"neater" poems
once more
layers of casing
are torn
papers culled
windows gleam
sheets smile
the cost is high
if not see
when to stop
can I find north
after all
I’d asked
so life’s paths
once veiled
in yesterday's grime
dispatched
to the winds
reveal
another vision
refreshing as
spring rain
seeking every fissure
quietly lodged boarders
not paying rent
evicted
as another corner
begs mastery
along with
a neater place
it dawns on me
atrophy
is the order
of things
vacate for a few
short paces
and face
it all again
wrenching me
from the lulling
status quo
of my stilted
blindness
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air—The edge
cuts without cutting
meets—nothing—renews
itself in metal or porcelain—
whither? It ends—
But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry—
Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica—
the broken plate
glazed with a rose
Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses—
The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end—of roses
It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits
Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness—fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching
What
The place between the petal’s
edge and the
From the petal’s edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact—lifting
from it—neither hanging
nor pushing—
The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
5.5k
I
Stacked green crates by the futon,
records sealed as buried letters,
each sleeve longing
to be drawn out into daylight
by her small, thoughtful hands.
I just want to play that Nick Cave again
teenager’s resolve in her voice,
she drops the needle on "Tupelo",
traces Peter Murphy with her thumb,
holds Kate Bush to the light
like stained glass.
She laughs
at the ****** box on the speaker.
I tell her it’s never going to happen.
She grins, unbothered,
says she only came for the vinyl.
I watch her tilt each sleeve,
never touching the grooves,
brush the dust,
lay the needle like a secret,
slide the disc back without a wrinkle.
Each time I’m surprised
by her precision.
It’s the third time
she’s dropped by.
She makes mixtapes.
Pressing pause,
pressing record,
stitching songs
into a spine of hiss.
Once, to me, or to herself,
she said her father wanted a tape.
She’d mail it when
he had somewhere to send it.
She follows me across the bridge,
talking about her brother,
an ex-best friend,
mimicking her professor,
how he wags his tongue
when he writes on the chalkboard.
I haul a duffel:
apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease.
She skips in the rain,
strumming cables, humming
the last song played, still in the air.
II
I unlock the door,
steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat,
boots leaving grime on the boards.
She isn’t there-
only the crates, stacked neater,
jackets squared, spines aligned,
as if her care was meant for me.
The room settles with her absence,
yet holds me upright
in its small, thoughtful hands.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
Morocco
some base camp
by a beach
in 19
70
a small bar
Miriam
sitting there
drinking her
Bacardi
and small coke
wearing that
very snug
bikini
coloured red
like her hair
of tight curls
up one end
a very old
Moroccan
was strumming
a guitar
him smoking
cannabis
happy guy
what's that stink?
Miriam
says to me
cannabis
I tell her
how'd you know?
A girlfriend
I once had
smoked the stuff
how could she?
Miriam
says to me
I don't know
she just did
I sip my
Bacardi
and smoke my
cigarette
she looks neat
in her snug
bikini
but neater
out of it.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
In the freshly seared hours of the morning
there's a hot, bothered growling
coming from beyond
the rose-studded chipping fence posts,
sick with the stench of stained mattresses
and mounds of cage-less garbage-
tossed willy-nilly
into a smoldering, contorted
**** of stacks.
Here,
in this spot of dawn
-in today's un-showered
moist enclave-
I find, syncopated
by the vrooooming scooters
and gassy buses,
a fresh hope diffusing faster
than the steam from drains,
-subtler than the soft soju snores
of last night's curb cuddlers-
slinking up, down, around convenient stores' corners
past every security camera,
bouncing off rib cages,
tickling the barbules of the songbird
perched in my utility wires
in a nest neater than my bed.
This is summer, Korea.
This is Korea in the summer.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
Shouldering the Load by Himself seemed like toil that He could Easily accomplish. However, The Assignment required at least a Minimum load of that which was EQUAL to One's Body weight! ! " But Child's-Play" He thought, "I can carry my Own Quite Easily ! So,__He signed All the required documents , Applied his Fingerprints in the Appropriate Places, Affixed His Seal and took the Pledge. He then, went over to Stand in the Waiting line for His turn to come ~~ While waiting in Line, it gave Him the Perfect opportunity to Totally review the Upcoming Event ! With Heated Anticipation, WAS how He would LATER describe it ! Just Imagine, To carry the Assigned Load "All by Himself". Should He first Squat with back ***** to get a Better Grip? Should He First put one knee on the ground in front of Him, OR, His foot only, so as to better Stable the Load? He was Really looking forward to this New Adventure, "W O W ", Shouldering the Load ALL by Himself ! This is NEATER than he could ever begin to Imagine. "GEE" He had already moved Up twenty spaces, He MUST be getting Close! Everyone was so Courteous , Absolutely NO Jostling was occurring in the Line. This was,he thought " YEAH, it really was Very Neat!" Maybe, Just Maybe in Attempting his First lift, His feet should be Directly Under His Shoulders ! *Made Sense !~~ The Assignment was to "Shoulder A Load ". Even if He backed under it, His feet could be Directly beneath His Shoulders, That too should Work ! The ULTIMATE Goal could be Achieved, BY GOSH, He could do it ! ! What an Opportunity , He continued to Ponder, as He Moved up another Twenty Spaces. ALL He had to do, was to Shoulder His Own weight ! ALL the Paper work had been put into Action, All the the Necessary Preambles, Done and finished. ALL He had to do WAS, Take On the Task. GEE=Whiz how exciting,,,He was NOW Next in Line! " I, AM NEXT , Good golly Miss Molly, " I AM NEXT" ! As He saw the Task Before Him, A Tugging from His Heart went out for those Behind Him, As the tear formed in His Eye , Should *He-Stay" and help His Friends "SHOULDER A LOAD " .......
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 7:03 AM UTC
the candy cane sign
is gray with frost
its spiraled dance
stopped years before
the old man died
he, the emperor of hair,
meant to get it repaired
like all good intentions
and the clipped hair
that got swept away
day by day,
hour by hour,
minute by
m o m e n t o u s
m o n o t o n o u s
minute
the cutting,
the sweeping
punctuated by
the clang of the register
the hardy laugh at a racial joke
the passing of a borrowed smoke
and the buzzing silences
in between
when I would watch and wonder
what spell he was under
in his royal white regalia
chopping and chatting away
(at eyeless and earless heads I thought)
until I would sit in his chair
and escape the gulag of my life
with his ponderous questions
about
feather light skies
heavyweight jabbing
the “old lady gabbing”
the engine
in my “shrimp nip” car
and how very far
I would go
when I rose from his
leather and chrome throne
and once again be on my own
with hair a bit shorter
and life a bit neater
for a minuscule dot in time
I would not even remember
when I thought of his implacable place
in the cold past
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air—The edge
cuts without cutting
meets—nothing—renews
itself in metal or porcelain—
whither? It ends—
But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry—
Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica—
the broken plate
glazed with a rose
Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses—
The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end—of roses
It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits
Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness—fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching
What
The place between the petal’s
edge and the
From the petal’s edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact—lifting
from it—neither hanging
nor pushing—
The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
1.8k
The subtle cross between intersections, a life of blurriness, through crossed t’s and neatly dotted i’s I removed from the phrase Poetic Form, (trying to spell it without crossing myself back into it).
From lesbianism to manhood,
to cross what being a man means,
I wonder if my own identity is written in pen and everyone wants it typed and edited,
Yet I’ve taken the plastic keys off my computer board and made them into magnets last week,
Setting myself up with stolen magnets stolen blocks,
Putting them in order on my own fridge,
Scrambling them back because there is no order,
They only told you there was so that way you’d sing a song,
But I know now that I can write words, there’s no need for a pre-prescribed song when I’ve written my own,
In my own words.
When I look back and have pages of songs nobody else asked for or decided to write,
When I’m in class and I pocket my songs into stories and my stories under my low grades,
Under my teachers’ requests for MLA format,
I think of that caterpillar I played with in my room when I was six,
And how i thought about how people only wrote about butterflies
And how the caterpillars felt about that,
So when I asked my mother to ask her friend, an author,
If she’d write me into a novel,
Would she ignore me because I was a caterpillar,
Only choosing to open her mouth and write when my story became beautiful and socially acceptable,
When it grew out from the pubescent disliking of itself and stained the sinks of society,
Out of a hot *** of queer and quarantine,
Till the broth of the fluidity of my own being was was down the rabbit hole
Till all that was left was whitewashed spaghetti?
If these songs were anything I could write down again and again,
In pen, ignoring the requests to write neater,
To type faster,
If I put all my work into an envelope I already broke,
Shove it into a mailbox decorated with things people disagree with,
My pages bleeding ink few people can touch without being soaked,
When they ask me what to file me under
I don’t say “minority fiction” anymore
I say file me under “road signs”
At the intersections.
File me under that caterpillar,
In the wheat field,
Next to hydrangeas on the dinner table
A Sunflower in the spring
The harvested Brown Rice,
So when you make me into a meal I didn’t ask for,
I can be at least eaten by the vegans.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:44 AM UTC
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know:
I am too dumbly in my being pent.
The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.
The malady of the quotidian . . .
Perhaps if summer ever came to rest
And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed
Through days like oceans in obsidian
Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze;
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;
One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.
1.7k
I think I figured out why I don't like pencils
They have advantages, I admit
I draw a hundred times better with them
And write fifty times neater than with
My usual plethora of pens
The colors and textures of the ink
Only a small part of my reason
I think I don't like pencils because they are
Impermanent
And smudge too easily
Ink only smudges when wet, and soft
Then it bleeds color all over the white expanse
It is set on
Inks and graphite, they don't mix in my head
The graphite is always too grey for me
Too dull when I use it
The inks give me the paint of gods
To shower in bold all that I deign to
And then pencils wear down,
Far too quickly for my hand
I need to scribble fast and hard
The pen stands much more solidly
And for me the pencil is too subtle and gentle
Not nearly enough vivacity
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
My life as of last has been and eye opening, head first dive of exploration interrupted by one, sometimes two day long binges of unpleasant sobriety.
Three long years after writing the first stanza,
The drugs still being explored
This has led me to a more beautiful understanding of myself and my few remaining friends
However it seems that I have taken a significant tumble down the socioeconomic ladder
At least my writing has gotten neater
No longer shaken by the withdrawal of a still desired drug
Alcohol has a way of calming and inspiring me
Bringing forth the thoughts I cannot make into sound
My few remaining friends cut down into a seemingly impossible smaller number
I now awake in the night with cold sweats that interrupt my slumber.
Dreams of panic and anxiety, Now clouded with past faces.
Personifications of things inside me
Faces made of thoughts and feelings, Taking over occupied spaces
Forcing out the beautiful and imaginative
Subconscious taking charge, So the conscious may live.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
I stared at the wound as it stayed open
Gave up hope that it would ever close
Stood up, sighed
Walked away feeling resigned
To accept the pain as a part of me
Not wanting it anymore and yet not regretting it
Simply wishing it did not hurt
And would not become infected
As it lay exposed, bare before the world
As I kept walking, life fell in
Swept me away in a way love never could
Yet love was a part of the whole
Life grew larger
The world grew smaller
Memories grew in number
While friendships grew in meaning
And as what I knew grew exponentially,
Our time together grew more blurry
Our separation I understood more
As I thought about it less
What I thought were stones of foundation
Turned out to be forming just the windows
Set aside for now, one day to be dusted off and placed in the house that is my life
Shedding light on parts of myself I discovered through loving and leaving you
I find myself conquering the greatest fear I had when we parted,
That I would one day look back and call it young love,
Robbing it of what it truly was to me—real love, deep love, lasting.
It would be untrue, unjust to minimize it
To reduce it to a cliche, to call it a coming of age
I feared I would try to disguise it to somehow lessen the pain
I didn't realize the possibility that our love may become smaller
Not from my efforts to minimize it,
But because I would grow around it
I underestimated God
I underestimated myself
I'm not going back and changing the story to make it go down sweeter
Saying now that you didn't really know me then to make it feel a little neater
You did know me
I did love you
Our love was not small in the world we shared
It was the greatest love I had known
And now, now I no longer live in that world
Our love did not shrink
I have grown
Where did that wound go?
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 9:20 AM UTC
As a kid, my best days had a trip to the park
in summer,
when Mother had time after work
and it didn't get dark so fast
we rode bikes on the paths between broken glass,
watched for stray dogs
(and avoided the grass)
once we saw two men strolling, holding hands
and Mother said not to stare,
"They must be Europeans - they do things like that"
her best friend was Mrs. Cohen-Around-The-Corner
they could cluck across our rough fence out back
or toss apples to one another
were there an apple tree nearby
(but there wasn't)
so they used the telephone instead
the woman, she once told me,
"would just die"
if her only son ever brought home
"a shiksa"
I laughed at the word,
because it sounded sounded funny and ethnic
(Mrs. Cohen taught English)
she let her boy back-talk,
even express profanity
in graffiti on a bedroom door
with black permanent marker
(it could always be repainted later, she explained)
mine met reason with
quick backhands or glowering looks;
once even washed my mouth out
with soap
so I nodded in agreement
I revisited the old neighborhood,
to the teacher long retired;
showed wallet photos
and discussed our health
(hers mostly),
hearing accounts of the son away
years at kibbutz,
too busy to call regularly
or make any grandchildren yet
I didn't mention the trip to the park
which was neater than I remember
the kids played tag
(on the grass!)
until a skinned knee needed a kiss;
where I'm certain I'd seen him, now balding,
the kid from around the corner,
holding hands with a European
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
Have I lost my way
been tossed astray
depraved and often caught in shame
I am Phi Kenzie
suspend all your envy
I’m plenty unfriendly and tense up when sensing
The touch of another
to shutters and covers
and run for the river, ride rough with the rudder
Flown under the radar
I hoped it would stay dark
but no, it’s the day and it breaks the equator
I could go on about my fears
they won’t disappear
peerless endearment from people jeering for years
Eerie queries in tears
near and dear to mine own ears
rearing iridescent essence empirically in spirit
Hear it speared into the ether
reverberating meter
ceaselessly tinker on the readers need to reach eureka neater
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
i have no tragic epic to force out of my palms for you
i gave you a blank page and
you chose not to be a part of my narrative
i will spend the rest of my life trying not to blame myself
for my bad editing skills
and red pen i miss you marks
maybe these letters would feel more natural
if my writing was neater,
my words were easier to read
or they sounded nicer falling off of my tongue
i write and recall and revise
and try to come up with a story about
how i could’ve made you stay
if i gave you a pencil
and some paper
would you put me out of my sonnet-style misery,
take the blame out of my cramping hands
and tell me there was nothing we could’ve done?
let me stop searching for words that are
synonymous to the way you looked at me when
i told you i loved you for the first time
take these cliches off of my fingertips
let the writer in me learn to
grieve its muse
instead of immortalizing the pain of loss and tell me
we never even had a chance
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
Staring in a mirror. Again
It makes me feel worse just to see
I braided my hair so neatly
Now it's falling apart at the seams
There's a comparison there
Let's not look into it
If I stick pins in
Tie up all the loose ends again
It'll look neater, sure
As long as you don't look too close
Cause there's a glittering metal barricade
Of a halfhearted hairstyle I tried to save
Jun 15, 2021
Jun 15, 2021 at 11:08 AM UTC
There once was a bear,
Who sat all alone
On the toy store shelf.
He watched as his friends
Were gently taken
Off that wooden shelf.
They had soft brown fur
And handsome bow ties,
Just like he did.
But their golden coats
Must’ve been softer,
Their bow ties neater.
What made them special?
Why were they chosen,
And not this poor bear?
Days turned into weeks,
And weeks into months.
Still, he sat alone.
So now, he still sits,
Watching and waiting,
Wondr’ing why he’s there.
What good is a bear
With no one to hold,
No one to comfort?
What difference could he–
A lonely stuffed bear–
Make in this big word,
From all alone
On that toy store shelf?
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
Has he not been beared
From seas to streams
Marked with cutlasses and ashes
Forced to swallow cowries
Why would he not wear down his face?
Has he not been living
On his choiceless delicacy
Concoction of gmelina roots
And garlic sap
Why then would he smile?
Why would he dance?
The voilent drummers in his skull
Were pounding thier drums
Like groups of carpenters
Driving pieces of nails
Into a hardwood
Has he not been marched
Round the village on pant
Bearing a *** stained with dry hen's blood
And rotten bones and stenching earth
Why would he not dash out his wealth
To seek a neater heath?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
We open the door the young prince is at his desk
You can tell he's excited his heart beats out his chest
Pen flying across the paper his handwritings a mess
But he tries to write neater, hey he's doing his best
He's trying to show the world a man they've never met
Trying to put into the words all the things they'd never get
And he gone do away with al these feelings of regret
Got alot of things to do, so many things to write
And he aint even tired he's been up all night
Just trying to get it done, and it's gotta be perfect
He's passing up on fun, he knows it'll be worth it
The looks on al the faces when they see what he did
So he looks in deep places for feelings that he's hid
He's got bottled up, he's breaking off the lid
Think the world gives a **** He's a naive kid
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
one plus one is two.
Right?. Grass is green and sky is blue. Right?
You have to be up before you come down. Right ?
If I love you you have to love me too. Right? Right?. Smoking causes cancer
Liquor cooks your liver.
Stress Bums your ticker.
The world owes me for this that and the other.
If I have a cute face then You should let me La da da da.
Get real. No ticky, no washy.
Mommy kept you under wraps way past 21
Taped rose colored wrap-arounds real tight to your head.
Fed you spending account till it all turned red. Reality bites.
No Ticky No washy.
You had a nice ride all shinny and pimped.
Daddy said "son you have to learn to only
Claim what you earned" and now your ego has a limp.
And your cool got burned. Guess what Drama king.
No ticky no washy.
Pulled up to the Car wash to clean up your beater.
A little wax on wax of to be a bit neater.
pulled loose change from the tray just below the heater.
You came up one fifty short and cant pay the
Senorita.
Guess what Steve Jobs.
N.T.N.W.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 7:49 PM UTC
I saw in your eyes
All the days of July,
Summer night skies
And fireworks that will never die,
Framed in infinity
Beckoning affinity,
Your smile glows
Like Rudolph's nose
The brightest star,
You say I'm nice
But it's just that you are
So much sweeter
All the neater
That it's sincere like ice
Clear but never cold,
I'm not too bold
To say more than hello,
But it's been long
Since I've blushed like jello
And laughed without a song,
The world would be alone
Without a presence like yours,
But I hope your heart soars
Over all its discord
And for pain never atone
Except the twang of true love's chord...
APAD13 021 - © okpoet
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
Its Bad
It make Many people sad
it's dangerous
The only way you can make it if you're courageous
There are many people still getting killed
As you can see the struggle is still real
Many people don't care
Until the only choice is to shed a tear
Many people are still not trying to change
It is really strange
The community is not better
So someone needs to write that change letter
The community is like hell
That nearly fell
The community is the most horrible place to be According to me
The community is competition and everyone want to win
But there is no changed men
And yet everyone has the nerves to complain
Instead of trying to maintain
Thats my expectation on my community
We would need some fluency
We would need someone who can encourage us
And may not fuss
We need a leader
So this community can be neater
We would need a better community basically
We would need people to take ownership for Their good deeds
We would need a power community
To build a better economy
We would need powerful people
To make the community equal
The community did not grow
It exactly explode
It declined
Like everyone is so blind
And thats my expectation on the community in about 6 months - 3 years
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
When I was young,
I used to draw.
My lines were a wriggle,
My sketches were a scribble.
My colours were a rebel,
Of unmatching lights.
My sky was red.
My trees were blue.
My grass was violet.
Hanging from the dew.
And then I went on,
And learnt to grow.
They taught me, or they say so,
How to draw.
I draw now.
The lines I draw are straighter now.
The pictures I make are neater now.
The colours I fill are existent now.
'What have I learnt?', I ask myself.
You say you've helped me grown. So.
This is what I learnt. I answer,
I drew them a perfect box.
And painted it black.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC