"pinstripes" poems
**Here you are, all dressed up
To take me out to dinner, our very first date
Even more handsome than in your corporate office
So dapper, dignified, distinguished,
so impeccably dressed and groomed
In your Armani pinstriped business suit
Silk tie, starched white shirt, cufflinks
Polished black leather Italian shoes
Your BMW waits outside
Well, I have news for you....
I changed my mind
Yes - changed my mind
We will stay home tonight
You will cook dinner for me right here
You are stunned
"ME?
I have a reservation at the finest restaurant
I know everyone there
And I don't know how to cook!
I know you're joking..
You must be."
No. No joke.
Give me those keys to your BMW.
Yes – the car keys
Take off your Rolex wristwatch
No need to look at the time.
Time to get cooking.
No, don't complain
You’re not in your office now
And one more thing.....
Take off those expensive shoes and socks
I want to see the cuffs of your
hand tailored navy blue pinstripes
brushing your
naked toes....
You are irritated, annoyed, frustrated
As you obey, resisting all the way
You give up your keys with the BMW symbol,
Your heavy masculine watch,
gleaming polished shoes,
still warm from your feet
thin black dress socks
I know it is frightening for a man
like you to surrender his shoes
and by the way
I do LOVE the shoes...
They just don't belong on your
feet right now
You call the restaurant and cancel
Shoeless and carless
Suddenly a servant
I’ll read the recipe.
While you peel the potatoes.....
I want you barefoot in my kitchen**
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
**Here you are, all dressed up
To take me out to dinner, our very first date
Even more handsome than in your corporate office
So dapper, dignified, distinguished,
so impeccably dressed and groomed
In your Armani pinstriped business suit
Silk tie, starched white shirt, cufflinks
Polished black leather Italian shoes
Your BMW waits outside
Well, I have news for you....
I changed my mind
Yes - changed my mind
We will stay home tonight
You will cook dinner for me right here
You are stunned
"ME?
I have a reservation at the finest restaurant
I know everyone there
And I don't know how to cook!
I know you're joking..
You must be."
No. No joke.
Give me those keys to your BMW.
Take off your Rolex wristwatch
No need to look at the time.
Time to get cooking.
No, don't complain
And one more thing.....
Take off those expensive shoes and socks
I want to see the cuffs of your
navy blue pinstripes
brushing the cuffs of your
naked toes....
Your smooth white soles
will feel the floor
While you peel the potatoes.....
I want you barefoot in my kitchen**
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
You,
there,
with your stripes so delicately traced.
Me
here
with a mess of ink scattered randomly
with patterns of unknown angles
and eloquence of unseen form.
My abundance is your emptiness,
my decisions are your mysteries,
but, as naked before me you stand,
little seems unsolved.
Your blankness stares me down
intimidating my activity,
preventing me from breaching the silence,
and so I stare back at you, thinking.
My thoughts will adorn your garment
and knowing this is menacing..
it roars back against my marks
and keeps your pinstripes perfect.
Oh yes, those stripes,
languishing in stupid blue,
amongst the white cascades
that aren’t quite white.
To me they dance
with shadows of brilliance
flowing against them.
They give way to great paths,
intricately traced,
intimately felt,
that take you and make you art.
But those are just shadows
my imagination cannot cast.
My eye is blank and blue.
But wait..
a siren shrieks from deep beneath
and steeps subconscious thoughts to breach
the border between ink and speech
and decorate your fair stripes.
My inspired eye sees these wild designs
that divide, and unite, and indeed multiply
into winding and time-binding styles inscribed
but how
in the hell
do I start?
****
You still stare
blankly
boldly
as I still stall
fumbling
folding..
but slow to lose hold to my shadowy flashes
that fought against waterfalls
to reach peaks of genius
and fell short
but fell well above thoughts before.
So with pen of black,
I faintly refract
the light that has shown me the door.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
Silver and grey the rain that falls
On Canary Wharf.
It pools in pavements of concrete and steel,
Ripples through dark water holding up the ships
That loom on my horizon.
Glass mountains open to black and blue pinstripes
As I weave between slow-moving bodies.
Was it always this way,
Or is the grey more grey
Now I’ve felt in full colour?
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
I forced my razor knife down
into an anniversary coffee cup
crammed with pens, pencils,
two pairs of scissors, and one
roll of color film I'm afraid
to develop. I jammed it in blade-
up so I'd have to deal
with the hard part first
like a blank page before
an accidental tongue slip
drips ink and makes the page
pretty. Some tree I've never met
and some pink dye died for me
to cover this pressed pulp
in illegible squiggles;
and I'll be
damned if I let it down.
'cause I'm drawn to things
without opinions. Sketchbooks,
inkwells, rubber band bracelets,
a mixed-nut dragonfly rested
on my trampoline net. // Cut it
free // cut it loose.
Find a brick behind the shed
and smash it dead,—preteen me—
young Wordsworth me.
I pulled the sepia tape from Queen
cassettes and finished the glossy
plastic off with a vise grip in Dad's truck.
Old Brucey had mustard pinstripes
down the driver's side, all the way down
to the Germania General Store.
He was a blur to me before I could buy
my own Dreamsicles. Passing the chicken feed
and the resident, caged dachshund couple,
I saw his face for the first time. Seventeen-years-
old, staring at my grandpa through picture
and plate glass panes.
The angels he swore were real—the ones he payed,
praised, and prayed for every Sunday and everyday
the sun shined and everyday it didn't—
were now less deserving of heaven.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
Numbles is a fictitious place, a state of mind.
I go there from time to time
in search of rhyme and reason
When required
Here in Numbles The calliope plays non stop
words fall from the hopper neatly written out,
written neatly on white plastic ***** the size of owl's eggs.
They roll down the chute and line up
in rational sentences of pure opaque poetry.
Unabashed and shameless a bit cocky eh wot.
An I dont give a dam a style like the
party girl who just hit her liquor limit
She has one shoe in her hand and her purse
in the other Tipsy?
I used to get budded, drop a 33 LP
diamond needle with a brush,
Wax was a choice over tape or disc
just a better eargasmic experience.
Numbles here I come.
Reverse engineering the things I'd been hearing
Oz .The sun shone in neon streams and the
gusting breezes tasted like cool peppermint schnapps
The cops wore broad pinstripes and penny loafers.
A storybook ending every time
The pieces of the poem puzzles
cake walked with spated shoes .
like homing pigeons on the wing
to roost and coo, they knew.
Numbles is the place where
the sky was ever-blue.
I still day trip to that magical place
sans herbalsupplimentation.
or distilledfermentation.
Sleepdeprivation gets me to the towns square
All my old friends are there
still.
.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:01 AM UTC
This gun feels heavier
Than it does in my dreams,
The dreams that were constantly interrupted
By ***** of paper with familiar names I am called
By these people I can't show my face around them,
Especially during lunch time
Where I mold into my hunch again,
Don't you dare you call it a crutch again,
As I limp into the familiar stalls
Of this ****** bathroom
Where the **** I scream out platters on the stalls.
I keep praying to those walls
Until the choir next door
Starts balling to the basketball stars in the classrooms
Where they are taught
That everything is going to be okay
This blood feels sadder on my skin,
Each door I lock behind me
Doesn’t seem the muffle the police sirens
That echo through my memories of better times.
I plead once more to the walls
Please oh please!
Until the wrinkles on my knees
Were just as red as my white t shirt,
I don't want paper ***** to be thrown
At the Pinstripes I am forced to wear
Written on the crumbled paper
Would be my failures
That my mother would write to me.
And feed it under my jail cell
To help grow the fact that she failed
So here I am
Praying one more time
To this wall of old stuffed animals
Before the police kick the door in.
I’m praying to find happiness
Regardless of how many happy meals
I by for myself,
No matter how many full metal jackets
I pump out of this Glock
It does not cure me of my hollow heart.
I prayed and prayed
And no matter how many times I crossed my fingers
I could never escape to a better time.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
I day dreamed. And it went something like this.
I was standing in a forest on a little oath underneath a beautiful and elegant white arch. golden brown and red leaves surrounded me.
I was wearing a fantastic black suit, With a very very faded array of grey pinstripes. I looked down to my shoes, And they were a nice black leather pair. My hair was slicked back and I had a Barbour shave my face. I had never been so fancy in my life.
You appeared from what seemed like thin air. You were absolutely stunningly dressed in a white dress that hugged your body just ever so elegantly. With a beautiful train and tiara on your head, you were the most beautiful thing on the planet.
There were whispered remarks of how much more beautiful you were than anyone in the crowd behind us. You walked with such grace you didn't even disturb the leaves on the ground.
I teared up and got a pat on the back and was reminded by a voice that had no face to be strong.
We stood apart from each other under the arch.
There was only one tear on your face.
On your left side.
All of a sudden, Out of nowhere, You opened your mouth and in a hushed voice you said "I don't want to be married."
The next thing i saw was the tree canopy. I guess I fell. I got up and you were apologizing, But I ran for my life. I was in a bar all of a sudden, I had already had a few drinks judging by the empty bottles on the bar top. I walked outside, More like stumbled. But you were there, No longer in your elegant dress but a sweatshirt and slacks. You said you were sorry. In a rage a bellowed out that I was sorry for breathing. You pulled me close and said "I'll fix you".
And it was then I felt the pain in my chest. You had put some kind of blade through me. You told me to sleep well. The next thing I saw was the white washed walls of an operation room. You were above in a viewing room. I blacked out. You were standing in front of me and said you had ran off with a childhood friend and were having a shotgunwedding. I let out a small choke of a cry, And said don't worry, This time I'll fix myself. The room went black as I kicked a stool out from under my feet. I felt a quick pain and heard you say "good, You'll finally be right". Then I realized I was stuck reliving the last days of my life.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
Paleo-Yuppies at Work and Play
Fading slowly from the existential struggle,
Waving their MePhones about in protest,
They swarm to Starbuck’s for adjective coffees,
Uniformed in knee-pants and bulbous sneaks
And Chinese soccer tops with little checkmarks,
Their graduate degrees at parade rest,
And in confusion, suddenly-stalled careers
Raging against the thirty-something machine.
Not trusting anyone under forty,
They rustle their foam cups and resumes’
Instead of suspicious Democrats,
And demand promotions and Perrier.
They mourn pinstripes and leather briefcases,
And the old floppy disc of yesteryear,
And fumble their PowerPoint Presentations
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With colored markers on glossy whiteboard.
They no longer play games on a Commodore
Or rock to neo-Carib fusion jazz;
Their Rush is Right baseball caps are now filed
In trays of antique curiosities
Beside the moldering hippie stuff shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where curricula vitae go to be eaten
By a computer virus named Vlad.
Now, as the sun sets on Ferris Bueller’s day
They count and verify their MeBook friends -
They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor The Force; like Eve, they bow to an Apple.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
She waited for him. She always waited for him.
Quarter past eight. Tap tap tap.
Her gold embellished sneakers repeatedly hit the floor.
******* down her iced coffee, pretending to read the paper,
her anticipation palpable.
Tick tock tock tock.
The clock seemed vulgarly obtrusive. Where was he?
Tap tap tap. Tock tock tock.
Sliding her paint-stained fingers over the paper.
urgent socialite.
rescued earnest
words jumped off the page incoherently floating across her gaze.
The door opened and there he was. Pinstripes.
Perfect teeth. Too perfect.
Triple Americano to go. Fifty cent tip. Smile.
Today had to be different. She decided in that moment.
She would follow him this time. She had to know.
Her eyes traveled with him through the glass for a moment
and then she was out the door.
Around the corner she could see his trail of dense smoke--and
then she walked through it--inhaling it
as if it was his gift to her.
On tenth street he stopped for gum. On Robertson Ave he picked a single flower.
He rubbed his left shoulder as if he was in a great deal of pain.
She would have taken it all from him.
He had finished the coffee by now, setting it atop
the concrete ashtray, shifting it back and forth
in the sand.
The sun was setting. Purple grey pierced
by yellows and orange. She wanted to know more.
But she also knew she couldn't. It was too perfect--
his silhouette. The smell in the air, city smell.
The kind of smell that tells a putrid truth.
The biting contrast was--
art, she thought. And just like that she stopped
and watched. Watched him fade
further and further into the blackness.
Each step he took away
from her, she cringed.
She wondered if she would ever be set free.
What was his life like? Really like?
Did he think of her?
Did he attempt to conjure up what she
looked like now?
Did he want to know if she still
had his eyes? And
perfect teeth?
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
in c sharp minor you're pulling on your wrinkled shirt,
slight blue pinstripes clawing at your shoulders,
breath escaping your mouth
dolente dolcissimo,
hands slowly buttoning from the top down,
fingertips reading beatific notation
as if each callus could savor it but once.
Apr 23, 2011
Apr 23, 2011 at 9:04 PM UTC
black and white pinstripes
are all I can see…
but that’s nothing.
roses.
candy.
raindrop tears.
bullets.
pretty gun sitting there,
hold you if I only dared.
blood stains on the sheets.
even more on the wall.
ring around the rosie…
One.
Two.
Three.
flower petals burning.
reflecting mirror.
hush little baby,
don’t say a word.
shards of glass beneath me.
broken heart.
well it shattered.
sweethearts or sweet tarts.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
Paleo-Yuppies at Work and Play
Fading slowly from the existential struggle,
Waving their MePhones about in protest,
They swarm to Starbuck’s for adjective coffees,
Uniformed in knee-pants and bulbous sneaks
And Chinese soccer tops with little checkmarks,
Their graduate degrees at parade rest,
And in confusion, suddenly-stalled careers
Raging against the thirty-something machine.
Not trusting anyone under forty,
They rustle their foam cups and resumes’
Instead of suspicious Democrats,
And demand promotions and Perrier.
They mourn pinstripes and leather briefcases,
And the old floppy disc of yesteryear,
And fumble their PowerPoint Presentations
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With colored markers on glossy whiteboard.
They no longer play games on a Commodore
Or rock to neo-Carib fusion jazz;
Their Rush is Right baseball caps are now filed
In trays of antique curiosities
Beside the moldering hippie stuff shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where curricula vitae go to be eaten
By a computer virus named Vlad.
Now, as the sun sets on Ferris Bueller’s day
They count and verify their MeBook friends -
They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor The Force; like Eve, they bow to an Apple.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
The day was dry and hot,
with not a breath of air.
His uniform was loosely fit,
The pinstripes, number 4.
Lou Gehrig was the “Iron Horse”
but an iron horse no more.
ALS had robbed him of his strength,
and now moved in for the ****
Most thought, at first, he would not speak.
That he didn’t have the skill.
But all there remembered what he said
And I think I always will.
He considered himself “the Luckiest man”
Despite the” bad break” he got.
An immigrant’s son who hit it big
and shined in the spotlight.
Lou passed away within two years.
The Stadium, too, is gone.
We’re not the Country we were then
America has moved on.
But on this Independence Day
I’ll stand where Gehrig stood.
There used to be a ballpark here
and a hero kind and good.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
She is so sure of it, one minute,
then the next is a flurry of tears,
curse words and disappointments.
I can never say the right words,
distrustful stance;
she raised me. She can ground me,
she thinks I would lie in a heartbeat.
She waits for
some lady in pinstripes
with money on her mind. "Can I
drain the mind of the poet for cash?"
She will ask, and sleep on her dollar pile
in diamonds and furs,
my mother a pea in the eighth mattress
down,
never noticed by thieves, the true princess.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
A slim smooth man
Every step being his command
His fashion statement being high in demand
But his distinction being pinstripe
Pinstripe always dressed fresh like a spring ripe
Assortments had to be just right being black and white or white and red pinstripes
Pinstripe had all the hype
He got his name from dancing at many clubs
A woman’s remembrance to think of
The minute Pinstripe entered any room it was always greetings of what’s up
His shoes were of quality brand
Every inch of Pinstripe and everyone knew he was the man
Pinstripe’s hair was combed with his hair being shown
The tie became a creation and conversation piece of don’t hate just appreciate
Every woman married or single wanted to dance with Pinstripe
Each moving dance step was a woman’s date being met
Pinstripe had that certain swagger
From that first sip of wine
A cigarette just before he would dine
Pinstripe knew how to pass the time
He was the dress code, but never ate alone
It was his personality in having the woman melt like butter
Pinstripe was definitely like no other
He was the mainstream being a name
He was persuasive and had game
But who was going to blame?
Getting attention was the precision at direct aim
The bull’s eye being any woman that had a fishing rod and a net, however, it was Pinstripe being the catch of the day, and being the best bet.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
Slam my hip down
Hipbone a Warm teardrop
Ripples on impact
My body
Of water
The stage
Walls turn wonderland
As the pills kick drum
I am the bass drop
Hands dove letter
To my mouth
The room waves
As she stands staring
Knees locked in contrapassto
Pinstripes in my eyes
I have no need for the white eyes
Or white fabric
Purity was always
your delusion
Dreamt into syringes
Pricked into tiny faves
Fat with cake and promises from their daddy's
Or any man
With a poloroid camera
I am standing on the ceiling
Chandler trees raze
And solidify a shining icy stasis
Large and formal
Cold and towering
Tables glued upside down overhead
tiny tealights stuck too
Fire flickers down
You are a spotlight
Head
Chest
Skin
All Lighthouse
Peninsula
Ocean
Curvature of the earth
You beam clairvoyance
Shake your head.
Free of these lighthouses
You are under tealight s
A woman dances
Your hand touches your tie
Pen
Wrist muscles with fingers stimming
Champagne watch
Navy sleeve
Shoulder
Cheekbone
Soft hand on your cheek.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 7:25 PM UTC
Paleo-Yuppies at Work and Place
Fading slowly from the existential struggle,
Waving their MePhones about in protest,
They swarm to Starbuck’s for adjective coffees,
Uniformed in knee-pants and bulbous sneaks
And Chinese soccer tops with little checkmarks,
Their graduate degrees at parade rest,
And in confusion, suddenly-stalled careers
Raging against the thirty-something machine.
Not trusting anyone under forty,
They rustle their foam cups and resumes’
Instead of suspicious Democrats,
And demand promotions and Perrier.
They mourn pinstripes and leather briefcases,
And the old floppy disc of yesteryear,
And fumble their PowerPoint Presentations
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With colored markers on glossy whiteboard.
They no longer play games on a Commodore
Or rock to neo-Carib fusion jazz;
Their Rush is Right baseball caps are now filed
In trays of antique curiosities
Beside the moldering hippie stuff shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where curricula vitae go to be eaten
By a computer virus named Vlad.
Now, as the sun sets on Ferris Bueller’s day,
They count and verify their MeBook friends –
They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor The Force; like Eve, they bow to an Apple.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
are you
satisfied
with yourself?
are you happy now? now that this,
this has happened?
look what you've done. look.
you've massacred social norms, you've completely demolished every existing standard of how people should behave. you've strangled the life out of Mr. Smith, and everything he believed in, from the very tippity-top of his upper-class Anglo-Saxon Puritan upbringing to the very tippity-tip of his well-oiled
nose.
you've blown our minds.
and you call this, what, art? self-expression? Psh.
********
why can't you go do something, y'know,
useful (for once)? helpful to society--
become a doctor and save lives,
or become a scientist and find cures, heck,
even become an architect and create ******* roofs to put over people's heads, because,
honey
everyone would love to say what they want, whenever they want, in some abstract, convoluted way and put it smack in a gold frame and hang it up at the MOMA. then get applauded by men in pinstripes and handlebars and dainty damsels in petticoats...
or, shunned...
but walk away from the carnage patting yourself on the back for the mortally unfathomable machinations of your mind.
and we're the ones that don't get it? please.
it's you who doesn't get it--
wake up, man. And live as a functioning part of society,
please.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Lydia
watches trains
beside me.
Waterloo
train station
people pass
for the train
some in suits
black pinstripes
and women
in all sorts
of dresses
or long skirts.
What you think
my dad said
this morning?
Lydia
says to me.
No idea
I reply.
Go away
on a short
holiday
she tells me.
Where about?
I ask her.
To Rams gate
the seaside
she replies.
A whistle
blows loudly
a green flag
waves madly
the steam train
puffs out steam
grey and white
going up
to the roof.
All of you?
I ask her.
Gloria's
not going
she's staying
behind us
so she can
look after
the old flat
and she works
she replies.
The train's gone.
Wonder where
that's gone to?
I ask her.
Somewhere nice
I expect
she replies
and are you
having a
holiday?
She asks me.
Don't 'spose so
I reply
go out days
I expect.
Another
train comes in
noisily
and we watch
as it stops
hissing steam
doors open
passengers
open doors
and get out
then walk on
the platform
with tickets
to get out.
Exciting
isn't it?
Benedict
(she calls me
not Benny).
It sure is
I reply
taking in
the steam smell
and the sounds
and the sight
of power
of engines
we sit there
on the seat
without care.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC