"stereos" poems
has anyone ever heard of a historical place
it is in Alton Illinois
and been known as a scary place
it was built in the 18 hundreds
back in the Civil War days
back when there was slavery
which is now a disgrace to the human race
there's been some odd things happen
that I cannot explain
lights flashing on and off
And stereos that does the same
back where that I am sleeping
there is a slave that enters
but he is very harmless
oh what a weird adventure
I've tried and tried to communicate
but nothing has been said
but I feel a presence very close
next to my sleeping bed
Mitchell mansion I've been told
that there are many spirits
ready to unfold
many people believe in spirits
and so many that denies
but I am a firm believer
because I seen it with my very eyes
Mitchell Mansion has its secrets
that many will never know
but tell me friend would you come here
to spend a night alone
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY
YOU SEE MY FAMILY WERE A GOOD CAMPING FAMILY
AND WE HAD THIS BIG ORANJE TENT, WHERE THE
FAMILY BROUGHT TO CAMPING GROUNDS, TO
ENJOY WEEKEND CAMPING, I REMEMBER CAMPING
EVERY WHERE AROUND NSW AND THE ACT
AND AS A WAY OF EXCAPING THE NORMAL LIVES
ME AND MY BROTHER PUT THE TENT UP IN THE BACKYARD
AND HAD OUR OWN CAMPING GROUND, AND I HAVE
SO MANY GREAT MOMENTS, LIKE NEW YEARS EVE PARTIES WITH LYLE
AND YEAH, I WAS LIKE A NORMAL TEENAGER, WITH SLEEPOVERS IN THE TENT
AND HAVING AN ESKY OF DRINK AND SAUSAGES AND OTHER THINGS LIKE
CHIPS AND I GOT SOME GREAT PHOTOS ME AND LYLE ARE HAVING A GREAT
PARTY FOR NEW YEARS EVE, WE CELEBRATED WITH POISON AND DEF LEOPARD
AND LYLE BOUGHT AIR SUPPLY, OH MY GODFATHER, I HATE THAT BAND
I REMEMBER WHEN ME AND MY BROTHER WENT IN THE TENT, WE WATCHED TV
AND WE TALKED FOR HOURS LIKE ME AND LYLE, WE HAD A HEAP OF ****** FUN
YA SEE I REMEMBER LYLE SAID HE WASN’T SCARED OF THE OLD BOOGIE WOMAN
AND I AM NOT SCARED OF THE OLD BOOGIE WOMAN EITHER
AND MY BROTHER LOVED TO JOKE AROUND WITH US
YA SEE, LYLE WAS ENJOYING PUTTING THE TENT UP
AND WE BOTH HAD OUR STEREOS, AND WE PLAYED GREAT TOP 49 HITS OF THAT ERA
YOU SEE, MY DAD WAS A GREAT CAMPER AND BUSHWALKER, AND BUDDHA’S SPIRIT
MADE ME INHERIT DAD’S ADVENTURE BLOOD, BECAUSE, OF MY LAST 2 HUMAN LIVES
BEING GREAME THORNE, AND PATRICK DUNBAR, BOTH KILLED AT 8
AND BUDDHA MADE ME AN ALLAN, TO KEEP ME SAFE
BUT I WAS A KEEN BACKYARD CAMPER, COOKING ON GAS BBQS
AND EATING CHIPS, AND HEAPS OF CHOCOLATES, AND ME AND LYLE BOTH WATCHED THE CRICKET
ON THE TELEVISION IN THE TENT AND NEW YEARS EVE, WE WATCHED THE GREAT
BICENTENNIAL NEW YEARS EVE CONCERT IN 1987, ME AND LYLE HAD FUN DOING THIS AS
WELL AS WATCH GREAT MOVIES ON THE VHS RECORDER,
BUT THAT ALL ENDED, WE RAGED A BIG PARTY IN THE TENT, WITH MUSIC AND GREAT FOOD
I CAN’T REALLY HAVE *** I AM NOT THE *** TYPE, I TALK ABOUT ***** DONORS
BUT ONE THING I WAS GOOD AT, WAS TALKING, WITH LYLE, PATRICK MY BROTHER, SCOTT,
AND MANY MORE, AND THE BIG ORANGE TENT WAS FINALLY BOUGHT BY A FAMILY
I THOUGHT I SAW IT AT THE ABORIGINAL TENT EMBASSY, IT COULD’VE BEEN
IT LOOKED LIKE IT, AND IT’S GOOD THAT, IF IT IS, THAT POOR PEOPLE WITHOUT A HOME
ARE ENJOYING THIS TENT AS A HOME
GREAT ALLAN FAMILY CAMPING OVER
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
We had dreams
about the crystal sun
the juniper wind, apple
blossoms and glowing evenings
comfort and quietude
We had dreams
lollipops and no one crying
no pain-and love if not
everlasting
solid and smiling every day
We had dreams
about great ships sailing
wind filling all speed ahead
never becalmed, no one dead,
no rotting bodies on the deck
no witness to inexplicable agony
We had dreams
garlands from gardens
nobody had to tend
ice cream cones piling
sidewalks high
shade for the asking
from every uncomfortable
ray of sun
water enough for everything
lawns and trees
flowers and livestock
children running in sprinklers
water for the taking
every day
We had dreams
soft conversations in
the lamplight, hands to hold
slim and strong whenever
we needed, voices filled
with understanding and strength
for every fear
and every tear dried
by gentle caring touch
We had dreams
that did not include random bullets
sudden death and no clouds
exploding to rain death
on helpless heads
We dreamed we would never be helpless
we had dreams
we bought on time
amortization forever
and no one would ever
have to pay the bills
We had dreams
someone would always save us
mother always did
even when she didn’t want to
even when we made her mad
even when we broke her china
and her heart
We had dreams
laughing and crying
talking into loud speakers
shouting our claims
and never thought how
to make them come true
We had dreams
of glory and taking
down every flag from every
highest hill
and no one would ever be found
face down in two inches of water
drowned on ***** and disaster
We had dreams
that did not include spit
on the sidewalk, in the gutters,
but only clean skies
and apple pie, organically sweet
every day
and endlessly billowing
wheat, and sailing ships
and all the pure water
we could drink for free
and play in
We had dreams
that we could demand pain away consequences
and guilt and the necessary play
of our dreams that mothers would
if we dreamed hard enough
and played hard enough
and the nasty old piper
never called for his fee
We had dreams
and when they didn’t come true
we had curses
We cursed the lollipops
we cursed the ice cream
we cursed the wheat
the cornucopia
the great sailing ships
and the sea
the mother
the sidewalks
the highest hills
and the trickling ditch
we cursed the livestock
and the stereos
the loudspeakers and the glory
and we cursed crying and apple pie
we cursed suffering and anguish
the pipers who demanded to be paid
the ones who paid and complained
about the mess we made
we cursed fine china plates
filled with hard-earned harvests
we cursed love and freedom
we cursed crystal sun
and shade.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
I looked at the address on my hand
and thought of how uncomfortable tomorrow would be
as I cupped water from the ***** sink
and splashed it onto my face
It must be depressing to live a life without any perspective
How lonely it would be to think you are the only one
I get this sickening feeling in the pits of my stomach
whenever I think of what it must be like to be you
I am trying to pass for normal on fake laughter
And half glances in your direction
We all look like sickly children who starve for attention
And I'm starting to remember all those things I never did
Fading in and out while stereos blast and people start to shout
There is thin ice beneath our feet
Nervous laughs start to rise from us
and we feel this epitome of what young is
There is this stupid smile on your face
And we are reconnecting the patterns of our lives
With a glassy look in our eyes
I am too far gone
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
In winter this **** storm of a town falls to nothing but a low hum
and it is a steady as it is wide spread
And in only a matter of weeks, we forget what it is to breathe fresh air
So we go through the motions of living in this assembly line kinda life
The motions of laughing and breathing and crying and falling and loving
And the influenza of seasonal depression is infectious so we wrap ourselves in coats and hats and scarves in hope of escaping the pathogen of loneliness that radiates through our stereos
In winter, this town falls into hibernation
the snow falls mercilessly, without anguish.
tell me
Were you awake when you first caught me, because I was still half-asleep when I found myself in your arms
Were you awake when you first kissed me, because I was in a dream when my lips first met yours
But there was something in your electric touch that woke me
And I remembered that snow melts
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
The opportunity to feel will come back in time
Turn my head away from all that are unobtainable and sublime
Don't speak to me my energy will turn you away
Loneliness drives me insane but I'll be okay
Wasted time spent by smoke and stereos
Watch time fly while I'm restless with my woes
My friends see me as someone with potential
The way my worth drops are exponential
My insecurities hold me back
Being comfortable with my shortcomings is something I'll always lack
I'll wait an eternity before I let anyone in
Until I can offer everything I guess I'll have to wait then
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
my fingernails are growing so long, I can feel myself changing
my v line is bulging out, my chest is getting fuzzy
my beard is filling out, my sideburns connecting
stretch marks cover my body like a painting
I am a legend in the making
sculpting my body like clay, greek god coming your way
is it Zeus, Poseidon, whichever way
I am aligning myself to the path, to the way
tuning the frequency I'm on
to have me booming through the stereos
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 9:51 AM UTC
We were never a fan of dialogues.
At the other end of the street I would watch her
Each Monday, carrying a new book every time.
I didn't like to read.
I preferred music, in my opinion
Was the equivalent of a book
Each telling a story.
The cup of coffee in my hand felt as warm as my heart
As I blew the hot liquid from the brim of the cup
And take a picture of her with the smoke that frames her body.
I wrote short poems of how captivating her beauty was
On the greasy table napkins provided for the coffee tables
Producing a different piece each time.
Her mouth would move as she read the words,
Mumbling lines of incoherent sentences I could not decipher.
At times I would see a smile break out on her face
And I would find myself consumed in slight envy.
Would she have smiled at the words I've written for her?
She was a song, I was a poem.
She was first written on smooth paper,
A thoughtless idea jotted in messy handwriting
Soon expanding into a verse and chorus
Written over and over again,
Revised by experts, reviewed until perfection,
Interpreted by bassists, guitarists, drummers, and vocalists
Appreciated repeatedly through the stereos of listeners
As they capture each beat and tempo.
She was flawless.
I was a poem.
I was rewritten in a single document copy
Renamed and revised
From the greasy fingers tapping away on keyboards
Typed and deleted,
Typed and deleted.
Frustrating the writer as they could never get an idea out of me
Leaving me in a file hidden in the folders of an old computer
Unfinished and waiting to be opened.
I was a mess in unorganized stanzas of ideas,
Lines which no one will have the audacity to read,
A waste of time,
Flawed.
She was the perfection in every imperfection
An artwork that you could only love through the eyes.
A piece which I
Wanted in my own.
I watched her again silently and wondered
Is it possible to love someone you've only admired from afar?
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
My fingers tap out a rhythm
On the steering wheel of my car.
The stereos are blaring country
Tunes of liquor, love, and loss.
As I drive the streets of A-town,
Which I know like the back of my hand,
I wonder why the sky is blue
And why I can't remember you.
I tried my best not to forget
The sound of your voice and tone
But along the way in the last few years
All but your name have drifted away.
Try as I might, I can't recall
The sound or shape of you,
Try as I might, I've lost hold
Of my last ties to you.
Losing you the first time
Was a dagger in my heart,
Losing you, the memory,
Is drowning in the sea.
And this is what I ponder
As I wander through my life.
It's no wonder that they've dubbed me
The melancholy poet who lives in 7b.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
the charm of French Colonial style
with Cajun cooking promised -"genuine!" -
at every second door
jazz bands at every other
the flair of well-groomed wealth and savoir vivre
exuding from St. Charles´ porticos,
the restaurants on Calle du Roi,
the campuses of Tulane, UNO, and Loyola
the grandeur of the superdome
the open space of Audubon and City Park
oakes draped with Spanish Moss
alive with jogging, skating, biking, walking health
between the nights -
all this makes you almost forget
the city project housings
slumming beneath the highrise business shadows
crime ridden,
floating on neverending waves of dime-a-dozen tunes
from hi-fi stereos of cruising cars
the grand lake spoiled for generations
with the big city's waste,
the 'father of rivers' dwarfed beyond repair
by wharfs and cranes and fortified embankments
that line his banks as far as you can see
and far beyond
a shotgun wedding of the rich and poor,
the black and white,
torn by the struggle to ascend
from shotgun to colonial
to the soft sound of dixie
* * *
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
Keep your TV's and your stereos,
PC's and DVD's.
I'm reclaiming my freedom,
and none of thats for me.
I've quit being a consumer,
gonna boycott the recession.
Because I'd rather have my freedom,
than be prisoner to my possessions.
Who cares if I don't have TV,
Satellite or cable?
I have time to sit and read and write,
for as long as I am able.
When I climb into bed at night,
I'm tired from all I've done.
No longer am I lying there,
working out where time has gone.
No microwave or dishwasher,
to speed up all my chores.
Cooking is my therapy,
tell me what is yours?
Is it watching new stuff gather dust,
just like the old stuff did?
Did you have to have the biggest toys,
when you were a little kid?
Well for me I choose the simple life,
filled with only what I need.
No more status driven plastic debt,
no more unsatisfying greed.
Aug 7, 2010
Aug 7, 2010 at 7:19 PM UTC
In this city house amid the screaming sirens,
here in the whirling of paper and garbage
I hear the banging of trucks over broken roads,
low rider stereos, their deep boomed, throaty moans.
Here in this strange forest that flies with cactus birds
alluringly they sing in secret symphonies,
before the howling chorus of coyote calls,
the rising magnetic moon, a mountain flower
pink blushed that fully blooms.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
A debris of specs flow through me as thick cream.
The lull texture of the olive green checkered couch, sleeping.
The scent of the last lingering bits of wood ablaze in the woodstove, waking.
In the early morning before anyone would arise,
I would rub my tired eyes and by settle the window
to watch life stand still for a while.
Few cars passed by in these early morning hours.
Stray cats at ease lying on the thick yellow lines painted in the middle of the street.
Only dark silhouettes of tree branches revealed,
thick charcoal veins bleeding into the glass windows of attics.
An illusive manifesto.
It was silent, street lights still gleaming orange, noiseless...
Birds perked out of their clever nests singing.
This was the only time of day their divine chirps could not be interrupted
by motors, sirens, wood saws, stereos, grass cutters;
their songs often become ignored, white noise.
The sun would swell up upon the tall red house next door.
The world becoming alive, stars being put to rest.
I would stare up into the sky watching the mosaic
black speckled canvas disappear, fade into a lighter shade of purple, then blue.
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 7:05 PM UTC
he wore white sneakers,
and black glasses, and
played guitar and sung
the blues
he picked each string
and hit each note and
had voice like gravel
and a heart of gold
he was old but he was
chipper, he was broken
down but he still laughed
like it was 1923
he sung to the taste of
good food, he sung to
the taste of good beer,
he sung to the soul of
his old city, and he sung
for the sake of singing
itself
he, like each man up
there, was playing for
the sake of playing.
they were a quartet
of junker cars and
busted stereos
he sung those old time
blues, back in the days
of Robert Johnson and
racial inequality, back
when the water fountains
were separate but everyone
was still chasing a dream
so uniquely American
he sings and he plays and
his guitar is just smaller
than a normal
he sings those old times
blues with a smile on his
face, even as the world
writes new songs for the
next generation of gravel-
voiced blues-singers that
seem to enjoy life just a
little bit more than anyone
else
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:18 PM UTC
Ego is top priority
if it isn't for me
then its for the fakes
the one who blast their stereos
and fluff their noses
whiffin' on a whim
better learn how to swim
learn to catch their falls
in a continuous call
back home is where they run
because no life starts with fun
Mama screamin in agony
just to push you out
so you can deliver her joy
but is it for her, or is it for me?
I know it seems shallow
but your too blind to not see
The plastic thoughts
that make up my forehead
gathered and strung out
like a stream of city lights
sitting below as I look down on
all the ones who float around
seemingly lost in the world we took over
Its the human species who is the virus
the ones who hone in and take with out asking
Is this mine? money is the answer
if you got no dinero
then you got **** for answers
Everyone has **** too bad its not tender
yours is so bad it could knock out the lenders
but again, **** is not the answer
so you better save up
and buy all the world up
and drink it all from a shiny cup
and then throw it all up
and do it again and again
for we all are alcoholics
winning a race
against ourselves
in a sin of thought
its you who bought
that necklace
that pretty dress
that watch
that new phone
that mansion in the hills
that ugly ******* poodle
But what does it boil down to?
the classy environment
we are all accustomed to?
Try and wonder what is truly rich
for its heavier than gold cinder blocks
and large jewelry rocks
Its what you have deep in your mind
I have one, now you try to find
if you adjust the lifestyles
the lavish everydays
than maybe you can be rich
without working a single day
I really don't work
and I'm pretty happy
but give me diamonds
and then we'll see whose truly happy
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 6:42 PM UTC
the traffic’s wet with oil
while the drivers sweat and broil
and ACs blast at least as loud as
stereos, pulsing to beat the heat
and the sun does all it can
to oblige a gift of all it’s got
and all we’ve got to say is,
“it’s hotter’n hell out here”
when all we’ve ever known
is all the sun has ever shown,
somehow eclipsed by our universal
lust; the wish to reach stars
we’ve never felt but have always seen
squinting at us from aeons ago.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
A perfect entity:
Past life regression as a metaphysical act of war,
Held still in flashes of light from beyond mirrors, captured in essence for sake of eternal memory, martyred for sake of one or two moments of hallelujah before total collapse,
Divinity! Break the silence! Moan your lovers name! *** into oblivion! Leave pieces of your kaleidoscope skin on the shellshock floors of echo chamber bedrooms for someone to find and remember you by!
Listen! The voices of the great suicide angels crack and bleed through stereos! This is the last great art form! This is how you establish a dialogue between yourself and abyss! The black hole named God will take your calls but will not return your light once it has left your eyes!
How beautiful you look like this, defending your faith from the hawks of war, eyes lit by the turbines of jet engines burning fossil fuels on towards confrontation, hair falling in waves around a single demarcation point that reads: THE ****** AND THE SAVED,
Try hard not to think about where you fall on any kind of spectrum,
Be fluid and give only vague directions,
Paint self portraits out of what you can learn from static,
Static is the only way our gods know how to communicate,
You have to tread lightly around an ego so fragile,
Return home when the damage is done,
Home where you were a Joan Baez marquee moon in my memories of sunflowers!
Home where you were a Carl Sandburg eulogy read in tripping staccato!
Home where you leave your lights on all the time to ward off spirits!
Home where your shadow climbs higher and higher into the night and leaves your soul behind!
Home where you listened for the sounds of Pagan rituals through the walls and hoped to find salvation in a chanted chorus!
Home where you let the deep red shades of a thousand electro shock patients turn your machinery towards eternal rest!
Home where I love you as a perfect entity in radioactive decay!
Home where you love me, and my great way of forgetting
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
I heard my life in mono before I met You
We became stereo
Me: channel left
You: panned right;
A cohesive strengthening of sound
A mutual clatter of turbulence, with such underlying beauty
Only we knew the clamor was best for Us, though no one believed
As the cacophony grew, Your speaker buzzed and squawked
I played unaware, loving the crescendo
-
Eventually, as stereos do, You
Shorted out
Grew weaker and weaker with each
Note; melodies were crumbling
I fiddled with the wires,
Hoping, wanting both sides of our discord to stay true
-
Then you were silent
Eerily and I kept screaming
Roaring with a clatter that could have blown my own side of this
Disquiet. You were muted, hushed
Now I hear but half of my life
The left remains;
The right, You, are not even
Static, and I pray for mono
Again
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
Life is like a broken car stereo,
on a hundred year road trip.
For the first few years everything is great.
You have the sun on your face, the wind in your hair
and you are hearing every song for the first time.
All the roads you are driving are familiar and close to home,
you don’t have a care in the world.
Around about year 13
you start to drive into unfamiliar territory.
The **** falls off on the death metal station.
You find yourself mad at the world for no reason
so you forget about the songs of your youth and
just go with it.
Making a pit stop at year 22
You find that pesky **** under the seat.
You start searching for the happy stations
you recall from the beginning of the trip,
but by this time you have picked up passengers
and they have taken over any station decisions.
Cruising through year 30
You decide to get your road trip in order.
You have preset all the stations that everyone listens to
and come up with a schedule so that everything is fair.
But at year 34 you cross state lines and the stations change,
leaving you with unhappy passengers and the daunting task
of figuring out the stereo all over again.
Obeying the speed limit around year 45
You finally have more control of the music of your trip.
Most of your passengers have stereos of their own now.
Unfortunately your stereo has started to wear out
and your favorite stations only come in clear occasionally.
You suffer through the static with the hopes
that the station will stay clear just long enough
to hear your favorite song.
Looking for a rest stop close to year 80
You can barely hear the music anymore and
that’s if the stereo will even turn on these days.
No one is left to disagree with you over the stations
so the radio stays permanently tuned to your old favorites.
You find yourself pretty sure you have heard all the songs
on the radio and are really looking forward to your destination.
The radio breaks close to year 100
As you get out of the car and head into the light of your destination,
all the songs of your journey play to remind you of the
people you have loved and the places you have been.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
The sound of people yelling and stereos blaring is the music of the night to me and i live for the moment, that's who i am and who i want to be. tonight is my night so don't make me fight this fight. boy you're cute but way too drunk. just let it go, i am a pro. i'd chew you up and spit you out cause i hold my own and you just don't got what it takes, i refuse to play until you raise the stakes. hear the sirens blaring? that's my cue to leave, hope you enjoy your night in juvee.
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 5:13 PM UTC
Listening to songs that remind me of winter
Chilling guitars and ice cold skin
I taste bliss on chapped lips
Tiny hairs on my arms that go unnoticed stand on end
The heat is rising here, it feels like summer yet Christmas is fast approaching
I miss my childhood of hazy mornings, heavy eyelids appreciating windows pressed with mist
Layers of clothing that will never satisfy the warmth of my skin
I miss the innocence that I once held
Handprints on glass spaces facing city lights every day and night
Craving for warm bodies wrapped around thick blankets, awaiting the first sunrise of Christmas Eve
My family's love and warmth never beyond reach
I miss the way my stomach filled, as I exchanged smiles and gifts across the dinner table
And I despise the way such songs remind me of the way I felt during those winters
I miss the little girl who didn't care if her smile made her teeth look big
I miss the little girl with clean skin and intentions
I miss my family that always stood by each other
I miss the 10 years that slipped away from my fingers
I miss winter and how the little things remind me of excited footsteps echoing and filling up walls of a household of four individuals
The foggy windows, chilly mornings, familiar lights, laughter and smiles stored enough to keep our bodies warm for the days to come
I miss the songs sung by our stereos, pervading the air with joyous breaths as we exchange bright possibilities and futures
I miss the Christmas that I've always known
n.j.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
four forty five and it was chilling cold,
drank a cup of coffee, two eggs in a row.
eyes have been dizzy I’ve reaped what i sowed
yesterdays midnight still up in a glow.
waiting for a ride, check the stereos inside,
pollutants in my way, they have turned the tide.
30 minutes away, u-huh the crowd,
everyone greeted each other too loud.
jump start the engine , and switch the keys
I’ll work hard to pay the fees
am i on the shore, yeah i think you got it
all the way until the dawn puts on it.
its almost time yeah roll out outside,
traffic jam-headache, bringing the dark side.
thinking of her, thinkin’ of dinner,
thinking for tomorrow, i need a fake healer.
messaged someone, yeah I’m home,
it pours on my shoulder, i got heavy bones.
rest is a must-have, the day’s on a fin,
i hope to see you in my dreams.
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 12:40 AM UTC
How it feels like to stay outside during the rainy days
While enjoying the feeling of getting wet
The feeling of standing at the tip of the boat
In the middle of the ocean
Driving out of town, in full blast stereos
Ice creams and parks
Chills of a -0 temperature, and a warm pillow
Discover different cultures
Letters <3
Sleep overs
This is getting shorter and shorter…
View deck, skies, stars, galaxies
Bonfire
Reaching the highest note, experiencing glass brakes
The feeling of being as skinny as a hanger >.< no!
Touching the ocean floor
The feeling of being the painter who painted Mona Lisa
Natural glossy hair
Oohh...A vision of selfishness….. >.<
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
Riding out
away from neon half-assed action
the lights of cars ahead
blur in the distance
Driving out
out
out
Past all of it
to the ghetto
in the back country
I feel sick
like a stick's stuck in my throat
and a goldfish is swimming around inside my stomach
We get there
just in time
We turn down a dirt road
and we're amongst
banged-up crooked trailors
and parked SUVs with their doors open and lights on
I immediately open my door to *****
I watch people through wet eyes
congregate around the cars
some moving from car to car dealing
Deep bass sounds coming muffled out of bad stereos
Far-away fake laughter
but faces with no sign of joy on them
It's a hot night
We're nestled in the night
under a low scraggy treeline
in this little clearing
in a little hole in the wilderness
We pray for a chance
to survive
and to go on
surviving
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
I am to tell my friends about the Little People with their eyes all green + needy for their Firemen Daddies spent all their time looking out of windows/ locking eyes/ opening car doors/ stereos and cereal bowls. I can’t be held responsible for what’s been published in the Upanishads, creation myths and scripture—better send me up to that little coffee shop in Ireland where the rat-tailed people go and wonder/spell ubiquitous lessons out in the snow. I am tired—tell my patients there will be no more tomorrows. Tell them I am cold stranded in the produce section—lecturing to Thomas on the fuel pumps. Send my mother a letter of sincerity & stamped with all the times I went out looking for images. In mirrors I was hungry for the cool essence of weightless sight. Tell my father mime out my appearance live in perfect unison. I am no agent of response. Just an eggshell hard-on gawking at the puddle markers blessed in disguise.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC