"salinger" poems
sometimes i get
suicide bombers, rapists, killers, robbers and thieves
because their motives are visible through their actions.
but i never once in my life
bothered understanding businessmen, pastors, priests, muslims, religions, politicians,
and people whose motives in life
remain hidden
until caught red handed,
and also those people
who choose not to see the world naked for what it is.
maybe the UP activists are right
and that i shouldn't think of them as brainwashed kids or
just paid heads to do
what they do but their actions,
my thoughts and this poem
doesn't change anything.
i bet 100% of you
who are reading this would either think i'm deranged or seeking for attention.
i could go on and on writing
this **** and explain thoroughly
but the people's brain
are now wired to ex b's
hit single and yes,
mentioning that made
this a little bit funny but no.
as a ******* filipino
who should be typing this in tagalog, working overseas,
i've seen some fellow countrymen showed some pride
against their oppressors
from work but they don't get anywhere but jail.
i must've forgot,
the movie about manalo
trampled the one
about heneral luna.
see how helpless
we are in reality?
what's your photo that comes
with a bible verse got to do with others?
are you spreading
the word of God?
what does it do to you?
Sometimes I get
The New People's Army.
But I don't get Muslims
who runs businesses and the Chinese too.
Sometimes I wish
I could spread fake news
that doesn't harm others
and last but not the least,
I hope someday the world would stop not and smoke Marijuana all
at the same time
including North Korea.
I couldn't stop.
I also hope that these people,
those who has a lot of followers
use the attention properly but no, people are so ******* dumb and Salinger is right with Holden's, "People never notice anything"
and nothing's too big
if people will stop creating bigger things that'll only add up to the congestion clogging up the world.
and Allen Ginsberg is right,
we are breaking our
******* backs just to lift ******* Moloch.
**** your Mosques, your INC branches, your corporations, your religions, your borders and divisions, your trends that kills the minds of the youth.
**** your laws, about making Marijuana illegal.
**** your disguise and your intelligence.
I almost believe world cleansing is the answerbbecause the ant colonies are so much better
ruling the world.
I don't know anymore, my smartphone's ******
and I am not smarter. . .
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
I heard John
sing a song
a sweet melody
for his ocean child
with seashell eyes —
windy smile
his lyrics halved
into meaningless
his heart subdued
in one morning moon
bring tears dripped
on eighth notes
crossed out by Salinger
I listen again
this time through
cupped seashell
intoxicated
on ocean musk
only to see
this chick
with golden hair
glimmering, shimmering
in the floating sky
she smiles
she sings
her name
Julia
©2011 chuck a stetson
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 2:03 AM UTC
Hemingway said,
There is quite the difference
between kissing goodbye
and kissing goodnight.
I wanted a
"See you later",
but instead got the
"Goodbye".
Steinbeck stated that
Nothing good gets away,
If it's right, it happens.
If that's the case
how did we always end up feeling so
wrong?
Salinger suggested
that after falling in love
you never know
where the hell you are.
This, I can say is true.
Where the hell are we?
Dickens declared that
The truest wisdom
comes from a loving heart.
Yet a heart in love
can sometimes turn out to be
the least wise.
My friend, I think I'll just stick with
Orson Welles' theory:
"We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone."
Anything else is simply illusion.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
not one word is mine
there's nothing left to say
that hasn't already been said a thousand ways
if someone were to crack open my skull,
quotes of Palahniuk, Salinger, and Plath
would be spinning in a metaphorical blender,
mixing and morphing into a multitude
of depression and life lessons,
wisdom and just plain nonsense
all of which has already been said
i'm exhausted
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
For a week straight, I avoided going to the supermarket, even when my stomach grumbled and the fridge stayed empty and lonely. And instead, I looked through my binoculars from the tree house my dad had built with a few planks of wood, nails, and a rusty hammer. A place he’d built before I was put into my mother’s arms and put into a bright blue cradle. Blue as the shirt Abigail was wearing, the same day the cops busted her for giving head to my best friend Isaac in my Toyota Camry. Right in the middle of the parking lot of the supermarket, as I bought pancake batter and cage-free eggs for breakfast.
And Abigail never ate that meal after she spent a week wasting away in a cell block, reading JD Salinger stories over and over, as though his words could heal her marks and bruises.
Today, I made pancakes and eggs for breakfast. I waited for the TV to load a Netflix show, hoping Abigail had learned from her mistakes. She passed me the salt and pepper shakers, as I lit a cigarette, sat in a chair, and smoldered.
Abigail put her face in her hands, cried for a bit, even reached for the ***** bottle.
We went to the supermarket later, walked down one aisle, and picked up meat and potatoes. As we headed for the self-checkout line, I passed the breakfast section and saw the pancake batter and the eggs. Abigail crumbled to the floor, said, “I’m so sorry.”
After that, we never touched breakfast.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
Jeremy Duff woke up as he usually does on a Tuesday morning.
With the alarm clock blaring he lifted his right arm from off his wife's chest.
He stood up, covered his wife's bare torso with the purple, fuzzy, comforter and walked to the bathroom, naked.
He turned on the sink so hot water would begin to pour out.
After completing his usual morning routine of shaving, dressing, smoking, and eating, respectively, Jeremy began his walk to work.
It was, on a typical day, and this was a typical day, a twelve minute walk.
He lit a cigarette the moment his feet hit the sidewalk. It was the first of, on a typical day, thirty-eight.
Jeremy worked on the 27th floor, which he thought of as funny as he pressed the "27" button, as he did on any typical day. His job was to edit spelling on essays before they would be turned in for final inspection. Then, as his boss put it, if the writers were lucky, they would see the essays in the next issue of Story Magazine.
He sat down in his office, lit his third cigarette of the day, and looked at the large stack of papers in front of him. If he was lucky, Jeremy thought, he could get halfway through the stack and take his 10 early, to see his wife. The first one on the stack was entitled "The Young Folks." It had a blue sticky note on it reading "Vignette, Salinger, Jerome David, 1,794 words."
Jeremy read it, purely aesthetically, looking only for spelling mistakes. Finding none, he put a quick check on the blue sticky note. Mr. Duff lit his 5th cigarette and read the story again. It was phenomenal. He read it a third time, while smoking his 6th cigarette. Jeremy finished the first half of the stack and lit his 9th cigarette. He grabbed the story by Salinger and began his walk home. His wife greeted him at the door with kisses. He showed her the story. She read it, read it again and told him it was great. She just didn't understand, Mr. Duff thought.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
She writes poetry .
I'm not sure,
I'm not one to judge,
but I think it's very good.
It makes me laugh and smile.
It makes me stop and think.
It makes me happy to be in the same room as her.
She listens to hip hop
and reads J.D. Salinger.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
Salinger once said, "I have scars from touching certain people."
You are the one who has left the deepest scars.
I hold my fists up to my face - to defend myself,
we both know it's useless.
You manage to cut without touching.
Your mouth is your weapon.
Your words could cut diamonds,
and they slice through me - I am the thinnest paper,
and you, the sharpest of scissors.
I don armor to shield myself from your attacks when you are angry.
I am your target,
say the wrong thing and I can expect to feel your fury.
I compared you to the hulk;
the way you get yourself into a rage, I could swear you change form.
After, when calmed, you return to your normal self.
Weeping while you apologize,
acknowledging that it's not okay,
punishing yourself for what has happened.
"It's okay" I always tell you
"No it's not" you always reply softly, sadly.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
I found it in the glass cabinet.
The tequila, that is,
Not you.
Is nights like these,
The ones where your image is burned into my retinas,
Upside-down and backwards,
Upside-down and backwards,
You are burned upside-down and back wards.
And not even marathons of ****** crime TV shows and remove you from me.
These are the nights that in find my self in the glass cabinet.
But there are nights that I welcome you.
The nights where I smear charcoal across my face,
Across my page,
Upside-down and backwards
Upside-down and backwards
Seeking the blue that is your eyes.
You are a welcome guest those nights,
But I am not.
It’s funny to me that you loved Salinger so,
Seeing, as you are not as lucky as Holden.
But your borrowed the book anyways.
You are the reason that I can't wear belts,
Because I always picture you in a way that I shouldn't
It's your fault my pants sag.
And you made out with a senior and I was jealous
And you were screaming.
You knew didn’t you?
That you were going to leave me?
I cannot tell if I am angry.
You are gone.
I am upside-down and backwards
Upside down and backwards
And we are broken.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
I don’t want to be Bukowski
anymore
Filling women with my emptiness
Dowsing ***** with gasoline
Fondling the
icky, sticky
gritty sweet with my
fat-fingered, ***** nailed
slur
I want to be J. D Salinger
Just one something
so significant,
(even if it outlines the disturbing),
and then
a permanent exit
But here I am
Just like chuck
looking for a flamethrower
to eradicate that ******* bluebird
The words
spewed with all the sincerity
and eloquence I can muster
always lewd
I may have enticed a bit a love
via thin pen
to come knocking once or twice
but the sentiments
they contain no glue
And so when I tumble
back into
the hopeless spaces between
the dust and ***
there is no you.
or us
There is just
this interminably
ugly
I
believing Bukowski was right
And of course I deserve this ****
but
It would be better
to disappear
to never share
to take my ball and go home
forever
home
Yeah,
I want to be Salinger
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
Look closely at your dots and periods.
You'll see this...
. Bob Dylan .
. William Shakespeare .
. Maya Angelou . Emily Dickinson .
. Ralph Waldo Emerson . Robert Frost . Ai .
. Max Eastman . Thomas Hardy . William Blake .
. Edgar Allan Poe . Pablo Neruda . James Joyce . Ovid .
. Carl Sandberg . Anne Sexton . Taigu Ryokan . Sappho .
. Ogden Nash . Dorothy Parker . JD Salinger . Rumi .
. Dame Edith Sitwell . Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly .
. Anna Swir . Sara Teasdale . JRR Tolkien .
. Alfred Lord Tennyson . John Skelton .
. Dante Gabriel Rossetti .
. Dylan Thomas .
Soul Survivor
2014
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
It's all in the cards,
So let's shuffle our deck,
And see what say our hearts.
Shuffle your deck,
Lay out the cards
And we'll find within the symbolism
Whether we're fleeting
Or meant to be.
And I be a liar if I said I trust cards
More than people,
But I definitely trust the books that hold stories of them
Infinitely more.
But these books,
They're my home.
I got to the library, the bookstore,
And please understand, that's my church.
Within those walls and these papers,
I find my truth and my guidance.
My gospel is To **** a Mockingbird,
My old testament is the complete works of Charles Dickens,
And my new testament is J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey.
I find prayer within Lord Byron,
And I seek guidance from Richard Bach.
So maybe it is all in the cards,
But if I could read the cards
As well as I read Edgar Allen Poe,
I'd be the most profound clairvoyant
In the history of history.
But I bet you
That when I seek prayer within Brent Weeks and Oscar Wilde,
Know that I'll find every reason to be with you
And none other,
And I'll see the beauty
Of our future
Together.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
It smells of soco in the air.
She gave up her body to preserve her dignity
But in the end, she lost that too.
There is nothing dominant in dominance.
Only preservation
And perpetuation of a dying era.
Unless dominance is dominance.
In which case, bring your pipes.
Pipes, pipes, pipes, pipes, pipes,
A thousand and three pipes
And not a single one of them on key.
You say it doesn't make much sense,
But frankly **** you.”
No one's got a gun to your temple
Praising the ivory role of the natural order.
That theory died out with hanging paper clips
Clinching yellowed notepads in their skinny fists
Shouting praises to Everclear to the heavens.
Just ask Salinger what it means to be expected
And I'll tell you my opinion on life.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
-13-
I've been reading the diary I kept
an entry for everyday I lived
each night before I slept.
Elton John was my everything
cherry lip gloss n' faded jeans
winning my first spelling bee
my first kiss/his first slap
made the boy step on back.
Laughy taffy with good friends
Bubble Gum/Cracker Jacks
First Crush/Late Night
(gave my mom a total fright)
-14-
"Kenny Johnson"
Just three words...
"Oh, my god!"
I'm gonna die..
I'm in love with his blue eyes.
Ice Skating/Track Meets
hungry all the time
First job really bit...
worked so hard to be a hit
Fast forward...
-15-
Innocence
I want a Prince
Tough year/Tons of fear
(Does everyone feel this weird?)
Football games/Friday nights
SNL, and Popcorn Fights
Mean Girls show up here
I kick their bums to the curb
(They don't ever cross this nerd)
Summer Camp way out West
College Boys are the best!
J.D. Salinger made me cry
when I read..
"The Catcher In The Rye"
-16-
No more entries after this...
Just these memories of when I was..
just a young girl in search of love.
and read a ton of books...
I dreamed of being a writer someday
(extremely kind with a complex mind)
and sporting killer looks.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
Murmurs of French
must have blanketed the great–
cocooning 'round Salinger,
lilting for Whitman–
flitting by Carroll and
flirting with Eliot,
sighing on Plato,
marching in Chaucer,
nuzzling up Dickinson,
lying with Hemingway,
giggling to Alcott and
gasping at Plath.
Murmurs of French
must have borne their babe souls,
gifting them music
instead of dry words.
Murmurs of French,
the language of beauty,
just buzz past my ears
'fore I swat them away.
It is fitting, I think,
that my tongue should collapse
upon trying merci
or a bon appétit,
and the lone French I can muster
is notably stolen
from the notoriety of
a Madame Marmalade.
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 8:22 AM UTC
I sit here trying to decide what Writer influenced me,
I had my Existentialist Period very young Jean Paul Sartre, seemed dark and Complex, but... Albert Camus Captured it for me, the Emergence of Allen Ginsberg, bridge the Atlantic...the Pop of music influenced it all, from the Doors to Dylan
But Deep Down in the Dark of My soul is Jack Kerouac"who I am sure must have been influenced by JD Salinger" From Keorouac, to Ken Keasy and Hunter Thompson seem to be a good place to end
Others such as e.e. cummings, James Baldwin, Carl Sandburg, Herman Hesse, J,R.R. Tolkien, Lewis Carol, Issac Asimov. Robert Heinlein, and Stan Lee all had their places to... I feel Honored to be influenced By Such Amazing Talent.....
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
Buddy you are moving way too fast
Its a happy New Years Eve
But Sometimes the grass is greener, the wine is sweeter, on the other side of the hill.
Turn your socks inside out like a Brody
Its time to find Jack Straw...
The secret to a Wild Man's heart
Is to Bribe him with your food.
I learned what Paul Simon meant when he said he blew that room away
I learned what J.D. Salinger lied when he said he would do it anyway
Bruce Springsteen said to Terry Gross every Rock'N'Roll song means one thing:
"Pull your pants down."
Huh!
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
cuando raf salinger se enamoró o quiso de verdad
salió de sí como de un calabozo
brilló con propia luz
no tuvo tacha ni defecto ni mengua
como caballos como vacas al fin de la jornada
raf salinger vertía sus aguas en plena soledad
fulguró afuera como sol
no pálido de cárcel no en guerra
"cuidado que me lastimás" decía raf salinger
a los hombres de manos ásperas
que como niños están cubiertos de miel
pero le quitan la victoria el vencedor
"oh ángel que te inclinas en la primera mitad"
decía raf salinger furioso cavando
el viento que le envolvía la trasluz
o el revés de los días malos que le comían la verdad
"si el coraje consiste en ser prudente" decía raf salinger
"si los vestidos significan desnudez y miseria
dicha el llanto cadáver curación, te arde amor el odio" decía
con gran perdones finalmente
todas las ventanitas se cerraron
cuando raf salinger murió
un calor le creció entre amor y afuera
juntándole los dos al solito
"ah tiempos no distancias que hay entre mí
entre mi calor y mi sol" decía raf salinger
casi disuelto ya bajo la sombra
que le apagaba el hubo que vivir
sobre su gente subió el frecuente olvido
peor raf salinger viajaba abrigado
por un cuerpo desnudo
encontrado o joven
1k
"Hope is a thing with feathers"
They read, confused.
The only feathers in life were
On TV or locked away in a zoo.
They read the poetry of Whitman
The dictates of Emerson
Of Ginsburg, Steinbeck, Salinger
Nothing made sense
When you spend your life being prodded
From concrete box to concrete box
Stuffed, squashed and barely managing to survive,
Imagination is rare
It's hard to picture feathers,
Red hunting caps, blooming lilacs,
Open roads
Between ***** pavements
Glittering broken bottles, and leftover plastic
Beauty became an expensive concept,
Best left for academics
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
I am watching that new documentary about J.D. Salinger
I keep pausing because I find it somewhat unbearable
I go outside to have a cigarette
Or write a poem
I can't imagine Salinger would have cared much for the movie himself
The light from my window is infuriating
I wish I had blinds
I should go buy some blinds so that I can sleep through the mornings
I am never prepared for mornings
Before I started watching the Salinger movie
I watched this movie where the ending is so implicit in the beginning
That the movie is not much of a story at all
I am stuck in a driveway or at the foot of a staircase
Or I am wandering in circles around the base of a great mountain
Noting the foothills and exploring quiet empty glens
My apartment is empty save for me and the cat
That mews without settling on any specific want
But mews just for want of pretty much anything
The palm trees outside my window
Give an accurate reading of the weather
Lathered in sun and tickled by breeze
Not much of anything
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Notice the notion.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Faster.
Hum.. Hum.. Hum.. Hum..
Do you celebrate such occasions?
Linger into the presence of your
long lost friends and different
hidden enemies?
Hum.
What do you want?
Stay on focused.
Your attention is driving you crazy.
If only you’d close your eyes amidst
that notion..
hum! hum! hum!
It’s all in your head.
Hum.. hUm.. huM..
Carve your way back.
Your growing gnarls everywhere.
It’s grotesque but that’s alright.
hum!
You developed the early signs
of decay.. humMMmmMMmm
BREAK!
Inhale like a hero about to
unleash his full potential
against a formidable fiend!
Exhale! Like the last of
your power is beyond the
rites of your will!
REST. . .
Admire your heroes:
Bukowski finished beyond
comprehension.
Mercury came to ‘em all!
Nobody does
The DDT
like
Jake “The Snake” Roberts.
You’re not special.
You’re no different.
You’re not the protagonist.
It’s just a first person complex.
Your life is not a Salinger novel.
but
don’t die before your fears.
die suddenly.
die unexpectedly.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC
4/27/2016
It is spring,
and outside my window when
I woke up i found a bleachwhite dogwood creeping outside up onto the wallboards-
I was scared it would get in,
its vines creep through the cracks
with the green woods in the back cheering it on
My skin danced with the fleas of my
uncertain past, the thready stinging reminders of my yesterdays
and the one hour storms at night and late mornings that come with spring
I cursed my living in a forest
when I stepped outside, carefully
so as to not be seen by the woods
and the syphillitic robins
that sang disgusting little hymns
and the frogs that muttered at night.
the air was sharp, it smelled like a dripping faucet
My blood dripped into the laundry
sink, carefully twisting itself when it hit the water
it looked delicate, creeping and soft.
I read Salinger that day- I always
do in the spring- it is something about the disenchantment that brings me back to peonies and azaleas, tulip sales
ecetera-
I heard your voice on the line and breathed
that I hadn't heard it in a while,
I said this with my nose
and you apologized
but I did not want it
because it is not fair:
they all apologize to me for things that they should not
but I should be the one that is apologizing eternally
eternally for being this
like a cicada,
that comes out after years for one thing
and then disappears all over again
and perhaps even dies.
this summer is supposed
to be the summer the locusts come
to visit the east coast and
If the apocalypse is coming, I am not scared- it has arrived many times for me before.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 5:42 PM UTC