"mileage" poems
You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep---
White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?
Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.
The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,
Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?
Is it for this the air motes depart?
They rae not air motes, they are corpuscles.
Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily
Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.
I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,
Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,
The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.
Where are you going
That you **** breath like mileage?
Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit---
An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
17.8k
There once was a black man... Old at heart, he fought verbally and accordingly with bold words, which abbreviated and arbitrated great art! He spoke of activism. Not just racial, and economic racism. He fought against demonic injustices for you, yes, made me see. He stood for principles of non-violence. Acknowledged corrupt government
mileage, European knowledge and college. A philosopher, teacher
and preacher as well as a civil rights leader. When he spoke his words of fire indeed chiseled and inspired. Causing some to conspire and also perspire! Born January 15th 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia. Named in honor of the German protestant Martin Luther. Bachelor of Arts
degree in sociology. Making a mark in doctoral studies, systematic theology. June 5th 1955 This King married Corretta Scott in Heiberger,
Alabama for many to see. Proceeding with four children: Yolanda, Martin Luther the 3rd to be! Dexter Scott and Bernice to increase the peace. Despite the European police, the movements and stressed
protests, the silence, ****** and racial violence. The segregation and interrogations in force, instead of integration of course. Black mishaps, lack of differences in relapse perhaps! Plagiarized and slandered, demised by some of the wise. Accused of communistic ties. Blinded
by others’ eyes and of our world’s twisted lies. Montgomery, Georgia
bus boycott, 1955 was the year. However, forever in disguise, our fear of tears was apparently adhered. From here to near, also all those dear. Mere letters he wrote, from Birmingham jail I quote! From the slums, some of sums, hail and prevail! A creation prevailing into a deriving and thriving nation. Mr. King’s vision of a dream, mission,
opposition, optimism and truism, on our wars, welfare and more. I suppose this sounds honest and fair. Mr. King’s theories and worries in emotionalism, evangelism, humanitarianism, racism and socialism. Nobel Peace Prize won in 1964. Regretfully, you may have heard of this before. Government conspiracies and indecencies. Assassination
and discrimination, allegedly, by James Earl Ray. On April 4th, I
almost choke, because for him, his blood did soak. Some thought this **** was a thrill or forced by will. Others still procrastinate in hate! However, forever Martin Luther King was and still is one of the late greats.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
You came in late, again
I said hello, pecked your cheek
and waited for the flow of excuses.
None came.
You went and poured a drink
I sat awaiting your words.
You came back in, sat heavily down
and looked at the floor.
I felt rage inside my breast,I had news to tell.
You never asked how I was, or how my day went.
I sat quietly waiting, listening to the ice ***** the glass,
I felt as vulnerable as that ice cube, once solid now melting,
waiting, fuming, controlling my anger.
You looked up, you looked at me, no through me, and said
"I'm late because I've been having an affair"
Did a freight train just hit me? I felt despair, but you said more,
"She's pregnant, and is keeping the child"
Clarity liberated me from my stupor, late nights,
meetings, high mileage on the car.
I asked a question,
"Are you leaving me?"
You dropped your head, and said the words most wives dread
"Yes, I have to be a father, do the right thing, I love you but....."
Your words trailed off.
I stood up, took your glass and refilled it for you.
My turn.
"Did you start coming home late because of her? Or because I've gained weight? Or both those reasons?"
Silence.
"Pack your bags, leave the keys, get a hotel bed"
Those words came out so clear, you'd swear I'd knifed you.
~
At the front door, you turned, about to say something, I cut you off
"Send me your new address, I need it for the solicitor,
I'm divorcing you. And by the way, before I forget, you're not the only
one that's been late, it would seem you know how to propagate"
I shut the door, rubbed my tummy, and waited to be called mummy.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
Only men remember the names of their cars,
the make and model and the year they got them.
They can recall the feeling on their thighs
from the cushioning of luxurious leather
as they slide in with a longing sigh.
There is no will power known to man
that can keep their fingers from caressing,
the steering wheel spinning in their fantasy drive.
Eyes scanning the dash to inspect the odometer
praising the low mileage of where she's been driven
fooling himself that he's the driver that counts.
If only they understood the true lust of leather
comes in the form of wedges or stilettos,
and not only noticed when they're kicked off.
Which, by the way, are Pradas,
sold by Neiman Marcus,
bought last month at Fifth and Grand.
Sep 3, 2009
Sep 3, 2009 at 12:31 PM UTC
There used to be a valley here
where this man-made mound sits,
like a bump on a log,
Well, this used to be a valley.
back in the day before batteries,
before outlets, before highway gas mileage,
before we realized how many life forms we could jeopardize.
Now there’s just beeping, and dumping, and hissing, and honking
and spilling, and wasting and burning, and taxing
and killing.
Now we're filling the part of Earth that we call dirt-
give it a hopeless name so that we can spit in it
years before we’re buried in it.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 4:31 AM UTC
Cooling air, the senses assault
Done is the day, I’ve earned my salt.
Daytime light has turned on me
On moonlit streets such trickery
The pleasant splash, those leaves on foot
Make drunk these nostrils, nectarous soot
Pensive mood floods the mind
And of their beauty I’m truly blind
I do not think of Autumn whole
Only alms within my bowl
As you’ll see I’m leaf inspired
Though their rudiments I have mired
Autumn ring, the chilling tenors
Rejoiced and played in earthly manors
That icy rush makes cold the spirits
Yet conflagrates ye adherents
That festive smell, incense the air!
No motive o’yours ever err
And though the day leaves more hastily
These changing leaves get the best o’me
Transient seconds plump and inspir’d
Of your natural portraits I’ll never tire
The mountainside, my most treasur’d mosaic
Whatever great works, it’s more archaic
Falling to the ground, like listless colorful rain
Whether as the nemophilist, or seated behind a pane
These little souls returning to earth
Fill me with the greatest mirth
Though they exemplify an age ended
Verbiage they have transcended
I’d fill my days with gallery mileage
Gladly glut with their splendid sillage
As they flit, the stuff of dreams
In their midst, pure sophrosyne.
Day or night I’m overcome
Eyes wide open and stricken dumb
Overcome with words and tune
Bursting forth, this ideal plume
And like a flower, complex in bloom
Can’t be captured, hemmed and hewn
Vapor these words, though fall inspire’d
No due medium, pen or lyre
Untouchable this golden essence
Wealth of ideas, gone in seconds
Appropriate, it seems to me
My head, my thoughts a leafy tree
Arrives the autumn, gold and dun
Thousands escape when I reach for one
So I’ll just watch in quiet awe
The beauty whole, no hem nor haw
Not try to make that art my own
Won’t reduce it to rhyme and tone
I’ll simply revel their naïve lull
Ephemeral, yes, but never dull
Shout out happily in leafy halls
Marry to words what return my calls
Leave thou ****** in pulchritude pall
And question not what comes of fall.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
oh its not what it spouts
the obscenity
rancor
its the way that pearly(ish)
perfect parabolas
glean with the best
that almost-yellow can do
the swear and grin get more
mileage than could any "line" ever
nothing of this is intentional
i dont really need to be persuasive
but i could stand for a lesson in etiquette
shaking hands and dictating something direct
this is how it should happen
you say this and ill show you the pearly(ish)
but what are you
and what could we be
im talking about a power team
if i drew you a picture
it would be on a sidewalk
in 32 colors
i would be *****
and you would be laughing
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
On our bikes, day after day
Wheeling along the West Country Way
From Georgian Bath, that Jane Austen knew
To Glastonbury Tor, our challenge still new
Where are we now, is it this way or that?
Another cool stretch on a railway track
No one fell off, no one got hurt
Except now and then by a few cross words
And so over Exmoor, our longest day yet
It was football, not cider in our Somerset
Sea views and fresh air in Westward **
We could have stayed longer but on we go
The hills are getting longer, tall hedges either side
Our legs are getting stronger now we've found our stride
The Eden project was on our route
So we had to stop and see
The scene was complete in a bio-dome
With David Attenborough filming for tv
Past holes in the ground where they dug the clay
Along old canals our journey panned out
Then over a beer at the end of the day
Out came the map for the mileage count
On through the ancient landscape we go
Past the odd castle or stately home
Past sheltered coves and beaches of sand
And on to the end -Lands End-
Where we ran out of land
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
Fraying portraits of empty souls
Give menacing insight through cold staring eyes
Smoothing skin tones are left
When painters discover
The life in you
Compare the fraught days of flightless birds
making their paradise equal
With men who stalk their ways
In earnest and determined manner
Silently they ensure the vision portrayed
Has no more mileage. But fresh eyes
Must be used to stop contamination
From one to another
Paint and ignore why plenty seem stiff
Even parched from lack of considered input
Each brushstroke emptying their blood
Of many elements, even quelling their breaths
Simply see and lay on..
Don't make it up or smooth that cheek
Give colour and step
The right to be there and develop it
Under the warmth of your love
For this creature
Demonstrate how features can be strong but hold
The famous creations that grab the essence of joy
The grains of lust and manic musings
Lament those days of bored faces
Rejoice as carnage can be raised from modern living
The edges and the softness of found and lost
Will always win through when artist is determined
To give life in paint.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
I don't want to 'chill'; I want to be courted.
I want to dance under the stars, not in a club.
Let's get lost and lay out, looking at the sky and sneaking side glimpse of each other when one of us isn't looking.
I don't need you to spend all your money on shiny things.
Just one that glistens on my finger when you get on one knee.
Let's spin around until we collapse in a fit of laughs.
Get me a bouquet of roses, with a fake one in the middle,
And say, "I'll love you until the last one dies."
Use every one of those cheesy pick up lines from every chick flick you've ever seen,
Because I guarantee you'll win me faster.
I know my heart is so young,
But my soul has some mileage.
What can I say, though?
There's nothing like a good, old-fashioned kind of love.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
A reflection on birthdays, friends departing this world, and surveying ones life
~~~
this one poem is not lurking,(1)
turmoiled bursting,
shaking, quaking,
release aching
write it in droplets,
my chest speak squeaks,
each thought, a stanza,
each moment, a bonanza
of the doled, muddled mix
of tremblings on this my extravaganza,
renaissance day of birth
upon this earth
sixty five calendars,
this space,
so gulf and so narrow, (2)
for what profit this man
for himself, others?
a Judgement Day of sorts,
where the man~poet is efficiently
prosecutor, defender,
judge and jury,
as is he not,
his one true
peer?
let his biases be betrayed,
his fault lines be paraded,
let his deeds be the unlawful legal coda
by which he is remanded
if found guilty of a ledger imbalanced,
more sins than glory,
only one sentence permitted,
life imprisonment
even the NYC weather
clued in and deity cooperative,
wakes me up to this advisory:
Overcast.
Slight chance of a rain shower.
High near 65F.
High near 65.
what portent this oracle,
a warning guide to this morass
of a contradictory, crevassed man
full of mea culpa poetic messes,
his old is his high...
or are these just winking,
birthday instructions from
an observer on high?
this space of years, this life,
so gulf and so narrow,
engulfed, yet so sparse is his barrow,
his first minutes of the day
a lean inventory taking,
for better or worse
as he overcasts a full review,
plus a bonus (!)
a forward progress prognosis
there is a fresh formed
Cain mileage marker upon his brow,
a check-mark scar,
resultant of his self-checkup
upon the tree rings of his tiring body
weeping only because a mistrial is declared
and no verdict returned
and he rises for coffee,
promising himself someday an honest resolution
before...
these the acts of
sixty five calendars,
of this, his-space,
so gulf and so narrow,
subjected to a now daily interrogatory:
*for what profit this man,
his actions, his loved words,
for himself, to others,
to this world?*
October 1, 2015
~~~
(1)
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1417203/there-is-a-poem-lurking/
~~~
(2)
*but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
in-between
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment,*
this space so gulf and so narrow
*in and between
the unity of
us*
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1413760/for-ernesto-l-gonzales-aka-the-dedpoet-the-in-between/
~~~
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Moving mountains
We come a long mileage
But in moving pictures
They film us to illustrate bad depictions
Our motivation is missing
Because in the movies we act as floozies
Thrive to become individualized, but remain a groupie
All we want to be is cinemac's
And HBhoes
Never teaching ABC's to our family
Or thinking about our Lifetime
Just chasing the USA dream
Steadily trying to visit TV land
Oblivious and careless humans
Forget that this is a Animal Planet too
Do you wish that this world was yours? Yeah I BET you do
Just take a ride down the Discovery Channel and OWN up to your origin
The truth might sound like SyFy to you
Until you understand that there's manipulation in every truTV
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
find me here.
against a car door.
a tilt of the chin.
but nothing more.
strawberry blonde.
a dark brunette.
blue and green eyes.
meshed and matched.
eight-hundred miles,
here it’s nineteen.
a train-wreck
i am waiting to see.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 4:09 PM UTC
The drive home begins with the Smiths
And ends with the Pixies.
I merge onto punitive pessimism
Heading north
Of an unfed need
Starvation, climbing with mileage
I switch lanes
Into loneliness
And putter up through
The Snoqualmie pass
The ceremonial point
Where I disown one contempt
To adopt another
From west to east
From mountainous mercy
To a pathetic plateau
This highway carries yellow lined cynicism
And white striped weariness
These pines hold my pining
For a life I long to know
Fully
These fours hours are my grace period
Of the transformation process
From untamed flight to civilized standstill
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
Life moves fast.
No, really. Life moves at an insane speed
We're currently hurtling through space
at 2.7 million miles and hour. By the
time you've finished reading this one
sentence, you have moved far enough
to go from Seattle to New York and back
Just sitting at your desk
By the time you are twenty five you
will have traveled approximately
five hundred ninety billion miles
from the spot at which you took
your first breath.
That's a lot of mileage
I like to think that there are
tiny remnants of you and I
floating throughout our universe.
Atoms that have rubbed off of us,
that have fused and split with other
atoms, eventually making their way
off of our planet into space.
There's a trail of you spanning hundreds
of billions of miles all leading back to one
point in space and time where you existed
for a fraction of a second. No one else on
earth could ever have come into being in
that spot.
A thousandth of a second and you're already
a mile away.
That's your moment. That's where you began
I'd like to think that's where we go
once we've gone.
We came from the stars
It seems an appropriate
ending
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
Sanctuary
I twig, is a brick, is a home to a canary
Foundation found in the mother of the bricks
Neighborhood gossip, chirps and clicks.
And the mileage,
Flying highways horizons
Followed by frigid winds, they migrate.
And man,
Stomping
Furious and curious comes cutting down with chain and sound
Foundations of, profound consistency.
Bird song...
Chirping blue in the melting landscape,
Prevalent wingspan
Feathers fall into shadows travels.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
-iced coffees and knife tattoos couldn't justify the broken glass glinting off your back, so water down the orange sadness in your grey eyes and start pulling apart the summer nights' convenient secrets
- the gas station 6 minutes from home can teach you a thing or two about energy and mileage but no matter how far you go, the moon will always being its stars along to remind you of brand new ideas and bright eyes; don't blink or you'll miss a gunning thought
- with the loose thread on your hat's embroidery, stitch together 24 dandelions and swallow the ink that runs from the moments that you put you on a golden high; speeding down the highway on the road to a fresh, green burst of adrenaline on the coast is one that turned into silver
- your walk to the white laundromat down the street required a soft cold slurpee that would quench more than just your summer vibe but you picked up a medium iced hazelnut coffee instead and called it 'starting over' so your best friend would be proud of the way you handle new beginnings and stale cookies
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
They set out together a long time ago
there was a keenness to their gait
whatever was going to be thrown at them
they’d take in their stride and then leave to fate.
They made many new friends along the way
with hearts so stout and true
and some friends are with them still today
’cause they’re good people through and through.
Their journey took them far and wide
it has been one hell of a ride
there were hardships aplenty along the road
but they never left each other’s side.
And now they are here in the twilight years
the journey’s not over for them yet
the gait is less keen and they have their fears
but they've got plenty of mileage in them yet.
©Joe Wilson – Keep going…2014
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
Never disappear or inhibit
never ridicule
feelings are fuel
the ride is long but worth the mileage
the more fuel you have, the more people you can take with you,
the farther you can go, the more you will understand.
Your sadness, your loneliness, and your anger built your name, they made you move and brought you to me. Your joy, tenderness, humour, these are what build your body, these make you, these feelings will take you.
Take me too.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
i am taking a plane tomorrow
i will be 1,178.6 miles away from you and i hope i will feel safer
knowing exactly how far away we are from each other helps me to breathe a little easier
my mind is constantly focused on 212 and 222 and november 8th and 2015
i am hoping that new mileage will clear up some space
i am sorry for what happens next, "love"
this distance was a death sentence
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
i'm not sorry for breaking your heart
i'm not sorry you stayed in your room
and cried
i'm not sorry you went for a drive
and drove
and took drive after drive
until mileage piled high
in the depths of the night
i'm not sorry you felt that way
about me
and how you disrespect me
i'm not sorry you feel so much anger
and animosity in your heart
you should have known from the start
who i am
how was i supposed to explain to you
what i'd do
when i didn't even know
myself
i'm not sorry you never knew me
and took out the time
or the trash
or bought groceries
i'm not sorry you never provided
or came over when i was in the bedroom hiding
or scared out of my mind
when someone got killed
in the lobby of my new apartment
don't even start it
where were you
when i needed you most
gone
out for a drink
with a friend
and not me
so i'm not sorry
for playing games
Sorry
i'm not sorry
for ignoring
and neglecting
and leaving
and then running right back
and stalking
and reading
everything you post online
about me
why wouldn't i read
all of the envious things
the devilish mean
and all the nasty
you put on the page
i'll read that for days
if it means that i hurt you that bad
tell you the truth
it doesnt even make me glad
it's all in your head
and it's your own fault
for creating a world
that was all for naught
i'll never apologize
and you'll never know
what you did to me
it'll never show
and i'll always be happy
and i'll know i'm alive
and i never needed you
and i won't til i die
i'm not sorry
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
When I was young and needed wheels
my father helped me buy my first.
He worked then in a funeral home
and got a great deal on a hearse.
When first he handed me the keys
I thought there must be some mistake;
A Station Wagon for the dead-
Most dates would do a double take.
True, it had low mileage,
but a ghastly MPG.
It was very roomy in the back
where the coffins used to be.
I thought it would be hard to park,
and in that, I wasn't wrong.
Dad said the horn was customized-
when pressed it played "the Munsters" song.
Its capacious bay proved useful
when transporting beer and wine.
It even helped me to get "lucky".
a "Goth" girl thought it fine.
Pale white skin with tats and piercings'
those memories still can thrill.
Though I found it disconcerting
that she liked to lie so still.
These days I drive a Prius
in an effort to be "Green"
I work out and eat "healthy"
as I'm no longer quite so keen
to be caught lying in the back
of a flatbed limousine .
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
Little Miss Muffet
Got ******* on her tuffet
‘Cause she don’t know what curds weigh.
A scholarly spider
Sat down beside her
Said, “Tuffet baby, it ain’t spelled that way.”
But, confused, he asked
“How did it come to pass
That you got laid and I have not done yet?
With eight legs to grab
I should be able to nab
Likely many more than than you can get.”
Muffet said, with a shrug
“You pitiful old bug,
Your brain must be little more than silage.
For everyone knows
How the old saying goes
It’s not the age of the tire but the mileage.”
The spider understood
What anyone would
That Miss Muffet knew what she was doing.
He went on his way
With no more to say,
And Muffet went right back to her ********
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 3:08 AM UTC
even the dullest of knives
can **** —
a smile has fallen deep into
the silence.
wincing on and off
like terrible vertigo.
it is you lashing across
dispersing images
seeping like ruthless mileage
underneath the bone.
you come in the room
full of these hours splintered
an outpour with a foreboding,
like spindrift you wet my lips
sealed shut and silence
is all the language i understand.
what good is there that this hungry
cavalcade gapes its mouth
and metastasizes like an opulent
laugh as maniacal as drum-taps?
your are river with feet or pond
sprawling mad, enigmatical.
is this the clearing motes depart,
unhinging the crepuscular
and fade out, as a cat shrieks tumbling writhing fornication of metal and rust?
even sleep cannot manage such realness,
and the doubleness of its comatose
or say, a war in spite of its radical
artillery. between two cities lost,
its indefatigable exertion pullulates
to a hand, laying garlands
over the same blue lament of sky
and the unawakened orioles.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
Day 1
We'll maneuver down your ecosystem driveway onto
Latcha; not on red-spray painted bikes, but in maroon Civic.
Lunches packed, cooler stacked, en route for 8 hours [we reckon].
I presume five hours away and three hours to Waterloo my dad will wonder about our E.T.A, and I will say, "we are about three hours away."
We'll have fought over D.J. and agreed on the Stones,
but you'll know the words more than I.
But we'll save money and lodge ourselves at a
friend's house with the same last name as a vacuum.
Day 2
9 hours to Rapid city, South D
hopefully to see the faces of old men carved into a big old rock.
I'll look out the window and quote lines from "America" by Simon
and Garfunkel and be the best ********* co-pilot that ever was.
Day 3
Country Motor Inn, drive on, to the Country Motor Inn!
Hey,
now's a good time to take that Adderall.
Day 4-8
To the coast,
to hike around the area,
to rent bikes,
to drink hip-hoppity PNW brews with yous
and you're new, cool roomies.
Day 9
South,
Southwest
Airlines.
Clenching the arm chairs,
would rather take a 74-hour train ride
than be up in the air.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC