"pinches" poems
Teresa climbs on the bus
before the sun, if she has
the fare
to get there, where she
makes the bread; she's been at this
two of her nineteen years
yet she has fears, they will
come for her--green card or not;
though they like her rolls
she kneads the big ***** pulls,
pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying
of trays, one after another
then, from the Iglesias,
they come, decked in their finery
though she does not see
she only hears the litany
of language she can't comprehend,
a clanging of trays, laughter
the urging of the jefe to work
faster, bake the bread; the communion
wafers did not fill them
now they are here, breaking fast,
forgetting the words they just heard
the songs they sang
Teresa does not complain; she
is glad to feed the worshipers, though
they will never know her name
nor will they stop for
her in the pouring rain,
the blistering sun
Teresa never wavers
next Sabbath will be the same:
dawn, the dough, the oven
it is the work--her hands
which make the bread others break,
the grace granted to serve
holy, holy, holy...
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC
Plenary veils...infinitely unveiling the bride--
her face will never be seen, ovoid porcelain,
angling candles...upon a UFO altar.
The relentless Hand that pinches and lifts her
veils...has seen her face, and kissed her lips
so many times--that her infinite unveiling...
is love's ****** regress...a deathless imagining
made real.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
I can’t move
my legs are pinned to my body
squeezing against my chest
my arms restrain to my sides
my hands pressing against my flesh
my eyes wide but i see nothing
the four walls of this confined prison
pinches my skin
and pushes my head into my knees
my breath is heavy
Panting i can’t breathe
I choke on my own thoughts
my own breath
my heart pounds in my eardrums
I long to stretch my legs
and run far, far away
from this hell I have to call home
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy. As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures. Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being. Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the spunk. If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself. Fuck your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses. Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge. Cock sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man. Nevertheless let this not ********* you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion. Touch yourself. To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches. Neither be cheeky about ****** ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist. Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness. Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity. But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings. Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness. Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself. You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end. And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should. Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** intercourse. With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory. Stand pert. Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
*Sometimes it's a cactus, not a rose
that pinches the heart of a lover
though, she doesn't smell musk
or her eyes aren't lined with kohl,
he was weary and looking for an elusive spirit
which even he wasn't clear what, but found in her.
Breaking away from the caravan
hurtling down the dusty road
to an unknown town in that arid desert
he spoke to the cactus, whose eyes met his
when a shiver passed through the psyche of both.
Cactus, stood looking at him, her sad smile hinted
to the heartbreaking news they have to face,
cactus, broke her silence, said she was happy
on being looked after by the hollering sun,
howling desert wind and sand storm cover her
with utmost affection,"They are my cousins,
they know me well all these years,
I let them decide for me what I need..."
they stood looking at each other, for a minute,
nothing more was to be told
"Have no misgivings, stranger, though my lover you are,
we live or die here together, but your destination is far
you are a rare one, readily gave your heart
to a mere desert cactus, that rarely flowers,
your perception, is the creation of your vibrant mind
I respect your passion and spirit of adventure,
we live the way we are made to live, why bear the pain of change,
I hope you know what I mean,
we live the way the most fitting for us, love is sacrifice too,
we both have hearts that beat together, I am blessed
but now, we have different choices, who can say who is right
the logic we espouse are different, though our hearts crave to be together*"
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
Excuse me Sir, I'm ready to order.
Can I please get some breakfast sandwiches
and a couple of bagels?
Uh, excuse me rudeness! What the hell was that look for?
Can you believe this motherfucker?! One look at my nopal
and he went straight into his skinhead manners brown paper bag
and picked up a big ol' hand full of **** you" and put it all
over his ******* face.
I like how now racism has a new look.
Indifference and side ways looks.
I still ******* matter.
I have a right to be where I please.
As a matter of fact, I have a right to be.
If I want a bagel I would like it without
a side of Caucasian *******
Pinches gringos cabrones.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
Step by step;
And stroke by stroke on your painting;
Throw it away
Word by word on your typewriter;
For every broken glass,
and the sound it made in your ears
Glass, so fragile
Shattering into thousands of pieces
So small and
so insignificant
For every breath you hold;
For every time you pull on your sunglasses and hope they won’t see;
For every time a branch pinches your legs when running and the little pain is a reliever;
You want more
You always want more
Breathe out;
But it doesn’t matter to anyone
You don’t matter
The pieces of you are scattered
and no one could hardly care
You’re so close to that fine line
You can’t help it
But you are almost crossing the bridge
You’d much rather fall over
But here you still
sit
writing poems
as if everything
was alright
17.07.14
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
I hate myself. I hate my mind. I hate my body. I hate the way I speak. I hate my emotions. I hate my physical feelings. I hate my life. I hate my writing. I hate my thoughts. I hate the disjointed voices. I hate the way I walk. I hate the way I move. I hate the wayi eat, if I do at all. I hate the things I read. I hate the taste of my own blood. I hate my cheeks. I hate my teeth. I hate my torn up fingers. I hate my scars. I hate my bruises. I hate my hair. I hate my eyes. I hate my smile. I hate my lips. I hate my nose. I hate my diseases. I hate my depression. I hate my suicide. I hate my ADHD. I hate my anxiety. I hate my rumored schizophrenia. I hate my memories. I hate that people like me. I hate that people love me. I hate that people hate me. I hate being alone, but I hate being social. I hate the things I draw. I hate the things I talk about. I hate the treatment I go to. I hate how I try to help. I hate the things I learn. I hate my pain. I hate my blindness. I hate my voice. I hate my hearing. I hate the bracelet that pinches me. I hate the nise it makes. I hate the way the metal smells. I hate the bile in my throat when I feel guilty or scared. I hate the way I bite the inside of my mouth to bake myself bleed. I hate when I scratch and don't remember. I hate the way I shake when I cry. I hate being comforted. I hate when people talk to me. I hate wanting to go on even though I can't. I hate wanting to end this. End it all.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
The crunchy Autumn leaf changes its mood once again.
A crisp green transforms into a burnt auburn glow.
I sink into my kingdom of leaves,
underneath the grand sugar maple tree.
The brisk wind pinches my cheeks into rosey swirls.
My breath leaves my body in a thick white fog,
and I lose myself in my surroundings.
Suddenly crystal drops of water fall from the sky,
slide down my face,
and make a home in my hair.
The grey sky bleeds its way into my eyes.
I sit and let it all pour down on me.
Let it wash me away into a presentiment abyss.
The seasons will keep changing.
I will keep changing.
Change can be a very beautiful thing.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
True, the sugar tops
sweeten everyone's mouth.
Hold onto the salt though
let's not lose out.
Pinches of sea salt
dancing smash hit
deep down the sea floor
ace extracting ice cores,
boom, the clouds form high,
show the upside is sky!
Jubilant cumulus pop
only crystal clear vibes
let the wind see through
that sings the rhymes.
Oops, it's not always a blue sky
wispy white clouds turn dark.
The storm soars the larks fly low
busy men down the trees
seek refugee for a mo.
Sticking my head under a roof
pondering me find a room.
Is this 'smash hit high sail
of the clouds rising from deep core,
all is gone in a blink of a storm'.
Not far in the sky
nor deep down the sea.
I see a raindrop on a shining
flower before me.
Something more to tell
very closely!
Jun 6, 2022
Jun 6, 2022 at 7:34 PM UTC
at the edge of humanity’s consciousness
a river flows through guitar chords of thoughts,
rocks and
stones caught in its
winding depths
the river drags seafoam upstream
gently claiming it
as if that which it touches is it’s own
and always has been
the foam only shrugs shyly,
an awkward smile slipping over its face,
that adds salt
in pinches
turning to idle sugars
-would anything-
the river responds to the projected call of a sand dollar
one that waters could never have dreamed of holding
so serenely
and it’s
like the world is beginning
all over again
that’s how it
should
feel
the sand dollar answers in sweet
sincerity
lightly clinging to
the pull of the waves
and it would be perfect if not
for
-have happened-
heaven’s reeds are
the root of heartache
and they drift down the Lithe
pulling everything
angelically
destructive
-if I didn’t-
-reach out-
-my hand?-
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 10:43 AM UTC
she pinches me into the darkness
dried our playing ground
taking us to tangerine heaven
nostalgia, it will sound like
endless expressions of happiness
coming from semi-innocent minds
let the dust fill our skin
before the moon makes us all blind
these memories will never demise
stronger than the strongest wind and will always remind
of our afternoon sun
she's always good to us
our afternoon sun
we should go out and its a must
here we are, when black turns into white
and slowly looses those youthful hype
but will always understand and miss
our afternoon sun
even it's virtually gone
our afternoon sun
we haven't seen it in a month
our eyes may hurt from these watered chlorine
but we dont need euphoria from this morphine
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
This is my body
I have Redwood skin – thick, fire retardant
It’s especially necessary due to the
Cracked chest cavity I carry underneath my coat, thick
And thankfully so, so I mark my bark with pinches and pulls,
Never changing, never ready for the vacant eyes of strangers
Reading me like last weeks old newspaper,
Just a passage of time, a bleak hobby.
This is my heartbeat,
More like heart pound,
Like a body buried in the burning earth
Pounding against my brittle bones, begging
For the bang of a gun,
To start the race, to end the war
Suffocated by caffeine infused blood that
Doggie paddles through me,
Losing the race against ghosts
Until I’ve
Lost my breath.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:33 PM UTC
quiero escribirte mil gordas,
gordas formadas en líneas,
gordas tiradas en el pasto,
gordas con sus lonjas libres y sin fajas ni pantalones dos tallas menos que asfixien los tejidos de mi piel:
quiero cantarte una gorda canción.
gordas pinches gordas,
gordo el culo gordo el corazón,
gordas las piernas y los muslos,
las caderas.... tentación.
gordas !gordas son las anchas glorietas de la avenida gorda de la ciudad gorda donde todos los gordos y las gordas bailan un son que dice:
tu eres golosa golosa y glotona, tu eres golosa golosa y glotona,
pinche gorda poderosa
tu eres fuerte tu eres diosa
tus curvas son deliciosas
templo lavado con miel
para mi tu eres sagrada
dulce, fuerte y cotizada
gorda tu eres toda gorda,
vos sos toda gorda,
amante gorda,
gorda estudiante,
gorda madre,
gorda hija,
gorda espíritu santa.
¡bienvenidos a gordaztlan!
donde mandamos las gordas
y nuestro proceso de colonización conlleva amar nuestras lonjas,
nuestra panza, nuestras chichotas.
¡donde nada es imperfecto!
ni el lunar bajo del labio,
ni los pelos de la panocha.
¡pasen pasen! por las anchas puertas de nuestro gordo destino,
dicen que la vida es flaca
pero gordo es el camino,
en una mano el elote
en la otra mano el pepino,
con tortillas, chile gordo,
gordolagas con tocino.
¡gorda! ¡gorda!
sube tallas
¡y ven a bailar conmigo!
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
She wakes up in the morning
Hungry from last night
But she doesn’t eat breakfast
‘cause her jeans fit too tight
She looks into the mirror
Tears glisten in her eyes
She hates her reflection
But the mirror never lies
She rides the bus to school
And sits all alone
She wishes with all her might
To see all her bones
She gets to school at last
Self-conscious about her size
Because she still believes
That the mirror never lies
She walks from class to class
In the hallways by herself
While her classmates stop and wonder
About her collapsing health
But she never stops to listen
And doesn’t even try
She knows that they are wrong
Because the mirror never lies
When lunch time comes, she’s gone
Nowhere to be found
She never ever eats her lunch
She’s scared of gaining a pound
She walks past the lunch room
And smells the fruity pies
She really wants to eat them
But the mirror never lies
When school is finally over
And her homework is all done
She changes into shorts
And goes for a run
She runs and runs for hours
And sees the changing skies
She really wants to stop
But the mirror never lies
She finally goes home
And is forced to eat some dinner
While the whole time she wishes
That she could be thinner
She retreats to her room
And cries and cries and cries
She hates what she looks like
But the mirror never lies
She stands before the mirror
And pulls up her shirt
Pinches the bit of fat she has
And regrets eating dessert
She stares at her thin body
With no space between her thighs
She knows that she is fat
Because the mirror never lies
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
Chilly autumn mornings-
Kitchen tiles cold on my feet,
Baking bread and butter fill the air with laughs,
A recipe my grandma knew by heart,
Measured in pinches and handfuls,
Started before the sun had it's first cup of Joe,
I would sit by the heat vent,
With a blanket she knitted,
And try to warm up,
Gnawing on cinnamon rolls made from extra dough,
Chewy, unglazed, rich and tasty,
She taught me to love the art.
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 8:33 PM UTC
My belly, a pimpled basketball,
puffed with pasta,
and my chest, just a hoop and a net, swishing wine through.
Spent my last ***
on cookies and cakes
stuffing my cheeks in backwards
with gushing gobs and slushy slimes.
I go mad like a fat queen.
my hot mouth,
now a thick, cocoa-creamy swirl,
as it turns into a custard-filled pastry of its own.
I do what I can to feel bliss among ****
Try to ignore the flies fizzing like seltzer.
The candy wrappers scattered wherever
like broken-into envelopes.
I feel a large thumb press, press, press
my skull to my ankles.
Tossing chocolate chunks square into
my throat like bozo buckets.
After a while
It stops being "eating"
and turns into a factory of into me and out of me.
In the end, the delicious part always gets too salty and
salt over salt is trash
and nothing stays
an ****** for more than a couple
pinches of this or that.
my body yells at me, because it wants nothing more but to
**** devil-face with those teeny-tiny, delicious
throbbing minutes.
I can't feel my life
and so I have to eat dinner on the floor.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
Three back and second from the left:
my home for period six,
a desk more scuffed and scratched than its parallel, footprint littered tiles.
Here, three quarters of an hour is a day for every minute,
where the name of the month is Algebra II,
and the year: 2009
multiplied by the square root of x
minus pi.
I have a front row seat to a bird’s eye view
of Josh’s back.
It is a russet landscape of rolling creases,
the ever changing dunes of the Sahara.
Tomorrow is Saint Patrick’s Day (God bless the Irish,
drowning it all in liquid ignorance),
and I hope to muffle the jaded sighs; the irritating pinches;
the variables
with a lush and verdant mountain range
subsiding to grassy plains
as Josh hunches—listening intently to his eraser—closer to his desk
(two back and second from the left)
to write the value of y.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
there's a secret place i found to keep my fear
to hide my tenderness & be vulnerable --
it's next to the smallest bones in your inner ear
the fluid skin blanket of your swooping neckline
lily-soft & somehow stiff enough to break
open my seed-pod heart
the one i thought no one could pry apart
but with rosebud ******* -- lips --
the figure of biblical magdala takes me
away from a lone satsuma tree raising its
shriveled offering from the crippled earth
on sunday strolls through duckpond parks
kicking cobbled streets of augusta block
or scooping water at me smiling in cutoffs
on a hot hometown riverbank
you came to me on barefeet out of the smoke
& rain silence where i was invisibly sobbing
where heat-lightning waltzed
sneaky-pete over the prairie
& what are you if not a rain -- a zephyr
flowing through stone temple
just as the dry-mouth dog days of summer
brought hell's fire across the southern field
so i've abandoned the hermetic existence
& buried my old dead shell with a
harp song hail glory to the contortionist god
vaulting off the balance beam in the
back of my mind beneath the
rain soaked topsoil of dawn
among the mound palaces
of ants & mourning mud hornets
while the gray shadows of the magpie
dance & writhe on the mosaic faces of
the trespassed lupine forest
& the sun still comes up on time big
gold fluttering like a delusional cicada
over the empty pink street
i'm still fidgeting because
clouds with tails like jellyfish sting
with rooted memories of azaleas but
you kiss away my all my latent
restless gypsy fears & keep the harsh
light dimmed or wrapped in heat-foil
in your front dress pocket & you only
give it back to me in brief drips --
pinches -- wet tongue kisses --
we talk with our eyes as only animals
can our butts in the damp sand
beside the breathless sea where streaked
clouds seem free to finger the horizon
but are cut by the city skyline --
a switchblade
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
The clash of billiard *****
Bouncing off the walls of their sheltered existence,
Echoed down the bar
Cutting through drunken laughs and senseless toasts
A man with an empty paper cup
Mumbles through the gaps in his teeth,
Asking for change
As he instinctively pushes up his glasses
And pinches his nose.
A girl with curly hair that blows in the air conditioning current
Sings at the top of her lungs,
Dancing and drinking,
Grateful that she probably won’t remember this in the morning,
And she wont
I’m sitting at the bar,
Surrounded by my fellow strangers.
Drunkards, wynos, and suicidal fathers.
Buying rounds of sadness and painful consequences,
As they Balance upon their bar stool thrones,
I hate them. And I hate humans.
But so do you.
And that is why when I walk through your wooden doors, and up your fragile stairs
I’m home
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
Reckless habbits destroy the dying chance for children.
Worthless yells wont be heard.
Because we shutndown our compassion.
Over eight hundread thousand mortgages,
Double the car payments,
Tripple tuition,
And end homeland security.
We shut down.
I **** you not we had to do it.
I can scream
I can say spending went to far.
But I wont get recalled
because my aid was furloughed.
Im a ***** an orange *****
Ill kiss vetrens.
Ill find ways to open
the gates I closed.
Im captain of this ship.
And I will fix anything that
Leaks with red tape.
Wait till october.
Because ill show you
who the teorist really are.
I want equality for every
minimum wage worker
in kentucky. I need your vote for
2016. My name Is independemce.
Im the ******* who couldnt
represent a bad fart. Ill blame obama,
Ill fake my death before ever realizing
Ideals make ****** outcomes.
Your family will raise their family.
While my family pinches grapes off
of trees everyone else sweated for.
Ill promise people wine. But im really
just a sour cup of juice. Im your snivelling congressman.
And I had nothing to do with incompliance.
Im just trying to make a point. And I still get paid even
when we pretend.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
Is there anything so extraordinary as a hand?
I asked, as I ****** his finger
with a gusto hungry to milk some essence of him
that would nourish me after his body left.
*Your divine digits! These brilliant explorers, who
fragile as separate spring shoots, can teach and tell and build what
would last for ever.
If a Renaissance lives, it lives in these hands , these ingenious orchestrations that can musick and paint and sculpt and-*
-and write?
Yes darling, and that.
I migrated my tongue and attention to his palm and slowly painted his love-line pink, tasting his future.
*Do you know, when I was once a little Catholic girl- they would tell their stories in Sunday School and I used to imagine the soul resided somewhere in your belly and felt like chicken noodle soup...
and perhaps not so, perhaps hands are the houses of soul where the most Authentic Self of selves resides waiting to touch, to hold, to caress... where the animal desires of humanity delight in the most truthful communication existing?*
-Then... what is the common language? Id?
Yes, perhaps you're right. And love.
His other hand, jealous of my attention, spoke aloud in a sonnet of pinches and strokes that could have drawn tears of reverence were I not held captive by the decadent finger between my lips.
Between gulps of air he queried my fixation
and with a final holy gasp I testified:
"Darling, touch is the only transparent sensation"
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
The mighty hand of God
pinches the valve in my heart,
blocking blood flow,
causing clots,
His fingers blot out the sun,
and close my mind,
to art and poetry,
His breath and mere mention of his son,
send me in to convulsion,
and I spring forth in revolution!
Garnered force during rest,
attacked at the weakest point of night,
this hand, your hand, coil around like snake,
sheathed in good graces,
appearance transforms to wolf,
dogged teeth reared, mouth foaming,
howling of justice, in a wild froth.
I have no choice but to cast forth the stones,
from bile duct, passed by my good graces.
Now a tired warrior,
I exist as a Devil in disguise,
my war paint faded,
as I'm touched by the longing,
I can understand the plight,
but I can't stand being poked and prodded,
by the Mighty hands that choke,
and they all Know the workings of valve and heart,
as they perpetrate
'His' artful form.
http://www.robross.ca
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 8:50 AM UTC