"nub" poems
my town
where wild flowers grow
between tram tracks.
there was a time when
it was hardly morning,
no bridge into daylight.
walls had ears,
neighbors had eyes
whispering behind the curtains
there was an emptiness in the guts
of the city
and poetry locked in the drawers,
Borges was read under the blankets
while Dostoievski was a comforter:
demons were embedded.
yeah, people were clapping and smiling
watching the nub of history, numb
they had a life to live,
what can you say?
one day the radio
burst on in the streets
some were shivering in the attic
"we are free", they said
"we are free",
came the echo in trance
"shhhhh"! said others,
let us wipe the blood
don't disturb the sacrificed
so we can sleep
without dreams
it's Thursday in my town
streets are weary
and our souls are
slowly expanding
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
#teamara
As in the nub of the remains of crayola crayon that’s been used to color in so many smiling cartoon suns on a piece of paper-
Her favorite color is yellow.
And I don’t mean a wimpy *** pastel yellow or sometimes a pale yellow
I mean her favorite color is bright *** yellow.
Like Pikachu yellow.
Like she’s almost nineteen but she’s still willing to play Gameboy Pokemon yellow.
There’s something innocent yet corny kind of yellow about her.
She’s beautiful like yellow jirasol petals
She’s intricate as yellow thread woven in a Rasta Dom
She’s yellow like gold and Africa
She’s sweet like pineapples and delicate like daffodils
I still don’t know why her favorite color is yellow
Maybe it has to do with her fascination of Asian men…
I mean! ...with the continent of Asia
She thinks she’s more like pink Japanese cherry blossom trees in the summer
But I know she’s truly yellow petals on Paolo Verde trees blowing in the wind spreading around Tucson
A metaphor for her love
She’s yellow like the color in the middle of my pride rainbow- She supports me
She’s yellow like the big painted sun at the hospital with a big grin
I wonder why nobody smiles at hospitals
The place where life is easily given as taken
Where we are reminded that our health is sometimes taken for granted
Other than that great big yellow sun
She is the only that radiates yellow and smiles
In waiting rooms, she seems like she’s the calmest
Even though she’s the only one going through surgery
She’s so beautiful on the inside her body can’t even take it
She doesn’t deserve scions or scalpels to even be considered touching her bronze skin
I wish instead they would strip down the color yellow from my life
And give it to her to make her smile so bright that even word “cancer” would cease to exist
But still. Even through pain and hardships
She still smiles. Not only is she yellow when she’s happy
She tends to radiate yellow even when she’s gloomy
When I’m upset, her aura has way of rubbing off on mine
And I get insight to why her favorite color is yellow
*** she’s the kind of yellow that represents strength
She’s yellow like tall forts made from gold bars
She’s yellow like flames that roll of her tongue when she spits fire
She’s yellow like a crayola-crayon… except she can’t be broken
From her, I’m learning
That even when you’re hurting
You can still shine bright like your favorite color.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
Scottie spot a thot
Scottie spot the thot
Taking multiple shots
Scotty hopped right off his stool
Up to the thot he walked
Hoping she didn't find him
A fool
He said hey thot
From across the bar I spot
Such a **** fine thot
Wouldn't you hop on my ****
Now the thot looked restless
What a decision?
This might be the first time the thot
Well..thought
Needless too say it wasn't long
Before the thot hopped on
Scottie's ****
Scottie thought
Man after this thot
I might need a penicillin shot
Oh no, Scottie watch!!!
Here comes the thot's
Big pop
Threatening to give Scottie,
A pop pop
Scottie prayed to god
He wouldn't see no cops
Especially since before he
Made a stop at the ******* spot
And especially not for some
Thot
We all know Scottie
For a thot he's never fought
So he hopped off his stool and
Ran out of the club
He ain't no nub!
Scottie didn't get popped for no
Silly thot
And so is the story
Of Scottie spot the thot
Who took multiple shots
Hopped on Scottie's ****
And called on her
Big pop
Who almost gave Scottie
A pop pop
Scottie went to the clinic
To get a shot
And thought twice
The next time he spot a thot
Taking multiple shots
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
when you would have thought that nerve had gone, worn down,
when you would have thought that sense was a nub, tuckered out,
given a well deserved rest, after all, it was the best of each of us
maybe a glow, flickering in and out, a summer sun between clouds,
the occasional pang pinging, radiant, radiating in forgotten places,
luxury good, can’t longer afford, once, given with a happy reckless
crazy how love stays with me, low grade infection, ready to spread,
bud by morning, afternoon full blossom, black wilt by next daylight,
can’t decipher, finally decide, these tremors make old age life worthy?
absent, but memorized slivers, old poems, drive by glances of places,
hurt like hell so briefly, double over, no one notices, so fast dispensed,
it’s crazy how love stays with me,
and it’s a crazy that tastes so good,
hurts so awfully good, so badly bad
perhaps that is why behind my back,
not to my face, they whisper, call me,
the guy, still crazy after all these years,
just still crazy after all these tears, or just,
still crazy
Jul 9, 2023
Jul 9, 2023 at 5:45 AM UTC
I'm biting my skin
Because my nails
Well, they've been bitten to the nub
My anxiety is taking over
But I won't let it show
I don't know what to say
So the only reason my mouth is open
Is so it can wrap around my flesh
If you gave me back my blade,
I would stop biting my nails
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
The sensations take over for a time
Not quite enjoyment but a need
Flesh calling out for release
I give in eventually
Begging for this one to be different
Hoping that maybe I can just pretend for a while
Its always in the back of my mind
Exhausted I finally achieve
****** duly owed to instinct
Before the end is reached
Shame washes over me
Disappointment seeps through my entire being
I will never have the parts I desire
Acutely aware of the flesh pushing down on my chest
Accentuating every movement
The tiny nub between my fingers
Will never be big enough for my desire
The twitching hole that will never be closed
That will never supply pleasure
The tears begin to track down the sides of my face
Filled with anger, shame, disappointment and disgust
Brokenness from being entirely the wrong thing
How can I ask anyone to accept my body
When I can't even accept it myself?
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
Curve soft, silky, chills
Swell, taut, protrudes, aches
Tunnel, tight, hot, wet
Nub, hard, throbbing, spasms
Petals, flushed, swollen, moist
Well, soft, slick, hugging
Tube, hangs, soft, wrinkled
Bags, sway, firm, sensitive
Rosebud, closed, but opens
Pillows, press, linger, invoke
Pearls, grip, burn, mark
Velvet, glides, trails, excites
Swell, is twisted, pulled, pinched
Petals part, exposing the nub
Nub, rubbed, licked, ******
Tube delves into the tunnel
Pistoning as friction builds
Stands, hard, smooth
Hard smooth enters rosebud
Pushes, prods, breaksthrough
Screams, pants, moans
Velvet enters well, circles, exciting
Pressure builds, senses heighten
Ice chills turn to fire to volcanic
Ohhhs, ahhhs, turns to moans
Turns to gasps, and whimpers
Cries, screams that cresendo
Nectar explodes to honey that drips
Lava thick spews deep
Mixture like cream paints the walls
Tangled, exhausted
Sweat, essence
Dreams, snores
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 6:14 AM UTC
sleepy eyes open glimpse high ceiling red wood beams house built in 1920s glance out window tree tops blue skies mountains in distance flock of birds flying east chirping sounds passing car engine accelerates inhale deep breath through nose stretch legs plantar dorsal flex feet raise arms over head stiffness in shoulder feel strange sensitivity in right pectoral above ****** cautiously examine with hands feel coarse lump growing more like nub smell moss glare down at growth protruding from chest panicky by soreness rise from bed to mirror on closet door tree stem jutting out from chest inspect dark bark like calloused growth little leafs budding this cannot be race in nervous tantrum run to bathroom suffer painful weight pulling me down clutching carrying foliated limb with arms see myself in mirror horrified stagger back to bed lie on right side branch resting on mattress breathe anxious breaths reexamine pectoral area feel sinewy roots spreading under skin across chest up neck down over stomach waist legs forget how to get home disorientated nauseous exhausted what is this flora invading me ******* kafka metamorphosis post-modern hyper-real narration without accountability jorge luis borges metaphor without mindfulness fairytale run wild jean baudrillard simulacrum psychosis room now filling with plant undergrowth stinking of earth dirt gooey slugs worms shells bugs festering climbing towards windows voracious for light warmth moisture blocking out morning sun entire body trapped in tangled twisted leafy twigs excruciating pain fright lungs gasping suffocating encroaching darkness fatigue loss surrender wake up 4 AM from nightmare scared to fall back to sleep
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC
The clouds race golden
As be chariots
The sun is born
Like the deviants
As gusts of wind
****** the thoughts
Underdressed
The chest it coughs
While Major Clank
On wheels and stub
Bellows out and
Rubs the nub
Then by runes
the best made plans
Test the dikes
And angst of dams
The age of truth
The youth desired
Across the space
without the wires
The universe comes
In a box
Neatly packed
Shelved , detoxed
And all because
Annointed by rain
The blue sky morning
Clouds it's pain
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
*if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
the genie of imagination begins inking
every piece referencing an original thread
one formulates works by this unique stead
of its methodology there will be no sinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
images and descriptive terms then spread
through each line noted on a linking
every piece referencing an original thread
to create one's own mixture of bread
never deviating far from the nub's clinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
always keeping time with a continual tread
the blue-print imparted in one's thinking
every piece referencing an original thread
what concept may spring to one's mind lead
within the verse there found natural blinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
every piece referencing an original thread
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
I drew an old man,
with beard
like mine--though his face had
more wrinkles
deep lines of age
are hard to draw
my pencil bore down at the center
of those creases
like I was trying to leave a mark
that wouldn't fade
or trying to carve something
from nothing
piling lead upon lead,
on paper
that couldn’t protest my adding of years,
with a dull number two
when my pencil was but a nub, there were
more years yet to add
by then, my hands were weary
my eyes blurred
I had no blade to shave the wood
from the shaft
to make more eternal marks
on white space
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Curse you
bad habits
I have bitten my fingernails down to the nub
Curse you
bad habits
I cannot shut my mouth
and words spill out
Curse you
bad habits
food calls my name
so I eat and eat
Curse you
bad habits
my hair is just about dead
I have dyed it so much
Curse you
bad habits
I've found a love so strong
and I'll never let go
Curse you
bad habits.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.
it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,
I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing
I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and ********
but found nothing
I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing
there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity
what I’m I suppose to do?
as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire
I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction
the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me
I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen
the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…
whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.
I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 10:45 AM UTC
*Something between us came and gone...
..,
Thought it was love or lust or desire
...
But if love comes to our hearts with worry!
...
It does not leave or knows to end the furry!!
...
Tis only a cloud with a drift passing by ...
....
In a dry desert with a hot sun in the sky ..
....
My sweat of love evaporated off my skin ..,
...,
My blood dried out and my heart stopped beating ...
....
I am not like yesterday.. My love is cured ..
...
One side pulling on the rope.. won't tighten the love even if the rope is tight ...
...
I dont deny that my love became heavy on the one I desire ..
...
There lyes my heart dead engulfed in flame and fire ...
...
She came and weeped at my heart crying really hard ..,
She said forgive me Bassam .. "I am too cold"
...
Her tears started dribbling down a little stream to my heart nub ...
....
And suddenly she heard my heart say "lub ... dub"
...
And some how my heart recouped from death absorbing its sorrow ...
....
It's started to beat with hopes of love and desires of tomorrow...
...
It rose in hopes of love of golden yarrow
...
She was happy to see me and wiped her tears ...
...
She said .., "Let's start a new beginning free of dismay and jeers" ...
...
"And endless love without delay"
...
"Away from false hopes and blame"
"Something with lust and without shame!"
I said "I am here ... my love is tamed!
"Take me on with lust ordained"
"I admit to you that my love has changed"
..
She said "Forever now ... you are locked within" ...*
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
There is a stirring in my chest,
an elation I will not and cannot resist.
There was once a moment where all of life stood still
and my feet grew heavy
barren heavy.
Completely empty
and ready to fall.
There is a fire down below
where the depths of sight can’t grow.
It still feeds off my worried brain
like a fetus planted hover-vein.
The Venus Fly Trap sets its will
spiked teeth ready, for the ****
There is a place where spider webs
and crawling things fit for nub ebb.
All my flagrant floppy body
deteriorates, demotivates, deregulates
into a monster of the fiendish kind
one where holographic glass goes blind.
there is a feed that ***** in silt
it still eats grits, their shiny pelt
slimy, sloshes, ready, in
frigid waters’ under-grin.
Come follow me, dear Venus Trap
into a submarine unsnap
there is a blooming in my groin
where dead things lay there
shivering.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
My wife said to embrace my feminine side
So I thought I'd give it a whirl
And though I said I'll do my best
I don't make a very good girl
So I tried my hand at cooking
And now the chicken is crispy and black
The laundry was just my first attempt
And it almost broke my back
I even took a bubble bath
With candles on the side of the tub
But when I tried to shave my legs
The only thing left was a nub
And even though I must admit
I look pretty **** good in a dress
Those dadgum ***** hose were cramping my style
As you can probably already guess
That make-up made me feel kinda funny
And made me look just a little bit weird
I think it clashed with the leftover breakfast
That was hanging out inside my beard
My wife said I made an ugly girl
And she laughed so hard she cried
She said she'd never ask me again
To embrace my feminine side
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
Let me help you, for I am strong.
Let me help you, that I may offer support.
Please, madam,
Take my hand.
And …
Never mind the blood dripping from its severed nub.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 1:13 PM UTC
SLEEP is a maker of makers. Birds sleep. Feet cling to a perch. Look at the balance. Let the legs loosen, the backbone untwist, the head go heavy over, the whole works tumbles a done bird off the perch.
Fox cubs sleep. The pointed head curls round into hind legs and tail. It is a ball of red hair. It is a **** waiting. A wind might whisk it in the air across pastures and rivers, a cocoon, a pod of seeds. The snooze of the black nose is in a circle of red hair.
Old men sleep. In chimney corners, in rocking chairs, at wood stoves, steam radiators. They talk and forget and nod and are out of talk with closed eyes. Forgetting to live. Knowing the time has come useless for them to live. Old eagles and old dogs run and fly in the dreams.
Babies sleep. In flannels the papoose faces, the bambino noses, and dodo, dodo the song of many matushkas. Babies-a leaf on a tree in the spring sun. A nub of a new thing ***** the sap of a tree in the sun, yes a new thing, a what-is-it? A left hand stirs, an eyelid twitches, the milk in the belly bubbles and gets to be blood and a left hand and an eyelid. Sleep is a maker of makers.
1.6k
I remember when we used to ****
your long fingers rubbing my nub
and sliding into my wet ******
Oh Daddy
How I miss you!
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
Ruptured urethra
She has worn it to a nub
My filthy *** fiend
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
the hand that rubs my body down
is soft: softly veined &
of a powder-white translucence; transcribed
from dover chalks to run down my
chest, backs of my thighs.
the hand that rubs my body down
curves in sweet musics 'round my soul;
the shrill but beaut'ous rasp of skin
on skin
-- of fingertips tracing strange poetry
along my spine.
the hand that rubs my body down
holds in its palm a sacred oil;
anointing me at midnight hour. muted
bewitchments; burns the candle
down to a nub.
the hand that rubs my body down
calls for christ in attics of sunday
afternoon ... crosses its fingers in
spiteful fits
of piousness.
the hand that rubs my body down
takes the shape of golden scarab;
sets aflame my eyes of beaming azure &
finds in me a willing servant.
the hand that rubs my body down
wakes me at dawn, partnered
with an extension of pinpointed
warmth: the touch of her breath upon my cheek.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 7:41 PM UTC
The water was further away when I was a boy
and the land
it was much longer
jutting out into Sacandaga like the lone remaining tooth
in the smile of an old tannery worker
Now,
the tooth worn away by years of
spring waves
and thick winter ice,
the land is more a nub than a point
but many things are the same
the early morning call of a bird through fog
a fish splashing through his sky to ours then returning to his
car doors and the sounds of the marina coming alive
the unsyncopated drum beat of coolers and tackle boxes
being dropped into an aluminum rowboat
then strained sounds as an outboard motor pushes its load
through the water
which was further away when I was a boy
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
I'm not exactly the sharpest crayon in the box,
but hey,
at least I'm in the box.
If only sometimes.
More frequent than not,
I'm content to break out,
do my own thing,
but really, its just
running away.
Wether it be
making jokes so that nothing is too serious,
keep my distance,
so they won't matter,
because then it can't hurt.
I've been worn down to the nub,
as dull an indigo Crayola as you've ever seen,
label peeling off, stepped on, cracked.
It's true that each color has its own flare,
its own brilliance,
its own
beauty,
if only to the artist overseeing.
So while I may not always know
the plan God has in store for me,
who am I to stop resisting,
even if the design
is still an empty page
waiting to be explored.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Waste Not, Want Not
ride the golden calf
you willingly take the sacrifice
but not willing to give it back
you bow before the alter
for nothing that you lack
advice that's freely given
to the turning of the back
Waste Not, Want Not
give the dog a bone
you'll have him eating out of your hand
till it's down to the nub
no way to stop the hunger
once there is a taste
all the while they're eating
waste of life at stake
Waste Not, Want Not
break a nations back
playing a game of hopscotch
on top of sidewalk cracks
you toss the pebble over the line
you never get it back
waste not, want not
break a nations back
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC