"sprocket" poems
its a gas station on a long desert road apparitions of wavy heat (steam from boiling water) emanating from the pavement converging with the skyline breaking the horizon – the ramblers in the distance
they lap at the *** of disparity (the savior for now) this road this pump – invisible if not the saving grace of the traveler
clinging to the dethreading strings of hope, unravelling ball of yarn of blind faith and compassion that if the doors closed there would be an awakening within memories dreams visions – but its invisible, an aura a transparent silhouette – no marks no chips in the fabric of this world, no cause, no direction, just there.
lets be direct I’m the gas station – a seed of a dandelion swimming in a sea of concrete waiting for the hardening world to enclose me into a capsule a capsule run by cogs, I’m one of the cogs, but when the sprocket snaps, the machine goes on – an ironic metaphor a poorly written one (waiting for the sprocket to snap) to think I’m the only ironic metaphor is arrogant – lest i find the other- or the other finds me.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
I popped a sprocket on the wheel.
And now their voices fill my head,
With songs and cruel & unusual
What in hell did I Do to deserve this?
I was blessed to have resolve to withstand,
Until they started to manoever me towards the gallows
Had to hold fast and tightly to my belief in peace
To listen for the whispers saying wait for me.
Marched right into my head, and
Started giving orders like they owned it.
Employee monitoring was state of the art.
I warn you, don't make me
Individuals and flibbertygibbets
need their privacy.
You think I'm all fun and games,
But I have a serious dark side.
You say your life is an open book.
We don't thynk you'll ever pass muster.
So let's just rifle thru her head
then dust her.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
I'm a sprocket
A moving part
Comrade to the common stapler
Wind me up
Punch my card
Money makes a fine enabler
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Moldy sprocket of time piece.
Stop watching my every crease,
As it folds into my cheeks.
Wisdom grows my crows feet.
Twinkly locket locked in.
Place based on my chest, breast plate,
Sternum pinned beside the window sill.
Watching the sun bathe.
Light.
Bring it to lips.
Hold that picture clutch it, touch it,
Smother with wishes, pictures held of
Long dark hair,
Sprinkle, glitter eyes and twilight of moon, inside,
This prize.
One small 1 inch circumscribed ebb and flow of milky skins.
As you can see in this tin man trinket,
Winks and blinks, under blankets and springs,
Of the bed setting marched upon by dark hair love speech.
To my Juliet, who never sweats, never worries, knows best,
Knows truth, no jealousy, nothing more than a friend.
Living in Austin.
Our paths never crossing,
This entire Texas will always keep her away from me;
But nothing will keep her from me like the grand canyon we've created between each other through pain submitted to.
“Christian. You should leave.”
walks away.
Ran through the hedge row, directly through head bowed,
Crushed it's leaves and vines and twigs, ten thousand mangroves didn't stop my legs.
Rammed my head into a wall with all the force to knock me out.
Collapsed my lungs.
In the middle of the night, sixth street and east.
Hated me for months. Maybe years,
Embalm some dead.
That night, she hit me with an oak board, over 70 times,
My buttocks bruised black and blue hue of the night like broken
Maxillary bone black eyes, the perfect color of sleep.
I Never Flinched A Bit.
I Hope she never reads this poem, I hope my future lover doesn't either.
It will still be just ****
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
There’s no way out of here alive
With molten fever consuming my fraying mind
Bound fragile to flesh cast cog
Bound to sprocket and brittle bone
This hollow machine I call my own
Harbors both frontline and buried home
Thickly sick in uncertain, clogs
A riddled complex bleached with textureless rooms
Where, scrawled white, scribbled deep, the walls sputter
Void of voice and prop yet choked with clutter
None window, none door, save intangible lover
Offering both belief of choice and doom
Her name wanders worlds to haunt my lips
But only death and delusion come to meet my kiss
There, splashed and splayed through blistering ash
Dripping sparks from horizon’s blazed ceiling
I’m thrown ‘gainst the frame, my heart reeling
So the earth holds me to the floor, both of us bleeding
I, within, myself, side foiled folds and crass
Lo, her silent beauty weeps and screams
Siren! Angel! Demon! ; So I’m Pygmalion’s craze
And her, his pride to leave me razed
Then I, her bird, braves her play and blade
That carves my fall through trap-rapt dream
For her and I, on wings; hopes tried,
To wake and break us out alive.
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 10:06 AM UTC
An empty page. The insufferable debate.
An infernal task? The everlasting trait?
A blank check? A clean slate?
The inkwell pond. Pen and nib. Rod and bait.
Over-caffeinated.
Under-appreciated.
Anger encapsulated by the shortness of my replies.
I'm exasperated by the amount of attempts and all the tries.
Code Scrambled. Wires crossed. Software and hardware not integrated.
Emotions and objects being wrongly correlated.
Places and faces being traded.
Thoughts and feelings segregated.
Process of progress imitated.
Utterly inundated.
Brain cells being immolated
So that my mind and my soul can become assimilated.
Self-worth: Underestimated.
These points are not to be debated.
Swoon confused with brood.
A smiling clown dances around the center ring.
Inside he's centering his self around the latitude and longitude of
The highest hilltops of Mt. Pisspoorattitude.
Without the slightest shred of gratitude towards any good deed done for him past the 5 minutes of thank you that he spouts off at the peak of the mountain.
If at first you don't succeed, just cry and cry again.
The concept rocket pulls the cap off the the pen sprocket
Ink spews everywhere. A shiny black geyser erupts from the rig.
Men shouting back and forth to one another. There's no way to contain it. We've sprung a leak, the oil is in our water. The oil is our blood.
Erasing, no, smearing. No control. No Z's either. Analog fuck-ups.
Chasing my tail, driving the same circuit.
Racing as Yoshi with a broken control stick
I've had a hell of a time on Uncle Sam's dime.
I disappeared behind the words written on my mirror long ago.
Am I a wreck or is this the requiem of my dreams?
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
Well outside my circle,
Beyond my paltry reach
Of influence,
Nasty, spinsterly, unforgiveables
Happen.
Across from The Farmer's Market,
Just two days ago,
Two young males were...
You've no doubt read it.
Before that, a young teacher
Was kidnapped, stabbed and lit,
(can't believe I just wrote that)
Well, she was ******* lit... burned...
Who can live like this?
Then, I remember Tom's mother
Who invited me on family picnics;
And Crazy Jack,
Who put the chain on my rear sprocket;
The Squires who actually cleaned-up the yard
For the Downie sisters.
The befriendings in neighborhoods.
Mrs. Tethercott, probably the oldest woman
To ever live on a street, once handed me
A hard red candy through the green pickets.
Just me. The sibs never saw it going or coming.
An especially special treat that has stuck with me
For decades after her death.
But the Mayor arriving in full Santa regalia
On the trunk of a sleigh-red car,
With burlap bag slung heavily.
What a first memory of Christmas.
Daddy burned his leg
With diesel oil
On the job site,
Far away, in Kapuskasing,
During our first winter
In Canada.
Did the Downie Spinsters make the call?
What unknown friends reached out
Beyond their circles.
Who aspires to such a height?
I can't let it stop me.
For now,
I carry a hard candy
For just such occasions.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
Gaza and Lily are up in the Rocket
Gaza’s barking out the orders
Right Lily
Under no circumstances touch that socket
Okay Gaza
It’s Sir to you
Now, I’m off for a kip
You’re on watch
Now skip
That’s not fair
A girl has to tong her hair
He’ll never know
Little tong and a blow
See, stupid prat
Oops, what’s that
The Rocket has stopped
Oh Sir Gaza
Think there’s a malfunction
We seem to be heading down the junction
You touched that socket
A black hole is taking my Rocket
In your dreams Gaza
I’m out of your orbit
You’ve done it Lily
It’s bust
God, you're obsessed
With getting me undressed
Put that back in your pocket
It’s my sprocket
Is that what they call it
I’m going down
Not on me
I finish at three
If I can get it back to warp five
We might get out of this alive
Are you talking about the Rocket
The socket
That thing in your pocket
The sprocket
Give me a hand
God, what don’t you understand
Take a cold shower
You’re not getting my flower
Is that the power
Oh Sir Gaza
I’m alive
You’ve taken me to a height that’s greater
Hold on a minute
Were you not wearing trousers
When we entered the Simulator
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
You're feeling jubilant as your eye captures the perfect illumination of a scene you've seen a hundred times, yet never perceived in this manner before. You ****** your old '85 from the snare of the paper-ridden desktop and keenly snap the staggered allure--until the low, guttural groan of the sprocket slices through your absorption. You abruptly lower the body to bury your misdemeanor within the unanimous truth of the data panel--but alas! Your aspirations are dissolved by the sudden rush of blood berating, "what a pillock!" As your cheeks fill with the crimson truth revealed in the seven-segment display partially reflecting your open jaw dappled like sympathy flowers atop the silent chastising of the slow-blinking "24".
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Your toes are like toast
Except one letter less
And covered in jam
They might be the best
Your peppermint lies
Fly off of my shoulders
Your hazelnut eyes
Starting to smolder
Your strawberry lips
Are the finest in town
But don't tell the neighbors
Don't need them around
Cuz honey in the sprocket
Makes the world go round and round!
Like a chocolate-dipped peanut
In a messy....mossy....mound.
(breakfast in bed)
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
A simple figment
lost in a toolshed
oft times tinkled
with broken appliances.
He manipulated
rusted design
to his fancy,
breathing second life
into misfit *******
The elusive wisp
dressed in split fingernails
and knotty knuckles,
as lore foretold.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
I found gods voice
In a clocksmith in Rockland.
I asked him how to turn back time
He said
"Careful use of your hands."
I smashed clocks like pills
credit card scraped sprigs & sprockets
into lines of chalk powder.
Just to hear more of his gospel
His shop closed.
Rain washed pink pastel rivers
down my childhood home
street gutters like blood
Glitter became shattered glass.
That same chalkdust
fashioned into A body outline
Ask a child
"What is your favorite creation?"
Witness the passion of a thousand poets.
Fade with age
Hands stretched out for paint
Handed pills.
He said sprig sprocket dust
"What is your favorite creation?
I can guess your mother's."
Took her 9 months
Timeless old crinkled construction paper
colorful paints in the shape of your fingers
I Cover my hands in blood
From the shattered glass
Press my fingerprints
To the timeless colors
I've forgotten
Where to place my hands.
Clumsy with time
Leave ****** handprints
On my mothers fridge
My lovers
Face down in sprig sproket dust
On my final tick
I hear a clocksmith tinker
One last lullaby
"when you run out of canvas
You will stop drawing blood
you will still leave fingerprints"
"What is your favorite creation?"
Was it worth the time?
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 1:57 AM UTC
Handshake
Extended arms overcome to reconcile
what was once divided and separated.
Perhaps one or both has to reach out
further, even to a protracted cantilever.
Age, tradition and culture arch backs
but a bow does not mean genuflection.
Traversing a span to overcome and reach
beyond voids of indifference takes ingenuity.
That which connects links of a chain
straddling the sprocket, is a split pin.
The cross of Calvary did not vex Jesus but
we let anger obliterate our viaducts of life.
Yet rehabilitation is achievable, 427 years
of damaged history was restored at Mostar.
Apr 26, 2023
Apr 26, 2023 at 12:53 PM UTC
This has happened before
He knows the ribbon of it,
the fluttering murmur of
her final breath that mouths
*on earth is no abiding stay
all men must pass away.*
and the refraction of its sin
when he says
Did I whiten you again?
allowing the ripple of his grief
to frame its recollection.
And now remembered
it seems so ancient an event,
that for one long echo
time might stop;
and recommence
in the forgetting
of pitch and sprocket,
or at least hold still long enough
that he can splice
and better understand it.
The dead’s final gift to the living,
this swoop of sorrow,
the violence that Spring wraps tight.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
In the darkroom
I scramble for my header,
a kingdom for scissors.
Sprocket enmesh header
and gyrate with deft turns
to the end of the spiral
cutting with a final twirl.
Let the darkness be illuminated,
by passing it to the teacher's hand;
that lost coordinated sensation
now can't find my tank.
Jul 13, 2022
Jul 13, 2022 at 1:26 AM UTC