"northwestern" poems
I dream of going far away.
Plunging into the grandeur
And the vastness
Of the world.
I am ready to leave this place;
I am ready, I say,
To be away.
I will write and draw,
And take drugs with strangers.
I will sleep on the beach,
Bathe in rivers,
And plunge into nature,
Away from four walls,
From screens and cars,
And toward greenery and stars;
Splendid laughter and epiphanies
Spilling from the ether,
Behind trees and over mountains,
In the silent water of calm lakes,
And in the crimson sky
Of some northwestern twilight.
I will wander abandoned roads
And drink coffee in midnight diners
Thousands of miles from home,
For the road beckons,
And the moon never waits.
The wanderlust of youth
Is nothing to waste.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 4:35 AM UTC
Justin I forgive you, won’t you call me, your birthday must be coming soon we haven’t spoken since we moved our family into the desert. I just pray you’re not seeking cotton fever yet again, chasing the dragon, or at the very least eating school buses while falling into ‘H’ before you find yourself in bed drunk again, and on Ambien too. Dead too soon. You’ve always wondered why I didn’t introduce you to Ryan, my other incredibly dear and brotherly friend. Well wonder none more, he’s in a padded room at Mt. Sinai in Lakeview or perhaps Northwestern’s adult care unit, there was talk or at least I imagined he could make it to Lakeside Manor right there East of Foster. So it’s clemency, peace of mind, and something to loosen the edge off your back, something to let you fall, something to set your pain at weightless your mind at I-Don’t-Have-To-Give-A-Fuck-Anymore, my friend where have you been? Where have you taken yourself? Please drag yourself back at least a half-step, reverse your position and engineer an out please. I can’t begin to accept losing both of my brothers to two versions of the same disease.
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 1:10 AM UTC
We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams.
We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom.
We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of a lot to say.
We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt.
We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
Oh, my love
your eyes are not "plain blue"
they are the ocean waves on a cloudless day
outlined by the zaffre atmosphere
a field of bluebonnets speckled with green leaves
like the world floating in space
oh, my love
your eyes are not "just brown"
they are the earth after it rains
dense and brimming with life
they are dark chocolate cake drizzled with honey
they are espresso stained pages you brought home
from the coffee shop you frequent
oh, my love
your eyes are not "simply green"
they are spring's first bud
they are foot deep in a lake
they are a northwestern forest
as emerald as your mother's ring
oh, my love
you are so much more
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
On the banks of the Sentinel River
A man locals knew as ‘The Boss’
Worked the controls of the drawbridge
Directing the through-trains across
The boss man was cheerful and helpful
Always whistling or singing a song
His gaze was both twinkling and piercing
His handshake both friendly and strong
His daily routine at the river
Saw the bridge back and forth from the edge
So the ships could pass freely beside it
As he watched from his post on the ledge
And then when a train neared the river
He remotely connected the link
Exact in the duties he carried
Of protecting the train from the drink
On the banks of the Sentinel River
A man locals knew as ‘The Boss’
Worked the controls of the drawbridge
Directing the through-trains across
The boss man was cheerful and helpful
Always whistling or singing a song
His gaze was both twinkling and piercing
His handshake both friendly and strong
His daily routine at the river
Saw the bridge back and forth from the edge
So the ships could pass freely beside it
As he watched from his post on the ledge
And then when a train neared the river
He remotely connected the link
Exact in the duties he carried
Of protecting the train from the drink
He held onto that train-saving lever
With a ruthless and desperate hold
‘Father?’ he heard from the drawbridge
The blood in his veins running cold
‘Junior?’ he yelled through the downpour
‘You must run son, like never before!’
But the warning he shouted to save him
Was drowned out by the oncoming roar
To go rescue his son on the drawbridge
Would never leave time to get back
To re-lock in the hand-governed lever
To save those in the train on the track
But to barter a life of perfection
In exchange for this train full of fools
Was too much to expect of a father
It was heartless and mean; it was cruel!
But a train full of people would perish
If he opted the life of his son
Two hundred and forty-nine humans
As compared to the loss of just one!
He could picture his son by the window
Looking out at the lights of the train
May I go to the bridge to meet Father?
To walk him back home, in the rain.
His firstborn was gentle and thoughtful
Compliant no matter the task
Most eager and willing to please him
Obeying whatever was asked
He took one last second to ponder
But his conscience, it already knew
He held tight to that hand-governed lever
And let the Northwestern roll through
Not a soul on the train saw his body
As it fell to its watery grave
Not a soul on the train heard his father
Mourn the son that he’d wanted to save
If you can imagine this father
Then think of our Father above
And we fools here on earth that He rescued
Done all in the name of His love!
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
girl swirls dreams in her drink.
boy spills ink on the carpet.
they swing below an oak;
laugh and dream, kiss and consider.
their feet curl, intertwine,
touch along the fallen leaves.
in hands and time
is the condensation of what is said to be true love.
only they don’t know.
later that night;
they drink and cuss, they fight and ****
their feet curl, intertwine,
play at the end of the sheets.
they warm.
boy writes librettos,
girl reads them,
together they cook delicious dishes.
girl disappears into the distance,
one day.
& boy spirits away,
to the elephant burial grounds.
days,
months,
years later, they run into eachother on the streets
of a northwestern city.
smile mostly,
say not much.
boy has his poetry.
girl has her *******
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
Who even are you anymore?
Hiding under small orange
bottles are letters from a former
life, a former name and address
in former envelopes and former
handwriting, former pen
smudges and former doodles
on the folds. Save yourself.
Save yourself first.
Swipe, snap, flint on stone
to make sparks that make
flame that make fires that
make light and heat and
allow drawing of deeper
features than really exist
with shadows moving in
erratic fashions, swinging
back and forth between
the you that was farther
from death and the you
that is much, much closer.
Giving is hard. Taking
is the easiest thing you
can do so long as you
can run fast enough to
escape the guilt that is
falling on you like trees
in a northwestern forest
with gravel crunching
sound of logging trucks
not too distant grinding
their way up small roads
and wind blowing through
trees that are deceptively
deciduous and shaking.
I'm judging you for
just about everything.
I am hard like feverish
breaths in a sweaty
freezing bedroom that
belonged to someone
else who bled in all the
corners and licked all
the walls and is reaching
out from the breathless
past to steal yours too.
It's just you and me
here, you can tell me
anything, I promise I
will hold all your secrets
like they're crystal glasses
that belonged to your
grandmother's grandmother
and made their way here
smuggled in a suitcase
with pulled out gold
teeth and brown plaid
blankets folded neatly
such that none of the
corners stuck out the side.
Sneakers sinking
into mossy muddy
backyard ground,
you extend arms
up and grab the
lowest branch of
the tallest tree and
pull yourself up
to sit atop and look
down at all the people,
holding your fingers to
your eye and squishing
their heads between.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
My bitter dishes cry
To be cleaned as they sit
In crusted contempt
With reds that bleed their seething
Lack of clarity
My friends
With smiles half baked and
Eyes shuddering
Sip more and in deeper gulps
Their lives are swallowed
By the brew
But I'm not as lost
As I once thought my mind
In aching desperation fleeted
Angelic drawls to wrap
The dusty shoulders
Keep their hunched secrets heavy
Till they break
And if three breaths could save the world, they may in fact expand
Those minds and hearts to unite
Where shallow thoughts of ego driven
Madness clings like smog upon
Our horizon
But they travel
These dreams of fresher air and
To the forests of the northwestern
Drizzle drenched streets they wander
We're not so hopeless as if to rot
In the shoes we bought last year
I'd rather beg to smile
Then wrap myself in the scowls of
Empty presidents that died for sorrows they began
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
i am young and wish to be
younger, old and wish to be senile. i have
blond hair and wish it auburn. i have company
and wish to be alone.
there are things that gallop all over my
neurons and leave muddy footprints
in my thoughts. unholy things that should
be stricken, and i encourage them.
i shudder when i leave the shower
because other people have stepped on the mat.
my hair is usually *****
i throw pennies into the fountain
and think oh if i had no money,
if i had some. i wish for an envelope
to mail me somewhere in northwestern
greenland, lay on the ice and
stare into the brilliance of death.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 3:26 PM UTC
Like every youngblood in love
I want to write something
that gets away from me,
the next Great American ___,
sprawls like the city I live in.
Still these Northwestern scapes're contained
by rivers, valleys alike, and mountain range.
these lands are fertile, the soil tangible,
dig your fists deep, bring up handfuls,
the people tenable, shrouded in the times,
still waiting awhile whilst consumed with fever.
Feverous of injustice as done by Evil.
Amongst all these radicals and activists,
must wax progressive: hell, I can fix this.
Crack the can, a forty down to sixteen,
still the same American Malt I've been in.
No poems but my belly's getting swollen.
I don't wanna write no odes to bottles.
If I'm drinkin' in heaven I haven't the heart in
which to dwell upon our...
A sprawling poem leaves lines undone
to be penned in, in half-heart, without
a care that I gave them.
I've seen the best m-
Oh what have I seen?
What I knew, nothing new
just the cacophony of windy trees.
But'cha wait for these moments
when it's clear.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
We met up again, somewhere in a dense cloud of smoke
I had been gone for a while, frozen in Alaskan ice
But we picked up where we assumed we would
"Nice to see you, *******
It was nice to see you to, even though you are
a rotten ******* we get along because of it
Madness kept us drinking, and I was still flush
So from the first light of the morning,
when we scrapped the crust from our eyes
we stayed hydrated
and out of jail this time.
Maybe next time
we might finally be burned alive.
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
Driving East
Sun setting at my back
Lyrics pushing at my ears
with a chill in the air
I think of home.
Sometimes I feel lost, but I know
exactly where I am
It always feels wrong when
the sun sets to my back
And I'm going the other way.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 12:39 PM UTC
Rocks from the gravel road jab through my converse
As I do figure 8s through fields of black eyed Susan’s and purple flowers whose names I do not know
My eyes meet dark forests full of old trash
Beer cans and water bottles
Or they witness bees butterflies and dragonflies
It’s these moments that make me understand this music even more
Because in my mind it produces pictures of wheat fields and Pacific Northwestern forests
Montana mountains and maybe a ship just barely on the horizon
It’s these moments I exist outside of ideology and struggle
Outside of theory and praxis
Bushes instead of barricades
Grass brushing against my feet instead of city concrete
It reminds me of other songs
Of old Kentucky Anarchists
Of bread and roses
I am always so hesitant to leave these fields and forests
Because while I’m there I don’t have to say a thing to or for anyone
I don’t have anywhere to be except there
And no one to impress or disappoint
So I trade my Bella Ciaos for “3 a.m.”s
Freedom in theory for freedom in actuality
No matter how fleeting
And then
When I feel the time is right
I simply go back home
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 2:37 PM UTC
I remember how you introduced me to your family, pulling me at the wrist, nudging me to shake hands.
Later I shook hands with a doctor and acted like an adult when everyone began using words that were confusing for me but hurt all the same.
You wore plastic jewelry and grinned when I grew bold enough to wear my favorite turquoise pants to school.
You called them, “suitably academic” and shoved me with your shoulder.
Later in the after, I bought red slacks and yellow jeans and wore them angrily to class as if that would make you say my name again.
Two years with a school counselor and I would still mumble northwestern states like I’d never even paid enough attention to specifics.
Like I didn’t know the shape of the town or the photo of the front of the building.
I would pretend until I couldn’t remember either.
Were you in Oregon or Idaho? Could I not call because of long distance fees (lie) or because I was too lazy (lie)?
I learned that denial is a degenerative form of coping and years later I bought a pair of purple pants and felt guilty that they made me happy.
I was angry that even if the earth hadn’t swallowed you up by then, you wouldn’t understand the significance of things like bright colors and pants and dumb homemade beads anymore.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Fall
I
I've had one to many summers,
And now they've lost their luster.
Fall, however, I've just discovered
And the amber, the gold, forever!
II
Here I wait for Autumn.
September's trees will die.
October comes, and will hide the sun,
under gray blue skies.
III
She sounds a simple ringing tone,
Rife with wind and reeling reeds.
It is calm, cool and moans
With subtle singing needs.
The trees, they fight and fail
The winds will wound their worth,
The leaves will burn, below we learn
The chant of, “Autumn’s Birth”
As the skies start to singe and sear,
And slowly lower, linking the earth and sky-
That sunset to those trees that wept
With their leaves aflame, We must cry,
“Some will seek the sun in the summer,
Some seek the sights and scents of spring
Others will welcome warmth in winter,
But what does our Autumn Bring?
Well, those who tend towards tenuous things
Will find their fantasies fulfilled in fall,
All that they do, meaning to you
Is to feel that Autumnal call-
That of the leaves that fall.”
IV
'Twas a fine fall day, perfect for reflection.
Autumnal hues gently layered the scene.
My Lady and I traveled no particular direction;
Enchanted by nature's artistic perceptions,
We stared awestruck at the trees.
V
This period, Fall (As in Autumn),
restlessly breeds feelings.
Noted: The red, adorned northwestern
festival found wild colour.This Autumn,
colors gathered- Celebrations of the
Indian Season.
The Fall has undergone sorrow states,
(Associated? Death.)
echo the thick mid-autumn leaves.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
And we were stuck.
This year, so skinny and diluted,
I'm surprised we made it this far,
with the acidic aftertaste and misuse of
love
and
devotion
of time.
But rather than tiptoeing quietly into this,
I'll pour another shot of burning
hope
or
something similar.
Tomorrow is just another sunrise,
(if you could call it that in Northwestern Pennsylvania)
that I will see once again
some other day,
some other year.
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 8:00 PM UTC
You are still far away
Through smoky haze
Of northwestern streets
On avenues where redwoods once
Grew and may still through the
Cold concrete when
All my dreams lead back to you
And I have since been gone away
Through the same haze
Oh better days come so slowly
Waiting to escape to
A home in the cityscape
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
My eyes open in the dim light
You are not there
Old engine oil in my ears
and red tape on the walls and the
Peephole
I am in every cheap hotel across the country
Anything could be outside of my door
I could be in a small town in Idaho
An inlet on the coastal northwestern shore
Minutes from the beach on the southeastern coast
The glorious place where the plains give way to mesas
I am all those places
the ones I've been and will go to someday
Scouting
Searching
Finding my way back to you
Before the diesel fills my mind
And my thoughts leave the rest of me behind
And so at the designated hour
My movement will be swift
My stillness will be complete
Non-doing
Ever prepared
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC
A discount soundboard,
rust chipping away the corners,
with a fresh coat of Pabst-stained rings
orbiting it's various dials,
is the solicitous reward of my uncle's will
for my third year production.
My daughter camp around me,
lining themselves on the far side
of this short room;
a phase of white walls
and even whiter light,
sagging their AM eyes
to cocoon into their sleeping bags,
shield themselves
from the permanent fixtures,
cuddle with themselves
while I slide volume controls.
Forest calls spliced to the ambiance
of last winter's **** synchronized
to the wet thuds of my friend's face
pulping repeatedly into a tree.
We shot heavy boots in this scene;
snow crunching viciously
as his mangled body was dragged off frame.
I twist rotary knobs,
clumsily from finger grease,
as the captured rumblings of far off traffic
corrupts a month's work of sequencing.
Nature had retreated
from this Northwestern city,
had left only the rustling of pine needles
and useless silence
for the making of this movie.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
Thomas Haji, Son of Christ, Thomas,
Thomas, Thomas, German History.
France, businesses, many parks, gyms
and Caliph rocks, but the king's problem.
That's why he understood the Mexican
law, the permanent seat of the veil.
Doctors from around the world, in English,
communicate time, talk to themselves
and save time. Equestrian cycling
saves the golden world, and mentioning
time cannot be a slower star in this world hotel.
In Spain, parents and parents open at any time.
I was ready to go to the future - in the store,
but the bad people were blocked. Apart from flat volcanoes,
Western Post security - 50% faster than the first model.
"Australian marriage and women's joy - women
and three times in American universities,
coin olijiyila, Canadian, Canadian
Hamemeni soldiers of John,
Thomas & Christina,
Thomas half an hour, dogs,
three groups of three questions
O seven masters of the year of No matter what,
Nail's long life in your heart you can be you,
worldwide, with many deities
and great debts and knowledge, and Thomas,
Thomas, Thomas, father of German history;
Cathy's Autumn Nun Avatar
of the German historical expert Astana,
Thomas, family, Robert Plant,
Virginia, Mexico, Venice, Douglas, English,
cooperation, Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,
German, Thomas Thomas, Thomas,
Germany and sorrow, and many gardens,
the linear, linear scanner
of Lee Leeson, King of the Jmnazyumn,
Nninnaneyulla Mountain, have English,
communications, communications and so on.
In the northwestern restaurant,
a great future for Spain's parents, and their parents;
but the evil people were arrested.
On the other hand, an explosion
occurred in 50% of West Bengal. Five-Year Test of
"Canadian Universities and Canada
and Christina, Christina and Ian,
the original German band and Hamad Hamid
won seven more times, morning three times in Sindh Math, b
ut Niall Mexico, French martial arts used
antivirraminic, malaria, Major Trusasia,
his favorites and awards, German history,
storytelling, forestry, health, food, Virginia, Mexico and the world,
Douglas English Brother, Mary Thomas,
Robert's Regional and Christian World Food Zones,
ti.vimans, heamas, Thomas, Germany, history,
France, with some of the parks, the walls
and in-house corporate king, issue, Mexico
on where Belenelea, Spain, is open to parents,
I am willing to midnight, Ayillan, in the future,
50% or more, English and ash,
"Australian cheap wedding [a]rson, interesting,
free n download and nirm'mik kappettatumaya
buildings. American women have three universities,
dogs, Argyle, dogs and Canadian Jean,
German mast Christina; Thomas, and three times many times
suffering from malaria, global leaders,
Astana Vartholt Goutier's Nile, a Valentine brigade,
military history, French year of disagreement,
French Teva's Camp in Mexico, Triangle, Triangle,
Robert, Dear, King, Virginia, Mexico, England, Working,
Mary Cola's Book, Poet, World Cooked Food, Worldwide
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 2:54 PM UTC
The mantle of dusk
Is being cast upon a heat weary
Northwestern Missouri countryside
As a young man stands upon the banks
Of a pond making casts.
He’s been at this for some time
With little to no luck whatsoever.
His favorite quarry, the largemouth bass,
Has eluded him successfully thus far.
He’s been wandering this pond’s banks
For a coupl’a hours now,
Certainly an eternity when the
Fish aren’t attacking the lure.
The youth knows one can’t catch
The bass just standing in one place,
So he scans the smooth pond surface
For activity.
He gets teased by flopping fish here and There
As they feast upon a mid-summer’s smorgasboard
Of bugs and worms and frogs that chose to Zig
Instead of zag.
He finally spots a place he thinks
Will afford him the greatest chance at Landing that
Largemouth he knows he can catch,
And so he posts up for just a while longer.
He looks to the west and sees
A final sliver of the Sun hug the horizon.
The light is fading fairly quickly, and he’s All but done.
The trek home isn't far, but he has no Lantern
And has had enough of the mosquitoes.
One more cast, he thinks to himself, just One more.
He draws back, flicks his wrist, and lets fly.
He cranks on his faithful Zebco 33
And just as he is to bring in what’s
Always been his lucky beetle spin,
WHAUMP!!!
A bass akin to Moby **** himself Explodes
The pane of glass surface and
Devours the lucky lure.
In sheer delight, the young man and bass Begin to fight,
And what a fight this pond monster Provides!
The young man’s line strains, his pole Cranes, yet holds with the thrashing and Convulsions that only a bass can deliver in Its ****** attempts to divorce Itself from The hook.
The young man was prepared for this fish-
He had waited since he first learned to bait A hook for it--
Prepared with the right pound test of line,
The right rod, and the right reel.
The youth lands the prodigious Largemouth
And takes him off the hook.
Wrapped in twilight, there the teen stands,
With at least a six pound bass in hand,
Grinning and looking west at the Sun Goin away.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 6:48 PM UTC
Faded trees
and foggy hills
of misty blue
and morning pills
and pastel soap
in a broken bowl
my splattered mirror
who eats my soul
an empty fridge
a broken lamp
moldy, mildew,
Northwestern damp
wrists against
my seam-ripped sleeve
this is what it's
like to grieve.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
I was a small soul; my family was too.
Life in the adjacent northwestern was deviant, souls had nowhere to go.
Livelihood is grim in the old-green warm.
God will provide, my mom said.
My parents ambitioned a greater life for me and my brothers.
It's the classic fable- an alluring call of intergalactic aliens.
We packed our things and headed towards the Big Apple
God will provide, my mom said.
I came to the US when I was 8, I did not know my fate.
Mouths moved differently to what I thought was great.
We possess nothing, our family was afraid.
God will provide, my mom said.
We slept on the floor; the nights were cold.
Alone, me and my brothers were.
The American dream is towards where we go.
God did provide, my mom said.
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 11:04 PM UTC