"punchline" poems
I let different boys touch me
Because I wanted to know
Even for a second
What it felt like to be loved
Even if the love was cheap
And it tasted like ***
Like the punchline to a joke
I never got because it was me
I let different boys have different parts of me
Parts they didn't deserve
But I offered up willingly because I couldn't give anything else
after you broke me
I was looking for different fingers
to place different pieces and hoping the outcome
would be a masterpiece
Maybe one of them would find a way
to cover up the handprints you left all over me
I let different boys touch me because I had to prove to myself
you wouldn't be the only one
that these scars marking my body wouldn't define
my worth to be loved
I am not entirely sure
you aren't the only one who could ever touch me without slightly flinching
I let different boys touch me because that is all I have been taught
To be a joke
To be silent
To be ready to give until you have nothing left
- they keep leaving me and I am to scared to offer up anything more than my body to get them to stay
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 12:47 PM UTC
I like using fire as an analogy, a metaphor, the punchline for most of my poetry
I often describe the heart as if it were a hearth, while its beats were the heat it radiated
I see it—sometimes a roaring flame, often times a steady bonfire, other times a dying match.
It could scorch you if you aren't careful, but it also provides you warmth and light. A sort of clarity. Comfort.
It allows some of the toughest things on Earth to become malleable and mold itself into something new
It turns the bitter into sweet, the biting cold to teeth-sinking warm, the tasteless into delicious
It allows the spirit to soar with columns of smoke to the heavens while the body becomes fertilizer for daisies
It takes beauty, and burns it black and ash to the point of no recognition
Fire is so precious, and dangerous, and essential, and beautiful, and ugly—just like this hearth of a heart
Tended and regulated well, it's the greatest discovery of mankind
Allowed to burn out quick, or spread out of control, then it's the accident that burned down London in 1666
I believe I should end this by saying: find someone who will tend to your hearth as if it were their last dying light, instead of a person who would simply roast marshmallows with forest fires
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
On a comfortable breezy evening,
my mum converses with her sister via Skype
exchanging quirky tales
They broach the subject of her lemon tree.
"It's the most peculiar case;
it was growing so divinely
until, suddenly, it stopped."
Silence. Then the punchline:
"Reminded me of your daughter."
They exchange hoots of laughter
Meanwhile, I sit in the corner
arms folded, eyebrows knitted
unamused
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
I like to call this counting crows.
A boy told me he liked me while I was high and crying listening to some indie ********
My ex girlfriend smoked everyday, 3:11 pm, after school in her backyard, and I guess that is sort of cringeworthy.
Tell me you like me.
I like to call this counting crows.
And I wish I was pretty without make up, but I sold my soul and became demoralized.
My ex boyfriend split his wrist one day and blamed me, and I guess that is sort of cringeworthy.
Tell me you’re okay.
I like to call this counting crows.
And you really can’t call me pretty because once, I loved someone and they called me pretty, but now he says I’m not the same-
He said I’m glass, but I always thought I was marrow.
I like to call this counting crows.
And I keep throwing up water and candy and syllables, but you won’t like me once you reach the smell,
And I’ve been empty for a long time,
but eating and eating and eating will only make you nauseated.
There is a pit in my stomach filled with sand.
I like to call this counting crows.
And I didn’t expect to meet you here, but there you are smiling at me with top and bottom marbles that I’d love to play with someday.
And here I am rubbing my knees trying to stand up without looking as feeble as I feel-
I remember little things.
Princess Diana died on my birthday.
It takes one man to change a light bulb and a woman to light it.
What the **** was the punchline?
I really want to sleep.
My best friend keeps making plans.
I want to kiss you shoulders.
Please lock the door”
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
On a good day, the Sun shines on you.
You are in a Disney movie, stretching your arms,
As the first light of day hits your toes.
And all the sores of the previous nights,
Reduced as mere soap suds down the drain.
Last night's shower is a preview of the first one today, and coffee smells like the freshest brew straight from a pre-packed foil. Nothing beats the thrill of a morning cup.
Life is a sitcom, waiting for the supporting characters to show up and raid your ref, and then! The punchline.
You plan your day.
You invite a good day.
You laugh out loud.
On your best day, you lounge.
You drink your cup and eat breakfast straight from the pan, and the pan loves you for calling the kettle black.
You write your notes on some discarded tissue previously used to wipe off dust.
You are free versing with the staunchest disregard for tones and rules of archaic poetry; sometimes, disavowing a semblance of order.
Because the best is you.
It is now.
And you are but a small supporting character,
Patiently waiting for the chime of the next five punchlines
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
ACT I
Opening Act!!
My Life.
(Pause)
What was the punchline?
Because I didn't get the joke.
(Crowds laughs hysterically)
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
What are fingertips but pulses and pauses?
A spinal sigh---a cradle to all existence?
The punchline of all sensory implications,
the culmination of our tangles and departures?
All flesh is ephemeral, soft to shards in hours;
Touch is but a ****** tendril in memoriam for desire.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Write these words on empty stomach
unasked, I spilled my guts.
You said, "My life's a joke
and every choice a punchline."
You just wrote my prologue and the afterword
is dangling off my lips, now;
on the tips of tongues.
Steel night skies thrum and echo
when the bells are struck.
Goose Creek pays tribute to the wide Missouri.
I can't offer much--
clenched hands and mouth clamped shut.
Fling some words at empty wall space
from corners, room warms up
My reddened face obscured
behind two frost-fogged lenses
Guess I penned the punchline. Now my line-worn face
is crinkled up and frozen didn't get the joke
Tried to make a map out of the
words we spoke.
These streams pay tribute to a sea of memories
Now you don't say much
"Good luck," and "Stay in touch."
Clenched hands and mouth clamped shut.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
evil homestead with wicked doors creak
a sound developed to make strong weak
incites adrenaline,
a sprint, a leap
fluid unto your place of sleep
nothing to be afraid of, of course.
except for the biting coldness, the source
unknown...
bed as your safehaven you lay and turn
and with silken walls you let down your guard
eyes drift shut but thoughts sporadic
you dream a dream, a dream of habit
in this dream you have no voice
and where you stay is not your choice.
pushed and moved throughout your lifetime
a little creak; your angry punchline.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Not often did he wish for things,
He had few petty desires.
“What’ll come will come,” he’d say, with a knowing nod.
And he was happy that way. He’d smile.
Most called him an accomplished man
He left the past behind.
His monsters were gone
Defeated at last
Not many were considered truly content these days,
But this man, they said, he’d made it.
He’d sit by the fire with a cup of tea.
He’d read stories to his children, he’d sing them to sleep.
But his heart longed for little more, just one final request
Not for himself, but for the woman that lay near.
The most magnificent woman he’d had the pleasure to know
She lit up each room with a heavenly glow.
This woman, he’d said, oh, she’s one of a kind,
Not one word was questioned when he explained why.
She was the kind to leave food on the sill for the cat
That had never belonged to her
Because she couldn’t bare the look in its eyes
When the neighbour three doors down no longer could.
She was the type who could never in her life tell a joke
Because she was out of breath with laughter
Long before the punchline arrived.
She was impossible to hold a grudge to,
A blessing to the world.
Though insecurity engulfed her
Self-esteem was unheard of
Seeing herself through devils’ eyes,
Heartbroken at her own reflection.
If the man wanted one last thing,
It would be a day in his life, for her
Plain and simple.
She’d see the way she curled her hair
Behind one ear when she laughed.
A golden noise, full of light,
He wished she knew
That it put everything right.
His dying wish was, to the love of his life;
“Please, let her see herself, through someone else’s eyes.”
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
I will not be the punchline.
I will not be the definition of the joke you aimlessly threw at me.
I remember in school when people would tell me that sticks and stones may break my bones but words would never hurt me.
I can't help but feel the words hurt me.
And maybe the broken bone would hurt more than the words they threw at me, but a broken bone would always heal.
But the words?
They didn't
They would stay with me until I started loving myself.
And even then, they'd always be at the back of my mind.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
In the square circle your reality is sudden you see
what is your intent ?
I mean when one has to face the inner , not winner or loser.
But brutal. no negotiation. No verbal Panzy assery.
How do you assign pain.
In the square circle that is. That is blood for blood.
Blow for blow. Most people tip toe. Dont wanna know.
We should all be made to go. toe to toe
In the square circle.. How barbaric say ye.
Talk is cheap. ink on paper a mere vapor.
Gladiatorial. All we are saying .. is give peace a chance.
There are greater tests. how does one best Cancer or say living on a stoop.
after days in paradise.No time to think twice.
Go take a dance in the circle. Pillar to post.
A brutal analogy. How would you be. Why would one bother?
Next time you see a dumb pug with cauliflower ears and a rearranged mug.
Think it through. How would you do in a moment of truth facing the brute
He wont listen to reason He wont negotiate.
Next stop. Normandy. Pork chop hill.The Mekong.Baghdad......
The square circle takes many forms just wont conform to the norms.
Havoc will be imposed. on the open mind or the closed.
Real men die for reasons why ?
Fodder. Step through the ropes for a thrice
Feel if you have the fire or ice.
Then take a warm shower and slide behind the wheel
to a warm meal and Dancing with the stars.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
March comes like a punching bag
March will bring her smiles like plastic bags
Some tear some don’t
You never know when she will glare her teeth like razorblades and bleed the snow
from underneath these fingertips.
Leave my insulation soaked, me; feverish.
And the joke is, I saw this coming
shivering the melted ice out of me she
bares her grin like a warning sign,
and I was either too brave or dumb enough to step inside
like a welcome mat made out of ice
and a cartoon dog
A scared pitbull, and a woman in charge.
The joke is that haha
There is no joke, you walked in.,
and made one out of yourself.
Out of the frost on your eyelashes and grief on your fingernails.
haha get it,
sweat her out like the coldest fever, without dying of shock.
Get it now?
She brings back the taste of firewood and comfort of flames when you needed it the most
Punches like the best punchline
hard enough to make it hurt
not hard enough to make you forget
hahaha
Knocks the wind out of you.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
I am the void left by hope.
I am the frantic scrabble,
the gasp for a mirage.
I am the empty box,
the joke with no punchline.
I am the end of the road.
I am the face you thought you knew,
the parcel for someone else.
the missing last page.
I am the second,
after the second,
that you knew it was over.
I am the coup leader
shot at dawn
I am redundancy
bankruptcy, lonely
I am the king
with blood on my arms
From the nails
I am the logo on the trainers
on the heels
of the one in front
I am the vibrating molecules
Of the sound
Of the door closing
I am the dawning realisation
That you are not
as good as you thought you were.
I am disappointment.
I am the sun reflected
The gleam of polished brass
I am the lace of frost on leaves
I am the newborn laugh
The vibrant flowerbed
I am the happy child
chasing the rainbow
of a bubble on the breeze
I am more than the sum
of the gaps between dreams
I am the strength
In the arms
That hold you
I am the other side
where mysteries are plain
I am the miracle
the rank outsider,
the last to be picked,
who scored the winner,
I am fresh hope.
I am unwavering joy.
I am the rock.
I am.
And I choose you.
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 8:57 AM UTC
at first when you take off
the world just looks small
a dollhouse, a miniature world
an amusing punchline to an old joke
a fantasy tinged with g-force and sprite in clear cups
but as the sky darkens and the plane lifts higher
the world seems to drown in blackness
an inky clarity of night not confused by clouds
and suddenly it is as if you are at the top on an ocean
looking at a far away ocean floor
crawling with foreign creatures with all of their bones lit up
over coral reefs of light and movement
parking lots like stationary jelly fish and highways like currents
of neon veins pumping lights and cars
all of the world's exoskeleton is illuminated
and it is beautiful and movable
it is nature's patterns played out in electricity
but the farther out you go
the more the sharpness and geometry of the roads and cities
attack the eye
and the coral reefs turn to computer motherboards
all of man's ingenuity and beauty no longer draping the world
but ordering it
into squares and jagged lines
into distant pixel pinpricks
into maps
until you're not traveling through the world
but over it
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 11:06 PM UTC
You don't love
me;
you love the
tip of the iceberg
that is your idea of me;
the sugar-coated mute
leading herds
of unfinished sentences
down the copious hills
of his insecurity;
the nice little writer
whose constant attempts
at legendary one-liners
are as hit-or-miss
as a sitcom still airing
far past its prime.
I possess three biomes,
or, rather, three networks
of personalities and identities.
I am much more than
the Jack Macfarland archetype
lip-syncing to Cher in the one
gay bar in town, tyrannically
governing your wardrobe,
possessing a razor-sharp wit
cast toward the backs of his community
in the form of an outdated punchline-
my work on that show
lost its Willful relevance
and Graceful naivete
years ago.
I am of the generation
fed media saturation
three four-hour meals a day,
who ingested cardboard cadavers
as if they were mother's milk
and internally mutated their
thoughts and desires
to fit the compact time frame
of 30 minutes
to settle the series' worth
of traumas and neuroses
while making it home for dinner
to stay tuned for what's
next in the lineup.
Speaking as a casualty of this
inevitable chain of events,
I regretfully declare that even
those who have seen
every episode of myself
for the past six seasons
are still light years away
from the room full of faces
unencumbered by euphemism.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
President Reagan sat by himself in the White House
Trying to understand what had happened.
He heard his wife scream
What have you done with my husband?
I want the real Ronnie back!
He sighed.
This is what happens when you listen to experts.
Reagan had been in debates before.
From Kennedy to Brown to Buckley to Carter.
He did it his way.
He won his way.
Reagan always liked stories and humor.
Details and data, not so much.
He always thought that statistics don’t feed people.
Because people can’t eat an equation.
But the experts said that he should have more knowledge.
Reagan listened to them.
The thing was, it was too much knowledge.
And Reagan had to be president.
So when he debated, he was tired.
The youngest looking 73 year old man.
Just looked ancient at this point.
He held onto the podium
As if it had answers.
But the podium gave him nothing.
His actor’s instinct called up an old line.
There you go again.
It worked against Carter.
But Mondale neutralized it.
Mondale was good.
Not like Kennedy, who was more passionate.
He remembered Bobby very well.
He would have made a great president, if he had lived.
Or like Buckley, who had the scholarly instinct.
Because he read books when Reagan played football without a helmet.
Reagan defeated both of these men.
But he did not beat Mondale.
Because Mondale had answers for everything Reagan said.
Reagan pondered to himself.
I must have something for which Mondale does not have an answer.
I must make something that Mondale cannot answer.
But I cannot tell the experts.
They are nice people.
But they don’t know debate, I do.
So I can file it away.
It would be a break in case of emergency punchline.
The phone rang and it was Roger Ailes.
Ailes said, Mr. President you were not at your best.
But the sun will rise again.
Use a laugh line as your life line.
Rely on personal experiences, not dead data.
Remember Mr. President this is your re-election.
Reagan took that to heart.
And the second time around, Ronnie was back.
He grinned because this time it was fun.
But Mondale was still good.
And then the question came.
The question for which Ronnie was born.
It was about President Kennedy’s working hours during crisis.
And if Reagan had the stamina to match Kennedy.
Reagan smiled.
It was time to pull out the joke.
He said, I will not make age an issue in this campaign.
I will not exploit for political purposes my opponent’s youth and inexperience.
Reagan delivered it perfectly.
And suddenly, he heard laughter
Laughter from the questioners.
Laughter from the audience.
Even laughter from Mondale.
Tears of laughter.
Reagan drank his water and smiled.
The Gipper scored a touchdown again.
And hit it out of the park.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
Life's a joke;
death's the punchline.
Now let's all laugh.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
There is a point in everyone's lives
Where they wake up screaming
To discover they haven't been sleeping
And then they go to sleep
And can't wake up
God's humor is a punchline
Of straight faced barbarians
In the shapes of a funnel cloud
That coughs up battle hymns
Like pieces of tuberculosis
Love is chemical reactions
That bounce off the walls of your brain
Like children playing pong
That will lose their virginity to each other
He died when she left
Women are works of art
That are made of the bruises of an apple
And the sweet parts are cut out
Like the passages in the Bible
That the priest won't read on Sundays
Who's afraid of Charlie Darwin?
Was on the sidewalk in chalk
And every pedestrian walked by
And walked into a war zone
While a mutt licked the words disappeared
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 3:12 PM UTC
I dreamed of two men
cold as ice in dark hats
handcuffing a woman
before tossing her in the back
of a black barred truck
with stars on the sides
and a To Protect and Serve
bumper sticker stuck like
a punchline and a baby girl
and young boy were crying
standing behind the yellow lines
but two has never been
a number that adds up to
nothing because it's only legal
to pass one at a time in these
dark days of executive orders
you fear because you know
it's all the evidence they need
to make you disappear.
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
Please don't get me wrong.
I appreciate what you are trying to do,
but you don't send salt and pepper to a starving nation.
I've been dealing with assault of the mind
and inflammation of the soul
in a way no whole-wheat diet or
heartburn medication could ever fix.
I've got all these little tips
and all these little tricks
for how to fold anger up like an origami crane
until it looks somewhat like a punchline.
The flaw in the design of this art
is that no matter how many were made
they couldn't cure Sadako's leukemia.
Perhaps it's an ongoing theme in my work
to shirk all these lies I've been told.
To mold the past into a weapon
to harpoon the future with like a humpback whale.
But I've watched razors sail
across the surface of my skin like a hundred tiny boats
and while I'm making my way in this sink-or-float Earth,
I still have the spirituality
to make a penny feel like more than what it's worth.
I can't make your life having meaning.
I can't give you the feeling you get
on that 999th paper crane,
but I spend my whole life trying to catch
thunder in a wine bottle.
It's just a noise,
and it exists only ringing in the ears
of frightened children
and bringing the tears of overjoyed children
in Africa.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
He dances
He juggles
He jokes
But inside
He's a very sad bloke
Dancing around
In his jingling hat
Until he falls down
How do you like that?
Juggling his hope
As he drops his shame
Watch as he struggles
Are you not entertained!?
He is the punchline
Of his every joke
Laugh with him
He is your very sad bloke
He dances
He juggles
He jokes
He is your very sad bloke
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
If feelings left when people did
I wouldn't be worried about missing someone
that I didn't have
or holding someone
who can't be held
or touching someone
you cannot keep
or knowing things about someone
that you do not know
or laughing at someone
who will not stay
to finish the punchline
or loving someone
who will not stay
to let you know they feel the same
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
Side 1
1. "I Lied When I Said (I'd Love You Forever)"
2. "Endearing Habits (Not Quite So Endearing Anymore)"
3. "Take Her, She's Mine"
4. "Two Jokes, One Punchline"
5. "Time Will Tell, You Won't Age Well"
6. "I'm Eatin' Out Tonight"
Side 2
1. "Bedtime Stories (Gettin' Me Off)"
2. "Sit Down, This is Gonna Hurt"
3. "Time (The Master Healer)"
4. "I'm a Grape"
5. "Over the Counter Love Affair"
6. "Master of the Obvious (Pleased to Meet Me"
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC