"napkin" poems
I wrote this for you a long time ago on a coffee stained napkin, after you left me, full of love, lingering in a cafe.
"For you, in all your follies and faults and the way they make you so perfect for me.
For you, in the moments that linger in the vehemently insignificant corners and corridors of things, as if drifted of their own grandure.
For you, for the words that spill to the floor and the brilliant way you understand the deafening silence that follows.
For you, for your supernovas and clever shades, for your daylight smiles and nighttime skins.
For you, for your familiarity and the impossible truths that stand as martyrs to say that I have loved you before.
For you, despite the treachery and quiet sinister fun of the world.
For you, for making me so terribly scared of dying."
Yet here I am, in your wake, so full of so many thoughts and demons. Know that I have died, that I have loved and lost with equal measure.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
26k
OCD is not all about remembering the freckles on her cheeks or telling her I love you repetitively
OCD is waking up at 2 in the morning after you have spent hours trying to delude yourself into thinking that your hands are clean only to end up in your washroom trying to rub your skin off.
(all because a stranger touched me on the sidewalk a month ago)
OCD is being in an abusive relationship with yourself. Your logic won't let you give in, but like a desperate lover, your OCD won't let you go. So you keep swinging, tick tock, to and fro, like the broken clock in the store room you can't get yourself to throw out because it belonged to your nana.
OCD is not finally finding a peace of moment when he looks at you but it is biting your teeth into your lips trying to hold in the cringe when he carelessly wipes his greasy hands on the napkin. "Don't complain, don't complain" you mutter to yourself as you throw a hand sanitiser his way.
(please don't leave me)
OCD is rearranging the pictures frame on the shelf for the fifteenth time a day because last time your brother interrupted you and so you might as well start again. OCD is the worry in your mum's eyes as she invites the guests to show them your room while she keeps throwing you cautious glances as someone touches your books.
(I'm sorry, ma. I can't help it)
OCD is reading the same line again and again, a part of your brain asks you why since you got it right the first time. You don't know why, but you keep doing it just to be sure. Check the door if it's locked properly before sleeping. Once, twice, thrice till it's morning already and it's time to wake up.
(another sleepless night, God **** it)
OCD is all these fuzzy voices mixed around with the signals from your brain telling you that your life will fall apart, if, just for this once, you do anything different.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 3:34 AM UTC
From the BBC today,
Excerpt
Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?
"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.
Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG
Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."
That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.
But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.
Excerpt
Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
Rebuttal
Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG.
Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.
Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.
One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.
It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.
If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.
If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.
You are not an artist.
You are an employee.
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ
BECOME
EVERYONE ON EARTH
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG
HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE
HOW BAD
artist?
or employee?
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
Malcom was fed 16 bullets because of his. A slug kissed the jaw of King Jr. and silenced him forever. Gandhi shriveled like snakeskin. Joan of Arc became Joan of Ash- so you can understand why Melle Mel was jittery scribbling it all down, on a napkin, at Lucy's Noodle Shop in Harlem. Sweat poured into his green tea. He thought Jesus hanging from the dull wood. Heard about the poet Lorca under an olive tree, shot in the back. Everyone has felt this way through, he thought, never could he have imagined what would happen when he pressed his thumbprint into vinyl. Hip-Hop was still a tadpole. The DJ had just learned to scratch a record and make sounds no ear had never conjugated. How was he to know Tupac and Biggie would follow his lead and get plugged with lead? So he wrote it down, in big curling letters, emphatic: DON'T PUSH ME
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
My fingers tangle and trip
over sloppy knitting
like a deer
learning to walk on crooked
pencil legs.
Like a song I don't quite
know the words to.
I move unsteadily,
uncertain, with short shaky breaths.
Remember when I taught my lungs
to breathe again in August?
After so many mistakes that
I didn't know how to
reconcile.
I wanted to die out back
of a hotel in Montana, dramatic
in the weeds and grasshoppers.
Needles fighting, I
spread a mess of mustard yarn
across my fingers like
I need a napkin.
Has anything changed?
Dropped stitches, weary knots leaving
gaping holes.
I think of how I ran away
from it all.
There are days I still look back.
But I look straight into the sky
as if demanding an explanation from
God himself.
I have to shade my eyes
sometimes,
seeing blinding brilliance
in the sun now.
I can't live any longer only
by the light it sheds
everywhere else.
No, in births of light and bursts
of truth and slow, overdue breaths
is a song I'm finally learning
the words to.
You will not defeat me.
I rip out my knots
and begin again.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
(the city had fought the fortnight before)
fire burned through the little skirts
and plastic lunch boxes
carrying the nourishment of our future
doctors and worldshakers—
Future
tax paying Americans
And beacon of the nation.
Wide awake, in the thoughts of a light bulb,
(Where sidewalk stairs politic with the devil,)
A raindrop fell and whispered to the asphalt,
“Tell me what you know about happiness…”
And somewhere, in the middle of a pineapple parade,
A Pepsi can smiled and danced the night away with Nyquil labels.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 9:12 PM UTC
All the while they were talking the new morality
Her eyes explored me.
And when I rose to go
Her fingers were like the tissue
Of a Japanese paper napkin.
5.6k
Wiling away someone else's
restless hours as they serve you
your elegant cafe au lait
you're flicking through newspapers
or maybe waiting for a friend
or a lover
or maybe contemplating
your next masterpiece
scribbling or drawing
on a folded napkin
or in a notebook
& watching someone
get out slowly out of a taxi
as someone rides by on a bike
& the first umbrella goes up
& it starts to rain
& the music is jazz
or blues & you're
dreaming of something
just people watching
& the hours pass
by almost invisibly
as if afraid to disturb
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
At Bookshop Santa Cruz
I look at a book about the East Bay then and now
One picture strikes me: 1969 Sproul Plaza
Govener Ronald Reagan has the National Guard spray
tear gas on protesters on the steps of this Berkeley Administration Building
People run in black and white
they look like my parents
The helicopter is so close to the ground, like the Vietnam War
I was three
In the backseat of our VW Bug
My mother was driving me to Strawberry Canyon
for a swim
Then she got scared--something on the radio
We turned around
I didn't understand
She had to protect us from tear gas
We lived in a war zone
Everyone was very upset
We were attacked by our own government
Even children were fair game
An innocent frog is placed in water
If the water temperature is raised gradually
the frog will sit there until it dies
In 1980 Ronald Reagan became our President
Much to our dismay
"70% of pollution comes from trees" he had announced
as Governer, he was obviously a man of science
The vice grip clenched, the water temperature raised
as we felt around us the world becoming more
difficult as a middle class
we were supposed to wait for crumbs to fall
from the table of the rich folks
fighting over the bits like starving animals
Budgets were cut
Prices rose, wages fell or disappeared completely
We were at war
1985: I took a class in Economics in college, a UC
I learned that Supply Side Economics was
a silly idea written on a napkin at a fancy restaurant
where the fat ones eat
and the crumbs are thrown away
It was all a sham
An excuse
The vice grip tightened, the world became
more difficult
not the American Dream my parents grew up in
To be middle class was to struggle and struggle and still
not have anything
The frog began to die
Somehow we saw that
Reagan drifted away, but his ghost
remained, a respite in the 90's
Then we were at war again
Not just tear gas, but carpet bombing
Guerilla warfare in the streets of a hot arid country
Oil companies, already saturating our ground and our air with their products
Cashed in
The frog is near death
We struggle, and nothing gets better
Only a respite
At a fancy restaurant
on a napkin someone wrote
a new theory of Economics
that became like Scientology
Outgrew it's ridiculous inception
And became real
Ronald Reagan dropped tear gas
from helicopters on Sproul Plaza
and it drifted to Strawberry Canyon
where children learned to swim
But that is child's play now
the frog is about to die
I want to pull it out.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
Sa tahanang walang hagdan
sa loob ang papag ay upuan
tahasang lantad at kinalulugdan
yaring higaan na minsa'y hapag-sulatan,,,,,
sa aking paggising
tila ba ako nalasing
nang mabasa ko sa napkin
katanungan mo sa akin
halika dito sa aking upuan
at sa iyong kapaguran
sasamahan kita sayong kanlungan
habang dito ka sa aking kandungan
bagamat di kalawakan
itong aking tasalitaan
napalalim mo naman itong aking kaibuturan
bilang kaibigan sa mas mabuting pagkakakilanlan
sa iyong pagkakaupo
ako nga ay napatango
replika ng iyong damdamin
nababanaag at sumasalamin
nagkaroon man ng eksistentesya
mga rima ko sayong independensya
at kung ano man ang naging esensiya
nawa'y wag ibasura,nalamang intelehensiya
nang sa iyo ay aking ipaarok
yaong nais **** matumbok
sagot sa "gaano nga ba kadalas ang minsan?
BIHIRA ang siya kong naging katugunan !
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
Winters can be tedious.
Sun dips into early dusk.
A dead fire refuses to ignite.
There's a quick repetition
of opening and closing blinds
over a barred window.
In need of reflection
I search a familiar face
in an unfamiliar landscape.
I have her in my grasp,
half illusion, half real,
a symbolic mask denies
her true face,
her glittering crown
divides us by its radiance.
Groping in darkness,
I stumble over objects
of wood and stone,
my unsteady tread tripping
over their contours.
I light a candle.
Bathed in amber light,
our shadows merge.
A new door opens,
stretching the perspective.
No formal borders here,
they wouldn't survive
the present climate.
In their place,
intricately carved
figureheads and totems-
a vision of the past.
My eye is a camera,
retinas branded with imagery
for the photographer's delight-
coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals,
tin cans, bones.....
....A Glass Sentinel
(though she isn't visible)
I can see right through her-
a vision of smokescreens
and subterfuge.
Past stumps of driftwood,
past the uncut grass,
a few flowers...
...to the fabricated backdrop
of a burning house, black smoke
rising
in
a
thin
stream.
At the open door -
The Guardian,
(I know her inside out)
unmoved,
(she didn't bat an eye)
defiant in a new skin,
a softer version-
The Mother protecting her children,
arms splayed, prepared
for fight or flight.
A russet flame
Licking her spine exhales
'Get out of my way!'
but she wasn't listening.
Smile fixed,
eyes of a phoenix,
a lion,
a raptor,
protector.
We all need feeding,
but not this way!
Throw me a cloth,
a napkin,
a man-size tissue
a lifeline!
She wanted this,
no, wished it-
this symbolism,
this burning of ironic portraits,
to clear the deck,
make way for new.
It shook the house,
its fate sealed behind closed doors.
I compose myself,
pull her back from the perilous edge,
gather her in my arms.
Fragments of shattered words
flutter in the ether.
What is real?
What is fiction?
A carbon copy of thousands?
A charred corner?
A forgotten candle?
WARNING:
'Eating fire' is a risky business
but can attract a large audience.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
I have a perfect lunchbox mom
Crusts cut off
She leaves me love letters on my napkin
So that when the bathroom stall became my cafeteria
I wouldn't be so lonely
I have a perfect marathon mom
She runs to the beach and back just to show that she can.
And when she says she's all gross from her run, she somehow still smells like fresh air
My mom is fresh air,
She fills my sister's lungs with life
And every exhale is love
My mom is fresh air.
She is a sanctuary, she is a nest
She is rest
I have a perfect lunchbox mom,
A "Honey, what's wrong?" mom
An "If you're not here, the day's too long", mom
A "Wonder if God knew what He gave to Earth" mom
I thought God kept track of angels
She is everything
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
There is something special about poetry.
Something about how there are line
breaks and deliberate diction that draws
your senses into something melancholy.
The way it can be purely fiction
or nothing but the truth and it’s
all up for interpretation by someone
who stumbles upon it scribbled
on a napkin in a nearby nook of a bookstore.
How when you complete a poem
that you’re particularly proud of,
its satisfying and provides a sense of purpose.
But the hardest part about poetry,
is sharing a selection you love,
with someone else.
The nervous feeling as they read it,
and the mounting disappointment as you realize,
that the work you’re so in love with
doesn’t connect with their pleasure centers
as it does with yours.
Don’t let this be discouraging.
For I believe that if you love something,
then it doesn’t matter if no one else does.
Because if it makes you happy,
that’s all that ever matters.
And if a poem comes from your soul
not everyone is going to love it,
but maybe you’ll find someone who does,
and you’ll be able to talk about all of the
things that make a poem special,
and the way there are line
breaks and deliberate diction that draws
your senses into something melancholy.
And you can fall into circular patterns with
someone who gets what it feels like
to have your poetry appreciated.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Mythical.
The artist is an old one,
Un-earthly and infinite,
Vast as heaven and the void,
The limitations of good and evil,
I am immune, yet soul crushingly bound to its power,
I am a toothpick,
Yet I am useful for now,
As I plan my escape,
Writing an endless map in memo pads and text files,
I tell myself it will someday be worth the while.
The artist is like you, reader,
The artist is ugly, disgustingly so.
The artist is beautiful, and puts me to shame.
The artist could burn the world with a thought,
But couldn’t break its teeth with a diamond,
No matter how hard it tried.
The artist is fictional,
Contextual,
Known only to I,
Especially as the artist.
I bet its laughing at me this second,
My feeble attempts to escape a napkin,
A tool to further other means.
I don’t mind it,
In fact, it’s rewarding in a way,
The artist lacks definition,
But moves with a sway,
It is hard to defend.
[(Impossible to define)]
My role is that of a journal of skin,
A memory bank to which it is akin,
But my limit is reached,
Something has come to a head,
I can feel the artist defined…
It has taken form,
And now,
Unfortunately,
Dead.
Sunburst
I wanted to ask it what it was thinking,
But I think I know now;
Bad things.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
Hildegard of Bingen
the most musical abbess
of the year 1097 a.d.
met with Jung the unconscious detective
and Ginsberg the howling poet
for lattes at some Starbucks
in a vibrating city
on a shimmering afternoon.
Angelic minuets keep flowing,
effervescing through my chakras
like tonal champagne . . .
the glowing femme declared.
Beams of ethereal light infuse me,
tsumanis of energy tempt me
to dance right out of my habit.
Ignoring the possibility
of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public,
Alan mused behind his hornrims . . .
I get what you mean
like I have felt the same perfusion of joy
watching cans of peas and ayahuasca
dance with talking bananas
at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn,
can you dig it?
Still suffering from his Freudian hangover,
Carl reframed them both . . .
Any conclusions or convictions
drawn from such experiences
may not self-verify because
your introspective identifications
attempt in vain
to concretize the amorphicity
of decentralized psychic sensations
which reach conscious awareness
only at the expense of extension.
What did he just say?
Hildegard asked Alan.
I have absolutely no idea,
the portly poet answered
as he doodled an intricate mandala
on his hemp napkin.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
When you are asked
What you look for
You say eyes
And a smile
And overall beauty
Like most of the guys
So my endless nights of studying
And attention I pay everyday
To further become a more intelligent being
And the positive thoughts I cram
Into my brain
To have a beautiful personalty
And the millions of words
I tie together to form
A meaningful poem
are nothing
So maybe thats why
We spend countless hours
Just finding what perfect shade
Of lipstick brings out our smile
And pointless times
Fixing our hair
And precious seconds
Trying to excentuate our eyes
And thousands of dollars
Of metal and wire
To straighten our smiles
and maybe thats why
I put down my books
And picked up the makeup
But I've slowly returned
To the books
Because
Beauty without
Intelligence
Is like a masterpiece
On a napkin
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
A hundred threads
Whitely pass
Into the red curve.
The sea of grass and I survey.
Delicate folds shape the mass
As a cobweb napkin.
I sip daintily at
Stark faces in
The brilliant musk.
This is a struggle to
Recover my black bones
From velvet soul-eating sleep.
Here, inside of a glove
Which always seems to
Have an extra finger or two.
Continuing in a serene orbit,
Just a figure on a rail,
And silver day is an idiot greyhound,
Bounding instantly afterward
Rather like a run in a stocking
But not at all.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 2:48 PM UTC
old habits die hard,
but the ones that die the hardest have human faces.
these are boys wrapped around fingers,
these are girls painting their lips,
and here I am, writing love songs for all of them.
here stands Saint Peter and a book,
and his long fingers trailing over the words:
the first chapter was drafted
on the back of a movie ticket,
the second on a cocktail napkin, I think--
the third I wrote with pen on somebody’s skin.
the fourth, scratched on wooden planks
with a knife my father gave me.
and yet--
and yet, here they all are,
together like a leather-bound Bible
and the gatekeeper smiles
and says nothing.
angel, what do I atone for?
yes, these are my hands tearing out the pages,
throwing them into the flames, despairing
please, God, why won’t they burn--?
now in the fire I see movie screens and bare skin,
lips on drink glasses in dark rooms.
here are the things which I have lived and spoken;
the ink won’t come off the paper
and I will never ask for forgiveness.
this is the ending I wrote
when God didn't answer.
here I ask again, and only once--
angel, what do I atone for?
and the gatekeeper smiles
and says
nothing.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
When I say I’m a nudist
I am told I’m disgusting
But then, I keep forgetting
It’s that “people don’t **** thing.
And people don’t ****
And nobody ever craps.
They just keep their napkin
Tucked safely in their laps.
They don’t belch, not ever,
And nobody picks their nose.
It’s the way of polite folks
And that’s just how it goes.
Well, let me remind you
Where you were born,
And where you came out of,
And that you were shorn
Of any kind of clothing
Both mother and the child.
You were born like the animals
Both domestic and wild.
You are naked one assumes
When you shower your body
So, please quit acting like
****** is something shoddy.
Your parent put such madness
Inside of your innocent head;
Things like getting re-dressed
Each night when you go to bed.
The insanity of Europeans
Who came to American soil
And wore LAYERS of clothing
In the heat while they toiled.
Then they went to other lands
And warped the people there
With the strange brand of madness
They had been taught to share.
They were taught to be ashamed
Of what god had given them;
That their private parts were evil
And turned you into a golem.
And when asked for a reason
For this weird kind of crazy
They started talking about god
When their logic got all hazy.
So you “people don’t **** folks
Can just kiss my naked ***
That thinking might work for you
But for me it won’t pass
For anything but brainwash
And the programming of the sick.
So wake the hell up, the rest of you
And get on the natural stick.
If I want to be naked all day
And you want to wear clothing
That should be each of our choice;
A personal ‘go or don’t go’ thing.
I mean, for a perfect example here
Think of laundry bill savings
So, you can just stop harassing
And gnashing and raving.
Brent Kincaid
4/12/2015
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
****** spit on top of a napkin
face up in the garbage
no better than-
peculiar how life turns out...
my tea still at the rim of the glass
lost all of its steam
I no longer-
what does it look like inside the mind of a broken one?
channel skipping?
static? beyond-
comprehension
what does this mean?
I don't understand...
****** spit on a napkin
atop the garbage
grabbing your attention
against your will
and leaving an...
unsettling feeling with you
like the question of what makes a true artist?
life.
life makes a true artist
it is not a choice
but what makes a true artist
what is art but a bunch of nonsense
but even nonsense has meaning
what is art but the broken expressions of the broken
artist... ?
what is a poet but a bent neck?
an artist is an ordinary person
inflicted in the mind perhaps
but this has more adverse effects on the heart
in all reality
but again... an artist is an ordinary person
who's been beaten for so long
who's sacrificed everything
unappreciated
who's been singing the same song unheard
who's ran out of communication
a new medium is born
heralding new information to those who don't need it
to those who are better off
more healthy in mind
an artist is a person who's had enough
the one who left ****** spit in the napkin
enough explaining.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
Go ahead and paint a picture of perfect
time slips between our fingers
like my tongue slipped between my lips
to say something stupid
politicians are sleeping soundly atop the knife
metal to the floor
pick up speed
pick up bad habits
linoleum is easy enough to clean
but khakis stain like a *****
but if you want to sell me your deepest darkest dream
I’ll haggle with you all night long
we give birth to Cobras and give them to the hungry mongoose
put me on the blacklist
my white flag is stained with blood and grey matter
but everybody in their right mind wants to get a chance
to walk through wrong altered perceptions
I stole your dream catcher
and I’m writing novels about your hopes
and faults and I track your arteries
along the fault lines of imaginary continents
is this insanity?
it’s easier said than done
play chicken with my train of thought
spine is steel is cowardice is machismo
put me under your microscope
tell me what’s wrong
I’ll give you a doodle on the back of a napkin
and a shoddily put together love poem
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
White shoelaces tied carefully,
clothes ironed straight,
not a strand of hair in his face,
private school and Christian home.
His momma packed him PB&J.;
She said, "Son, don't hang with the wrong kind of kids,
the ones sitting in the back of the classroom
who wear words on their necks and
black every Sunday."
And she puts a napkin in his lunchbox and reminds him
to wash his hands.
And she prays for him to find cleanliness,
and she checks the internet history every day
while he finishes homework and practices piano.
She tells him, "Son, don't let those celebrities
with their drugs and their ***** words
influence you."
And she emphasizes "man shall not lie with man"
and not "God loves all His children"
and tells him not to let any mud get on his new socks.
He sits on the couch and
he sits in the audience and
he's told what isn't okay.
He is raised following predjudices he doesn't agree to,
stereotypes engraved deep in his brain to the core.
He was never taught any different,
he was never educated on differences.
He knows a million shades of white but God forbid he touch a blade of glass.
He was taught to keep his window locked,
head down,
eyes shut,
mouth closed,
hands folded,
back straight,
shoelaces tied.
Momma says, "Son, better keep yourself clean,"
but she touches him with ***** hands
and ties a rope
he never wanted
around his neck.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
Muck bit her ivory nightgown, as if earth hungering
after her...the delicate collapse of a napkin,she.
Hours poured atop her head, her shaggy, silvery
mane suspended--its reluctant bounce captured
at midpoint...as a spiderweb under ultraviolet light.
Desert sands lost in contemplation, reminiscent of
her flesh--divulge her core as she sleeps in a
fetal position.
Her body spasms awkwardly...its will visibly slowed
from initial motion.
As the paralysis experienced by prey amid the astral
annals of nightmares.
She'll rise into that shine, wonder at the nightmare's
symbology...talk to her garden--whilst thinking of her
time to come.
Silkworm breached the parcel
of time, its cocooned inertia
coarsed through the opalescent
eye of God to Godhood.
Of time's ruination redeemed
in a solitary work...cupped
airless the unbridled form of
a trapezist spent itself.
Opened and closed somersaults
atripped a piece of said space...
nothingness regenerated to
move, to take step of itself.
A self-argumentative abstraction
glowed...undid its silken flag--
firmly planted in an undiscovered
region...her time come.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC