"lettering" poems
the electricity runs through our veins
and past the street signs we rumble by
in the car you stole, we go fifty above the speed limit,
the roof of the car is the noir sky above
and the midnight rain pelts our upturned faces
the dancing drops of water drip onto our smiling lips
the sound of the sky collapsing
echoes the flashes that streak the sky,
the flickering light casts paved roads with a brief brightness
(as if god were wearing light up sketchers)
the lacy brallette that wears me
gives me the bravery to stand up in the speeding car
the velvet pants that ripple with the wind
drink up the nighttime rain
and the rare headlights race past us,
heading into homes and hearts
the mellow playlist that connects the aux cord to our ears blasts
so loud, we can no longer hear our insecurity
the mascara that once clung to my eyelashes
now streams down my face.
on a two way street,
we drive down the middle
unafraid in the face of direct dangers
so unaware of the towering empty skyscrapers
and instead highly exhilarated
from the street signs we drive by
too fast to read the blocky lettering
the road signs glint, smiling as we wave and reach towards them
the cigarettes you smoked are thrown through the open window,
still smothering slightly.
i can still taste the smoke on your lips
and your hand tucks my hair behind my ear
and as the wind objects and inhales
unreal in the hazy a.m. car trip
the tunnel rushes towards us,
and we both hold our breaths,
as if breathing would contaminate us.
the lights that glint, cast a yellow-white glow
and for once, i see you for who you are
a boy too buzzed to feel
a kid who only felt "sort of"
a person who couldn't heal
and a lover who could never give love
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
I'm a bit like Brett I like my beer, Senator Feinstein,
Ha. Your name has stein in it,
thats like a beer mug, i dont have blackouts from beer drinking.
It's the lack of that makes me forget.
I don't remember much of this morning.
Went to work got some **** done, I
Don't think I molested any women,
But it's all foggy. I remember going into DG after work. They got 15 packs for 6.95.
Cept I vaguely recall creeping out. They were
Out. Until i found three of them white boxes with red and blue lettering an A
With wings insignia I'd tucked in
A corner of the store behind cases of
Heinekens, out of my league drink,
For just this situation.
******* patriotic
Almost. I think it's doing my part to support this free-market capitalistic
Economy. Like paying taxes.
Better than voting.
So you all can impune Kavanaughs
Character all you want.
I like beer so do he. So.
Back to me.
I couldn't wait for one.
I'd put six in the freezer.
And it had been ten minutes.
I drank it lukewarm.
And my memory came back.
The fog cleared. Oh yeah, his problem
Isn't that he loves beer
Like I do, it's that he was a punk upper class white dude who
Pushed around young girls, laughed while he felt them up,
Thought he was entitled to.
That's over the line, even for Republicans.
You are not like my justice.
I am a justice of peace and integrity.
Go drink beer,
BRETT, JUST NOT ON THE SUPREME COURT.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
The rain drums down like red ants,
each bouncing off my window.
The ants are in great pain
and they cry out as they hit
as if their little legs were only
stitche don and their heads pasted.
And oh they bring to mind the grave,
so humble, so willing to be beat upon
with its awful lettering and
the body lying underneath
without an umbrella.
Depression is boring, I think
and I would do better to make
some soup and light up the cave.
2.9k
I seem to have inherited
your Che Guevara tee shirt,
red and black,
with the huge
Legends lettering
and portrait,
black on red.
Washed and folded,
I gave it a squeeze,
and held it to my chest
(wanting you back,
my son, and all the rest).
Sometimes I think
we shared the same heroes,
similar, more similar
than I ever thought before,
reflected in the tee shirts
you bought and wore.
I am still making
my way through
your Augusten
Burroughs books,
the humour, insight
and images raised,
have humoured me
at a time I need,
from dark thoughts,
guilts, on my time
and mind, like maggots
they have fed and feed.
I did think
I would talk to you
the following day,
before the coma,
the silence of you
contrasting the ever
sounding machines,
the dials, the lights,
and that, and other
images, keep me
from sleep at nights,
(hence the need
of the sleep
inducing pill).
I seem to have inherited
the black and red
Che Guevara tee shirt
you used to wear,
and when I hold it
against my cheek,
I imagine,
for short moments,
that you are
still there.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
-
Why can’t I see past the buildings,
skylines obstructing my view,
collecting on the curb
with doorways and steps
inviting to someone else I suppose
Still I push past,
hugging the shoulder
of a rush hour highway
Staring into windows
as they pass, staring back
Exits signs point at me
but I can’t listen
Their warnings make no difference
in cloverleaf grumblings
and exhaust fume skywriting
One foot in front of the other,
worn converse high tops
gray, the greens are lost
with the sunset that breathes down my neck
reaching for one more moon rise
No rest, still creeping alongside
sleeping 18 wheelers purring
on their asphalt mattresses,
straddling yellow lines
leading to the bathrooms…not a chance
27 miles the sign reads
in reflective lettering calling out to me
It seems like nothing,
compared to what is behind me now…
My life or what it was
But that is no longer my concern,
my future is now 22 miles away
Where your arms are waiting,
holding my future…open, warm
and I begin running faster
Another 10 to go, down main streets
with coffee shops and beauty parlours,
one traffic light and a train station
a kid on a bike delivering newspapers offers me a ride
No need, it’s just around this corner…
On the lawn is a flamingo,
plastic and pink behind a white picket fence
with a gate that creaks and a porch light comes on…
illuminating my dream…as I see you,
it has finally come true
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
thinking about how cops are beating protestors senseless not even 20 minutes from where i live.
thinking about how they block off the streets and stand unmasked, batons in hand, other hand resting pointedly on their gun.
thinking about how it could be me next— another unspecified black face and black body and black existence snuffed out— a hashtag, a mural.
(and those are the lucky ones.)
thinking about how a memorial is the best case scenario for a black life.
thinking about the bodies in the street.
thinking about blood splattering the ground, mixing with paint and obscuring the “black lives matter” lettering on the road.
thinking about the chalk art and loud music in a neighborhood soon-to-be-gentrified.
thinking about how we’ve grown used to the stench of rotting flesh outside our doors.
thinking about the taste of blood in my mouth from my nearly-severed tongue i didn’t realize i was biting.
thinking about the tension in my neck and jaw.
thinking about the way my eyes never seem to close.
thinking about the eyes that will never again open.
thinking thinking thinking.
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 4:27 PM UTC
Pearl earrings. They came
in a red box with gold lettering
I unwrapped in the
restaurant parking lot
on a humid evening before
my college graduation
where we milled around,
waiting for our table.
My father's gift.
One year later, in the same place,
I put them on;
my father walked me down the aisle
to marry a good man.
Wrapped in a princess dress.
Towing a six-foot train.
My mother's dream.
They stayed in my jewelry box
for one decade plus five.
Years while I played
hide and seek with depressions
and wondered who that person
in the mirror was.
My straight persona.
When I think of that now
I remember--
pearls are made of pain.
The substance the oyster makes
to coat the grit, or
whatever makes its way
into the shell.
The process transforming
the ugly, raw, pain
into the lustre of something
priceless.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 12:46 AM UTC
I was never good at tests
spending hours sitting in a chair
pretending to take notes, doodling and scribbling
daydreaming of places, places just not there
I was never good at tests
dodging bullies in the classroom, and halls
carrying books in a belt, my locker never worked
good at sports, basket and racquetball
I was never good at tests
lettering in architecture, wood and metal shop
not quite a geek, but definitely a nerd
boozing on school trips, and every resting stop
I was never good at tests
in retrospect I realize, the girls used to flirt
those were the days of my introvert
trying to stay unscathed and unhurt
I was never good, at tests
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 3:17 PM UTC
my eyes are drawn
to your white lettering
and black label.
my soul is rather
fired up by that
substance inside you.
my lips,
by the taste.
“don’t do this to yourself, you’ve been good all this time.”
“you’ve been steering clear, you’ve been attending your meetings.”
i tell myself, as i reach in
my pocket and rustle through
the chips i‘ve collected all
this time as reward for
learning to live without you.
but ****
that smell. the way you feel inside me.
the way you make my head shake.
the way you make me forget.
you taste of liquor, my dear, and i’m a recovering alcoholic.
oh **** i’m sorry...correction.
was a recovering alcoholic.
so a toast,
to your wonderfully devilish eyes,
and to another relapse.
-melancholicreator
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 6:18 PM UTC
I want to say something about cursive writing (this might seem random).
I’ve seen articles saying that cursive writing is a “dead art,” that computers have destined it for oblivion and questioning whether cursive writing should be taught in schools now-a-days.
But if you plan to go to college - relearn it and practice it, because you’ll need it.
Random hot fact. The first time you have to handwrite a multiple-question essay test - where each answer requires five hundred to a thousand words (a written page) - handwriting, in block letters, is unsustainable.
Your hand will literally cramp up - dog, you’ll suffer, your essays will suffer and so will your grade.
Writing in cursive is faster than block lettering and with a little practice, it’s effortless.
My sister told me this once, and this morning, as I watched other students, one third of the way into our essay test, grimacing and flexing their aching hands - I just smiled to myself.
Yeah, you can thank me later.
Dec 21, 2022
Dec 21, 2022 at 11:36 AM UTC
*Withered meadows
I can dream no longer
your wings of stone
are far too uncaring
and I simply cannot handle
another grass stain*
*I love those
breezy Saturday nights
with the swinging irises
lazy daydreaming lashes
and I am peace
glowing in the dark with
my surrounding happiness
I'll carry this jar and letter
throw it to the bottom of
the deep end
in the morning a stranger can
find it and wonder the mystery
of rushed lead and bold lettering*
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 10:19 AM UTC
Abandon's clay roiled, doubled what pulse
of life...in tune and out of.
Pathological music derived from music...
ecstasy--whose recompense is a sound
loss of selves.
Multiform unto archetypal gods--Dionysus
first among, Apollo last among...eviscerated,
trophied, slathered upon these rotund
Grecian ladies and gentleman.
Hallowed names depart the incontinent
circle, forgone the synoptical scarlet lettering
of name...transcendence.
Torrent upon torrent of ambrosia down the
throat...skyward runoff of chins...scribbled
down the primordial bloom of ******
O sylvan gathering, crowns of laurel graduate
thee from materiality...a shuddering
beauteousness--broke shafts of light clash
lovingly from luminous head to head.
Here...the extenuating circumstance of
consciousness appropriated quoad sacra.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
who told you that you could say that
there's blood and ***** and drunk tears on the neck of your sweater
and in the corner of your eye.
substance lettering not making any sense.
who told you that you could say that
Christmas lights are beautiful
But only out of season
I sure as hell didn't.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
A boy he was
Long, long ago
As he glided into the chromed and teal druggist shop
1950s it was
Vintage years
Women in pert dresses
Men in sharp taupe suits
Filled the shop with a smoky manner
On that summer Sunday afternoon
Fan bladed just a-turnin'
Right through time itself
He saw this box before
Jeweled, valuable big music box
Been here not too long
Breathing in a flavored breath
He saw another it
The black round of pure bliss
"Blue Suede Shoes" by Elvis Presley
The white letterin' said
Letter G
Number 4
Hands ***** cold metal from warm pockets
Slipping them into the maiden's shelter
Fingers to buttons,
Arm to record
Music to shop
"Well, it's one for the money,
Two for the show,
Three to get ready,
Now go, cat, go."
Floated in mass commodity
Away the ears and mind blew in the wind
Far from his hometown
Far from his school
And far from everything he already knew...
Daydream ended too soon for his comfort
The boy stared at the flashy box
And spoke a quiet goodbye
Tile guided him out the ringing door
Concrete guided him home
Where now the older him
Lives crooked, but happy
With a dear old woman who loves him more than anything else
And a jukebox
With many records in it
But one is still on top
"Blue Suede Shoes" by Elvis Presley
In chipped, faded lettering
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
I followed the leaf-strewn path once more
Where it hugged the cemetery wall,
And made my way through the sandstone gap
Where the howl of the wind was stalled,
While snow still covered the sacred ground
And piled by each headstone lay,
Obscured the lettering, so profound
Of a love, now taken away.
And some of the headstones, cracked and worn
Cried out in their pure neglect,
Where were the ones their love had sworn
Who’d never visited yet?
But then a headstone, polished and new
With a name fresh cut in the stone,
I knelt in awe as my wonder grew
That beauty returned to bone.
My tears were frozen on either cheek,
The frost on my forehead lay,
If she could see from her reverie
She’d see that my face was grey,
But nothing stirred on that tiny mound
That covered her form below,
The wind that howled was the only sound
And I thought it told me to go.
‘Get up and leave, you can only grieve
In this garden of dead desire,
Love in this place may only deceive
It’s as dead as the ash in a fire.’
Sadly I placed the poem I wrote
For the girl, in case she’d need it,
Under a rock by the headstone there
In the hopes that Death might read it.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 10:10 PM UTC
I am writing this poem as a letter of reference for my uncultured heart,
Unedited and uncensored and
Unlike the affections I so willingly gave you.
You read me your poems
As if I were the first girl to receive them,
And boy,
Did I receive them.
I took them and their delicate lettering that traced
My name written boldly and profoundly in the center
As if the world was handing itself over to me.
To: Olivia
From: Jupiter
No return address.
I kept your smooth words and slipped them into my coffee,
Tucked them underneath my pillow case,
And folded them into a book I virginally scribbled in.
I found them scattered across the night's sky
And sewn into the shirt you loved on me.
I planted them in good soil waiting for spring.
My good, rich soil.
Untouched and unused.
I Watered them carefully and buried them with a warmth
That the sun itself couldn't radiate.
You lit me up and I was burning so wildly for you.
For you, Jupiter.
My garden was beautiful, full.
Plentiful.
Abundant.
Good, rich.
Untouched and unused.
And little white lilies began to sprout and dot the I's of your
I love yous,
I miss yous,
I was thinking about you,
I love you,
I miss you.
I was thinking about you.
I love you.
I miss you.
I was thinking about you, Jupi.
But drier than your recycled sentiments,
My soil
Became parched and emaciated
As more of your lilies grew.
My coffee became bitter,
My pillow case as soft as sand paper.
The small, black journal I carefully pressed flowers with
Now stained and sopping wet with Your cheap ink
That ran down my skin and into
Creases you left your finger prints.
Your lilies, though small and sweet,
Were deadlier than any poison ivy
I'd ever touched previously.
The little plot of earth I saved for myself
Was now a pile of your cigarette ash
And venomous weeds.
I burned so wildly for you,
But without you.
For you,
Not with you.
I was another one of your American Spirits,
Smoked, put out and
Tossed into the grave of another fruitless harvest.
Taken, left, and used.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
No use for a bigger screen that my mind can't accommodate. I hear voices in the dark and paint pictures of one color in the corner of my clouded imagination. My thoughts consist of questions. The answers come in the form of blank print plates with damaged lettering.
My smile cracks the moment between naïveté and contempt.
Can't take a break while breaking. I'm alive somewhere in between, walking on one side of survival and falling apart completely.
I pray to something outside myself while bleeding from the inside out to echoing laughter - colorful lubricant for the slow death of plastic bags and cellophane.
Hear me now where I feel nothing and meet me where the pain screams out for safety.
I don't have an ending that is worthy of what is left.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
Shirtless, barefoot, and
reeking of self-loathe;
he sat in silence
at the edge of his mattress.
Studying the black
lettering on the face of
the prescription bottle
through bloodshot eyes.
His name indicated in bold
just above the RX number.
Aloud he read the words
Amphetamine Salts
To the layman- adderall:
A quick fix for your
run of the mill 'screw-up'.
But to him it meant yet
another night without sleep.
One more night away from his demons.
Without the crippling nightmares;
The reoccurring remembrance
of events no longer (if even ever)
within his immediate control.
Glancing over at the clock-
counting quickly on fingers,
he’d figured it’d been about
sixty-four hours since his last sleep.
The lack of rest accompanied by
excessive alcohol consumption,
was making things hazy.
Days bled into one another.
His eyes started playing tricks.
Now sitting up straight,
he applied pressure to the
childproof lid, and twisted.
Plunging his fingers into the bottle,
removing two more pills,
he held them for a moment—
Then, with the help of a
flat, warm, beer swallowed
another twelve guaranteed
hours without sleep.
Laying back, legs hanging
off the edge of the bed
muscles aching,
stomach growling,
eyeballs burning;
content in knowing
he'd die before ever
facing that dream again.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
I’m chasing an early grave down Euclid Ave
and no one is looking in the right direction
Did i mention i was on fire?
This is store-bought depression
with the white plastic bag that says THANK YOU in red lettering
Now its turned to blood
This is how you feel
when you can’t recall where you were during 9/11
Give me your mass-produced discontentment
I want to smoke and not die
Sometimes i dont want to die at all
Today the oldest person in the whole-wide world took her last breath
she was 117
On her birthday last march she said her life felt too short
Where the **** does that leave me
I wish i were born a lobster so id
get stronger and meatier with age
and then when I’m at my prime they’d ****** me up
to sell on the market for a few hundred dollars
When you devour me remember to wear something nice
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
I know the contours of your face
just like the streets of my hometown
you'd squint your eyes
when laughing
at the corner of Main and Dow.
Blacktooth Brewery
on frigid Friday nights
frosted glasses, fogging breaths
and laughs caught up
in tightening chests.
Kendrick Park can keep its towering trees
and midnight charms
if I can keep your laughter with me
when I sail for newer shores
Something in familiar signs,
buzzing blackened Bighorn skies,
keeps us just above the water line--
afloat for one more night.
Sheridan Iron Works
Red, rigid lettering a raised, distant hand
Watch it wave from on the hill
above the Kendrick boardwalk,
soak December in our smiles
choking back our April cries.
Snake's head yawning
from the I-90 exit
slithers down Coffeen and tails
our icy footsteps
Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.
Shake this town to its bones
with our Thurmond Street jokes
and our glowing Gould Street hearts.
I hope
this is enough
to buoy our ***** up
against the weighty ballast
of this tiny, yawning town.
Settlers of Catan
played on a windy Wednesday night
over another drowning round
of clinking Wagon Box pints.
The contours of your face,
icy streets of our hometown,
our squinting, gasping laughter
on the corner of Main and Dow.
Blacktooth Brewery.
Frigid Friday nights.
Fogged up glasses. Frosting breaths
and laughing, clutching tightening chests.
This freezing town
will test your mettle.
Settle up and bring your friends.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
Can you see it like I can,
a boasting child,
a boating child,
an accident
she drowned.
Down,
the bubbles escape,
race like red toy cars
as blood blossoms out ears,
and pressure builds,
and fingers reach upwards
pop
where small fingers are glassed with soapy water
and white and blue frosting.
scribbled over red lettering, "Happy Birthday Meredith."
And cards were presented with pasts and futures,
torn open like a shark attack
and ripping skin,
flapping back like dog ears, as he sticks his head out the window
and howls at the neighbors
for their loud music ways.
Silent crashing waves,
that boom death metal
and ride tidal curls
that bounce off her head.
As she writhes,
a red ribbon in her hair.
Hair of spun gold
like the sun
smothered by the moon.
Darkness eclipses.
And the last of the air is pushed
through her lungs
for light has drifted away,
torn like a suckling pig from its ****
and she is lost.
As her body floats away, pulled down.
Unclasped, she roams free.
groans, "Meeeee. Find mee...eeeee."
And eels slither from her jaw,
agape and brackish blue,
like pirate ship wine
sunken *** and treasure troves,
and streamline red.
Adding to a salty complexity
of tarnished speckled metal
like speckled eggs.
And brown eyes
bore out by hermit *****
that broke their shells after a gluttonous feast.
Unbuttoning her dress
a flower paisley sort of thing,
a useless scrap of sodden material,
for nothing matters,
as she thinks nothing can hold on to her
now and before.
She is aware,
but not really there, because you would miss her
like you did when she stood in the hall,
your eyes passed over,
and so stayed her silent screams.
So she left our world,
or rather hovered and watched
as much as she could without eyes.
She watched you,
and felt nothing over your cries
because she feels nothing
Now.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
I love the smell of gasoline
Blue flowers, and green neon lettering
Embarrassing-honest people
The words nocturnal, cavalier, and arable
Reading, reading is my second-best to humans,
Greek mythology, all mythology
Solving math equations, being surprised
The soft waves of my mother’s hair
All kinds of clouds and rain
Smooth fabrics, sharpened-pointy pencil-tips
Gravelly voices
and exploring
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 9:06 AM UTC
Remember all the old familiar faces?
Helvetica's the nicest of the lot.
Gill Sans and Johnston take the second places;
It seems as though the serif has been shot.
Verdana has its own intrinsic glories;
The fairest text that ever left my desk
Was set in these-- for essays or for stories.
But using them for sonnets? That's grotesque.
And gravestones are a special case as well:
A mortal lack of serif fonts would be
A certain kind of typographic hell
With Comic Sans for all eternity.
In death, the Roman lettering is best.
May flights of serifs sing thee to thy rest.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
She looks at mirror
Cannot understand
What she’s become
Never queen her entire life
She glances out alley window
Into 4am darkness
Feeling tragic ending
To accidental romance
Premeditated ******
In Chicago in bitter winter
In rundown diner kitchen
Haphazardly displayed
Sharp shiny axe
Above doorway
White lit sign with red lettering
That spells TIXE
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC