"ponging" poems
Guida & Me drove up to the ***** D
In my whip there was co-pilot Bryx and Captain Sleezy E
We rolled up to my yerp bro Brad D's
Next were greeted by Dino whos drinking a 40
Labatt Blue bonging and ponging like were competing for beer drinking glory
Then its onto asweome fries, saganaki, and telling funny stories
That night was crazy and a definite blast
Woke up the next day to see Dino's Dad's spot and gasp!
Walk into the kitchen to see Grandma Rontondo cooking homemade marinara
Smelling fresher than the lobby inside of a Panera
Next it's downstaris to the "Thunderdome," mindblow is all I can tell ya!
The food was amazing with Uncle D on the grill
Sammy the Bull said "Plastic Cups!" so that was the deal
Party was wild, popping bottles in other words unreal
Zoo was great, conductor swag was for real
Tigers beat the Twins, and that night it was freestyling, speeches, and Labatts on chill
Like the words of Willie Nelson the ***** D stays on my mind
I'll never forget that trip like my brain is a VCR and has the element of rewind!
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:00 PM UTC
It’s chocolate chip pancakes at 2:30am
And empty mugs of coffee on my desk
It’s adrenaline pumping through my chest
And the whir of my refrigerator
My focus is ping ponging between
All of the holes in the wall
Ignoring everything but
the pages in front of me
Watching everything through
A double pained glass
Realizing control is an illusion
I fight to get closer and closer to the audience
In my head
Exaggeration stretching onward like salt-water taffy
In the window
Fingers slipping, sweat beading
heavily above my upper lip
Not being 100% sure of anything
Who can blame me?
I am lost in the swivels of society
My face, as a ballerinas, when on pointe
An elegant mask full of nothing
Spinning and spinning
Relying on the inner soles of my feet
The clock slowly and forever slipping
As I cannot reach the top of the bunny hole
Too ******* stubborn to let any of the voices
In my head tell me I should crawl away
So, I look down and begin to read.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
Your hair was longer.
That's the one thing about you that is sticking in my mind.
That, and the fact that I've seen those jeans a million times.
But I still can't breathe when I think about it.
I dropped my eyes so quickly I went blind for a moment.
No words were said between us, the talking from the others filled the room far better.
I couldn't even look at you past the initial one when you waltzed right into my profusely damaged psyche.
Your voice in my ears was an angry grater to my nerves.
Your reaction to me there mirrored mine:
Nonchalant indifference.
We no longer exist to each other.
I finally got what I've wanted for seven months.
I finally know you still exist, that you're still alive.
I have some solace in that, but mostly just stunned disbelief.
I was in the Twilight zone, my life for the past seven months flashing before my eyes and going right down the drain.
The effect you had on me was a **** poor excuse for the one you used to have on me.
But my heart still ricocheted against my core and my torso was enveloped in horrendously painful flames.
I couldn't utter a single word to you, my thoughts ping-ponging around my head.
Or maybe the reason is because I have nothing left to say to you.
My words have dried up just like your affection long ago.
I have no words for you.
No words would justify your actions, nor mine.
No words would even come close to actually portraying what I've felt because of you.
The pain, the guilt, the betrayal, the pure, agonizing rage, the exhaustion, the inability to eat.
Truth be told, I'd rather experience all that than bow down at your feet anyway.
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
the brethren gathered round
after word had gotten out
dented ping pong *****
usually accepted the reality
of a dent and what it meant
no more ping ponging around
or getting flung around
at warp speed Chinese style
no more the thrill
of the short under-spin
or the super-wide side-spin
the kicker or the ghost serve
fast down the line
the hook serve
(Mirano and Ito) style
or the thrill
of just slightly grazing
the net ever so fleetingly
in a mad dash
to the corner
of the table
sure clipping the net
and going over
is considered to be
a faux pas
or in proper parlance
a let that serves no purpose
other than a let service
who knew it would all
be so transitory
so transactional
sure there was hope
the boiling frog scenario
that was possible
but not mid-game
the solution was more trouble
than it was worth
the core of a throwaway culture
is so embedded
that just reaching out
for a new three star
fresh out of the box
replacement with the bounce
and ****** only a virginal ball
could provide not unsurprisingly
so satisfyingly that who could resist
so as the brethren gathered round
and looked up at their forlorn brother
teetering on the edge of the table
they knew and felt the inevitability
another dent and there would be
no coming back
"Don't do it"
"Somebody get a net"
"Go for it"
"Boiling water will bring you back"
suddenly
as if in slow motion
the ball flung itself
over the edge
into the blackhole
of an uncontrolled freefall
of top-spins side-spins back-spins
under-spins back top-spins
reverse back-spins
there was some kind of tunnel
a rapidly approaching light at the end
a shiny bright and luminous light
it was getting closer and closer
the brethren scrambled
in a nanosecond
the reel had been loaded
its life flashed before it
on some kind of cosmic screen
then the put-away stroke
set over
game over
Sep 12, 2024
Sep 12, 2024 at 4:36 PM UTC
my pocket has one nickel & Mason's has a dime;
a transient, red rubber ball ping-ponging deep faith with & for
carnival trash is what falls from the
raccoon's mouth past three; the midnight tour, troupe, &
egret have plucked my eyes out before petit dejeuner
& have all booked residence with lush vagabonds from
some oasis on the curb of Suburbia, the ottoman wet where
lore slumps the backs of the fairest; where,
beyond equanimity there boons & beckons
tightropes, slacked tension; and where folklore swells
arteries like King Cake; the swamplands have my pocket
picked; pock-marked truants (BOY) fiddling in fours
during school hours, cakey margarine spread all
over their legs as they eat grilled cheese and
become, ****
in the ambrosian daylight fogged out with figgy shade
by thick, carpet-fondling curtains, sagging with secondhand soot.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 5:58 PM UTC
Wayfinder or Polaris
was the name of the poem
that had been ping-ponging around my periphery
for the better part of two months
This, I thought, would be my magnum opus
the most perfect expression
of the safest direction
I’ve ever known
I envisioned myself writing it out
finally
in Word on my Dell
between case notes
or maybe on a scrap piece of paper
while parked waiting for a client
No fanfare
that is how I imagined it
Important things always flowed effortlessly
like the boy with hair
that was my new favorite color
But that was not the reality
that I have ever lived in
Wayfinder: Polaris
My dad had tried to explain it to me many times:
“The northern star is located in the little dipper;
it is the last star in the handle”
It was lost on me, though
So I tattooed the words on my skin
never considering the still raised lines could
somehow outlast the sentiment
of the lover who never actually
had to speak the words
typing…
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC