"ritz" poems
I bought a cruiser bike
instead of a mountain bike
I’m a sextagenarian
not a 30-something
so every morning I pedal
to the corner across from the Ritz-Carlton and the Montage
next to the high-rent Pandemonde Café
and count the Ferraris roaring by.
I never had a Ferrari
but I did buy a ’96 Mustang once
and souped it up with a supercharger
which was around the time
my doctor took me off testosterone
because my prostate specific antigen
was way too high
You have an inoperable prostate malignancy, he said
after the biopsy
You can’t take hormone replacement anymore
It will **** you
And as I lean on my bike
depressed about missing the rush
of another boost of synthetic male hormone
I enjoy watching the Europen speedsters streak by
so proud of themselves
in cars that cost more
than my house.
I used to wish I was them
used to feel like them
when I was younger and charging hard
but now I just utter prayers
for each Lamborghini that goes by
and I say
I hope your car is faster than cancer.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
You need a smart Jag,
Not my Fiat.
(That was always the snag -
Now I see it.)
When we dine at The Ritz
I chew jerky.
You're all glamour and glitz -
While I'm quirky.
It ain't gonna work,
There's no maybe.
'Cause we'll both go beserk.
- Shall we, Baby?
© Marcus Lane 2010
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
Coffee, a book, a blanket, me and you,
would be all we need to see us through,
those long, hard weeks at work or school,
just a cup. a read, a cozy cuddle or two,
would be just what we'd enjoy, me and you:
So, let's grab a book a blanket, then pour a few,
snuggle up together, read and be lovey-dove, too!
___________
Visual imagery:
http://beautyineverything.com/4951445218
________
Author's Note: For some reason this poem, though cute,
kinda hangs a tad too high in the "cheese aisle" for me
...at any rate, I hope you enjoy, if not, stick it on a Ritz....
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 7:46 AM UTC
My socks are a conversation starter,
They have more to say than me.
I request a Kid Cudi song
To the kid with his laptop open to YouTube,
Pretending to be a DJ.
Someone takes a long pull on the hookah.
I discuss True Blood in the backseat of a car with a girl from Hungry.
I drink a Capri Sun.
Eat some Ritz.
My mind is sober and waiting for my body to catch up.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Charlie Chaplin, set the pace
Buster Keaton, old stone face
Groucho and the brothers Marx
Margaret Dumont for some sparks
Harold Lloyd, The Brothers Ritz
Did I mention Zazu Pitts?
Stan and Ollie, Keystone Cops
Chases that just wouldn't stop
The Stooges, Larry, Curly, Moe
and then theres Shemp and Curly Joe
Bing and Bob, and Dean and Jerry
Two could sing, while two made merry
Bud and Lou and who's on first?
Harry Langdon and Charlie Chase
I think who is on first base
Mabel Normand and Mack Swain
Always tied before the train
Pie fights, slapstick in black and white
This was when we laughed all night
Mack Sennet, Roach, and Our Gang
Spanky and Alfalfa sang
Words were twisted, spun and turned
People splashed and others burned
Remember back to days of yore
To when they had you on the floor
Rembember Baby Rose Marie
She started at the age of three
Many more could make the list
For many I know that I missed
Make 'em laugh and take a pie
Get sprayed with seltzer in the eye
Go and watch their films again
So comedy will always reign
Thank you to the funny folk
Who taught us how to take a joke....
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
Midnight in Paris
oui, oui Missour, excusez-moi s'il vous plaît,
may I take your bags, welcome to the Ritz
I am most sure, you will enjoy your stay
Paris is most happy, to see you Mr. Fitz
Paris in the spring is such a lovely sight
the flowers all in bloom, the skyline at night
bright sun shinning now, maybe an afternoon shower
plan your day well before you ride up in the tower
strolling past the cathedral of Notre Dame
thinking of the bell ringer the old hunchback
like the Philadelphia liberty, the bell has a crack
the storming of the Bastille, to relieve the shame
to the Louvre for the most exquisite art
Rembrandt and DaVinci at their best
so many things to see this is just the start
to see it all would be a fantastic quest
time for a ride down the Seine river
astonishing sights this old city can deliver
a bottle of nice Vouvray to enhance the ride
a lovely local woman right by your side
now you might ask her if she likes to dance
for the clubs in Paree are oh so fine
club Lido also a great place to dine
a wonderful time, Midnight in Paris, France
Gomer LePoet
Sep 1, 2011
Sep 1, 2011 at 2:29 PM UTC
Powerful, she stands defiant
Mountains crumble yet she remains unfazed
The light at the end of the tunnel
The morning sun that wakes you up
And you have nothing but a smile when you know she's there
I'd walk till my feet fall off if it means I get to hear that laugh one last time
if it means I get to possibly call her mine
Not many like her if at all
different , whenever I see her all hate just seems to fade
And when I hug her i forget everything and feels like I've got it made
Never change never falter
the world has it's way of trying to tear you down
but some how you've got that spark that will always keep you planted
feet heavy in the ground
One of a kind never anything or anyone like you
bright sky's and sunshine all around with you you're the silver lining in my clouds everytime I get excited even if my sky is always blue
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
Minuit à Paris
oui, oui Missour, excusez-moi s'il vous plaît,
peux je prendre vos sacs, être bienvenu au Ritz
Je suis plus sûr, vous apprécierez votre séjour
Paris est le plus heureux, vous voir M. Fitz
Paris au printemps est une si jolie vue
les fleurs tous dans l'éclat, l'horizon la nuit
le soleil brillant shinning maintenant, peut-être une ****** d'après-midi
planifiez votre jour bien avant vous le trajet en haut dans la tour
le fait de promener devant le cathederal de Dame Notre
le fait de penser au carillonneur le vieux bossu
comme la liberté de Philadelphie, la cloche a un craquement
le fait de prendre d'assaut du Bastille, pour soulager la honte
au Louvre pour la plupart d'art exqusite
Rembrandt et DaVinci à leur meilleur
tant de choses à voir c'est juste le début
voir tout cela serait une quête fantastique
le temps pour un trajet en bas le fleuve de Seine
les vues étonnantes cette vieille ville peuvent livrer
une bouteille de Vouvray agréable pour améliorer le trajet
une jolie femme locale directement par votre côté
maintenant vous pourriez lui demander si elle aime danser
car les clubs dans Paree sont oh si parfaits
le club la Plage aussi un grand endroit pour dîner
un temps magnifique, le Minuit à Paris, France
Gomer LePoet
Sep 1, 2011
Sep 1, 2011 at 2:30 PM UTC
When I sit down
At the table
I get excited
To read your label
Peeling back
Your foil cover
A small square of joy
I discover
Strawberry or grape
Jelly or jam
I don't really
Give a ****
I use a few
On my toast
That's the way
I like it most
I think I'm hooked
Don't try and knock it
I put a couple
In my pocket
When no one is looking
Into my pocket I reach
Slowly I pull one out
Man I hope it's peach
Always thinking about it
That sticky substance I crave
Won't someone help me
I'm becoming it's slave
In the fall
It's homemade preserve
On a Ritz *******
I like to serve
I can't stop
No matter how I try
I'll be a slave to the jelly
Till the day I die
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
he awaits the brittle thought
its naked vocal is neat and clean
it comes to him from the open window
overlooking Cinderella's shop of horrors
her glass slipper now
serves as a wine glass to the gluttony
of the desperately affectionate old men
who would melt at the thought of even her smile
the brittle thought arrives
and he unpacks its pieces parts
and assembles himself in their divine image
now a brittle man
he wears his fractured frailty with
a dignified pride
take one for the team his new catchphrase
the pieces parts swallowed wholesale
become the recycled food for thought
in the hipster gypsy's coffeehouse
the brittle thought
is more than a concept
its a grassroots movement
to be one of the pieces parts
left in the wake of the slowly sinking titanic of sanity
the brittle thought is there
is more than a con artist pulling
off his masterpiece
its a game show host doing a miami vacation
its a dollar store version in a Ritz Carlton lifestyle
Cinderella's shop of horrors
is just his kind of place
filled with the recycled gods and devils
that made the old world such a colourful
place to live
Cinderella is giving away all expense paid
trips for one to be lunch
the privilege of being fed to lions
is not to be missed
the brittle thought finally breaks
he walks home in the rain
grateful to eat lunch not be it
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
Optimism, romanticism, fatalism
All with the smallest dash of realism mixed in.
I believe in kismet.
I believe in fate.
I believe in Destiny,
and all her wicked ways.
I believe in you.
And you.
And you.
And you.
I'm doing my best to believe in me, too.
I take rides and I take flights to get me out of my mind.
I have highs and I have lows and I move on to the next show.
Where's the time go? I'm moving too fast, and yet I'm always too slow
and I can't think and I can't eat and all my past goals become dead dreams
So I just **** blow, drive, scream, give up on this scene
Find the inseam on my heart, see? Of course it's been broke. You see the stitching?
I'm not bitching, I'm not hoping or wishing for anything other than what this life is giving
me.
Life doesn't wait on anyone.
We've got to move to
the rhythm it wants.
Life doesn't play favorites.
It's luck of the draw
for life in the gutter or the ritz.
I keep on moving
and I keep my head held high
I figure why not?
We're all gonna die, some day.
So my advice to you is
do what you can while you can,
So at the end you can say
God ****
I lived a hell of a life.
I certainly lived one hell of a life.
So live a hell of a life,
Or live a life in hell.
The choice is yours,
I wish you well
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 11:54 AM UTC
The elevator opened on the 46th floor, to a small foyer and one plain, grey door
The door opened and a young girl, 10ish, in a blue, polo, tennis dress, said, “Hi! I’m Karen, you must be Anais. Will is around here somewhere. Aren’t you pretty, though? You go to school with Lisa? No wonder Will likes you.”
She skippingly ushered me from a bright, windowed, off-white, staircase entryway, into a deep-red, mahogany paneled library. A persian cat was soon underfoot, purring and winding around my legs.”That’s Misha,” Karen said, “just shoo her away if you don’t like cats.”
I stooped down to pet Misha who eagerly offered herself to be petted and admired. As I stroked her charcoal fur, Karen said, “Let me get Will,” as she scampered off.
A gold framed, impressionistic painting, pin-lit in bright crystalline light, hung over a fireplace. In the painting, two girls, in summer hats bright with startling red bows and yellow flowers, were sharing a book. The colors were rich, deep and swirling - it looked very much like a Renoir (I know my French artists). He’d done a whole “two girls” series. I drew closer - it wasn’t a print.
Though dazed by the opulence, I hadn’t missed what Karen had said. Will liked me. I longed to interrogate her about how exactly she knew Will liked me, and what form, exactly, Will’s liking took.
I know Will and Lisa (who would be joining us in a minute) are just friends. Not that it matters, we’re heading back to New Haven later - but Karen’s statements were capable of activating a girl's guy-dar.
Karen, wearing socks but no shoes, came to a sliding halt, on the wooden floor, by grabbing the door frame to stop an otherwise complete slide into the library. “You guys are going to the Ritz for lunch?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, in a way that indicated that she knew the answer quite well.
The Ritz Carlton is a block away and our mission was to grab the food and bring it back here to eat. “Mind if I join?” she said, before I could answer her first question, all wide-eyed, blinking impatience.
“I don’t mind at ALL.” I said, Karen whooped and was off again down the hall. “I’M COMING TOO!” she yelled. I chuckled, knowingly - I’ve been there - I’m a little sister too.
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 12:41 PM UTC
I slipped into the walk-in cooler
to escape the kitchen heat for a few
minutes. I sat beneath a wine rack
holding up a chardonnay chandelier
with zinfandel bulbs. I'd swear
I was at the Ritz if it weren't for
a lemon box slowly collapsing
beneath my weight. The motor
to my right churned out frigid air
like a 43rd floor air conditioner
in a luxury suite with fresh fruit rolled
in on cardboard carts. Everything
was buffet style and there were no lines,
just the painful thought that I'd have
to leave paradise soon.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
We blew into bars
like we had nothing to lose.
Disco ***** & ***** tonks,
beach clubs or The Ritz,
it didn’t matter,
we were oblivious
to the surrounding action.
A brotherhood of unknowns,
we were usually drunk,
ready to strike
anywhere,
anytime,
we could even
drop in from the sky
on command,
sober.
Like cobras, we
had venom running
through our veins,
our hearts pure,
but mess with us,
heads would definitely roll.
I was good with
concussive-devices too.
Once I threw one
into a pit of vipers,
heard it explode,
saw the aftermath,
so drinking in bars ain’t ****
I love cheap perfume.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
maybe you were right: i never brought
home flowers or chocolate
cleverly arranged in the
shape of a heart and
i couldn't afford a day at the spa
but i'd always sit with my bare ***
on the cold bathroom tile for hours and
feed you toasted bits of cheese on ritz crackers
while you cried in the bathtub i'd
braid your hair as you
let your fingers wrinkle until
the water cooled off too much your
******* got hard and bubbles
stuck to the cut of your shoulders
because you were there when
my mom's little car died on a backroad
under the old black tree
that scratched up the sky
you pulled your pants up
over ruby knees and asked
me to fix your bra
smoked a cigarette lying upside down
across my damp chest
facing my feet and
made me make a promise
while i traced music notes into
the soft flesh of your back with
my ***** fingernails and found
the cracks in your porcelain ankles
with my tongue
you said my love for you is
something that will never make sense
and you never know what to do
with your hands when i'm kissing you
but you moaned the chorus while
i sang verses into your bellybutton
and tied a couple fingers to the
soft web of hair behind your ears
we were like two locusts
fighting in a gossamer heap
two weeks later you were dancing
in my kitchen like a daffodil drunk
on robotussin wearing only striped
peppermint legwarmers and
authentic dreamcatcher earrings
so i bought a theremin from
your favorite pawn shop
and taught you how to tickle it
and as the wind picked up
whipped your hair into a
crucial comet's tail and rustled
the caterpillar from the windowpane
back to it's home in the wormy grass
i could hear the warm whistle
it made when you played with it
alone in the bedroom
i am crying now while
driving down highway one
recalling how your nose crinkled
when you smoked crushed roaches
or the way your hair tasted in the morning
and how you used to spit a
little bit when you laughed
and i can still hear that haunted echo
even as the saltwater swells
and splashes past the rocks
that sun machine is just
a distant memory now
but it left burn marks on my skin
and the floor where we tumbled
and fought the first time
i called you beautiful
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
One does not question the holy
This sick sacrament of self-sacrifice is not holy
Dark filthy ****** mess of holy man
Thorny fool
This is not holy
*** and sweat
Dripping wet
With physical pleasure
Understanding
Educational leisure
That is better than holy
Compassion and wisdom
Built from shared experience
Creating empathy
Like blood pumping vessels
This is better than holy
Patience for others
And a little for myself
Intolerance for the arrogance of war
This is better than holy
Robed men and camouflaged faked heroes
Petulant posers and wealthy heirs
Are not the high end holy **** that we should smoke
Scholars and philosophers
Scientists and healers
Teachers and firemen
They are heroes
In reality the holy
Is just some mystic ********
Fake flesh and blood
Ritz crackers and grape juice
Some cryptic fascist leftover symbolism
To cow the masses in uneducated awe
**** that holy ****
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
The ancient tacoma grainery,
Stands in a corner of its own now.
Tne dark tunnell still has leggs when
she lets go.
The dock street rail yard fills up the city like a
loaf of hotnsteamy bread.
Farther down our ambitious tycoon
Stacks up condos, wheat pancakes,
Is his breakfast of choice.
They demolished the old elks club.
Which sprung across the street
like a walmart super store.
Blue and yellow is workers vest
perks and all. Their members still
grase for golfballs off the ten million dollar tees.
There isnt much enjoyment, they'd rather drink.
Last month my two foot clarks walked through the sliding dorrs hospitality.
Wanting to see the high mountain of sucess,
I looked for organic oats.
My minds to random.
I inch up to the screen and see the faces of migrant workers,
Hang like meat.
After six months in america half the under employed,
Are giving up.
Deported with their children.
My hope still goes out to the college students.
And their first morgage of inflamatory dough.
They all buy up every job still hoping for change.
No marrijuana in public,
Get away while the officers turn their backs,
With their guns to pepper a face.
In the taxing store.
Im afraid we smoked heavilly.
Love to the workers,
Love to their vests.
Everythings devoliping to quick.
My new bike slices by cars of ritz crackers.
Everthings been built to last.
There nothing left to buil on,
Only a few vacent lots that wait for tresspassers.
One man dives through a trash can and isnt scared.
He picks out a hamburger bun and eats his lunch.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
two lovers making love in a Ritz room
life is heaven, but for whom?
a government official returns to his family
life is heaven, but for whom?
gods watch in pleasure from far up above
heaven is life, but for whom?
houses made of thin sheets of metal
life is heaven, but for whom?
wooden beds and endless drops of sweat
life is heaven, but for whom?
words of love and tender affection
life is heaven, but only for some
fancy dinners and bottles of wine
life is heaven, but only for some
as for the rest,
I needn't say
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 4:11 AM UTC
The other night I snuck into the Grammys
It really wasn't that hard you see
I was dressed as the Daft Punk dude on the left
My own mother wouldn't have recognize me
I was on the elevator at the Ritz-Carlton
When one of those robots stepped in by himself
So I knocked him out then tied him up
And left him bundled up in the stair well
I put on the suit and the helmet
It's not hard to fake a french accent in those
The only problem I encountered that evening
Was the strong desire to scratch my nose
You know I was the life of the party
Mingling with all of the stars
For awhile I sat in the row with Shawn and Yoko
Still don't know which ones from Venus and which ones from Mars
I'm sure in the circles that those two hang with
They are as normal as all of the rest
Of course most of the rockers I met that night
Put normality to the test
I was a little nervous about preforming
But I just put my boogie shoes on
The only one there who would notice my radical rhythm
Was Stevie and he couldn't see what was going on
When we went up to accept our award
I waved and mumbled under my breath
I must of made it sound mighty profound
As the crowd all clapped and nodded their heads
I really had the best of times that night
Partying like it was 1999
Prince wasn't there but who really cares
When your behind Beyonce in the Mambo line
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
The kid’s quiet
then she teeters in,
all glamour and glitz.
The Ritz is asking,
Mademoiselle, for your
curtain call dress,
a glitterball gown,
dragging by your feet—
oh, but her shoes!
Duty bound cardinal
red swim in the eye
like the carpet you
ought to premiere on.
It matches the lipstick
rub, your lips a yolk
as though you had drawn
over the lines, a smear
having caught the pearl
shawl around your neck.
Those your grandmother
passed down, you say?
She would be so proud.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
And at him She
can't get up *****
***** She won't get
Down roundest town
She got snow seek ritz.
Not in ease et al.
Sipped at air
Owe win.
Thin call parties
Heard ur now
Sewn unwell been
In fight head.
Know shuns Felt
Ired real lies ten
Spied her
Sell fear yeah till
All ill own.
Thoughts big inner red
sighed dread kin days
pull its fair ingots
true an ask whoop
A Fool.
Errand freight sands
rebate witch whit
Wit sending she sings
A mall of us
Sudden leaps
wings to retch doubt
stun dare each tout
Ooh dues we
fund her joy
none drive all seas
Her Hollers treat tang
Urge greed sold eighths
Whim bling out
Loud Uncle Ear....
All good thin geese
must
calm.
tune
in.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
no one laughs the dead houses
line the streets i
never had anything
before the ritz and lsd
funnelled into shopping malls
hypnagogic life
taught whither wither
a dying world.
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 7:13 PM UTC
The sun now shines brightly
All my work now behind me
As I travel with an anticipation
All my Sunrise days are free
As a chorus of harmonic misfits
All gather and collect
In a field full of love
As all my friends old and new
Join me in their golden thread
As we sparkle as we tread
I met a gentle Irish girl
who's eye's held me softly
While she tentatively listened
To the music play
Before she retired that day
From a distant different
World far far away
I saw her hold her flute
Cherishing it so sweetly
As she poured her love
So very deeply
How I loved the way
She held her flute
The sky a glowing orange
In the dead of that night
What an amazing sight
As the stars rattled and clattered
The heavens a pin ball machine
But why when I see all of this
Dos my heart say I MISS
As I look back and see
The way the Irish girl
Held her flute
This is just Ritz glitz , razzmatazz
A superficial and chemical reaction
If I could only let her know
How much I saw you
The way you held your flute
May you be blessed
And the heavens with you
With every caution you took
For I , saw you !
As I cried with every pill I took
As I danced and cried
And danced and cried
For I took your love
And like a fine china
I smashed it to pieces
And ground it into
Pills , pills , pills
Give me more pills
Because who gives a ****
when you are on this ****
And who the *****
Camilla anyway
The gladness that I do now cling
Is that she could not follow me
As she is a bright butterfly
That dances and play
Soaked in the light of day
And I am the dull moth
Lost in her darkness
Attracted to the artificial light
That burns through my soul
As I am all burning up
And it is so **** hot
yeah mate yeah mate
I do not regret
As the world I live
Is full of friends and wonder
But i can still carry regrets
And careful of artificial light
Because I would
Love to know her flute
For she understood
I could tell
The way she held her flute
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
the bookies of High Street North will give you odds,
1000 to 1, our paths will never cross, a simple notion,
we’ll never meet, it’s a sucker’s bet they’re happy to take,
despite, shhhhh, not that hard, truth be told, airplane,
Terminal5, Heathrow Express, Paddington Bear Station
and yet, there are oceans to fly over, viruses in
every nook and cranny, and the biggest risk, those
what ifs...and the worries viral multiply as imagining
grows more spectacular than wild flowers on the
heath, bogs conjuring up Holmesian fluorescent hounds
she’ll know for whom this poem tolls, but
will never understand that my envision of her world,
through her eyes, unfamiliar words mellifluous,
for me, they, a nectar, the special Ritz teatime,
but don’t be mistaking me for an Anglophile
no, this Yank plainly loves her garden of nature,
and her own nature, beloved as well, floral blooming,
how it grasps his heart with her two hand’s nouns,
seizing and ceasing its beating, nicks it, his rhythm for
poetic composition, so little more to add, other than
writing this made both a young boy glad, an old man sad...
postscript
someday she’ll crook her finger, like the crook
of her hair, and this Tom, will no longer be waiting
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 7:29 AM UTC
He must be deaf
God, that is
I've been cursing him for days
And I'm not dead yet
Sitting up there on his throne
Eating cheese on Ritz
All gray-haired without a care
Not hearing my pleading tones
Maybe the choir's making too much sound
Or perhaps he's jamming with Townes
Possibly; passing a bottle 'round
Gettin' down to Snake Mountain Blues
With Townes Van Zandt. Yeah. That's it.
r ~ 5/16/14
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC