"scranton" poems
I let you go
to Philadelphia
I let you go
thirteen goin' on “life”
to your momma-- (God rest her-- and keep you
--from wherever she is)
to your father in Philly
outa the picture
Sheepish in the doorway of my classroom
back again
one last time--
Say good-bye, kid, to your short stay in Scranton
a town that can't rhyme
whose name falls over its own misery
No use for outsiders
“Where's your book?
Found your binder in the rain
Soggy protest to school's demands?
Of course it's yours
I checked, ya know”
"No way!"
Desk's been empty, three weeks now
Still, gotta ask
“Whacha doin?
Where ya been?”
“Khmir,
I'm sorry for your loss....”
Thirty seconds shares our grief
Thirty seconds for your future's-- all I got
“Listen to your teachers!
Do your work!
Please-- be okay?”
Khmir
in your wooly black coat-- like a bear
like a dare
shruggin and dancin in the doorway
of the “show”
Homework? Aint happenin'
But one paper, though
on why--
YOU-- should be president
and I almost vote for you
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
Seek out the skeletons on every surface
Your no fun if you go to bed first
Those days were dark & merciless
You recited lies to my pretty face
I forgave you;
Lord knows we both sin
My fortune predicts I won't win
Cause you're already tasting that drip;
And you crave the bitterness
You can't cure him with charisma
And your love won't liberate him
So say your prayers till your voice is strained
100 Hail Marys won't alter this game
-Kellie A. Scranton
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 4:29 AM UTC
“Some people are never far away...”
I am thinking this--
bouncing tipsy on pool floaty
at my daughter's new home
in 'burbs of Philly
Sipping wine
on a pool floaty
thinking this--
abstractly
Sipping wine
in odd peace
on a pool floaty
cool and soft, the water
Cicadas scour the air
...Knowing it's not true....
I had watched them from my porch
leaving –
since the day they came
They –
and the robins too, headed south now
tumbling in their groups
that garble time
that sketch horizon
with a maze of staggered lines
Watching
geese--
their backs and wings gleam
in golden V
across the sunset
They are honking as they rise, raucous
from river in their flight
My daughters do the same
Migrating south from Scranton
waving, honking til their cars have turned the corner
out of sight
...on a pool floaty
fully clothed
I watch them
drenched in the darkening sky
tasting salty streams
Intoxicating sounds
their laughter
their voices--
How I love....
cicada droning
in the lush of background green
I will keep this moment clutched
to me
all I have of them
between these moments
I live between moments
of nothing and everything
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
Burgundy, the color of a dress I’ve never worn
to an occasion that never occurred
Velvet lined
coffin
Where lies the violin
There lies its song
The heart of fiddle strings
that bare of arms
That heart that sings, speaks, no, yells
to the hands that can’t respond!
to a mind that can’t remember
I was drowning in some future
not a violinist’s
“Alive with Pleasure”
read the billboard slogan for cigarettes
behind the happy couple
running out into their future
Forcing the hand of marriage
Waving goodbye to my life
from a rooftop in Scranton
as the wind hauled my laundry three city blocks
dumping my unders on Saint Luke’s sills
sailing my sheets up Wyoming Avenue
I lay on the tar and pebble roof
watching pigeons swirl
listening to traffic pass on the street below
The moment you know you’ve made the mistake
you can’t return from....
Wherever my towels have blown?
I wish them well....
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
(Went out today,
Charter boat
Trinidad Bay
Limited out on rock fish
in two hours
Watching Elks Head
from the ocean,
Grandpa)
Isadore
Called him Izzy
Chewing all day
on a fat cigar
Looked at lot like Jimmy Durante
His father stowed away on a ship
Wasn't going to be a Russian military conscript
Genocidal pogroms were coming
how he knew
we'll never know.
Ended up in Philadelphia town,
Scranton Pennsylvania
Moved along to Brooklyn
Stubby Izzy
fighting it out with the Irish immigrants
Dreaming of having a chicken farm
over there in New Jersey
Izzy met Grandma Sarah at the family clothing store
they fought it out for 70 years
The 60's book
Games People Play
They were the star attraction
The friction was the glue
that kept them together
The friction was the match
that lit their passion.
Grandpa Izzy
funniest man I ever met
Drove an old 48 Ford
selling housewares in the Southern route.
In the morning far too early
Sneaking into his room
tickling his feet to the sounds
of ohhs and hoho's
At five years old
Grandpa Izzy
took me fishing
on some New Jersey pond -
Afternoon sun with yellow colors
bringing all the foliage alive
Sun setting
fish rising
a hand held in mine
defined the peace
I seek
in reoccurring dreams through out a lifetime
A troubled teen
all suicidal
the drive in the 48 Ford
with Grandpa Izzy
running down the Malibu pier
catching the half day boat before it
disappeared
Grandpa Izzy
never lived far from a race track
I don't know about those losing days
but the secret he said
Was to never lose your sense of humor
Always be able to laugh at yourself
Izzy smoked those big old chewed cigars
lived until he was 94
Ended up not knowing
Who or where he was
Maybe we all
end up
that way too
But in my memory
there is sharp focus
he remains alive in me
If heaven is there
I know I'll find
Izzy and I
on that New Jersey pond,
a fishing line
and
peace inside.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Glistening through shafts of sunlight, I spy the silvery dragonfly,
Hovering above the clovered knoll,
Swaying like wheat in speckled sun.
Cantering up grassy hills, away from the stream,
The bleating goats exchange existential crises,
Brushing past the whispering tulips ablaze in the sunset.
Behind me,
In the shade of oaks, in spiraling dusts,
Decaying logs half buried in the windbreak
Rekindle and animate in the orange beams.
I stand up and sip my beer, as the stars blink and stutter.
A snowy owl whooshes past, wishing for rain.
Somebody loves me.
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 5:00 PM UTC
I really should be studying, I know,
but I can’t help logging in.
I’ve done some work today already, though,
would one episode be a sin?
Just to check on the friends with the apartment and the purple door,
or maybe the ones from the Scranton office who sell paper.
I also want to know what Eleven is up to,
and definitely Rory and Lorelai Gilmore.
I’ll curl up with a blanket here and i’ll make some popcorn later.
I think this was a good decision — it does say “Recommended For You.”
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
Seldom seen in the stew of Scranton skies
But there it is
a rubber band of fog
smudged across black distance...
Myriad-multitudes
They are truly there
Each burning ball
gathered beyond my imagination
by the Moon Mother
Who scrubs the faces
of her little stars
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
When you can't go outside in the cold
Cause it hurts your bones;
And you've caused self inflicted mayhem
On every surface of your skin
When the night is your only cherished friend
It comforts your deceiving soul
And sings you a fast tempo lullaby
-Kellie A Scranton
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 4:44 AM UTC
I First Saw Scranton
...and did not unpack
my life
Iron-- ic
as if always
meant to be a rusted ruin
I first saw Scranton
Not much of a view
beyond the smoldering mountains of the culm
dumps, decrepit
mills, of once...
prosperous coal
city in denial
decay of Great mansions--abandoned
on the Hill
away
from clapboard and spit hovels
of miners
in the barren
mud beside the river
below
and I remember thinking:
"How can I ever live here?"
I own one of those hovels now
48 years-- under foot and harnessed
in the stays
Just another in a string of small
sad
cities'
people
so used
and
waiting
to be
covered up
once again by heaviness--
Its sin
in the mercy of snow...
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 2:26 PM UTC
Scranton has me wrapped
around its broken finger
I fell abruptly into the palm
of Philadelphia
with eager eyes
and shaking hands
but the boring consistency
of a quiet purgatory
is too easy to come home to
And truth be known,
I am no artist
I'm just an other
tired college student
with displaced anger,
alcohol poisoning
& a surplus of anxiety
thriving on a tethered
thread of hope some
sad boy with a guitar
gave me in high school
and it's wearing thin
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
there's a place at the bottom
of my swimming pool,
at the edge of my bed,
in the backseat of my car
& in the old church parking lot
that hold all my darkness
but they're just places
and when i leave them,
they don't follow me
i've realized that i don't
have to live inside of them
anymore
there is chlorine
that doesn't smell
like the summer we spent
wasted on tile floors
all over portland
there are sheets
that don't feel like
the rough skin on the back
of your hand
there are cars
with leather seats
that i don't feel nauseous
peeling my thighs off of
there are parking lots
that aren't vacant
monday-friday...
parking lots lit
by street lamps
where no one can hurt me
there's a universe outside
the pain
where boys
with green eyes
are gentle
a universe
where he touches my
shoulder & i don't flinch,
where he whispers
"i like you"
into the still
scranton air
& i believe it
i lived
with my limbs
all tangled up in your hate
for so many years
but i'd cut off
every last one
before i'd wrap
them around you again
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
We were never
much for
shopping malls
We weren't
interested in
t a l k i n' ****
We
chose
your basement
and a case
over every single
house kegger
for four years straight
We bought
concert tickets
on
prom night
We drove to
Philly
with a couple forties
and
~l A u g H E d~
so hard
our
ribs
ached
Always
doing
100
miles
an
hour
down
the
freeway
listening to
Scranton punk
and flicking
dead joints
out the
passenger side
window
On
l a z y
nights
we'd park at the church
up the road a little ways from my house
I'd watch your
lips
move
slow and careful
as you sang
under the street lights
and asked
"how am I sounding?"
I'd usually tell you
...it could be better
Just because I wanted to listen
to you try again
And again and again
until it was stuck in my head
Oh,
I swear
You're
Still
Stuck
In
My
Head
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
She slumped by the archway of the Chapel,
Forlorn, beaten in fact;
She had come to these grounds from Plattsburgh,
(Cold, martial little city home to General Wood’s summer flings)
To lay a wreath she’d bought near the train station at Bayeux
Purchased from a women at a small shop table,
Who’d had the grace not to haggle over-much,
Knowing full well why someone would make such a purchase.
She’d hoped to lay it at her brother’s marker;
He’d been lost at Omaha, likely before he’d set foot on the sand
(She’d no ideas of such things at the time,
Death being a thing that happened to rabbits
Their old shepherd chased down in the back yard,
Or dolls beheaded courtesy of her younger brother)
But the plot number given to her with such confidence
By the young adjutant from the War Department
Had a name wholly unknown to her
(Where the information was bollixed she had no way of knowing,
Not that officialdom would be any more help to her,
With so many sons in Scranton,
So many husbands in Hamtramck,
So many fathers and brothers in the same boat)
And so she sat, overwhelmed with the distance she’d come,
The magnitude of her failure and its implications,
And the whole **** burden of simple humanity
When she was approached by an older man,
Who clearly resided nearby
(Why he was here less evident—the hush of the venue, perhaps,
Possibly some corporal he was indebted to).
He’d understood her predicament in an instant,
No doubt a scene he’d witnessed scores of times before,
Laissez-le sur un monument funéraire,
He crooned, patting her forearm
Ce n’est pas important, and he sauntered away.
She’d considered heeding his advice,
But she remained hostage
To some vestige of latter-day Babbitesque can-do,
And so she soldiered back toward the endless rows of marble,
Stretching out in endless parallel lines
As in some middle-school perspective perspective drawing
Without borders, without end.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
brace laced teeth
and an operation ivy t-shirt
converse dressed feet
and a scared look on
his pale face
all alone
tracing street lamps
with his fingertips
all the way from
philly to scranton
he's sketching tattoos
he swears he's gonna
get some day
when things are finally
going his way
and i don't have the heart
to say that most things
stay the same
he reminds me
of everything
i was and all the
things that made me
cry, when i was fourteen
and already a nervous wreck
i said "hey kid you like OP IV?"
and he smiled so wide
i thought the metal in his
mouth was gonna pierce his cheeks
oh i just
hope he doesn't
end up an anxious mess
like all my ***** friends and i
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
We were stuck in a downpour on Locust
Shadowed with good intentions
Your vices smothered your virtue
They exist on the coastline of your mind
Follow the glow of the neon signs
Turn right when you feel your chest convulse
Born cursed with impulse
Sanity leaks from the ceiling in your mind
Your gleaming with dishonesty
You curated needle graffiti on my walls
You disappeared liked clockwork
Down every shoddy alley
To fill your lungs with manic choas
Just another suburban stray
With calico bruises
Trying to find the glamour in its grip
-kellie scranton
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 2:39 PM UTC
I watched cars sail under bridges
and smiles fade in the distance
Graffitied buildings begging
questions like, why is it so
hard to make it out of the house
without having a panic attack?
Three hours from Philly to Scranton
Just three long hours with you
on my mind and I can hardly breathe
because the world looks so big
through wide windows
Tall trees and deep lakes
all around me, but stretches
of ugly highway are all I see
There's so much to love,
so much for me but I
can't seem to change my mind
I can't seem to leave your name behind
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Love is a yellow shotgun shell sitting on a shelf.
Love is a kiss on the forehead and on each cheek.
Love is peeing with the door open
and conversations in red sweatshirts.
Love is borrowed sweatpants and back rubs,
and being too deep in conversation to watch the movie.
Love is staying out past when you said you would.
Love is 48 index cards and
one scoop of ice cream.
Love is a family affair-
a sister, two brothers,
laughing in the kitchen and
seriously watching football games.
Love is the massive American flag
standing tall in a Macey's parking lot.
Love is waiting in the car at the gas station
and asking for a key to the bathroom.
Love is Scranton, Pennsylvania
and Burbank, California.
Love is homemade CDs and driving mindlessly through the night,
holding hands in silence.
Love is a bouquet of dead roses
in a vase full of murky water.
Love is the empty feeling you get on Wednesday nights
and the pang in your heart when you drive past the local pizza place.
Love is checking the mailbox every day.
Love is missing you.
Love is an atomic bomb.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
day of the big extraction.
lower left molar
tooth number 18.
interesting chakra, that one.
sometimes a physical removal of energy is needed
to let the nadis breathe.
I got a double hernia repaired about a year ago.
anesthesia administered by St. Michael the Divine.
a whole granthi must have broken loose
while I was underneath the knife.
energetic knots all in a tangle in the sacral
burst into a cloud of scarabs and sanskaras
like a flock of a thousand white doves released
at a Louisiana Jazz Funeral.
the first time I sank into samadhi was late February 2021.
I was sitting in the lobby at Horizon Dental
third floor of the Guild building, Wyoming avenue, Scranton, PA.
I was sipping coffee I got from the 1st floor
from the
Heaven and Earth Cafe
when my -
eyes rolled up into my skull
when my -
heart buckled under the beauty
when my -
brain found its new home in a vat of warm static.
I felt like the Benedictine on the cross I got
from the christian trinket shop attached to the new cafe downstairs.
holy holy holy. glory be to god
this tooth has been giving me agita for two years
ever since the medicine
and the accident
and the hospital.
ever since I broke the Causal Egg.
novicaned
root canalled
capped with a cracked temporary
and now just a fractured stub of calcium
with three roots instead of two.
It only took a couple skillful shots to the face
before I couldn’t feel a thing.
except for twenty five minutes
of drilling
and cracking
and prying
and extracting the one thing that kept me grounded
when I was sitting in the common area of the 6th floor
of the CMC, Hill Section, Scranton, PA.
©️ Jordan Gee
Sep 9, 2022
Sep 9, 2022 at 12:30 PM UTC
I used to be long, blonde hair
And tan skin
Acrylic nails with a sharp edge
Corona in the sunset
Pretending to laugh
Just to flash my snow white teeth
But nothing was funny
Living in cocoa beach
Only so that I can say
"I live in cocoa beach"
Selfies full of *** appeal
And shorts cut like underwear
But untouchable,
Smeared eyeliner in dark corners
Lights out,
No boy between my sheets
Just me and my misery
You can make faking it a full time job
But you'll never believe your self
That's certain
My roommate and I
We played up chemistry that made
Strangers cry
But we hated each other so much
It left lumps in our throats
All the time
Yoga and Pilates
Kale smoothies and
Swimmers thighs
But I'd rather be sleeping
Screamed at my roommate
Til I coughed up blood
Caught a flight out of Orlando,
4:30 in the morning
Stumbled into Philly,
Back on my ********
And the air tasted no different
When the act was up
Curtain closed
I washed up in Scranton,
Back where I started,
Full circle,
On the corner of cigarette ash
And Miller lite cans
I gained 20 pounds almost over night
Striped the bleach from my hair
Bit the fake nails off my real ones,
They were thin and cracking
Put on jeans and a t-shirt
Fell asleep on my parents couch
Nothing changed inside of me
From one version to the next
Same depression,
Same medicine
Nothing matters
Nothing at all
Hell follows
No escape
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
im watching the moon fade in
and out of dark blue
clouds just after
midnight on a wednesday
and im holding onto
the filter of this
menthol like it's
your hips,
close enough
to burn my fingertips
and hard enough to
bruise my knuckles
cause you called me 3 times
this week while i was sleeping
and now you won't answer
my texts
the grass is cold
in october
but id rather feel
the shocking chill on my thighs
than not feel anything at all
i guess it's getting bad again
because i can't stay inside
for more than twenty minutes
without feeling like im losing my
god **** mind
i think i just need the sky
to feel small
cause lately im always
taking up someone else's space
and **** im asking for it
with the way
i keep replaying voicemails
of you screaming
at me from sixty three miles north
just to drown out his patient voice
cause id rather hear the chaotic
pain shaking through your lips,
so many miles out of my reach
than his carefully composed
monologue of peace and sanity
lying next to me in bed
and that scares me
that really scares me
*i wish you'd pick up your phone
i think there's something wrong*
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
I know I'm slightly losing it and Jill sees that now too,
So all we can but hope for is to Bluster and to Woo.
What If I sometimes falter with names or something more,
Only Fox is bent on keeping that lame and pointless score.
The rest of my fan Media provides me with great flak,
While I air my inner Irish and repeatedly attack.
As to the clueless voters I truly feel for all,
I quietly do get them, as the choices do appall.
Trump is but a cannon with a worn-out rusty bore,
Little in the barrel spraying mayhem aft and fore.
And to my friend Kamala, words truly don't suffice,
But no-one of sound mind would want to roll that dice.
So what are we now left with that possibly makes sense,
To getting people voting and off that dreaded fence.
I'm quite the only choice if truth be clearly told,
Despite the fact I'm quirky and obviously quite old.
Thank goodness for the knowledge my team will see me through,
I bless HIM every night for this weird creative crew.
They tell me what to say whenever I might need,
Have me practice all **** day to show that I can lead.
It's a challenge for them all but what about for me,
I’m sure it’ll be worth it in the end as you will see.
And while this plan unfolds I’ll keep a low profile
Speaking ever less as has become my style.
There is one thing that worries me far more than I would care,
Jon Stewart's now resurfacing with his weird confounding stare.
Throwing comments like sharp knives as a rapper from the hood,
And jabs like some street **** with a blistering left hook.
I’m asking my top people to rush him off the air,
The answer that I’m getting is pretend he isn’t there.
None of this a problem, the story of my life,
I cherish a good brawl and every dose of strife.
Abortion is my ticket with progressives by my side,
This alone will stem the frothing MAGA tide.
Just watch me now perform with my wily stash of tricks,
For if Trump is made of Teflon, I’m made from Scranton bricks.
Feb 14, 2024
Feb 14, 2024 at 12:03 PM UTC
House feels damp
in between
seasons of life
where I try to start a fire
Sky tonight was an amethyst fan
on a ruby line
the sun an ember
rolling golden years
down the Hills of Scranton
to the city's lights
Across the town
toward that bend in the river
a driving dusk
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC
I used to run in Nay Aug Park
A natural spot in Scranton
On the road below my feet
Was painted two feet tall
"Free Bobby Sands"
My heart bounced off the words
To know
how he died
Didn't know I could care
that much for anything
I was to learn
Learn how to care
about despair
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 7:09 PM UTC
Siblings parrying sincerity.
Brooklyn to Scranton to Bristol and back again
couches embrace
rewind it.
Front yard fabrication of a happy family
play pretends in the paper bark tree
squeeze my arm and ask me
are you okay con?
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 9:58 PM UTC