"knobby" poems
Delilah baby I can feel the weight of you in my arms.
I can feel my k to z love for you and see how that laugh of yours makes people cry
and how that smile pierces my heart because it looks just like his did.
I can feel the sun kissing each one of our toes as we sit overlooking the grand canyon in the kaleidoscope sunset.
your spider fingers are wrapped in my hair like a plea to never be left alone
your spindle legs are all knobby kneed and pale entwined with mine.
baby he left me not you.
I was a hurricane and he loved you too much to look
afraid that one glance and he'd be head over heels reeling out of control
like you were the drug and he was the addict.
they say everything happens for a reason and you are my reason.
Delilah baby you are the here and the now of forever.
the stop sign on the corner is an obstacle for street racers but its a godsend because its just enough of a pause for me to kiss you between the eyes.
and I can't ever finish anything so this story isn't complete
and at the top of the pass where the air is clear enough if we sing loud enough maybe he will hear us and remember who he left behind.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn line
Ousts mistier peers and thrives, murderous,
In establishments which imagined lines
Can only haunt. Sturdy as potatoes,
Stones, without conscience, word and line endure,
Given an inch. Not that they're gross (although
Afterthought often would have them alter
To delicacy, to poise) but that they
Shortchange me continuously: whether
More or other, they still dissatisfy.
Unpoemed, unpictured, the potato
Bunches its knobby browns on a vastly
Superior page; the blunt stone also.
17.8k
They would have given a lot
those paste-skinned kids
with straw for hair
and knobby knees
Not that frail— it seems
Beneath grayish strings
through black rims
one cracked lens screams—
Gets nothing!
Changes nothing!
Ritual words fall—
a rusted refrigerator
shoved over a railing from the second floor
Barking dogs tied to the radiator of misery
fed on rough-house excuses for kindness
Why do people keep children?
Larger than average eyes
huge foreheads of genetic wrong
******* childhood downstairs
while mother is sleeping
I can get used to the smell of cats
Human ***** is not so—
different?
and if I didn’t change my clothes for a week
What do children know?
Jenny cuddles a starving kitten
then releases it to where
they disappear...
one generation after another
Famished eyes
devour anything offered
words...food...sex...God
Screams from the mats of string and gray
Scald the frantic instant badly
I watch her bolt beyond explanation
Night gives no reason to let her live....
My faith went the way the kittens go
Hope and a small girl
blend beyond blackness
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 11:24 PM UTC
Knobby knees and coffee shops
Have been married since before time
Was.
Hipsters with their progressive politics
And symbolic lyrics and
Witty banter
Deem themselves worthy of macchiatos
On Tuesday mornings.
And the tiny tables creak with
Liberal arts degrees and sugar and
Cream.
Tibetan prayer flags slip out of pockets
Onto a floor scuffed by Converse
And bare, raw feet.
And if you, too need salvation in the form
Of caffeine and dreams,
Come on in-
Even if your hair is straight and perhaps
You don’t have a clue
About ethnocentric ideas of beauty-
Open the door, order your addiction,
Sink in.
Your knobby knees will fit just right.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 8:32 AM UTC
they packed a patchy satchel
with enough snacks
to feed a child army
of two,
trekked though
green-blue forest
spackled with firefly flecks
and second hand moss.
came to a resting spot
on the shores of Mirror Lake
the one place
picnic tables were not
and they ate
in the jagged reflection
of solemn pine trees
he mumbled 12 years of secrets
through a confession booth
of nougat
spat out the seeds
winced at black jelly beans
and she
rested on his knobby knees
sighing with the breeze
face upturned to catch
downward droplets of moonbeam
he was a half-formed pinecone
dangling in the quiet dark
she was some kind of meadow lark
whistling the dawn
no one forgot love after that
no one could remember
what lonely tasted like
anymore.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
he liked to count his ribs
( 1 2 3 4 ...)
and brush his nails against his collarbones
(so prominent...)
his palms cupped his knobby elbows
(years to perfect...)
and the sun shone between his thighs
(lighting up his world...)
his body was so very
a l i v e
his heart beat in
o v e r t i m e
meanwhile, his eyes were
d e a d .
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
do not call me a liar
when you're sailing your boat
into vinegar seas
because my knobby knees
crushed you with ease
and you cried "don't hurt me,
please, please, please."
i wanted you dead
for all the wrong reasons
i killed you with time
through the four seasons
there isn't anything more pleasing
than your cotton mouth teasing
my long hair breezing
and you were sick with the flu,
always sneezing, sneezing, sneezing.
(a.m.c.)
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
The gentle lines of the coarsest neck
Where the vitals fall in line,
Where breath is held so restlessly,
The first sip of chilly wine.
The shaky fingertips that graze,
Calloused, but seeking gospel
Leaving me covered in the words of
Your author and your novel.
Knobby knees that knock when
Worry scurries through your blood.
That hallow place behind
Where no one thinks to touch.
The portion of your foot that feels
The extremity of the ground.
How fast you're going will always tell
How long you stick around.
(Our souls are where we find them.)
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
i like to look in the mirror
and dissect the person staring back
until features are just jagged lines
and stolen shapes
protruding chin
witchy nose
curved into a long slope
a beard of pimples
surrounding small lips
and a mustache to strike envy into any man
caterpillar eyebrows
darker than the hair on my head
which is dry and flat and falls into my face
chipmunk cheeks
practically falling out of wide cheekbones
long legs
too skinny
knobby knees
hairy white tree trunks
that i suppose pass for legs
spider fingers
no curves
just a pale board
with eyes and skin covered in mold
and red
always red
from
tears
always tears
society's worst fear stares back at me
"ugly"
my own words
i say them to myself now
i see your point
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
I used to like you a lot.
i don’t know what ******* happened.
we’re children and you pushed me off the swings,
off the playground,
out of the park.
And now my best friend only wants
me for what i can say about you,
you sea urchin.
bouquet of prickling spikes
piercing my jagged rib bones.
rip through me,
feasting scoundrel,
you ***** you fox.
you viper.
wipe her from my soggy slate.
dinner plate? it’s empty.
everyone is the garbage disposal,
grinding my teaspoons of self-worth
into dusty pieces. i am the garbage.
and i never pegged you as one
to leave me in a
dark parking lot,
shadows curling their bony fingers
around my purple lungs,
but she found you making love to
him in the same car we sat.
the bull frogs saw what you did.
i’m warning you to stop pretending
like you’re still a fawn.
a doe-like female.
i can see through the speckles
on your face
and your mixed tapes.
i don’t have heart left for you,
you ******
kneel in front of his knobby
knees. beg,
*****
muck him up and then
lick him clean,
feline.
slink past me in the night,
in the broad daylight.
you are not a spy
i can see your arteries.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
I hate you
I hate the way you laugh
I hate the way your eyes squint when you smile
I hate your long, skeleton-like fingers
I hate your freckles that scatter across your nose and cheeks
I hate your long legs
I hate your body
I hate your messy brown hair
I hate your bruised skin
I hate your knobby knees
I hate the way you laugh
I hate your voice
I hate how you wrinkle your forehead
I hate how you lock your heart away from people
I hate how negative you are
I hate how you let people use you
I hate how you can't tell people "no"
I hate how you give in so easily
I hate how you care about people who don't give a **** about you
I hate how you love people more than they love you
I hate how you fall for lies
I hate how you care about what people think
I hate how you try so hard to please people
I hate how ditzy you can be
I hate how you can be so clueless to the outside world
I hate how you make the same mistakes over and over again
I hate how you let things get to you
I hate how you're so forgiving
I hate how you give everyone a chance
I hate how you give people second chances when they don't deserve it
I hate how you feel guilty about everything even when you've done nothing wrong
I hate how you let people take advantage of you
I hate how sad you are
I hate how you hide your feelings
I hate how you bottle everything up until you blow
I hate how you break people's hearts
I hate how you don't care
I hate how you don't have motivation to do anything
I hate how you get annoyed so easily
I hate how you're willing to do anything for people who wouldn't even lift a finger for you
I hate how you give yourself to people to fill the void inside you
I hate how your body constantly shakes because you're always nervous about something
I hate how you feel trapped
I hate how your chest gets tight when you think about how much you miss him
I hate the way you treat yourself
I hate how much I hate myself
B.S.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC
Grandma made plantain fu-fu
On the fire hearth.
A big iron skillet of hot coconut oil.
Her hands were gnarled and knobby. But.
Oh they knew the way.
Mashed green bananas and special. Salt season.
Dropped lightly . In fried to gold.
Out and rolled with a green glass bottle then.
Deep fry again.
Hot plantain fu-fu.
In coconut oil.
Hello Africa.
Kenya.
Nigeria.
Sweet and nice.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
he is sharp angles
bony elbows
knobby knees
and ribs protruding fiercely from
worn-thin
shirts.
honey blonde locks
plastered against his skull
and sweat
beads on a
translucent
brow.
he braces for the
pain
nails growing
teeth sharpening
body contorting
flesh ripping away from bones.
thick ropey scars criss-cross
over his back
and you could swear
those were
bite marks
along his spine.
he will shake and shudder
teeth clenched
eyes shut tight
against the horrors
but no matter what you ask
he will not answer.
a worn sweater hangs loose
around narrow shoulders
and dark
circles stand out
starkly
against porcelain cheeks.
when the full moon comes
in all it’s horrific glory
he will touch
your cheek
and send you away
with a sigh.
wine-red blood seeps
from claw marks
on a slender limb
and he kisses your worries
away
even as he weeps.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
Being fatigued has its benefits: I don't give a hoot.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXVI)
Talk to the silence as a train growls thence
Through wooded stretches, 'neath the bridge detail,
Sans more than rumbling deeply on that scale,
And think of how wee cricket voices fence
These ghastly plains with fiddling oer suspense,
Nor listen cuz--those days are gone and fail,
At least my solace in their joys does, pale
Expanses washed in moonlight not mine hence.
Or not the maple's knobby roots as twere,
Its canopy of shadow lace I knew
Last year, that freedom of the lake in tour
Gone, I remember, as tinnitus to
Effect half waltzes with the clock's demure
Tread, ticking, whilst...what is't that no man woo?
09Jul17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:29 PM UTC
this flourishing silence feels more of
a trite hack-job than it is a writing stint.
my fingers (frenzied, brazen) continue to tap
and my mind starts to spill like a spigot
left open. I have taken to smoking and laughing
away
in an obscured day for myself in the parking lot
and sometimes I can do without company; only the snarl
of the well-oiled tractor in front of me.
the days are full of yellow and the Sun is a dog
on a leash. the roses smell of brine and their slender
stems bones of the young.
I can see cheeks flushed with red and skirts
neatly trimmed just above knobby knees
and I know somewhere in that tender flesh,
a man sifts without knowing what it feels to eat
bone before flesh, flesh after bone. my silently augured
procurement of today’s induced comatose is but
a Freudian slip – the world with its burly physique
is a chauvinistic man
drinking whisky in the red light district of hazy Makati.
each slapdash word in penitent reprisal
is the moment’s clearest reprieve. I am glad that this room
is darker than the eyes of the love I have lost
staring back with a mound of the abysmal or the yearnings
of a chagrined mother startled back to her home;
it must be dreamy, the dogs outside pant in heat
and the obnoxious *** of vehicles outside bears the cadence
of two people starting to fall in love: all chaotic and unmoving,
fastened to the Earth, aware of the passing minutes,
wishing to be somewhere else but there.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
I have been held between calloused fingers with
courage caked under the fingernails.
I've watched the tribe of white knuckled girls with the knobby knees
fall off the jungle gym.
Their mothers would sit on the park bench and smoke Virginia Slims.
Must be getting old, the way their skinny fingers combed the better half
of their crinkly silver hair.
They get carried away out there, how they invite themselves into strangers cars, fire up another cig and tell their stories to each other.
And the kids are wild and all footwork, thinned lips the color of roses, questioning whatever confuses them.
I am uncomfortable with their softness, mumbling syllables or whispering fairy tales.
They picked scabs until they bled and their mothers pretended not to notice as they soaked in late night stands and whiskey;
I want to say to the girls on the jungle gym, “you were born to a mother who wore pain like
trees wear their rings, as marks of bravery and battle cries.”
But because I am forever bonded to this earth, I will feed myself with their
feminine giggles carried by the wind
And for now, I will carve myself down to nothing more than water and remember that
observation really is a lonely science.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
there were old men
laying around the
pool
like cigarette butts
in an ashtray
burnt out and
diminishing as
their feet
dangle in the water
lapping up against
their knees
they talked about
the old war
the good war
back in a time when
there was war to
believe in
now what?
now they have their
feet in a pool
fat white skin
burning in the moonlight
while knobby knees
are canvas to varicose
veins and the occasional
scar
--oh this one from
surgery, this one
from a foxhole
dug out some
hillside near Salerno
sliced up the
side of my leg
nice and good, yessir,
killed the
**** guinea
though don't worry--
and they would hold
out their arms
to explain how
they held those old
standard issue springfield's
while arthritis shook
that imaginary
rifle to the point
of danger but
they never noticed
leaning in to stare down
the sights
aiming carefully at
some elusive
foe across the pool
they would laugh at
how much they hated those
guns
they would laugh at
the insanity of it all
how young they had been
how old they were now
how much had changed
and how much hadn't
their wives were all gone
left widowed or divorced
all it seemed they had
was Tunisia or
Italy or that French
beach early morning in
1944
the world is a battlefield
for old men
with no
weaponry but old
stories caked in dust
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Welcome to the place you’ll find me sitting
helplessly trying to find a way out.
The place you’ll never want to visit again,
you’ll run, at full speed wishing you’d never
said it would be okay for me to
open up and let you see the insides of my
horribly damaged head,
and instead, never brought up the subject
but only find yourself back where you started in this maze
of desperate uncertainty,
because in this place lies carcasses of dreams
abandoned but never forgotten,
my knobby knees and shaking fingers
just haven’t yet found the strength
to put them back together again.
I've arranged them in patterns that resemble broken things
like china dolls with cracked smiles
and butterfly amputees, this is no picnic.
I am sorry for the horror you will see
in the depths of my cerebral cortex,
I never imagined you’d actually step inside,
and now here you are clawing your eyes out
right beside me screaming at the top
of hoarse lungs and pleading with sad eyes
now just barely bleeding, for a way out,
with a tone just below sad whisper I tell you
I’ve yet to find a ship off of the island of misfit toys,
and for now, you’re just as hopeless as you
found me to be in the beginning.
Just remember you provided the gun and ammunition,
I only loaded it, and gave you a taste for
the possibility of an ending.
I never tempted you with the idea of destruction,
only provided you with its breeding ground
and that's not something I can help or even change.
you've now seen the depths of hell
and men have said it leaves one blind
even if it does come in the shape and size of panic attacks
pain killers, *** and a heart rate that laughs at the word fast,
races beyond it, bearing sharp teeth and a smile,
swallows me up like the ever raging sea.
My body was not built for this type of misery,
my skin cracking and my kneecaps knocking
like a sort of secret police to tell me
that it's getting out of hand again.
Marionettes sewn straight into skin,
dancing just like all the other puppets
we live a life of lavish lamentation and hold up
bronze metals just for showing up and sticking around.
How much does life mean now?
Do not tell me I am not suffering because now
you have seen it and it will never leave your memory.
I bestow this upon you because you chose not to take me seriously.
This is a message from the island of misfit toys,
I may seem like I'm keeping it together just fine,
but beyond every door lies a secret,
beyond every shining light, a shadow
and beyond every smile, someone is broken.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
momentum and fragility builds in my legs and hands
my toes curl and empty air beneath them begins to buzz
an electrical current that is blue and gold begins to
make love
and sends bolts up my vertabrae stopping at my
knees that are knobby and bruised
heart that is tired of being bitter
brain that is foggy from sleepless nights and false realities
the neurological star scape that erupts inside my head in that moments wipes away every doubt i have
for five minutes, i won’t care
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
He is Sicilian, skin tawny the color of
toasted garlic
knobby knuckles but strong palms
steady and smooth and graceful
never wavering as he slowly depresses the plunger with his thumb
pushing two clear drops from the syringe
he ran out of dope so he soaked his old cottons
to **** out the residue
and deposit it in his vein
fist clenches twice and holds
and he dips the needle in
so light
so little
then his fingers shimmer away from his palm
and drop to his side
When I was 13 I took a trip to Alaska
my aunt brought me there and we rode on a boat
along the southern coast and through the fjords
One day we saw a glacier calving across the water
so ***** it looked like a cliff, but when a piece fell away
the ice that it revealed was deeply blue
He'd only traveled in the desert
from Austin to Iraq
but one night here
in Duluth, Minnesota
we lay on the roof and watched the Northern Lights
I told him that they were the color of glaciers
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 12:35 AM UTC
Run
The taste of blood swelling in your throat
Run
Ignoring your aching feet
Run
Run
Run for joy
Run for fear
Gasping for air
Run
Tears stinging your face
Clouding your vision
Run
Sweat stained clothes
Air blocked ears
Run
Heart drumming
Threatening to tire out of your chest
Run
Stumble
Get back up
Run
Scraped knobby knees
Pounding head
Run
Have you reached your destination yet ?
If not
Run !
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
Daylight in the castle,
there is the king and the queen.
She is of Europe, floats like a bee
upon clouds, these saltwater beacons
drenching for her hair to dampen black.
And he thinks she seems angelic,
each morning, opening umbrella limbs
stars & stripes he gave her last night.
Shine and prim kiss-kneads,
nobody can tell that he loves me.
The pond across the way, I drown
in the flesh-earth, memory of our space
just ruffles swaddling where he tastes.
I am his handmaid as I am queen,
when light surfaces on my snowbank
ever ghosting the skin of knobby-knees.
Daylight in the castle,
beams for more than just a queen –
clumsy, odorless of the love she’s seen.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
For sale: One body. Used. Glitters in the sunlight but only when wearing illfitting, ugly, boring clothes.
Hair, though not much of it, but too much for the company of wolves. Fuzzy. Generic. Drips a lot after hot showers. Not black. Not brown. Not red. Maybe blonde.
Lots of freckles in shapes that may or may not be cult objects.
Lips bitten, but not as much as nails. We regret to inform you that this model has the ugliest hands you’ve ever seen. Skin breaking up, peeling like sunburn at fingertips. Red. Cramp in the cold and every other climate. Small. Fit into spaces they can’t get out of. Inky. Spew words.
Scrawny, disproportionate legs and arms. Knobby knees. Stuck-in toes. Crooked from hips-down. Bowlegged. Beastlike.
Woman hips. ******* that used to be perfect until nineteen. Now they’re just a bit useless. We apologize for the inconvenience.
****** Not a ****** Clawed. Friction burn. Too much hair. Too little hair. More hair down there than there is on one side of the head. Razor marks. Blisters, sometimes. Lots and lots of blisters.
Thighs are good for holding, not much else.
Weak. Scrawny. The ********* meal you’ll ever have.
Gateway eyes that tell you she’d rather be anything but a body with a ****** and **** and lips and all of the above.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
I took a train that led me to South Broadway
There I watched as rain drops played & the ground received a cleaning that day.
My face was washed & my skin turned gray,
For I was becoming part of S. Broadway.
Unlike the North, I was no longer up high
& my flesh began to groove
As the rain started to dry.
Everything I need
I have received,
here on S. Broadway.
.. And they all say that one day
I can even grown green
& become a tree
with yellow maple leaves.
First I need to out grow these knobby knees
So that I'll soon be free.
Then I will be the one
that shades you from the sun,
When alls too much on lovely
South Broadway.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 7:35 PM UTC