"pitchers" poems
Mark A. Williams
SEPTEMBER 14, 1962 – JULY 23, 2018
___________________________________________________________
Wow Mark,
Was so, so saddened to hear this news. I haven't seen you in over ten years, but as kids, we had some amazing adventures, didn't we? Partying, camping and swimming at the Hudson lime pits. Mowing down on Pizza and pitchers of Pepsi (and as we grew up, BEER!) at Pizza Hut. (We knew the numbers to ALL the songs on that jukebox by heart!) Hanging out and looking at the stars through Budvido's telescope, listening to Doctor Demento. Laughing hysterically as we ran through Monty Python skits as everyone looked on in total puzzlement because THEY wouldn't discover them until YEARS later!
Building underground forts in the North Woods. You, Budvido, Zeke and I playing pinball at 7-11 for hours and hours. Watching Bands, chasing girls and playing Foosball or Pool at the Touch of Class Teen Club. You gave me my first Imported beer . . . a Lowenbrau. I will always owe my passion for those German beers to you and it was fitting that Budvido bestowed you with that moniker.
All through Jr. High, sharing a seat on the school bus. You, Matt, Tom, Buddy and I cruising around late night on our bikes for hours. Hanging around in the Jasmine Lakes sign with hijacked beer or getting free bags of Burgers from Burger Queen when they closed at night! Jousting with shopping carts on our bikes in the Winn-Dixie parking lot. Sitting up all night in Jimi's room after climbing in through the window or going on endless space cruises with him and Raymond in the Toyota.
(RIP Jimi Carlsen)
Sneaking into the nudest Colony and skinny dipping! Always cracking up at the school lunch table. Swimming in my pool and terrorizing my sister and her friends. (Allegedly) Trashing that crook Fast Eddie's produce stand after he refused to pay us for a full day of picking watermelons!
Good times, indeed . . . Some of my most precious memories.
I can only pray that you know that I wouldn't trade my youth or you in it for anything in the world and you will be sadly missed, Lowenbrau, my old friend.
I hope that where you are, your beers are ice cold and that you and Jimi aren't having to glue the Hookah back together.
Jeff Gaines
July 28, 2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.
The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?
14.7k
I'm a lonely sailor, down four pitchers,
I'm high and low, how often I don't know.
I'm to take commands, I'm not on my own,
Days with bacchanals, nights with dark.
A deserted sailor, with a salient dream.
Whom I'm to speak with? The sea?
I've lost my tongue, I've lost me.
A pure path leading to the moon,
I hear the echolocation of whales,
It's the only company I can think of.
Threats passing within miles, with sharp red lines,
A twisted fate, I dream dancing on my grave.
I get old, I'm ranked high, my pockets are full.
My heart is dry, and smiles are wry.
Whom I'm to speak with? The sea?
I've lost my tongue, I've lost me.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
I am proud of myself for,
being a leader.
I am proud of myself for,
encouraging others.
I am proud of myself for,
pitching a great game.
I am proud of myself for,
catching 3 pop-ups in the field.
I am proud of myself for,
gathering my younger teamates
in the pitchers circle when the field's
lights went out.
I am proud of myself for,
playing softball and
never giving up.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
sometimes i feel like i’m two creatures caught
b
e
n
e
a
t
h
skin
sharing one body.
my tongue rough- sandpaper, broken glass, too many curses
while the lips around it burn with apologies
fleshy brooms sweeping up the messes
of another woman.
i feel like there are two animals
each fighting for their right to shine through
they’re voracious in this battle— it surprises me that their clawstalonssteeth don’t break through the thin expanse of flesh to the outside.
i have two women living within my skull
one wildroughfighting— slinging glasses and insults.
face paint, bones and bottle trees, fire and ash
wet pine needles under bleeding feet.
the biting creature who leaves bruises on the lips of men.
the warrior, Artemis. laughdancing through flames.
a bear, a wolf, a cat, a bird.
animal in nature.
the other fights with words.
elegant, gentle, soft, break able-- everything the other
cannot afford to be.
goddess of the hearth, she feeds her comrades like children
keeps fires stocked with woods
and binds bleeding arms.
this woman carries pitchers of water
writes sweet letters to missing friends
and opens her soul to many lovers.
am I some crude splice of these creatures?
am I a ******* of these mothers— each passionate
one biting, brackish tides, slow moving rivers, still ponds
the other a warm, clean bath?
am I both simultaneously, or am I wearing one face while the other
watches behind mine eyes?
I am the moon—
full and loving, dark and hiding
and something in between.
yeah, that sounds about right.
something in between.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
The bartender a europa server leaves me a shot of liquid propane.
He moves past every silver dollar forgetting about the meaning
of whskey and bull dogs.
I watch cody a young university of washington student sneek In a can of raineer beer (if he really goes there) ill never ask him.
This is how lastcall always takes place: a drunken masqerader our friend johnny
Drops his wallet and kills a shot of jager. ( are we drunk enouph yet)
I order a taco and gain three hundread pounds tonight.
Master of the pitchers. He still dreams of being a physical thearpist ( he failed trying to take over for Dyrile). His new tall order of a job makes my anticipated buzz weaker.
Im tired of these long dresses opening up and spilling all over the dance floor ( the dj warned her not to)
Our ladies still mention bach. Inside of her purse hides a mystery knovel.
Tueday means a victory at home. Every player utters pride of being a regular.
We sink the black eight ball knowing the bouncer gets in the way of ourdrunk enemies ( a red head)
He charges like arhino. Hes a animal without areason to **** But the bouncer prevents his six year jail sentence from ever happening. Bexause were all forgiven like helpless bar rags trying to dry out before the mold and mildew
contaminate our bull **** stories. We all speak easily after the brooklyn dodgers turn every blue and white hat around the five head.
He wont show us how the airforce cut his hair. Every one of his is angry patrons drink until the switch flickers the message ( crawl home bfore the cops fish with dynamite) in the ruston pqarking lot. (Searching for fake DW'S) each of themshine a britemaglite until the last car disapears still swerving like a skunk ptetending to hide in the storm gutters.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
tickling tape worms living in ape arms
squiggly shapes getting fat like grapes and
traveling in veins like a gutter swallows rain
like an utter in pain painting pitchers so milky white
tight like an overstuffed mite
bee or egg infested
ceiling unappealing
but
crack is revealing my
inner thoughts
statutory holocaust
saturated oil spots
aggravated foil plots
plotting for a battle
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
"YOU **** he flung at her.
It was more than a hundred times
He had thrown it into her face
And by this time it meant nothing to her.
She said to herself upstairs sweeping,
"Clocks are to tell time with, pitchers
Hold milk, spoons dip out gravy, and a
Coffee *** keeps the respect of those
Who drink coffee-I am a woman whose
Husband gives her a kiss once for ten
Times he throws it in my face, 'You slut.'
If I go to a small town and him along
Or if I go to a big city and him along.
What of it? Am I better off?" She swept
The upstairs and came downstairs to fix
Dinner for the family.
1.8k
There are none so blind as those who will not see
A prophet is not without honour, save in his own country,
Let the cobbler stick to his last; the nearer the church
The further from God; speak the truth and shame the devil
Every bullet has a billet, curses like chickens come home to roost
Comparisons are odious we are light years of discretion away
A little tin god enough to make angels weep
Sitting on thorns telling **** and bull stories,
I'll sieze the nettle and foul my own nest
Straight from the shoulder the sinews of war
To smite hip and thigh cut to the bone playing
Merry with lotus-eaters an elephant never forgets
Pull devil, pull baker man proposes but God disposes
Theres nothing new under the sun
Pitchers have big ears and pride goes before the fall
Even a worm will turn as fine words
Butter no parsnips, still waters run deep
Physician, Heal thyself.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 6:30 AM UTC
Billy Wynne Veracruz
best baseball pitcher ever
Me Mestizo beloved by the shore a teen a wannabe Mom wannabe wife.
Within his theme songs
In beautiful mystic Vera-cruz.
From the Shaks restaurant my cashiering job
Pitcher asked to walk by the ocean hand in hand.
Baseball players eyes glared so sea-sky blue.
Tallest Knight touching hands.
Handsome king of hearts
"Sweet Caroline song blasted
on pitchers radio cassette player and
" The great Pretender,*
The hours long.
Smooth all passion
seed withheld and me fire firefly flew away..
~~~
Kings like you ought to have many wives
and many babies
Your kind are the crown jewels of fatherhood and motherhood best super human seeds divine
Your legacy rules Earth.
~~~
I found my own reign, great treasures my king heart of gold like mine, called me beauty himself Beast.
Loved to be a one woman man for a one man woman like me his rddbba-Ginny.
We fell in love at first sight
my true love my
handsome American.
Such elite chose me to change Earth he was the bridge and me his worldbringer portal to heaven his star seed.
My once upon a time my twin soul, twin flame King of hearts, became my imaginary best friend my owl of wisdom my everything.
Our theme songs were Spill your heart to me, and what a wonderful world by Armstrong L.
We were also beauty and the Beast.
The memory of my knight my king lover, my true love
my companion,
keeps me safe and sound.
~~~~
By: Mr. and Mrs. Andrews.
Honoring Karijinbba
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 8:35 AM UTC
For 10 months, I've been holding up
a pitcher of affections and feelings that
you never knew it had your name on it.
It kept filling and filling, and no matter
how much I fill it, I couldn't give you taste
because it might disappoint you.
At some point, I gave you a sample
and you seemed to enjoy the sweetness
but I was wondering if it was too sweet
so I couldn't give you everything
There was a time it turned out bitter
maybe, because you sought other pitchers
but it still had a sweet after taste
I try to make it a sweet - sour taste
so that it gives you "kilig" affixes
Still, I couldn't reach for that taste
so I still couldn't give you that pitcher
But as unprepared as I could be
you demanded my pitcher
and I poured everything in your cup..
I wasn't sure if I didn't have enough
to fill your cup, or that your cup wasn't ready
to take in all that it contains....
Maybe, your cup was too small or
There was too much in my pitcher
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
The bartender a europa server leaves me a shot of liquid propane.
He moves past every silver dollar forgetting about the meaning
of whskey and bull dogs.
I watch cody a young university of washington student sneek In a can of raineer beer (if he really goes there) ill never ask him.
This is how lastcall always takes place: a drunken masqerader our friend johnny
Drops his wallet and kills a shot of jager. ( are we drunk enouph yet)
I order a taco and gain three hundread pounds tonight.
Master of the pitchers. He still dreams of being a physical thearpist ( he failed trying to take over for Dyrile). His new tall order of a job makes my anticipated buzz weaker.
Im tired of these long dresses opening up and spilling all over the dance floor ( the dj warned her not to)
Our ladies still mention bach. Inside of her purse hides a mystery knovel.
Tueday means a victory at home. Every player utters pride of being a regular.
We sink the black eight ball knowing the bouncer gets in the way of ourdrunk enemies ( a red head)
He charges like arhino. Hes a animal without areason to kill. But the bouncer prevents his six year jail sentence from ever happening. Bexause were all forgiven like helpless bar rags trying to dry out before the mold and mildew
contaminate our bull **** stories. We all speak easily after the brooklyn dodgers turn every blue and white hat around the five head.
He wont show us how the airforce cut his hair. Every one of his is angry like drini until the switch flicker themessage ( crawl home bforetheco9s fishwith dynamite) in the ruston pqarking lot.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
You, yew and ewe.
New, knew and gnu.
Two, too and to.
Do, dew and doo.
Your, you’re, ewer and yore.
Sower, sewer and even sore.
Pin, pen
Win, wen.
Tin, ten.
Bin, been.
For, four, and fore.
Poor, pour and pore.
Bear, bare and bayer.
There, their and they’re.
Sure, sewer, shore and shower.
Censor, censure, sensor, censer.
Din, den.
Kin, ken.
Win, wen.
Yin, yen.
Shoulda, coulda and woulda,
Wanna, hafta and hadda.
Pitchers painted of pitchers
Ree-lutters instead of realtors.
Pertecting you with protection.
Prescribing you a perscription.
A different kind of differnse,
For instance, gimme a frinstance.
Pin, pen
Win, wen.
Tin, ten.
Bin, been.
Din, den.
Kin, ken.
Win, wen.
Yin, yen.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
I need to pick a season
A season that I like,
Need to stick with it
And stay with it,
The choice that I arrive.
It's hard to have a favourite
When all seasons are sweet,
Snow-fall, sunny rays and rainy days,
All are trying to compete.
But monsoon never comes too soon,
Winter stays for four full moons
And summer is always unpredictable;
Shines bright to burn me down
Or never enough to blind me out.
With summer comes he
With blasting A/C and an LIT,
Bronze skin and bright smile,
Bottomless pitchers and endless miles.
Monsoon is an affair
With books and solitude;
Too much black coffee
And burnt-out candles,
And an independent attitude.
Alas, winter brings with it a longing
for someone who is never corresponding,
Craving him to keep me warm
But he was never mine to belong.
These seasons have a preference instead
They chose their people with actions unsaid.
It's fine I didn't get to pick my favourite season,
I guess I would never know,
Some things happen for a reason.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC
Our whirlwind extravaganza
started out innocent enough.
Jimmy & I were jukebox heroes
shooting some eightball,
guzzling a few pitchers
of the golden liquid,
specialty hops down
at the microbrewery.
Minutes fades into
what seemed like forever,
faces got bigger than disappeared.
One thing led to another,
we ended up three counties away,
waiting & watching
for the alien abduction.
Four teenage drifters
we had picked up
sticking thumbs out
were hanging with us.
One by one
familiar-voices
faded into the surf,
and as the sun began to rise,
I found myself alone
in my auto with an empty tank,
two flats & a scar
on the back of my neck.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
In the murky clots of consciousness
between sleep and awakening
we clung to an icy overpass railing
spitting down on graffiti camouflaged
train cars as their charging rickety
boom carried our uncontrollable laughter
toward destinations unknown
Our spirited tenacity was matched only by
turbulent winds whipping us into submission
Forcing us to brace ourselves to avoid getting
swept away
You tumbled backward off the slick rounded bars
of the overpass rail
and bit your lip so hard
I thought you would need stitches
but you kept on smiling as the blood plummeted
dripping all over the tracks in a sanguinary frost
Feeling arrogant and invincible
like two avante guarde dog soldiers
we marched past our old urban battlefields and
grimy fast food cattle fields
closed in on a ramshackle bar
and drowned our taboos and inhibitions in
foam drenched pitchers until we closed out that
ramshackle bar
We gleefully stumbled
wearing hazy street light halos
back to the
duplexed squalor of my doorstep
Sloppy kisses stained with the scent of
cheap beer completed the night
as we tore into each other and
made love on that ratty creaking mattress in the front
room
All I had at the time to rest on
was that ***** old bed
and you
until several months later
when they confined you to
pristine hospital beds instead
Intravenous deceptions and false hope blood tests followed
but even with all the motions of our modern medical drama
we couldn't avoid you getting slowly swept away
I regret never having the strength or honesty to visit you
just as I regret never telling anyone about you and I
I go hang on that overpass railing sometimes
remembering the knock-down-drag-out-reckless perfection
of that night
knowing that my agonizing love for you should
have been something I proudly proclaimed to the world
Now the trains carry away my atrocious wails
as the weight of my shame
nearly pulls me onto the tracks
and spills my insides in sacrificial testament
to all we've lost
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
escorting you through the back alleys of Asia,
well it's kinda like
strutting into an interview drunk.
It's kinda like walking through airport security
with a baggie full of illicits in pocket 4
or is it pocket 5?
Hearing you speak Korean
with a shaking head
and a firm hand on my inner thigh,
well it's kinda like
asking a stranger to pay for my drinks.
Treating you to dinner and pitchers
when your heart's fighting your brain,
well it's kinda like
reassuring a child on his birthday
that he's getting presents later in the week.
And so receiving your words in the morning,
well it's kinda like
getting a kiss on a swollen cheek
right beneath a fresh black eye.
It's all kinda like it's dangerous
but I think I'm doin' an OK job
at acting like I know what I'm doin'.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 11:05 AM UTC
When I go back to the Island
and my old friends said that they miss me
I miss me too,
the old me,
The one who had the futuristic ideas
the girl with
the ***** locks braids which is
so happy and natural like the
land
the same girl with the ashy feet,
the one who work the land with her bare hands
I was like a woman land army,
wild and carefree
the same girl who use her teeth to peel
out the hard skin and bite into the inner part of
the sugarcane and chew it.
who planted Roses, Morning Glories
with a smile
The one who loaded sharp blades sugarcanes
on to the high trucks
in the relentless hot sun
or frigid rain
with aches and pain
and drank water from the pitchers
until the sun go down;
Somehow, that girl survive those hard days
Even when she dance until dawn to the
sweet sound of the reggae beat
and the oldies Goldie's tunes
The one who woke up early to catch the 5:20 am bus
to travel miles to work in
Wildleys for minimum wages.
So when I go back to the islands
And my old friends say they miss me
Old friends brings all of the memories
back into the present state of mind
for a woman who is growing old
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
Make me a flower delicate and sweet,
spewing fragrance into the blowing breeze .
Make me a violin from whose strings
melody flows to soothe the ailing nerves .
Make me a rain cloud, sailing over
the breadth and length of skies
showering cooling droplets on to the thirsting Earth.
Make me a lamp shedding beams of light
dissipating darkness from the mazy depths of gloom .
Make me a vessel full with love to pour out
into all empty pitchers.
Let every atom of my being throb with Thy filling love
Let it spring forth in jets to form the gushing stream
Let the Earth wear a celestial charm
Let the plants celebrate the carnival of colors
In my basket, I shall gather many a fragrant bloom
to be offered at your feet with love
and remain squatted in Thy presence ,
not losing in the pageant of this transient life.
I wait for
The PEACE to dawn upon in a world where violence rules
where hate like worms eat into the core
and the air rent with fears – illusory and real
I wait for
The LIGHT to break into me to see myself bare!
to hear the music of your heart, over the cacophony around
and to sing songs of spontaneous praise!
Give me Light, Oh Lord! Clear brilliant Light,
not to enjoy the wayside scenes
but that I shall not stumble and fall.
................................................................................................
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
Wild grapes grow on vines
From the trees next to the Fields
A bunch of us harvested the yield
Purple fingered in buckets
A Galvanized Antique
Wash Tub on Wheels
With the Hose at the Bottom
Filled up with The Make
A log of Firewood was used
To smash the grapes to pulp
As the Juice Drained out
Collecting in a Bucket
Pounding the pulp up
Taking Turns, Arms Ached
In the Back Yard, Sun Baked
As we plied our Log to Make
In the Kitchen 20 Lbs of Sugar
And gallons of Water Boiled
Watched and Stirring Constantly
Till the Syrup Batch Roiled
A 50 Gallon Oak Wine Keg
Prepared a Wooden Peg
A Hole drilled through
Coiled copper Pipe put to...
An ancient wooden Spigot
Gently tapped into place
The warm Syrup is poured
Yeast Added and then Grape
The Plug with the copper Pipe
Tapped into the Top of the keg
Coiled up Copper Stretches Down
To water, in a Redwing Crock
Halloween party we
Tapped some pitchers
A Light and fruity Vin
Sweet Pallette of wine
Christmas we Tapped
Merry Pitchers to toast
A Fine Full bodied Note
It made a Merry toast
For New Years we
Tapped the Last
The Marc of Dregs
Potent as Sweet Sherry
The Winter Wine
Tasted Fine
With Merry Toasts
For a Good Time
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
I’ve shifted again
cloned to this moment
movement saturated with magnetic attraction
Birds clothed with daunting spiral screeches
dives
into
black berry pie
Grandma’s hands veined with my spirit
called me to the pitchers mound
I see a possibility and I aim,
my spine speaks the diatribe of loosing
but my heart is snickering like an older brother
laughing out loud, copying my every word
( I am confused and a bit angry)
this a proven tactic my world seems to set loose on my
Learning.
Right then?
I care for naught; my heart nor my head
So then I think
Who am I?
I am suspended above likeness
Above suspicion
Above the ‘norm’
I am loose and I fit into groves
like extended membrane of rats
inside the crush of cellophane noise
four years old at christmas unwrapping gifts
freely expecting life to deliver
but a father, a mother, a friend, a stranger
warps my view
black like blue
Clothed in sound
It is almost assured the sun will shine today
It is almost assured the grass will grow
It is almost assured I will become more
Scene 2: I am back on the pitchers mound
the screaming errupts
such unruly delight from the crowd of my memories
going back seems deafining
I throw the ball
I hear a crack
my within and without
assembles like crosswords on Sunday
sound becomes me
the life I know
knows me
(we’ve been friends thoughout time and beyond)
all at once I catch up to the knitting of dreams and beliefs
Into something ‘not known before’
**Pearls made from sand
ENTIRE STRAND**…
I understand there is more than mind and heart
( blasphemy?)
I understand there is space between the moments
between breathing in and out
Oh sweet spot transition!
Crack….
Here I am
Right where I am
using the substance between the seeming separation
as starting point
of all I deem real
Linaji 2011
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 2:54 PM UTC
That night we
decided that our streets led nowhere,
so we followed them any place.
Apartments
to grass outside the Molly Brown,
cracking faces, sidewalks, traced our way...
North on 7th,
getting warmer.
Inverted frowns
are getting larger
Now
I'm wondering if these
half-formed
flimsy, brittle life-plans
and
half-drained,
dented, warming pint cans
of Schlitz
clutched inside our fists
suggest that it's worth it
To pin our hopes on approaching
footsteps of Summer?
Or just halt our frozen
progress through the Wintertime
when we reach your front door.
We just kept
decoding all our scrambled rambling
'til we'd set the world on its head.
Keep walking,
keep laughing at our young mistakes,
sober night backdrop to beer soaked breaths.
X'd out eyes
and gravel sidewalks.
Bozeman Autumn.
Watch out, mailboxes
'cuz
We're wondering if these
half-formed
flimsy, crack-filled answers
and
empty,
drained, five dollar pitchers
of Pabst
humming 'neath our caps
will help us draw our maps
and stick a pin in the Summer,
page turned on Winter,
or just melt our thawing
progress to another time
when later days trickle down.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
your a pretty girl in platinum, anyone tells you, your not. You've got the football team just crake em'.
Like that **** don't matter, you'll forget about it when life is served to you, on a silver platter.
you smile in all your pitchers, but you've got all of them fouled. because behind closed doors your broken, and inside you feel like your choken'
You've got the chance to be the best, but inside your just like the rest.
Life's not fare, not what its all cracked up to be.
You watch as your mom forgets you dad's infidelity.
Your brothers never home, he left when he was old enough
leveeing you to pick up the ruff stuff.
He smokes to much duch in the bathroom, acts out, schools about to call your dad soon.
Your mom reads the note you wrote, se calls you out and pushes you down.
Sais if you ruin the face of the family, they'd never find your body.
Because of this, you feel death is your best option.
The way out its in the bathroom, take a few pills you'll be dead soon.
your running a race but you'll never finish it. But all your doing is trying to save face.
Now I'd like o take this moment, to tell you to take a bow, weight for the call of the Curtin, because you've fouled them all, they never knew you were hurtin'
After all this you come out alive.
Because some kid saw it in your eyes.
Remember that kid you watched get pushed to the ground, he knew that you were feeling numb and you really had no one.
the kid stud up for you when he never even knew you, he stood up because he really hoped you would come out of it, and be above it....but you never woke up, in your head you had enough, your mom cant see It because she's to busy trying to be 'it'. your dad doesn't notice you, and your brother doesn't even know you, so who can blame you for wanting to duck out?
cant say it agene ill see you when I don't want to pretend.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
Listen.
The drunk girls are so loud
when they cheer for us.
You know?
They're more excited
than we could ever be.
We are terrified to the bone.
Well, I know I am.
Though you fascinate me.
You don't need love, you found and lost your home.
Neither do I,
My old scars still sting.
I've ****** up.
We ****** up everything.
It's not all the girls,
just the ones that can't handle their cocktails.
Not the cool kids, who smoke,
drink pitchers of beer and
full bottles of *****
but can still count backwards from thirty.
Just the ones that love me,
know what would make me happy.
I'm not incapable of love,
we just don't like it.
My ego wouldn't let me anyway,
my important sense of self
forever blocks the way.
Do you understand how perfect I would have this be?
It horrifies me.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC