to be human.
Do you think people are ghosts until they speak their mind?
Look at Anne Frank and Michael Jackson-
They are the closest things to humans I can find
when I look in gutters and radio signals
(I don’t find much there)
I bet you’re the type of person
who looks in between couch cushions and finds
job interviews and an always loving mother
who will never forget to pack you a lunch
and will always remember the exact time
of your birthday or your soccer schedule
I bet you and god talk on a regular basis
You are the type that I wish the best of luck to
out of respect but never necessity
and you tell me my eyelids are too heavy
and I should stop ironing out my poetry
I want to write you a letter
and dot all of the eyes with hearts
but I don’t mean to be ****** at all, I’m sorry
I just miss feeling as good
as my first kiss which wasn’t very good
but I am running out of firsts
and last is my least
favorite word in the dictionary
Tonight I will try calling god,
but my roommate will pick up the phone
and instead I will crawl into an envelope
and wait, wait--
I hope this is not something that will disappoint you
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
The snow melts to reveal sad assortments of garbage
Strewn along the sidewalks like a ***** bricolage
The geese occupy our emptying quad
Each is a blessed sign from your god
The early bird rises far before the dawn
Bragging in bird-tongue about his perfect lawn
Global warming shows its ugly face
And the weather becomes a temperamental disgrace
Moving trucks and vans headed toward the interchange
Each summer my peers look forward to happy change
To work or not to work, that is the question
But often work is more than just a suggestion
April is the time of transitions
The time of decisions
Move from brain to body
From student to entry-level nobody
It’s nice work if you can get it
But every year I forget it
Wait until the last minute
Get hired just in time to quit
Exams and singing
Farewells and resume printing
Interviews and bargaining
All these things remind me of spring
Longing glances across the fluorescent lights of the store
I long with everything I have for him to cross the floor
Every year we interact but nothing more
But every year I hope the power goes out so I can be his *****
Well, roll up your sleeves
It’s time to produce!
Five months away from the tuition-grabbing thieves
So there’s absolutely no excuse!
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC