"suites" poems
I think we stayed at every good hotel in the West.
Big suites
Hot tubs
Room service
We were really living the good life.
Nothing like a little drug money to help you indulge in
the finer things.
"Easy come Easy go"
Only people who have never sold drugs can say that.
Easy.......Yeah, Right.
Dealing with whackos
Getting robbed at gunpoint
Driving across the country with enough weight to get you
Life in Prison.
Stressful. Very stressful.
So we'd stay in Fancy Resorts.
Knowing one day it would all end
May as well enjoy it while you can
Because eventually you get caught
And if you make it out alive, all you have are the memories.
Like that time we were staying at the Royal Palms
Next to the former President's family.
Getting up from the pool, smoking crystal behind the cactus
While the former first lady swam laps.
She still looked pretty good in a bathing suit.
Old gal.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 12:15 AM UTC
In the corridors of the body,
In the halls of the jagged ribcage,
I milk the stars in her eyes
In a field of tissue and organs.
They fall from my memory
Into the hummingbird heartbeat
Which makes my body
Nostalgic warm.
I hated the way childhood tasted
Like sticky kisses from unfamiliar lips,
But I remember you softly,
As though thinking too hard about it
Would shatter the memory.
You’ve nested in my brain
And kept my small hands warm
With your big heart.
You are channeled into me
The way west winds
Whisper their messages in and out
Of metropolitan suicide suites,
Telling us not to jump,
To put the knife down,
Not to pull the trigger and
To get off the chair-
You are a lifesaver
In ways we can’t count on fingers
And toes.
My mood swings like a pendulum
In a long-broken clock
And I gently fray at the edges.
I can feel your hand on my face
And I am comfortable like a cloud.
I give my entire heart to you
Neck and all
And in return, you give me yours
Pale, pretty wrists and all.
Somehow, through the dresses,
The curled hair and the pink nails,
I felt you reaching into me
From some private distance
With eyes, hands and body.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
Panasonic and Sony beeping
in custom made Reid & Taylor pockets.
A trade for a Rolex throned on his wrist in lieu of
once existent dreams, in now hollow sockets.
Adrenaline pumping before
high stakes meetings and brunches.
Calculating the dose of his choice of drug,
penthouse suites and timeline crunches.
Dizzy with ambition, painting
******* bleached canvasses.
Narcissistic laughter aimed to beguile others,
he, for whom his relaxants are stresses.
Dealing with the Devil himself,
power tainted and ill-gotten,
the realization that humans are not beyond sale;
in markets, mergers and acquisitions.
Recessions, Inflations, cruel overdoses
of risk, of danger unspoken.
And when he surfaces again to consciousness,
profits, losses both taken and broken.
Lost in the sewers filled with;
stock brokers and agents alike: the pawnors,
a haughty expression with green bills,
to score his ecstasy, capital owners.
Another dollar, another hit
never enough to sleep remembering the day.
A Corporate ****** scouring for riches,
a high, a trance not soon before long will sway.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
Some time you feel as if you're lost in space
Where you can not feel your weight or control your pace
Strong emotion rushes through you...a fervor of a certain state
For once you believe in something...deforming it, is your fate
For u dissect the rules to make them your own regulations
And u manipulate the semantics of the words to empty your frustration
A man is not put in cages...unless he himself have carved and built the bars
One can not leave an impact on you...unless you admit the scars
I think; therefor i am...they say...everybody thinks...but not everybody is
I write this note in a dark unworthy mind a poem of great amiss
I do not say this with a heavy heart...but my image is quite clear
Being scared of something is impossible...unless we emancipate the fear
But if impossible is possible...than everything is potentially right
And i would never argue with you on this point for i don't know how to hold up a fight
Stop whatever we are doing for we are digging our own graves of regret
Repent on your sins weather you believe in God or in humanistic respect
A poem of thoughts, feelings, and grand reflection
For if you don't have empathy you have affection
You love your self and we love you gone...we sure do
With all your suites,fake propaganda and formalities, ow how i wish the sky above us was blue
It is blue in color, but not blue in mind
It is true inside; but truth is hard to find
BELIEVE THAT THE SKY IS REAL? BELIEFS ARE LEFT BEHIND...
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
A call on the white telephone awakens the room, disturbing the crystal liqueur bottles I will never drink from. She sweeps in from the balcony where she was wistfully overseeing-
All the dogs have fled. On some nights though, I see them in some corner or some alley mouth, a pair of howitzer eyes lying in the bunker of a ruined doorway. Nobody told them it was over.
And in the studios you never see the outdoors, never see that grainy drunken view of the streets, just the pristine suites, a hint of sun and the telephone, the white telephone.
Level the rest I say. Sink and crumble any who were passed over. Cut the power lines, burn the last scraps of food and cut a perfect hole in every cinema screen. Ruins are what we do best.
It didn't happen.
It did.
But it didn't happen.
But it did.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
I
Room after room,
I hunt the house through
We inhabit together.
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her,
Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her
Left in the curtain, the couch’s perfume!
As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew,—
Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.
II
Yet the day wears,
And door succeeds door;
I try the fresh fortune—
Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.
Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares?
But ’tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore,
Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!
2.1k
Hiding in toilet suites
on hotel floors,
above showers-for-two,
and below countless stairs.
Dodge large lobby hallways
and the corridor artery, early-décor, maze,
run past cleaner’s cupboards:
potions for the unsavoury, unclean,
another lost, single mother.
A room service delivery
to a door you don’t own,
yet it keeps the unknown
fears and doubts
out.
Flick and press that remote
because long nights lead
to hours of unrest,
you’re tired of this hotel,
you’re tired of their upper-class clientèle,
you’re tired of that artificial smell,
you’re tired.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC
Most mornings are spare,
Like the spaces between the branches of a spruce tree.
Most mornings are clearings in woods
And bare bark.
Most mornings sound of violins
And Torquil Campbell’s voice swooning in and out of Bach’s Suites,
Leaving you empty,
Hueing you in gray,
And sketching you, lightly, onto white notebook paper.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
is it normal to feel this way,
always contemplating if this just about,
the **********
doing everything that pleases him,
just being there when it suites him,
or just my company,
because something feels like its missing,
the feeling you once filled inside of me,
is slowly disappearing,
as if its going with the wind,
being replaced with something hollow and empty,
please tell me why do,
I feel used?
tell me why do I not feel the way I used to feel,
when I kissed you,
touched you,
made love to you,
because this, us,
feels nothing meaningful to you,
im scared,
afraid,
and the worse part of all,
is that I'm on the verge of leaving,
us,
and you.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC
Borders breaking down, consumed by their greed
Civilization crumbling beneath overpowering need
In agony lies no consciousness to speak
Deranged corruption, the sickly and the weak.
The machine that destroys and devours
Innocence can be bought through unspeakable power
Lies and hypocrisy born from hunger and hatred
And we try to survive what we have created
The edges blur and new lines are drawn
As in distance disappear what was crossed before
Souls are sold to the highest bidder
Sit and watch your humanity wither
Pull back the veil; face your new god
Stare deep into the eyes of the lord
In suites and ties and empty eyes
The new monster we created lies
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
do you think
cloaks of normalcy
societal smiles
wash away reality -
that screens pulled close
pious veils drawn
means all is well -
that children next door
from 'respectable' homes
aren't used like so much spoil
displayed with polish
to the highest bidder -
what tales do you keep
to sleep at night
in perfumed air -
'it's far away
some hapless child
not where I drive
with tinted glass
they're lower class
don't know the Lord
mere runts down town
where father drinks
can't pay their rent
make decent wage
so sell the kid
for sordid nights -
- n - o -
it happens
to tender buds
in wealthy
suites
and poorer shacks
in any
place
and every age
from dot to
grown
they stay unseen
stare at their
sums
are ***** this night
sob off to
sleep
as mother too
walks right on
by
deaf to the screams
he wants his
due
so he will take
her brother
too
'now be a man'
says worm to
prince
he lies to all
most to his
face
and no one sees
and no one
hears
the silent screams
with veil drawn
close
they look askance
and walk on
by
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
we met in Mexico,
slept rough in the back;
the seats folded down levelled out
and tacked down with two springs
we went by cities
not knowing their names;
stopped at payphone kiosks
shamed our pasts with left messages on answering machines
we stopped at toll booths,
paid for more road to play on,
to drive over smooth,
to cross another border before the noon
we deciphered restaurant menus,
ate with fingers crossed and hoped
the chicken was just that,
left a tip lost in another used ash tray
we wore sun cream
to screen us against the rays
and the glare reflecting
off the mineral water, natural bays
we walked up to bars
asked for drinks in cold bottles,
sipped and supped until kisses rolled out,
left holding hands like mannequin models
we kept the trip a secret,
kept it secure between you and me
and the folds in the bed sheets,
we only exist in hotel cheap suites.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Suppose the night sings songs of sleep
But the words can't ring or reach us.
Does it matter if we hear them wail
When all we do is sink not sail
Mi encantadora, I'm on your trail
There's a purpose here lost in the wind
But before the rain starts and the storm begins
I've got to say to you something I don't know
If I can't hold it in before the winter snow
Mi encantadora, you're the place I go
Think of lights high in the apartment suites
Who might live there and what they eat
Do you think they ever think of us?
Two lovers lost among the frozen dusk
Mi encantadora, slay me if you must
Has your life ever passed you by
And you think back with teary eyes
Of all the people that have come and gone
And how many of them never said so long
Mi encantadora, is it right or wrong?
I can't answer everything you ask
I will do my best, I can't give more than that
If you bleed than you can bleed on me
And I won't sigh when you need me
Mi encantadora, it's your life that feeds me
As if all the things that I've ever done
Meant nothing until we begun
And everything from here on in
Will mark my grave and do me in
Mi encantadora, I hope we die as friends
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
Everyother day I was running away.
Met the man of my dreams.
But he was older then me.
Didnt think my mom would agree.
So we did what we did without thinking.
Living life on the streets till we had enough money.
To get our ass's to Georgia.
Where we thought we would be free.
Well the joke is on me.
See I had todo time.
While he got to walk free.
Life is so funny.
I was only 15.
I knew how life worked on the streets.
Always on the run so the police can't catch me.
Stealing cars and breaking into hotel suites.
Now tell me have you ever walked in my shoes.
Where you would rather starve then give up the stars?
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
A summer’s hand on bewildered torso chest,
her love: the best kept secret since their escape
to Brest that time in Spring,
Northwest France with its untamed waves lapping at the
hull of The Sea King in the harbour, half mast.
But with every try, harder than the last,
he did not respond to her see-through glass
appeals for an apology-
over two-hundred-and-seventy-minutes
wasted on the TGV back to Paris,
a holiday cut short by her wandering knees,
wide apart in another man’s apartment.
For money was passed in sweating palms
for a day’s encounter with her good looks and charms,
though the men never knew
about her man back at home,
designing the new tourist information
for a cheap weekend-stay in the heart of Rome.
What he bought to the marriage:
stability, safety, security and their baby.
What she bought to the marriage
mainly tears and daily anxiety.
But they both knew the complications
and the clauses of her contract,
agencies would delve deep into the contact’s history
to make sure they were legit,
but it never hid the fact that she had
intimate encounters in hotel honeymoon, champagne, new linen suites.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
struck by lightning twice by twenty-four
this astronomical record was hers, Guinness proclaimed,
this lady so famed, top of her class at Stanford, then Yale Med,
and blissfully wed, to a surgeon who always came in second
this did not matter at Cabo, or even in their first condo
but as her curriculum vitae grew faster than a Walmart receipt
on Black Friday, he scrubbed up for one bloodletting after another, removing appendixes, and appendages, feeling her shadow
grow heavy, even in the bright lights
of his operating theater
his first was, of course, a nurse, though at least her age
his second, a decade newer model, fixed his lattes at Starbucks
number three was the neighbor with whom they shared
nothing but a fence, and a few awkward stares
her hours in the lab with petri dishes grew, and
she never let on she knew, that her clean shaven number two
was lying with others to stand himself
when he asked for a divorce--number four requiring more
than liquid exchanges in sweet hotel suites--she acquiesced and even let him have the Welsh Corgi, the cabin in Aspen,
and half the 401K
to this day, she recalls imagining his liaisons
while she married menacing molecules to one another
in tubes under faithful light, seeking answers to questions
asked by the dying she would never meet
a lump would only grow in her throat
if she thought his scalpel never sliced
the heart of number four, for five
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
As I recall I was five the first time I met the monster in disguise
He threw my brother's plate to the ground
He told him to eat off the floor like the dog that he was
Then kicked him while he was down
He laughed and he laughed at the spectacle taking place
And I cried and I cried for my brother’s sake
The very next morning I stared up at him from his lap
I was trying to see if it was the man or a mask
A few months later I had my answer as the man was hitting home runs
On my brother’s flesh and bones
He smiled like a jester as my brother was ******* his pants
We rode in silence to Sunday school
And I saw it happen clear as day when the monster slipped on the mask of my father
The one I knew and loved
A couple years later and a thousand more tears
My mother wept as she answered the call
The monster had drawn the last straw
As he took my brothers innocence during the night in that hotel room
Then they came like angels and whisked us away
The men dressed in suites with badges of authority
We were safe for the first time
As I look back I still miss the mask but not the man
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
Proem
After Sir Thomas recovered the Spear of Destiny and returned it to the Pope at the Vatican in Rome, he remained there for several months serving His Excellency, attending meetings, and recovering from several minor injuries sustained while recapturing the Spear that pierced the side of Jesus the Messiah. Sir Thomas could have stayed as a guest of the pope in one of their lush suites, but he chose the bare walls of a guest bedroom at the local Knights Templar castle. The pope then called upon him for his next assignment: Leave Rome immediately, by boat, again, back to Constantinople. “Head off a Scot by the name of Sir Robert Bruce, whom our intel indicates has a map and is currently on his way in search for the Holy Grail. Sir Robert is a stubborn ally. You will help Sir Robert, but convince him that the chalice of Jesus belongs here in Rome.”
Prior to shoving off the west coast of Italy, a few miles from Rome, Sir Thomas wrote the following message, and placed it in a bottle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My dear sweet wife and babe within her womb
The five long years since I had lost you both
I prayed for inner peace despite my joy
Your both in heaven; worship Thee Most High
Because your love exceeds all life itself
My lips will glorify you ever more
I praise you for the rest; my living days
Your name I lift on high with my bare hands
Was on my bed that I remember you
I think of you the watches of the night
The shadow of your wings I cling my soul
The depths of which my sword shall honor thee
I yearn affections taste where two come one
The seed by faith that yields abundant life
Endures celestial kingdom's perfect place
It brings this missive to its endless oath:
To bless, release my restless heart that bleeds
Commit my swords allegiance to the Lord
To you Dagung the earth is smaller still
For every inch be searched to see your face
You disappeared, not dead but still alive
I feel the transom temper my resolve
For in this ship another search begins
The Holy Grail; Dagung I'll find you both
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Postscript
I toss the bottle through the wind to stormy sea
Inside the missive of a knight in love with thee
__________________________________________
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
I took a vacation from myself
And my standard personality
My vices and virtues left behind
I became someone new
Sheded my skin
Evacuated my shell
Molted my feathers
And wandered off to the abyss
What I once called the truth
What I once named false
Both thrown up in the air
Now I see which falls into my lap
Sharing ****** pleasures with men and women alike
In an illustrious ***** affair
Smoking herb, dropping out and drinking the forbidden wine
With no second thought
With no regret or remorse
No rules
No laws
No restrictions
Rebelling against myself
And whatever is given to me
But why?
How come?
To test limits
To break through
To a place of nothing
No gods
No kings
No me
To test myself
My boundaries
To abandon my comfort zone
And take a trip to the edge, then go over it
I’ve been to the land
Of discipline
Of self control
Of obedience
And conformity
Faded out to the valley of shadows
Nowheresville
Population me
I’ll return
To my roots
Soon enough
With the knowledge
Of how far I’ll go
How deep I care to let myself go
How heavy a load I can carry
Loosening my grip of reality
Only to adjust it
To a level of pressure that suites me best
Make changes in myself
To be the person I want to be
Rearrange my life
And see what I actually believe
So until I come home, peace be with you
If I’m not back in ten minutes
Just wait a little bit longer
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
inspired by a short story from the man from Snake River
<>
no alarm clocks heard expiring,
unrequired and unrequited,
we,
those, self-employed by the
nocturnal repetitive recounting
of sins of omission and worse,
those commissioned in
anger and haste, that breed only
more anger and lay further waste
from humans to
humans,
awaken with an
irregular precision
and bad disorder,
demanding chances,
expiation, restitution, amendment,
but time erodes
possibilities for the
impossible,
foreign forgiveness
knock-you-down rushing currents
of water erodes Snake River boulders,
them oldsters just like the litany of our
malfeasances, indestructible in nature
geologic,
and in
human nature
illogic,
terms, such as time measurements,
irreverent and irredeemable,
for our sins
live far longer than
our owned memories,
in those harmed, who
cannot in the unlimited timeless quantity of
ever ever,
understand
your wry smile,
your why cries,
audibles you’ve
play called, go
unheard, unseen,
even and odd
Bach Orchestral Suites,
Beethoven Sonatas
more mock than soothe
trapped between industrial carpet
and flat unpainted Armstrong ceiling tiles,
you
in a hell of your own creation, forgot to include,
a Sabbath day extant, of rest for weary creators,
ever ever,
or planned in a world you’ve designed,
so the best you
can do
is write
another and another
confession ever ever
watching and listening to
the alarm clock that neither
requires setting, for
it’s audible ticking is
alarm-ing curse
enough ever ever
that always never
rings
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 8:50 AM UTC
Roadways have flayed greyed arteries
Into the greenaries of the land.
A kingdom of metallic cities,
An empire built upon shifting sands.
And bombs stain the badlands
In dusty countries far ashore.
It is a time for distractive actions
And a constant state of war.
But what a dull reality!
To focus on the undulations,
The consequences of being free,
The purge of the weaker nations.
For life can be easy
If you live through glossy pages.
The life and lies of a celebrity;
The superficial ages.
A sorry state for families
Who talk only about the weather
And other temporal pleasantries,
On their proud suites made of leather.
Oh, what a poor affair!
Caring more for the clouds above,
Than the climates of our world-weary hearts,
and for all the ones we love.
And lo, we're careless and carefree
for all that does not appear on screen.
They'd gush over some royal baby,
But not pine over the unseen.
Our modern sicknesses
Are conjured and conceited too.
For what value is there in compassion,
If oneself is feeling blue?
Does charity begin at home?
You once said it does nothing at all.
But is home solely what you own,
In a world so close and so small?
These questions are silent,
But they are asked in the thousands.
By all those that are used to deaf ears,
Across all oceans and lands.
To the soft-hearted I call thee,
To not be so stilled and so dampened.
By the weight of the majority,
the crowds of the minds unopened.
And to myself I hope,
That we shall meet dear reader.
Above your recitation of my words,
To something more real,
To something much clearer.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
The Court Jester
Spinning
twirling
with you by
my side.
Within the elegance of mirrors and
reflections only the graceless could
see. Skirts and suites and smiles and
masks, many, many masks, with finery
of the aristocrats, the lovelessness of
the gentry.
Dancing
laughing
with you as
my guide.
Ballroom floors are marred by
glistening fans and jewels, adorning
elites and children, the adults joking
and the innocent conversing seriously,
with their hands carefully crafting the
facade only dreams
can bring.
Embracing
kissing
your light-hearted sighs
while writing
our simple end.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
Tattooed and holding cleavers,
we chop off our limbs
to give as random gifts
and lop off each other’s
to sew onto ourselves
between rotting brown brick towers
on infinitely numbered streets
in dim drywall suites
all along the gray, hazy horizon
hanging rusting lamps
flicker incandescent light and
swing above our pill heads
whose floating eyes
dilate
to watch drops of blood
mix
as the needle and thread
yank us closer to becoming
clones.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
Messy, 'specially on Sundays.
Feet a'shamble from stumblin' drunkhappy.
"It's all good, baby," Blakey yells over the drums.
Bourbon flavored women hard to swallow
with their jagged softness. Smoking section (whites) stares
down dance floor (everyone else) with guilt induced jealousy.
Coltrane's back in Philly studyin.'
Pinstriped chuckle from the Rosenbergs;
kinetic energy giving birth to the cool.
The trumpeter's high turns his tool into a weapon.
The sound briefly stealing him from his demons.
"I'll find a guy when I finish my set."
Black and white televisions: blacks in white suites
Smiling china white for an all white audience.
The movers, to this point, have only been black.
Little hero Harry thinks
blacks and whites should die on the battlefield together.
Everyone's starting to get it.
"That guitar sweeter than my old lady."
Charlie and Miles holding each other's needles
while Thelonious and his hard candy go bad.
Leanin' on bricks in a back alley.
The circle passes the joint around like the good times.
"Just keep em rollin."
The skirts expand and deflate wildly to the rhythm.
Pure sweat melting into the floors like drops of water on roots.
A melody never heard before.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
do not fall in love with a musician because they will play you like a symphony.
they will get to know every enchanting note of you. they will find parts of you in which they must get improve but in the process they will resent you for this.
they will caress your heart with their suites and sonatas. they will gently hold your hips as you would the curves of a violin. they will **** you, sweetly, slowly, then presto, with fire. they will make love with you, but not to you. they will play beautiful concertos with your body but they will not dedicate a single note nor rhythm to you.
they will finish playing you when they become tired of hearing your melody. they will leave you in a folder or a case somewhere where you will never be played again.
-m. j. g.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC