"macbook" poems
Don’t know how it started,
or if it’ll ever end,
some call it Samsara,
others call it trends,
watched a video on YouTube,
Mac Miller in bed with Ariana Grande,
Mac died last week from an OD/suicide,
after Ariana got engaged to another man,
then I Googled this,
**** photos of Ariana Grande”,
what’s the matter with me why does everything lead,
to having my thing in my hand,
swear to God YouTube is the Devil,
got me to watch screens,
used to have more freedom,
because I didn’t own a TV,
but laptops just made it all too easy,
now I barely go out,
and when I do it’s usually just for food,
then it’s back to my bed or my couch,
laid up like I’m ill,
typing on my MacBook like an addict,
I mean how do you think I wrote this poem,
I wrote it by typing on my MacBook like an addict,
and I don’t know how it started,
or if it’ll ever end,
some call it Samsara,
others call it trends…
∆ LaLux ∆
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 10:13 AM UTC
If there were a formula
for the way her lips seek out
for mine while I am still attached
to those of a boy,
I would plug it through with
the determination
of a scientist, feeding it
back and forth through the
machines until someone
could give me an answer.
She visits me
in my sleep, bleeds
through the walls of
our separate dimensions
until she finds a way
into my heart. From there,
she rides my bloodstream up
into my brain, she puts
her hands on my controls
and guides my dreams
through to her childhood
home, where she knows
I'll fall in love with the gap
between her teeth and the way
she practices the word
"kindergarten"
when she thinks no one
can hear her.
I could never find her
through the keys
of my Macbook,
she calls to me
through typewriters in
store windows, when I think
I've lost her, I go into bookstores
and flip through the pages
in the poetry section until
teasing
she gives me a word,
just enough
of a puzzle to hold me
until next time. I think
when it's completed
it will look like her freckles,
the eyeshadow she spreads
over her heartache, the lipstick
she wears to feel like a woman
on the days when she needs to act
like a man, if I were a man.
I'd no longer be captivated
by the mysticism
of their skin. No longer see
the revolutionary twisting
through their spines. But
if I were a man, I wouldn't have
the same parts as my lover.
Maybe then
we'd be
just different enough
for me to tell her
how I feel.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
We are distracted by reality shows
And the newest iPod or MacBook
Spell check even corrects the ipod to iPod
Materialism will be the end of our freedom
And the dependence on consumer products and imported goods
Technically, Technology is a blessing and a curse
Memories of the good ol’ days will die
Hard
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
i given nothing
i abandoned
i adopted
i dropout
i garage
i Apple
i NeXT
i Pixar
i Apple
i pilfered i
i invented i
i produced i
i market i
i retail i
i am i
i am
i
i tech beauty
i consumer fetish
i whom you love
i sleekest widgets
i Toy Story
i Macintosh
i macbook
i Lisa
iTunes
iPod
iPhone
iPad
i more
i rebel
i genius
i visionary
i entrepreneur
i world changer
i exceptionalism
i capital market hero
i bigger then business
i cool capitalism
i myth
i "the man"
i worker
i employer
i boss
i thief
i savior
i billionaire
i venerated
i vanity
i Buddhist
i prophet
i redeemed
i 1 in 300 million
i America
i sing the pathos
i am the creed
i define the ethos
i Steve Jobs
i amassed riches
i accolade crowned
i ingratiate world
i virtue
i success
i creativity
i favored
i Midas
i bedeviled
i tested
i afflicted
i retire
i human
i mortal
i succumb
i eulogized
i leave legacy of i
i am an MBA case study
i employed workers
i peddled intrepid product cycles
i subject of amusing anecdotes
i am heroic corporate folklore
i grew pods full of music
i incite kids to thumb phones
i captivate consumer imagination
i built rock solid balance sheet
i erected toxic Chinese factories
i enriched investors
i am the cool corporate brand
i inspired a million unused i apps
i hipster capitalism
i imposed my will
i insisted
i am that i am
i cannot take it with me
i leave blue jeans
i leave NB sneakers
i leave black collarless shirt
i will be asked what
i did with the time
i was given?
i did the best i could
i played the hand dealt
i parlayed it into a royal flush
i filled it up with i
i ask why
i am no more?
i leave the world
i am no more
Godspeed Beloved
Steven Paul "Steve" Jobs
(February 24, 1955 – October 5, 2011)
jbm
Oakland
10/6/11
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 10:40 PM UTC
I
Fall has started.
Students pile into their desks
as teacher begins the lesson,
with 32 apple gifts in her bottom drawer.
II
Wake up in the morning.
Walk down the stairs.
Grab an apple
among the bananas and
pears.
III
Sitting under a tree, dreaming,
disturbed by a falling fruit.
The apple that knocked your head.
The apple that discovered gravity.
IV
Lovers entwined in each others’ arms.
“I love you,” says one.
“I love you more,” says the other.
“You are the apple of my eye,” says the first.
The second smiles.
V
Kids running rampant,
touch football and tag.
Trading card games while eating lunch.
Lunch? PB&J;, a banana,
and Mott’s Apple Juice.
VI
One of the largest computer companies: Apple.
The Beatles music company: Apple.
Apples are the foundation of everything.
Makes sense,
right?
VII
The Disney hotel room was tan all over.
Even my 6-year-old brain remembers that.
The green sheen of the apple skin was
more appealing than the tan, for sure.
VIII
Apples, apple juice, applesauce, apple pie,
apple cider, candied apples, Redd’s apple ale.
So many choices.
So many variations.
None quite as good as the first one listed.
IX
The red on her lips matched the fruit’s skin
as she bit down into the juicy apple.
Within minutes she was down to its core
and mine.
X
Apply applesauce to the aforementioned area.
This isn’t a game, HeadOn.
It is just alliteration.
XI
The stanzas in this poem
couldn’t be more different
than apples and oranges.
Gotcha.
XII
Mi corazón se dispara a mi garganta
cuando yo te veo. Siento mi nuez de Adán se endurece.
Tus labios, rojos como manzanas,
se ven tan dulces.
Te extraño, Red. Y, finalmente,
te amo.
XIII
This poem brought to you by:
Mott’s Apple Juice, Redd’s Apple Ale,
The Beatles’ Apple, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak’s Apple
Sir Isaac Newton’s Apple, Adam’s Apple,
God’s apple, my apple, your apple, he/she/it apple,
It apple bit the apple.
The core of this poem, much like the core of an apple.
Seeds throughout.
This poem brought to you by:
My 15” Macbook Pro Apple laptop.
And the author, moi. From my heart. From my brain.
This poem brought to you by apples.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
Boy left me feeling raw and pink, like the baby born a comma in the taxi
17 years ago. Boy left me feeling like Aunt, who didn’t know any better,
but still knew it all, and now she looks like a graveyard. When I was 14, I went
to her funeral, sat Shiva with her (my?) family, didn’t allow myself to cry, but I did.
Opened Photo Booth app. on my MacBook when I got home, because I didn’t know
what my tears looked like – I just wanted to see myself cry. I love crying,
and I love when other people cry. I think that I don’t like crying alone, but I do;
I keep people on speed dial, so that they can hear me cry. Boy used
to be on my speed dial. He and Aunt were the only ones who could
unravel my guts, but then Boy raveled them back up again. He gave me up
for the Girl with Brown Hair living in the next town over. She lives in a house
that quakes, and tilts. They say houses are like dogs. That people buy houses
that look like themselves. My house has a rich, bleeding door, and shingles
that try to bring me back to nature. I am the exception, although I do try
to bring myself back to nature. There is a forest in the back of my house –
it is brown, and deep, and swallows the monsters stuck in the squiggles
of my eyes. Last year, I went to the forest at night, and slept there. My mother
didn’t know. My father didn’t know. They’ll never know. My father
would have been okay with it, if I had asked. My father called himself
a pushover when writing his brain’s biography, and I murmured in agreement
when I read it. Or thought I read it, but I don’t know how to read properly yet.
I can’t keep characters in my head. I eat characters
for breakfast, along with Nutella. I’m 5’5”, and weigh 130 lbs., and buckle over
when I walk, because my crying weighs 50 lbs., so I push the Nutella
out of my stomach. The Nutella is in Boy’s stomach. Probably in
Girl with Brown Hair’s stomach now, too. I miss Aunt. I wish
she could eat Nutella with me. Next week, I’ll bring a jar of it to her grave,
and a camera. Cry and have a photo shoot, maybe, because I don’t know any better.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 10:30 AM UTC
Freezing Moon by the stereo
and as a bed poet
I'm takin' a ****
*Did you know about that guy
who slit his wrist… on this?* she says.
No; Martha, Jessica, Julia: but still…
Here, alone, with the MacBook Air
- or was it Pro? Nevertheless,
an useless tool for worthless ****
**** Pr0n, Pony - ************
Here, alone, I and only I writes with the capital I.
And after the **** has gone
it feeds the air with oriental glams of leprosy:
and after a long working day I am not afraid,
watching its face, as I'm flushing it in the toilet
just like all the bitches' poetries @ Home-Poetry.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
I think I fell in love with a porn-star
And got married in a bath-room
Honeymoon on the dance-floor
And got divorced by the end-of-the-night.
On her thin white neck
the Devil's mark.
Butt-I'm in love with my porno-chick;
I present her to my mother
with a video, with my MacBook Pro™,
smokin' her Marlboro™ clove cigs,
all glimmer up with cheap make up
falling curls over her shoulders,
between you and me, o'er her *** in debris.
There's only one, and one there's only:
don't bother me and my ***** chick
if you don't get cheap thrills from a midnight flick
if you're feeling suicidal, or barely lonely.
And I love her.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
Today there were two
people talking too much
and too loud
in the library.
Guy says,
looking down
nose moving with his eyes
over the Times New Roman legs
of a book.
"He broke up with her because
her ***** smelled like ****
The girl across from him
has tiny fingers with no knuckles,
fingers that make tacking noises
on her Macbook.
She smiles,
in aquamarine
as the screen dazzles her pale
face.
"She probably had a yeast infection,
or something."
There are too many people talking,
but what rights do I have?
The right to laugh with them,
to be a part of it,
to be a comrade
to be mad because they're talking
while I'm pretending not to listen
and agree?
I broke up with a girl
because her ***** smelled like
an *******
There are too many people
full of double-entendres
and irony.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC
It’s May 18th, 2022. I’m poised, alone, heart pounding, in front of my laptop, waiting for courage, my finger hovering over the return key, like a child hoping the timing of my keystroke will bring me luck.
I took this summer off - which drove my mom absolutely CrAzY. “You CAN’T!” she’d said last month, only to be overruled by my Grandmère. Now I’m home for summer break and tonight she’s flush with exasperation.
“You should have applied for a dean’s fellowship,” she said, her voice rising as she rubs her hands together, as if scrubbing for an operating room procedure, “and a summer research position!” She’s practically twirling with suppressed emotion.
I get why she’s upset. She only goes “deep end” when she's worried about my future. She knows what’s needed to get a medical school slot in 2025 like other moms know their favorite recipe - after all, she’s done this twice before.
Leong’s upstairs, avoiding this family scene. When I described my family expectations as “hustle culture,” to my roommates, they all understood - we’re that much alike.
Step (my stepfather) is trying to de-escalate and calm us (her) down. “Look,” he says, holding up his hands like someone talking down a gunman, “NEXT summer she’ll buckle down, get in more volunteer hours and get a dean’s research fellowship” he says, sliding his eyes to me. I nod “ok” almost imperceptibly. “It’s ok to start grinding sophomore year - that’s what I did.”
OOOO! She turned to him and if looks could **** he would have exploded like someone in a Tarantino movie.
By some psychic grace my Grandmère chose that moment to call. Step and I fled the den like it were on fire, going our separate ways to halve the chance of being followed.
In my dark room, lit only by the light of my MacBook, a quiver runs through me, and I finally press return. My grades for Spring semester - and Freshman year come up. My eyes water and I relax back against my chair when I see “Dean's List.”
I smile to myself, and slowly, fiercely I clench my fist with a “YESS!" As I postulate my victorious reprieve.
Jul 10, 2022
Jul 10, 2022 at 4:00 PM UTC
Today my computer committed suicide.
He didn't leave a note and there were no warning signs.
If only the drawing desks were not so high,
then maybe he wouldn't have jumped off the side.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 8:38 AM UTC
I hate planes a lot. Mostly just the cabin pressure. It makes me feel real uncomfortable. Like peer pressure in the 8th grade. The snacks are good. I love complementary trail mix. Reminds me of filthy peanuts in a biker bar somewhere in montana. So here I am one seat away from a new destination. A new place where people know me... Or they don't. Either way I'm surrounded by strangers. Here on one side of me I have a California king. I'm not talking about a mattress here. I mean a man so tan his skin looks like stretched leather on a cowboy boot. Flip flops to match the watch that tells you time, or how much money he spends on accessories. He sits big in his little chair. Like an over filled glass of milk. A tan mark where his wedding ring use to sit. Divorce was spelt out along his confidence. And his MacBook. And on the other side we have hello kitty. Dropped out of a commercial with zebra print pillows covered in comforted teal stories. An Asian girl. Traveling alone with a mouth full of things she will never tell me. Like " I hate that you hog the arm rest" " I don't like flying" and " where are you from?" We separate ourselves with awkward tension that you can't place in first or last. I'm 3 inches away from two parts of complete that I will never get the chance to know. So I realize this is the closest we will ever be. Me and you. In this space. Sharing this peer pressured air. Stuck between you and a compliment. I will never know what to say in these situations. So I will step of this plane miles away from anything I believe in. I'll drink a beer in the memory of every moment I did not take advantage of. Maybe I can step off this plain at 30,000 feet and fully recognize the brilliance of our time here.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
oh you are all so *******
good and god **** righteous
with your Facebook statuses
and tweets and blogs
that you pour your hearts into
reposting better men's works and words
cowering behind a screen
that hides the fact that you've
resigned your life to nothing
but giving others the publicity
that should have been yours
perhaps the more pathetic
thing is that we live in a world
where this is acceptable
and the norm
where people are given the ability
to like, and reblog, and comment
instead of actually making contact
and establishing relationships
**** it, if i want to talk to you,
i don't actually have to talk to you!"
and here i am, the eternal hypocrite
writing a god **** poem on my macbook pro
that i'll post to a poetry forum
so i can get off on all of the likes, reads, and comments
it collects
i mean,
who the **** am i if nobody else tells me who i am?
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 12:38 PM UTC
Girl of imagery, of MacBook and Photoshop.
In a Skype conference with designers and
Project Managers across
Europe,
Smiling to me when I enter the room
Quietly; she's working. I was in Sweden
With the guys. Bragging. *She's good for
You,* they said, raising
Beer cans around the fire. *Woman
Accepted, dear brother!*
A little too drunk, I felt, to phone her from
The hill with reception. No need. She'd
Texted me: *Sverre, I am perfect for you;
As you are for me. I adore your energy
Around me. The thought of you
Dances around in my head
Like my last marble, playing pinball with
My insecurities and confidences,
Scoring, then dropping, being
Thrusted back out, making PINGS and
PONGS, and my knees weak. I love taking
Care of you, between all your cares taken of
Me. By Odin, I love you, my one true
Man.*
Woman, you turn down all other
Volumes, leaning back with eyes closed
When I read for you. Naming me poet,
But I see now; there's not a medium in
This world you cannot tame and utilize.
I've painted with you, now write with me.
You are a rock star superwoman.
All I can teach you, is that attitude.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
Sophy’s mom sent her a giant case of “Fun dip” - a thousand packets of sour, fruit-flavored sugar. Is there anything more junkavore a parent can buy a child - well, ok, an 18 year old?
She LOVES them and so does Leong who’s from China where, apparently, you can’t get useless, non-nutritional snacks. The two of them are running around, all sugar hyped with their emo-grape-chemical-lips, sticking out phosphorescent-green-tongues and threatening to tickle everyone with cherry-red-fingers. It has me wondering, should I switch to dentistry?
Our college prep has moved to a new phase - with just 16 days until we move back into our residential college. We’re suddenly sleeping-in. It’s nothing we planned or even discussed, it just started happening. We go to sleep around 10pm and sleep until 10am - or later. I think we all subconsciously realized that soon we’ll be back to sleeplessness.
I’m peachy - in a great mindspace - these days. I’m well rested (see above), we’re killing our sophomore prep - even the physics, my period was a nothing, we spent over two hours in Ulta sampling perfumes, I have a new Macbook M2 (see below) and I painted my nails in tropical colors.
The FedEx man rolled up yesterday. “Anyone expecting something?” Anna asked the crowd of roommates attracted by the driver bringing packages to the door, two at a time. No one was expecting anything. Eventually he’d delivered 8, back to school, M2-Macbooks (2 in each color) - one for everyone - from my Grandmère.
If that sounds needlessly ostentatious, then you’re thinking she went to the mall and paid full price, but she probably just traded Tim Cook a half ton of lithium or something - one of her companies mines it - in Chili - I think. But still, my roommates were blagabloo.
I picked a starlight one. An odd thing about the new, flat Macbook Air design is that you can’t pick it up with one hand - unless you hook it underneath with a long fingernail - what are guys going to do?
Aug 9, 2022
Aug 9, 2022 at 2:28 PM UTC
A sad man sits in front of me in the library
He seems generic;
A used sketchbook, modern glasses, and a Banksy sticker on his MacBook.
His arms are filled with marks
black ink solemnly attempts to cover up what is underneath
But they are beautiful
An abstraction of two people kissing, entwined like the style of the art
Further up is his star sign;
Aries
Honest, courageous, passionate
Impatient, impulsive, intrusive
I don’t know if this is him;
All I know is his art, encompassing his every stroke
and carve
His left arm has a different mark
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
What happened to you?
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 8:07 AM UTC
Shes poor- with a dead beat dad whom lives in the house but no connection-he stays on the couch while mother works her *** off cleaning houses and sweeping the floors of ones whoms only problem is their maunfuctioning macbooks.
shes poor with dreams-shes in college working so hard she could build a town of workers from her one mind and soul. her dedication is stronger than Lebron James to his game, stronger than Katie Ledeckys swims to win gold. She works hard and plays hard as Wiz Kalifa parades- to get that trophy of success.
shes poor with dreams and loans-she poops them out like twice a day, they pile like beyonces money by the second they pile just so she can achieve-so she can get that trophy so she can crawl her way out of her poverish ways-with a dead beat dad that lives on the couch with no connection and a mother cleaning homes of the macbook pros
shes poor with dreams and loans and now debt. She graduated highest of her class-4.0 no more no less-perfection is she, she always has been-
but none of that seemed to matter for now all that stares back at her is debt and defeat.
shes poor with no where to turn-why did she dig a deeper hole of de,bt why the hell is she paying out of her *** while the their children in college parents make double,
triple,
quadruple of her mother. Their parents can pay but because they wrote a few right answers to the test they pass with no blood on their hands-clean-
Those kids will keep the change, the change she has been trying to achieve her entire life
the change she bust her heart for
the change that will never come
in a society like ours.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Today my MacBook wouldn't start
I killed myself right there in my room,
Staring at the black screen
And just as I was breathing my final breath,
The screen turned white
And appeared the Apple logo
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 6:07 PM UTC
Life at 21, do you remember it?
Things rush at you, hit you, from all directions.
Any small decision can turn into a major plot beat.
What are our lives anyway but the sum of our decisions?
Opportunities contract and expand around us, like breathing—
and what fills those lungs are our test scores and faculty opinion.
College is a land of dreams—we’re all dream catchers—on our own paths, but the paths are mazes shrouded in haze, tumblers in need of combinations, variants that we must learn and memorize though it drains our communal blood.
At test times, the silence in libraries and coffeehouses is deafening,
full, as they are, of hunched-back phantoms toiling on books or blue-lit screens. If it sounds stressful and dramatic—it is. It’s not a time to get raddled—it’s all a big test.
Your world contracts to the sterile and dry— the facts and the moments needed to gather and order them.
That’s why we love breaks. Fall, Summer, Christmas, Thanksgiving—any flavor—break.
In fact, Lisa and I are on break now, I’m typing, on a MacBook Air, in a helicopter, screaming towards Manhattan.
If we don’t die in this shaky, 250mph, 3000-feet out-over Long Island Sound, cricket-like contraption, we’re going to have a great time—if we do nothing but sleep, hug our families and eat turkey—a great time.
.
.
Songs for this:
Little Hercules by Trisha Yearwood
Constant Craving by k.d. lang
Nov 21, 2024
Nov 21, 2024 at 2:51 PM UTC
the initial purport
this literary effort delivered atchew
to reed constitutes hazmat tocks sin
within White House blew
per, viz thee president be
getting a Hollywood love story
with "Stormy Williams" despite brew
haha murmur, now dapper Don in deep doo doo
thus, this garrulous married pro LIX prone papa flew
off (like a bat out of hell)
to his Macbook Pro laptop presenting myself
implicating Trump as po' faux guise Mister McGoo
affiliated, confused, and explained
being on par with Winnie the Pooh
especially stuck right tub bear arms in grr...
Rabbit's House, now he doth stew
nsync, nonetheless this path a logical
rhyme stir on the straight and true
composeing grist sill for ye to view
now, nar hating, hit ting
private links provide attention turned toward
two thousand twenty presidential election campaign
no Iron nee, anno putter opportunity,
how he diplomatically strived, and nearly scored
to boast asthma, overt braggart, stalwart
asper ideal consistency of cement poured
affiliation, aggregation, and attestation moored
prevails ma (Jack booted - magical) lord
rolling back to Timbuktu progressive liberal
Democratic initiatives star Apprentice
sans ("NO LIES") being linkedin, he almost ignored
with voluble chattering class hud hoard
hobnobbing (with the likes of Missus Muir's ghost,
who resort to Matthew Scott's turf brand),
reconstituted, recycled, and repurposed, gourd
nonetheless Trumping protocol necessitates me bing bored
predictable feigned "FAKE" non accord.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
Today the Sunday special brief
iCloud online worship session, I did attend
(via remote support)
found me feeling pampered,
when adept technical support
didst figuratively bend
over backwards, thus aye defend
glorious, righteous,
and zealous Gurus who did expend
their religious fervor, without proselytizing
and sanctified dedication they proffered
as if this secular chap hapt tubby
a long time Facebook friend
diligently persevered amidst
my woeful yelping alarm
where bot sized wetbacks, setbacks,
and drawbacks,
required a secret char
which this netizen vaguely understood
as unfair be-tidings disallowing
thyself to purchase additional farm
ming out iCloud storage
in the deleterious harm
akin to buggy ah mush swarm
comprised documents
(painstakingly slaved over with zest)
plus sundry data necessitating mooch ***
legal tender (probably every
last red cent of mine) to in vest
concerted efforts of
at least one expert to test
her/his mettle in an attempt
(dim prospect) performing an in quest
to retrieve valuable data lost amidst a nest
of inaccessible "lost" information
(bantering with computer
jargon more so jest
with no intention to "FAKE"
trumpeting minimal knowledge
judiciously impressed
upon thine fifty plus
shades of gray matter, at my be hest
expressing scant cumulative
disc cussing duff frag
minted understanding lest,
a personal goal
to incapsulate in poetic best
not abandoning frustration
with this Macbook Pro
cuz, positive experience
wrought with Apostles eye attest,
so rather then vent
my spleen in vein
hie desisted
to rage against the machine,
and tack toward being urbane
thus, rejoicing with a cherry,
hearty, and mighty byte hooray,
asper driving,
exercising, and foisting
gentle circuitry vis a vis
neurotransmitters and neuromodulators
nudging pull-ups
within cerebral terrain.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
*I'm in a small living room with beige , sheet rocked
walls and wood floors , contemporary artwork and a Vox
amplifier
A MacBook Air for keeping my diary , a ceiling fan forming
a tune with a busy wall clock
Dust is collecting on white painted baseboards , occasionally
tumbling across the floor
A front door secured twice plus two windows with venetian
blinds , trinkets on shelves , the faint odor of pine , paper flowers ,
fragments of glass glued into containers
Peripheral shadows are moving to and fro , images are stair stepping
before me , heart racing , hands cannot find their home , memory
racing mach one , telephone is nothing but noise , windows are for
guarding against potential predators , flipping in synchronized repetition from Facebook to Outlook , from Hello Poetry to Musicians Friend
Flying with one eye closed and hoping to eventually land* ...
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
She makes 'em up as she goes
Watching from her window
See the old lady and smile
to her sad eyes
She always smiles back, you know
it's her only contact that day.
The neighbours on the other end have
their boxes packed and moved but not all
Yeah it's tough indeed to separate.
An open suitcase left next to our building
Mens clothes all over and
MacBook cables thrown aside
I think robbery The cleaner thinks
a Latin lady threw her man out.
A good day it was. I'm fine, thank you.
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 9:19 AM UTC
literary food for thought.
Self Mutilation
(ah bet thar iz an app for that!)
within unlit partial "FAKE abattoir"
sans wardrobe alcove
where dust bunnies didst allures
completing a simple task among
my never ending (Matthew's) list
of domestic chores
this undertaking engaged
thankfully while completely clothed,
and scrounging on all fours
nonchalantly picking up scattered detritus
including food crumbs
potential critters hors d'oeuvres
the spouse (ideally seated
on this same swivel chair
dashing off these lines
linkedin with this Macbook Pro) -
housing at least four scores
of word documents, she espied
the cheeky opportunity
that triggered many wars
within arms length the taut outline
of me 'lil derriere - re: rear end
temporarily dormant versus
when flatulence roars -
posterior flank hie
could not de fend
she playfully poked her finger
that didst dis send
within close vicinity of sphincter,
where ****** turgid business height tend
(most likely this husband not alone
getting ***** twerked) inn me own coal
less cents great movements got made
jabbing ma **** hole
while i happened
to be "blindly" groping
upon darkly cutout cubby hole
i.e. without wearing bifocals/ spectacles -
envision a human mole
thus amply qualified her role
to be literal and figurative
pain in the *** vole,
where much to my horror a flash
of red hot poker blind
momentary rage, did lash
out at me, when aye espied
a kitchen knife and acted rash
(how cutlery got in closet floor
a minor mystery
and potential topic de jure
for another poem)
to brandish sharp edge
around abdominal area
grabbed handle with left hand,
thence commenced to slash
rhythmically thwacking
wrist of right hand
then quickly dropped sharp implement
(as like a man momentarily possessed)
before rendering permanent harm
with a river of blood to wash.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC
self-ejection
isolation
q u e e n
a self-imposed
hibernation
slick paranoia and
wild string thoughts
i want to\b a c k s p a c e\
moonwalk
like windows closing
in succession
in a burst of
d i s b u r s e m e n t
this reality is
really a strange
derivative
of the
original
so,
sometimes,
i end my day
by rolling onto my stomach
closing my eyes
listening to Amazon play
and i imagine myself
a happy reptile,
sunning on the rocks
until tomorrow,
by the glow of
my macbook.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC