"khakis" poems
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big ********
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's shit-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
my heart
will never be as heavy as the ones of the
children who are forced to learn the anatomy of a gun
in two seconds
flat. it doesn't matter if you believe in
god. god finds calm in
violence, god doesn't come
here, to the schools that are named after presidents and
townspeople who've done good
deeds, places
that were supposed to be
safe.
my heart
will never be as heavy as the ones of the
parents who sent their kids to
school in dresses and ironed
khakis and two little
pigtails and got them back in
body bags. there are no
flags here. no Purple Hearts
for the kids who couldn't wait long enough to find
god.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
Sometimes I watch
the man in the benign pastel shirt
and the drab khakis
with the receding hairline
and the thick glasses
cross the street
with a package in his arms;
And I think to myself,
"There goes a good dad,
mild mannered, loving -
trying to make his way
in this savage world."
Then, almost instantaneously,
the doubt creeps in:
"Or, he could be a monster,
who beats his kids,
or his wife,
or sets fire to homes,
or has adolescent prisoners in his basement."
From then on I question everyone I see.
That lovable looking old lady
with her sun hat
and disabled parking pass
might shout racist obscenities
from her balcony
at poor black kids
playing in the park across the street.
The clean-cut young man
in the shirt and tie
with the papers in his hands
may spend his weekends
filling envelopes with anthrax spores -
one for each name on his list.
I can no longer see
the father whose arrival from work
is anticipated by a loving family,
or the grandmother who delights in
handing out the most Halloween candy
to every kid in the neighborhood,
or the industrious young professional
striving to make a meaningful contribution
to society.
I wonder if the darkness I see in them
is a magnified reflection
of the darkness I know
that lurks inside of me.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 4:30 AM UTC
coupon for Granny's Original 32% All Natural Oatmeal®
cart-to-cart down aisle 48 and this man's an affront to khakis
and this woman's brain runs off a child's complaints
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy 80 pounds of rock salt
from The Home Depot®, more saving. more doing.™
more rock salt. more doing
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy two-weeks-worth of tuna,
a pallet of Pepsi Max®, and four loaves of Baker Good's NeverMold Bread®
all for $21.99 with your Sam's Club® Rewards Card
BLIZZARD 2013
cart-to-cart down aisle 62 where once there was soda, now an I.O.U.
and I read on the internet that the preservatives in diet cola will keep
my body from decomposing and I read on the internet that these
dented, discount tuna cans will give me botulism
BLIZZARD 2013
one jug of water from a spring in Mountain View, Arkansas
one jug of water from a spring in New Iberia, Louisiana
picking between Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana
the pitter-patter on the warehouse roof reassures
time for eenie meenie miney mo
BLIZZARD 2013
and the intercom desperate for a cart wrangler
customer service now open for checkout
don't leave your toddlers alone in shopping carts
they're choking on free samples
with an echo, raindrops strike parking lot pools
just past the intersection an ambulance grumbles
BLIZZARD 2013
in a room with a view wishing the windowpane weatherized
beers bought by volume, candles forgotten, six months of
licorice, EverFluff® popcorn, and hand warmers of chemical kind
remembered
BLIZZARD 2013
will not be landing in the city, watch out for that rain though
if the temperatures drop below 32 degrees it could ice over
and if the temperatures don't, well, it won't
News 7's coverage of Blizzard 2013 brought to you by
The Home Depot®, more saving. More doing.™
and Sam's Club®, savings made simple.™
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
Go ahead and paint a picture of perfect
time slips between our fingers
like my tongue slipped between my lips
to say something stupid
politicians are sleeping soundly atop the knife
metal to the floor
pick up speed
pick up bad habits
linoleum is easy enough to clean
but khakis stain like a *****
but if you want to sell me your deepest darkest dream
I’ll haggle with you all night long
we give birth to Cobras and give them to the hungry mongoose
put me on the blacklist
my white flag is stained with blood and grey matter
but everybody in their right mind wants to get a chance
to walk through wrong altered perceptions
I stole your dream catcher
and I’m writing novels about your hopes
and faults and I track your arteries
along the fault lines of imaginary continents
is this insanity?
it’s easier said than done
play chicken with my train of thought
spine is steel is cowardice is machismo
put me under your microscope
tell me what’s wrong
I’ll give you a doodle on the back of a napkin
and a shoddily put together love poem
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
The attendees are told, in a manner befitting a high mass
You have been finally set free,
(Although, in truth, free is a very large and entirely vague word),
And the message is sent forth from all comers in all corners:
Vendor and visionary alike,
German socialists who left university to ride boats for Greenpeace,
First lieutenants doing their level best
To appear at ease in civilian polos and khakis,
But no matter the vessel,
The message is still the same.
The tyranny of cables and storage space is dead,
It is all but shouted from the lecterns,
(Although it is noted, in small print and sotto voce
That there are certain requirements
In terms of hardware and licensing)
And it is stated by Those Who Know
In tones which neither brook nor invite contradiction,
That they have surmounted, all Hadrian-like,
The alpine divide separating mere data and magic.
Two or three blocks down the street from the convention center,
In a narrow storefront housing an exhibition of ether-only comics
Which have broken the nettling constraints
Of editors and syndication,
There sits, under a somewhat opaque
And slightly scratched piece of plexiglass,
A yellowing comic strip of uncertain vintage,
In which a frowzy cat,
Free of the constraints of panels, gender, and standard grammar,
Is the recipient of a mouse-tossed brick
Whose flight, unfettered by physics, probablility, indeed time itself
Ends striking its mark right between the x’s of the eyes
The projectile itself an inexplicable alchemy
Of confusion, mirth, frustration
And the impossibility of an undeniably pure love.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
You’re cute with your fitted khakis that
I want to burn and bury
And the way that nothing bothers you even when
I yearn for you to care, she
Doesn’t need to know how we call each other late at night
Drugs and darkness our excuse for acting self-indulgent
Excuses formed through guilt, but now we accept them in the daylight
Because it feels all right
I feel all right
I like you in your blue button down shirt that
Smells like your bed and disaster
When that afternoon after I knelt to you
Unspoken, we decided to move past her
I wish I were a writer
So these words I twist and turn, attempting to form thoughts
Analyzed by readers and thinkers and lovers alike
Would more accurately explain what’s going on in my brain
I hope she feels all right
I love her and I love you
And I hate that I love you
And I love that I love you
And I want to love with everything I am
I know this isn’t coming out right at all
What I’m trying to say is I have
Developed these feelings that we knew we would
But said we wouldn’t and
Here I am, exposed
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
You give me butterflies
I've never understood that phrase.
Butterflies are
majestic
beautiful
colorful floating snow flakes
in the summer breeze.
You don't give me butterflies.
My butterflies
aren't light little fingers tickling me.
They are strong hands
wringing my insides
squeezing them out of me
like I'm a tube of tooth paste.
But what comes out is an unruly passion for you.
It seeps through my pores
and comes as zits on my nose,
but they don't bother you.
My passion
trickles
from my eyes
as tears at night
wishing I could be held
in your strong
yet graceful arms.
It arrives in words,
that I eventually stutter out as
"Hi"
when I'm next to you.
I sit on a porch swing at a friend's party one night.
You sit next to me
and smile
so bright in my darkness.
You whisper to me,
your lips wisp against my cheek
like delicate wings
and take my hand.
You pull a pen out of
your khakis pocket
and draw a
small
simple
butterfly.
And as cheesy as it was you whispered to me
"You give me butterflies"
A huge smile came across my face
glowing with yours in the night.
I took the pen in my hand
and drew another
butterfly
but on your palm
and replied,
"So do you."
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
I don't remember much,
About what I've read,
The aliens who harvest our cattle
And the red pox the Aztecs got.
All I know is that you
Can't pull a string around me
And tie my robs because
I'm of the world and the
World is of me.
I'll remember the gentle things I want
like the drunk and
High howling or
Like the astronaut who came
From mars and was convinced
This was Venus and
You threw the underwear
And Khaki shorts through the window,
On my roof.
I told you I'd always be here even
If you threw me inside out
The window. Wild dogs are no longer
Starving thanks to you. My underwear and
Khakis are being worn by the homeless.
My dishes and cups are shattered from
the fall. the cable still
Works miraculously, the Browns
Lost by 7 unfortunately.
I'm sopping up my bottle of
Bourbon from 1953 with a dish rag.
Maybe I could get some sleep on my bed
If I wait long enough.
I'll act like I know things,
But the drizzle of sounds will
Be an old man's stroke.
You'll think less of me.
You'll think I got lost in the rain
Somewhere. You'll think I evaporated
With the river. You'll think I evaporated up,
Blowing cloud rings that the
Birds showed me how to do. I just got
Lost finding you and found another
Way around.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
If my face were on a milk carton, who might say they know me?
Family Trees were hell, but I got Bruce Lee for a dad.
Almond-shaped eyes and yellow skin don’t flow with a white name.
Heritage was anime and soy sauce, my attempt to grasp childhood.
Khakis and button downs smother a kimono;
good thing I knew my third cousin was Jackie Chan.
Exemplary English scores, mediocre math were my sentence,
the honorable ACT presiding. All rise for the boy with no history.
Science might prove otherwise but until then. . .
Orphans don’t have happy beginnings
the birds and the bees sit better with both parties in a normal family.
Paper can’t lie, but parents sure can.
Fantasy-cursed for eighteen years
until Truth finally came, the coward.
All rise for the boy with no history.
All rise for the ******* son.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 2:33 PM UTC
He walks in, khakis cuffed
Nikes laced tight.
He says, "I know hip hop is dead
But Imma revive it tonight".
He picks up the mic
While they laugh cause he's white.
He pays no mind,
Just steps into the spotlight.
Their jaws drop
When he starts to spit
They've never seen his match,
He's on that real ****
He ran out of rhymes, he's freestylin' now
And every syllable, like a puzzle piece, fits.
There's a smile on his face now,
He knows he's legit.
He drops the mic
And walks away,
Doesn't look back
Its more impactful that way.
Everyone just stares
They don't know what to say
All they know, deep inside,
Is hip hop was reborn that day.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
tonight i am
a tourist
in your bedroom
my party dress
is like hawaiian shirts and khakis
compared to the t-shirts and jeans
littering your carpet
like fallen brown leaves
during autumn
i sit on your duvet
because you said
wait here-
i’ll be back in a minute
but it’s been ten
so my eyes wander
like a wayward wren
your books are not mine
there’s no poetry
there are pictures of memories
on your wall
none of them me
after tonight, that’s all i’ll be-
a note is on your board:
i love you
was it her?
it’s hard to see
oh wait, it was me
it’s bent and folded
like my insides
the writing is fading
like the makeup on my face
what’s taking you so long?
maybe you didn’t want me
and all this time i was wrong
and you’re hiding in the bathroom
waiting for me to take the hint
and leave
of course that’s it
i can’t believe
i thought you
actually wanted me
i’m so silly
of course
i do not belong here
my purse looks wrong
laying next to your guitar
but i can fix that quick
i will simply
thank you
for the ride
nurse my wounded pride
then i’ll be gone
and you will forget me
before long
so i get up
and the door opens
and you’re there
and you smile
and you touch my shoulder
and you say
i’m sorry
i took so long
i wanted to find
the perfect record
with the perfect song
you know that one
about a sunset in waterloo?
it always reminds me of you
but i’m here now
and i’m so silly
this whole night
is a mess
like my lipstick
on your lips
oh this anxiety i detest
your clothes are funny
compared to my dress
your books are not mine
besides the one on the end
(my brilliant friend)
the memories on the wall
are not of me
but they could be
i do not belong here
that is for sure
but then again-
all these things
were chosen by you
and i was too
so maybe i do belong
after all
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
I’m the degenerate you love to hate,
the unclean sinner who won’t tow the line.
You ridicule my independence at dinner parties,
among similarly dressed cronies,
the institutionalized prisoners
of prestige.
Hate us all, the degenerates.
Scorn the indie musician on the sidewalk.
He colors the dull march of the khakis.
Despise the painter in welfare housing.
She strokes thick lines of anguish
upon uncomfortable canvases.
Taunt the quiet poet at the end of the bar.
He writes raw truth on napkins gone ignored.
Loathe the degenerates you secretly *****
when fashionable friends aren’t looking.
Eyes fixed upon your contemptuous smirk,
I am unable to cast judgment upon you.
Another degenerate spreads her tattooed thighs
without any hope of acceptance.
She only wishes to feel for a moment
the intoxicating sensation of
temporary love.
The degenerate’s ****** is the richest syrup
that briefly covers your vanilla routines.
Debauchery provides you a moment
to feel freedom within slums,
the pleasures of darkness,
the uninhibited passions of a life
without approval.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
there is a fire, somewhere.
the sun/sun making mad love to the mother earth like hey.
hey to the water,
hey to the waves,
& all bits below.
endless mad love.
& electric, sing the youth.
swung the tooth of photosynthetic children trickling like tributaries
into/onto/toward all worldly tufts.
prisoners of the wild.
prisoners of the city, yet swords of something like the heart.
like an amber ale popped spare
& nowhere but up,
baby.
old cassette-tape
as bottleneck netting. this is
stellar
fishing.
who’s wet khakis?
mine.
visitors from the great stars and lush.
tall nettle, tall tent-
city &
popping sap campfires. acid-
dropped and cooler cocked.
rekindle this
bliss,
cosmos.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 6:26 AM UTC
After the last bombing,
boys crowded me like vultures, trying to ****
the last good bit of me out and use it
to revive their own secret pride, make it a little sweeter.
They absorbed the sun-rays from my skin,
drank my kisses in like the final drop from the canteen.
But you showed up, a mirage in khakis and a clean shirt
with hair melted gold and a pressed button-down,
and I pulled you like an afterthought
through the membranes of protection
I made for myself. I caved.
I let myself fall through the reassurances, the promises
of never allowing myself to feel
that sentimental over a night spent sleeping,
your touch like little electric shocks tickling
my skin as you breathed relaxation into my ears
and memorized the slope of my stomach into my hip.
I climbed through the covers and opened my mouth
as my heart bloomed over you. I guess,
I'm a little dried out. I guess,
since there hasn't been a single call,
that you've noticed how badly shaped I am and how
unsound my actions may be. But, baby,
I meant every thank you, every smile, every little
spotted kiss on your collarbone. And if I have to
I guess I can forget you. Tie myself to my footsteps
as I trace the cracks back to the sand you found me lying in
when you rode my hope like the sun
and proved that maybe the pain has only just begun.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
That blonde hair dazzles me from afar,
Moments escape and minutes tick by
Stealing my precious heart beats,
Each a new beat for my blonde
Fellow.
My eyes gaze from afar,
Over his gray sweater
To the perfectly fit khakis at his
Waist and down to his brown
Suede shoes.
Oh, how I wish to feel the
Cotton at his neck, but only
Am I permitted to admire
From afar.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
I took Billy Collins to lunch with me today.
He kept me company, Horoscopes of the Dead
and new versions of Dante’s hellish sandwich.
My pasta was dry, but I ate it
between stanzas and between pages.
You walked in, backpack and all, at the top
of the stairs. I choked on some graded cheese,
because of the way you looked in your khakis.
I hate the taste of cucumbers but I would have
kissed you anyway. Even though,
I sometimes laugh a little too loud in the mornings
you still make sanctuaries out of my sheets,
covering us in a layer of polka dots,
craving each other’s skin, listening
the lullaby the ruffles of the duvet make.
And even though I sometimes know
that wanting you has its clumsy consequences,
I still lose my breath when you walk up
to the lunch line, or when you grab my face
with both hands, or when you say my name
backwards between sighs. Maybe Billy understands,
and maybe I can just stay a poet. Maybe,
you would look good on me. I’d love
to try you on. But I lost my breath
when you walked in this afternoon.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
Los Alamitos
is where I learned
where kittens come from
babies too
I also learned that ivy
when used as a groundcover
is an excellent place to hide
when playing army
Until the old lady
whose ivy you are hiding in
comes out and chases you off
Los Alamitos
is where I found I could play
The Professor
from Gilligan's Island
with just my dad's white shirt
sleeves rolled up
tucked in to my khakis
my friend
a boy
always wanted
to play Ginger
Los Alamitos
gave me a picture
of my brother on his new bike
free and happy
and gave me a sister
a love of enchiladas
the word Smorgasbord
and two cats
Smokey and Signal
Those where the cats
My sister we named Wendy
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
I lost my cellphone then
on a sultry June night.
I was quite claustrophobic
in a pair of midnight jeans
that I wore only so you
would not think me bohemian.
I did not mean to forget it there,
but I was only making sure that
your lips were okay in that heat.
You saw me in a pair of cool khakis
on every midnight in that fevered summer
and you didn't care much, you said,
you wanted me comfortable, you said
because I ground words for long hours of the day
and for longer hours at night to keep you.
That struggle was like singing songs to an Angel
to make her forget the choirs of Heaven,
it does not matter how beautiful are
the slender cracks in the human spirit
which are slivers of the infinite grace of a love
that is common as air in that Kingdom.
To such a creature, surely,
even the whole world would not be enough.
A man with nothing is unequal to the contest, and
a new cellphone enters my life,
to replace the one I lost months ago,
but I have no one left to speak to.
The world smiles as if to say, here's a toffee,
it really is too bad that you've been starving,
and here is a consolation prize you cannot eat.
Here is something that cannot sustain.
What I came to understand was that we are
a line drawn between only two points,
a string taut from a stationary niche
to a pencil desperate to escape the leash-
the string snaps and all that is left
is the thirst of entropy too long bereft,
a scratched scar leading off the page,
but circles in peace, and others in rage,
in obsession, and in indifference,
gibberish as a poet's language
to represent what once made sense.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
Hoisted flags,
Houses alight,
Enthusiasm and faces so bright,
Different shades of green and white.
Celebrating this day in high spirits,
See the khakis on their feet,
Hark the drummers beat,
Soldiers with their flags and guns parading with precision and zeal.
Praises and accolades to Quaid,
He has given us a reason to fight,
Fight for Pakistan and for our right,
This purpose we have reached through our inner site.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
Hang loosely from your frame:
Long, lean, exquisite.
Holes in the knees
Match the holes in your heart
And in mine: bored through by those we meet
With the sweetest pain.
What do you keep in your pockets?
Portable property-do you value it as Mr. Jaggers's clerk did?
I know you have two faces, as did he.
In your castle you are serene, affectionate.
Here you have Wemmick's letter-box mouth
And reveal none of what you feel.
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 1:32 PM UTC
I wear this camouflage so that I can blend in. Khakis, and a sweater, and some loafers and then…I dissolve into this city, into its dreary streets. An unnoticeable part of this life set on repeat. I don’t want to be noticed, I don’t want to matter. I just want to blend in to these lonely sleep patterns, and this rhythm of a city that has no reason. Time after time and season after season, but I was there, carefully camouflaged to match the despair, seen in the eyes of everyone else. Everyone whose life was left perched on a shelf to collect more dust. Though, it would seem that they call it dreams. I call it what it seems, life put on hold for a city so bold that everyone wants a chance to hold that candle flame. Shaped like a dream of music, or of fame that falls lame as their hands become cracked and bleeding from washing so many dishes while their wishes become fleeting. Then reality sets in, and another one falls to join the rest of us denizens. Welcome new guy, I have a surprise, here are your khakis, sweater, loafers and plastic smile. Don’t you worry, you’ll get used to them after a while. In a lifeless city with a lifeless heartbeat, you’ll learn to blend in to this day to day defeat. It hits everyone after all, and there’s really no way to dodge. So now that you know, don’t forget to wear your camouflage.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
They stand with their hands in their pockets.
One man adjusts his mesh cap, an excuse.
Something tiny, precious, real bleeps furiously through cargo khakis.
He types expertly with one finger and smiles chapped lips to himself.
Leaning against the uneven coffee counter, he reaches for his latte
and walks out the door with his fashion twin and best work friend:
grown men who assimilate in substandard choices to fit-in
years past high school.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
Driving
rolling over humanity
paying more attention to
my directions than
life.
Stopped at the corner,
onto
the Highway of Kings.
You're wearing khakis and a blazer,
brown loafers and a green derby cap.
Rolling your floral print luggage,
the only flowers in the area.
A knock off Louis V.
What is in that suitcase?
Your life?
Do you notice me stare?
I am looking for my right turn lane.
Forgotten tomorrow.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
An elaborate nightmare about fascists
running amok on nameless American streets
dominated a long sleep
after an endless week of servitude at the job.
In the nightmare, socialists in a nameless American town
battled torch-bearing white men without souls
in bland polo shirts and khakis.
A pervasive aroma of wood-fired smoke,
beer, and diesel fumes cut us off from the natural world
as the Neo-Nazis and their allies surrounded us.
In the throes of the crippling effects of dread and fear
the few of us, brothers and sisters of love and compassion,
the very young and the very old,
pushed forward to fight as warrior poets,
in remembrance of our grandparents,
for our children,
and for ourselves.
In the dream's periphery, blank faces of cowards
I've known for life looked on from sidewalks.
They refused to fight,
and instead they cracked sarcastic jokes
about both sides.
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 5:45 PM UTC