"remington" poems
Love—sometimes too
abstract, but I know it lives
in slow songs played
in the backseat of my car.
I know it ripples down
your tongue as I lick, kick
and grab.
I know it shocks your
backbone as I place my
hand under and over and
in-between.
Love—sometimes too
abstract, but I found it
resting on a fallen branch
in a park.
I found it in the bottom of
a chocolate malt.
I found it caught in a
rabbit trap.
Love—sometimes too
abstract, but I see it
in you.
And it smiles back,
amber, un-blistered,
and perfect.
now—
let me **** on those
pussy-sweated fingers, and I
promise I will **** you
on my vintage Remington
typewriter.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
Now it might be hard to understand
But just for a moment I ask that you try to comprehend
The idea, the marvel, the miracle
Of learning love’s true definition from a child less than 3 years young
Her name was Amelia Lyon, but she was called Amy Lou
And her hair was up like Whoville’s own Cindy Lou Who
Dr. Suess would’ve been proud
I’m sure he would’ve loved Amelia, as did every single person of every single crowd
We would bring her with us to Disneyland
The happiest place on earth for both woman and man
And little Amy loved every second of it
With a wide smile, never crying, not even a bit
Bearing the power of a simple smile, and a thousand suns
She would light the very streets she crossed
Reaching out and attacking strangers was far from seldom
With a beautiful kiss of innocence, sincerity, we watched as joy would blossom
Did she discriminate?
Did she decide who to incriminate?
No, you see, Amelia would never
If someone was hurt, and broken, she could make all things better
A beautiful soul
To match a beautiful girl
I learned, let me tell you
What true love is, something new
Something that is rarely practiced
But only talked about, and the fact is
I’ve never seen love quite like this!
It was sincere, and it was real and it was amazing
A special perspective, a new trail she was blazing
And now I know what true love is
Humble, supportive, and nonjudgemental
Kind, gorgeous and always gentle
Thank You, Amy Lou.
One day, I hope to be like you.
But now she's gone, at two and a half you were taken from us
So unique, Heaven, God, and the Angels were jealous
Do I feel robbed? Do I feel cheated?
Certainly not! Because I know who I shall see when I am greeted
There she will be, adorable and precious
That gleaming smile with a child’s eyes
At the opening of the Gates, it will be glorious
Because finally, that disguise, that shroud of earthliness
Will have been torn away, and we will forever be united again
My baby sister, my Amelia Lyon, my Amy Lou
I miss you so very dearly, my little Cindy Lou Who
With love, bittersweet tears, and a heart deeply aching
Your brother, Remington Charles King
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 5:03 AM UTC
I really, really don't like myself sometimes. Most times. I like coffee, books, birds and flowers so much better. I've been listening to Ready, Able for the past four years. I'm still not alright. I'm no good at most things. Introspectiveness is not a talent. If I were a porcelain centerpiece, I'd scoot myself to the tables edge. My mum has reassured me that my head is not on right. My head, my least favorite accessory. I've yet to master the proper way of sock-folding. I've yet to master how to configure my heart. In less than five months time I'll be twenty-one. I get stupider with age. I like it when wine makes me dizzy. I wear old crazy-cat-lady coats in the summer because I can. My noir Remington is starting to build up dust. What use is it if not put to use? Useless, useless, useless like a harmonica without blow holes. I want to melt like ice cream in the sun of your pupils. Instead I sit here far from absent-minded, alone. I cannot be held still or perhaps I simply choose not to. If you wait too long for the others, I'll still be right here. Here, in the corridor of the memories we never had. I close my eyes in hope of seeing matters clearer. The world is composed of messy closets and ***** hands. Many youth wasted behind closed doors. Can we ever be sweet again? Will you hold my hand and mean it? Hollow voices frighten me but not as much as hypocrisy. I don't need to understand you, but I want to.
Lover, it's worth crying in your sleep if you've got somebody to dream about.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC
In the last quarter of the twentieth century, much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat waiting for something momentous to occur. Christian aficionados of the Second Coming scenario were convinced that, after two thousand years, the other shoe was about to drop. And five of the era's best-known psychics predicted that Atlantis would soon reemerge from the depths. To this last, Princess Leigh-Cheri responded, "There are three lost continents…we are one: the lovers." In whatever esteem one might hold Princess Leigh-Cheri's thoughts, one must agree that the last quarter of the twentieth century was a severe period for lovers. It was a time a time when romantic relationships took on the character of ice in spring, stranding many little children on jagged and inhospitable floes. Nobody quite knew what to make of the moon anymore
Consider a certain night in August. The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over. For more than an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" She inquired. The same query put to the Remington SL3 typewriter elicited this response: Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question in life is whether to **** yourself or not. Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end. Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm. There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay? Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to **** yourself. Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and end of time. Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.
-La Dispute, One
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
Isn't it strange living in another person's head?
It's like Being John Malkovich,
or Anne Sexton
as I rode along with her
wild rides into sand at the beach,
lost in Boston again,
inside a mind
that was different but still mine
because I saw
that very street lamp she did,
and in her advice to me,
that yet unborn memory
that would never be,
I heard her words in soft puffs
of nicotine-scented tickles
in my ear, warm air
before young lungs
had ever breathed in,
and I cried
because she was speaking to me,
though she never knew it
when the words clattered
from that old Remington
like a machine gun-
I was just an idea
she never really had,
a wish in soft feathery hair
on the chest of man
she shared lust with as he slept,
not knowing he would father
a specter delivered from a womb
that had closed for business.
Our walks
along an asylum lawn,
returning waves
to suspicious grass,
green oceans to get lost in
after sewing leather wallets
from our own hardened skins
as if projects could ever fix
the worlds of sin we lived in,
pandering doctors offering
officious pretense of cure
against the sweet furies
of sunrises, sunsets,
earth worms and *****
So, can I cry
having crossed a divide
into another,
for moments residing
in the soul and belly of a mother
who was never mine,
though I feel her pain
as if we own it together?
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
I closed my eyes
and felt the ground vibrate
as the Huskavarna roared to life
and chewed through log after log
devouring fibers
and depositing sawdust
the smell filled my nose
and a smile passed my lips
fresh fir in the morning
the crash of timber in the distance
the hush that fell upon the forest during lunch –
muted thumping trancelike and rhythmic
each round hit with a maul
and then bashed with the sledge
tossing split rounds
into stacks on the truck bed
perfect dance performed by the woodcutter –
the rumbling tires against the gravel road
sent me to slumber
the crunching mixed with the gentle rocking
fighting until the very last
trying desperately to hear
the low murmur
of my father and uncle Steve
telling tall tales
of 600 yard coyote kills
with just one blast
from the old 2-23 Remington
and the 40 lb. salmon
still swimming with a 20 dollar jig –
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
at a turbulent vortices of chance,
a backyard funeral,
shoebox burial
following immediately thereafter
last copies of a body
of work,
so very human
some really bad,
most highly
average
amidst the occasional
how-did-that-one-get-overlooked,
all human, all, time yellowed
some on paper napkins scribbled,
some as typos fired by a Remington,
some lasered, some inkjet sprayed,
all stored on papyrus memory cells,
but all
born,
all common ancestoried
in the dust of
turbulent vortices of chance,
all to the dust of loam and sand,
returned,
returned to sender
my shoebox of poems,
will soon to disappear,
following on and hard by
their author,
who like any poem possessed,
mad, insane, life cycle victims
defying,
nay denying,
the notion of
sustainability
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
Communicate to me now or shut the **** up
Say the things that will throw away heaven
Spit in the faces of your Gods
******** in places that I probably should not
Holy ground; then and now. Time between.
Unclean clothing, I ******* stick
I’ve got to get back to where I was
One day too late two days to make it
I’m falling apart in my seat
Melting into a puddle of green
My, my, my Remington .308 Manuel
Sliding down so slowly, I’m sick. . .
Ginnie gimme sweetly a sleepy sweetie
Traditional quote; usual lines
Bespectacled eyes,
Scare across a wilderness of hollow lives
Let no pleasure or pastime
Distract me from my vengeance
I’m ******* coming for you
Limitless.
Although you think you know
I may say a few of my words a little slow
Are you scared about Friday night?
Blue moon in sky. . .
Mind in flight
Say goodbye!
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
He enters. A stiff morning jowl
can be heard clicking.
And, in early grievance,
the second man’s clock speeds its ticking.
He lies lulling himself (lamenting)
while lockjaw bends down,
knees cracking.
Behind the fold that blinds the floored man
a “D” engrained from cigarette ads,
After smell of the first’s wafts over.
An emphysemic growl is left ringing
on the ground; tumultuous hacking
kicks in like the cops that reside down in Brixton.
Wheeze, hack, and cough, and cough. And cough.
(Silence) bearing down from the **** erectus
leads Remington to the Clark of the floored man’s
pounding chest.
Rest, rest; he tries to protest, but the cavalry
can’t hear his signs of duress.
And now slitting wrists, from inside the veins;
the invisible smoker never could be restrained.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
Remington 870 12-Gauge shot gun.
Your trigger would be so easy to pull.
Fully oiled and loaded clean. The shot would come out perfectly.
My head, would come off perfectly.
Tempting me. Calling out to me. One 60 cent shell, one $500 gun, and one..
"Priceless" Life. Right...
Maybe the only thing priceless that comes out of me would be the red on the canvas behind me.
Painted with all the reds in my head.
The red tape I could never cut. The red rage burning inside me. The red passion, Lost. And last, the red blood, Useless.
Why I did not, I can't understand.
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 6:36 AM UTC
i'm telling you now, leave.
i'll give you this one warning
before
i pull out my remington and shoot my lucky bullet straight into your heart.
too late
my boy, you're a soon to be dead man.
and me
i'm your death sentence.
make your last wish with pursed lips now.
i will do whatever i need too, to get you out of this head of mine.
i own this brain as tortured and mushy as it is
and you're merely trespassing.
you're the kid they use to shove into lockers, gone rouge.
the kid who's now well, not really a kid at all.
you hangout with the jocks these days,
go to a school full of yuppies
yeah. we all know your type and what you've turned into.
your transparent
might as well be glass.
generic.
simple.
gross.
but that lifestyle changed you into something new
and you morphed into something without a name
you were weak and
this world broke you.
that boy i fell in love with all those moons ago is dead now.
**oh, well
time to go**
so
here's the door.
and
there's your shoes..
don't cut yourself too deep on the barbed wire
when you try to fit your pores through that fence
actually do
maybe then you won't come back and will have finally learned
not to fight
fire
with
fire
and fist with fist
maybe then you won't haunt the halls in my head or the walk back home
maybe then,
maybe.
maybe some day.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
~
pasture grass warm and sticky complete
with distant goats chewing and
kicking up in play
from the creek side a flash of black
just enough residual periphery to startle the herd
square pupils dart and scan
while floppy jowls with stringy drool watches from the pampas
first sprinting left then
darting back to the right and circling around
the 2 year old Lab pup pretends to Collie
attempting to direct the herd
without any human direction
from the faded red door a farmer appears
straw between lips
hands deep in overall pockets
quietly surveying all that is his when at once
a disturbance is noticed
goats darting around in frantic worry
being chased by one hundred pounds of Labrador fury
reaching just inside of the doorjamb
the old farmer pulled forth a 243 Remington
took steady aim
and shot the menace attacking the bleaters
when we got back from the Country Fair the Thomas house had a funny air
and only Jimmy came to greet us
Roy was nowhere to be found
after a few hours of searching the forest and questioning
neighbors we were handed a red dog collar from the Dairy farmer
2 miles up the drive
they shot my dog for playing with goats on a Holstein farm
and so we gave up milk and though about revenge /
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 3:39 PM UTC
When the angels fell, all hell broke loose
I was doing bad from the drug abuse
You could see it in my face, that I was loaded
Nodding out on some dope, but still was holding That 1911 long one hand gun
That's ah Remington model, step up you done
I said you done, *** the angels have fallen
Ese everyone burn and become the departed
C Rock, this are biblical times
That's what my mother say so it's word to the wise The *** accumulating, so keep it in mind
False prophets all around and they feindind for mine I pull up all my roots, my Aztec pride
They threw our knowledge in the fire and we'll think we died All lost, *** some of us survive We accepted their religion then we multiplied Got my life, is to live by the knife
Your kids don't listen got ah *** for ah wife
Last night, I heard some shots outside
And go inside with the news where the crew just died Is it the work of the Devil, Lucifer
Is he behind it all, is he the saver tour
Masseur, Co O Ene Ese look up at the sky, something's falling from heaven
When the angels fell, all hell broke loose
I was doing bad from the drug abuse
You could see it in my face, that I was loaded
Nodding out on some dope, but still was holding That 1911 long one hand gun
That's ah Remington model, step up you done
I said you done, *** the angels have fallen
Ese everyone burn and become the departed
Ese caught up in the violence that we go through daily He might be ah rival or someone don't pay me It's crazy, that it got me blazing Weak coco puff's and the sh*t don't fade me Try to cage me, like ah animal
*** I eat muthf**kas like ah cannibal
Highly flammable, unexplosive mix
Let me hit up on this wall, Conejo Trix
Ese ghost satellites light up the night
And information travel with the speed of light
I'ma win, of all this things And all the devastation that the others could bring The street could buy ah logic Co. and chemical weapons It's all going down, in just ah few seconds Stay with me, till the very end
Homie something bout to happen sky falling again
When the angels fell, all hell broke loose
I was doing bad from the drug abuse
You could see it in my face, that I was loaded
Nodding out on some dope, but still was holding That 1911 long one hand gun
That's ah Remington model, step up you done
I said you done, *** the angels have fallen
Ese everyone burn and become the departed
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
Ashtrays over flowing once again
my lungs breathe in argument
how many bottles were consumed
in last nights red tide abandon
it shows itself in
scrunched
paper mache *****
that litter the floor
Remington ribbons
dehydrated
akin to my grey matter
we both yearn for a chalice
of inspiration
to rouse the "click clack"
of old abandoned keys........
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
righteous is as righteous does
and I so love my neighbor's wife
don't need no lawyers just a justice of
the peace a keg of beer some
pork chicken
and charcoal 'round here
a bit of dirt to kick 'round
four wheel drive
a Remington
and two bits
'round these parts
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:16 AM UTC
the
redtail hawk
have eyes
the
color of
cold blue Remington steel
thus
her eyes
pierce
through
the
soul
to
catch her prey
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
The strait of California
returned as the Gods ripped
the golden state free
from America.
The Shamans cried for
New Albion as the great
city fell into the sea.
Above the cries, the falling rain
and the crashing sounds of
what can only be called The End
came the voice of certainty.
"There's no stopping this."
The waters above and
the waters below all
moved with the
deep lakes, the crashing falls
and the thawing glaciers.
Thunder clouds were just
to block our view.
The snaking rivers and
the gentle streams
flowed with the winter run off.
Flooded city streets,
washed out state highways.
California will once again
be an island soon.
The Law of reversal rules
people's lives if they say
its "This" it's almost always "That."
2012 or 21.
My Fathers
biggest fear was always
them coming for our guns.
My Remington and my.45,
those ******** in their holes
all waiting on us to die.
The canals and the sand bars
somebody big had to make.
The L.A river and those who live in it.
Sinkholes and hail storms.
All fall into endless wells
that flow on forever
keeping everything clean.
If you look for the signs you
can't help but see them.
Like rain in Los Angeles on
a Memorial day weekend.
So it was and the Gods
kept their promise
and everything was gone.
Standing on top
of an ancient Titan with
every anwser to
every question ever asked.
In this moment amongst
the debris the bodies
and the ever moving rushing waters
the man who knew everything
suddenly felt Small.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 2:11 AM UTC
__Part 1: JOY & SORROW__
It was around 3am…
When I learned that the
Sweetest Joy
Could, simultaneously, be the
Bitterest Sorrow
As I held my newborn son, Ezra
Close to my chest [Joy]
As he was (inconsolably) screaming his head off
Just below my right ear! [Sorrow]
But, oh, Ezra himself is a single joy
Who outweighs 10,000 sorrows!
And his parents CANNOT IMAGINE
Life without him
(Though our bodies ache to know, again,
The comforts
And rest
Our past life afforded us)
---
__Part 2: THE BABIES ON THE PORCH__
We COULD NOT WAIT to introduce Ezra
To everyone (and anyone)!
And the first time we took him outside
Onto the front porch
To meet the neighbors,
The most curious thing happened:
The one-and-a-half year old neighbor girl, Remi –
Short for “Remington” (yes, named after the rifle!) –
Hobbled over with her Daddy,
And pointed to Ezra, and said, “Baby!”
And I smiled
And said
(In a high-pitched, baby-talk voice),
“Yeah, he’s a Baby…”
---
__Part 3: “BABIES” TO BABIES__
Later, I was replaying this interaction
In my head –
Amused by the irony
Of the situation:
That this one-and-a-half year old BABY
Identified a thing
Smaller and younger than HERSELF
As a “Baby!”
And I wondered if she knows that
SHE too is a Baby –
If she ever looks in the mirror,
And points to HERSELF,
And says,
“Baby!”
---
__Part 4: BABY GIRLS & BABY DOLLS__
And then, I recalled
Having witnessed this ironic phenomenon before…
…As I watched our friend’s little girl, Addy,
Pushing her baby doll in a toy stroller
Around her house
As if it was her Baby
And I thought about how amazing it is
That “pre-programmed” into little girls
Is the nurturing and emotional concern of
A Mother,
And that, it’s not uncommon to find
Baby girls
Pretending to be Mommy’s to their
Baby dolls
---
__Part 5: THIS “BABY”__
And then, I thought about myself
In relation to my Heavenly Father –
Who, in His Infinite Character,
And Bigness,
And Greater-Than-Us-Ness,
Is so unutterably HIGH above (and beyond) me…
And a thought popped into my head –
In the form of an absurd question:
“Are we all just ‘playing with dolls’?”
.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:02 AM UTC