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Victor Thorn May 2014
To my kind and loving mother:
I never sought to be the other.
Fighting for an explanation,
consolation, you postulated traumas
caused a misfire
in the wires of me–
but the truth, chromatically,
static factors (masked by
willful ignorance and bliss)
wrought the otherness you see.

1. Elementary

Back as a child of nine,
fine and dapper in khakis and
a tucked-in button-up,
with parted hair and running shoes,
I began to fantasize
guys
and atonement girls.
Attempts to hide this from the world
were all in vain
yet vicious, as children are.

2. Middle School

***




******

gay-***

Did you hear that Brokeback Mountain is Victor’s favorite movie Victor is gay Have you been crying Where’s your boyfriend Victor has *** with children You’re going to hell ****** Do you know what packing fudge is Gay Do you like what you see Your garden is cute Quit looking at me *** Change in the stall we don't have to watch you ******* I brought you some glitter *** Gay **** ****** ****** *** Gay-*** **** Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay That’s gay Gay


I’d skip lunch to lock myself in a closet and cry.
Oh, my kind and loving mother,
I never sought to be the other.
I didn’t even know I was.

3. High School (Part 1)

Saving grace, Anne Folderol.
Last chance, Anne Folderol.
Only one, Anne Folderol.
Truly folderol.

I’d rather die than be the other
to please my kind and loving mother.

No more, Anne Folderol.
Last chance, Anne Folderol.
No hope, Anne Folderol.

You have the teeth of a crack addict You’re such a ***** Fat-*** I heard he was going to **** himself I heard he had *** with an eleven-year-old I heard he has AIDS Why does he hate god Hey pizza-face If anyone shoots up the school, it’d be him him him him him him him him him

State of madness, state of pain,
the state from which all killers spring.
Darkness, loathing, spite, and shame.

If the Father up above
was looking down in true love,
he would have answered my prayers
for death.

4. High School (Part 2)

Love and pain, Mom;
yin and yang.
We sang in church
until I left the brethren bereft,
and we’ll sing again soon.

But first know that I’m a spiritual seeker,
and that God loves me if he exists
and I truly don’t know– because I feel Him
at times, and sometimes I feel just everything.

And also know that I’m not the other,
that my love and yours are the same.
Know that if God made me, there is a reason why.

That reason is to open minds and hearts to the love of God, which is all true love. But I must love myself first. And when I live in such a way that does not hide my true self, I demonstrate that love. Love me, not in spite of who I am but for who I am.
Dedicated to my mother on Mother's Day.
Austin Heath Jun 2014
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 ****-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."
chloe hooper Dec 2015
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.
tw
Cailey Duluoz Oct 2010
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.
- From Terms of Endearment
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.
JJ Hutton Feb 2013
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.™
Harry J Baxter Feb 2014
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
Lawrence Hall Mar 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                A Flaneur in Old Khakis

A rustic dilettante, all ready to flirt
In his old khakis and a chambray shirt
Old boots, old gloves, a mattock or rake to wield
A boulevardier of row crops in the field

He tips his old straw hat to the morning sun
Considers the corn silks’ latest fashion for fun
Discusses pitch and tone with a passing breeze
And notes the colours in the apple trees

The latest songs and jokes he very well knows
And shares the latest gossip with clever crows
This rare sophisticate whose sidewalk cafes’
Are nature’s dreamy scenes along nature’s ways
Imagining Maurice Chevalier as a Farmer.
Sean Kassab Jul 2012
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.
Haven't been able to write as much as I would like, too busy lately with work and such. Hopefully I can get back to it.
Andrew T May 2016
Vicky opened the freezer compartment of her refrigerator, and got out a box of vanilla ice cream. She looked down at the ceramic bowl and scooped a piece of vanilla ice cream with a spoon. She ate it and it tasted creamy and cold.

            Glenn forced a smile, as if he were trying to placate her, and knew he had no chance in hell of accomplishing that feat. He reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it.

            “You’re really going today?” Vicky asked.

            “Yeah, I really am. Hey, don’t do that. Can't you be strong for us?” Glenn asked.

            Vicky nodded and watched Glenn take in a deep breath and look down at his scuffed tennis shoes. They went out of the house and walked to the veranda. The sunlight was bright and hot and the ice cubes in the lemonade melted from the heat that blazed and scorched when Vicky pulled from her vape.  

             Glenn pushed his chair back and sat down, the veranda was filled with shade, and he dribbled his fingers on the table in a steady rhythm. She tried not to look at him, tried not to think about him leaving for the war, but all she could think about was him flying a fighter jet and seeing it fly into a golden mountain range, smashing into a thousand pieces of aluminum and scrap metal.

            “I don’t understand why you have to go back to the Middle East…you were so against the fighting in the beginning when the war started. And now you’re changing your mind. I mean, what are you trying to prove?” Vicky asked, taking a sip from her lemonade.

            Glenn folded his hands on the table and said in a quiet voice, “I’m not trying to prove anything. But I got to go over there. So many of my friends have died in Afghanistan and Iraq. Now people are dying in Syria. All of those refugees are getting murdered. Not killed. Murdered. They don’t have anyone helping them. I just want to make a small contribution and **** these terrorists up.”

            “What about me Glenn? Who’s going to be there for me? Who’s going to take care of me?” Vicky said, feeling her tears brim her eyes.

            “Look Vicky. I have to do this and I don’t expect you to understand what I’m doing, but I need your support. All these people are dying. You can see it all over the news, the net, social media. The terrorists don’t discriminate in their slaughter. Women, men, boys, girls, young and old. Every person is getting hurt out there. I can’t sit back and do nothing. I won’t be gone for long. I’ll be back before you know it. Promise, I’ll come back,” Glenn said, rubbing her Vicky’s hand. He touched the skin right above her wrist and offered her a smile.

            Vicky withdrew her hand immediately, got up from her seat, and went inside to the family room. He was drinking his lemonade when he set the glass down on the countertop and walked into the kitchen. Vicky slammed the freezer door so hard that some of the alphabet magnets fell off. Glenn flinched and cleared his throat as he washed his glass in the sink. The water dripped down his hands and washed his wrists.  

              She set the ice cream down on the countertop and looked directly into Glenn’s eyes. They were droopy and red with his pupils fixated on the large flat screen mounted on the wall in front of him. A computer keyboard sat on the couch cushion and a mouse-pad sat on the couch-arm. The TV screen showed a picture of men and women cramped in black inflatable boats coasting up and down waves that undulated in murky waters. A commercial break popped up: Anderson Cooper doing the news from Turkey.

               Glenn rubbed his chin and his new buzz cut, a huge difference from his old stoner’s shaggy hair. His face was narrow, but he had a broad chin with dimples in his cheeks. He was clean shaven, so much, that it looked like the razor had cut off the frightened expression from his face that had appeared when he found out he was going to be training to be a pilot. Glenn had a huge fear when it came to heights, and had never even been on a plane, let alone flying into an unknown territory like Syria. The military operated with drones at this point in the war, something Glenn hoped he could use instead of actually flying. He tucked in his raggedy camo green tee with the sleeves cut off. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his tan khakis, folded the ends up like edges on a cocktail napkin. Glenn looked comfortable in his old attire, but seemed unsettled, as if unsure about going back into the military.

              Vicky stared across the room at the decaying bonsai trees on the cracked windowsill. She had bought the trees for Glenn and now the leaves were browning and turning dead. Outside, it thundered with lightning. She said softly, “You remember Maggie Drayner, right? Well, her husband died over there. I can’t imagine what she must go through every day. I think she’s gone insane. Just absolutely insane. She cremated him and put some of the ashes in a mason jar, and stashed that in her purse. But she always looks so happy, she tells me: he’s always with her now. I worry about her.”

              Glenn wiped his hands on a bath towel. “So, they’re like us now? Is that what you’re saying? Why are you telling me this?” he asked, turning around to face her.

              Vicky put her hands on her hip and sighed. “If you go over there, they’re going to hurt you,” she said, pulling on her vape. A plume of smoke rose and fell.

               Focused on the screen now, Glenn watched as three American soldiers were standing in front of an American flag. “That’s nice of you to say. Do you understand my perspective though? I really got to help out these guys right now Vicky, I’d feel like I’m letting them down if I don’t go over there. They need me. Maybe you don’t see this, but I’m making a difference.”

              “Life isn’t some stupid game. You don’t get a restart, lives, or a respawn. Why can’t you stay home, stay with me?” she asked. Vicky frowned and pointed at the TV screen. “Do you think that’s smart? Killing people?”

              Glenn reached over to hug Vicky and she moved right out of his grasp. He looked up at her and sighed and said, “It’s a one-way street and both sides are crashing into each other, without any regard for any soul. Baby, baby look at me. Do you think I enjoy doing this to you? That this is a vacation for me? Trust me. I’d rather be doing spending time with you than fighting the enemy. But that’s not how life turned out.”

               Vicky bit her lip. “So this is how life turned out? You’re going to war, and I’m stuck here at home, we’re both going to die aren’t we Glenn?” she said. Her mouth felt sore and parched and her face burned with irritation. She knew she couldn’t stop him from going, not even if she poured quicksand over the front entrance.

                 Glenn ran his fingers through his black hair and rested his chin on his palm. “You know that’s not what I meant, don’t twist my words. You think it’s easy for me to go?”

            She turned away from him and rapped her nails against the TV screen. “What do you see that I don’t? It’s a stupid war. Everyone dies over there. Glenn, you don’t have to save the world. You have me,” she said, feeling some tension in her stomach rise up.

              Glenn picked up the remote control and turned off the TV. The picture went fuzzy and then went black. He said, “Vicky, I’m going to say this once and then I don’t want to have to repeat myself, so please be calm down, and listen to me. Please.”

                 Vicky curled her bottom lip, but didn’t say anything.

                “Do you even know why I’m doing a second tour again? A bomb hit my best friend Theo’s squad on the way to a mission. The car flipped and rolled twice. Theo was the driver and he had severe head trauma. Now, he can’t even remember his first name. He almost lost and arm and a leg due to the explosion. I think his mind is deteriorating. I don’t know how he survived, why some higher power let him breathe another breath. I haven’t been to church in months. But that’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is Vicky—the reason why I’m going back into this war, is because, I want to save guys like Theo. I could have protected him. I could have saved him. He’s family to me. We’re brothers. And in my home, I can pretend to fight and protect my family and my country. But it’s not the same. It’s just not. And honestly, I don’t care if this is pathetic to you or if you’re embarrassed of me. You’re going to have to accept that I’m leaving, but that I’m doing it for the right reasons.” Glenn said.

                  Vicky frowned. She went back to the kitchen and opened her ice cream. But she hesitated before scooping any ice cream out. She was looking for substance and instead she was left with melted vanilla cream and vapors.
Wk kortas Aug 2018
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.
Abbey May 2015
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
Ron Gavalik May 2015
After too many years of mom’s psychiatric issues,
whose pendulum of unpredictable emotions swung
between fits of violent rage and victimized hatred,
I gave up the struggle many of us
try and fail to endure.
Some people who love the insane
fall into the pit of personal torment,
an anxiety or depression of inner madness.
Others choose eye for an eye revenge.
Headlines of such retaliation steam over social media:
‘Wife Murders Husband Over Cold Turkey Complaint’
I made the completely selfish choice of maternal divorce,
to spend Christmas with a neighbor friend
who had endured much of the same abuses
and learned the same lessons years earlier.

Ana and I spent several merry Christmases
at one of those all you can eat seafood buffet joints.
The restaurant was simply a massive room.
A trough ran the 100 feet length of the back wall,
where the cattle lined up to feed.

Each year, we looked forward to our glorious feast,
not for the quality of the food, but the friendship
and the king crab legs neither of us could afford
any other time of the year.

We’d trade laughs and stories of the year.
We reminisced about friends and family passed on.
For 2 or 3 hours on a cold winter’s night,
there was no poverty, no family, no hardship,
no greed, no fuss…only laughs.
Except for the year I asked myself,
‘What would Jesus do?’

Standing in the long, sweaty buffet line,
a mumbling buzzed about a **** up front
taking too many crab legs.
Even though the restaurant claimed unlimited portions,
in reality, the kitchen workers played a good game,
only filling the large metal bin every 30 minutes.
The unwritten rule among buffet veterans
is to take 5 or 6 crab legs and leave some
for the others behind you.
The poor must look out for each other
because we all **** well know
rich ******* only care about themselves.

After a couple minutes of the crowd grumbling,
a heavyset woman in a moo-moo screamed,
‘Look at that guy! Look at his plate!’
The slicked-hair office drone the moo-moo pointed to
confidently strode past the hungry patrons
in his business casual golf shirt and khakis.
In one hand, he balanced a plate stacked
with at least 20 crab legs.
His other hand carried a cereal-sized bowl of butter.
The apparent jeers of shame from my fellow wretches,
whose bellies would go empty for another half hour
didn’t affect this guy’s silent march,
his corporate attitude to loot, to conquer.

I stepped out of line in the guy’s path.
‘What the are you doing?’ I said.
‘It’s a free country.’
He tried to squeeze around me, pressing his hip
against the orange chicken buffet station.
I moved to block him again.
‘Free for you, but no one else, huh?’
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Just move.’

His empirical entitlement inspired me to perform
a little Christmas justice.
With both hands, I lunged for the man’s plate
and wrapped both hands around all but four crab legs.
‘What the hell, buddy?’ he shouted.
The guy had become a moneychanger in our temple.
‘Do something,’ I said.
A woman in line looked at me, her eyes wide, startled.
I handed her a crab leg.
The coward ran his mouth in an emasculated mumble,
but skulked back to his table.
I then walked down the line,
handing each of my fellow diners a single crab leg.
Old men formed expressions of confusion,
Young mothers and fathers laughed.
Children pointed their single crab legs to the ceiling
in a show of solidarity to the cause,
victory against a great evil.

A short Asian man approached me in line.
‘You must leave,’ he said in broken English.
‘But I paid for the buffet.’
‘No troublemakers. You go.’

I’d become a scourge to the Roman power structure,
an immoral bandit of Nazareth.
Being bad never felt so good.
After all, one can remove the boy from madness,
but without intense psychiatric treatment,
one rarely removes madness from the boy.
Ana wasn’t happy that we missed our annual feast.
I drove us home quietly content.
Another Christmas celebrated.
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
Emelia Ruth Jul 2012
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."
This was a poem I wrote really quickly, it was more like an idea that I thought should be more like a poem.
Hank Roberts Oct 2012
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.
Ian Webber Feb 2012
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.
MKF Jun 2014
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.
For Austin
Holly M Jul 2018
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
Ron Gavalik Jun 2015
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.
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
Shanijua Dec 2014
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.
Sophie Herzing Dec 2014
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 ***** 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.
Coop Lee Aug 2015
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.
Sophie Herzing Oct 2014
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.
Poemasabi Jul 2012
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
Robi Banerjee Jan 2014
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.
As seen on Apostatements (apostating.wordpress.com)
Arfah Afaqi Zia Aug 2015
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.
Pakistan zindabad !!!!
Zak Krug Nov 2013
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.
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.
Andre Baez Feb 2014
Khakis or dark slacks is the choice
What to wear to work... you just got an invoice
Tax collector is coming, so is the electric bill
Will power is driving you to build your skills

From 7am till 11 at night
The story you wrote that day
Is the same with every flight
The same storks flew the same blue sky
Likewise problems came on then went on by
The drive to do what needs to be done
It's hard for most people and easier for some
The teachings taken till now from when we were young
Is the beauty instilled to make sure we aren't dumb
Even if we are in love we leave ourselves bread crumbs
To leave the cusp one must make sure to lay off the drugs
It's those same drugs that lead to poor decisions
The repercussions often aren't witnessed
But in extreme cases may lead to double-digit
Sentences that run on to life in prison
Intelligence bound within the confines of the mind
The skull, the flesh, and the tomb of the heavenly kind
Is often privy to lapses of judgement with asylum signs
The definition of insanity is to do a thing and rewind
The same thing that was just done
It's the same wax wings melting in the sun
The sun needs to give us time to reach warmth
And maybe one day love won't seem like such a chore

It's the circumstances and resolve that shape a person
It's the issues and the tissues that change a person
It's the smoke and the lights that face the person
It's the script and the choice that **** the person

Moving so smoothly among a vast array of drones
Lies a young boy among the shattered block of homes
Church going child with respect for his elders
Doesn't know how poor he is living in his shelter
That's because the boy is rich in spirit
But most people don't even want to go near it
The reason is people are giving up their souls
Doing what they can to be the dog to get the bone
Definitions of "realness" is the deciding factor
If your actions, thoughts, and feelings aren't real, you're an actor
And if that acting's poor your life will be a disaster
That's why the rusting, green, pinky rings are the enactors
The bearers of the wealth are the leaders in arms
With this leadership they lead us into harm
The selfishness that they have is all consuming
Hoping to take us all in an astounding union

As blood spots darken against the golden shine of the sky
Gauze patches enter the scene as time seems to fly by
You begin to float as the clouds seem to slow down
Red trickles down your mouth to form a sad frown
From a crown wearing king to a pitifully clad clown
The echoes of silence continuously resound
Familial reactions begin and end with a pound
A pound from your heart at birth, at death the final pound
Seven pounds of sacrifice, buried six-feet under ground

It's the circumstances and resolve that shape a person
It's the issues and the tissues that change a person
It's the smoke and the lights that face the person
It's the script and the choice that **** the person

Oh boy, keep holding on
Young girl, keep holding strong
Oh boy, keep holding on
Young girl, keep holding strong

It's the circumstances and resolve that shape a person
It's the issues and the tissues that change a person
It's the smoke and the lights that face the person
It's the script and the choice that **** the person
It's the echoes of silence that continuously resound
Familial reactions begin and end with a pound
A pound from your heart at birth, at death the final pound
Seven pounds of sacrifice, buried six feet under ground
Ron Gavalik Aug 2017
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.
I had this nightmare on Friday night, August 11 into Saturday morning, August 21, 2017.

This is a Neo-**** premonition dream that I jotted down as free verse prior to Charlottesville. What I find most disturbing about the piece is how I ended it with Trump's "both sides," days before he spoke the words.

I have no trouble wrapping my mind around evil and the metaphysical elements that combat that evil. Still, I find my own nightmare on this issue to be of greater value than a simple warning.

There's a reason I had this nightmare.
Travis Green Jan 2019
It was New Year's day, and the
sun was shining upon the
cityscape.  The clouds were vagrant
white and pleasing.  Down the street
past the flourishing shopping centers,
there were vibrant crowds of people
walking across the sparkling sidewalks.

It was Friday afternoon, and we were
sitting outside at an extravagant café.
You were dressed in your stylish
FashionNova and glittering high heel
boots.  I was wearing my VanHeusen
button up shirt, brown khakis, and
dashing dress shoes.

Our bodies were in the perfect
synchronization, a graceful
posture full of desire and new
beginnings.  I could see in your
sky bright eyes that you were
fascinated by my frame, the
movement of my lips as I
spoke such sweet words
to your astonishing beauty.

It was our first date, the start
of something spectacular that
would evolve into an exhilarating
and timeless chapter of our lives.
I watched your every motion, how
your flesh shined in the light, how
your world seemed to glisten like
the seas.

Every part of me was sinking inside
your nation, the razzle-dazzle and
beautiful blushes, the tender lips
and smooth thin hands, as I longed
to breathe in your exquisite fragrance.

The bossy earrings were gleaming in
sight.  The long flowing hair was rising
gently in the wind.  I wrote your amazing
poetry inside my mind, letting it's incredible
diction illuminate the inner realm of
my domain, let it open my world
to a glorious delight, as we engaged
with exciting conversations over
a glass of hot mocha and sensuous
thoughts.
Sand Aug 2013
Checker-boarding across countries,
I tuck my loneliness into my suitcase,
Neatly fold her between a cardigan and khakis,
Thinking that maybe if I’m lucky,
She’ll follow suit of my favorite sweater,
Last pictured in Lima,
And get lost.
Harry J Baxter Jan 2014
He comes in around the same time
every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday
eating alone save for the newspapers
constantly clutched beneath his arm
his spectacles worn to ice
his windbreaker and khakis
every time ordering the same
salad, soup, and pasta dish
He doesn’t talk much
and I like that
his words are rare occurrences
of honest observation
a reflection of the aged, sad look
which he wears on his face
every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday
just before the dinner rush
I never see him arrive or leave
simply he appears
a ghost from an old photograph
walking among the swirling mess
of flesh, blood, and heartbeats
I bet he drives an Oldsmobile
or maybe a buick
stick shift with faded leather interior
I bet he had a wife once who loved him
and children who weren’t too grown up
to give him a call every now and then
just to check in
I think about this man
under the closing-time moon
as I pull myself into my car
and leave
away with my own life
my own story
and I aim not to forget him
Neko Jul 2015
Gender is such a fun game, Isn't it?

I remember as a kid I would play Wizard101 and in the beginning before creating a new

Character, you must establish if you were a

Boy.. Or a Girl.

I had one female wizard, and one boy wizard and in my mind, that was okay until

I showed my heavily religious grandparent the game.

She asked me why there was one boy character, and one girl character.

I told her it was my friends and she smiled, as if she were relieved.

The next sentence that spilled from her old ancient lips made me almost cry.

She smoothed her khakis and said

I was afraid you would say that they were both you, because you should only have a girl character.

And no, Oma, it was not my friend's character because in my mind, I wanted to be that boy character.

In my mind, I  wanted to be that female character as well.

When I was Thirteen, I got a plaid shirt for Christmas. I put it on and my friends said

It made me look like a lesbian.

And only one of my friends said it looked good on me.

At that time, I was declaring myself "bisexual" finding both girls and guys

to be very attractive.

My favourite viner was a neutrois and I thought this was normal.

In fact, I wanted to cut my hair short  and wear guy-ish clothes for a longtime.

So many people have told me that I must identify as "boy" or "male"

Or ****, even "girl" and "female"

Well guess what.

I'm worth more than a ******* "Other" button.

So are other people.

People, humans.

That's what we are, isn't it?

— The End —