"placements" poems
You have stars in your hands
and you hold them like grenades.
The boats tattooed on your thighs
spread out like finger placements of the G major chord.
Synthetic drugs make chains
tying your first and second fingers
around the mechanically rolled paper,
canvasing your throat like too much sea water,
each breath as rough as the veins in your arms.
Close your eyes
there’s pollen in the air
spread out like imperfections on the skin of an apple.
Solar countries keep foreign coins
sewed into their cotton sails,
they put their money into the navy.
You have a comet in your circulatory system
leaving bright spots under your skin
a reminder to gather the sunshine back under your eyelashes.
Hand soap in ketchup packets
make bubble bath islands
and unhappy lips.
You’re as talkative as a poem and
as expensive as a poppy
with homemade constellations on your back,
staining your lumbar muscles with cherries.
I can’t wash off your fingerprints
with my favourite shampoo.
I’ll swim across the Georgia Strait,
dodge your dinghies and
make a home in handmade ships
where I’ll practice erasing scars from my arms
and washing the soap from my hair.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer.
To each their own
(a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect),
But sometimes I find it hard to understand
The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements.
The usual answer, if I dare ask:
I'mhxpressthinmythelf.
Good for you.
Does the diaper pin through your cheek
Tell us you're a Dad or something.
Na.
The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear?
Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something?
Na.
The doll-house plates in your lips?
Are you a Duck Dynasty fan?
A member of the Audubon Society or something?
No. I'mapontingxprschmyselpth!
Sorry, what was that?
I'mapontingxprschmyselpth.
I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying.
I don't mean to be rude,
But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC
For years I’ve had marbles tucked in my mouth,
Different colored weights that pulled on my glands, on secret saliva.
For years I’ve had marbles in my mouth and I forgot to spit them out or hide them away so I let them become permanent placements in my always-cavities; soon they even slipped so easy into my bloodstream.
The black ones made me say yes too often.
The reds made me want to bleed.
The blues made me cry, obviously. They stood guard on my tear ducts, deciding when and how to show emotion. They didn’t let me cry that night. They didn’t let me cry for months. Now I am crying almost everyday, and I am shooting those blue marbles straight to the moon; I’ve had it with avoiding emotion every day of my life.
The yellows made me want to forgive you, made me want to **** on sunshine, made me want to clamber into your mother’s arms, let her know that it wasn’t your fault. The yellows are ********
The cat eyes have me avoiding eyes with every man on the street, so sure they will spit out words that they expect me to lap up like milk with an easy grin, tail twitching for attention. The cat eyes have me distrustful, have me always knowing it could happen again.
The rainbows loosened my tongue, had me admit secret sexualities, let me march in parades and kiss girls, had me falling over myself tripping into love.
I’m not sure who this poem is for anymore, or what it’s even about. The doctors say I have the cleanest bloodwork they’ve seen in a while, I don’t ask them about the marbles. They refer to some of them as disordered.
I’m not sure if they’re marbles anymore, I think they’re just me,
and I’m sorry I’m getting off-track, the marble in my hand right now is glitter and sparkle and confusion and I’m trying so hard to stay put.
Give me the orange ones, the fire, ones that looks like Mars
or Jupiter.
Give me two moons, or maybe sixty-six.
Give me a giant ladder.
This is about running away.
This is about playing with your marbles
and learning everything about them
and staying put.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 5:11 AM UTC
Somewhere out in another universe,
I'm 12 years old
and I'm sitting on my bed listening to something through
a hopelessly tangled white headphone string,
flipping through the dog-eared pages
of my favorite book while everyone is sleeping.
The sticky, syrupy air of summer floats through an open window
and nothing bad has happened to me,
no scalding words or hot fingers
etching their prints into my skin.
I haven't menstruated or fallen in love or yet shrunk myself down
or any of the things that made me a woman.
I am warm in my white tank top
and the blue satin shorts with the printed clouds
wondering about trips to the beach
and sticker placements on my new notebook from Borders.
And I hope she's always able to stay like this,
that she never knows of the kinds of stains
that won't wash out of her white tank top.
And that every once in a while,
I might just catch a second of her laughing
from the room next door.
Mar 28, 2023
Mar 28, 2023 at 12:56 PM UTC
Stunning she called the morning to gather it was her reflection that made all luminous and she
Turned from side to side all quarters of sun and shade settled in precise conforming feature it
Had no deviation it had no desire but was content to be her blossoming statement where her
Hair softly flowed down the sides and back was illusion and reality colliding slipping into a soft
Dark unspoken richness that defied appropriate telling her forehead was the first mold God
Used to make the first Angel from this creation dreams were first formed they arose mist like in
The quietest indulgence of the mind the eye brows were the seeding place of richest
Placements on fine porcelain it would begin the guessing of wonder how can such creation be
The eyes were jewels not mined in any worlds that we know cheeks aglow from fires deep
Within jungles unexplored by man the nose pristine you have to venture forth to rarest tents
Where nomads set in the midst of tapestry where inlaid golden folds lay with purist
Silver and emerald cloth and distilled breathing of goddesses and gave them a fitting that
Staggered the thoughts of those who came to look on these sights her lips were desire
Encapsulated in pink the entering of layers rivaled one another one on the top and between
Teeth a mix of ivory and pearl to be exposed was to lose ones breath and cast away
Reason briefly the chin the master stroke the line flowing from the ear was the perfect order
Holding all in eye appealing perfection the neck was enthralling understated composure
Shoulders rounded joining the graceful arms that premiered as musical a ***** that completes
Everything into perfection curvaceous loveliness man proclaims his strength woman surpasses
Him through soft quiet femininity that even assures his success through these powers that rise
Not from pride but from gifts that is profound and indescribable not better than man but the
best of man resides in her heart of hearts
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
A storm blew through early, left frost
etched, lit, glistening, on
a window's waking surface.
I sit framed by that translucence,
my daughter aligns, orders
mirroring matroyshka doll members.
I reflect on an essay*, how
poems are a symbol of will,
concluding a pact, perhaps
achieved in diction, image metaphor,
adherence to structure, rhyme, form.
Might these devolve to decoration? Or,
trace the transmission of "will to
commitments," expressing “intent”,
"weakly lost or strongly spent?”
Frost etchings fissure, shift, glint, slide
on their emergent effluence,
configure in gusts of cognition.
I sense a covenant in these lines.
my daughter adjusts her doll's placements,
the promise of one revealed in the other.
Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks
——————————————
Attribution:
Stanzas 3, 4, and 5 are greatly influenced by my reading the Robert Frost essay titled *THE CONSTANT SYMBOL.
The short phrases in italicized quotes are direct quotes from that essay.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
It was a Bodybuilding show
I prepared hard for this contest
I will practice my posing being the flow
It was all the intensity throughout all the stress
But my muscles must look their absolute best
I was determined with the ******** weights
It was my mission of training and that was my everyday date
I wanted to be the reigning Bodybuilding champ
But for now I am thinking on amp
I prepared really well
In the Bodybuilding Judge’s eye, it will tell
I will be backstage in the pump up room I will go
Filling my muscles with blood being the flow
Then I will flex hard to see my muscles at their best
The audience will have their eyes focused as my physique being the confess
Then step on the platform stage in showing my physique at the contest
The spotlights will be on
It’s center stage where I belong
Flex upon flex seemingly long
The cheers from the audience
The anticipation from the Judge’s
The announcement of the Bodybuilding placements
I am in the Bodybuilder’s winning circle
First place award in my hand
What more can I command?
The timing of my diet being out of sight
My physique in how it was tight
My flex could go on, but I made history, so let me step down from the stage where I belong.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
Drawn lines amongst the willows dripping,
Shadows of the morning,
Sight set upon the evening star,
He gazes at the solstice moon,
Plots placements of the plinths and altars,
Holds the hearts of sarsens.
Tomorrow all the villagers will come
Expecting messages and blessings.
Tonight he only dances.
Robed arms upraised
Reflect the branches overhead
Now shattered by the starlight,
Recessional of priesthood.
Across the yawning sway of centuries
He smiles.
He knows the fervid moss
A dream much like his own and all those after,
How the generations falling down
Will wonder, touch the giant stones
And breathe
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
The New Mexico sky is alive,
redder than a child’s wagon on a dusty front lawn
and the stars blink like forgotten Christmas lightswhile constellations shift, dissatisfied with their placements, sending ripples through mythology with every new shape they make.
We have blankets and enough hope among us
to keep the morning star burning above the far hills—
I am flanked by mountainous profiles;
the crag of a nose, the devastating valley of a lip.
We are wondering if someone out there could read our thoughts
if someone would take an interest in what puts our bodies together.
Misguided, we gaze upward.
It’s crazy to believe we’re alone in the universe, someone says,
and I smile into my shoulder, considering,
of all things,
space:
the starry unknown
between fingers and words.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 4:48 AM UTC
At first, I caught a delusion...
Of what simply needed to fade away
The paperboy comes here with his pay
And seems to stay here all day
He signs all my documents with a rubber stamp
And brings back my drugs like a champ
Temporary placements...
Deciding not to burn out
I went outside to hear my neighbourhood's point on doubt
All of them had varying opinions
And each one of them had to shout
I smiled and said "Don't shout, don't pout!"
I was determined that it would never happen again
And now the same person comes here with a blood drop on his lense
He said he slipped and fell and cut himself on the sharp edges of the fence
I told him to use soap, rinse and cleanse
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 6:37 AM UTC
Stop rocking my boat.
Stop shaking me like a salt shaker
Because I am not salt, nor am I in salt water.
Oh bother, Oh geeze, Oh man.
Understand your limits, know your course
Because you are crossing every line.
You are not the cone to my pine.
You are in my space. Placements, statements
So insincere, my dear.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 8:10 PM UTC
her first Christmas tree
rising to the ceiling
the green scent of fresh pine permeates
papa put up all the lights
now it’s her turn
a treasure of ornaments
buried in tissue paper
a small, brightly colored stuffed menagerie
made by her Aunts and Uncles
when they were just kids
glittered, glistening plastic snow flakes
shiny, smiling ornaments of different sizes
and unusual shapes
most of them older than her
going back three generations
it’s quite a task
but Grandma said she could do it
unwrapping with care
choosing just the right placements
when she’s hung her last hook
my little niece stands back
aglow with happiness she whispers
“It’s perfect”
Del Maximo
© December 8, 2009
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:27 PM UTC
tonight, i stand still,
all but well and slain by your
widening grin, with hair casting
ill-sketched shadows across
your cheek, out in the street, under
these humming lamps. under
this enveloping front.
some moment my head reeled
reveries of pretext for. still,
here i blink,
so unprepared. stuffing my
belongings into a tramping
pack late at night. laid out
on the couch arm. nothing knows,
now, i'd rather see you than
anything. careful footprint
placements. we got time, yeah.
still, honey, i'd trade magnitudes
of it up, for just just just a
handful extra seconds
skirting your gaze.
still,
honey, i'm atypically hopeful;
trembling here. i'm lit up
like you couldn't believe. i'm
on fire and kept warm,
throughout this meanwhile;
undertow miles away. grass
shooting up through the
soil in the back
yard.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
There once was a mathematician, who
hypothesised long ago that I would
learn to love him. His words were all logic,
plans and placements, everything set in
stone for me to keep. He said that, one day,
my heart wouldn't break at the prospect
of love and that I would get over my
pure fear - of me, of him, of... us. He
promised that, one day, his love would be
returned to him when I realised exactly
what he was to me.
He was right.
But I was too late.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
Lately I've been going in strange directions,
I've been going about this all wrong,
And I don't think there was a right way either, but maybe something better.
There's always something better.
I've been counting out all the options and the faults and their placements,
I've been looking in store windows and staring at all the faces I see when I walk down the city streets at night,
I'm just trying to find a way to make this right
How do I make it right?
How do I make it right?
And these nightmares eat my brain when I sleep,
I'm paranoid someone is watching me,
And they know I've been trying to make this right,
When there is no right,
Time to give up the fight?
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
In your eyes I saw the power to sow my own destruction
So I looked away trying not to memorize the exact placements of your tattoos
Or all the freckles that you’re made of
But I wasn’t quick enough and now your entire body is etched permanently into my mind
In that space that doesn’t allow love
To be held
And as I remind myself that great *** does not equal great love,
But that great love always equals great pain,
I know that great wars were started under the guise that it does
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 5:32 PM UTC
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
this pattern never fails to deliver its best score
they who follow the method will be profiting
many times one has seen this eventuating
they're slotting into the bay's ideal shore
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
utilizing a placements good calculating
is not for them an overly arduous chore
they who follow the method will be profiting
success coming with each prized offering
being educated about this niche's core
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
it appears to be in the model's situating
this their station known as precision's store
they who follow the method will be profiting
on working out a program's functioning
none received counts which would bore
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
they who follow the method will be profiting
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
There exists
such a distorted need
to be inflexible and stagnant
Not allowing change...
Dangerously
Coming close to becoming
a "caricature of our former glorious selves"
How sad...
that it happens…
but even worse …
that it still does not
ignite change.
It must be agonizing
To be driven by the fear
of appearing weak
or too radical
or loosing perceived powers
or social placements.
Suffering through spiritual implosion
dreading condescension
or rejection.
By peers
let alone
From a creator
That they barely believe in…
I wish there was
really
something I could do
to help.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
i could of been a million things,
but i'm one of those million.
A billion manipulations,
hundreds of thousands of conversations,
and a trillion situations,
but i'm now just the combination,
of the placements of those subtle decisions.
the result is this.
an accumulation of bad decisions,
and fear.
conditioned to do what maintains my survival,
rather than whats vital to experience.
i'm nowhere near the person i could of been.
or should of been.
but it's too late now,
to change my stubborn ways.
a scared diplomatic reasonable boring *******
that can't ride the rollercoaster.
that can't sky dive.
that can't leave the country.
that can't commit suicide.
pragmatic and content.
the worst combination.
i can't break the mould of my equation.
too sensible.
not scared,
just placid.
emotionless.
dead inside,
money means nothing,
success is nothing,
doing nothing is nothing,
but its easier as it has the same result.
i used to feel something,
but i don't know when that was.
maybe it was me.
maybe it was the ****
maybe it was the world.
maybe it was the girls.
either way,
now,
nothing is my only friend.
and I've tried to feel -
but its not worked for nearly ten years.
i'm not sure i'll ever feel anything again,
but i'll pretend things matter, so i can fit in.
I was asked am i excited to go on holiday,
i said yes,
but i wasn't.
nothing changed.
nothing ever has.
I've seen so many things in the past few years.
neil young.
rolling stones.
bob dylan.
radiohead.
foo fighters.
i stayed in jim morons motel room.
i felt nothing.
literally nothing.
i've succeeded more than ever before -
i won a £1500 last night.
Nothing.
It's my only friend and only emotion and none understands why i can't feel anything.
I dont understand it either.
I would do anything to feel terrible,
or anything,
pain,
love,
hope,
happy,
sad,
anything.
my feelings are frozen in stone.
I can't even care - it doesn't even bother me.
I'm just aware of it.
Nothing is my everything now.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
Be all, see all, say all
in insignificance, sightless and inarticulate
what else to own but superficiality and posturing
belligerence in the absence of self-worth and substance
inadequacies, vices and shame all painted in snowflakes hues
the gut wrenching fact of the disadvantages of life's station and status
that limitation of social placements and scarcity of development
the cossetted ignorance bred and the hackneyed minds
the riveting pain of resultant bad choices made
the hate and self-loathing ingested within
that staining perception of oppression
the anger of not being good enough
of un-taken opportunities
of being down-trodden
the inferiority complex
frustration of hardship
invisible and unheard
what can they do, what can they say
oh hell, find them a way to vent and depressurize
find them a scapegoat to blame and share their suffering
give them an object to demonize and castigate and burn at the stake
give them a sacrificial lamb to relieve their incessant angst and anger
Let them be all comrades
Let them inflect suffering and gape
Let them be able to say we have tied Colossus down
Oct 24, 2019
Oct 24, 2019 at 4:52 PM UTC
so many things wander
in the night of the world - electric
saw of the Hemiptera's wing uncertain
of its path, or a hand like a beast
in the ornate flesh, the sea of
undergarment with its saltine moistness,
limbless lips frittering onto squashed out
softnesses that remember the fervor
of grip or the pleasures of breathing after
the tempest of beings,
so many things in different placements
displacing me here,
savoring the impact just before the crunch of the bone,
down to its last ache between the
gnash of teeth and the miserly space
of cerecloth to a body—
they are many things trundling
in the moment and i am just as much,
yet a passing only, scouring the walls
of graffiti emblazoning abstract unfathomably reachable and misunderstood, lost in ineffable translation — this doting darling
contemplates death and
i understand now, going deeper
as fish sinks into further blue,
wet with something else but water.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
*Alone with a pen.
Thoughts walking along the coffee hue paper; it's life consisting of nothing but words with wanting.
Words that want a change in th e world that speaks, with tongues all the same.
Words that have lines, dots, loops.
Different placements have never tore the unity of worlds apart.
Alone with in emptiness.
Impossible feet, made possible with those with belief.
Of those who speak with not tongues.
Of those who mark with not ink.
But are alone with the many, and complete with the few.
Those that are the ancestors of the ancient tongues, and the creators of the scribbled ink.
Alone within and empty...
Alone with a beginning...
Alone with a pen...*
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 6:30 AM UTC
The best part about high school band
Is not the trophies
The awards and medals and ribbons
Those things are great, but there’s more to it
The best part about high school band
Is not the stadium lights
Late nights spent laying on the warm turf during water breaks
The August heat and November snow
These things are wonderful, but there’s more to it
The gift of being able to hold an instrument in your hand
And produce the sound of the human soul
You are able to create an unforgettable experience
for hundreds and thousands of people
Simply with the breath in your lungs and the apparatus in your hands
This is the best part about high school band
You have the ability to combine notes and rhythms and chords
And bring tears out of the eyes of the audience in the process
Cherish this gift, for not all will have the chance to possess it
You’ll forget the scores and placements and how tall the trophies stood
but you’ll remember the power, the family, the passion
Hold tightly to these things, because four years will flash before your eyes
And you will miss it more than you could have ever imagined
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
Let's recreate
The beautiful moment
That I believe
I fell in love with you.
It was November the second,
Two thousand thirteen
And of all days,
It was a band competition.
An important one,
A Bands of America Regional
In the lovely
St. George, Utah.
I don't remember the weather,
And I don't know whether
Or not it's the same for you,
But this is what I recollect:
We had performed in finals,
As we were so surprised to do so
Our preliminary performance
Not being so great.
But finals was great.
It was my best performance so far
And that feeling I felt
When I stepped off that turf;
Magical.
We put our instruments onto our semi
"Optimus Pride," as we call it
We put our hats away
And received instructions to go get dinner.
I found you immediately
I believe promising you to hang out
After we stepped off
So I could tell you how everything would go down
You're a freshman, after all
Your first BOA.
I had been telling you all sorts of little
Tips and tricks this season anyway
And you were willing to listen and take heed.
Anyway,
We met up.
And we both felt this
Hype.
A most magical Hype.
A high higher than any high from any drug
And we were crazed;
Band does this sort of thing so some, such as us.
And so we went around
Hugging others who were also feeling the Hype
And talking about hopes of high placements
For Full Retreat,
And how I had promised you
We would go around and talk to the other bands
And go meet their trombone sections
But I remember
In the Hype
The look that was in your beautiful eyes
Almost a craze
And in love sort of look.
And that was when I realized you've finally found the magic.
That was when I knew you were in love with this dorky activity
Just as much as I.
And that was what made me fall in love with you.
That look.
And it wasn't even reserved for me
But I knew you felt passionate about something
That I too felt passion for.
That look.
Now that I've been thinking about it,
I can't get it out of my head.
That look.
Now that I've been thinking about it,
I realized I haven't seen it since then
For whatever reason.
And I miss it.
I want to see it again.
I need to see it again.
And it is lovely and all what that look was originally meant for
But I'm hopelessly wishing
That that look could
Be reserved for me
And that that look meant that
You were in love with me.
But of course,
Things almost never work in my favor,
And that's okay
I'll get over it
And until then,
I'll see that look
Whenever I close my eyes
And relish the memories I have
Of that wonderful
Autumn day.
That you for sharing that moment with me.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC