"squeaks" poems
If Success was Happiness
Then achievers would be glad
But look around and you will find
That many of them are sad
Of course, Achievement gives joy
And excitement, oh boy!
But when our need becomes our greed
To misery, this will lead
The whole world is chasing Success
Everyone wants achievement
Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose
There is no Contentment
Why do people want to succeed?
Why is everyone in a race?
The Truth is that we want to win
So that there is a smile on our face
But though we win, we are not glad
We have money, why are we sad?
Happiness is not money, the sages said
It's sleeping soundly when you are in bed
We hear of suicides in the homes of the rich
If they were Happy, then why this glitch?
Although they are achievers, this fact we know
They are not Happy, their face has no glow
If successful, but unhappy, what is the use?
Winning or smiling, what would you choose?
The purpose of Success is for us to be glad
What is the use of winning, if it makes us sad?
Happiness is something different, we learn
Not just money that we earn and burn
Happiness is built on a foundation of peace
Then we are blissful like waves in the seas
Look around at the people who are glad
They live in the moment, they are never sad
They don't swing from the future to the past
They are the ones whose Happiness lasts
Happiness has no price tag, know this my friend
It's a state of mind where nothing can offend
It's being able to smile, and able to laugh
Not just trying to raise our Success graph
We can't measure joy in dollar and pound
Happy is he who peace has found
Though we may fly the world around
We may be miserable on the ground
Success is not Happiness, this Truth we must know
We may have everything, what's the use of this show?
The truly successful one is he
Who lives with smile, laughter, and glee
If one is Happy, then one has achieved all
One doesn't have to be rich and in fame be tall
One can have little, but if content is he
Then he can live joyously
Achievement gives Happiness, this fact we know
But with Fulfilment and Contentment, does Happiness grow
One who is Happy, doesn't need to win
He has Peace and Joy without committing sin
Joy doesn't need a foundation of cash
One doesn't have to be rich, to enjoy life's bash
Happiness is a simple state of the mind
It comes from being loving, it comes from being Kind
Happiness is Success. It is achieving life's goal
It is being Happy in the heart, Peaceful in the Soul
True Happiness is eternal, not just a moment of joy
It last's forever, it can’t be destroyed
Success is a journey of valleys and peaks
Life is a see-saw, there are laughs and squeaks
Success, unlike Happiness, doesn't last for long
But the truly Happy ones always sing a Happy song
So, Success is not Happiness, Happiness is Success
You may be an achiever, whose heart is not at rest
But though not successful, if Happy you are
Then you are an achiever, you are the very best
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 8:26 AM UTC
The rat smells the air, squeaks in alarm and runs off.
Black boots come into view. With the sharp tip of a sword.
I crouch in the dark, behind the bins of *******
The boots walk on by. The sword, poking into corners.
All the while, eyes of glowing red, within deep sockets
of a musty old skull, scan for signs.
I look at my hands. The festered and rotting flesh.
My bones showing through. The stench unbearable.
Glad my nose fell off last night.
The timing was off. It was just a little sneeze.
PLOP! Right in my gruel.
Every one at school laughed.
Skeleton Puberty *****
And now, Dad is mad. Just cause I waxed the hearse
and didn't use "Ear Wax". You could hear him rattle
all day. What's wrong with the "Toe Jam Wax"?
Wait till I catch sis. She went and showed mom my
mags. "Raw! Boo To The Bones". I'll bet dad had
mags like these when he was a teenager.
They have good stories. The pics are just a bone-us.
I think it's safe now. I'll just sneak into the house.
Just sit and look innocent.
How did you find me?
A whole trail of pieces? Sheesh!
I know. I'm grounded. Not for the wax job?
The Mags!?.
Skeleton puberty *****
My Halloween offering for Oct. 12th
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 9:26 PM UTC
boo croon the sunflowers
and **** squeaks the jay
this garden was not tended to
and when it was, it was done with bitter blisterless hands
the weeds are creeping out now and thickening stalks
and they move out
out out
goes any sense trust we grew in this garden.
and out
out out
goes my frothy yellow blood into the humid grounds of the garden
and you mop it up and glaze over my barkless parts
boo croon the sunflowers
and **** squeaks the jay
the hose to feed me
was bent at angled corners
and the water shrieked its way through
to come out a subtle flaccid
drop by
drop by
drop
on my parched cracked tan sun slapped skins
and i was angry
that you never felt the need to untangle the hose
because you turned the faucet to full volume
so you assumed that was all the water you could give
and i needed
boo croons the sunflowers
and **** squeaks the jay
the garden is all sand colored and tired
and you don’t feel guilty
you looked at it every day
and squirted what you could on it
and picked whatever weeds you saw
but you never went beyond what looked pretty to visitors
and you let the roots rot across the summer
and now that the winter’s fallen in
there’s not enough water to keep the garden beating
and all the melted snow in the world won’t make up for it
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC
Songster, not as sinister as they say,
she's no monster, just admittedly
a bit lost in her way.
she caves as I'm walking
down the hall.
I pick her up, off of that flooring,
the rubbery kind, whatever it is,
I guess it's rubber, but the kind that
squeaks when you walk on it after
coming in from the rain; to hell with poetry.
And so anyways I pick her up
and sit her on this bench next to me
and give her about five minutes to come to
terms with breathing and pick shimmering
auburn hair out of the tears smeared across her face,
two, mesmerizing, perfectly blue wells
the source of the streams.
And then I ask her what that
was all about and she blurts out that she
belongs in the Fine Arts Department,
and her car broke down months ago
but her father
doesn't give a **** about it,
because she can't lay up the basketball
or steal the base and so he honorably
lump summed her entire tuition
and sent her to another state
and how ****** she would be
if she had to get a job for the first
time at the age of twenty three
so she wouldn't have to be
dependent on her family and
that she was sick of wondering why
not a single guy had ever given her
a ******* flower
and that if she ever did end up liking one
two weeks later she would find out that he
was exactly the same as the others and
she had a broken look in her eyes
when she said she wondered why we were
all here in the first place, and how we were
made this way, and if people were actually
ever meant to fit together or not;
*what if there was nothing as certain
as two halves making a whole?*
She wanted to know how everyone's
mind had a different game to play,
she wanted to know why Jupiter
had to be so far away and everything in
between.
We had strolled off of the school grounds by
this time but I still looked twice before pulling out my flask.
I unscrewed the cap, handed it to her and said
*follow me to Deadbeat Hollow,
where we've already thrown
our problems out of the window*
and she said
lets go.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
I love bubbs with all my heart,
It's been this way from the start.
My love for him will never cease,
Even when I'm covered in grease.
The love I feel will never hide,
even if he'll never make me a bride
I love him so very much,
I want to *** him and such.
I want to pinch his cheeks, for weeks and weeks.
I love him even when he squeaks.
I love bubbs, bubbs, bubbs, rub a dub dubs.
read more great poems at poemjunction.blogspot.com
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
As a child I would play
On my mood swing everyday.
It still new
And hardly frayed
It would take me up and back away.
If someone pushed me up
I'd say
"This is such a beautiful day!"
And if some stole my swing from me
I'd sit and pout
In childish melancholy.
A few years passed
And my mood swing stayed.
I stared at it but hardly played.
I'd sometimes think
"Maybe today
Will be the day my mood swing breaks."
My mother's tears
And my father's rage
Would make my mood swing
Lose it's sway.
My brothers and sisters would look away
While by myself
On my mood swing I would pray.
"Please just push me up again
Make me smile
Be my friend."
In my teens I never glanced
At the swing
It being rusted but not collapsed.
I used it for another wish
Like hanging with friends
Or sharing my first kiss.
The slightest breeze could push it now.
I never had to be in the seat.
In memory I'd see it go up and down
And the ground would never meet my feet.
I gripped the chain
And laughed and screamed
My feelings were transfered
Into that swing.
Then I changed into my adult like skin.
So grown up
I thought I knew everything.
My mood swing was for childish work
And I'm too big
Too much of a naive ****
I swung myself
As high or low as I'd command
Thinking I had the control all in my hands.
I figured all who we're passing me
Would assume me swinging high
Swinging free.
Unknowing that my mood swing
Was swinging me.
Until those times I'm swung too low
My feet would catch
My adrenaline grow.
I fell so many times,
Looking back on my method then,
It's wasn't as easy as it was at 10.
Of course someone was helping me.
Now my swing is jerking me
It feels too small when I sit in the seat.
I don't go as high now like I used to be
I can only move if I kick my feet.
My mood swing made it so long without defeat
But I have awhile to go
And I'm not confident as it squeaks.
What if my children want to play on it someday
And I give them my swing in disarray?
I've long forgotten how to play
On my mood swing
In the way.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
Sleek winding metal under my fingers
Squeaks at the tip of the frail hair
Subtle rattles of the pegs
Such a marvelous weapon I hold in my hands
Sweet cherry woods
Sings to me as I draw the bow like a
Sword
Swing, Pop, Rock, Classic
Such a marvelous weapon I hold in my hands
Stage lights make the details glitter
Sound resonates full and clear
Sharp and flat
Strong and proud
Such a marvelous weapon I hold in my hands
So I make this magic
Sad or joyous
Such a marvelous weapon I hold in my hands
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
The wind blows harder up here,
As though it is trying to push
these skyscrapers toppling over.
The air is purer,
easier on the nose.
The normal gas fumes from the city buses
and the polluted, busy streets don't threaten to strangle you
when you're too high for them to reach.
The people are tiny.
Like ants in chaos,
scrambling
because you accidentally set a foot
on their grainy mound.
The sounds are distant.
Taxi horns' blow sounds like squeaks of mice
while construction workers' jack hammers mimic wood peckers.
Clouds suffocate the sky,
smothering the sunlight,
refusing to let it shine as it should.
Temptation sneaks up on me,
beckoning me
over the edge of the building.
Would it be such a bad idea?
Just one move, that's all it would take.
No effort required at all.
I picture myself jumping,
as I have multiple times before.
The wind in my hair,
gravity pulling me in,
the free falling feeling in my stomach.
And at this point,
Temptation almost makes me do it,
End it all.
But I decide against it.
And even though I have won
once again,
I still feel
defeated.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
Hair flecked with silver streams
Grooves in the skin creating ripples of wisdom
Wisdom shown in the glossy eyes
Body of watery experience sitting in the rickety chair,
the chair that squeaks with every rocky wave
If wisdom had a visible aura
it would be seeping out of his eye sockets
creating rivers of tears flowing down the cheekbones
It would be pouring out of his ears,
watering the thirsty hydrangeas that rest by his feet
It would be running out of his nose
into the decades of wisdom gathering around his chin
It would be salivating out of the corners of his mouth,
down his chin
drenching the front of his argyle sweater vest
But people walk by
blinded by nearsightedness
They don't see the water that creates a tsunami
strong and tall
People walk by
content on their dry scratchy gravel,
not wanting to dip their toes
into the murky pond before them
People walk by
closer toward the desert
where they get stuck
waiting for something to quench their thirst.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 5:05 PM UTC
When I look out from the smudged and cracked windows of home,
I know there's no place quite the same as right here;
No place I could find that quite catches my ear,
And no place quite the same that can swallow my fears,
To the depths of this heated and comfortable box,
In which I am protected by numerous locks,
From intruders and bandits,
Salesmen and clerks;
I am the legal intruder,
And for me, that's what works.
Yet I'm here when, in fact, I am meant to be there;
Not far from my home,
I'm meant to be learning whats fair.
I am meant to be learning what's right and what's wrong,
Yet 6 hours of my time a day seems quite long,
To be spending on verbs, nouns and pronouns,
On algebra, fractions, and abnormal word sounds.
This life is not theirs; this life is all mine,
Such an old and used system would appear to be right,
Yet I beg to differ, as revolution now squeaks,
To push through the systems cracks and cause leaks,
In which free-thinking filters the words of the old,
Who believe themselves better, for they're trained and so bold.
When I look to society, what is it I see?
Is it a throng of a thousand people who seem to be free?
Not quite, yet at the same time, that seems quite close,
They are free in a box, in which authority is the host.
*"Civilization has to be defended against the individual,
And its regulations, institutions and commands are directed to that task."**
Quite an obvious command,
And it seems that at last,
Man is learning to embrace what they each see as free;
And it does not simply stop at being free to simply be,
It goes beyond such in mind, matter, soul, and in trust;
For it is the systems denial,
Towards which I lust.
The institutions, and nations,
Corporations, news stations,
Stateism, classism, all attempt to control,
Who I am, what I do, where I go, who I meet;
They tell me to relax, and just take a quick seat;
Yet I know what I want from life is free feet,
To be who I am,
And take all the heat.
To do what I do,
And ignore what's 'elite.'
To go where I go,
And control, as such, my feet.
To meet who I meet,
And next to them, take a seat.
I am not a name,
And I am not a number.
I am always awake in my mind,
As I slumber.
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 10:58 AM UTC
The unknown city
Enveloped in dark
So black even light would fear
She walks on barely visible
Standing still felt more frightening
She feels numb
She looks down and her legs missing
She see busses and cars
And trams and trains
Being driven by people and their eyes missing
There was sky but weather
There were trees but leaves
There were owls but feathers
There were bats all crying
She wanted to breathe and her nose missing
A strange sound plays somewhere around
Squeaks of abandoned seesaws and laughing clown
Playing an opera of horror
She wants to scream
Her voice choked
An immortal horror takes over
She hears a ring
A doorbell ring
She breaks her sleep
And realize it a dream
The bell kept ringing
She goes to the door
The door won't open
She looks at her bed
She is deep asleep
She shakes her up
She won't wake up
Tears roll on her cheeks her cry was missing
She wants to scream
Her voice was missing
She opens the door
The other side was missing
She turns around
She was missing
In the unknown city
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
Muffled moaning
Rhythmic, robotic
Bleeding through walls
Is that what I sound like?
It doesn't sound fun
It sounds quite boring
Repetitive squeaks
In 3/4 time
I'd use rubato
I'd be espressivo
No etudes for me
Just ad libitum
But for now I lay
Sexiled to the couch
Wishing I had someone
To make music with
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
five pm, mid-winter
i thank Sky for taking sweet time.
Sky sets her thumb on the light-switch of the land.
she stands still, she waits.
for the hour, she meditates
on her day.
Sky hopes her skin
becomes verdigris the next day, not grey, but
verdigris to clothe **** trees. Or perhaps she will
hurt soon— Sky scars in
rainbows. Her change of thought: the small folks who have traveled
through her this day. She wonders where
they all
go.
Open your eyes,
do you hear Sky’s mute call?
in her meditation, hour of magic, all
wakes.
on the earth, photographers peer from their windows,
then rush through their doors to catch Sky’s dancing gleams,
beams flash through the tip-top’s of the Sugar Maple family,
their shadows splatter onto pot-hole streets.
Sky brushes her grass and her roads with paint of a gold hue,
fresh Rorschach tests while her thoughts try to rest.
i spot a leaf sleeping in the street, deep wine and apricot,
twisted from months away from its Mother
the wind levitates the leaf—lightly—and the sun
creates a squirrel of it, he climbs the tree, and scrambles over
to me. in short squeaks, he explains his political theory,
“why do you let your peep el let a few rich folks control
all others? why don’t you follow me
into the woods?”
he grabs my skirt with his sweet little paws
but i look up and notice the darkness,
i look down and see only a leaf again.
Sky’s savasana has ended,
candles ignite in the houses, Sky and Sun crawl into bed.
i’ll wait now for the selenian Sun, but i can’t rest my eyes. soon
i will escape with my new friend.
bittersweet magic: “the moment” lost in the sock drawer.
five pm, midwinter
the afternoon is reaching an end,
Lady Sky decides when she wants to change for us.
as the sun sets, she meditates.
some call it the “magic hour”
but how can you truly tell magic from reality?
go outside and see.
radiant beams do the tango on the trees
(a leaf in the street becomes a squirrel as my eye blinks)
a squirrel who runs straight up to me.
“get outta the system while you can!”
he squeaks, then nods at me to follow his path, another blink
the sky darkens, the squirrel disappears.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
I want to draw a picture on life's blackboard.
I want the colors to be brilliant, and vibrant, and full of love!
But as I pick up the chalk to draw...
it squeaks...
so loud...
it scares me.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
Baby birds sit still,
sleeping softly, in baby eggs not hatched,
while mother bird waits patiently
for little shells to crack.
Now little birds with open eyes
chirp sharply without rest,
and mother bird leaves speedily
to gather worms and crumbs of bread.
After their meals, the little birds
are filled with food and joy,
'till mother bird hops closer
to help them soon deploy.
With harried squeaks
and frenzied flapping,
they fall down from their nest,
and mother bird, from up above,
spies patiently, in hopes of their success.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 6:06 PM UTC
I'm not a person who collects things
I live a very minimalist's life
But I have a bag of treasures
I keep close to me day and night
I sleep on an old painted daybed
It squeaks softly as I lay down
Most of my clothes are second hand
And my shoes a little worn down
But I have some precious treasures
Hidden in bags of different names
Fendi, Burberry and Prada
Leathers and fabrics of worldly fame
My treasures are hidden deep inside
In makeup bags and zippered pockets
Shiny compacts full of velvety colors
From Paris, Milan and Rome
A black cloth bag of 8 tiny bottles
Protected from the sun and rain
Bottles of perfume oils made in an alchemist's lab
With names like Dragon's Milk, Snow White and Bliss
A Christian Dior handkerchief or two
Hangs delicately inside the bag
In case the breeze brings on a sneeze
Or I notice a tear in the eye of a friend
by Mark Lj
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
My door squeaks open
At 5 am sharp
And you swear as it clicks shut
Because you’re always afraid
Someone will notice you
But it’s off your mind
Like my clothes come off me
This is an old routine now
Just steps we follow
Actions we take
Without meaning
Just something we’ve always done
And always will do
And we whisper fake
Unholy phrases
In time with the beating
Of your gold crucifix
Against your pale chest
And when we’re done
You slip back on your black skinny jeans
And tuck your necklace in your shirt
And head home to shower before church
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.
Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.
It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.
The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”
What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.
We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
Mouse’s are a famous breed,
From lines of kings they come.
They have a mousey song, and a mousey creed;
They love mousey cheese, and mousey ***
Mouse’s love spirits, wine, beer, and ale;
They love to chew on cheesy things.
And when they’re drunk, they will regale,
Spouting stories of mousy kings.
In mousey castle, in mousey town,
Lived a mighty mousey king.
And his mousy eyes, looked up and down,
On every big, and little thing.
But his mighty mousy features,
Were struck by mousy mope.
For all his fellow creatures,
Were bereft of *** and hope.
“No *** No rum!” They cried,
To the king as he passed by.
They wept, and sobbed, and sighed;
“Oh my, oh my, oh my”.
In the kingdom of the mouse,
There can be no greater woe,
Than to find no *** in house;
It lays the mouse’s low.
“No *** can be got”!
Stated the advisor to the king.
“We’ve all got up, and drunk the lot;
'Tis a sad and sorry thing”.
All the mousy heads,
Hung low in grim defeat.
They played with mousy threads,
With mousy hands, and mousy feet.
But the king of mouse’s rose
Standing tall upon his mitts.
Wriggled in his mousy hose,
And strained his mousy wits.
“Who can build new ***
Asked the mighty mousey king.
But all the mouse’s were dumb,
On this mighty mousey thing.
Then from out the bleachers;
Stumbled little Georgey mouse.
A smirk bestruck his features,
He was happy; he was ******
With mousy hands he gript
A bottle tall and fine
And from its neck he sipped;
A liquor; so divine.
“I shound it through zzat wall”,
Announced little Georgey mouse
“Theresh enough for one and all;
Enough to build a housh”.
He sipped the liquor fair,
And shouted, “What a corker”!
He flashed the bottle in the air;
Black label Johnny Walker.
And all the mousey squeaks,
Wrung cheer from misery.
And the cheers went on for weeks;
“Whiskey! Whiskey! Whiskey!
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 8:19 PM UTC
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
It smells like freshly mown grass and a
Soaked one piece Ariel swimsuit—the pink ruffles that
Cling
To a toddler’s stomach rolls as she squeaks and squelches down the plastic
Into the dark blue Made in China kiddie pool
That has creatures from all levels of the ocean together
And she doesn’t care.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Has visible handprints on the sides from
The toddler holding on for dear life before
She gathers the courage to balance on top on her own.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Sits in that yard for almost a decade at the end
Of the sickly green swing set that lifts up out of the ground
Whenever the toddler pumps too hard,
And is a end destination for the intense races across the apparatus
That occur every Sunday noon amongst the Sunday School kids without fail.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Under it is one of the best places for hide-and-seek in the winter,
When it is almost buried under the glistening snow
And the toddler can’t feel her legs anymore but she doesn’t care because
She can’t be found.
At that age she has no limits, no mental restraints that
Cut her dreams off before they bear fruit.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit,
And of the world beyond it she is only a
Prisoner of fierce fascination.
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
Howling wolves,
Calling unearthly creatures
Night bound to deathly horrors
Cold icy fingered wind, bites
Whistles down stone chimneys,
Inside amber flames flickering in the hearth,
Shadows dance across the wall,
Candle sputtering in the draught
Casting an eerie glow cross the page
The book being read, strange tales
Outside the wind surges, lashing
Rain against the leaden panes
A splinter of lightening flashes eerily
Warm and cosseted against the storm
The page is turned, the story continued
A single scratch at the window,
And a rattling of the latch
Heavy door squeaks open,
On old heavy hinges
Fingers slowly slide round
Gripping the doors edge
Skin grey, taught against bones
Hooded face slowly revealing
It’s secret from beyond
The Reader’s eyes riveted
On this unfolding chapter
Spine chilling flicker of recognition
Of his own face beneath the cowl
The book drops …
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
Our life puts the "Sh..." back in
"Chicago."
This pulse could race, slow to a dull thud or stop and curdle like the residents of a container of milk who've been left out, and still you will never love me.
Gobs of waiter phlegm we never detect in our bowls of soup and teapots beg our forgiveness and howl for our affection, and are invisible.
But where is the crime in not loving
when we are not loved?
How could there be a crime in not loving,
when we are loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford
to ask ourselves where is the crime,
thus implying innocence.
We put the "mice" back in
"monogamous."
tip-toeing, silent but for mere squeaks, nearly inaudible whispers,
furtive looks, and how we run away, screaming,
or, like mice and Chicagoans all, we freeze.
Aquiver with fear, iced up in the Polar Vortex, hands raised in the policeman's spotlight.
But where is the crime in not loving
when you are not loved, or loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford to stand up straight,
We scurry close to building walls,
trying not to be seen or see each other as we curse our fate.
Where is the crime in not loving those whom we hate?
There is no crime, but still, not loving is the heart of all crime.
To feel so deeply unloved we wish to destroy ... you name it.
Blot out, ruin and erase them; our enemies, our families, lovers, and even the world herself.
Jab a knife into her verdant hide and twist until black blood flows.
Gouge out mountaintops seeking iron for our towers.
Remaking her grace to build our graveyard.
These vibrant phosphorescent tombstones, overpopulated pillars of mutual isolation reach up into the clouds.
Announcing to the universe, we trumpet a loneliness as profound as it is absurd and ugly.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
For he with the blonde curls,
Who set you from stone to glass,
For he with greyness and age,
Who set you from virtue to lust,
And for the fathers who warned,
Who set you in a statue of shame,
With his constant looks of disbelieving.
For she with the stars of freckles,
Who set you from glass to shards,
For she with the condensation of coldness,
Who set you on route to loneliness,
And for the mothers who neglected,
Who set you with no comfort,
With no help after the males visited.
For the creaks of floorboards,
Threatening unholy arrival,
For the thousands of bed squeaks,
Helping by gifting distraction,
For the hotel clerks gentle knowing smiles,
For the cheeks I can force upwards,
For the sacred of tears that disappeared with new numbness,
For the child within me who had such urgency to grow up,
And for me...for me.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
I am weightless,
Zero gravity.
My ears pop,
No chewing gum.
Synthetic leather squeaks
Under the pressure of my little hands,
Take off.
The city shrinks outside my window.
Lights like stars blink on the ground.
Generic food smells mix
With the feather soft voices
Of flight attendants.
We're almost first class.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
it saws old rain in my skull
and your thoughts take a tour; wet and heavy
and quietly, the dirt shifts in the metal tracts
*you break me every single time
my internal spilling is entangled
hopelessly*
my summer-psyche enmeshed in your season
and forever swallows a few more ribs
don't wake the children of the light
for their feathers will burn beneath my nails
a storm hangs patiently on the wall
like a delighted painting made from frantic crystals
and I skitter from your towering moods
yet the moon dances in and out of every calm abyss
the lid is no more vacant than my veins cursed with
your silence
like algae, I slip on
my terror squeaks like a vehicle possessed
cheeks go ashen in my gay smiles
you will blush, in secret at what I will do
to you
sails lift on garlicky air in a port where ships don't wait
and my tongue loosens another melody only doubt hears
I'm completely in your hands
and willing for that crush
my acts for coins fall meaningless in embedded frustration
don't come to the table, then
keep the shades drawn
only the sense of phantoms
will be hanging in my smoke
intoxicating me to radiance
racing through to the ripples in your day
I'll keep lancing pebbles across the ocean's surface
they will never really reach the riverbed
frosty comes in agonising diamonds
a feast of distress sitting urgently
a shudder flutters through me, imperceptible
reduction of sweetness
a date with the cherubs from a netherworld
my nose feels the snows you carry
and I know you constrict still
my language falters and thinking shatters
and although slumped and vulnerable, it flourishes.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC