"snowbank" poems
I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark.
The blue-green glow of dashboard gauges, the biting scent
of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Insects slapping the windshield, incipient rain.
Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.
II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms
I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement
ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor on MLK Boulevard.
The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence
inscribed on my back also confirms this.
III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair,
fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears,
twisting behind tent ***** with a one-armed
contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.
IV
I derailed in a dive bar.
V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights,
where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic
signals kept perfect time. I picked through trash bins.
I paid for love with drugstore wine.
VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road.
The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.
VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed
by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew
back the curtains and lost myself
in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps,
the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes.
I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.
VIII
The moon over my shoulder
tightened into focus like a spotlight.
One night the barking dogs undid me.
I caved in to the candor of a naked mattress.
I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell,
clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.
IX
I coveted the house keys of strangers.
X
I opened and closed many doors.
I sang into the mouths of storm drains.
I stepped out of many rooms only
to find myself in the room I just left.
Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
In a Somerville coffeeshop, waiting for his single origin light roasted Pour over,
Frankenstein reads a philosophy magezine, seductively planted by the lounging area.
"One lives two lives."
The magezine reads,
"That which one spends in their physical body,
and that which begins the moment one leaves that body,
lasting until all witness to ones first life has spoken its final word".
The baristas eyes widen when he sees Frankenstein,
The barista says nothing.
He knows better than to raise the dead.
Frankenstein is often confused
for his monster.
Condensation rises between crocheted mittens, Frankenstein Lingers on the Cherry notes in his Coffee, while it combs icicles into his snow white mustache.
He likes this new version of an afterlife. It empowers him to take advantage of the time he has now, to make his second life last as long as possible.
He's in the middle of this thought
When his face slams against ***** snowbank.
Dog **** mixing into the icicles of his moustache.
A familiar mob of torches and pitchforks only see the monster.
They take turns kicking.
Kicking
Frankenstein wakes to a lynching.
When he lives
He is not a monster.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC
The flakes tingle my heart
The snowbank builds and I feel
frostbite
I'm used to the cold
Lets weather on
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
Come with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate’er you do tonight,
bath my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit’s crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o’er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.
1.8k
Snowed in,
We prepare peasant food:
Simmering onions
Then broth
Base for boiling fish stew
Cooled in the snowbank beside the brown ale
The pineapple pies
and the venison steak.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 3:28 PM UTC
the sapping dusk denies my dreams frenetic,
it ebbs in icy cattail streams uncouth;
in rural woodland glades, I’d wax poetic,
but shoddy snowbank streets are all my youth.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 10:06 PM UTC
Daylight in the castle,
there is the king and the queen.
She is of Europe, floats like a bee
upon clouds, these saltwater beacons
drenching for her hair to dampen black.
And he thinks she seems angelic,
each morning, opening umbrella limbs
stars & stripes he gave her last night.
Shine and prim kiss-kneads,
nobody can tell that he loves me.
The pond across the way, I drown
in the flesh-earth, memory of our space
just ruffles swaddling where he tastes.
I am his handmaid as I am queen,
when light surfaces on my snowbank
ever ghosting the skin of knobby-knees.
Daylight in the castle,
beams for more than just a queen –
clumsy, odorless of the love she’s seen.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
something heretical in our sera
a peeking thing, half mischievous
and i, trying to see if you are my mirror if you
recognize the streak in me as your own something familiar smelling like the sweat beneath your arms the
glossy glint off your scleras the
trail of forest on your body
heretical
something wild in the the skin that slips beneath my hands like a
many-worn silk of some old god like a
selkie would feel about the centuries old earth and the
neverchanging of days, darkbrightdarkbrightdark
something freeing about the sting of winter air in my nostrils something
ripped away from my long exiles in the city something
replenished in the true empty fullness of a silent tundra a
dirt-covered snowbank a
grey iceflow on the water something
dissident and infidel about your soul and mine together something
potent in our marrow something
wild and
freeing and
dying
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
Like sprinkling Fred
who waters the flowers outside her door
He's probably not well read
but has much fun from nine to four
And when he's in bed
she digs up dead flowers in a chore
a chore limitless, she can only ask for more
She thinks:
Two snow rabbits
burrowed deep within a snowbank
Call it a habbit
they sleep around cold like a riverbank
Ears, fur, noses small bits
their eyes are closed and they have nothing to thank
Outside the sun sets brilliantly
the city's pollution makes a fantastic prism
And she step by steps up the staircase
each wooden partition creaking in response
Fred lays sleeping, tucked away in dreams
and she pushes his bed off into a river
the black water carries him away, away
She is left on the sand, waving Fred away, away
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
I.
Last year’s winter left a blanket of snow
So thick that all I see when I close my eyes
Is pure white icing and the taste on my lips
Is that of snowflakes dissolving on your tongue
You came out of nowhere into my winter storm
Crashed your truck head on into an innocent telephone pole
It was lost, I think, and can’t be blamed for you
Leaving your tire tracks in my slowly melting snowbank
Of a heart—oh who am I kidding, it was
Hot blacktop this whole time, perfect canvas for
Swirling curves of your fountain pen tires,
No *** holes, no frost heaves, just flat black tar.
And magically you found a shade darker than dark
With which to leave your pavement tattoo.
II.
I am a ghost in your house
Haunting shadows, for some reason even
In the light of day I still feel like I’m in the dark
And the silence so thick it smothers the blaring
Television and echoes so loudly I think my ears might
Fall off should I decide to take one false step across
Your floors and wake the dead.
My funeral was forgotten.
I died before my foot could even step above the
Threshold, six inches from the mahogany porch
That would still be standing should earthquakes
Shake us in our boots and dig up our roots
And your house could be razed to the ground but
This porch would stay,
Along with me, standing here, hand poised
Afraid to knock.
III.
I met you somewhere in between the
First hard frost of November and the first real
Snow of the holiday season—either way there was
A glaze of something cold across the whole city
And I swear to you I’d never recognize the place
Where you watched me flirt with disaster
And I watched you live out the end of
A chapter of your life in half-time.
If you showed it to me in broad daylight
It would be nothing but another quiet
Empty room for my spirit to haunt with
Linoleum floors and the faint smell of Jack Daniels’.
You could pour me a glass but
All I’d taste is snowflakes on my tongue.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 9:58 PM UTC
I was never an adulterer,
I did **** myself over,
And ****** alone;
But the "A" that keeps sticking
Is as prominent as Hester's.
I was never an abuser,
But I can do a real fine job on myself;
And then the guilt sets in,
Like a hard-packed snowbank,
And I need to get the shovel.
That amber-coloured "A"
Always leads to the stairs of shame
I climb like my cross;
Then lie in state
Until the resurrection.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
Tired body aches. Long walk on starry night -
ears attuned for bear at creek, or cougar.
Nothing, not a doe.
But that afternoon
came upon a healthy young buck in a meadow.
High up. And a hawk left a feather for me.
Old, old stands of lodgepole pine, grey bark
like wrinkled hides of elephants. Thick carpet
of dead needles.
Thirst. Sit at snowbank
for an hour eating snow. Burn tongue.
To soon after stumble upon a pond and the place
that a creek springs from the mountain. Water
indescribable. Eat ravenously and drink deep
gulps.
Climb highest rocky peak at dusk. Razor-back
ridge. Mother hawk scream nearby. Must
backtrack and then go straight down near dark
feet fall through layers of scrub pine, hands
grab for the live stalks only support against
broken bone.
Choose steep narrow bed of loose rocks,
surely waterfall in some other season and descend
on *** and all fours, feet first always fearful
it will end in an uncontrollable hundred foot drop.
Trickles of water nearing bottom.
Cracked hands,
raw behind, cross final snowbank and attain road
along Snake Creek.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
Snowflakes.
Snowflakes that are each unique
Yet thousands upon thousands
Each it's own
Lie unfound
In a snowbank called Earth.
Just waiting to be admired
But in the end expire
As all life eventually does.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
I sat in a snowbank
because I could
my *** froze, then my thighs, then my toes
the extremities began to hurt on their way to numbness
and I thought,
I could sit here all day even though I’m in such pain
and I thought,
it’s something I do every single day
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
I cried when Jimmy died
I fell in love with Ky
I wanted to be Marlene, or Lynn maybe
I fell in the snowbank with Charlie
I disappear like the Cheshire Cat
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
i didn't see it
flash of light against the coat
i didn't see it
bone crunching against metal
i didn't see it
legs splayed, spinning away across the asphalt
i didn't see it
tires squealing as the car came to a stop alongside
i didn't see it
shattered ribs heaving with labored breath
i didn't see it
leg twitching feebly against the unforgiving road
i didn't see it
waiting outside in the cold for cars to pass
i didn't see it
crossing the road with shaking steps
i didn't see it
standing over the carcass, its eyes glossed over
i didn't see it
apologizing again and again to ears that no longer heard
i didn't see it
touching its wet pelt, caked with dirt and blood
i didn't see it
lifting it first gently then with whatever strength i had
i didn't see it
feeling the skeleton splinters move under the skin as i pulled it
i didn't see it
resting its head against a plowed snowbank
i didn't see it
pool of red by my feet swirled with the snow melt
i didn't see it
opening the door and sitting down, breathing heavily
i didn't see it
blood and dirt on my hands, gripping the steering wheel
i didn't see it
that night, i closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
and do you know what happened then?
i saw it.
i can't stop seeing it.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
normally invisible, the husk
of vibrancy
has been outed
by recent
snowfall.
if you have a father
he is probably
shoveling
as if it’s the one thing
he has to do
before leaving.
it’s not, but it will do
until he has to shovel
again.
my daughter isn’t married yet
so I can safely say
she isn’t married
to a man
whose job it is
to inspect
poles
for tongues.
ice takes children from the horror film
of an everyday car.
accumulation is the only word
Ohio has
for hollowing.
headlights enter a snowbank
the way my eyes
enter a second
nightmare
wanting to see
what saw me
first.
in any weather
some of us
imagine the homeless
but can’t.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
smothered in a snowbank
breathing in the absence of sound
I'm caught in the grooves of ice, spinning my wheels
a hand dealt by cars and too little salt
if I hold out my hand, I can't feel my fingers
puffy and frozen
an extended hand, out on a limb
brown and barren
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 8:05 PM UTC
When all the lies fade away
You in the corner, ruminating
The sun shines forth on this sullen day
And you realize your prized life has been forsaken
When you're too in love to see
Your blinded by compassion
You have so much of it that you live miserably
And now your stunted by inaction
I tread through the snowbank
I slipped down deep into it
And now everything is blank
So in the frozen stillness I sit
Within the center of the chaos
Resides the truth
Life is a multitude of revolving clocks
Spinning in alignment with abundant life which moves
Whenever you find yourself confounded
Instead of forcing a solution through manipulation
If you just surrender you will be astounded
By the simple ebb and flow of creation.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
Do you know what you desire, she breathed at me.
I do, I said, my breath creating spirits from the whirlwind of my lips over the snowbank.
Tell me, she muttered, her eyes creating criss crossed laser sections of white fluff beneath us.
Never.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
Toothpaste residue washes down the drain,
mouthwash follows.
I waste my time cleaning these bones inside my mouth,
to be opalescent with their crooked demeanor.
Wondering what others think of me,
thinking about how today has been endless
and tomorrow will follow suit.
Spending time gazing into the mirror,
trying to change.
& we'd prefer to be found
with alcohol in our blood,
laying somewhere cold in a snowbank.
A bullet inside the glass I'm drinking from,
I bite down as my brain erupts,
splatters the wall.
Ending my ****** writer's block...
the mortician left to inform the world,
of the irony in never including yourself as a character.
Everyone's face is shadowed and misplaced,
like a Picasso painting.
Those faces have haunting features,
an appearance that shouldn't matter,
it's the judgement within those eyes.
Why can't we peel off the skin and lies,
like an age old band aid?
Revealing the shredded bones
beneath the act of aging.
We're all so weak,
with conflicted truths,
signs of emotion are signs of weakness:
Still so many of us fortunate souls are lead to wonder why?
why? why?why?
The desire to be nothing
pertained to me,
trading smeared blue inked letters
written in my woes and goodbyes,
that were premature.
Oh, how the piano with its' keys have broken off,
means the musician lost his will to play,
drowning himself on a west coast beach-
A poet with her repressed memories,
have made themselves a home in her troubled mind.
And we all have;
so many words,
so many truths,
so many secrets,
and these words drown her so.
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 7:10 PM UTC
I watched a person
fall and roll down
a snowbank
today
I could not stay
home any longer
The paint is peeling
The roof is leaking
I drove myself
to the beach
Parked the car
and sat
Slowly realizing,
that the person
who fell was
me
Feb 3, 2020
Feb 3, 2020 at 3:04 AM UTC