"letterman" poems
“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me”
Embroidered on the back of his letterman jacket
Hanging from the kitchen chair where he sits
Practicing chords while the **** cooks to crank
In the trailer back of his momma’s house
Where she lets him live while he looks for work
They didn’t treat him right at the truck stop
His uncle might get him on at the mill
A crankster wankster twanging out his art
Unless the Cossaks find out about…
“Who’s there…?”
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
Reading the other day,
an article about some,
Renowned fellow's notion,
On the study of "Human,
Productive Locomotion".
A reputed Authorty,
of "Time Management",
His main proclivity being,
The belief in his increasing,
Other peoples productivity.
Modulating their all too,
common Human tendency,
For naturally wasting time,
and non productive energy.
Him asserting himself to be,
a self styled know it all,
Bonafied Expert in Efficiency.
Now I can see,
How it might be,
That this type of study,
Offers some relevancy,
For the Barons of Industry,
What with them regulating,
The flow, While streamlining,
and furthering the advance,
of all things, relating to commerce.
A purely Scientific belief,
For the primary benefit,
Of the Time Clocks sake,
And all those Bosse's
Emotional financial betterment.
But what on earth,
did that have to do,
with an old retired,
fool like me?
What matter that,
I merely sit and think,
for hours at a time.
Read the paper,
or a book,
Computer chat,
or cook?
Putter in my garden,
Or gratefully just stare,
at big billowing clouds,
or rainbows in the air.
Or perhaps I choose,
to hug my wife,
Or chase my Grand
Kids up a tree,
Maybe grab a nap,
Or even take a ***
Pet my dog,
Or have a Beer.
Watch the Tube,
a little bit,
Or congregate to meditate,
with a convivial group of friends.
Maybe take a walk,
Down by the river.
Get out my old,
Bow and Quiver.
Wash my car,
Cut some grass,
Go to my writing class.
Slip on down,
to the " Red Dog Saloon"
Where I'll promenade,
A little Texas Two Step.
Come home in time,
To unwind and,
watch some David Letterman.
What's efficient,
and what is not?
Clearly, that interpretation,
Is completely up to me.
No Efficiency Expert needed.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
knowledge awaits is the ticket
they sell you as you pass through
the pearly gates of higher learning
with textbook in hand you pray
that the dream you have isn't as much of
a work of fiction as the history they teach
with your college bound girl
her vanity lay in her turtle frame glasses
she hides behind the foggy lenses of her
casual drugs and meaningful ****** episodes
she grasps the back of your letterman jacket
hoping that you are as surefooted as your propaganda speaks
as you follow the blinding path
of confusions principal and you think to yourself repeatedly
that the truth in the simplest explanation is the actually the most complex
because you make it that with
realizations and rationalizations
through the day to day whittling away
of what you really are
through lying to yourself that
if you stick it out with this false life
one more day it will all be better
that the relationship you are trapped in
will work with you
instead of making every day
an uphill battle to be heard
and loved without tears
sometimes look into her eyes and
see the endless road of escaping her past
and i think that i just want to stop running away
settle down
and be
just simply be
a father, a husband, a lover
happy
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 12:09 PM UTC
I like to watch Letterman.
Not that **** Leno *******
And so what if I have a gin and tonic?
I'm 67 for Christsakes.
So what if I have a cigarette?
It's my ******* house.
So what if I fell asleep in my chair?
So what?
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
"Nothing will ever come between us", you said,
now there is something playing in your head.
I know he's just an old boyfriend from school,
but don't you see I look like a fool?
This is the last straw, the last drop of wine,
you'll have to tell him yourself my friend.
I am fresh out of understanding,
and don't say that I am too demanding.
We are to long together to start playing games
let's not watch this go up in flames.
Can't you see you are living your past,
trying to hold on to what you can't grasp?
I am sorry, he can't spend the night.
No, I am not trying to start a fight.
I'm sure he's got someone else to *****
Someone, somewhere that he can do.
Did you tell him that we're a pair,
it appears he doesn't seem to care?
We are to long together to start playing games,
let's not watch this go up in flames.
Walls are thin I can hear what you say,
I think it's time he went on his way.
It's been like I am not even there,
What do you mean I'm not being fair?
There he sits with my scotch in his hand.
Is that his bike in the drive, who does he think he is?
I see his eyes follow you,
watching every curve like I use to do.
We are to long together to start playing games,
let's not watch this go up in flames.
Why did you let the Letterman in,
with his motorcycle helmet and all his leather garb?
Tattoos and earrings are scaring me half to death,
this is the suburbs you know?
*A peek at an otherwise happily married fictitious couple named Bob and Mary....... And there surly visitor Steve, the Letterman. *
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
You smell like smoke
and the bonfire left ashes in your hair.
Your rough hand is on my knee.
I hope you never move it.
Your eyes aren't focused
but neither are mine.
Sleeplessness is dragging us down.
My toes are numb from cold
but my heartbeat is fervent from overwork.
Your heart is the same
I can hear it.
Banging against your chest,
even from all the way over here.
The dawn is coming
but shadows still hold your face.
Your lids are half closed
and there are bags under your eyes.
Your the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
A thousand street lamps
run past me,
as I sit in your passenger seat
with my feet on the dashboard,
and hug your letterman jacket
a little bit closer.
The gentle hum of the engine
and subtle vibration of the tires
are all I can hear
before I drift into dreams,
with your hand on my knee.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 7:40 AM UTC
A lazy brain is a waste of space in a
active mind, if you had a nickel would you try to flip dime, considering work harder, harder means over time.
Like everyone said it is, go to sleep here's a sedative, everything's too repetitive all these ***** and letterman's looking for loose excuses, because they never did, try to achieve a status of excellence, the modern man treats education like primitive, tools...the one who goes to school but never finishes, grows up bitter and is malicious towards their kids...expenses are high..baby bottles and cribs, diapers on top of diapers how long can you handle it? No control of your life because your handles are full of **** What happened to your burning passion? Guess your candle was never lit. Seriously.....is that it? Are you just going to quit?
All the goals that you talked about are simply walking about...they have no sense of direction, they need you to figure it out. Hoping that you can just commence with, all of the now and just forget **** that haunted you in past.
that's Karma on top of Pressure, like boulders on top of glass.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 12:42 PM UTC
Stolen cases of liquid, bubbly alcohol and
I'm whining that I don't have any cigarettes.
36th chambers against my ear drums as
Youth blasts through the bridge over chopped water.
I parry a blow to my abdomen and
Spill beer everywhere.
Someone says something in another language.
A farce about debauchery had never rang so true.
Smile. Show them it's you.
Grin. Blow to the tune.
Order. Show that you know what to do.
Drink. Turn your liver to stew.
It's so crowded the legs have disappeared
And whoever was near is now long gone.
Then, there's the song, the one you know by heart.
Everyone knows the lyrics
Like diamonds in a cart.
So much haze now. The last man is standing.
The dogs are outside restless and panting.
There's no cab in this ********* city that can take me home!
The bachelor's wife deceased has phoned.
Call her back, to let her know.
You, at least, have the right idea on your shoulder.
A letterman jacket pinched around her waist
As tight as a rubber band around a mockingjays neck.
I and you or you and I make our move towards the nightlife.
Things couldn't be any better.
Remember when you made your pass at wisdom?
How the crowds cheered and smiled with you?
A rush of fingers through our five dollar gelled hair.
Dear whisperings of nuclear proportions at 5am
In tune with the death of Dylan be it a mystery
Put a tune on the needle
Round her back then push her to fetal
Allow madness into your life
Stir it in
And see what you are tomorrow
It's OK
She said.
It will be fine
She said.
What will be, will be
She said.
I told her to
Say it
In French.
I don't know French
She said.
I laughed.
She left.
I watched her go
Out the door.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
looking both ways
on my street with houses lining it
leading to more houses and dead ends
with front porches overlooking culdesacs,
culdesacs with front porches on dead ends
watching Letterman
no, Leno.
Leno gets a lot of ****
but he has his crowd,
and they all live on my street
leading to nowhere and culdesacs
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
She was an unheard melody
An unwritten love letter
You sang her out loud
You destroyed her words
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
What's better than tripping is falling in love
What's better than Letterman, Leno, Fallon, and all the above
What's better than popping bottles trying to ball in the club
Is the first caveman pops with his son, ball and a club
What's better than paper is ballin' it up
What's better than followers is actually fallin' in love
What's better than frolicking, follies, fallin' in mud
Rolling in green pastures, wanderin', followin' love
What's better than eating is feeding your fam
What's better than meetings is missing meetings to meet with your fam
What's better than leaning and needing a Xan
Is hitting your zan dreaming a dream could mean leaving the land
What's better than yelling is hollerin' love
What's better than rhymes, nickels, dimes and dollars and dubs
Is dialing up your darling just for callin' her up
It ain't nothing better than fallin' in love
IGH!
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC
It was always you
Lovers have come and gone
But I always hoped for "us" in the end
You don't think the same
I know you don't
Because you've never paid attention to me
Ignored my every glance, hello, and wave
It's okay honestly, I've become used to it
Maybe if I changed, then you would like me
Maybe I would finally feel what it's like to be by your side
To hold your hand, and wear your letterman
At football games
All these years, and it was you
I wrote this poem not for myself
Or for past lovers
But for you.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
sitting back, letting the world be where its at, with mind open towards the sky, with the phone polls thinking off their fair, their electric current flows to a bulb that is calm, pulsing, its one of those evenings, crows, and different types of mosquitoes, cold enough for a scarf, reechhing screeching the tentative cat trying to make his next plan, escaping into the house where he may resume his limitless pleasantries, lifting up his spirits with the fireplace
the delightful conversation, of honor, their is so much duty in the things we do, duty delights in its own way, honesty has its own reward, we heard letterman say it to a louis that was frowning, and the characters represented themselves, an extension of their characters, and louis went on being a genius and lettermen went on being a *****
pleasantries are present when we least expect it, the fuzz from the monitor, there isn't much worry about how ***** the computer gets, it adds character, wisdom, se lavi or whatever it is the french say tossing hands up in the air and leaving it up to probability, or uncertainty, what a pleasant feeling
pleasantries in the dress, the particular white collared shirt with the pressed jacket, shoes that shine, in glances and martini glasses, in steps down the stairs that feel of anchores, anchores somewhere beneath those grand steps that provide some kind of magnificent gravitational gradiose spectacular, pleasantries in how much we aren't even aware
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
election cycle returns
and the returns are in
no one gives a ****
about economic downturns
or pacific trade agreements
built to further gut
the Amerikkkan dream
Honey Boo-Boo lost eight pounds –
wingless welchers tirade over lost causes
causing the public to collectively *****
only racial injustice strikes cords
or the ever popular threat to children
outside of that, the general consensus
is to give the Dugger ******
a second chance –
guns for drugs
bombs fall on Bagdad
homosexual agenda
the imaginary scourge
melds with marijuana laws
giving the conservatives pause
but only until the Letterman finale –
sightless masses spoon fed by multimedia
millionaires
much maligned in the middle
misrepresented and mismanaged
mean well
but they have given over control
to the television set –
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
How ridiculous it is
to think me and you
there was never a reason to be true
where did everything end up
im outside and youre blue
i paint portraits and poems
he wouldn't like this. god. cobain.
jack **** is what i got
some compliments that didnt add up
you want nothing and thats still a lot
where do we even end up
this isnt what i wanted
we dont mesh, the colors on your collar
and the sweat on my breast
was there sometime out there you felt the insecurity of my flesh
i hear birds chirp now, your season gone
i ask myself how i let things get so wrong
play acoustic until fall asleep
fast and weak i take a seat
wish again you were here with me in this park
next to the street
i feel you even when youre not here
not sure if its you or a ghost i feel near
i want you to be what you can never have
you want me for my years on letterman
wheres your angle
you do nothing for free
(you aren't jack ****
you can't **** with me)
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 5:39 AM UTC
I am from sketch pads, from books and monopoly
I am from the cozy little green house where my sisters and I would play in the yard all day. And lay to watch the stars at night
I am from the dandelion, the garden in which my mom tried to grow flower that never sprouted
I am from grandma got ran over by a reindeer sipping hot chocolate on Christmas eve and crazy wildness, from Stephanie, Hannah, Jordan, Micaila, Micah, and Emmanuel
I am from the singers and the fashionistas
I am from “you can be anything you want to be.” And “don’t let anyone tell you you’re not beautiful.”
I am from singing amazing grace and dancing to gospel pop from the church
I am from Atlanta, Georgia a true peach, mac and cheese on special occasion, and homemade tuna burgers with halondais
From the woman that could have gone to any college in Georgia, but had me instead
I am from the trophies for anything and everything, from scholar awards, and Letterman’s jacket
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
in the filtered blue glow
of your favorite
late show
with the light
from the bathroom
left on
I can make out
your face
and it's hard
to erase
from my memory
although
you are gone.
In our silence
a sweetness
a comfort
it's true
needing less
to be said
meant much more
we lived well
in our day
and had so much
to say
but your smile
it just cut to
my core.
As we sat
side by side
on the sofa
'twas your hand
on my ankle
which said
I am here
you are there
theres no distance
I swear
you still whisper
sweet nothings
in bed.
So forgive me
for getting
all sappy
but the late show is on
and you're there
in the blue
of the den
I can't hear
Letterman
he's been muted
so music
can blare
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
in the filtered blue glow
of your favorite
late show
with the light
from the bathroom
left on
I can make out
your face
and it's hard
to erase
from my memory
although
you are gone.
In our silence
a sweetness
a comfort
it's true
needing less
to be said
meant much more
we lived well
in our day
and had so much
to say
but your smile
it just cut to
my core.
As we sat
side by side
on the sofa
'twas your hand
on my ankle
which said
I am here
you are there
theres no distance
I swear
you still whisper
sweet nothings
in bed.
So forgive me
for getting
all sappy
but the late show is on
and you're there
in the blue
of the den
I can't hear
Letterman
he's been muted
so music
can blare
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
It was a cold winters night
Right outside the town of Bridgestone
The place was silent except for the old saloon
A new face appeared just the other day, he spent most nights in there
Some gazed at the fanciness of his clothes
Other scorned at the six shooter on his hip
I talked with him a little, he told me he was moving on with life, searching for something new and bright
He only planned to be here for a few nights, wasn't looking to pick a bone
So I gathered supplies, scurried a horse, and made sure he was gone by next afternoon
The next day is when the platoon came looking for him, I told them, the man was headed just south of Rabbit's Hair
Little did they know the man was traveling north to Letterman's Grove
Let this be a lesson kid, I may not have a story to tell, but this rusty old six shooter and gold is a most generous tip.
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 12:10 PM UTC
I had met you once before
Years ago in high school halls
With backpacks and bustling teenagers
Acne and doubt plaguing the lot of us
A place we said we all hated
But the figurative watering hole
Of our small Texas town
I paid you little to no attention
Too self-absorbed to see you
And seemed to have lost you in the shuffle
Of weary letterman teens
I grew up
And out of that Texas town
Fell in and out of love
And struggled on my own two feet
Trying to find a home and heart that fit
I met you again
In the airport at luggage claim
With backpacks and bustling people
Fatigue and nerves plaguing the lot of us
A moment I played in my mind
Over and over again
And when I finally saw you
Bright-eyed and in love with me
I found you again in the shuffle
Of weary jet-lagged passengers
I fell in love with you
In that very moment
And as you held me against you
I found the home
I was always searching for
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 11:44 PM UTC
one....
two....
three....
you and i each took a horn of the bull and rode off into the proverbial sunset where angel dust is the reason our eyes are opening back up after the re-
set. set. set. set.
the sun was hanging out with the moon at all times and the dish never ran away with the spoon but they continued to live in the limelight
which was the color purple
and the only frightening thing was that death was all around us
but he was grounded from taking anything that wasn't his to begin with so we played in the mud and rolled in the dirt until our skin was as black as tar and we looked like monsters who didn't know we were
just
the
same
and the fireman called for rain because he was trying to stop the sun from burning out; we didn't mind and we danced in the fallout until our bodies were sore and we were clean again.
when the lightening hit we started to glow and you screamed about how fractions didn't make sense half of the time and i cried that's a third of the battle and you were already a forth of the way there. we split a fifth of whiskey and commented on the price of fingerpaints and letterman jackets
as we sat on the edge of the pier on the edge of the lake the river the sea
i told you i didn't know if you would ever be real to me and that i knew the ride was the journey but the war was being waged and i didn't want to bring you onto the battlefield anymore than you had to be
you sighed and explained to me that each battle must be fought one at a time and we would cross that landbridge once we got there
we sailed off together in a lifeboat on the way to timbuktu while i sang to you softly:
"your shadow follows me all day making sure that i'm okay and we're a million miles away"
you held my hand as my feet dangled in the water
we laughed again.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
I once drove a brand new car ,and lived in a nice apartment.
But now I'm dirt poor, and I live down by the lake in a tent.
I get angry because of people's attitudes.
People laugh at me because I eat dog food.
I eat it every day because it's cheap.
People laugh because they're creeps.
I started eating dog food because I saw David Letterman do it.
It looked mighty tasty when I saw him chew it.
I eat it at the beach, while riding on buses and subways, and at the park.
I'm getting worried because all of that dog food has started making me bark.
I've also started licking my **** and fetching sticks.
When women see me eat dog food, it makes them sick.
If you're wondering if I'll quit, the answer is no.
I'll never stop eating dog food, I need my Alpo.
Please don't point and laugh at me, please don't be rude.
Everybody thinks that I'm a freak because I eat dog food.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
Precede from the Presidio,
Pride and Prejudice on the rocks,
Letterman looms
with its men of rock.
Presume
the promiscuous
but don't let me bleed
from lashing out
because of a typical
impression if mine
of San Francisco as a tot
****** isn't it
******* off the public ***
or being in a twit, worried about Travis Tritt
All is actually well though
at last in San Francisco
where the Doggy Dinner
Hot Dog Stand chain
is probably still in existence
although I haven't been
to Frisco in a long, ling time.
If you're not in a stir
about the place
you probably won't see
people wiping snot
from their noses
or popping no-doses
or worried about nine to five
Yeah Jacqueline Susan as a hair.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 11:30 AM UTC