"parentals" poems
High school was a breeze
I mean forget the braces years
and the glasses and the acne and the bone crushing awkwardness
it was a breeze
rolling around in Mark's beat up VW hippie van
Smoke trailing behind us as we tore through suburban Richmond
worrying about Mom 'n Pop's more than the DEA and Cops
and finding empty houses to drink what we thought was good alcohol
if no houses were available
we'd just wait for the parentals to fall asleep
singing pop punk at the top of every lung
rapping along to gangster rap
hopelessly Caucasian
class was a joke
homework a no go
and we'd worry about the consequences later
talking about how we couldn't wait to be grown
well I'm growing now
and I can tell you
no bed time is awesome
but it isn't all it's always cracked up to be
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
hammock and a stack of playboys.
first emerged,
boy.
feature trees and teens and punch drunk lovers.
chalk murals,
girl.
into the quiet density of love.
quiet city.
dance party, usa.
we end up making movies about our fathers
whether we know it or not.
home videos.
we double down on arcade tickets
& spin for a kite to tangle.
climb the town hill and bury our warmth.
kiss to forget or remember this bliss
& strange language.
strange sprawl of lights seen.
the homeowner’s association melt a pile of plastic flamingos
into an idol osiris.
dead god.
& wait,
wait for halloween.
our parentals diligently sweat.
they are conjurors of snacks and supper.
they are creatures of the ritual routine.
we ritual.
we homework.
we breathe easy, waiting for nothing.
(except for more holidays)
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
The curse of a great, well-known or (at least) culturally interesting family.
Heralded at birth to mimic similar (or even, surpassing) social feats of achievement/wealth/renown.
Instead manages to underpasses even mundane non-impressivenesses of second-generation parentals.
I
See them, smirk or folly with time, silently.
....which they seem to quite often.
Biding weekend with multitudes of varying categories of "friends"
and sweethearts who never seem to stick around too long
All aware, of course, of the famous family lineage
Themselves, instead
after lifetimes where first words, senior infants homework,
cheerful accusations of mischief and certificates of age-appropriate health
were lauded as signifiers of a future onslaught of fulfilled capabilities
emerge as providence's lackeys– and meekly, to be
Written out of History
One by One by One.
II
Talent is frequently a despairing life-cycle
for people who witness
and go without.
III
But what price success?
Is it to be counted in public
or left behind in wreaths?
Stern evidence
of favour, fought for and won
or shaky good fortune
One life's profitable fluke
IV
Does the cost of success itself
admit backstories of other kinds of loss
that children
without the chance of ever knowing
or changing their inheritances of fate
are powerless to cease the flow
of their own anonymity
all for the insistences of the unarguable
and for merely treading the average?
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
You ******
you absolute ******* *****
I mean seriously
how much of a ****** are you?
silent to your friends
silent to the parentals
silent to yourself
except for in times of strife
(as if you know real strife)
you just want to be nice,
right,
correct,
for the girls you string along
you feel for all of them
which is why
you are afraid of everything
afraid of committing
afraid of hurting
afraid of loving
you love them
almost as much
as the self loathing
which runs through your veins
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
I had a dream when I was a kid,
Although, I can't remember it
Because my adult parentals shattered it.
Mind shattering, filling my head up
With a bunch of **** that doesn't make sense to me.
They taught me everything stereotypical.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 10:17 PM UTC
1:07 a.m.
wake up
shake
it's foreign
my legs are being clung to
i just want you to let go
it's a beg,
it's a cry for help
in the back of a black suburban
a scary place
where headlights are not used
a hand cannot be seen an inch in front of you
but somehow my body is found
and you invade
without permission
the words to shout
"Please stop"
3:34 a.m.
wake up
shake
sitting on the rotting dock
the cloth i wear
falling through
the salty rain
burns my cuts
lashed
the Norman in the yellow boots
and the white beard
retrieves my soul
he is not the gangster
who disturbed me before
4:56 a.m.
wake up
shake
powering into the church
stumbling over the invisible crutch
nothing more strange
it's a place i've rarely been
all eyes are on me
they know i am the spawn
of the heathen
but all i can do is cry
into the open arms of the church goers
and explain my long travels
and running away
the horrid torture that has reached my city
6:21 a.m.
wake up
shake
the white beat up car
holds a young mom
with her baby
who just stares at me with envy
as if i hadn't just been hurt like she
my parentals were called
and i was on my way out
something the young mom seemed
to have never seen
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost at-last
you, like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion, my
cursed naming ceremony
but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;
that’s why parents say:
**** good thing you kids don’t get to pick your parents names!”
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 12:21 PM UTC
twentee one.
if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost, at-last,
you,
like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion,
at my cursed
naming ceremony
but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;
that’s why they say,
**** good thing
you don’t get
to pick your parents
names!”
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 6:48 PM UTC