"poughkeepsie" poems
Growing up in Poughkeepsie, the
barbells of unfaith always shook her
wrists when she lifted "I
will be gone from here soon enough"
over her shoulders. "I will love
like crazy."
Grown-up in the city, she
swallows hard in the marble mirror
and thinks "Maybe today
will be the day," but
it never is, and she ignores
the petulant inside voice saying
"Unfaith is unfaith but
so is dead-eyed
companionship, so unclench
your fists"--she hasn't yet.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
Let's go grab the money
Hidden in the Christmas Tree
Shoppe mason jar with the
Frosted stencil designs,
Ornate and resembling flora.
Let's take that money,
The three separate wadded
***** of once crisp
Green pieces of paper
That somehow reach the
Arbitrary total of one
Thousand, three hundred and
Twenty dollars and
Fifty lonely cents.
Let's take that 1,320.50
And go see the desolate
Stretch of sprawling
Humanity deferred between
These hiked peaks and the
Dangerous mountains
Separating the west
From the rest.
Let's go there!
Let's go there!
We'll make it across,
Be sure of that,
Be sure of nothing
But that!
Let's use the remaining
Seven fifty
To buy some
Seven Eleven sustenance
To have while
We walk backwards
Down backroads edged
With the encroachment
Of the wild back into
Negative space some
Long-ago engineer
Carved and paved.
Let's tell the driver of
This beat-up
Time-worn down
Overcast grey
Buick LeSabre
That we can pay her
Ten dollars to replace
The juice necessary to get
Us back to our sick aunt's
House in Poughkeepsie.
At the gas station
We'll tell her to stop
Real quick
And hope she leaves the
Auto to go
Pay the schlup at
The teller's booth
And jack the beater
And hope we won't
Have to bolt
Again if she doesn't.
Let's call my cousin
And find out who will give
Us four hundred dollars for
The stolen used parts store
And take that four hundred
And buy:
Two (2) greyhound tickets to get us
Back to our ****** apartment
In Stamford: 64.50 American
Three (3) damp-bunned flimsy
Beef patties glued between
Pieces of government-issue
Yellow American cheese
With all the fixins we please: 3.24 American
One (1) zip of dried out
Seeded and stemmed breaks
From the boredom of
Our own conscious
Processes: 120 American if lucky
At least eight (8) servings
Of amphetamine based
Pressed little buttons
Of confused energy: 200 American
One (1) bouquet of
Red yellow and oranges
Mixed on the petals of
Your mother's favorite
Species: whatever's left American.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
I met me a gypsy somewhere South of Poughkeepsie, and this hobo from Hoboken offered me his creased hand in a token of friendship.
We travelled out West in Box cars,made some dollars selling jam jars,slept under lilac trees and drank rotgut from the river bars.
Down in Kentucky we got lucky with diamonds,drew a full hand at poker,smoked Cuban cigars,spent more than money in bars and blew the whole *** on showgirls.
Then hobo got sick and he died awful quick,it was the pox and the rotgut that took him,but hell we had fun.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC
A terrible slap fence him round Poughkeepsie
those tips umbrella a man and that egress as
her wiles portray any scoundrel there
though break dance may pray for both their future
that make an acquisition privately monitoring
but colorful proposition of any expectations
in this hazelnut fortune of yesterday in Vassar.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
Escaping memories I ran
To the setting of beginnings
In search of new encounters
A rescuer, an owner, a gentle
Word. Penn station had evolved
In years with my emotions,
Beguiling decadence lost
To opulence decay.
Pink granite covered in grime,
Glass filtering sunbeams had
Now turned light into grey,
Eerie shadows reflecting
My vanishing intentions,
Dwindling strength,
Waning hope.
The mellifluous cadence
Of alphanumeric flapping metals
That used to sooth me with dreams
Of arrivals and departures
Had been silenced for evermore.
Solari boards swapped
For liquid-crystal displays,
Even people had changed
Flaunting grimaces of disdain,
As they whispered rumours
Of terminal demolishment
To the benefit of a sporting arena
They would call The Garden.
I empathised with the unfluted
Columns of the Roman colonnade,
For I too had been deemed
Obsolete and inefficient,
A wreck no one shall retrieve,
To be suppressed, a panacea
For a collective consciousness
That would rather not see,
Turning blind eyes to me,
To cost-effective identity
Annihilation,
While Bobby freed of me
Won the New York State
Championship
At Poughkeepsie.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 6:02 AM UTC
anyhow
that was the day I gave up everything
one thousand hotel mirrors
well travelled.
train Milan, cheek-kissed Maria.
cognac. A man. Unconsumed.
Guylove dance, marketplace Castries.
Lord Jackson, Victor
Calypso kinging.
Anyhow
that was the day I gave up dancing
Jack lighthouse, broken glass,
spilled Guinness never forgiven.
Named my son for him.
Anyhow
that was the day I gave up talking
crew cut Poughkeepsie, émigré fashion
boarding cockle boat, Dunkirking
Queen Mary.
Nero sunsetting on piddling empire
wallmap fading red to wilted pink
scouring the bottom of titanic bucket,
glorious lido summer, dear Liza,
got a hole in it(torn piece of rubber
mnemonic for a mother)
anyhow
that was the day I gave up ***
now come the restoration of the king.
London shall rise again,
borne on tide of flying,
infinite darkness,
osmosis of light.
whisper saint Paulus,
de-clocked, unthroning,
myriad swimmers swarm
canal cut channel,
(furry animals cluster, cuddle
in unlikely couplings).
quavering timbers
blowing and swaying,
queen lay dying, long live the king.
anyhow
that was the day I gave up my mind
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
I’m from Poughkeepsie
I’m from a family of a mother, a step-dad, a step-brother, and a younger brother
I’m from a big white house with a porch and a garden
But I’m not from happiness.
I’m from sadness
I’m from anger
I’m from disappointment
And I’m from fear.
I’m from going to school with hand prints on my face and bruises on my body
I’m from oppression
I’m from thinking it was okay.
Later I’m from stress
I’m from anxiety of messing up even slightly
I’m from **** and other ****** abuse
I’m from hiding and staying quiet
I’m from depression and crying myself to sleep
I’m from self-harm and attempted suicide
I’m from self-hatred and disgust
Thank god I’m not there anymore.
Today I’m from a new beginning
I’m from recovery
I’m from a higher self-esteem and contentment
I’m from actually being okay
I’m from being me
I refuse to ever go back.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
I am throwing up
because I am drunk
and you are holding me
rubbing my bare back with your hands
skin on skin
and I feel so loved
and you kiss my forehead
and tell me it will all be okay
I fell asleep
you said sweet dreams
and ****** her straight til morning
(you break me over and over and over again)
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
I've never been to Poughkeepsie
But that's never stopped me
From saying it all of the time
It runs fun off the tongue
Here try yourself some
As you read it inside of this rhyme
I hear that Poughkeepsie
Is above New York city
Not too far as the crow flies
So won't you say Poughkeepsie with me
Like run away gypsies
From Poughkeepsie having the time of our lives
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC