"sitcoms" poems
The nineties sold us unity:
bright sitcoms,
Benetton colors,
commercials where everyone smiled
as though inequity had been resolved.
But the decade bled on screen—
a Black man beaten on asphalt,
a truck driver dragged from his cab,
bomb dust in Oklahoma,
children hunted in a school corridor.
Unity was the costume;
violence was the stage.
Then came a Black president.
For a moment,
the story looked complete.
"Post-racial," they said,
as though history had closed.
But the mask split.
Social media tore out the gatekeepers.
The hate that had been muted
found its tongue,
found its profit,
and screamed into the feed.
Division pays.
Unity does not.
Violence is systemic,
holistic,
from home to street to state.
Silence makes it whole.
The ethic remains:
If it is wrong, you stop it.
Otherwise the cycle turns,
profitable, endless,
calling itself America.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 5:45 AM UTC
I was young when I learned to sing
to the rhythm of fists
flying through the air
like birds too angry
with the season to call.
I was young when I thought a tune
could drown the sounds
of my mother’s sobs
crashing through hallways
in tidal waves and monsoon misery.
I was young when I carved
songs in the wallpaper
and into my delicate skin.
I turned bruises into syncopated beats
and scars into major scales.
My stepfather hated music
but I was an ornery child,
and I sang of joyous things
just to see if his soul could dance,
but instead,
I got two left feet in swift kicks.
When I was was young I was afraid of sticks
because I thought my body was a drum
to be beaten and battered
to a punishing rhythm.
I was young when I learned
that the taste of blood on my lip
was merely the flicker before the intermission;
the finale would be a grand display
of pomp, punch, and unlucky circumstance.
My mother was a tone-deaf drunk
who never learned to sing.
She belted begging in B flat octaves
like it was the only note she knew.
She wept an ocean of sorrow
as I sang my S.O.S.
“God, save our sinking ship.”
“God, save our sinking souls.”
“God, save our sorry stepfather from himself.”
And when I thought to cry,
I sang my little heart out instead.
I sang of devil's meeting end,
and I sang of daughter's finding love,
and I sang of mother's finding
strength enough to leave,
and I sang to the happy families
that only existed in sitcoms,
because my stepfather hated music
but I hated him far more.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
So This... “ Cancel Culture “...
Now Seems To Be Structured...
To... RESTRICT Numbers...
And Now Be The CONDUCTOR... !!!
of What Folks Say And What Gets Played...
Via TV Or Stage And WHO Gets Paid...
As If THEY Are Some SPECIAL Class...
Who Know How Far Free Speech Should Go... !?!
But It Seems As Though They’re A Little LATE... !!!
Where EXACTLY Were They When The... KKK...
Used To ****** Slaves Just Because of Their Race... !!!
Oh, Because These Days,
Things Have REALLY Changed...
Are These People INSANE...
And NOT Using Their Brains... ?!?
Because We STILL Have SLAVES... !!!
And Heads Who CLEARLY Want To DICTATE...
Are They Cancelling THEM...
Or Doing What THEY SAY... !?!
Or Just Causing PROBLEMS...
Over Gender And Race... ?!?
Well Some It Now Seems...
Who’ve Made BIG MONEY... !!!
Are UNCOMFORTABLE With...
Them... CANCELLING... !!!
When It Comes To Free Speech...
And Indeed The Arts Because of Policies...
That Seem To STINK Like FARTS... !!!
Have They Cancelled BOMBS...
Or RACIST... Sitcoms...
Oh Yes NOW They Have... !!!
AFTER These Shows Have...
Made PLENTY of CASH...
And Been Shown Across Lands...
... INTERNATIONALLY... !!!
On TV’s AND Indeed BIG SCREENS... !!!
REPEATEDLY For The World To See...
So Where Have They Been... ?!?
BEFORE Gender Themes...
And... INEQUALITIES...
Became The Very Fabric of SOCIETIES... ?!?
Where APPARENTLY...
... EVERYBODY Was FREE...
To Be Who They Wanna Be...
Well That’s A FALLACY...
That’s NOT REALITY... !!!
Just Like PIPE DREAMS... !!!
Oh But SUDDENLY... !!!
These New CANCEL POLICE...
Are CANCELLING...
And Now DAMAGING... !!!
The Careers of Those...
Who WON’T Be Controlled... !!!
Like Those Who Speak...
What They Want... FREELY... !!!
So They Can CANCEL ME... !!!
Cos That’s How I NOW BE... !!!
NOT Some HUMAN SHEEP...
For Them To Shepherd And Keep...
In Some PENITENTIARY...
Just Because of Free Speech...
That DOESN’T Tread... “ Lightly “...
Cos’ I ALREADY KNOW...
How... CANCELLING Goes... !!!
Because It’s Really Not New...
It’s What Censors Do... !!!
But Here’s Some TRUTH...
To UPSET Their Crews... !!!
It’s One Rule For THEM...
But NOT The Same For You... !!!
If You’re NOT ONE...
Who’ll Keep Your Mouth SHUT...
To APPEASE These Teams...
Who Now Want TOTAL CONTROL... !!!
That’s Just The Way That The Story Now Goes...
NO Bambi Or THUMPER To Be Some Foot Drummer... !!!
Just A Breed of Vultures...
Now Willing To PUNCTURE...
Careers Like BAD Plumbers... !!!
Whose Force Has A Cause...
Now Trying To ENFORCE..
What Should Be Put ASUNDER...
This... TRULY RIDICULOUS... !!!
..... “ Cancel Culture “..... !!!
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 2:41 AM UTC
Volcanoes in your eyes
when you cry
that erupt
and burn my mean words into magma.
You weep so dully
I wonder if that says something
about your pain
because
it reminds me
of the way people laugh on sitcoms.
Still,
I am sorry
for your eyes red as my anger.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
A Crop of Lies irrigate farmland
Deception grows and dies
Its corpse sustains
A cycle refrains
Cold, this night is
Cracks open the ground
Revealing a sight
Seeping through with light
Regions were found
To be taken and conquered
Sailors sailed to eat sailors
And they as well ate bread
Sounds of paranormal had
Guided every boat, then plane
Then spaceship, to the inside
Of a toy box they made
“These Crops dictate Truth”
Says Man (or monster)
Every night is cold; cracked
These Crops are impure
Livestock tell stories of their leader
It’s more of saying really
Because they’re ******* livestock
The Truth cannot tell nor talk
Reason slips off their skin
Like water off oil
Harder and harder it is
For Man to let joy soak in
Journeys of discovery
Travel through the television
Crisps, colas, pies, and cakes
Is what ******* does it
Beef pulp, French toast, tomato paste
Is what ******* does it
All we consume is ****
Crying fat morons decompose
“I really like the rain”
Says ****** with pudding stain
And her body melts and pours
As the rain does inexcusably
Great big dogs soak up in the rain
Unlike Man with his walking cane
They are all dying as they retreat
Underneath a roof of sin to replace
Emotional politicians claim they’re drug-free
As they smoke cigs and drink alcohol
Infant babies were torn apart in shopping malls
Did the World set them free?
Man (or monster) propose
To have a war on anything
Must any more children die?
Or can they get high; watch television?
What the **** is wrong with an aspect
Of harmless self-discovery
Can Man wager livestock’s epiphany?
Is it o.k. to live in a subdivision?
Or on a farm, or in the television?
Do these Crops have to dictate
Which victim we choose to mate?
To dictate our truth?
Can the fake astronaut admit?
He got ******* high; watched sitcoms
Ate potato chips, ate cereal out of the box
Never told a soul it was a hoax
Crops soak in the sweet rain
As the political Man weeps
These Crops become true
Dying Men no longer retreat
A Crop of Lies
Become so true
This wisdom is beauty
What we see now
Is as clear as day
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
She would spend all day mixing
and kneading,
singing her old lady songs to herself.
I would get to lick the bowl.
This was my prize.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
My sister and I would play outside
almost every sunny day.
Magic kingdoms made of mud and bricks.
Toy soldier citizens of mock empires.
Barbie doll victims of terrible wars.
Bubblegum music from the top forty
traced the pattern of our lives.
Our country had a new flag and boys
in school still had short hair.
Little girls wore skirts and dresses and
pony tails were still the normal fashion.
Black and white television set turned to
the latest American sitcoms. We would
laugh at Granny and marvel at Endora.
Mr. Sullivan would present the latest rage,
the latest quartet or singer from England.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
We wore peace buttons on our coats,
and drew "smiley's" on our books.
We talked about what we were going
to do to make a difference in the world.
We admired the Fab Four and worshipped
at the altar of glorious possibilities.
We knew it was going to be beautiful,
because that is what we were being told.
Every morning at school we would sing
"God Save the Queen" and "O Canada",
say The Lord's Prayer and
hear the announcements.
Teachers talked about the future
as if it was a land of possibilities.
We did not know the black and white visions
would be transformed into colour horrors.
We had no idea that the dreams of peace and love
were going to be forgotten. Who could predict
the grey soul of adulthood? Where have
all the beautiful people gone?
My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
I've never felt so cold as when you taught me how to feel-
As each stagnant second pushes
The great pulsating vibrato of life
Further and further into
Yesterday,
Until nothing is left but memories
And stale tap water in a ceramic coffee cup:
The trembling scale by which we measure happiness
That is only felt after it becomes a memory.
Who determines the expiration date
Of emotion?
Your warm pulsating skin
And the hottest month in August
Can only be felt in photo albums
And subtle murmurs only heard
Past 3am.
I never meant to get this caught up
In life-
Breathing in the bitter reality
Of fragmented testimonies
Warning me of what's to come
And fragility of time.
Selfishly I **** the marrow out of
Every fleeting moment,
Scattering the bones across the graveyard of my unrequited mind-
A self proclaimed martyr of suffering
And good intentions.
The confinement of my sordid thoughts,
Condenses reality,
Into the tangible.
Freedom is only felt
In the aftermath of an earthquake-
Crumbled barriers now bear remnants of security.
Is this how it is to feel?
The nerves in my finger tips
Are hot and trembling, as I trace the
Faded outline of something too real
To ever be strained out into the world
Of the living.
Time and time again, I remind myself
Of the ineptitude of anything
That isn't born
Within the sacred hours of
Insomnia.
A distorted image scatters across my empty mind,
Casting shadows on the times where
Nothing mattered beyond the moment.
Life breathes in and out
To the rhythm of the broken record
That we relentlessly cram
Into our vacant hearts,
As if trying to drown out the hollow drone
Of the love
Manufactured in Sunday night sitcoms and materialized on Broadway.
Simple actors, we betray our inner wishes,
And sell them in the form of words
To a greedy audience, yearning to be reassured
That they aren't the only ones who mistake pain for something
Pure.
Time and time again,
I repeat my cynical mantra
Through the motion of my feet upon the ground;
Because, history repeats himself
Until emotion can no longer tread
The freezing waters of existence,
Leaving nothing but a trace of
Something that we foolishly lament with the names of a lover,
And drape with the revealing veil of time-
Mistaken for the truth,
And worshiped at the alter of God.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
One:
It’s funny to think about how messed up a family can be. Everything’s just a big facade--we all pull ourselves together to cover up the cracks. But if you really look, you can see how stretched thin we are. No one wants to reveal the shadows, the burns. But there’s so much anger. We are so taut, ripping at the seams as we yank ourselves into place, as we force back the emotions that beat at the bars.
Two:
There are reasons why we have our distractions. There are reasons why we sleep, why we eat, why we read, why we watch endless hours of ****** sitcoms. We don’t want reality. We don’t want the pain of confrontation, whether it be with ourselves or with another person. We live in a fuzzy world of bliss, with the third-party privilege of being at a distance. It’s nice to imagine, for a little while, that your life doesn’t exist. There’s so much less friction that way.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
i had a dream about you last night.
i’m wearing mismatched socks.
my face, bruised and ******
my body, slumped
in the corner of the handicap stall.
you’re standing above me
smiling, happy even.
“not happy, just killing time”.
your voice so soft, so sweet
the perfect lullaby
to put me to sleep.
i pass out from your love.
i woke up this morning
phone cord wrapped around my neck.
felt like a noose,
felt like you.
“i didn’t mean to hurt you”
(but you’ll do it again).
cigarettes in the backyard.
crossed legs on the patio table.
it feels like my stomach is filled with acid
and my head is filled with smoke.
you grabbed me and it stung like a bee.
i want to drink ’til i forget you.
i want to get so high that i forget myself.
i’m no angel.
i’m just a little dolly who gets broken easily.
i’m an artist using their own body as a canvas,
razor blades for brushes, blood for paint.
be a disaster with me.
ruin me with your eyes,
fill my soul with *****
and break my bones.
i’m feeling emotionally dead inside.
like forgotten flowers in the attic,
unfilled holes in the ceiling.
i’m hollow.
like vintage television sitcoms,
trap doors in old houses.
the chambers of my heart are filled
with cobwebs and spider eggs.
eyelids swollen shut.
mud up to my ears;
i’m choking on worms.
you’re killing me
but a very muffled “i forgive you”
still manages to escape my lips.
there is no remedy for a sickness quite like this.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC
A blank page of hope cracked like porcelain
The light fades and darkness seeps through
Crumpled in the trash, start again
Beauty and elegance
Bright reds and yellows
Floral print gowns and freckle kissed skin
A hateful snarling stretched mouth
Blatant hurtful words and red lights
Crumpled on the couch
A new suit, haircut and polished black shoes
Tonight we got drinks
A little hope and a touch of scent
Growing feelings of love lost in the confusion
Translucent optimism
Crumpled at a table for two bearing a neon sign screaming vacancy
Liquor bottles and oceans of cigarette butts
A scratchy blanket and some reruns of the late show
The whiny tones of some country western romantic on the radio
The bellows of a 3 a.m. train
Crumpled in the shallow heart of suburbia
The first breathe of fresh air for three weeks
The stinging criticism of sunlight
Cut grass and the earths slow steady breathing under foot
A ***** kitchen and some worn out jeans
A meaningful life full of meaningless time
Soccer games and sitcoms
Crumpled in a compact car
Memories in a bag set on a shelf just out of reach
Brittle bones and worn skin
More reruns of the late show
Waiting for Christmas and thanksgiving and the recliner
Confusion and hurt
Crumpled in the ground
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
fingertips trace the
splintered podium.
clear my throat,
once,
twice.
"We shoulduh' seen this coming."
great opener.
**"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.
Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.
Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.
Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,
and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.
We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.
We all got divorced.
We all got into politics.
Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.
Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.
We shoulduh' seen this coming.
But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.
The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.
Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."**
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.
they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.
**"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.
Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.
Get stoked for the funeral pyre."**
all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.
no one even got a chance to applaud.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
sorrows,
shaved scalp,
sorrows,
forehead heavy with ash,
sorrows,
scabs scraped with broken pottery,
sorrows,
all the gods stopped playing fair,
sorrows,
with cold sons and contradictory friends,
sorrows,
for the saints,
sorrows,
for the satans,
sorrows,
for citing both.
sorrows,
at the sound of laughter,
sorrows,
at the touch of neighbors,
sorrows,
for losing my mind,
my maker,
my family,
sorrows,
while everyone else is content
to live in ****** sitcoms
and safety-net salvation.
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 5:28 PM UTC
the sun,
the moon,
the both of us.
portland to portland,
we are genocide: america.
we are teen murders & horror sitcoms.
globally tuneforked sacrifices,
with commercial breaks.
land of the plumed serpent.
built on the burial grounds of chieftains tall,
but dead men.
public access: watch the tallest towers fall.
in them, men of manifest.
a beast shook.
land of the war artifact.
our birth.
our thousand tongues.
our endless hovering demons/drones/droids of the bomb.
of the eye always watching.
destroyer.
a solar born son of aquarian blood.
prince of the death cult prestigious.
skull & ***** & throned with the boom-button ready.
aligned to die for great glory and bury the dragon one hundred thousand light-years into the dark rift.
heart of milky her.
history favors the bomb.
flavors the chip
dipped.
there was that death of the last cowboy.
his dreams returned to the stars.
his planet returned to chaos,
&/or love.
but both.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
We played house quite nicely
The two of us in yours, pretending
it was ours
We acted out our definitions of home,
what we learned it meant growing up,
you without a mother or
father, me with both and too much love
I tried to imitate their arguments,
reckless yelling without purpose and
you, the quiet child in the corner didn’t
know how to fight back
I sat atop the kitchen counter and
you fed me bread and lies but
mostly lies
I took them with ease and
swallowed willingly,
smiling like they do in sitcoms
happy, always
We played house
taking care of this one like we knew how to
when really all we knew was how to
love carelessly
**** occasionally and
walk the dog
You the husband, I the mistress
this was our home, unconventional but
intact
it was fun being lover but
only for so long
The key to playing house
is to never mention the future
everything is pretend and
there is no talk of forever or later and
all that really matters is right now
This is what we did
and oh, were we good at it
We played house quite nicely, or at least
until the roof caved in and
the walls cracked and
the floor sank
we then looked at the wreckage and
sighed
What a silly game for us to have played
But oh, we were good at it.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
Passing around a fatal flaw like a joint in a hot box,
Refreshing baths of Coca~Cola and regretful indulgence
We are wasting away in a paradise of my creation
Poems tinted grey through abstinent romanticism,
and an inexplicable undertone inherent to my prose.
As everything starts to return to a drumming constant.
It all sounds the same.
We've been sunbathing in porcelain skies and empty daydreams.
Drab and dreary and acid washed.
Interrupted like a beach by the sea,
By the little pieces of drug soaked warmth that act as comforting distractions.
A smile or a shoulder or a sunny day to drink from.
Summer and solitude, the likeness of warm bodies in a cold pool.
So.
Compose me an opera of Soda Cans and of choral song. Synthesise two bass lines and slow drip coffee and pollen and folk.
Make it for me so I can watch you as you work.
Let me listen and bask in its ludacris vanity, and clean shallow waters.
How I would relish the time spent muddying the current. Destroying the tide I desired out of boredom.
And black hot frustration.
Flowers painted in acid and acrid accounts of repetative revalations in the context of rude rosy cheeked romance.
Blonde haired ignorance and one dimensional delusions.
Blue eyed terrorists armed with air and arrogance.
Give me seatwarmers and handholding
Or corvettes and convertables.
Give me arrowheads and heart attacks
Humble my bones with a cardiac
!F.R.I.E.N.D.S.!
SITCOMS
ADJASENT PLOTLINES
mumble rap
AND ***** TALK HOTLINES
four letter words with little context or meaning and selfless expression that's often demeaning
Its September in January and it rains for a day
And despite all our efforts
The days waste away
Jan 24, 2020
Jan 24, 2020 at 12:26 PM UTC
Your crooked smile flows upward
and I can see it from the ground.
Haunting myself with
a film teacher's creature feature
in black and white,
an old orchestra for sound.
You said you'd get nervous
when on our clunky telephone;
saying that customer service
could hear the fibers
in your voice
rustle like tall, dry grass,
with a wind whispering through
confirming, with every breath,
that you feel alone.
We'd recite fifties sitcoms:
Honey, do you --
do you have the keys?
Well, gee whillikers,
I could use someone to
open me, close me, and
dispose of me, please.
I write this for no one,
which is the category you fall in.
Sincerely,
signed Issues,
P.S. The television
is in color,
and I don't miss you.
- There ain't hope in the U,
the S is for Show me your soul,
the A is for Always forget:
the United States of
Killing it, Killing it -
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
Do you know who I am? Do you understand why I do what I do and think what I do is exactly what should be done? Do you have even the slightest respect for my decisions? For who I am? Do you know who I am?
That’s alright. Neither do I.
If I have said it once, then I best say it over and over and over again until you start listening: I feel like I'm underwater. I am in deep oceans, not blue or pale waters, but a horrible, dark abyss. I am drowning in a strange love for the spin-offs of truth, dignity, and cultural revolution. Now that is situational comedy.
My world is composed of nothing but reruns. Clips of him drowning on repeat. And when I drown, he drowns too.
I pray to find the sun so that I may trade all that I have for its warmth to melt the ocean into sky, and this glass from my skin. I don’t need to keep my heart shatterproof, I am no porcelain. I am an independent. Fill my flooded lungs with fresh smoke. Make the water go. Make the bad go. Go. Going. Gone. The sun is gone. All that I have is my fragile body, my *** I am under sexed, overlooked, and infinitely exhausted of these nonsensical rants. If I could sketch a message into the night sky it would plainly read: I feel like I'm underwater.
So here, in these reefs, will I search for my meaning. But I think it’s best we all come to terms with the plain truth: Submergence is submission. And I refuse to submit to your societal pressures. I will decide what is wrong. I will say what is right. If I wish to empty my lungs of this saltwater, find the sun above the surface, and turn off the abhorrent sitcoms I cannot submit. I can only drown.
“Not another one! Look at him, look at him!” she yells.
His veins are coursing, pulsing, shattering at the edges with blue. He is blue in both his complexion and complex feelings and thoughts and pains. His veins are blue, and he is cold. Can you smell his insatiable mind? Taste the metallic crush of his sanguine? “This world is intolerable, and I must not tolerate,” she reads from his tear stained note. The ripe stench of escape burdens our minds as we watch his soulless body hang. My mind is escaping. Toss the rug over the barbed wire and run. Run. Sanguine with ketamine. Run, ****** run.
Do you know how to drown? That’s alright. Neither do I.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:00 AM UTC
The night is my solitude
Where I locked myself up in the room with you and —
Talk about the past, present and the future
In grief and happiness, frustration and calmness
Remember the time we tuned in to sitcoms and cartoons
Laughed our heads off in loud croons
And if we were lucky, we might catch a movie till late
But most times, you stayed up till I get my homework done — which I hate
I haven't been talking to you for the past six months — please forgive me
I met this guy who's nice, handsome and he's kinda funny
Spent hours talking and texting to him while ignoring you
Until that one fine day, he broke my heart — I forgot to tell you
(But you still keep me in company as I weep, falling to sleep)
Stay with me until I reach 65 if you will
Listen to me telling bedtime stories to my grandchildren still
As they're fast asleep I plant a kiss
On their foreheads I'll never miss
My old man walks in and whispers into my ear
Aren't you tired? It's time for bed, my dear
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
Remember those old sitcoms
Some of us grew up with
How they used to make us laugh
When life for some seemed so carefree
All in the family, Barney Miller, the Jeffersons
Those were what showed for me after school
And I got used to them and the stories they told
Creating a mindset in me that lasted decades
But understanding life better today
My views have changed
And my heart has softened
It saddened me wondering how I'd have felt
If I was gay and had to watch those shows
The bigotry was so blatant and cruel
The words, the treatment, the ridicule
I watched the disrespect so open in the 70s
And felt so sad for my gay friends who endured it
I cry for you all now
How that all must have hurt
Breaking your spirit just turning on a TV
And not knowing if your feelings would be crushed
Today many of my friends are gay
I recently came out as trans
And I find myself deep within the LGBT community
In heart and mind, body and soul
Life is a road with so many turns
And the point of this is
That what we thought we knew about ourselves yesterday
Often leads us to a life today so different we never would have imagined it
Let go the ugliness of the past
And embrace the beauty and wonder of today
Get to know anyone you don't understand
And love and care for them, and you'll see inside we're all the same
by Lj Mark 2015
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
This is the fourth time it's happened this winter
The fire is sparking
("Put on another log to dull the flames")
The wind, whipping up chaos outside, conspires with the moon
to plaster open our eyes, and
tangoes with the red of the streetlight to foreground the terror, the dramatic pull to this scene like the beginning of a barfight.
But all you notice is the snow.
Captivating Slush, like the wondrous stupid glow of children's television
("Close the door quickly, it's below zero outside!")
My chest wakes up to the sleeky bitterness of it, gentle but rousing,
like the critique of a crush taunting the back of your neck, but in reverse.
You've said that last line, and it's the response of everyone who can't savor what they most anticipate, the arrival of the thing itself cast aside for something mundane like safety.
The thing itself for you is watching snow,
and now you gladly push it away.
Life is so unpredictable, yet so callously routine.
To live in seasons is to be constantly surprised at things exactly how you've seen them before.
It's not emotions that frighten us, emotions are hand-me downs, the old favourite band t-shirts of experience, often ones we've worn before.
It's the feelings that surround emotion that we shunt out, that we tipex over in our journals of memory, our synaptic splints.
The tears of children who never turn back
to confront their tormentor with their tears.
And so now I'm walking upstairs as a means of brushing off these notions
("For the love of ... make sure the bathroom window is closed")
And I check my phone while debating how to spend the rest of my evening engaging with my phone while you rewarch American sitcoms, so cosy, your contentment as reliable as Irish wind
Then I sigh and look out the Bauhaus insulting bedroom window
Again I see the circus coloured tarpit the weather has made of our street
And wait a minute, trying not to feel anything
Because this is the fourth time this has happened
This year.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 6:52 AM UTC
To experience something through another's eyes.
So different, yet the same,
like McCartney and Lennon,
like jam and jelly.
Different characters featured in paintings,
scrapbook
the cast in an artist's tv show.
Some sitcoms, some dramas,
and others a genre of their own.
There’s Madonna’s and their babies,
looking innocent as the bible.
Why is it that baby Jesus
in Renaissance paintings
always gives me nightmares?
The self portraits take their place
among the respected walls of color.
Their eyes draw you in,
burning holes in your skin.
They seem to appear wise.
Looking old as the moon,
but with significantly less bumps and crevices.
The modern pieces stick out,
like a lone spoon in the knife drawer.
They appear more youthful,
wrinkle-free and vibrantly alive.
“A child could have made this”,
I hear someone say.
What a beautiful thought to have.
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 6:16 PM UTC