"postmarked" poems
Sep 15
2 0 15
your poem read,
awoken by lightening flashes of
morning notifications arriving,
postmarked from
"I liked it"
but it does not
end there,
continues,
to a new ending
who and why,
who and why,
did this one find
their own
worthy in it
that was writ unknowingly
just for them
and
you look them up,
guessing
who and why,
rereading your hand's work,
which verse was it,
was it for a blessing or a
curse,
that touched them,
that made them
touch
you
each "like,"
a work in itself
re examined,
re searched,
re imagined
in the
light of
who they are
and
why they are
liking words I wrote
a single poem
bring hours of imagination,
each "like"
individually gift wrapped,
each human liking rapt,
each imagine a rapture,
each "like"
a new poem
about the who and why
each name a disguise to unravel,
each name a title
of a new different,
imagined poem,
who and why,
we
like
each other
~~~
6:53am
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
Spectrous aberrations of youth
Surround him, embrace him
Leaving him disoriented, dismayed
Amidst sultry belongings
He’s tethered to that pole of vicissitude
Draped by disfavor
Postmarked Valhalla
Addressed to Folkvangr
Teased by irreverent lovers
In pursuit of contentment
His chronicles restart
In an unpublished testament
Bound by leather, cows unfettered
One lifeless body stationary
Crimson streams part chalk-dry lips
As love’s guillotined victim drips
His future’s fortune forsaken
Willingness to triumph in battle
Leaks from this dimension
With each fluxing discharge
Of her stream’s outgoing apathy
And his fluid permeates alluvium
In streambeds near life’s summit
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 11:12 PM UTC
is it winter where you are?
no snow
or blizzards, just
chill fog
and frost.
the winter of a city
that gave up long ago.
--------------------------------
winter seems to follow you.
damp grey mornings
skulking at your feet like a beaten dog.
whimpering in mist
and growling in
weak thunderstorms
that can't quite wash away the clouds.
kick december in the ribs
because you know it will always come back
to sleep at your feet.
winter seems to follow you
but
i could be wrong.
--------------------------
i know all about stormchasers
but you're so much
sadder
than that
[pathetic like a beaten dog]
not chasing death
or danger
just defeatism.
chasing defeat and hopelessness
and grass-made-glass
by the frost of the night before.
---------------------
is it winter where you are?
is december shivering at your door?
in my room it is fall,
and all the rotting leaves
remind me of you.
------------------------
is it winter where you are?
you've evaded the summer all your life
hot air
and sun
killing the clouds.
the indian summer will catch up with you
and september
will melt you
through.
pathetic puddle of defeatism.
aggregated mist
and fog
like a beaten dog,
sinking into the deepest blues
and grays
but oh
you were always
the patron saint of denial.
------------------------------
rip me apart like the letters you never sent
postmarked 'tomorrow, tomorrow'-
but tomorrow never came.
[it's hard to tell dawn from dusk
when the sky is always
gray.]
runaway notes from a foreign season.
rip me apart and i won't think of you anymore.
rip me apart
and all your apologies,
condolences
and accusations
will be scraps of paper under dry leaves.
-----------------------------------
*i'm tired of following my dreams
when they just lead me off the cliffs.*
you follow winter into the sea
and drown a whimpering dog.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
“I need to write a poem”
Were the first words out of my mouth when my mother told me about
The Letters
One letter arrived one day, postmarked July 1st, 2014
I don’t know when it arrived, but that day
I guess that day her soul earned it’s wings
That day, that one day
My soul crumbled as hers rose to the heavens, with that piece of paper
that had Apology scrawled all over it in that handwriting of hers that
Didn’t change one bit
I was watching my family extra closely as my mother read the letter out loud
I didn’t want to see any of us hurt anymore even though I knew in my heart
We would get through this
We’re Zelinskis, strong and forgiving
We open our hearts to perfect strangers and welcome them into our home with hugs and laughter and game nights that don’t end at midnight
We are one in suffering and one in rejoicing
We wear the teachings of the bible on our shirtsleeves and kindness drip drops from our eyes
My dad says
We’re all children of christ
But Children still get hurt
My sister, she chose Laughter
My brother, his face was a blank canvas as I rubbed and rubbed, trying to see through the white blanket of paint that masked his emotions
My sister in law told me the Truth
My brother, I don’t know, I just hope he listens to his heart this time
My sister, she has a wedding to plan
Me,
Maybe I’m the only one who wanted to be angry
Maybe I’m the only one who sees their pain even though they can’t
Or maybe I’m delusional and no one’s really affected by the Letter
We’re still children
I’m still bouncing around the house, following the older kids around like a lost puppy
My sisters are still my heroes and my brothers
Are still my knights, my Protectors, the ones I could sass and make fun of because they
Did the same to me but with much more force than my small voice could carry
We’re still children
I know nothing of The Letters
Instead, I’m welcoming Her into our home again with a tray full of Grandma’s famous chocolate chip cookies and the goofy grin of a six year old
I’m meeting Her eyes again
Only this time
I know she’ll leave
This time, I know how much time I have
So I’ll write my letter now
And instead of remorse and anger
I’ll fill it with good times and Remember Whens
I’ll put it in the mailbox, swipe the red flag up
And wish on the mailman that you’ll get it
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
She’s swinging from a different home plate
Our dictionaries don’t have enough words for her
She needs more
But not from here
Cause she’s not from here
She’s from everywhere we’re not
And when she writes
We are well aware of it
She spears me through the heart with her lines
But the last word never fails to politely cauterize
So her poetry leaves a mark
Fascia tattoos from Planet M
Messages sinking deeper in
Underneath everything human
Into the soul’s skin
That’s the reach of her pen
(Down below the circus of our understanding)
She lives down there, and sends postcards up
In the form of poetry
Dear so and so,
“there is a hole in your belly.
this is where those precious things fall that you drop”
Dear Mariah,
I know, I know
But I can’t seem to keep my hands dry
Knowing she will just sigh
And keep writing her poetry post cards
Postmarked “upstairs”
As the circus bustles and bangs above
I am sure she takes breaks
And comes up
For cotton candy
(blue/orange - yellow/purple)
of course
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
You have become like the specter of my youth
A knothole seeping deadly fumes
Surrounding me, embracing me
Leaving me intoxicated and defeated
In a pile of filthy belongings
Tethered to this pole of existence
Wrapped in disregard
Postmarked for the gates of Valhalla
Addressed to sirens of the flat rivers
And dropped at the feet of irreverent lovers
You are my memory and the end of all complacency
The beginning of a new chapter
In a volume to be published
Bound in leather
Taken from cows raised in pastures
Decapitated and sawed open
Removing vital organs from lifeless bodies
Supported by a hook
From which brain chemicals drip
And neurons fire
Through a convict with his blindfold on
Moist cigarette, dangling off his lips
Air breathed by love’s guillotined victim
Rattlesnake’s discarded skin
You take from me coconut’s milk
Fuel for foddering the future
And willingness to triumph in battle
I leave your kingdom
Hopeful for patronage
Seeking refuge, perchance amongst palms
Floating on what seems a sliver
In your filthy sea’s apathy
I bide my time, until delivered
Until my tawny encasings unravel
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 11:00 PM UTC
If my tongue were a pen
every word would be a postmarked
love letter to your ears.
If my tongue were a pen
my words wouldn’t have
cut so deeply and left you
with coupons you’ll never
use and bills that are past
due.
The page is my playground.
My Church.
My Sanctuary.
My Womb,
Our eyes are doorways to
the secrets that make us
who we are
This dark haired face with three
day scruff and glasses is a
single sentence out of context,
and our chapter isn’t finished.
I am fishing on a lake
at five years old.
passing my driving test,
graduating high school,
I am both an old soul
who
lived too much
too young,
and a child reaching
for candles
in the darkness.
If my tongue were a pen,
my darling,
my soul
would slide its fingers
through your eyeballs
and bury itself in
the deepest recesses
of your heart
If my tongue were a pen
instead of picking up all the
bad memories of this apartment
with piles of ***** clothes,
you would
find the words and phrases
we phased out of our lives for a forgotten
reason at the end
of an empty bottle night.
I am moving to a new city at 25,
becoming a Father.
Invisible to my child.
A Stranger.
I am meeting you for the first time,
we are children holding hands
in the darkness
We were children jumping from
swings,
We were the children
who knew just enough
We told each other all our secrets
We shut doors
We blew out candles
if my tongue were a pen
My darling,
it would tell you
we are not a mistake.
we are a
collection
of unfortunate
accidents
that became
something
beautiful.
Turn the Page.
BG-4/10/17
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 11:32 PM UTC
We are the coffee stains on waiting tables
That lie unattended in cafes
Of our own making
We are the imprints
Of a life lived haphazardly
Without any patterns to follow
We are…and are nothing more
Each day I immerse myself
In the torrent of a New York Sidewalk
Knowing that Life and death
Have never been closer
Than at this very moment
Each day I see people
Living lives of quiet desperation
Caged in suits of blue and black
Bought for 250 dollars
At Saks fifth avenue
Without looking at price tags
Because who argues
About the price of a straitjacket
I leave the crowds and walk down further
On a street that seems empty and yet full
There is a tree standing at the corner
Of two numbered avenues that
Are different ,yet the same
In the nightmarish way
That only cities can hope to achieve
It looks anaemic and withdrawn
Gnarled beyond recognition
Unnoticed , except by dogs
And posters for lost dogs
That offer paper rewards
For a live beating heart
It seems to cry, tearlessly
Soundlessly
At each nail that tears through its skin
Trying to find its pulse point
And silence it for good
There are brownstones lining
The street that I turn into
Brick mansions that should
In their ridges hold
Stories of wealth and joy
That surely follow
All green paper trails
But instead, house
(Like exotic museum specimens )
Cheating fathers and acrimonious mothers
Drugged out sons and prostitutional daughters
All by products of a generation that measures
***** into its morning cornflakes
And keeps itself alive
On a steady diet of Adderall
I come to the end of the street
And watch as the sun sinks down
Over a dead end world
Wondering if the night will hide
Or reveal all that lies hidden
Wondering if remembering
Buries or resurrects …
Or whether we are all graves
Postmarked optimistically “To Heaven “
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
*This suicide taste funny,
with its imprint eternally
stamped
in my head.
It has the taste of an end,
my end,
and end filled with stars.
It taste like a badly cut movie,
with missing scenes.
The best ones thrown away.
Those were your best traits.
Action.
It breathes in the night sky.
I swear it's real.
This suicide mails those stamp-less letters,
postmarked to your younger self.
Where did I fail me?
It must have been those times I wasn't brave enough,
or it wasn't enough.
The pendulum of restlessness.
It must have been after the divorce I never understood.
That was and end to an endless war.
Good men died that day.
Those years of ripe maturity,
with tiny fragments still stuck to my heart.
behold the man you
see today.
It was all make believe, or clever guessing,
or a game of tag with no friends,
which makes no sense.
I could not be brave then too.
This suicide is now my confidant.
It's been with me all these years.
Every Winter: here.
Every Autumn: Here.
Every Spring: here.
Every summer: here.
It's been with me through
the oceans I've cared so little about.
Through the scenes of beauty I could not
understand.
Through everything that could not fit inside my head.
Suicide, you ******* I'm through.
this death isn't funny anymore.*
I've changed my mind.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
Has it rained in your heart
and have you buried all of those
drowned kissing frogs?
The saturated coastal trail leds
you further away.
Yet I recall the days
your postcards were postmarked
Polegate with the best of Sunshine intentions
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
A clearing in the middle of existing
I’ll be the place you’re looking up from
The dampness on your palms when you push yourself up
From the ground floor of this skyscraper life you’re scaling
I’ll be your secret, I’ll be your anything
I’ll be an envelope sealed with the wetness of your mouth
Postmarked to “this one time when I was young I…”
Just run-on sentences that you won’t be able to finish in the morning
I’ll be your Saturdays, but I’d like to be your Tuesdays
And the scent of second-day dishes in the sink
And detergent lifting into the rafters with the frothiness of your laughter
Following your life upwards
A string of messages, constantly being cleared
I’ll be a back door to wherever you want to go
Just hands on the back of your neck
Or just the bottom of the bottle so that you might drown your troubles in me
Since I’m drowning in you
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
It hurts where? Yes, it will hurt everywhere.
Stethoscope there in the room with stainless surfaces and a ticking,
No it is a tapping behind the walls stirring the blood snared along with something inside of me.
Potions and cures, then sealed containers of flowers and beakers locked away remain motionless.
As if hiding, as if afraid.
Rather, enlightened of the cells I carry.
Befriend the gallops of illusion.
Four horsemen down from the failing ceiling.
Postmarked dollhouse, scars on the ceiling, echoes joined to you at the hip.
Scars of the disease you carry and sprinkle onto chests like so many children's agony.
Hooves carry eyes to scan this barren nest of yours.
There,
the ruins of something innocent.
And there,
the photos of some memory discarded.
Assured with the reality that creation of life is but fantasy here, unattainable.
The innocent fall.
Smiling as they enter, your charms masking the smell of your closet's skeletons, a door revolving unhinges.
The coins you receive, coated in thumbprints and neglect. Mirrors of your frame.
A currency, your own currency of moans and gnashing.
Your small teeth becoming your permanent incisors.
Crumbling.
Powder then paste, yet you remain alive.
They become your master for sixty nine dollars.
They became your lover for want of a token.
Tokens forged in the booth appearing near noon.
Nothing else or again.
Then the drummer moves to erase the music of your past.
A vat overfilled with murmurs and spittle.
Your finished symphony.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
Postmarked today,
return to sender.
Package contained:
older, no better.
Letter inside read
"keep your own 'treasure.'"
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
today it is love that i have redrafted
today it is a feeling that i have re-envisioned
and let myself for the first time to feel and fill
today it is slowly filling inkwells, going backwards somehow
to refill, to have voice once more
today it is being enveloped, today it is being postmarked
today it is being posted
and let so gently go
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
One of the worst things
about having a memory prone to taking sporadic lunch breaks
is stumbling onto a bundle of inexplicable sadness
with no forwarding address.
What's even worse
is misplacing the envelope of joy
that you specifically postmarked to be shipped to yourself on a rainy day.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
(To the tune of Detroit Diesels)
When we were sailors we seldom thought about
Being sailors. We thought about, well, girls
And happenin’ tunes from AFVN
‘Way down the river in happenin’ Saigon
We thought about cars and beaches and girls
And would a swing ship bring any mail today
In big red nylon sacks of envelopes
Love postmarked in a fantasy, The World
We thought about autumn and home and girls
While sandbag stacking and C-Rat snacking
We thought about being clean and dry again
While pooping and snooping in Cambodia
When we were sailors we thought about our pals
And what they were, and who
before the dust-offs flew
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
Time steals from everyone
it takes, and grants no boons
flowing ever forward
while breaking down, all ruins
All of us on that non-stop express
head out the window, looking back
remembering all our casualties
no way, of getting off the tracks
Like messages never delivered
the past full of regrets
all ties forever severed
even if, you can't forget
Return to sender, postmarked
so they may understand
all feelings were surrendered
as through the fingers, sand
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 7:23 AM UTC