"postage" poems
the average cost of a funeral is
$8,515
death is unaffordable for me
put me in big oblong cardboard box
2 feet by 3 feet by 6 feet
packing list enclosed
fragile (not really)
please handle with care
keep upright
or
supine
send me to the
grande vide
postage due
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 12:55 PM UTC
Distance hurts
It touches you more than you can touch the other person
Distance hurts
Time and space both stretches infinitely, without a reason
Distance hurts
People change like postage stamps on a letter
Distance hurts
When you don't know if it's for the better
Distance hurts
You leave with them being as sweet as sugar
Distance hurts
When you come back and they seem so far
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Honest,
that meaningless word left dangling before children,
a damoclean sword held fast in a gordian knot tied with scarlet thread,
finer than the spider's that once tied men's souls to an angry American God,
birthed in Transylvania,
over the woods, and through the dale, no lie
There is a tale of lies told in Nobel houses, never reachin' ground,
Down here, we situations manifested to, vain, again, stem the tide,
We flounder, fish out of water, why are we sent if
wait
he hears, he listens, haps he knows, and
how such as we came
to be here,
Welcome and see, dare ye ask me in? Might I ply you with lies
and you, believe 'em?
I could make a mindless robot out of your parts, but
that would take forever and
that's not how
Wisdom's child would tend to be, for first,
You must believe a lie and I, amusing as can be,
can't tell lies.
Discernment, fine points, per-spicacity per se, the only way.
Good luck (Luc, said luck in many tongues, is said Lose- as in Luc-ifer.
It means light, as in light, regular old granted light.)
Lightifier, good, take some, good light, for the travail, in the night.
You see, not so long ago, for me, five years before I'as born,
my momma moved to town.
What was that like, I axed my old uncle, while back,
movin' t'town, in 1943?
Well, he says,
We had electricity.
USA, 1943, some folks still was poor, and all the good men
was gone to war.
Cities, it was different,
if the movies got it right, Bowry Boys, n'em.
In the desert we did, okeh, in town, though,
we had electricity.
He was ten back then. He'd been huntin' rabbit's,
to buy Christmas presents from Sears and Roebucks,
since he was five.
C'mon, I say. No lie, he say,
BLM or some gover'ment
whatsajigger, was payin' 2 cents a pair fer jack rabbit ears.
'Said he bought Christmas presents for his mom and dad,
and my mom, with his first rabbit money, at five.
Shootin' with a single-shot 22, 12 cents a box,
Jack Rabbits, 2 cents a head.
Three Christmas presents, plus postage, $2.56.
Do the math, I think, and go -
Five years old, at ten, he moves to town, 1943,
we had electricity. That's all.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
Please explain inflation
Why do prices rise
For when I go out shopping
They change before my eyes
I just don't seem to get it
why some go up and down
Why a red car's more expensive
Than a new car that is brown
I tried to do some simple math
I went back to the books
Now I think that all economists
Are just white collar crooks
Follow me on this one, now..
A buck in 1970 is now worth near five fifty
I don't know how they did it
But I think it's kind of shifty
A funeral costs much more today
But this one is a pickle
For in western movies I have seen
My life's worth a plugged nickel
That hasn't changed in many years
So, I made a decision
It has to do with the new math
And that ****** new long division
Wheat is up, and so is beer
And theres one that I resent
To put my worth in when it's asked
It's still just two **** cents
A house...well, that's a nightmare
Some cost more than you will earn
You'll be owing for a lifetime
Your mortgage you won't burn
Water, there's another thing
It's now worth more than gas
But now, our nice tap water
It's quality won't pass
Six cents would get you postage
To send a letter, that's not bad
Today..it's almost ten times that
And that is really sad
But here's one that's confusing
Of all the things you've bought
This one's never varied
It's still a penny for your thoughts
two bits could get a haircut
And it would also get a shave
But now to get this combo
It takes two weeks to save
Hockey cards they cost a dime
And baseball cards did too
But, now they're an investment
And a dime won't buy you two.
Please think on this real hard now
It's a tale that's really old
Let's find how Rumplestiltskin
Could spin straw into gold
Inflation is a ******
It's all over the earth
I say smile, and then bend over
And that's my two cents worth!
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 5:02 PM UTC
Fat was the first word people used
to describe me when I was a kid
And that didn't bother me much
until I found out it was supposed to
By the time I was fifteen
I knew what it was like to be clinically
overweight, underweight and obese
It was the year of menthol cigarettes
and baggy clothes
Hunching naked over a scale shrine
Mixing ***** with vitamin water,
complimenting each others thigh gaps
*The year breakfast tastes like giving up
and the only time you feel pretty
is when you're hungry*
Not obsessed with being empty
but afraid of being full
Replacing meals with more practical hobbies
like planting flowers or fainting
And ever since I started evaporating,
girls that never spoke to me,
stopped in the hallway
and had the audacity to ask how
And when I told them I was sick,
they told me I was an inspiration
How could I not be in love with my illness?
My eating disorder was the most
interesting thing about me
But how lucky I am now to be boring
To look at a sandwich
and see just a sandwich
Not half an hour of sit ups
or two spent hugging the toilet
This is the year I find more productive
things to do than googling the amount
of sugar on the back of a
lick and stick postage stamp
The year the calculator in my head finally stops
The year that I eat when I'm hungry
without punishing myself
And I know that sounds stupid
**but that **** is hard**
If you're not recovering, you're dying
When people asked me what I wanted to be
when I grew up,
I said skinny
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
don't understand me. this is not for you. It's for you.
my Gemini shin splints are pirates. hopeless Romans, romantically dismantling
the things you Undo. the things you You.
I Doctor in your Seuss canal.
with a frontal lobe, more Job
than a postage stamp -
in this Day and Age.
It's grey and rage -
with the tooth torn
out !
Out
through the probable snout
of the next mummified god-king
of our interlocking rot...
our chamber pots
spotting the oft begot good
of our evil
Mummenschanz
we are crepes' rue; yet we roulette best
in Typhoons
from murk
placid.
with 2.8 kids
and damp
matches.
we are
struck in a gale
of flaccid
dumb as a Belle of the Ball
that Squares
a Rube
with an Ism.... from Ix.
sometimes.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown
An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone, a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door
A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due, south a heaven sent ―
A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―
just read: Lydia ... ♡
... followed by a scribbled empty heart
The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin
The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web
An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in
The final unread words silently said:
*"We lost our way,
it all went wrong,
it all turned bad"
..."This is the outcome when someone you love
up and throws you away"
...“I’ll reach out from the inside
I’ll rise up again and do without”
..."You went out into the world
with an untamed hankerin’ ―
like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
and come back worlds apart"*
The Unsent Letter,
just whispered words to the dust in the wind
in quivering ink:
...*"how can I ever unremember you...?
a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"*
just signed: ... ❤ August
January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind ♡
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
Next to the iPad,
horn rim readers,
a book of postage stamps,
and a rubber eraser.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 6:49 PM UTC
Santa was a scrooge with presents last year
He only put a walnut in my Christmas bag of cheer
A letter of disappointment I sent to him
Asking him why on my presents did he skim
He never got back to me with a reply
I have discovered that Santa is a very stingy guy
Apparently he couldn't afford a postage stamp
To put on a letter addressed to my camp
A little peeved I am with Santa this year
He'll be spending few pennies on my Christmas cheer
I have given up on sending request to him
As he so likes making my Yule Tide Season so grim
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 9:33 PM UTC
you should take a vacation
visit the meadows of strip clubs and casinos
put all your money on black
come out on top, for me
come out on top, and visit me
across states and fogs and droughts
love in the form of postage stamps
i can hear your melody calling me
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
'At length I realise,' he said,
The bitterness of Life!'
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
'Unless you leave this house,' he said,
"I'll send for the Police!'
He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
'The one thing I regret,' he said,
'Is that it cannot speak!'
He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
'If this should stay to dine,' he said,
'There won't be much for us!'
He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
'Were I to swallow this,' he said,
'I should be very ill!'
He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!'
He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage Stamp.
'You'd best be getting home,' he said:
'The nights are very damp!'
He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
'And all its mystery,' he said,
'Is clear as day to me!'
He thought he saw a Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
'A fact so dread,' he faintly said,
'Extinguishes all hope!'
2.8k
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
REPUBLICANS
Former South Carolina GOP leader
kills dog to please God
Rob Beschizza
GERMANY
Germany's top domestic spy advised far right xenophobic political party on how to avoid being billed as "extremists"
Cory Doctorow
RUSSIA
Guy who pretends to ****** people for a living named Russian Goodwill ambassador
Seamus Bellamy
BUSINESS
We're going to be eating bugs really soon now, again
Cory Doctorow
POLICE
Surveillance camera shows off-duty NYPD cop dropping a weapon near man he shot in the face
Rob Beschizza
SCHOLARSHIP
When should the press pay attention to trolls, lies and disinformation?
Cory Doctoro
CORRUPTION
Wells Fargo: we stole houses and we're being investigated for ***** low-income housing credits
Cory Doctorow
LATE STAGE CAPITALISM
How Jpay gouges prisoners' families for "digital postage stamps"
Cory Doctorow
ALEX JONES
Alex Jones is suing the parents of a Sandy Hook victim for $100,000
Gina Loukareas
***
:(
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
Every time I walked these cobbled streets
its just after the rains
as if God himself is trying to wash
this city down the drains
Narrow streets and terraced houses
back yard postage stamps
overflowing dumpsters
cashless carry for the tramps
No vibrant colours to be found
just different shades of brown
the colour of depression
destined to drag you down
No wonder everybody leaves
can't wait to get away
escape this drab and dying maze
in search of sunny days
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 2:40 PM UTC
In the end, I never really climbed-
Them, they gave me panic attacks,
Razors loped my flesh and I ran in
Circles over a reverse nightmare,
Spiral staircase, awful storeys,
They all scooted to 1999.
I want to climb down my 1999, burn
And not be smolder in an ashtray.
I hope to fall asleep, away from
The city, away from my guava trees.
I have my history of walking,
Suddenly lost without postage stamps.
Will you take me to Ferris wheel?
Push me down the spiral staircase,
And sleep next to my 1999? Will you?
Will you take me to Ferris wheel?
Push me down the spiral staircase,
And sleep next to my 1999? Will you?
“Some other day”
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
wet. ambition of her silken hair
scatter my moral compass
but after terse words
we set out on the road
her tale carries us for miles
and leads to many thoughts
but I'm easily distracted and distraught
by soapbox celebritys and their
rabid claims to fame
and am left to letting her choose our path
she pens regrets to me and mails them
to the wrong address so ill never know her love for me
has grown cold
I befriend the postman
putting the letters of my words
carefully on his face with a fine line pen
but he keeps whispering that I should be
so sad because love has been rejected
and my heart was returned marked postage due
the description sours when
the ink hits the page
never quite suits the thought
as we trundle along the stony path
the bone rattling pace lends misgivings
find my way home in the song of her heart
find my weary way to her door
turning the door inward
and see the vault of her hearts fortress
reduced to rubble ans she has
now gone
she has fled eastward
wagon laden with tales and trinkets
her blue dress flowing over the side and fluttering in the breeze
wet ambition is no mercy
wet ambition is cold
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
I fell in love with you in the purchase of a postage stamp
I put your face and body and mind on paper
The way your hair curls
The way you jump with excitement and flap your arms
like a kid would on Christmas morning
How you were always there to turn to
Although I couldn't turn to you because you were never there
And by there I mean here, with me, where you should've been
I fell in love with the train tickets to you
The little orange squares like golden tickets
Granting me access to see you
To touch you
To share the foam of my coffee and laugh with you
at the man dancing at the hot dog stand
And when you finally stepped through my doorway
I swear it was Christmas and my birthday all at once
Planting my head on your chest
We bloomed and grew to heights I never knew was possible
And while little flowers blossomed at the ends of my fingertips
they grew on the tip of your tongue as you uttered those words
Those words to whom I have told but one; you
If I could find a word to describe the feeling of reading
the last several pages of a book you know has become your favourite
I would tell it to you
The hours that we whiled away and the ones that took up
the most of our day to get to each others arms before they took another’s
all meant something
And while the last bitter-sweet pages of our story have been read
Know that there's a girl who still writes you
You dance on the pages of her notebook
And while the postage stamps stay un-licked
She sends these poems to you
For in her mind you will always stay
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
Did you know? Cashew nuts grow on flowers,
and they grow one at a time.
Think of the distance between railway tracks:
this traces back to ancient Rome.
To know the true energy of the sun: imagine it
covered all over with postage stamps,
each square inch a bomb,
each exploding with power only comparable
to explosions in Hiroshima. Energy like that.
Think of this: how time once was unknowable
for being different to everyone, until trains began
and the post began arriving on time.
Did you know? Facts are enough to make a poem.
Where do poems grow? Do they come one at a time?
When did poems first set down their tracks?
What is the power of a poem? Does it explode?
Are poems different to everyone? Will we ever know?
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 6:31 AM UTC
Thoughts,
A curious thing,
Boat to boat,
Dream to dream,
Leap to leap,
Light bulb to beam,
Idea,
Spark to spark,
Jump start the cranial arc.
Neuron negotiation team.
Ambulance the ambivalence,
Channel out the Ritalin,
Limited dosages,
One day at a time, focusing,
Wake up, ECT voltages,
Sent them in the mail,
As postage just as,
Goldy-locked as porridges,
Clear the clouded vision, it's a must,
Derail the failure,
Exceed the labor,
Taste success, it's flavor,
Savor it.
Maintain a relationship with the Lord,
Escapin' and deflating ship,
Swallowed by the sea,
With a murderous howl,
Til' thoughts drift away,
Flow into the process womb,
The man that plays instruments,
Holds the key to the control panel of THINK,
Doesn't MIND this tomb,
Destiny and instinct,
Keeping each other in sync,
Putting one and two together,
Every time an internal light switch is flicked,
Not one soul around,
My thoughts mixed,
In this synaptic mail-room,
Unsorted letters,
Swimming through the mound,
Forever searching for their connections,
Til one day they'll meet,
Between then and now,
All that are lost in the end will be found.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
I’m a stamp -
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp” -
but I am a stamp
a postage stamp, that is;
unique and proud, in my own class,
for I’ve carried queens and kings and emperors
(I still do)
and I carry Presidents and Poets and Rock Kings
and Pop Kings
and Musicians and Legends and Heroes
and Gods and Nations;
and I carry **** blondes
and old dames who’ve dedicated their lives to others
I’ve borne with no complaints
the weight of genius
and soldiers and founders of nations
and martyrs; and I do not discriminate
and with like gusto and color
I’ve carried tyrants and murderers and charlatans
and once-were-legends now the shamed;
and look, I can encompass the universe
and within the shapes formed by my perforations
I’ve held together flowers and birds
and all wonders of nature
I am each a poem, a work of art
I’m a stamp -
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp”
(What? You heard me the first time, did you?
Well, I’ll say it again for emphasis!) -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud -
though, I acknowledge,
the image of Royalty or Heroism or Greatness has
not saved me from various knocks and hard presses
and the ******* bin!
But then, so have mighty royal heads rolled!
but look, hee…heee….heee…
I can be absolutely adorable,
and I just love, love it when you lick me;
and often too
I’m a collector’s item
increasing in value, and even with artistic merit -
though no doubt, there are countless with no idea
of how so darling precious I am
which is I why
I say proudly again:
I’m a stamp
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp”
(And what? Why do I repeat myself?
Well, there are thousands of copies
of one issue, aren’t there?) -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud
and I’ve created worlds all of my own
with pen pals and commerce
and industries and clubs round me;
and I’m not alone, you know,
well-supported by relatives
like prepaid postal envelopes, post cards,
letter cards, aerogrammes
all of us served loyally
by unquestioning Gurkha-style postmen and women;
and I’ve brought hearts and minds together
and I do it in a day or days and or weeks
and if I feel like it, I even arrive decades later! –
and there’s nothing you can do about it!
And oh yes, I can see, you’re prone to neglecting me -
you ungrateful scoundrels! -
first replacing me with cold
Franking Machines,
and cheap, unimpressive, unimaginative franking marks
and with postage meters
imprinting an indicia;
and all of you now
deriding my world as snail pace
in your world of instant e-mails -
but I persist, and I still am of much use
for - listen carefully -
and I say proudly again:
I’m a stamp
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp” -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud;
and if you, once in a while,
want to show me your loyalty –
come to a local post office and lick my royal ****
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 10:03 AM UTC
I've heard many jewels and gems
Flow out of your lips but
My favorite one of all those treasures
Is this simple, tiny pearl:
This word
Perspectives
A beautiful word that fell on my listening ears
On one of those countless,
Yet no less precious Friday nights
Huddled together in a small group made up of giants
Though I try
I can't recall what the topic was on that certain evening
But that word stayed with me
like postage stamps on love letters
Because for me,
That word best describes you
Perspectives
I see it in the photographs
you take so carefully
With those crafty fingers
You capture novels
with those simple objects and moments
You are an artist and a story teller
Perspectives
I feel it in your tight embrace
Your arms that are ever open and welcoming
And darling,
I'm beyind happy and thankful
That through the long and wild years
Your arms never became weary
In holding on to me
Perspectives
I see it in your smile:
A constant overflow from your heart
It's engraved on your lips and
No hot and tiring day or cold and dark night
Can ever wear it away
Because
I know well that
Hope Himself has made your heart His home
And He has set to flame galaxies
In your bright and burning eyes
Sarah
This air you breathe
Gets exhaled as some sweet aroma
With the rise and fall of your lungs
I'd be lying to call you unique because
That's a mere understatement
Your very being
Spells "different" differently
As you enter this new year,
This new leg in your journey,
Please do continue to splash
Color on the lives of others
As you dance with the Father
And may your eyes continue to reflect
The beauty of Creation
And the glory of the Creator
Always remember that I am with you
Through hilltops and valleys
And stormy skies and summer days
Together
We can turn this world upside-down
And see it,
Give it
A different
Perspective
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
i am
considering
buying tickets
to a lecture
on the cosmos
though my thoughts
have often
dwelt
amongst the celestials
in one form
or another
i know little
beyond
what was learnt
at school;
cursory details
when the vastness
of the universe
is considered
there is a desire
to understand
from where we came
of what made us
how we came to be
and
our chances
for a future
there is
a radiance
and pageantry
to the stars;
an expanse
that should incite
inspiration
and wonder
instead
this infinity
is a subject
dominated by
doomsdayers
and
doomsayers
without much
pity left
for
the rest of us
if i do
choose
to attend
i know that
i’ll be lost
to the magnificence
of the dwarfs
and nebulas
understanding
at best
half
of all that
is proffered
to be honest
i’m not sure
its worth
the £50
plus postage
when i think
i can predict
how it will end;
warnings
will be given
and advice
imparted
unfortunately
there is
no guarantee
i will still
be listening
May 5, 2022
May 5, 2022 at 6:04 AM UTC
Love is this...
.......
............
,,,,,
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night under a casino wheel of stars
..........or else a Tempest of Soul loud as a fishmonger
...............99p cola bottles & lonesome underdogs
.............that time you laughed on helium
... 'fuck me' neon signs in the street
...................sweet onion breath delirium
.................Millais's Ophelia all wasted & peeling from suburban billboards.
......................the time Virginia Woolf drowned & all the birds
forgot how to sing in Greek.
..............are we there yet
..............are we feeling the beat, beat, beat
..............of this raindrop
.........................do we need postage stamps.
................................why is your neighbor called Pete.
.........why did you kick a dog, Mamma.
............nothing is that which is understood
............why are you staring at this poem.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
His hands
burn away at my momentary doubt
my skin becomes softer beneath his lips.
his lips taste like a postage stamp for an unwritten letter
with slowly drifting fingers, he writes to me:
he asks about my day with his palm on my rib cage and his sighs in my ear.
he kisses the center of my chest, and tells me a story about friends I've never met
he suckles my ****** when he talks about his alcoholic father.
and he writes goodbye with his hips between my thighs.
he provides no return address.
he simply signs his name.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
Today I straightened all of the hairs on my head
whether they needed it or not. I like being organized.
Ironing out the kinks in my leather jacket with a baseball bat.
I try to cut the blues from the spinning record,
flicked numbered matchsticks across vinyl to
set the fleshed room on fire,
don’t touch me, I’m a real live wire.
Being on top of my **** is like handmaking
beeswax candles, I twist & turn, carving wax
in the air—There is always more to do, I
always tried to cross t’s and
sort the junk mail from the paychecks,
accidentally dropping cigarettes into the piles of post.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched you
lick postage stamps for the outgoing flood.
The laundry gets done even though I’m
too tired to pull my key out of the door.
I am in control of my own destiny.
I smoke Coca Cola & drink cigarettes for breakfast
because I don’t roll out of bed on the right side
of any given day, and
yesterday I put my foot
through the television
because tap-dancing on the shards
of the wood-paneled tube from dad’s first marriage
sings gnashed-teeth harmonies
with the microwave’s low groan at 3AM—
I used to eat cold spaghetti in torn jeans and nothing else
while you flipped through channels on basic cable
to hear the collage painting the end of the world. You were
always an empty can that year, you saved
orange peels to fill with oil to burn—
your name whispers itself into the grease hissings and
I hear it over the skyline and I cannot seem to find a match
to strike to light the last crumpled smoke in my pack—
All I want to do is send you photographs with singed corners,
photographs of your letters, attempts to burn away
any sight of you, ways to cut&bind; the flint that ignites
the only bonfire in my eye.
And sometimes I wish I could just scream at you until
the flowers crawl up the brick walls of your apartment;
my kitchen smells concrete like celluloid ashes and
if I snap my fingers to break broken promises and
floss my teeth with violin strings I might not miss you
anymore.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC