"kiddie" poems
You kiss me, I kiss you
You grab me, I stroke you
On we go, *** for tat
Push inside
Fill me up
Stretch me out
I cling to you, surround you, arouse you
Still and slow at first
and the pressure builds
Harder and faster, till we're all skin, and teeth, and nails
And the smack of my skin on yours
It's a race
You pull me, I push you
You scratch me, I bite you
On and on it goes
Breath mingling, sweat mixing
Till we both come
panting, leaning on each other
This is physical, the most carnal desire.
This I understand. In this we are mere objects; animals moving solely on instinct.
It's the occasional tender touches that confuse me.
A soft kiss on my forehead, your hand seeking out mine; these baffle me.
Sometimes I wish I knew your intentions, sometimes I wish I knew mine.
Do I want more from you then the physical? Do you desire more from me?
In my wondering sometimes I think it might be nice to have a part of you,
and to give you something more of me.
But you never ask and I'm reluctant to offer.
Where are your layers?
Are we deeper than this kiddie pool we've been wading in?
What are we?
You never ask and I'm too cowardly to offer.
So we remain laying together, so close yet so distant.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 10:30 AM UTC
"Beep-beep.
BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOBILE LOAN
You'll find a banker at Bankers Trust"
Advertisement in N.Y. Times
When comes my second childhood,
As to all men it must,
I want to be a banker
Like the banker at Bankers Trust.
I wouldn't ask to be president
Or even assistant veep,
I'd only ask for a kiddie car
And permission to go beep-beep.
The banker at Chase Manhattan,
He bids a polite Good-day;
The banker at Immigrant Savings
Cries Scusi! and Olé!
But I'd be a sleek Ferrari
Or perhaps a joggly jeep,
And scooting around at Bankers Trust,
Beep-beep, I'd go, beep-beep.
The trolley car used to say clang-clang
And the choo-choo said toot-toot,
But the beep of the banker at Bankers Trust
Is every bit as cute.
Miaow, says the cuddly kitten,
Baa, says the woolly sheep,
Oink, says the piggy-wiggy,
And the banker says beep-beep.
So I want to play at Bankers Trust
Like a hippety-hoppety bunny,
And best of all, oh best of all,
With really truly money.
Now grown-ups dear, it's nightie-night
Until my dream comes true,
And I bid you a happy boop-a-doop
And a big beep-beep adieu.
4.7k
i am choking for words.
i hacked off the tip of my tongue
to spite my quick wit-
stumble over it.
lusting for beauty through text/
creation is hollow at best-
a dollhouse
a fantasy, dystopian as per usual
for an idle mind
losing hours and
pickled in hate's brine.
salt in the wound
salt in the wound
angst, angst, teenage angst.
a kiddie anarchist.
stop fighting it.
turn up the stereotypical.
depression playing on the radio.
don't try to be more original.
what haven't we seen?
choking for words and
stuck on painted portraits
all is well, but never exciting
i'm exiting this uneventful existence
all for once and once for all.
-and you thought there was a winner
buried in this chrysalis-
well, the rhythm has returned,
but i'm sick
of painted portraits and lost hours
and sugar-coated expectations of the truth
how uneventful, how unexciting
and i'm tired of razorblades,
but at least they're honest
speaking down, insults and
lies and i know i need to sleep
but i'm fighting it.
i'm ready to move on, but not for long
not for long and
you'll see me as a butterfly someday.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
Arrive in a neighborhood not mine.
Phoenix sun splits the mailboxes,
Cracked cement, bald lawns, deflated kiddie pools,
sippy cups gone brittle in the sun.
A toddler screams
until a sibling gathers him inside.
Helios whips his chariot down the street,
steals my parking space.
White Shell Woman hushes the child
with a wind of cool dust.
I buy
donuts, Cheetos, pickles-
eat them in the car.
Gas station sink, hair and grit.
I scrub off orange powder.
Kokopelli swings from the paper towel rack,
flicking drops of water onto my face,
flirting, laughing at my small hungers.
Cemetery, sitting on the hood.
Graves hum in the heat.
Yours more-so.
Hecate steps from the shadow of a mesquite,
offers me three paths,
none of them home.
Coyote pads along the stone wall,
head cocked, grin sharp,
watching my pulse quicken.
White Shell Woman whispers:
_Run._
The blood in me stirs-
knife-bright, restless.
I step off the hood,
already fleeing toward
any other life.
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:44 PM UTC
Today I saw a frog, dried up from the heat
close by I saw another, cracked upon the street
I counted thirty four in all, mummified and dry
Fifty feet from a dried out pond, I took some time to cry
The pond was once so vibrant, full of turtles and of frogs
But with the drought now here, you could count all of the logs
A stench so strong, it burned your eyes, if you chose to get near
Decomposing life, is all that's left, the pond is dead I fear
The pond, another victim of the crippling, hellish heat
Without the rain, it is just a monster we can't beat
The farmers put a spin on, give a positive sort of line
While they have to put their livestock down, their harvest die-ing on the vine
The fields are bare, the ground is dust, no life from it will come
You see the farmers trying everything, while we just stand there numb
Fans are running in the barns to keep the livestock cool
But the heat, it just gets stronger, you can't even use the pools
You could say they've dropped the middle man, as they grow dehydrated meals
The kiddie park and water park, have no water for their seals
You see the livestock out in the fields, looking for some grass to munch on
But, with the heat taking it all away, their field of grass has now gone
The cows, no longer vibrant, a leather coat on skin and bones
The farmers losing money, they're defaulting on their loans
The barnyards running empty, you can't even see a turkey
The cows themselves are so dried up, that the butcher calls them jerky
A break might come, the tv said, with a cold front moving through
But the grounds too hard to take the rain, what extra damage will it do?
The end result is prices will go up on all we eat
It's this ********* global warming, the creator of this heat
Look around at where you live, go and check your ponds and streams
Take note if they are die-ing, this is real, not in your dreams
Take action where it's needed, conserve water where you can
This is not a local problem, it affects the whole **** land
I saw a frog this morning...he was dead...it made me cry.......
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 9:34 AM UTC
I was terrified of water more than I feared death,
From the youngest age,
Looking back I guess this makes since,
I was the first to climb a tall ladder,
I was the first to climb over fences,
Talk to strangers,
I had no fear of death,
It had no bound on me,
Still I was afraid of water,
One day I woke up in my little green bed,
And decided I wanted to swim,
Before my fear would make me watch as the other children did,
So what's a toddler that can barely walk to do?
Give up? no no!
I had my mind set on it,
So I stumbled right down to the end of the dock,
One little leg lifted,
Followed by another,
I was in the water,
I almost drown that day,
But death did not prevail then,
I was not allowed on the deep end for years and years after other kids,
I grew up watching,
Dreaming,
Hoping,
That one day I would swim,
My father was too busy to teach me,
My mother was too sick to swim herself,
Relatives were far away,
So I grew up in kiddie pools,
It was boring,
So very boring,
Still years later,
Even the sight of a kiddie pool bores me,
I did not give up,
Although it was drilled into my head that the deep end is dangerous,
And so is swimming alone,
And so is not wearing a life vest,
And so is walking alone by water,
And that drowning was bad,
Very very bad,
It was drilled into my head that it should be my biggest fear,
And so it did,
But still,
Me being me I did not give up,
I would grab onto the edge of the sides of my little kiddie pool,
And paddle paddle my little feet,
I could stay afloat for a few seconds,
It took me years,
Years,
To learn how to swim,
No one taught me how,
I just tried and tried,
It still took me years to not be afraid of drowning,
That still haunts me,
But I'm still not afraid of tall ladders,
Or climbing over fences,
Or talking to strangers,
I love to swim,
I loved to swim even before I could swim,
I realized something recently,
The criticism from my family,
The jabs from my friends,
All about how I couldn't swim,
Made me want to swim even more,
And I did!
They never admitted that they were wrong,
My grandma thought I was slow I'm sure,
Now I've proved her wrong and all the others,
Yet still,
They expect me to fail,
I'll just keep remembering,
How they meant to tear me down,
But instead build me up,
That is the story of how I learned to swim.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
My generation
Is the generation in waiting.
We're just waiting
For our lives to change.
We do all the things
We're supposed to,
And are still met
With criticism.
Because half of us
Are doing our best,
Working our hands to the bone,
Breaking down from some
Terrible disorder.
And the other half
Are just wading around in the kiddie pool,
Trying to find their footing into adulthood,
Or not.
The adults
That were the adults
That raised us
Like to only focus
On the half that's not even trying.
But we're the generation
In waiting.
We all waited to be eleven,
So our Hogwarts letters would come.
Because we wanted to escape
This pointless existence.
Now we're all twenty two or turning so,
Give or take a few months/years,
And we're waiting for the moment
Everything changes.
Waiting on that interview, that promotion, that phone call.
Waiting for someone to confess, waiting to confess,
Or in my case, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
We wait,
Because we were never taught
That our lives were our own,
We were always considered
Tools to be used by others,
Our purpose isn't ours,
And that's not a bad thing.
We're in waiting,
Because we're waiting for someone to save us,
To come to our aid,
To grab our hands
And whisk us away
To a better place.
But maybe if we all stopped waiting,
Maybe if we got up and did things for us,
And therefore each other,
We wouldn't be the generation in waiting--
Rather, the generation of doing.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
Pay your quarters
pay your dimes
you're paying for laundromat time
slowly spinning
forgotten
by
Einstein's Theory of Relativity.
Minutes become hours
and
there are still too many hours to go.
Any math class
intense gas
organized religion
waiting for the tow truck,
the bus
in
the pouring frozen rain.
Sitting in the E.R.
with a cut finger
waiting waiting waiting.
Sitting in the hospital room
with an elderly distant relative
you hardly know,
their funeral too.
At the grandparents house
with endless repeats of Judge Judy
on the t.v.
t.v. droning monotoning on and on and on.
Any work day
perpetually two thirty or three,
in meetings with presentations
with more presentations to go,
you're trying to be productive,
but all you know
is
laundromat time
slowly spinning.
Any night of insomnia,
betrayals endless loops,
anxiety rolling through,
following you from one cigarette to another
three o'clock
four o'clock
four-twenty.
Home movies of endless barbeques
I know meaningful to you.
Pictures of people's
cats and dogs
a hundred more to go.
Eight and a half months pregnant,
kiddie soccer on a Sunday morning at 7:30,
the middle school brass band
Friday night at nine,
yes, that's me
passed out and snoring,
laundromat time
a warm blanket
has
put me under.
Anybody else's endless fascinations
say
pictures of weather,
laundromat time sets in
as the
eye lids flutter
narcolepsy sets in with all of this clutter.
So the next time
you're standing in line
and the woman in front is telling
the clerk
every detail you never wanted to know
you'll think about these poor lines
and remember
you're spinning in laundromat time
forgotten by Einstein.
In fact these poor lines
must be feeling that way too
I am going to do you a favor
and
get back to you later.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
There's a funny sort of emptiness
that passes over me
as I walk past the paperback erotica that tuck themselves away
in the shelves of the local grocery store in places that are
simultaneously completely out in the open yet completely ignored
looking, as I do, with mock casual interest
and unfeigned disdain.
Who are these intended for, really?
Are they for the snuggly-wuggly, ***** cozy-woozy, wishy-washy and warm family of four
comparing chicken nugget prices and
weighing the health benefits of
vegetable medley versus succotash?
Or are they for the uni flatmates
walking huddled together for warmth or protection or both,
seeing as they're wearing only sandals and denim shorts
and this is the first time
they've been grocery shopping without mum,
that giggle loudly together to mask how homesick they really are
while they compare the calories in
Campbell's versus Progresso.
They went with Progresso if you were wondering.
Or are they meant for those who are cooking for one?
For those who have no need to compare prices
or calories
out loud.
For those who are well acquainted
with the old, familiar tiled aisles
as they have no one to take out to dinner.
Is this where they are to find company?
Betwixt the pages of a badly penned,
lighter than marshmallows,
more shallow than the kiddie pool,
more transparent than Casper,
not-good-enough-to-be-bloody-compost
"literary" garbage?
Is this -assumed- female
supposed to curl up with one of these slabs of drivel
and feel **** and aroused
in her baggy sweats and ill-fitting hoodie
after she ate a microwaveable chicken *** pie all by her lonesome?
As a single girl who often cooks for one,
I am offended by this.
Personally,
I think Lestat is ten times sexier than Edward,
Salai is way cuter than Fabio,
and Christian Grey couldn't S Mr. Rochester's D.
What I'm saying is-
Grocery Stores.
YOU are the primary reason for this pathetic f-ckery.
Everything else in the store can be compared for quality.
So why not apply that same knowledge
to the book arena.
Signed,
A Concerned Shopper
p.s. Please extend the validity date on the chicken *** pie coupon. Thank you!
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
Every good thing shall happen...
like Friday nights and party rush
surprise calls from a long-time crush
auburn leaves and a cup of tea
cozy couch and a good movie
a sweet embrace, granted wishes
locked up hands, friendly kisses
perfect music, fireworks galore
passionate poetry, books in store
skinny-dipping, pineapple juice
mountaineering, romantic cruise
stick-it notes and scented letters
white rose petals and silver glitters
dusty slip-on and faded pantaloons
sweetened berries and tasty prunes
smooth raps and slow rock hits
magnetic charm and awesome wits
11:11 verses and chicken bones
starry night skies, pebbles and stones
a perfect score, crispy pizza crust
locks and highlights, passionate lust
skirts and pumps, pictures of us
Halloween treats and wedding fuss
hot cappuccino, jam and jelly
first paycheck, winning the lottery
chocolate mousse, ice cold drinks
ocean waves, seductive winks
silk and laces, laughs after cries
cool car drifting and belly butterflies
left hand scribbles, messy hair buns
Oakley goggles and water guns
funny jokes, late night talks
rainy days, twilight walks
flickering lights, vintage cars
logs in swamps and monkey bars
a hopeful daybreak, latte aroma
fogged up glasses, squeaky veranda
carnation in bloom, warm summer breeze
slow ********** trimmed cypress trees
naughty kiddie play, blindfolds and tricks
mistletoe and acorns, fresh and fancy kicks
baked salmons and grilled corn
ending fights and a newborn
free-verse poetry, an orchestral song
a stranger's smile, a dancing throng
finishing a novel, Luna's glow
binding friendships, December snow
but the best thing for me, I'd like you to know
is to tell you finally that I Love You So.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
partying is better than sitting at home like a parents boy
i like parries in every single way
i like kids who party despite what their parents say
you see they drink alcohol and get drunk and they are having fun
their parents are talking if they are the only ones to be young and dumb
why can’t we party, it’s fun and cool, why not
i want my own stories to tell my grandchildren rather than just telling your stories
i know you had fun, so why can’t i, i deserve the right party mood
cause all young dudes wanna party
i like partying watching the footy yeah
c’mon dudes pour some ***** on me i am cool
get into some trouble with me, but not bad trouble
make sure nobody spikes your drink, ready to party right
i like partying in every single way
with victoria bitter and carlton draught and a jim beam, how cool
so c’mon dudes pour some bourbon on me and let’s party on
i think parents are the biggest hypocrites on earth
they party really bad but they hate us doing it
i like to party, i like i like to party every single day
with a west coast cooler and a bottle of scotch with coke, how cool
i know we feel like vomiting and we sometimes feel sick
but we need to understand what goes on in the club
yeah, the good times, and there are plenty of them
who cares how bad your hangover is, think of the good times
i like partying because for a young dude it is pretty fun
there will be people who yell at you, but you should think of the people who don’t
i will take a sip out of a jug of beer and someone yells at me
but i don’t complain because i like to PARTY real hard
i remember my friend at school used fosters as his first beer
my first beer was export light, in the kiddie section of the supermarket
XXXX was my first beer i got ****** on and i enjoyed that a lot
and if your hypocritical parents force you to stop partying
say to them, get a life, we are the future of this world
i like partying every single day
i used to buy beer out of every ounce of my pay
bills were being paid, but i was to young and cool to care
but you change but there is one thing for sure
i will never stop being a party dude
i am not a hypocrit, never a hypocrite, but i am not a parent either
and i party while i say, PARTY ON DUDES, and never give in to what conservative parents think
PARTY ON, and say ROCK AND ROLL PARTIES TO THE RESCUE, dudes
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 6:46 AM UTC
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
It smells like freshly mown grass and a
Soaked one piece Ariel swimsuit—the pink ruffles that
Cling
To a toddler’s stomach rolls as she squeaks and squelches down the plastic
Into the dark blue Made in China kiddie pool
That has creatures from all levels of the ocean together
And she doesn’t care.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Has visible handprints on the sides from
The toddler holding on for dear life before
She gathers the courage to balance on top on her own.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Sits in that yard for almost a decade at the end
Of the sickly green swing set that lifts up out of the ground
Whenever the toddler pumps too hard,
And is a end destination for the intense races across the apparatus
That occur every Sunday noon amongst the Sunday School kids without fail.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Under it is one of the best places for hide-and-seek in the winter,
When it is almost buried under the glistening snow
And the toddler can’t feel her legs anymore but she doesn’t care because
She can’t be found.
At that age she has no limits, no mental restraints that
Cut her dreams off before they bear fruit.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit,
And of the world beyond it she is only a
Prisoner of fierce fascination.
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
Toes
A Thank Offering
Praise be to the Maker of toes.
Crunchy, munchy baby toes mommies nibble.
Wiggley, wonderful baby toes,
Splendiferous, greeting the world with sunbeams toes!
Thanks to Him for kiddie toes.
Tumbling, treading, running boy toes.
Greeting the day toes, grabbing the bases toes.
Wiggle in the tub toes.
All hail for girlie toes.
Ready to be a ballerina toes.
Jumping, giggling, big girl toes.
Tip-toeing in the night, jump-in-your-bed toes.
Give praise for almost-grown toes.
Boy-toe-touching-girl-toe toes,
All tingling, thrilling toes.
I know everything! toes.
Do not withhold thanks for grown-up toes
Hurry. Carry. Do. Stop. Go. toes.
Weary, Pushing, Grasping toes.
Reaching for another under the covers toes.
Glory to the Maker for older toes.
Adept at all concepts and gadgets toes.
Slower and wiser gnarly toes.
Surrounded by little feet toes.
Pure worship for ancient toes.
Lined, yellow, and ***** toes
Awaiting a clipping by those
Who kneel in worship of timeworn toes.
All praise, thanks, and worship
To the Maker of toes;
The One to whom all glory goes,
Who fills us with the joy of toes.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
The wind used to howl,
but now it only cries.
The poignant sting of snow
used to ambush my eyes.
With Fall and Winter in a blur
all year is Summer and Spring.
I used to walk, walk with you
be pushed in a kiddie swing.
The geese were more afraid of me
than I was ever of them.
Oh, Memére,
how I miss the days together we would spend.
The sun still scorches,
but not as sweet,
as clouded with young eyes
You can’t compare a tropic spring
to dusted Autumn skies.
The pumpkins red,
lit up at night,
would glow upon your face.
In winter,
every snowflake seemed
to find its perfect place-
upon your window,
lit up with care,
those glowing,
plastic candles.
They’ve faded as the years have passed,
like sun-bleached, light-pink, sandles.
You’ve been lost,
like an age-pulled button.
Your stings have not held,
Your mind forgotten.
So I dig, I dig, through your sewing kit,
to stitch you back together.
At least for my own memory,
so I can remember forever.
Somehow I’m not as nimble,
somehow just not as quick.
I couldn’t find the seamstress in me
once you’d fallen sick.
I pump, I pump
the metal petal,
to piece you back together.
That button used so many times
in deadly, freezing, weather.
Somehow you slipped,
not just through my fingers,
but in a dreadful way, where the soul seldom lingers.
You just got worse
I cried to find
that stinking button
that was on my mind.
The final piece that would solve the puzzle
fix a confused mind,
your struggle.
Now I see,
now that you’re gone,
that I had had it all along.
The key, the clue, that wretched button.
And then it hit me,
all of a sudden.
Those trembling geese, the Autumn skies,
the snowflakes that had stung my eyes.
Those things are all I really need
to make sure your heart still beats.
Your eyes,
your chin,
your soft, thin hair,
all the answers
were always there.
Now whenever I miss you,
these gems of memories,
they pull me through.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
i could go to the courtyard, if i wanted to.
i won't, but i'll pretend to, so i get the heady rush of possibility.
but i never told you why i love the smell of rain and you never told me why you love like rain
i guess we're even,
i guess we can't rely on karma to get by.
i think you should know that i love you, or used to love you, or will love you
i think you should know about the incisions. three over your heart and around it
and, and darling, is it too late to tell you about the fireplace? i hope not.
it's ashy and unused. we make a fine pair
you can be the puppeteer, if you want
i your perfect marionette (pale and pretty,
pearls at my throat)
your mind is racing. do you remember the cave, princess?
sorry, i know, you hate it when i call you that.
do you remember the blood on my hands? do you remember tipping my chin up, drinking it in
first the blood and then me
it was fast, but i understand. self control is a luxury
we can't all afford to be precise.
but, sweetheart, you misfired, didn't you? or didn't fire at all, meant to fire but forgot.
you don't like hospitals. you don't like orders and you don't like order
i know this. we both do.
(i know why you sit the way you do, back ramrod straight.
you're afraid of falling.)
you're afraid of your reflection
you ask me to paint you and when i'm finished
you bite your lip. "you look like your
father," i lie through my teeth
you couldn't be more different. i love this about you.
you listen to the same three albums on repeat
when i get tired of hearing them i ask you, measured
to please turn the volume down.
you turn it up,
smiling like you know a secret that i don't.
i stop asking you for things. it's okay,
this is normal.
you stopped answering me a long time ago, anyway.
when i turn to look at you, your fair hands are stained red. i do not breathe.
we stay like this, quiet and unsure
you filling the silence for me.
if you do love me, it's not in the way that everyone talks about
it's a hurricane love. this is not like breathing
it's like drowning
but you taught me to swim twelve years ago in a kiddie pool in the backyard
and i know i will never leave you. my strings are clutched too tight in your fists.
i move around but not beyond you. this is how it has always been.
when you kiss me, i taste metal on your tongue.
my mouth comes away red and i do not care
loving you is a blood sport anyway.
i will fold into you, become a bullet,
cry myself hoarse.
this is the only way i can be close to you.
i could go into the courtyard, if i wanted to, but you're there
and i don't want you to know about me.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
It's as easy as, 1, 2, 3.
Understandable as A, B, C.
Undesirable as, Don't Take Me.
A simple ditty,
So listen, Kiddie,
There's no singing in the grave.
No foot tapping, finger snapping,
Lip smacking music where you're going;
But don't be in a hurry to get going
To a place where you're a gonner.
You won't be chatting with a Brahma,
Discussing laws with ancient Moses,
There's no sitting Buddha posing,
You ain't in blissful Nirvana.
You'd be in heaven in Havana.
There aren't virgins waiting;
No loaves and fishes baking;
No bells ringing,
No Mecca wailing,
No roads paved with gold.
I miss those stories I was sold.
Whatever it is that ails you...
Whatever it is that ails you...
Whatever it is that ails you...
Was it us who failed you?
Stay a while, don't leave yet,
You'll find nothing you expect,
But you won't remember,
And you won't forget.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 3:44 PM UTC
Where I'm from multicultural means multicultural and not just “lacking in white people”.
Where I'm from people say they're from Toronto even though they hate the Jays, Raptors and Leafs and hardly ever go into the city itself.
Where I'm from any day can be cynically mundane enough to read The Catcher In The Rye and mistake it for the Gospel according to Holden Caulfield.
Where I'm from everyone hates the mall, but everyone's a mall rat and if you ever go you see everyone, at least everyone you hate, and buy nothing.
Where I'm from there's signs that say “Flowertown” everywhere and an unremarkable amount of flowers. Unless there is a remarkable amount of flowers and where I'm from everyone's just spoiled.
Probably spoiled.
Where I'm from you could walk to Tim Horton's but you drive to Starbucks anyway.
Where I'm from everyone's considering a career in rap. Even the people who aren't considering a career in rap are considering a career in rap.
Where I'm from every teenager will tell you their Michael Cera encounter story.
Where I'm from is where he's from too, or he went to school there, or near there, or now his parents live near there. He's been there, multiple times, I'm sure.
Where I'm from there's an old quarry that everyone calls a lake now. Swimmers used to circulate the urban myth of a dead body at the bottom, until they found it. Now they just circulate the stale news story.
Where I'm from there used to be trees. Nature put some there until we cut them down to build. Then the people put some there to accent the houses until Nature piled ice on them and cut them down again.
Where I'm from someone needs to have a good talk with this Nature fellow.
Where I'm from the brand new hospital screams, “good things come to those who wait, and wait and wait, unless you need to see a specialist. Then you're ******
Where I'm from there are streets that have so many young kids playing on them that ice cream trucks aren't allowed to go there. They go anyway.
Kids learn early that the law is optional where I'm from.
Where I'm from people don't pronounce the “gua” in “Chinguacousy Park”. Kids used to spend time there splashing around diluted *** in the kiddie pool in summer and tubing down the landfill mountain in winter. Now they just pass it by on the way to the mall.
Where I'm from car insurance costs more than cars because everyone's late, lost and angry, but none of them would call themselves a bad driver, just unlucky.
Where I'm from boys take pretty girls skating at Gage Park. I guess they take ugly girls there too, I just know the one I took was pretty.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Charles Bukowski ate my girlfriend
He started with her head
Fiddled with her like finger food
Putty in his hands
Charles Bukowski took my girlfriend
Slapped her hard upside the face
Now she likes it *****
So this poets been replaced
I'd like to say so long Charlie
As far as I'm concerned
You can hit the literary highway
Never to return
Charles Bukowski took my girlfriend
And showed her a good time
As I'm watching from the shallow end
Of my kiddie pool of simple rhyme
Charles Bukowski ate my girlfriend
Chewed her up then spit her out
Now that good for nothing Charlie
Is all she talks about
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
I told you, "I love you kiddie, but don't take me wrong."
You might have considered it few times within your head.
You had thought, 'What's it with him, he is much elder.'
I had sort of read your mind, "Don't consider me a ********* there."
You might have actually considered me a *********
You however thought, 'He is a nice guy, just like my dad and he's just 6 years & 9 months older.'
I am really lucky to have your young gift in my life.
Now I won't ever let you go my good luck shine.
You're my best buddy & my life companion.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
Look at her now.
The mattress, speckled Marborro-black
seized Grandma up again.
the paper sheet
rolled tight
like her Virginia Slim:
ultra thin
Her hand pokes out the sheet
clawed nails ***** the air and release.
"Grandma?" "Anne?"
When Grandma comes to--
out of that liminal space
between chocolate talk shows
and scotch on Fox News,
she labors to plant a rouge tattoo
on each of thirteen grand-kiddie cheeks.
We, her progeny afraid
to find an empty bed
or worse, the growl of life
mummified in paisley pink--
wonder who is this ***** who fell through sleep
tucking life away for sweeter dreams?
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 2:50 AM UTC
I don't give two ***** about how I look.
Noticeably.
Face is like a spring bloom,
Except all the blooms are reddish, bursting, bleeding buds.
My head is everywhere rounded:
Pictures accentuate the impeccable sphere.
So what?
But I tell you,
When waiters give me kiddie menus without a second thought,
They better not ******* forget the crayons.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 3:10 AM UTC
my words
fell like a
power line,
fell like a power
line into a kiddie pool.
how quickly i became
synonymous with
a snicker and a sneer.
they hate what they
don't know,
and they'll
fell you,
cast your
dead body into
deep water
along with
your electric.
hope you
feel the
cruel sting
of your
creation.
but all i
feel is empty.
missing
the freedom of
oxygen.
missing
expression.
god,
i'm sorry
for one transgression.
i at least confessed.
i gave truth.
they drown you for it.
they disown you for it.
if you knew everything
your loved ones did and
said and
thought,
they'd all
be
shocking you.
my words
fell like a
power line,
fell like a power
line into a kiddie pool.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 7:14 PM UTC
Everything I once thought was everything,
I have forgot.
All the feelings which I once felt,
Have left.
All the good times which lit my life,
I now drown in them in a kiddie pool.
Not with sadness,
Nor pleasure is there.
I have no feels for the past,
I no longer care.
A new light has entered,
I will catch it.
Better times have been had,
I will have more.
Nothing has been replaced with everything,
And once again I am whole.
Not with sadness,
But pleasure is there.
I have feelings for her,
I now care.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
The sound of clattering plates
as a voice in the kitchen yells
we gotta sailor walking in hot
and the waitresses walk around the place
always just beyond the breaking point
wearing voices which say
we hope you have a great night
the plates they clatter
as the men at the bar grow drunker
as the redskins lose yet another game
No sir,
we regret to inform you
that you can not take your beer home with you
in a kiddie sized to go cup
the plates clatter
as the bus boys and dish crew
bounce to Mexican hopping beats
bustling and jostling their way through the six tops
a cart full of leftovers and the crayon drawings of little kids
seven o’clock sees the dinner rush
come and go
and still that sound
the endless clattering of plates
as quitting time rolls around
and a hundred people throw a hundred exhausted punches
at the same juggernaut of a clock
as they always have and always will
outside fresh air smells chemical
and in the car
alone on the ride home save for the passing
of headlights: strangers navigating the same dark
you still think you can hear it
the clattering of plates
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
summer is coming
fill the pools with green hoses. mow the lawns. wack the weeds.
spend some money on bathing suits and
bikinis and sun tan lotion and burn cream.
sprinklers and slip and slides
folding chairs and beer and umbrellas
cheap plastic kiddie pools
sweet lemonade and wonderful ice cubes
stock the outside bar. dust off the grill
hot dogs and hamburgers and burnt chicken wings
clams and steak and more hot dogs
kids laughing. adults laughing
kids dozing. adults drunk.
spend the night outside
the snap and buzz of electric bug traps
hushed voices
crickets. owls.
millions of stars
full moon. bright moon.
silence
and sleep....
sleep....
and dream
a summer serenade
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC