"shoestrings" poems
pull yourself up
by your shoestrings
lace them
tightly
we're going out
we're going to stomp
on this town
like godzilla
shawty is
a killer
i don't need a gun
to pump you full of lead
you were already dead
before you hit the ground
the sound
of the door
clicking shut
was enough
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
I scream
"But what about you?"
As if I was holding a mirror in one hand
Directed at your gaze
And revealing something no one else knew
I pointed out your glassy eyes so blank in their stare and
Your thick hands, gripped on a bicycle steering wheel
Angry sweaty blonde hair, pushed back by gusts of wind
I was trying to show you something
Important except not really
I thought then even my shoestrings were important when I had to tie them up and walk out of the door
No one cared about my shoestrings.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
Reading,
Reading you,
Reading me:
Symphonic emotional intelligence,
Words like a violinist.
I carry them with me
Inside my mind applying reality,
The unreality passsing out of me.
The poems speak like see through natures,
The clarity of my discombobulation.
You all become real.
Archives of the souls
Instantaneous connection
Closer than
Touch:
Your words resonance with every
Fiber of my being.
Your words
Invent more words,
Your emotions tie
The world's shoestrings,
The experience shared
Is a reality of musical theatre
And it kills the silence,
The silence of the mind.
Your words are movement,
Be it from a past,
The metaphysical dance,
A kiss of gentle air,
The idea is a life living
Recovering from the enigmatic plague
Of ignorance.
Though I see the bird sing
My heart stops when it I hear it
Through your words;
Connectivity.
Reading is not reading,
It is saying what your silence says,
Art becoming life in an echo of YOU.
The words that I understand:
Yes, the pain is also a gesture of reality,
It lets us know it was real,
Your tears,
Your secrets,
The murmured past,
And as I read it becomes as the
Sun on morning dew.
Beginnings,
Endings,
You become apart of me,
I become part of you,
Not words
But music in the silence.
And the moment will come
When you hear it too:
The poetry:
Crystalline humanity.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
I have this dog, a huge great pooch,
Just like the one, on Turner and *****
He really is a big orange lump,
Dare I say how much he dumps,
He shreds and ruins my favourite stuff,
Covering the floor, in loads of fluff,
TV remotes, he's chewed them up,
He costs a bomb, my naughty pup,
His snoring rattles the gates of hell,
And when he farts, my gawd, the smell!,
Don't let's forget, he loves his food,
Face in your cup, slurp slurp, how rude,
What's yours is his, he takes the ****
I dare you say the word, "biscuit"
He slobbers shoestrings, from his chops,
Each room has a rag, for him to mop,
But that aside, he has my heart,
His crinkly face, and stinky farts,
Rolling in fox mess on his daily stroll,
Sniffing crotches, of those who call,
I kiss his face off every day,
I could never love a man this way,
He has a face you want to snog,
I really, really love this dog :)
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
backpacking in the Jefferson wilderness
eating fresh wild blueberries
warmed by a late spring sun
the crystal blue sky captures me
and I stand, transfixed –
How could we have collectively been so blind?
pumping Co2 into the atmosphere
dropping atomic bombs
and an atoll
named after a bikini…
and the plastic island –
A wispy cirrus cloud
floats gracefully overhead
and takes my thoughts
on a journey
distant smokestacks dot the horizon
and drilling platforms stand menacingly
just beyond the shore,
and inside the bellies of sea creatures …
the plastic –
readjusting my pack
and leaning over to re-tie my shoestrings
the slow crawl of an ant packing lunch
sends me reeling
so many hungry children
just in the state I live
hopeless and *****
in run down or condemned houses
waiting, with tear streaked cheeks
for someone to show up with dinner
as the third foodless day
is always the hardest –
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
My Face is held on with old shoelaces
loose and sagging at the top
the grease stained hat holds it together
tight and neat till my shift is over.
My leg bones are gone,
transformed into balloon animals.
silly, flimsy things that wouldn't stay inflated
if not for the bicycle pump
I keep in my back pocket.
Every few hours I slip into the bathroom
just to sit and awkwardly fill up my legs,
Tom & Jerry style, through my big toes.
I say I try to live in the moment,
but I don't when I'm here.
Daydreams about suspiciously well prepared hoboes:
"No cash? That's fine. I have a card reader."
Memories of friends and stupid mistakes;
the smile is real, but the eyes...
the eyes are where I fool them
the eyes are where I hide the fact
that my mind is anywhere, everywhere else.
My eyes will never tell you that here,
I wish for summer to be over.
That here, I'm scared to death
that three years from now, I'll still be here,
and summer's end won't mean ****
The only friend I have here
says I remind him of himself.
He is pushing six years.
I just passed two.
So.
I want you to beat me into unconsciousness
with a giant, squeaky toy hammer.
The kind you can only get at the fair
for fifteen dollars or feats of mild greatness
confiscated within the first ten minutes.
Silliness so intense that our parents
destroyed it as contraband
to protect us from the poison,
our bloodlust of absurdity.
Club me in the head with it.
Please.
I want my legs to deflate.
I want to be a giggling mound of confusion,
rolling around on the floor,
within inches of enlightenment.
I want my hat to fall off,
my shoestrings to come untied,
and this stupid mask to splinter into tiny,
stupid pieces and form onto a real, stupid grin.
But most of all, I want every single note
of your noisy and utterly useless inflatable bludgeon
to be the first thing on my mind
the next time I walk around here
in my slip resistant sneakers
scuffling along the greasy tile floor.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
Shoestring Jeb
(Continued Part 2)
Shoestrimg Jeb was a very calm man
Always willing to lend you a hand
Jeb would never try to offend
And if he did he would ask to forgive
Now Sally Marie was Jeb's true love
And he gave to her all he had
He promised her he would never fight
Kept his word till they took her life
Sally Marie was home one day
Three men broke in and had their way
Jeb came home and saw his wife
She was stabbed ten times, he watched her die
The bar was dark, Jeb saw three men
Drinking and laughing over what they did
They saw Jeb but they didnt run
A big mistake, Jeb had his guns
Jeb's guns were his arms, never lost a fight
He beat those men, one at a time
Tied a showstring around three mens necks
Pulled it tight till each one was dead
Jeb never felt bad, not for what he did
He used his shoestrings to **** three men
The law looked twice but wouldnt convict
But Jeb never wore shoestrings again
Now if you see a man with no shoestrings in
Remember this story of Shoestring Jeb
Sally Marie was the love of his life
Three men took her,........ Three men died
Carl Joseph Roberts
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
I have proverbial boot straps
And I pull them everyday
They bundle tight the kitchen knives
And keep the guns at bay
But there will be a time
I mean there's gonna be a day
Where I let loose these imaginary shoestrings
And take my life away
And you may think don't go
You might even yell please stay
This is not a game of wills
I have no cards left to play
Do not conflate my mental illness
With my willingness to stay
This world and you were beautiful
Come what may
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
she ties my shoestrings
together. so my feet don't go
independently. while I try to
waltz her musical score
of rests through a series of
misfires from an amygdala,
who thought it knew the
best way to handle
California droughts.
instead, arm hairs burned up
and only a melanoma
of false hope traveled.
skin to heart, to brain but you
nestled in a tender gluteal spot.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
yellow light from the coach station
against marble houses-that we wish
we could buy- reminds me of the silver
moon we watch when we’re high.
now I’m crying into the duvet
and feeling far away from whispered
happy compliments I don’t know how
to describe you but you’re mine but
it’s time for a forest fire to still the fire
in my heart. I start to want to hold you
forever though my forever is over
my love, my never again. feeling your body
pulse with each sleeping breath reminding
me of death and I don’t want you to go.
I like being bad when I’m with you, sad
though it might seem when we dream
and you ask me to speak french when I’m
smoking cigarettes, trying to forget the plans
we made. we plan to go to europe because all
our dreams sparkle under the weekend skies,
you sigh, I can’t get back from here, my dear,
I fear I don’t know what’s real anymore,
what to feel anymore. your broad shoulders,
we’re getting older, they wrap around me &
your eye lids flutter, reminding me of a kind of
innocence we have yet to discover, my lover.
now the sun is beating down on london parks
where we sit and talk and dream, it seems
you are so beautiful reading kerouac,
what a cliché but we’ll get away, by megabus,
counting our change, courting our lust,
on 5 hour bus journeys from city to city
ambitions to home, joy to pity.
cuddling to britpop, we keep popping
pills and thrills and whatever is going.
don’t go, I know I’m a romantic
(you have no idea) your passions kills
and your mind excites, I might have to die
tonight, I might. I want you in the kitchen-
I can never untie my shoelaces- living on shoestrings,
tightropes and other things, I think that drinking
in cinemas could be a new favourite pastime,
are you still mine? drowning in wine, I know
I cry too much, but touch me. that night we went
out in your car to the docks, no stars, but you still
shone for me. buckingham palace is against a grey
sky tonight, against us but we still try- england is mine,
england is mine. we don’t usually kiss in public.
I used to spend a lot of time in the cathedral,
scribbling poems in the crypt, hoping something
would stick, but we drift towards a moment now,
my muse. you use me. red flowers in the buckingham
palace breeze, I breathe in daydreams of paris and patti smith
I keep rehearsing my life, it seems.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 5:12 PM UTC
Replaying what their saying praying they bring light to this white uptight insightful wannabe rapper
Cracking the code attacking the slackers taking wack swings trying to use the Clapper dressed dapper
Like Versace shoestrings singing like ODB making sure my breaths clean, it’s my upbringing two parent
Household got no gold but I make you mind blown rocking rhymes about frog and toad I’m road worn
And born weary love oregon’s rain, dreary love to read Beverly Cleary like Ramona wasn’t cheerleading
A future bare back ******* posing as a children’s reader more like a chicken head feeder yet sweeter
Cold toes in the morning gotta find a slipper pull up my cargo pants, can’t find the zipper feeling like
Jack Tripper …. its slipperier the slope to attacking Iraq with most black troops a whole new set of roots
The truth is uncouth like jerking off in a telephone booth *** shooting on yellow pages gobs coating
Everyones names strangers in cages with rage faces and misplaced hate…fucking ingrates –
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
i don't love you enough to cup you in my hands and sip you up like a little japanese soup in a sushi restaurant
what do you want, love?
my shoestrings
why, i have no use for them
what is love without sacrifice
i don't love you enough to hold on to you
i am no better than that child who lets go of her balloon and watches it float up, up, up
until it is swallowed like a cherry cough drop
i don't love you enough to give away every inch of my hair to keep you down-to-earth with me
i don't love you enough to strain against the wind and brave the spit of Al Gore
even if it would mean being with you
i don't love you enough to enjoy you while you are here
i don't love you enough to be more careful than the child who drops his ice cream on the ground and then cries when he can't have another one
(i love you more than that)
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
As I tap my fingers against the pinewood table, the strands of my hair droop in front of my face. My eyes start to become blurry of tears, I see nothing but the smudge writings on my paper. The room is cold, I can see my breath, I feel so empty. I can no longer see the sun above the hills. I wipe my eyes and tie my hair in the messiest ponytail. I grab my bag and stuff the unfinished papers in it. I throw on my black leather boots with the worn out shoestrings. The door swings open, all I see is pine trees lost in the musky dark. The stars lead me on. I take steps after steps, the dry twigs and dead leaves crackle beneath my boots. I try not to make a sound. There's a light wind blowing in the air, it tickles my face. My callow green jacket doesn't keep me warm enough. I walk faster and see an opening. Out I come, I see the empty road. From left to right there's not a single vehicle. I raise my arm and throw out my thumb. There's leftover tears still on my face, my hair still in its ponytail. The wind becomes colder, my scrawny legs in my black tights can't keep up with the coldness. My arm starts to weaken and I begin to cry. My face is even colder. I sit on the jagged ground with my legs crossed, weeping quietly. Suddenly there's a vivid light heading my way, I become blinded by its beauty. The light comes closer to me, it makes a complete stop. I see that it's a vehicle. A cobalt pick up truck. I stand up and wipe the dirt off me. The door opens and welcomes me in. I don't hesitate. I hop in and never look back. I sit back and let a smile crawl on my face, I don't care where I'm going, or who I'm with, as long as I'm away from the pain.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
since the age
I became a woman
and my hips widened
to welcome
future children
they told me
"lose 5 pounds."
they said
"you will feel healthier"
"be happier"
"look better"
but I felt, was, looked
just fine.
but the words
never stopped
and they seeped
deep into my brain
and I believed
every word.
so I stopped
eating carbs
and then anything
with a calorie
because I was told
calories make me
unhealthy, bad, worse.
and they say
"you look so healthy!"
"so happy!"
"so much better!'
but actually
I am dying
I cry in the bathroom
***** on my chin.
but my jeans
sling low on my hips
held up by shoestrings
and sharp angled bones
and my bras gap
over my deflated *******
like before
I reached the age
where I became a woman.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
clad only in flannel sheet
her supple ***** partially exposed
gave me pause
as I gathered gear for the work day at hand
in the delicate pre-dawn glow
her pale skin seems a perfect hue
both enticing and entrancing
my eyes lingered ~
if only to be late
or play sick
options pass through my mind
as her steady breathing
and barely perceptible
falling and return of her chest
invoke a myriad of delights
none of which involve
going to work today ~
pulling shoestrings tight
and buckling a leather belt
I glance, once again, over my shoulder
longingly gazing at a her sleeping body
in the back of my mind I hear
the tell-tale words of strength,
“it is only a few hours…” ~
inaudible sigh slips my lips as I close the door
her slumbering undisturbed
my heart full of love
I am ready for another work day /
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
Regulated heavy-petting, severed metal jukeboxes of the new platoon. Orations in the streets, on their knees; women hanging from street lamps, their shoestrings dismantled, clothing sifted through for every karat of worth, then the shoes stuffed on- bare naked bodies and tangerine blossoms came through the Eastern air. One of them coughed something, not in English. Each of them riddled through with decade-old grins, as if from a childhood game of cops and bandits.
Every part of my trust in her body, a knot made of plastic in a reel of film strung from her shoulders. A gunshot emptied her stomach, its bang echoed cerise colored paint.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
needs to be rearranged
I went to the the strip show
the other day and didn't even get a ******
the same girls and ****
and barely there shoestrings
hiding ******
but, I think I was
more cerebral somehow
thinking how nice it might be
somehow,
if I talked to someone sane and not
tainted by family
like those girls, who almost to a tee
had an uncle or granddad or god forbid
a father's hand down her ******* at ten years old,
and I got shamed, though , I had done none of it,
I got shamed for humanity,
and how
economics
and skin are so related,
how the sins of society
somehow come back to me
and I wonder, then think,
optimistically (with tongue in cheek)about
evolution
so harsh so long a thing
that it takes
generations
and centuries
to change.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:36 PM UTC
I hear the announcer’s call
A sea of runners, one and all
Jogging to the starting line
You'll find me in the front line
I'm getting ready to run my race
My shoestrings did I tightly lace
Jetting off the starting blocks like a piece of hot lead
I sprint to get ahead
I quickly seek to take the lead
I pump my arms like mad
My footprints they can trace
As I set a very fast pace
The meters go flying by
I hear my supporter’s shrill cry
Onward, faster, run, run faster
This race you'll soon master
My quickened breath
The air whistling in and out of my mouth
My legs pound the ground
My lungs are making this horrible sound
Everyone I quickly pass
But I'm almost out of gas
Harder and harder do I run
This race is no longer fun
I see the finish line
The trophy, no my trophy, has such a beautiful shine
I've run my race
Within my fingers that trophy they'll place
I know it'll be mine
Not giving it to me would be such a crime
I chance a glance behind me
Turning back, I run smack dab into a tree
The emergency workers are instantly here
Their diagnosis is, my head, will forever be square
My race, my trophy went to the guy behind me
As I look up at the spinning stars that only I can see
I manage to hobble to my feet
I will never show defeat!!
I thank God for my thickhead
As I cross the finish line with a white bandage round my head
Written by:
Jason Cheney
February 2021
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 8:55 AM UTC