"jackhammers" poems
you are inches
measured by miles away
bulldozing oriental food
you don't intend on eating
around your plate
and i am imagining
the translation of asking
for a broom in a foreign language
for when you shatter over small talk
or the first sentence to start with "so"
breaks you into shaking
that i can feel from across the table
and i am thinking now
about tectonics and how you must be daydreaming of being submerged in a book
back home or gripping tightly
to bedsheets begging for familiar warmth
i can tell by the way you are looking at me
that you are feigning our salutation embrace
seconds drowned in ankle deep water and i wonder if you see my hands
as jackhammers and if the reason
why you hug so hard
but only for a moment
is to be as sharp as possible
so that i do not smell your perfume
or notice that you aren't wearing any and why
there are few suprises
in the safe you claim is a mouth
where shades of plush pink
hide a sickly pallor
and i continue to look over
brick & mortar borders
and think how maybe
she is thinking of kissing
but certainly not me
not these apologies nailed to my face
i give myself a moment
of benefitted doubt that you sometimes
picture your frame under mine
and if your clavicles would crack
if i were to touch them
i am sorry that i am a victim of imagination
but i swear i chalk it up
as the forgotten feeling
for when you look up
and the person you are looking
at is gazing directly at you
you have painted yourself
as a mosaic in my mind
as a mess of dust & incoherent words
that all sound like please in my ears
but that doesn't explain why
my hands are the ones that are shaking
when i imagine you
imagining me
in the spaces of yourself
where you've forgotten
you could put someone
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
*Tender touching on creamy silky skin.
Hearts pounding like jackhammers.
Sweat dripping, warm rain.
Sheets melting.
70,80,90,100 degrees celsius!!!
Pulses rising,voices rising, music rising.
White rose moving down your spine tingling your sensitive senses.
Oh how you sing my name, I hope this song never ends.
Loss of air, loss of sense of self, two bodies in one.
Rose pedals broken under two lovers forms.
Waking up in a rose garden to the sound of your voice.*
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 5:55 AM UTC
Anxiously awaiting atomic assimilation
Basing me on belligerent and boorish bastardization
Capsizing cargo with careful consideration as to
Deciding which day is decay's destination
Everyone embrace the elevated expiration
Forget my face and follow fabrication
Go to the gallows with grace and gravitation
He will hold you and hinder alienation
I, however, hold insignificance in interest
Justifiable jackhammers jacking fighter jets
Killing Californians who are kissing canvases
Lying without laughing and lighting cigarettes
My master makes me move my mundane mind
Never knowing next to nothing with nothing else inside
Overly offering operating override
Practicing patiently pulling peoples' pride
Quickly questioning quizzical quietness
Rationalizing raging reinventions ridiculous
Stapling this summer to my (still) sick subconscious
Traveling tunnelers trading tides for tiredness
Under the umbrella my undertow untangles
Violently vibrating like varying violin angles
Waiting with wandering whispers under the table
Xylophonist x-rays, excruciating fables
You yellow youngling, you who screams in my dreams
Zebras zoom by every single night, it seems
Let's chant my enchantments, the alliteration song!
And untie your tongue
So you don't take it wrong.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
God loafs around heaven,
without a shape
but He would like to smoke His cigar
or bite His fingernails
and so forth.
God owns heaven
but He craves the earth,
the earth with its little sleepy caves,
its bird resting at the kitchen window,
even its murders lined up like broken chairs,
even its writers digging into their souls
with jackhammers,
even its hucksters selling their animals
for gold,
even its babies sniffing for their music,
the farm house, white as a bone,
sitting in the lap of its corn,
even the statue holding up its widowed life,
but most of all He envies the bodies,
He who has no body.
The eyes, opening and shutting like keyholes
and never forgetting, recording by thousands,
the skull with its brains like eels--
the tablet of the world--
the bones and their joints
that build and break for any trick,
the genitals,
the ballast of the eternal,
and the heart, of course,
that swallows the tides
and spits them out cleansed.
He does not envy the soul so much.
He is all soul
but He would like to house it in a body
and come down
and give it a bath
now and then.
2.5k
arboreal
capitulation
to the last saw;
just lying there,
rusting and dull,
a senile serial killer.
a dirt water droplet
circlestalks the sun
like a vulture.
wild flowers
split the concrete
like jackhammers and
the vines hang low
over city streets,
while unmaintained
botanical gardens
shrivel and decay,
breeding mushy immensities.
bears hibernate in subways
and deer flock in herds
and oh, the birds..
the birds.
spiders hang webs
from ancient clock towers
while moth returns
to chasing moon.
dams crumble,
the water flows,
sea reclaims the shore.
but the
eldest
trees
still weep
when memory pains,
and so surrender
to the saw,
however harmless
out of hand.
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 1:43 PM UTC
happened upon an extravaganza of spring’s hallmark,
the cherry blossoms outing their munificence of color,
I happened to position myself direct below a tree,
the thicket
of blossoms so, well, thick, that sky was obliterated ‘cept
for pointillistic spots of blue sun, yellow sky that poked
through the
few de minimus interstitial spaces permitted, and was
struck silent, by-for-before shimmering eyes that uttered the
requisite oohs and ahhs,
and
words came to me weeks later,
when the memory, now fully decanted,
reappears
courtesy of a giant tech company’s code tinkering,
merging and splurging the combined images in the
photographic memory
of my devices,
as if to say:
your life is
points of light and color and scent
as you write now
amidst the hubbub of jackhammers, raucous horns a blaring,
the homeless screaming on the street at god,
the fatalistic headlines of hate and
the pallor of a low level haze of perp~gray
between you and your true elfin self,
and you are not surprised,
but sadly, but not entirely,
bemused
that the photo’s true utility was to
remind weeks later
that all that my eyes utter
is not just
woe, double trouble and toil, toil,
*but to Hey Jude and George,
step out and see the park on a Sunday
in its entirety and to glory in
your being
by being
a point in that tapestry spectacular
of ingestion, digestion and final comprehension and
a happy*
exhalation
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 8:06 AM UTC
sitting in heavy traffic one day, 4-way stop
radio on, listening to the DJ describe
the excitement of broadcasting live
from a south side strip club
between songs
giggly ****** screech in high pitched
dog whistle voices
trying to entice me
into meeting wild red heads
georgous brunettes, ***** blondes
yellow, then red, then slowly traffic
moves on
continuing the maze
blockades block, jackhammers
tear up half the street, change lanes
the heat of asphalt, a constant barrage
of noise
straining, amplifying
I turn a ***** off in mid-squeal
looking around I realize
I had arrived
this was the world of grown-ups
I so desperately longed for in my youth?
no bat mizvah, no tribal rite of passage
but if I'm lucky
I'll make that green light
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
The road looks bumpy from down here
I'm sorry that sleepwalking me loves jackhammers
And wondering what else she can mess up
Without a concept to time to tell her when to stop
I'm sorry about my gasoline decisions and my flaming attitude
I burn everything I touch
Nothing near me goes undamaged
Nothing near me stays
I can no longer tell if I'm setting these fires while I'm awake or not
Though I doubt it even makes a difference
Somethings crept it's way under my skin
I haven't been myself for weeks
Every word seems to roll off your tongue in just the wrong way
I'm not saying it your fault
I swear i see a slyness in your eyes
I'm not saying its your fault
My pens have run dry and so I have I
I have said all I can say
I must now be on my way
I wish nothing but the best of you
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
like a vision of apocalypse
she drags a tree branch along the muddy
lane to the carnivals edge
where those of like mind gather
she believes her offered symbols
of peace will curry favor among the
indigenous or the occasional forlorn tourist
and she will have her safe harbour for the night
everyone deserves a place to at least rest
their head at the end of a futile day
and all here in the laughing happy places of the misbegotten
will attest to that truth of the road
so is it so strange to see her
with that nugget of hope lodged in her eye like a steel jackhammer
she is a complex phrase on the piano keyboard
that without having to speak entices the mind into the notions
of her tale spun in the scents of her patchouli and
the delicate pattern of her lace dress
her clean ****** limbs are filled with extreme tattoos and scented with fresh ***
she massages herself there
and closes her eyes at the point of contact
she looks at you with a question in her eyes
but she never asks
she is not one to want for what she isnt freely given
so you give her everything you have
along with your hearts strings
hoping to see that smile
that enchanted with its sweet touch
she is a simple turn of words in the worlds master plan
but she is a complexity in your life that
was unseen and unwanted
now she raises her flute
and raises a tune from ages gone past
that stings the hearts soul
with its refrains of pale and drawn lost loves
dying in the cold lands
and the tales of the forlorn waif who waits her days
for the man who went to sea never to return
shes a repeating moment
from the past followed us down from denvers cold
to join us on this beach
only to find me alone
but that means little
because her eyes are like steel jackhammers
ripping into the truths she thinks should be
ignore the reality's of the empty beach
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
Dear every being whom I may have titled my best friend,
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because I’ve experienced more compassion and reliability
From a nine dollar carcinogen encased poisonous mass produced product
Than any so called companion
A cigarette doesn’t forget to call back and a cigarette knows the inspiration I lack
I lack the tact to express myself and despise the fact I engage in the act
Of filling my lungs with poisonous smoke
But I have too much proof that my life is a joke
So I complain everyday yet still I refrain from fueling my brain
Because I’m ******* lazy, and I’d rather be stuck in a haze than
Do something to better my days.
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because that’s my ******* topic for this poem.
I could’ve chosen politics or the art of giving road dome
But I hate politics, and I might get sent home if I get too graphic
Cigarettes don’t mind if I get too graphic
Cigarettes embrace the moments I can’t even face
Sometimes, I forget where I am
Because Haley’s brain’s like strawberry jam
And bring her to places too tight she can’t cram
enough time, or a path that won’t wind
Without a 24 hour jet fuel power
Through her past locked in walls
With thoughts like roaring waterfalls
And migraines like jackhammers
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because when words sink like anchors to the bottom of my ocean,
I’m tryna cop a bogie, I’m tryna stay coastin
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
A new day sprays my room with colors
and dust particles and light rays
like underwater sleep and showers.
There are chemicals to be blasted,
jackhammers with holes to pound
into mountainsides
This house looks like you and it was built in my honor.
Every time I climb the stairs, I hold your hand
Every wall, every angle, every archway, every door
They're all your eyes, your lungs, your veins
I revere in your deep colors.
Arms outstretched, a temple flattened
We will make our patterns loud and our faces heard.
I'd rather destroy this landmark than soil it with people
And their idea of success or power or God.
We are God. It's time we shout it.
We may not have every planet. Or the stars
Or the souls and tears of a million followers,
But we have knowledge. We have wisdom.
We have a healthy curiosity for more.
In this, we are the kings of our own world
We wear the crown of daisies and clouds
Muses are alive in every forest, every fence
Every field that we have wandered without sense
Every breath we have taken in this gulch.
When you looked at me, you didn't have to say anything.
I knew you were mine. I didn't have to say it.
And I wouldn't have given you the satisfaction in doing so.
This is a calling for every American soul aching to be free
I yearn for a revolutionary who will hold this man
With this face: no fear, no guilt, no pain
In the face of a billion firing squads,
At the edge of the gallows
With nooses around our necks.
This is a calling for a patriot:
"I threw that statue down the elevator shaft
Because I love you."
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 9:25 AM UTC
Tools heavy in hands weak from
Weekend's fill of laughter,
Beer and barbeque.
Sun in eyes narrow from
Sleep. Traffic in ears spoiled
With countryside serenity.
Not even eight am, and I'm
Bleeding from open joints on fingers
That left their gloves somewhere
Clever on Friday. Drops of myself
Form little red rings in the chemical
Rainbows of puddle beneath.
It is my passion; not my job
To play with words in the ways of
Poet. To drop a few lines instead.
I am a man of heavy duty action, the
Kind that jackhammers concrete to
Dust, a thousand demolishing words.
My work is so far from poetry that
I should get changed in the phone
Booth outside the barracks, but
For now my mind is as narrow,
My imagination as shallow as this
Hole that I'm paid to dig.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
The street is dark
Yet still visible
Here on the overpass
And yellow lights
Unevenly dot
The concrete and steel
Statues made of rooms
That stand blocks and blocks
Away
All I hear are the sounds
Of my engine humming
Like angered bees
Or silenced jackhammers
These are simple nights
In the "great" city
Nights of silence
Nights of calm
Nights of happiness
Despite being alone
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
The humdrum of machines. A missed cycle, a bad bearing, a bent fan blade.
It makes a music like no one would believe. The electric hum of powerlines and transformers. The clanks and jeers of a crowded bar, the cheers of an arena.
The construction on your neighbors houses while you set in humble shame. Jackhammers, swinging hammers. Little handlebar bicycle rings from the children you never had.
Sometimes, you want to say **** it, and burn the world down. Then you remember, some people aren't unhappy. It's not your place to sabotage their trampoline. Sometimes you're just who you are, and no one else, and nothing else matters.
Sometimes you're you. The rest of the times you're just trying to be.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
These thoughts twisting inside of me
Curling up just below the surface
Taking my head and clutching it close to my heart
Trying to listen to the hum of feelings
I can't stand up anymore
Wind drinking my skin
It's so cold
Nothing like it used to be
Is this the world you wanted me to see
Your kind moving quietly around me
Looking back at me
I remember whispering in your ear
Telling secrets you'd never know
Your fingers were afflicted with a nervous itch
Pointing like nails to pin my insides to the ground
All these people like golden souls crawling this way and that
Spotting every dark corner below the surface
There you are, flying over me
Playing with things unseen
I'm lingering in the dark
Pulling clouds low to forget this ground
Darling, lay your head down for me
All around me, jackhammers and timebombs
I feel insane, dropping below the still waters
Phosphorescent white blotting this soul out into the open
Twisting thoughts inside of me
Beneath the skin I'll run away
Under the waves I'll crawl to some distant shore
I'll try to hold on, I'm losing the fight
I'll try to hold on, I'm slipping away
I'll come back again
If I can.
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 4:19 PM UTC
I’ve closed the doors and sealed them shut
I refuse to open them and see reality
I’m fine being in the dark
I haven’t tasted tears like this years the kind that start in your stomach and brim over your eyelashes like waterfalls
The kind that make your head pound like a jackhammers hitting concrete and your throat feel like someone’s hands are wrapped around so tightly that you think maybe they’re trying to help constricting my air so that maybe sanity has room in my body
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt as bad
Maybe then, This wouldn’t hurt as bad
Without air my ribs would stop contracting and my body would go numb from head to toe
So, then , maybe I wouldn’t feel this hole as much
It wouldn’t be eating me from the inside out slowly as if trying to torture me
A parasite that’s managed to feed of my feelings feverishly
This holes so deep and only growing bigger, I fear one day it will devour my whole heart
That day there will be no pain, because it will have been eaten and done with
Or maybe I could stop it beating, pounding like a constant reminder
You.
Are.
Alone.
Maybe if I stop my heart from pounding at my door , maybe if I lock it tight , every lock I have and maybe they’d go away these feelings I‘ve had
Maybe they’ll retreat once they notice I never put out a welcome mat
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 11:50 PM UTC
i decided to wake up early today.
well,
i guess the jackhammers decided for me.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
I want the stars to shine
Over your fragile skin
So many morters and pestils
So many wrecking *****
We can destroy the buildings we live in
And keep on living
I want the moon to beam
Into your delicate mouth
So much concrete and asphalt
So many jackhammers
We can build a parking lot
And keep on moving
A want the the night to seem endless
As deep as you are
We can shine a light
We can carry it so far
Our hands aren't time
They are infinity
Forever is only as long
As I love you
Because I will die
But my love won't
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC
Your whisper not loud enough
For there are blowing winds
And beating wings
Distance between the mouth and the ear
If what was said is of importance
I'm sorry, my love
I can't hear
Not with these angry cars
And jackhammers
Beating up the streets
Your voice not musical
Not memorable
Not special enough to be heard
When the message sent does matter
And nothings more important
The matter of the fact
There are birds singing
And evil radios
And all matter of interference
Good or bad
There's always something standing in the way
Now you are screaming
Like the wind and the light
Touching four senses
Lacking sense of touch
Its nothing I can feel
Its only the empty hands of ghost
The broken and her fear
The loving and her loss
You can shout at the top of your lungs
All the words that speak your soul
But you'll be shouting into darkness
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
New York City is like a cobblestone symphony,
where jackhammers and footsteps form the rhythmic timpani,
sirens and honking taxis, are the cymbals, that provide sudden bursts of energy,
traffic’s hum could be the violins and pigeon squawks a chorus of industry.
The sounds of life never seem to stop because they echo around continually.
Fifth Ave is fashions seat and in every store we saw teenagers tweeting,
perfecting an offhanded pout to pair with their newest, elite treats.
Envisage a High-(snob)-society playground, a cathedral of style in concrete,
where high fashion brands compete, with glittering displays meant to tease and entreat.
Bergdorf's windows are a whimsical winter wonderland, without a single touch of green,
and Tiffany's underwater dreamscape, contends with Cartier’s minimalist sheen.
At night, the buzzy bars ignite, and laughter spills like sparkling champagne,
flanged martini glasses clink in chorus, to silly school year stories, and tipsy holiday refrains.
We all know that times like a ballet dancer, who pirouettes in increasing haste,
holidays don’t last forever, Yale’s not known for leisure and new terms must be faced.
But for now, we’ll steal kisses in Central Park, because we don’t have a second to waste.
Dec 27, 2023
Dec 27, 2023 at 10:37 AM UTC
my breath?
ragged
tainted
untamed
uneven
billowing gusts of air
how
can it
even escape my lungs
when my
heart
jackhammers so
mercilessly?
i’m filled with nothing but
curiosity
and
intrigue
i want to be filled with nothing but
you
i want
your lips
your hair
your hands
your arms
i want
time
to explore
the
inches of your ******
surface
i want to make you feel
a way
you have never
felt
before
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 11:17 AM UTC
He trembles
as he gazes upon
the upturned nostrils of They
that whispers
“Not good enough. Doesn’t fit the mold.”
They is the pestering voice that
jackhammers your skull and
shoves your limbs into broken figures.
“be left”
one screams
“RIGHT”
roars the other.
Left is contested into silence.
So there he sits with
trembling hands,
raging insides,
and bared teeth.
“Perfection”
crows the They we all fear
but shall soon become
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
Isn’t it funny how an earth-bound drink
modifies our cones into brilliant saturation
and burns our circuits, showers with anticipation?
Well I think it’s funny when the days link
with the invisible individuals in demonstration
of lacked existence while shouldering the cold. They all take a drink,
we all take a drink, and we all never think
when the answer is held in mused assimilation.
Take another drink
of one that jitters; one that’s sync’d.
Jackhammers in our heads amidst deprivation
showering acid rain in our circuits, down the burning drink!
My ******* agitation forces this alliteration
on the lack of restraint on the dull of saturations.
My soul castigates my being not to cradle and devour the drink,
My body, my circuits, hardwired to anticipation.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
Don’t hide
behind those drapes, boy...
come on out here,
let us have a look at you.
Does he do any tricks?
Shake his hand, son.
Don’t be shifty eyed
or stare at your shoes,
they’ll think
you’re hiding something.
Speak up!
Be a man!
Stand up for yourself,
shout the other guy down.
Maybe you can be
president someday.
All you do is sit
in your room,
playing with blocks,
reading books...
Why don’t you play
with the other children?
Get out there in the crowd!
What are you doing
roaming in those woods
all by yourself?
What will you do
with all those books you read?
Come on...
we’re going to town,
gonna do some shopping.
I know it’s loud,
but you’ll get used to it.
Gotta be prepared
for car horns,
jackhammers,
gunfire...
What are you doing
over there?
Don’t turn that over.
Leave it be.
And smile for the camera!
Come over here,
into the light.
Don't skulk around
in the shadows
like our guilty conscience.
Aww...it’s all right.
You’re just a bit cracked.
Here...a little putty,
a little paint,
and look how you shine!
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 6:09 AM UTC