"sawdust" poems
(one!)
the wisti-twisti barber
-pole is climbing
people high,up-in
tenements talk.in sawdust Voices
a:whispering drunkard passes
22.6k
I.
I’ve swallowed too many I love you’s
to be afraid of coughing up blood.
They cut you on secret.
Who knew it was drinking gasoline
and sawdust and every little inflammable thing
and then sitting down cross-legged
in the heart of a howitzer; soft.
II.
You are a soft explosion.
You are streaks of a rebel orange
in a sky that is supposed to be blue.
You are steel rods in the curve of my spine,
holding me straight.
III.
I love you’s are like death notes written in ash:
you’ll have to smoke your way to it.
Smoke cigarettes, journals, curtains,
and yourself to get that much ash in your lungs;
trying to blow smoke rings into your finger;
my ceiling knows more about my sadness than you do.
IV.
Saying an I love you once will have you
chanting “don’t leave me” on a rosary;
love will take your bones and leave you
lusting for somebody whose back
is the last thing you’ll see, and whose
skin you’ll think you left your keys in:
and now you’ve locked yourself out
of your own house, in a storm
whose sirens wail in your ears and remind
you, you’re hopeless and homeless.
V.
I love you’s leave no exit wounds,
no shell casings, and when the time comes
you’ll be telling them all how his bullet
ricochets in your ribs,
but emotion never made up for evidence
in the court of settlements for a broken heart.
VI.
Telling someone you love them is like cutting your jugular
and not expecting to bleed out.
VII.
I love you like the pages of a mad girl’s journal.
VIII.
The moon turns from an ally
to the haunting image of science and realisation:
you share the same sky, but no longer the same bed.
And astronomy keeps ******** you over
when you look up at the sky
and no longer understand constellations.
IX.
Love makes it more getting-back-at-you
than getting-back-together-with-you.
X.
Every time you taste blood,
you’ll know you kissed somebody
with teeth like needles
and they cut you everywhere; they
bit you, they bit you, they bit you
and you kept letting them.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
“T'was the night before Christmas ...”
and Santa was busy.
The reindeer were antsy
the elves in a tizzy.
The missus was tending
the ovens like mad
And turning out cookies
to make children glad.
The wood chips were flying
the sawdust was thick
The workshop was bulging
with toys from St. Nick.
Contractors from Sega,
Nintendo and Sony
Were working on games
(and a robotic pony).
Iphones and Ipads
(with virus removal)
Were packed in their boxes
and stamped "Elf Approval".
Last minute touches
were added with flair
While elf stylists tended
to Santa's white hair.
Elf tailors were making
some last alterations
To Santa's red coat
and his waist tribulations.
The weather was fair
as the weather-elf stated
The routes were approved
and departure was slated.
Bells had been polished
and harnesses buffed
While repairs were addressed
for the hoofs that were scuffed.
The antlers were festooned
with ribbons and bells
And the reindeer were covered
with elf flying spells.
The clock approached
midnight as Santa was seated.
The countdown began
as the flight crew was greeted.
H-hour neared
and the tension was growing.
Outside it grew cloudy
and then, began snowing.
But Santa just grinned
as the weather-elf winced.
"Don't worry, my friend.
Our time has commenced."
For the weather was nothing
to Santa's conveyance.
His reindeer and sleigh
were immune to"delay-ance".
With a whirl of his whiskers
and a flick of his wrist
The reindeer were launched
in a flash of white mist.
And I heard him exclaim
through his teleport ray:
"ALERT TSA. Tell 'em
I'm on my WAY!"
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
I believe it was the sawdust of summer when I found your voice in a shadow of a song it reminded me of my past hurt. You sang so beautifully of lilacs and photogenic water, you build harmonies powerful enough to save angels in a storm.
Quickly I caught on and held tight to your butterflies you called lyrics. You spoke of love like you had a doctrine in it. I thought for men love was a learning curve. You proved me wrong. You did not just create music and magic you birth colors out of sound and called them stories.
You blurred the lines between reality and fantasy. I bet your music is similar to the way God speaks. I bet you discovered a guitar inside of a black deity and the piano inside of a white devil's broken heart.
Prince, I bet you can play anything even the fossils of flowers.
Your music is an endless drug, a purple high. Listening to you made me feel like all four seasons cuddled up with a kiss.
Tell me when did you get tired of playing love songs?
When did balancing the moon and a microphone become all too much for you? Who choked the life out of your vocal chords? **** I would give almost anything to hear you live again! To wear your songs in my ears like Heirlooms. Oh Wait, I think I get it. Is this how you go beyond means of self to teach us dead silence is music too?
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 9:11 AM UTC
******* sawdust
Whiskey and rust
This is the life
This is cloud nine
This used to be a simple alibi
But now it's just a damaged lullaby
It's hard to kiss
Skin that crawls
But in the dark
The weakness falls
Unasked questions
They do rebound
Silent screaming
Rings all around
This used to be a simple alibi
But now it's just a damaged lullaby
Tattoos, perfume
Gasoline fumes
Nursing this poison
cringing, no end
Dysfunctional love
is what we make
just one more hit
It'll be the last I take
This is the life
This is cloud nine
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
Our home has an uneven foundation
The walls are crumbling and the support beams are rotting
And tonight, the roof finally caved in.
As my lungs filled with sawdust I covered my ears
I covered my eyes and hid from my fears
I didn’t wanna hear the screams or the tears,
I couldn’t bare to hear promises of suicide
And claims of pure hatred with a dash of cyanide
I couldn’t bare to see my home topple over
And I couldn’t bring myself to look at their hands bunched up into fists
They screamed until they couldn’t make a sound and I couldn’t deal
I couldn’t witness such a catastrophe without being scarred so I ran and I hid
I hid from their words and I hid from their lies
I hid until the worst of it was over
And then all was quiet.
When I opened my eyes, the walls were intact
The beams were solid, the floor was leveled
And everyone was smiling.
Their teeth were black with ash and soot
But they smiled wide, grinning ear to ear
And their voices were calm, the yelling had ceased
I uncovered my ears.
And though their mouths told one story
Their eyes told another
They were red and puffy, and I could see the pain that the damage caused
But they smiled on anyway
As did I.
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
That day, something got into me.
Approaching the corner of 155th
and Broadway on the Upper West Side,
my friend and I were only a block from home.
Either we'd been on a mission for candy necklaces
or bubble gum cigars, from the place where the guy
was always grumpy, never actually scary,
and the sawdust on the floor, the real cigars
in fancy boxes, were something to wonder about.
Or we had just scored our first fresh sugar canes,
one each, and much taller than either of us.
The kindly Puerto Rican green grocer, proud
of his new shop, hoped we'd try the plantains
too, getting a kick out of our delight
in what he'd always known.
The light was red, and we weren't in a hurry.
I just got curious about this trap door on the side
of the old cast iron signal post,
and decided to see
if it would open... and it did.
Smiling to myself, an uncommon, delicious
sense of mischief lighting me up inside,
I calmly flipped a switch.
Instantly, all four lanes of traffic, heading north
and south on Broadway came to a screeching halt.
The feeling of power was intoxicating.
And unforgettable.
Had I been an older kid, had the policeman
who happened by been less lenient, had anyone, God forbid,
been injured, I could have been in some serious trouble.
Injury never entered my mind, and maybe the officer saw that.
All in all, I got away with the only really naughty thing
I did as a child, and still get to smile.
And remember.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
Evergreen and ivory
Turquoise tears bleed ebony
Fuchsia trees bear violet cherries
Blood oranges,
Mushroom clouds and ashberries.
These are the thoughts that grace my mind
As I turn to leave
Garden gnomes and rose scraped knees
Faster now
Faster than before
Kiss me golden,
Less, then more
And tell me who I am.
Coteries and clandestine deals
Soft-sweet midnight chamomile
And indigo aspirations
Somber February celebrations
Anniversaries white and red
Blue and green and white and red
And can you keep a secret?
Black-tea memories always slap me sleepless
And I have never known quite exactly how I feel.
Clementines suspended in yellow lamplight
Cross it out to scarlet rewrite.
Beige mountains and Alaskan hills
Crescent moon and sawdust mills
Silver smiles on a benign boat
Blessed if I'm an allusion to a footnote.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
the dendrites don't know what's right anymore.
the tipsy balance is falling off the table,
and there's nothing there to stop it.
gravity is such a *****
but, so are a lot of things,
and i can't seem to grasp onto anything good
anymore by standing
right in front of the doors
that lead to something better.
i knew it when i found my body
still in the second row of the
dark movie theater,
crying at the smiling stars
on the explosion of a projection screen.
i'm pretty sure i was feeling
sorry for myself
lapping up some kind of
enlightenment.
i've been too nice for too long,
but i've been old since the
day i turned eight.
that was when i learned about
the rough bodies
portraying the new style of
***
on a vhs,
and my eyes stung
because i didn't want to watch
and it seems to hormone driven
boys that it's ingrained in my dna.
i have been uncomfortable for ten years now.
but not as winded on the
day it burned a hole in
my solar system,
the milky way
told me to love the metal hearts
and
always be kind.
i can't do that anymore,
there's too much anger
in my stomach
for my body not to
convulse in shame.
it was never my fault,
but everyone else likes to think so
and
i've always held it gently
so no one else would have
to breathe in sawdust
and exhale hurt.
i always had it covered
with my hands lined with
fortunes.
palms,
can you tell what's in store for me now?
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 6:40 PM UTC
Infant of painful belly
sleeps only when held upright,
gently bounced,
seeking skin contact,
the family scent, family touch,
flesh to flesh.
My daughter, so tired,
new mother, must rest.
Men need to do things. At least, I do.
The porch rail remains half-built,
the truck idles roughly,
not this evening’s chore.
Just as I once rocked my daughter, now
her babe sleeps with warm little cheek
against my stubbly old,
hot puffs of breath
on my grainy neck.
Some day, grandson, you may wear
my scent of sweat, sawdust, motor oil.
For now you smell of milk, mommy, peace.
Life is so basic with a baby:
doing nothing, giving comfort,
the work of love.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
So close to your scent, I feel I should pay rent.
Something you will not know you smell, until a time comes when you go.
And suddenly everything smells like that.
WHAT IS THAT SMELL?
And you calculate the ingredients to the potion of that smell..
A smell you know so well..
But you can not list it's properties
You are it's only property.
A smell you can not tell the smell of.
And when we're back again the smell almost goes, it gets camp set up and lost inside my nose.
You enter the world of this smell, it's warm and it's cozy, it's familiar and almost dusty.
It smells like skin.
Which smells like nothing.
It smells like hair
Which smells like something.
It smells like breath without a particular scent.
It smells like clothes and armpits.
It smells like a sample scent of another world.
Which I am nosing around
It smells like all of your belongings and all the things that you do put into one familiar you.
It smells like sawdust, it smells like dog walking, it smells like toast, it smells like early morning, it smells of the coast, it smells of laptop, it smells of toothpaste, it smells like tents.
It smells of carpets, It smells of washing powder, It smells of your house and your power shower, It smells like Apple shampoo and all the other things that you like to do.
It smells like you.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
If I close my eyes and think of you
I can smell your scent
From a mere two days ago
The flutter in my heart follows
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the joints
That I identified aged 10
I try not to *****
If I close my eyes and think of my best friend
I can smell her perfume and washing powder
It makes me smile
And want a hug
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the stale beer
A middle of the night smell
It meant 'don't leave your room'
If I close my eyes and think of my mum
I smell safety and comfort
Strength and gravity
The balance keeps me strong
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the stale sweat
The cruel words of abuse
The hatred inside myself
If I close my eyes and think of my sister
I smell vanilla and style
Fashion and creativity
Sullen kindness
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the cold of the room
With its broken window in the arctic temperatures
The fire unlit because the marijuana needed somewhere to grow
If I close my eyes and think of school
I smell the comforting sawdust
The corridors familiar
The classrooms like home
If I close my eyes and think of my father
Not having friends round to tea- because.
16 not 6- you can't buy my trust
16 not 46- don't want prayer flags for my birthday
If I close my eyes and think of home
I smell the damp washing hanging up
Every squeaky floorboard
Every drip, clank, comforting noise
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I smell the power he loved to have
How I haven't seen him in three years
The fear that still remains
If I close my eyes and think of myself
I smell nothing
Hear and see nothing
At that is what scares me the most.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
I looked inside her head
Thought I'd see carousels, glitter *****
Unicorns juggling golden orbs
Glinting diamonds, chandeliered halls
But there was only sawdust, bits of straw
Knotted string, plasticene and beetles wings
Expectation is a foolish thing
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
~
The Giraffe Cries
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
It wasn't tackled with a surgeon's finesse
But the battered brute of conviction.
I can still see the two man cross cut saw
Jammed deep in the bark - but a tickle.
A mail of thick branches disguised as
Dense fodder stood strong against waves.
Throwing everything at it - raining sawdust -
As the giggles were heard for miles around.
Now standing crippled, taunting as it sways -
The battle's won but the war will have its day.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.
So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....
I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.
Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
When I get too blue
I laugh at myself
pick up the leash
and take Mr. Brown to the dog park.
He shows me how
to be carefree
will jump and bark
drink a gallon of water
and lick whomever he chooses
without a worry in the world.
Everybody admires his *****
What kind of dog is that?
He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback.
an African lion hound,
but he’s scared shitless of my cat.
what’s yours?
A Visla.
Looks like yours, only smaller.
Did you see that American Foxhound?
That s.o.b. can jump!
Yeah, too bad he can’t pay my mortgage.
The young photographer shows off
his brilliant Doberman’s latest trick –
a double backflip
catching the Frisbee ten feet high
landing on all fours.
The old lady with the blind daschund
says, “Oh, oh, isn’t he wonderful?”
She claps her hands in delight.
The canine Noah's arc show runs all day
with the entry of pugnacious Sharpeis
the arrogance of Poodles
the inscrutability of giant Malamutes.
the pride of leash-holders.
Gradually tree shadows darken the sawdust
and people start parading home,
the **** athletic girls with their boyfriends’ Shepherds
the slow old men with their greying Labradors
the lady real estate agents with their tiny Shih Tzus.
And then it’s silent
I’m the last one there
alone in the gathering dusk
still hearing echoes of joyful barks
realizing how funny it is
that so many people
look just like their dogs
but I don’t think about it,
I just marvel at all this joy.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
she screams "SILENCE DOES NOT EXIST" at the top of her lungs but there's no one around to hear her
her brain pounds against her skull and she can hear the sound of drilling through bone she can smell the sweet stench of human bone meal she can taste the oozing sawdust textured drips of her own blood and she can see the back of her eyelids, tinged with red from the florescent lights of the hospital room as her fingers twist in the thin coarse blankets she tugs at so desperately writhing in the cot they've graciously provided her with if only to remove her stillbeating organs with the promise of a cure
she screams "SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME" at the top of her lungs but there's no one around to hear her
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
3.1k
I was encaged.
at the filligree age of 13
I told my childhood friend I had fallen
for the way freckles fell like sawdust on her teacup skin
and
the way her lips blushed around a cigarette that always burned too
close to the filter
In that town, with bleeding jaw
town like funeral bells
all were straight until proven otherwise.
in that town
ALL WERE SAFE UNTIL PROVEN OTHERWISE.
In 1892
the word bisexual was first used for being sexually attracted to both
women and
men.
Bisexuality does not explain
falling in love with fire.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
There is a consumer product demon
in the trash underneath my sink.
The other day, I tossed in a wrapper
from a Quest 20-protein-gram nutrition bar
and a hand reached up to grab it.
Thinking I was daydreaming
I pulled out the white plastic Rubbermaid trash basket;
no hand, but the ¼ cup of Kraft Fast Mac
tossed in yesterday was moving, undulating.
It made a distinct voice-y sound
like “You’ll like Mac-a-lot, so eat me!”
Thinking this was just my overactive poetic imagination
I turned to the sink.
My JetZScrubber had wrapped around a spoon
dancing in circles around the In-Sink-Erator drain
while the Ajax Easy-Hands Dishwashing Liquid spewed bubbles
in unison.
Now convinced I took too much acid in college
I ran upstairs where my dog Mr. Brown sleeps
on his 44” x 36” leopard-print GoodDogBed.
“Howdy, partner,” Brown chimed.
“Sure is a fine day to go for a walk
using that Halti multi-loop leader and Sprenger prong collar.
Yes, I love ‘em.”
I took Mr. Brown to the dog park.
the one with the Safe-Steel chain link fence
and the pine trees without labels.
He pooped in the sawdust and vocalized
in his hound voice.
I could have sworn he said,
“Glad I didn’t do that on the L.L.Bean Woven Nylon Area Rug,”
but I wasn’t sure.
Nothing moved
except the wind in the trees.
and I wondered what to call it.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
All the poems have wolves in it -- Jim Morrison
Man in bathtub with stony eyes
Water getting stiller in the cold, dead night
Hair long and soft as outstretched raven claws
Wilted fingers grip the lip with lifelike vigor
And then slip away
Naked wooden marionettes writhe
In dunes of ****** sawdust
Shedding skin like so much baggage
And baggage like so much skin
Cheese-grater screams on blank faces
Soon the forms are dust and then
The dust is gone
Inked fingers dipped in oft-repeated wisdoms
Picking little crippled words
And someone else's Lego bricks
Shine a light on the beautiful
Laugh at it
Sing to it
Grasp at it
Quit
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC