"shrugging" poems
My little-lost friend
is that you I see
at times
sleeping on a park bench,
shopping carts
and effects anchored.
Homeless.
With your eyes holding shame,
brown and sad.
I can't help.
But see.
I see you inching,
inching along on the earth,
pitch black and poor,
weathered, severed
and dirtied.
Lost in time.
Mouth open.
Where open hands may be closed.
I do pass by you every morning,
thinking,
thinking of you.
As you drum your thumbs
to your own music,
in your own darkened world.
Where the albatross rest on your drooping shoulders,
as you piggyback what olive branches there are.
I can't help.
But think.
As you sit shrugging
in those same brown pants
and redshirt,
holding weeks of grime
and stench.
No doubt,
holding passerby's
casting eyes, thoughts
and conversation.
Sometimes,
I can't watch.
But hope.
Yes, hope and pray.
As you go looking into the pockets
of thrash,
digging for change,
literally,
hopefully,
three ways to paradise,
please,
yes, sir, please.
And maybe.
Just maybe.
You will find better
and parkgoers can use the bench again.
That would be a nice olive branch,
to give back,
my friend.
Logan Robertson
8/1/2018
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
****** affliction of a lack of affection companion
Hand and hand strolling greater than syrupy plunging
and even sometimes buddy shrugging over wooden noisemakers
We whistle with their metal strings
and through the pasta soft ones in our throats
but no nest colored mares seem to hear
our flamboyant feather calls for future fondling
So I scribe slight implied short letters
invites to drink joints and nature jaunts
All too well thought out
hoping your advanced technology cannot trace
the time I spent to type
The overanalysis of our psych: her and I’s
wondering why she doesn’t have an inkling
for a cute fall date where we attempt to bake apple pies
It’s all too contrived, I know
I’ll strive for delusion
Accept a useful interpretation for our chemical inflammation
and let sparks pass it by
Like itsy bitsy flies laying eggs in a wound
for stagnant water maggots
They’ll eat away the thought well
where all my cranial zaps seem to dwell.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
Late night. Footsteps.
Crane necks and girders.
Fog lifts. The wind cries.
Steel bones in moonlight
I'm out
so late now
and it's Sunday night and Summer's ending
soon.
I'm aging
with questions
fermenting in my mouth
ignored for years
Fenced off. Unfinished
project shelved and waiting
for next Spring.
Cool night eclipsing
years spent indexing,
answers mislaid and
blueprints unrolling
Components rusting,
crane necks and girders.
Steel bones in moonlight.
Tight lipped and staring.
Fall comes
construction
halts now and the walls stand half
complete
And outside
the chain link
shrugging off the cold and
still wondering when
Step through unfinished
building. Get home. Shelved
until next Spring.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
I was waiting for him on the escalator on one side of the road
My Heart pumped at the highest rate when all at once realized abode.
Saw him looking generously dashing riding a scooter
He was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans and his hair were messy but modish.
And here I was standing in my usual tank top and jeans,
hair tied in a messy ponytail
just then He saw me, waved And parked his vehicle near my usual bus stop
I walked to his way with my bag full of books.
We sat on the bench and started random talks about everything except what we thought about.
He then started using his phone and I was beginning to feel ignored. He on a spur of moment stopped and stared me and mentioned about our chats and phone calls
"How it started"
"How it became more Frank and comfortable"
"How good friends we became online but never met in real life" strange isn't it?
Then I told him I have to leave and the 'awkward silent moment' and he finally spoke "yeah"
We shook our hand and he refused to let me go
So I smiled and left his hand and eye contact and stood in the row
The bus started moving and I saw him standing there only, shrugging his shoulder and leaving that place.
That was my first and last with him or anyone!!
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 4:07 AM UTC
“Amanda,” she said, in a bold assertion
“We really are the same
Person.” Limp in the dew and
Wise like a sage, no wound cut
No blood shed, yet,
There was something this
Bandage shut,
Something yawning, gaping
But I don’t know what…
How sad! She’s crying, that Amanda,
Shrugging ‘gainst the colic rain
And almost lost in the copes-y veranda,
Weeping softly on
Those concrete flats, wearing “Red Tom’s
And” both “Dating Matts” while
I saw her fear in that moment, appalling, stalling
With soroitous heart, “and fear of falling!”
Binding them tightly: “That’s US haha!”
How many laughs does a limp spirit draw?
—(a disparaged few or none at all…)
Still, she writes, “I am so glad” (a huff annoyed
From Amanda, distant and sad, that I
Can’t tell why “you” ever “joined.”)
But this is not my place, a passerby,
To pick up trash, inane and lonely,
To cast my judgments and inquire—why?
To heal the unbroken with words unspoken
But scratched on refuse, she may
“[heart] you” but refuse you, too
The spirit of [heart] in Amanda awoken
—(But she refused it, too!)
And then be a token
Some stranger takes home.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
I’ll conceal your shifting hands,
Palms pressed,
Calluses to torn cuticles,
All thumbs and knuckles and nails,
And I don’t know her, violet-scented creeping infestation
and
How you’ve worn me down, there’s a hole in my sleeve-
And I’ve let you chew on me, sweat on me, I’ve
I’ve kept you warm
And
You used me,
You used me to conceal
illicit activities,
hands in pockets, shrugging eyes off,
never been cigarettes in there, nope,
And you let her peel me off of you, the one with violet hands
that weren’t so gentle, but violent,
voracious,
tearing in at you,
as I watched from the floor
she scratched the skin that I kept safe and warm,
and
and
Why did you leave me crumpled on the floor and then
And then let her take me home, draped over her bony shoulders
to billow like a parachute,
before she squeezed me half to death that night in her sleep?
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Gettin’ sh!t on like I’m The Villian,
got this queasy feeling on the line reeling,
coming undone at the same time wound up and spun,
I’m done playing but stuck at the table with The Dealer still dealing,
want to throw myself up out of myself,
can escape every position except the one I’m in,
can’t escape yourself if knowledge is wealth,
then I’m loaded & still spending my winnings,
got Karma Credit but I’m morally cash poor,
because I just fckt my girlfriend as if she was a *****
and I feel terrible or rather horrible about it,
because i think I’m infected by what neglect did without a cure,
no one is pure,
at least I’m not that’s for sure,
I'm tainted with devils in my head painted with what I spilled I’m red,
sick with the sort of illness that can't easily be cured,
in fact got a bad case of the blues,
but instead of strumming a guitar I’m taking things too far,
cut her so bad with my fingernails,
that I fear it might leave a few scars,
tied her up so tight,
that her wrists turned purple,
see she’s attracted to bad boys,
and I warned her that that’s the type of attraction that can hurt you,
little girl shouldn’t be out past her curfew,
nothing good ever happens past midnight,
but we’re both running from something,
both stand outs in the in crowd still something doesn’t sit right,
I’m uncomfortable,
because I think maybe all humans are disgusting,
maybe we just cause each other pain and trash the earth’s surface,
maybe we deserve to feel guilty & that’s why we are all fcking distrusting,
maybe I’m gonna fckn **** myself,
but this is a card game so then again maybe I’m bluffing,
maybe everything’s going to be alright,
maybe I’m being uptight for nothing,
but I’ll tell you what I feel like the **** of my own joke,
but I don’t give a fck so instead of changing I’m just shrugging,
mean mugging every person I pass suspicious of every bloke,
because these days crime pays and everyone’s always up to something,
and I just want to get ghost,
but I can’t and I guess that’s the way it goes,
so I’m sittin’ in the uncomfortable position,
of being both a role model as well as a criminal,
Gettin’ sh!t on like I’m The Villian,
got this queasy feeling on the line reeling,
coming undone at the same time wound up and spun,
I’m done playing but stuck at the table with The Dealer still dealing…
∆ LaLux ∆
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 7:18 AM UTC
when asked the question
"why?"
I reply
by shrugging my shoulders
why?
I don't know,
maybe I am depressed
or maybe I am just
sad,
maybe I need another cigarette,
maybe I need to pour myself
another drink
or maybe I need a half-naked
pretty young girl to **** whatever
has clawed it's way into my skin
out and into the sweaty,
dark room I sit in,
so it can evaporate,
rid itself from my being;
no matter how much
I smoke,
drink,
****
the loneliness still carves it's
entire existence into my bones
like lover's names in trees,
it leaves blood stains
and leaves me longing
for so much
more
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
building purist æsthetic
proselytizing solar-powered heliolatry
commemorating historic concert
sensing dark forces
fokken lekker antwoord
pumping sensory overload
featuring high-tech dee-jay
admiring gelato micro-truck
laxing laying lazing
"doing something nasty"
continuing quality content
entering another cathedral
journeying without borders
"exactly one year
since visiting vatican"
appreciating full-time gigasphere
awaiting pyongyang performance
depicting unlikely crowdsurfer
foreseeing exponential improvements
furthering esoteric agenda
sensing profound incompatibility
data-mining people's infidelities
anticipating futuristic caffeine
perfecting invisible propaganda
researching mind-control techniques
polishing psycho-social weaponry
sensing social embargo
flourishing frantic fanfare
admiring longitudinal monument
parodying marketing slogans
cycling through österreich
eyeing dystopian disneyland
streaming crosswords extended-play
herding glass kittens
deleting idiosyncratic fragment
loremipsum-ing laconic loudmouth
receiving ultramodern telegram
eigo-ga wakarimasu ka?
guzzling duck-fat fries
encouraging panic selling
(juxtaposing past incarnations)
getting black-and-white privilege
renewing boutique account
relishing cinema poutine
re-entering hibernation mode
opening old windows
continuing zoo motif
absquatulating excessive excesses
nullifying originality claims
proliferating protean persona
disappearing sidewalk alphabet
shrugging opprobrious moments
enjoying vertical alignment
re-entering cyberpunk paradise
approaching island sun
soaring beyond monoliths
trivializing extraneous argy-bargy
decreasing character limits
dumping generic accounts
uglifying commit message
escaping into idiosyncracy
moonshining great lake
exuding idiosyncratic propaganda
living nineties' dreams
making occidental cuisine
envisioning idiocratic president
expropriating your time
ascending homely helix
singing fat lady
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
Wake up, wake up
The Whole World Is Watching
And your skin is crawling
I wonder why it's
Bubbling, boiling
Is it alive or am I?
Lifting the digital lid to let them in
Feeds that feed my insatiable hunger
For what my ex is doing now
Soon becomes irrelevant
When people are dying
Who will lose their life
In front of the next camera?
Why does it take so much
Just to open our eyes ?
Just to listen, just
Sit down
Get off him, please
Please.
I don’t want to hear another mother
Crying for her son
Another wife sister brother
I don’t want to watch their children
Learn why their daddy died
I don’t want to be this detached
From loss of life because I’ve lost my life
I don’t want to hear from a clown
Or discuss his position, even his mind
I refuse him my energy
I know big and he is the smallest
What is a President
Sorry, who?
What government
The one that destroys us?
Puts everyone in in cages, our strongest men, our brightest children
Makes us watch
From our couches
From our desks
Because we are that good at multitasking
Pillaging, ****** recognizing
Shrugging and closing the door
The powerful people killing real people of power
Of using color to teach color and power flowing
To keep it going
What does it mean
To put a human beneath you
We were not made for this
But we built it anyway
Was I made for this?
I don’t want to be here
God, I am lucky to be here
I am here
And it doesn’t take long
Not to be
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 10:01 PM UTC
distracted by gleaming greens
emerging into the deep sea
the pitch black, ditch facts
invested in the diversity
shrugging off adversity
distracted by gleaming greens
birth in sea like Aphrodite
my descent is perfect timing
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 9:38 AM UTC
I’m a righter – not a fighter.
Things will end how they may
But I securely believe
That some day
You lot will leave;
Every mismatched rhyme
And unknown connection
Will have its time
Shrugging off all signs of affection
Therefore dismissing any reason
That might reside in that mind
And I will ease on
To erase all memory of your kind.
I won’t choose this as my battle
Because I know where it ends –
It’ll inevitably shatter
And these shards don’t tend
To smooth themselves out,
Nor will you take it
Upon yourself to try a differing route –
A new escape – but the same ****
So I’m left wondering why
It’s always my job to make it right.
Feb 8, 2023
Feb 8, 2023 at 6:48 PM UTC
A baby from Burundi sits next to me today.
He coos and drinks and swallows his mother’s milk.
His father speaks Swahili. Smiles, tells me that his last son
Is going to grow old in Rochester, NY,
Where I sit in a white-walled waiting room, watching
Mothers drag their babies by the armpits to be weighed.
A boy with braided beads holds up four fingers and tells me he is five.
He is too skinny. His pants are sagging and his iron is low.
His mother takes his vegetable checks, stuffs them into the back pocket of her jeans.
What the little **** needs is two percent milk, she says,
Her gold hoops fluttering.
Her son struggles with the small wooden chair he is carrying.
It drags along the carpet, hitting the high spots, and his tiny biceps flinch.
He sits, facing me, while a name is called. And another.
Another woman’s son hands me a book and waits.
He is watching my face and I watch his mother kiss her boyfriend in the first row seats.
He tucks his chin to his chest when I ask his name. Whispers, tells me Jayden.
First page. What color is Elmo, Jayden?
Shoulders shrugging. His lower lip, puckered out and innocent.
What color is he, Jayden?
The color of Jayden’s skin slaps me across the heart when he says he doesn’t know.
He was born in Rochester, NY,
With trash bags and Burger King wrappers wrapped around the fence
That separates his house from the street on which he will grow old
Too soon.
He starts kindergarten in the fall and I tell him Elmo is red, like his t-shirt.
Like his mother’s fingernails.
Like the tomatoes and bell peppers and beets he has never seen.
A girl who went to my High School carries in her youngest child
Who is old enough to walk, but wobbles.
She calls her daughter “thunder-thighs” instead of Jazmyne
And strips off her shoes. Her belt. Her gold bracelets.
The scale says Jazmyne is too heavy for food assistance.
The state says her mother isn’t poor enough for welfare.
The girl I used to know leaves without her daughter’s shoes or the food checks she came for.
In conversations of pretension
We talk about first and third world.
Pretend that America is the land of second chances
Where a baby from Burundi can grow old in cashmere sweaters,
Even when his parents couldn’t pay.
The father who speaks Swahili looks at his shiny watch and his family’s vegetable checks.
Smiles. Tells me his last son is going to grow old and full
In Rochester, NY.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
you cannot finish need.
it fiends in wretched globes of dwarf
swelling to tremendous steam
a Bacchanal of vineyard borscht
a moonlit morsel of demolished dreams...
we serve at the pleasure of the absurd
gilding shadows with clay confetti
and the nictitating membranes of blue crocodiles.
and blank verse.
felling the Yggdrasil, by all means; you maraud the larder
in the night kitchen; nicking blackbird-pies and pinky-russet salamanders
[ the loose farthing ] and the hard liquor... all gone now
your potato sack, rakishly slung from the shoulders of an Atlas, entitled ' Promised Land; betrayed '.
a new map shrugging off old kings from dead valleys
revealing the hour of your worthless estate,
in-lieu of the boundaries of your lost holdings. unhappily -
you inherit the unripe peach
in a hound's mouth.
you slouch rough, slowly
to your beast
of a couch:
there, to remain unholy and due South.
there, to remain unknowing
by all account.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
Sun draped across her legs
crossed beneath her like
folded wings,
The Carnivore watches.
Satan said, 'stay naked as you came,'
so here she sat, white as mushroom,
raw as shrimp.
She leans, a sifted sack of flour, against her wall;
love rising within her like a cloud of mosquitoes,
for here comes her Plant Eater.
In her nakedness she hides,
watching him trot across the floor,
his movements thoughtful and slow as cooling lava,
shrugging on his brontosaurus suit like an old bathrobe.
He has vegetarian ankles,
his bare feet are splashed with mud
like an old truck.
Carnivore that she is, she bursts out of hiding
naked as Satan,
and she demands her heart.
“I do not love you,”
she lies,
and points to the cedar box in his soft hands.
“Now give me back my heart.”
“No.”
he cries,
and runs from her.
She knows the box is locked and has no key,
though the brontosaurus has not been told
that there is no hope
for this particular heart.
He hides from her behind a tree,
but the tree puts down its other leg and walks away
leaving him exposed as the naked Meat Eater
who catches up to him now.
This time,
before she can get to the tying by the wrist to the chair,
he swallows the box
and holds it in his belly.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
Dust on the mirror distorts my face
Yellow sun slithers across the floor
Long since have I been to this place
I will come here no more
Sheets cover the furniture
Dried brown roses resist gravity
A petal here and there
The facet in the sink is dripping
No concern have I anymore
You cleaned the kitchen spotless
Thinking I might come by
That was snowy months ago
Now rain beats on the panes
I always wanted shutters
I thought you felt the same
Our love making was stale at the start
It finished with lots of blame
We seemed so compatible
Please don't ask me why
I spy my old umbrella
Leaning against a chair
I pick it up and turn around
Shrugging at this mundane affair
I put the key in the mailbox
A weight lifts off my brain
In another month, my dear
I won't remember your name
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 5:26 AM UTC
Stop! Stand there in that yellow line
That line, yes, painted in yellow
Extending relentlessly in horizontals
Dividing our world and will keep me away from you
Now I can see you, and so do you
You are just 10 steps away from me
But 1 more step and you'll break that line, which is yellow
No, not the yellow line, your shoes should not touch its edges
Oh my poor yellow line
Just an old habit, intoxicating myself in the wonders,
Now I wonder, wondering if once you stepped in that yellow line
You might see the oddities of my world revolving in solitudes
Plain gray celestial bodies and dull stars
It's simply really boring there you know..(while shoulders shrugging)
My way of stopping you is such an abomination! Diabolicaly unacceptable!
Causing this whole fiasco to be more catastrophic, you can rebuke me if you please
How could I? Forgiveness should not be given right?
Its too much to be deserved by the person behind those yellow lines which is not you
Now you are walking away
I'm just there gazing at your back then back to my precious yellow line
I just noticed now, why does the flute i'm playing produces no sound?
It looses its voice, must be broken for the first time
No, not in the melancholic blues again
I've been too much indulged there
Maybe I should paint my moon green?
A touch of blue in my sun,
Then a little red in my stars
Orange in the asteroids then
Rainbows in the planets
Of course, yellow in my whole universe
Now it's so bizzare and confusing but I love it
But nope not to call him back
Nor the other shoes to step on that yellow line
No shoes should touch my yellow line
Now, there i'm sleepy but before that I just realized,
Monsters inside you simply be awaken and unleashed through playing with poetries
And again, the line which is painted in yellow
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
I'm trying to survive
This life without you
I'm just a blade of grass in the dew.
Drowning in the mornings
Shrugging it away
Staring in the night
Stepped on in the day
A simple organism
Dull and afraid
A speck in a field
I'm just a lonely blade
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
Darkness has pressed up against our lattice windows. Classes start again in the morning. I’m being reabsorbed by college life. I’m a planner. I’ve been going over my syllabuses, repacking my bookbag, charging my power banks, checking and rechecking the assignments due tomorrow. After watching me prep for hours, Peter said, “You’re not going to the MOON.”
Peter asked me last Friday, “Are you excited for Monday? (I’ll find out if I get my fellowship.)
“I’m more excited about tonight,” I said, “I like going out on the town.”
“Wow,” he said, “you’re so different - not like the other girls at all.”
“No!” I said, laughing, “We’re stuck in a rut, we only go to one or two places, ever - if we go out at all. When people come to New Haven, I need places to take them - places besides pizza. At home, in Athens (Ga), I know twenty places - this is RESEARCH.” I assured him.
Peter settled back into his doctorate-fraternity-house yesterday. Tonight (Sunday), there’s music in the suite, the crazy noises of people and the comfort of returned friends. All the roommates are back, greeted with hugs and kisses, as they dragged in their luggage.
Lisa arrived with dinner, for 10, from Dominick's, in Manhattan. Spaghetti, salads, rolls, extra sauce - in six, small, suitcase-sized insulated bags. It was a logistical marvel. It’s only 90 minutes from Manhattan to the residence - we didn’t need to rewarm anything. “I KNOW we could have just eaten in the dining hall,” she said, shrugging, “call it zany - one last hurrah.”
Everyone seemed happy to be back. There were travel stories, questions, and laughter. Oh, and Zeppole, little powdered sugar custard desserts that seemed the worst for travel. Everyone seemed to have an eye on the clock though. By 11pm the suite was quiet. Très unusual.
Mar 27, 2023
Mar 27, 2023 at 1:42 AM UTC
Shrugging your words
You left, racing away on your bike
While your curfew chased you down the road
Gone in the blink of an
Eye,
And often I wonder
Why?
Semi-tragic chords
Mixed with your words
Build harsh, dissonant sounds…
Words that often assured me
In times of doubt and misfortune,
Such that plagues me now,
Muddling my words…
No entiendo
Your intentions
No entiendo
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 6:45 PM UTC
He catches me in lovin--
*liking
him*
and it's always striking
how my body acts on whim.
He always looks the best
not wearing any clothes,
makes my ***** point west
with their ***** woes.
He makes me think in lovely
and dresses me in kisses:
purple,
black,
red and bruised up
kisses
(he never misses).
I have a necklace ringing
all around my skinny neck,
I wear his love
like a trophy,
do I look a-wreck?
I make him wreck my body
night after night after night
because I want his gaudy,
pale and beautiful might
to come down all at once
and bury me in flesh;
to fill my ears with grunts
and turn my soil threshed.
Thresh me, thresh me hard,
my beautiful man,
my body's prettier marred
with your harmattan
breezes blowing on my sands;
how I really,
really,
really
like
my
man
because he buries me in hugging
and hides me in his warmth;
he always has me shrugging
the yeses from up north
in the epicenter of all pleasure
rooted in my mind;
it's the greatest measure
of our loving time.
He spanks me 'til I moan,
I **** him 'til he's dry,
his touch turns me to stone and
his stroking makes me cry.
Though it may be sore
after a day or so
my heart is always hurting
from the constant flow
of his body's beautiful fluids,
white and clear and true;
who needs a beautiful blue
when I have my like,
my really,
really,
really
like;
it's better than number two.
(I really,
really,
really like you)
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 5:00 AM UTC
Don't understand why universe took you away
Bits of you seen in all surroundings in some sort of way
Anyone observing wouldn't notice something wrong
Crumbling under a surface that is strong
I attempt to hold head up high
Shrugging off wounding emotion
Repeating routine robotically
Earth's rotation slow-motion
I send deepest regrets with the wind to be lifted into the sky
Whispering words never said before
Worst of all:
"Goodbye"
Accepting absence as permanent obstruction
Leaves me teetering on edge of destruction
There are moments I wish ground would open up and swallow me whole
Touching not one drop of water yet I'm drowning in the depths of my soul
You always did best to protect me throughout the years
In return I have let you down
Victim of my greatest fears
It might not have been my responsibility to keep you safe and sound
I could have poured out some of those shots you would pound
It was my duty keeping your secrets locked up out of sight
Over and over again I told you no so you responded with a fight
Rather than be at odds I would give in to your spiteful remarks
You ultimately would win and I would fetch your bottle of Monarch
Now I'm haunted by those countless simple mistakes
Forced to bear weight of the fact I didn't have courage it takes
I want to rewind life so I could get another chance to show
That you mean much more to me than I dared to let you know
I'd rather be who's held in the reaper's embrace
Than stuck here tears running down my face
May 17, 2023
May 17, 2023 at 6:56 AM UTC
Why can't I disrespect her situation and utilize manipulation!!!?
****
(Agitation)
How can I make her lacerate
Leaving him to **********
While her and I gravitate
(Aggravation)
Am I wrong for trying to captivate?
To cause a tragedy
So that I can place her in my cavity
Count on their delinquency
So that I can hit the jackpot like treasury
I must put a result to their destiny
When I see their pictures
My jaws quiver
She needs to be hither
I'm thinking I should be sly
And slither
Or should I be blatant and invite her to dinner?
Right in the face of her mister
Excuse me ma'am
Have you ever seen otters afloat the waters?
When I see it in my studies
I always get cuddly
I have a California king with only blankets to cover me
I have no buddy
I have friends
But no ones lovely
Can we hover the lake
Holding hands so that we won't
Drift away
You will be cute as the otters
I don't know why would I even bother
No groom; I'm all scruffy
I look ok alone
But you gone make me look ugly
Or
Come here
Hug me
Is this your hubby?
That's why his shoulders is shrugging?
And his face is mugging?
He know if you escape his disgrace and come to my cubby
He'll be in the hole
Ain't that right man? (Directed to him)
What's your name?
Stan?
Hey how are you doing Stanley
I'm digging your girl like my last name is Yelnats
And I'm trying not to disrespect
But it's testing
You have the great big book of everything
And a queen who can be on the cover of King because she's ****
But look at you
How'd you do it?
Here you go take my number down and dial whenever he's around so he can know where you're about to go
See you later
Which approach is better?
I like both
Should I be smooth or rude?
I have to make up my mind soon so that I can make my move
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
In little coffeeshops
By the back corner, far from the exits
But near the little hall leading to the bathroom
At a time set by a large window
The poet, his soul filled with words and reasons to say them
But unsure how to convey them
Can observe the nerves and synapses
Converging in this single axis
The windowside throne, the great looking glass
Provides a view of every soul to pass
Through the door to the core of any good café
The front register
Where they serve the junkies
Their first no cream no sugar fix of the day
The register girl on this sunrise shift stands tall and wears
A pleasant smile
Like a suit of armor
For the fractures frayed and loosened pieces
Of her 65 hours a week between two jobs psyche
From his back corner vantage point
The poet sees this early morning warrior
And watches her adversaries approach
The sleep deprived and the caffeine dependent
The men in suits with leather briefcases
Hustling and bustling through self inflicted exhaustion
Work force revenants who begin to shamble through the door
Out of the early morning mists at about 5:30
just as the world is shrugging of the shroud of night
In his seat of power, the poet, lord of the room
Can see, despite the dim lights of the coffeeshop
These early birds, gaunt and hungry like vultures
Standing shoulder to shoulder with the last of the night owls
Shabby old things with ruffled feathers
Too tired to sleep or simply without a roost.
Their re rimmed eyes provide a window
Through which a sovereign of the word
May glance upon their tired souls
Yes from that lovely back corner
The poet is a king, a lord in noble regality
Reshaping reality
Sitting in the back of any coffee shop
In Phoenix Arizona
In America
In the world
In this whole great evergrowing span of universe
And turning people into words.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
Pattern the ice with
your collarbones.
Showers of lavender
hidden in your hiking boots.
Hang stamps from your doorframe,
the snow will melt someday.
The taste of words
bounced out of your mouth
last Sunday evening.
Shrugging off the sun
from the duck pond
to the sand
caught between your sock
and shoe.
I’ve been memorizing
deep breaths
and the way hair curls.
The keyboard knows your
v-neck and
the cocoa powder park.
Strong perfume can’t
be appreciated
under the milky way.
I fixed blue green eyes
on New Year’s,
one side of the
collared shirt turned in,
steam rolling hair and
too much straw.
Old shoes
filled with cinnamon
sit on 4:17pm
with an unmade bed
of sour green vertebrae.
The city at night,
a crescendo,
explodes in silence,
hot tea and warm mugs
tuning campfires
built from matches.
Thursday sunrises
balancing on wool sweaters
and the smell of fabric softener.
The early morning
hurricane over worn wood and
wet pavement
sounds of winter.
The snow’s just trying
to be human.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC