"staten" poems
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
The bookbag leans
on the aluminum column.
The column is blurry,
someone cleans it
only when their are inspections.
The bookbag has been sitting
collecting the sounds
that leave the Staten Island Ferry
by foot,
for God knows how long.
When you get off,
everyone looks ahead,
but out of the corners
an entire black sea of iris'
rotates to the aluminum column.
It might be a bomb.
The girl behind the Ms. Anne's counter
is skinny almost,
but her *** is too big,
almost.
Munching on the semi-soft pretzel,
you think about empty calories
and the corners of your mouth get sticky.
The Ferry won't be back,
for another thirty or so
minutes.
Somebody takes out a guitar,
and starts playing
a little Dylan. People
form a circle around him.
This is the American Pow-wow.
You reach in your breastpocket
for the Marlboros,
but you can't smoke here,
and an official looking person
squints at you,
just to drive the point home.
******* smoking laws,
some places just feel good.
This place with all it's ringy sounds,
like the guitar,
and phones beeping with texts
and babies,
deep fathers,
and high mothers.
Just to puff and puff
and push that sugar down
with nicotine would really
up this feeling of comradery.
A guy with a gold-plated shield
on his breastpocket and a blue-button down.
Walks over to the bag.
The iris' move,
people keep talking but
they're just saying words
to make it look like they're talking.
By the time the ferry
rings in baritone,
the bag is gone;
the column is still blurry;
the man is still playing his guitar,
but there's an emptiness.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
Lort nok bliver råbt i gaderne
Baglæns fra politi
Autoritære magtnydere
Magtliderlige voldsbrugere
Råbende autonomer skriger
LORT NOK
Derude i natten
Løber de fra staten
Staten siges at passe på
Os
Løgn løgn løgn
det er lort nok!
De begrænser os kun
Lader os ej studere
Den anden verden af Frihed
Vi lærer kun at leve
I en ulidelig frihedsløs
Verden
Vi lever ikke
Kun efter regler
Sat og bestemt
Fra barnsben af
Jeg skal være lydig
For ellers får jeg gas
Mens alle voldsmænd går fri
Du skal underlægge dig voldsmændene
Din ytringsfrihed bliver dig frataget
Og du må aldrig lære at nedbryde DIN regering
For hvis du nedbryder den
Bliver de frihedsberøvede frie
Og voldsmændene bliver taget
Folket er underdanige
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
He works, tis said,
one day a year.
With bated breath
we linger here
for our Ground hog to appear.
Will he see shadow or will he no?
Only Staten Island Chuck can know.
Will Winter linger around these parts
or will my Crocus have early starts.
A little chubby and weak of eye,
Our resident Groundhog's rather shy.
Dragged unwilling from his warm burrow-
Shall we shovel snow or furrow?
He is well fed for his exertions,
and brief enough are these excursions.
Best of all when he appears
He oft will tell us Spring is near.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
“*and everywhere there’s statues with their arms open wide
surrounded by fences that you, you can’t get inside*”
- Jay Brannan
Let’s call her by her name, Statue of Strip Your Nationality.
When she came into this world she was copper as a battery, shiny.
She was broken into fractions of herself, placed on a boat,
shipped across an ocean and constructed in the name of Libertas,
the Roman goddess of freedom.
Don’t kid yourself, she’s French-American. At best.
She’s embarrassed to admit the number of tourists she’s had
climb inside her for a taste of her liberty.
Bring me your decency!
Bring me your hollow promises!
Bring me your cameras!
Take pictures of the things we believe in.
Bring these pictures back to our ancestors and show them.
Mira! Look! Voir! This is what freedom buys!
Us. And our statues. Frozen.
There’s a metaphor standing between New York City and Staten Island
and she’s ******* cold.
We couldn’t even give her shoes- how symbolic.
She’s been standing barefoot in the middle of the Atlantic wearing less than a jacket on the coldest of winter nights, eyes locked and begging for a place to call home.
When was the last time you stood with that much conviction
for anything?
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
Not far from the ocean, not far from the town,
the South Beach turkeys roam the hospital grounds.
They serve no purpose, they do as they please,
they preen and they strut in the salty sea breeze.
Sometimes they just stand and look around.
They find tasty grubs in the trees and the ground.
Sometimes they chase, sometimes they cluck;
they do as they please; they don’t give a f***
It’s a bird’s life, on the grounds of South Beach.
Perhaps there’s a lesson that these birds could teach--
no need to hurry, just do what you need.
Fly if you can, or just sit in a tree.
Watch the passersby as they go to and fro.
Or just stand around and watch the grass grow.
Some thought they were pests and wanted them gone;
but to **** them for no reason would just be wrong.
At times I have thought that they might be tasty--
wild birds raised in nativity—with stuffing and gravy.
Surely much better than from the factory farm--
(and it’s a shame that to those birds we cause so much harm).
But shooting a turkey who sits on a lawn
would mean calling the cops, with their guns drawn.
So the turkeys live on, and I sing their song.
I’d miss their feathered glory, if one day they were gone.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
The Train whistles and sounds
Into the early morning:
while the cricket’s chirps frantically
at the clicking sound of rusty old tracks;
my heart beat faster than ever,
I had to park my new car;
under the old train bridge
and board the 6:25 to
Bridgton
The homeless drug addicts
Seem quite content with their long term residency
Car 59
I looked to my left, then to my right
The foul-smelling car made the morning gloomy
Should I sit, or should I stand
Something about the early morning commutes
That really annoys this Staten Island's South Shore commuters
the stench in car 59
The sunlight slowly made its way into the day close to seven am
But somehow the addict and his partner didn’t seem to care
who broad car 59
so many dialects , so many nationalities
my heart beat faster , than ever
Why the hell doesn’t Metro North clean up the
this train line…
,
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
I'm leaving soon, I feel as if everyone in the room knows that
As of late, this social life has been left abstract
I have seven bucks to buy a screwdriver in my backpack
No note, a grisly souvenir, place me somewhere to nap
It'll be years before they know their god isn't the only atheist
Some energy for living past seventeen, I may need it
Dolo, going no place, heaviest burden, built on glass
Nobody wants this bitter boy unless its on a server
I can't recall any memories of me telling my inner fervor
If there's an abbot, I'm carrying his baggage no further
Since you can't be afraid of what you already endure
Ending with a newer sun, sleeping with my phone before I enter
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 7:45 AM UTC
The paper is empty
blank, white, fragile
But the city is impossible to color
Each part of this picture requires specific, individualism
the smell of nuts sold in the small vendor carts
The words 5th Ave written on a street sign
but pronounced like its on a plaque
The rush of hot air when the train rushes away
warming you on days nature places her cold, bitter burden over you
Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens
heard on the news too often
No need to film movies here,
when the movie is the one we are in, and the wounds are real
Staten Island, forgotten most times
Hazy and far, isolated from everyone
And then there's Manhattan
clean streets but flawed history in the sidewalk
There's too much going on
I still don't know what to write
In this bustling city
A pen is not enough
So I leave my paper empty and let the blankness tell the story of
New York
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
The smell of something putrid
protrudes up through your nostrils
as you walk down these dimply lit streets.
You hear the fire crackling, you see the glow off the side of an abandoned building.
Is this one of those fires you see on the news -
set ablaze by anger and retaliation?
No.
It's the burning wounds along Jacob Blake's back.
It's the marks of oppression -
the scars we "distract" ourselves from.
There's a fire burning in America
and the source is plain to see:
while bodies line up along the streets,
people following along on their TV screens
say a prayer for broken windows.
They mourn items that are looted
as if it wasn't a life that was looted first.
There's a fire burning
and it melts the black skin right off their bones.
A skeleton has no color
yet they blame corpses for their own murders.
There's a fire burning
from Sanford to Staten Island,
from Louisville to Kenosha.
But those very flames were ignited
by the people designated to put them out.
Who watches the watchmen?
Who stands with the people?
The hammer has dropped.
The bullets have left the chamber.
As long as our brothers and sisters
have to fight for their right to live,
Red, White and Blue lives don't matter.
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 4:50 PM UTC
Okay, I brace myself, "okay" being a sort of mantra either spoken alone or placed at the end of every sentence with the lift of a question mark. I do try and keep this okay thing to myself, packed in my head along with other stuff, okay?
And so I stumble, verbally if not silently, okay okay (okay?) as I count down the minutes (25) when I absolutely MUST leave the house even if this time it is By Choice, For Pleasure, whatever that is. I'll call it Not Torture.
I haven't practiced removing the grimace for such a long time I fear it's stuck there.
I scared a Boy Scout earlier in the day and I swear I did nothing at all scary. I bet there will be Boy Scouts out there. Maybe not at the bar but at the Target. I've never seen a Boy Scout at the Target but one time my friend saw a Mormon in the parking lot. He was racing headlong toward him and he panicked, my friend, so he blurted out "You are the devil." The Mormon was pretty upset.
By now I have to assume there are Boy Scouts everywhere and naturally I am scared to death. I assure you I can develop a full blown phobia over a matter of hours and that's when I try not to think about it. Well, you try not thinking about Boy Scouts! Especially after you've resolved to NOT THINK ABOUT BOY SCOUTS. Aversion therapy doesn't work in case you were gonna suggest that.
Can I sue the Boy Scouts?
How many minutes do I still have left?
Is it still legal in West Virginia to walk behind someone saying over and over again in either of their ears YOUR GONNA DIE YOU'RE GONNA DIE? I'm pretty sure they legalized it within the borders of NYC (even Staten Island, which surprises me). This was due to a statute made during the whole explosion of Performance Art.
How many minutes do I have left?
Why don't I get a prize, twenty bucks or something, for fooling everyone and convincing them I'm okay?
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 3:46 PM UTC
No matter how hard you shatter
My lyrical batter badder
Any beat Thats put up
I'll eat it up without
The need of ketchup
Emcees need to catch up
Get with the times
I'll runnin' up like city fines
Cast from heaven
Genuine
I'm outta line
Like behavior black savior
Rhymes to beats flavor
Trim the game I be
The lyrical.tailor
Cuss like a sailor deep cuts
From my razor
Sharp rhymes for ya mind
Sounds of the flat line
From the nine
that stopped
Yo shine none could grind
Harder than me regardless
Solo or team
Who's sparrin' this
You to me is like watermelons
To pumpkin brisk
Plant a fist to ya
Mouth ya kiss higherin' risk
For those that try to diss
Genesis to finishes
My lungs replenishes
From projected images
Makin' lower percentages
Of those in advantage
No more voyages
I be the distinctive gargoyle
Flyin' over ya head
Mentally layin' soils
Til ya heads start to boil
Over 200 degrees
accordion soundin' nice with
Keys
Shreddin' emcees
Like graded cheese better believe
Its doom once you consume
From the lyrics that bloom
All over ya body sonic boom
Guile addin' mucho pile problem child
Like Junior Miles
Everybody shut hell up
Once I lay my cut
Roll Over ya careers like Mack trucks
Ya **** is flatten on the island Staten
Flows so cold
They had be patent
from the ink my rhymes tattin'
On the paper egos high as a skyscraper
I got rhymes to heat
So I need a baker
Get it Anita baker
Best flows ya ever heard
Black Sheppard
Moving the herd
Traces of herb to my nerves
Fools say they straight
But I'm see em in a curve
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 9:15 PM UTC
The massacres of our beautiful people must STOP.
It is unconscionable and unfair to destroy so many lives
For selfish, greedy and hatred reasons. God, in his archives,
Have recorded everything, which occurred, from top
To bottom, from sunset to sunrise, from the start
To the end. God knows what’s going on in every one’s heart.
God knows what took place in Cleveland, in Charleston,
In Santo Domingo, in Staten Island, in Sparta, in North Charleston
In Buffalo, in Texas, in New York, in Ferguson.
The Lord is fully aware of what has been going on.
The massacres of our beautiful siblings cannot go on.
The brutal and deadly violence against the innocents must cease.
Too many of our people are weeping, too many are deceased
From unnecessary gun violence. Too many have been unjustly executed.
Too many egregious mistakes have been made. We need to see a STOP
Put into this nightmare, this quagmire. We need an end to this flip-flop.
Human beings are suffering and dying. Let’s not apply a band-aid
On this humongous wound. Let’s do our best to provide appropriate aid
To our serious and minor problems. Real people are being killed,
School children, churchgoers and shoppers are being killed,
We are not fantasizing; we are obviously not at the movies.
Our People are real, with human flesh; they are not dummies,
They are not actors; they are not all guilty by association.
The massacre of our innocent people must stop in this nation,
In this state, in this borough, in this city, in this town, in this school,
In this cathedral, in this church and in this community pool.
The mental and physical slayings of our people must END.
All potential perpetrators must look in the sand
To find themselves, reverse the role, think of being
A potential victim of racism, bigotry, indiscriminate shooting,
Senseless firing, ignorance and all sorts of sins under the sun.
We need to defeat the negative feelings that are eroding the fun
That God had put in our soul, and are destroying our natural gift,
Which is to love our fellow men and women. Let the Spirit lift
Us to a higher ground, to a more sane and comfortable pasture.
Let’s be human again, and be stronger, kinder and more mature.
The slayings of our beautiful must be something in the past,
Some crazy events in history, some horrible times that must not last.
Let’s free ourselves from negative emotions, let’s be free at last.
Let’s not be silent, let’s speak, and let’s tell it like it is at last. Alas!
Copyright © July 21,2015 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 11:47 PM UTC
I fly through the clouds
Clinging to the Angels wings
She says I'm perfectly safe
This is what paranoia brings
We've just flown over Russia
And now we're in the heart of France
I can see the delights of Paris
A place of love and real romance
As we skirt over Big Ben
This Angel picks up the pace
The icon of the monarchs realm
A Gothic structure with a clock face
Below me is the goddess of the free
And I see a light swirling ahead
Deposited onto Staten Island
The returning Angel says I'm not dead
The time just isn't right
See your children see your wife
We believe in good people
Now go and enjoy your life
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
Our blackness is our power.
The difference we make
is what we do hour by hour
and what we deem our take.
Look we're beauty
in and out.
To be black
is what we'll shout.
We may not look it
but what we got we took it.
From MLK to Caleb Day,
Fro Eva to Gary,
We'll take our place
even on the Staten Island Ferry.
Charles Sturies
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 2:57 PM UTC
He's a Brooklyn baby, he's oh so shady
The stars in my eyes make his look so hazy
"You're amazing, you're amazing,"
I'm high and dry, it's hell he's raising
I was so blinded, I think I've gone crazy
Thought we'd have a shot, but he'd never chase me
Emotions run hot, the fire is blazing
He called all the shots, I'm begging, "Just hate me."
But he left me waiting..he just left me waiting
My blue eyes bolted, I've folded, parading
Good times make all the trouble start fading
So he chases the moon with a Staten Island lady
My stars won't die down, and he's just downgrading
With nothing left to save, there's no more debating
He's spiteful and yelling, but all that I say is..
It was fun while it lasted,
Good luck, Brooklyn baby
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
.
I am going to ..... Add a poem now..
And
It is going to be about YOU
my dears
••
••••
Walking naked
The rain !
Central Park at dawn !
••
He was a Plumber
Everyday
Pipes and sinks !
Pipes and sinks !
•
She was a **********
( the plot thickens ! )
I was a reporter for the NY TIMES
!!
Subway station blues
Oh for the blue sky
•
We are dead dreamers
Our stinken rotten state dreams
( "Take of yer clothes and I'll **** ya " )
Yeah
That's all we got left
::::
Staten Island ferry
Jesus Christ !
It's the Statue of Liberty.
Walking on the Water !
Comin this way !
•
She sat on the tenement building fire escape
Little black girl
I wish that I was her !
"""""
Oh yeah
Now I am !
..
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC