"suv" poems
Chereè, Chereè...Her mommy cried and warned her to be careful, 3 months ago she left home for L.A in hopes for becoming a star. Five foot five, dark green eyes, skin complexion as a beige princess, at a pool party in the hills she met the producer to both whoms sparked interest. She had a voice of gold, a personality so bold, and he had the fill to her mold. So she thought, So she was told, Chereè was gullible a young 19 years old. She moved in with Jazzy, fell in love with him, and his savvy, way of making her feel so **** and strong. For three months he lead her on, head and *** every other night and she never recorded one song. Then he came to her and asking, "Baby do love me…Baby do you care." Thirty minutes after she finished her makeup and hair, they stared into each others eyes, he gave her a tender kiss as he caressed her thighs. "I love you girl, and I always will." As she strapped her heels, he uttered a comment about how love doesn't pay the bills. North Hollywood, for weeks the pay was good, until the night she climbed in the SUV. "What's your name sweetheart." "Whatever you want it to be." She hopped in the truck, and he had something tucked, he turned and flashed L.A.P.D. Just do me this one, and I'll let you go…and she prayed to just get back on the stroll. They went in the back seat, the ***** cop was a freak, he used his cuffs to tie up her hands and feet. She waited till he was weak, he came and then she beat, her elbows into his head and felt for the keys under the seat. He whipped out an 8 inch blade and slit her throat. He kept stabbing, and he ever choked her.....looked at the body, and rolled it over, took his cuffs and gave her a soft kiss on the shoulder, he wiped tears and blood from his face with her thong, because he told her……that'd he let her go. He dumped Chereè on the side of the road, and took off for his Beverly Hills home.………And her mother told her to be careful.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
Manning up in Texas
Geldof overdose
needles at the bed stand
starlet comatose
California dreaming
killer meets demise
hurling in a taxi
puke fee on the rise
Fighting in the Gaza
Jordan's holy war
rebels on a mission
Jihad underscore
The North Korean riddle
pales in grand design
crisis on the border
planes fall from the sky
Cooking on a deadline
tempting tapenades
herbs are in the spotlight
wines that give a nod
Google maps the body
DOW at record highs
Uber comes to market
corn is on the rise
Apple on its earnings
Caterpillar dead
European sanctions
banks have **** the bed
Clippers threaten boycott
Longhorns follow purge
Lynch is out of training camp
James is on the verge
Leinart taking *** shots
coughing up a lung
lions take a licking
fans are throwing dung
Another day in Vegas
Primm from A-Z
rolling out an ankle
a flying SUV
Quiet tempting spaces
made better by design
multi color pea coat
silence fuels the mind
Stabbing in the subway
goat caught in a well
apes are selling tickets
(but leave behind a smell)
Puberty on trial
a man without a head
teachers feel alone
lets take them to the shed!
Jonah's tomb destroyed
wreckage in Mumbai
Sugar Daddy sites
Freedom 85
The immigrant debate
Russia's mounting toll
unions on a mission
heads are gonna roll
Beaches for the nudists
hotels on the cheap
the best generic brands
a list you have to keep!
Planning your estate
questions from the camp
a mansion up for sale
where once they filmed The Champ
Midwives threaten action
aboriginal act
truckers want concessions
that train has left the track
Sharks are found in Fundy
a prized but perilous catch
food we love to hate the most
an irrefutable batch
A family on the brink
I want my kids to fail!
politicians drains all hope
a ban on Israel
Follow out each headline
let the columns be your guide
all these things did happen
the day that Newhouse died
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
The time in my youth that taught me about true peace
Was fishing with my Papa on the coast of the East
We'd get up in the morning before sunrise
Papa would wake me with sparkle in his eyes
I'd jump down from the bunk bed
When my feet hit the floor Smells of
Grandma's hickory bacon would rush to my head
She would wrap the bacon up in a biscuit and pack it to go
I'd grab the bag of bread crumbs we'd been saving
for the seagulls, to strew
We'd pile it all in the SUV
The poles clasped firm on the front bumper
Papa's clever bumper holder made of PVC
I can smell the salt air so clear
Papa and Grandma are always with me
Ahh, that is true tranquility!!!
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
Hey girl where you going?
I’m very much a talker
Cos I can’t dance good
And I never been a stalker
Where you off to my l’il lady?
Hop in my left seat for a ride
Wind it up or slow it right down –
I can get you to the other side
I’m just a country boy
And I can take you up city streets, country roads
Just a poor l’il redneck
But I’m sure I can get you to where you want to go
I got a full tank of gas
I got an all-terrain SUV
You sure do look good
Buckled up next to me
I can take you up the fast lane
I can drive you round the cones
I can take you slow through the forests
I can take you fast through 30 zones
I got air conditioning in here
Chamois leather seats as soft as babys butts
I can take you across the smooth asphalt
I can take you through the deep ruts
Putting on my aviators
Just let me know if we’re getting close
We can slip on out
Or we can take the main roads.
Just listen to the music
And i can listen to you if you like
I can rev the V8 and take you there
Be it day or be it night
I got fully automated
And a nice little gear change
I got super beam headlights
With a three hundred foot range
I can go on the straight and narrow
I can take you down winding roads
Nothing’s a problem for us; we know where we come from
And I can get you where you need to go
Yeah, I don’t dance so good
But I’m a country boy,
A nice little country boy.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 9:06 AM UTC
American city, your roads make me gasp,
Hold my breath with cancerous anxiety.
Your sidewalks,
Ancient ruins of time passed: A failed optimism for Utopian desire:
A house, a yard, a car for every person.
Now derelict, termite infested, but rented.
Chlorinated chemical water runs through rusted, moldy spickets to
Rinse pesticide seasoned vegetables.
And yet they remain so tasteless.
But who cares?
Suburban middle class zombies?
Created with media placed propaganda.
Born and inoculated with DisneypepsiMccocacola ideologies.
Oh Wal-Mart,
how we love your homogenized Chinese products.
Oh America,
how we love your multi-million dollar cathartic films,
They bring my mind to no place and inspire nothing.
Your theme park inspired retail caters to any identity I desire:
I am a professional,
My wallet lined with the best credit cards,
SUV, Hummer, Super boat, designer label, mall bought,
bleached teeth smile, with slick greasy hair style.
I'm cool, I pay for the gas.
Beep your horn, and rev your engine.
We are at war with each other.
Everyone get out of my way: road rage lifestyle: compete or die.
Big screen television dream.
Bought it at Target.
Open my cupboard: Macaroni and Cheese, delicious.
Ambian, Prozac, antibiotic, Listerine.
Collagen bovine beauty:
Manicure, pedicure, dye and wax
Acrylic nails, hair extensions
And silicone sacs.
Oh, American city
How we want to steal your money and **** your blood.
Chop your trees and cement your grass.
American city you are dead.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 6:22 AM UTC
feets of snow
building
quiet muffled walk
high red rubber boots
sinking deep into
freshly falling snow
wind whips snowflakes
swirling about
stinging bare face
a local police suv
scurries by
sign the road is passable
no other movement
bright lights all about
soft white sky
dark bare trees
sillhouetted
against encroaching
building
white backdrop
bushes bend
heavily under
boughs laden
with many many
little snowflakes
hovering on branches
together
it is a blizzard celebration!
wind dances
swirling and singing
roaring and biting
snowflakes spiraling
and dancing
so so very free
racing across
the sky and the
earth
happy to be out
happy to be free
the dark night
owned by the
ones who
live free & wild
in ever eternal delight!
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 4:54 AM UTC
When I walk down the street and a man calls me 'Sweet tits'
With his wedding ring clad hand resting on the rolled down window of his SUV
I am supposed to like it
Fat girls should be grateful someone wants them, after all
Women should be grateful for the attention of strangers
Women are taught to be sponges
Domestic and silent and absorbing the words of men around them
If a woman talks 30 percent of the time
A man will feel like she is dominating the coversation
A man calling a woman 'baby' on a street corner is a compliment
But a teenage girl saying a celebrity has nice eyes is fetishizing
Men are taught that they are the default mode
While women are taught to make room
Men sit with their legs spread and elbows out on subway trains
Women tuck their ankles together and rest their hands in their laps
The great crime of patriarchy though
Isn't the way it affects how men feel about women
But how women feel about women
Like every great dystopian novel on the planet
We are taught to hate ourselves and hate each other
Because that will keep us distracted from the real problem
The richest woman in the world makes one sixth what the richest man makes
Girls are still afraid to speak up in classrooms from first grade to PHDs
No one listens when we start talking
So we start screaming
And everyone just tells up to shut up
And stop being so **** sensitive
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
I remember the days of raisin boxes and paperbacks,
when it felt like the worst thing in the world to be climbing barefoot up a mound of dirt in the rain because you wanted a friend.
I couldn’t watch movies, talk about cigarettes, or listen to operas,
but I was all right when I saw my mother pouring out my father’s bottles into the bushes.
I looked at the round tummy in the mirror and wondered if it was okay.
It wasn’t. I was eleven years old when I learned how to **** it in.
-
The first came in middle school. I had a dream that I kissed a boy while on an exercise machine.
It was real life when he took my hand in the backseat of his mother’s SUV. I closed my bedroom door and danced.
I still think of him when I hear that stupid song.
The second time, I was fourteen. I met a different boy who peeled away my skin as if he were unwrapping a Christmas present.
And the present? Just another pair of socks. Throw them in the drawer with the others. Shut it tight.
I’m still missing a lot of skin.
And then, there is you.
You know the story. Five, four, three, two, one, happy new year. I kissed you.
Remember when you noticed my wrists? Remember when you didn’t believe my excuses? Remember afterwards, when you pretended to forget all about it because you were scared, scared of the kinds of girls who hid secrets under their sleeves?
I went to all of your basketball games. I hate basketball. We watched movies that you projected onto your basement wall. Your attempts to disguise your impatience as admiration were poorly executed.
Maybe our first kiss shouldn’t have occurred in a count-down. It made everything else that happened feel that much more inevitable.
-
I take stock of myself. Three hearts, like an octopus, and too much blood. I am saving it, I am saving it for the person who offers me something other than the dusty space under the bed.
I never want to be like my mother, and there is a certain kind of power in this. The power of - of what, turning inward?
I am learning. I am learning to stop looking behind me in fear of pursuit. Let them come and let them drape me in meaningless velvet. I will not be deterred.
Look for me, up in the constellations. I am a passing comet; it’s impossible to predict if I am destined for destruction or for greatness.
I’ll wait at the sunset for the sound of your voice.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
A boy named Jake and a girl named Lexi had never met before.
They had a class together last year, but neither one knew it at the time.
They both walked into their Sophomore Drama class for the first time, scared and apprehensive.
Lexi there five minutes before the final bell and Jake, seconds before the final bell.
Jake entered the class and quickly took the only seat on the floor not occupied by an unfamiliar face.
They all introduced themselves, all 27 of them, mostly Sophomores with a few Freshman, Juniors, and a single Senior.It was then, when Lexi said "Hi, my name is Lexis Marilyn Manchester and I go by Lexi," that he first noticed her.
She was cute, shoulder length blonde hair, a floral shirt and jeans, although Jake didn't notice those things at the time. Only her dazzling pale blue eyes, and angelic voice.
The guy sitting next to her didn't say his name at first, even though it was his turn. She tapped his leg and motioned toward the center of the circle the class had made in the Drama Room. Room I7.
He said "How.. uh, my name is Jacob Turner. I don't have a middle name, but I go by Jake."
He was cute. He had short, yet unruly brown hair, a white shirt with the letters "LDTA" on them and nice fitting black jeans. The only thing she noticed about him however were his mysterious pale blue eyes, and for some reason, lack of middle name.
Jake didn't even care that the class had laughed at his lack of middle name. The only thing of importance to him was that when he looked over, the cute girl named Lexis Marilyn Manchester, who went by Lexi, was looking at him. He quickly looked away as did she.
The class went on and neither Jake nor Lexi, made an attempt to talk to the other although they did steal careful looks often. The bell finally rung. It was a seventh period class, so school was over.
On his way home Jake thought of nothing but Lexi, and driving.
He stopped at a sign, only blocks from home. The traffic rushed by. The car behind him did not see his car. They pushed him into the oncoming traffic just as a big SUV hybrid drove by. The driver slammed the breaks but still did not manage to avoid hitting the drivers side door of the small, blue, beat up, Toyota.
The doctors say he was killed on impact.
That's what the school told the small group of friends who were asked to attend a quick meeting regarding the accident. Lexi went.
She thought about him everyday for the yest of the school year.
Even some over summer.
He never faded.
She wouldn't let him for some reason.
He was killed on impact but he never faded.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 11:32 PM UTC
Spare me from suburbia.
I hate the chatter.
And the cookie cutter houses.
And people worrying about what shade of Estee Lauder they need to look 20 years younger.
The bigger the SUV ...the better.
Yeah that's my saying too.
Oh yes it's Doggy Spa day! yippee.
Freakin morons.
Put your Gucci shades back on quick before you get to the underpass and see the man who fought for your freedom so that you can enjoy your Sushi on the right side of town, begging for anything you can spare.
But thats right you have nothing to give, do you.
I mean you couldn't possibly dip into the college fund for little Jessica, who by the way is snorting blow as we speak, in the projects across the tracks, while you think she is attending the high school pep rally, as all good cheerleaders do.
And you might want to slow down just a little bit, because if you reach your hubby's highrise office even just one minute ahead of schedule, Candy won't have time to push her skirt back down, wipe her mouth, and re apply her reading glasses, before you enter...and that would be a bit uncomfortable , don't you think?
Maybe you just better turn around altogether and head back to suburbia baby!
There's a reason you are called a stay-at-home mom.
It's the safest place for you...trust me.
Reality causes varicose veins and then you would need emergency laser surgery to correct it, which would interefere with your PTA meeting this afternoon.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:01 PM UTC
I am like the bicycle you let sit in the rain,
turned sideways, wheels still spinning in reverse--
an abrupt split second call once my small SUV showed
its dull red color and token dents, signs of an irresponsible me
(and a still judgmental you).
Once upon a time you prized me,
snatched me from the wall of Grandest Biggest Rewards
for those who throw their money and efforts into
impossible pursuits.
My hair gleamed. My skin glistened. My eyes glinted.
but my legs would not spread.
they could not for fear of Eyes of a Watchful God.
when the day came, the day that no one believed you would come,
not even me,
you closed your eyes; I squeezed mine shut,
as did my doors, never to let you in.
Not even when you begged, bargained, bribed.
When you flung insults like the beagle's feces,
fresh, frenzied, frantic,
I dodged each smear physically, but let the memories
haunt my fading floral youth.
Now, that the doors have opened
to admit those who may be trusted,
and have closed deep within a secret,
discarded like a rush of blood--
just as meaningless, just as insignificant,
Now, you've found another bike to prop against the cool
sheltered garage wall, newly painted--
both the garage and the bike,
and her arms emerge months from now
with baby and baby and baby.
Brimming with baby.
And I sold that bicycle months ago,
the one I fought so hard to retain.
I was never the material, nor the istic.
Just used goods gone sour.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
people -- blue jeans -- t-shirts -- volleyball -- sparklers -- *** its -- stone bridge -- pine trees -- new trees -- old trees -- fireworks -- grass -- sonic boom -- picnic chairs -- bicycles -- oak trees -- bare neck -- tickles -- sneezing -- bless you -- slight chill -- cloud cover -- police cars -- policemen -- uniforms -- night sticks -- sweat pants -- baby strollers -- skull & crossbones -- muscle shirt -- sweat shirt -- baseball caps -- fountains of sparks -- greenery -- dandelions -- yellow weeds -- wafting smoke -- black man in white shirt -- white man in black shirt -- SUV -- Boxer dog -- red wagon -- smoke stacks -- asian couple -- running shorts -- acrid smoke -- ice cream truck -- double trees -- pony tail -- mosquitos -- fishing hat -- yellow truck -- handlebar mustache -- bad *** attitude -- shaved head -- balloon -- barbeque -- sunset -- affro -- tennis shoes -- multi-colored hair -- canoe -- golden purse -- playing band -- American flag -- folding chair -- name badge -- red, white, & blue -- skipping rocks -- cargo shorts -- matching couple -- bike path -- hippie hair -- low rider -- peace sign -- golden chains -- waning moon -- waxed legs -- hoodies -- striped shirt -- victory dance -- short shorts -- cigar smoke -- watermelon -- Viking's bag -- leopard skin jacket -- skooter -- digital camera -- creepy stalker dude -- tent building -- horeshoes -- personal space invaders -- glow sticks -- picnic basket -- cooler -- smoke bombs -- plaid skirt -- 77 sweats -- interracial couples -- motorcycle -- orange vest -- plastic ball -- face paint -- cops in two different uniforms -- split tree -- pregnant lady -- trash talking horeshoe player -- street lamps -- playing tag -- large blue cooler -- bright green pants -- humorless boy
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
A first kiss is a deadly weapon
ours was nervous and in secret
a large dog making me sneeze
jumping over the SUV
because your stepdad can't park
and clinging to you
because he also can't drive
When you met my parents
on New Years, pictionary
we both yelled "anarchy"
and I will never not smile about that
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
I have a fear,
it's not that I'm afraid of the future,
I'm afraid of a realization,
one I had last week.
What if...
What if it's downhill from here?
My childhood was amazing,
my parents were excellent,
but the real issue was my friends.
The fun we had was real,
it's just not the same,
academic discussion,
scientific deduction,
dissection of stories and ideals,
what's it all mean?
My favorite memories are not of discussion,
but action,
actions I keep written on a piece of paper,
strapped tightly to my chest,
a eulogy of youth,
time spent as kids.
Through the haze of years I see,
low rate movies,
bonfires burning just a little too bright,
Wendy's runs in the dead of night,
skinny dipping out on the lake,
firecrackers bursting over head,
roman candles,
no small talk,
real talk,
girls,
near death experience,
you were there right?!
Mario Kart,
video games,
disgusting food combination,
skating behind the moped,
sledding behind the SUV,
basketball on black tar,
mustard spilled all over the car,
splints and broken wrists,
word games,
collective humor,
stupid and indecipherable,
socks with sandals,
up all night talking in the basement,
not a care in the world,
no ambition,
dumb little kids,
messing around doing dumb things,
throwing common convention in the fire-pit,
flickering flames,
nostalgia on release,
gone our separate ways.
I had realization last week,
those guys weren't my friends,
they were my brothers.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
Mother.
When I look at you, I see
the woman I want to be
in twenty years.
You worry
about the wrinkles
that form constellations
across the freckles on your skin.
A natural reaction
to what society brands
as aging.
Mother.
When I look at you,
I see that those lines tell stories.
They speak to all the times
you laughed so hard
you cried.
Times you smiled so big,
so bright,
so proud,
your cheeks began to throb
to the beat
of my graduation march.
Mother,
when I look at you,
I see no age.
I see a superhero
flying her faithful SUV
from one side of town
to the next.
Whisking kids from practice,
and concerts,
and recitals.
All paid for with the money
from the job
that gets you up before the sun.
Money that means nothing to you
compared to the happiness
of your children.
Mother.
When I look at you,
I see honey golden eyes
just like mine.
Eyes I remembered
tired
and weary
after a long day
of making ends meet -
being a mother
and a father.
A woman too selfless to rest
until dinner was on the table.
Mother.
When I look at you
I see an airy frame,
but you’re strong --
so strong.
The greatest life lessons
I’ve learned from you
came in your darkest times
when you refused
to let the world break you down.
Life gave you lemons
and you’d be ******
if you were going to leave
the dinner table
before you finished drinking
all that lemonade.
Mother.
When I look at you,
I feel so much pride.
You’ve accomplished so much.
You’re Wonder Woman.
I feel the comfort,
like your soft embrace,
in knowing
where I come from…
and where I’m going.
Mother.
When I look at you,
I pray
someday I can be half
the mother you are
so my children can be
as lucky as me.
Mother.
When I look at you,
I see your mother too.
The generations of mothers
before you
whose love
and strength
and wisdom
were weaved together
to form
the beautiful woman you are today.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
*a whole town goes dark
all cars stand still
lights are out*
silence . . .
then, something rushes by
nothing
or is it?
looming out of the jet-black inkiness
knees shake in cold moon
the sudden-roar of a impossible jet for five seconds
tinkling of three pedal-notes in the distance
a child's laughter calling from behind a deserted playground
sinister swirl of seeming-piranha inside the dark sky-folds
a half-dead bulldozer on the rim of a quaking river
murine-teeth ferret in a SUV-carcass long abandoned by instant-gratifixes
after..
*birds chittering about the secrets of the night
while leaves embrace the wind*
S T, sun - 22 sept
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Let me tell you something
About life as seen on TV
It may appear ideal
But that ain’t the way it should be
The goodie has no end of ammo
The baddie is never in with a shout
But in our world today
It’s always the good guy who loses out
He loses out to the ********
The puff with the SUV.
The girls drop a nice one instantly
For a flutter of profanity.
The ***** always get laid
While the dude’s left out to dry
And for all that goodness he’s got
He’s alone a lot and why?
It’s a question I asked myself
For years and years to come
To the conclusion that all winners
Are deadbeats, jerks and ****
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 11:20 AM UTC
A beautiful day in February.
A few birds singing much too early.
A black SUV.
An awkward hello between
A girl and her father...
A phone call.
A surprise...
An absence of good news.
A problem.
A dismissal.
A tear drop-
A heart-tearing sob.
An unexpected fight on the way home to mom.
A car door slammed,
A front door key fumbled.
An avoided confrontation, also
An avoided consolation.
A soft noise bedside:
A scratch from
A cat come to investigate;
A simple, good soul.
A rub on a leg,
A pat on a furry head.
A purrrrrrrr.
A change of heart,
A fast ascension to a seated position.
A decision resulting in determination.
No more tears.
No coffee today.
No fights with the wrong side.
No wrecking ball of shame.
No tower of regret.
No birdcage of immaturity,
No, no more cages.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
Korea
Vietnam
Grenada
Iraq
So many lost lives
We can never take back;
So many ******** wars
We all have lost track.
Panama
Serbia
Syria
Iraq
What were we really doing there?
When did they attack us? Where?
When did they threaten my liberty
To buy an extra big SUV?
When did they land here with artillery
To threaten the freedom of you and of me?
When did these countries declare war
That caused us to gear up once more?
Korea
Vietnam
Grenada
Iraq
So many lost lives
We can never take back;
So many ******** wars
We all have lost track.
Panama
Serbia
Syria
Iraq
Invade them all, degrade them all
Because it doesn’t really matter to us.
Steal their lands, pound them into the sand
When done, throw them all under the bus.
Look what we have done to our natives.
You see how experienced we are at this.
We spare no expenses when it is war.
Oh, and what a lucrative thing it is.
Korea
Vietnam
Grenada
Iraq
So many lost lives
We can never take back;
So many ******** wars
We all have lost track.
Panama
Serbia
Syria
Iraq
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
aggression must be denied.
****** Pol *** The Duke,
Kim Jong, Mugabe, Fidel Castro,
Saparmurat Niyazov,
the living bad the dead.
XiJinping
proudly announces in
November 2013,
the year of our lord,
they are doing away with
labor camps in China.
******** total,
renamed them
drug rehabilitation centers.
evil must be refuted.
who will call them out?
not us.
coming home from the opera,
some big **** SUV,
played chicken
with me.
I refused to let
him cut in the line.
He followed me
for ten blocks,
honking his *******
till he quit,
cause I would not give
the satisfaction of letting him
spit and sputter.
Took the woman home.
Went out looking for him.
searched hundred blocks.
found him, took out my jack.
(trust me I did not key his car).
when he saw what I had done,
I quoted him Verdi's Rigoletto:
He is crime, I am punishment.
you see opera ain't for *******
aggression must be denied
locally, before it becomes
a national treasure.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 4:23 AM UTC
I saw a sticker on a car coming home from work this afternoon.
One of those "international ovals" that used to indicate a foreign country
like France, Switzerland or, if you believe the TV commercials,
Detroit.
Now they stand for everything from the local swim team
to the driver's favorite species of dog
although pinning it on the driver might be unfair
probably better to say the owner.
The sticker I saw today, and it was a sticker not a magnet,
it was stuck on the window,
was OLF and it made me miss mom more than yesterday,
Mother's Day, did.
OLF stands for Our Lady of Fatima, the local Catholic Church
and it was adorning an SUV of appropriate size and sticker price for these parts.
Mom always called Fatima, Saint Olaf's because everyone around here calls it OLF
so it wasn't her fault.
Every time I, or my wife, politely corrected her she'd reply,
"I know" and then promptly call it Olaf's ten minutes later.
So today waiting for the green light on the way home
a little sadness as St. Olaf's SUV reminded me of mom.
and
I laughed.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
I used to eat dinner with his family.
I would drive over there,
once I had a car, and have a
meal prior to going out. I never enjoy
eating with another set of parents.
Each has their own rituals,
habits, structures around which
they sit down together.
I was an interloper. No one noticed
the awkwardness but me,
perhaps, but in my eyes it was palpable.
His mother didn’t work.
She was a mild-mannered woman
who cared for her children
because she realized that was what
one was to do. She was the
one who would pick us up from
concerts in her Mercedes SUV
and take us home before we could
drive. Or to the movies. She
didn’t mind if it was rated R.
She was a hero for that. His father
was a businessman. I didn’t know him
very well. I shook his
hand when we were older because
men do that. I don’t think he
minded me. His little brother was four
years younger. He was my
savior at dinner because he didn’t
understand the regulations.
The slurp of his spaghetti kept the
tension light. After the accident
I only ate with them once more.
It’s hard to associate with people
when the mutual interest is gone.
Especially with the guilt choking
down any conversation starter
in my throat. I didn’t speak much
that last dinner. I tried very hard
not to spill on my suit. I was the
interloper still. No one noticed the
guilt but me, perhaps, but in
my eyes it was palpable.
The brother didn’t slurp his spaghetti.
The tension choked in my throat
and I think I started crying.
No one spoke.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
Dressed in a robe of
A startling white
Tinged with blue.
Eyes rimmed with
dark lashes and
kohl.
Desert eyes.
Lips curled in amusement,
Long hands resting on the latest SUV,
Long, tapered fingers tapping the
door.
An abaya and the arrogant head
turns. Two flickers. One in the eye,
for the slim figure and the body stands
Straighter; taller.
A pretty face,
Unveiled but heavily concealed by
Layers of foundations, shades too light.
The other is a point of light
Through the ear. Yes.
Through the hole in
The ear. His ear.
A djinn slips through
On the cool, night, sea breeze.
I ignore the girl in black and
Slide into the SUV, as easily
As he slipped into my life, as
Easily as the djinn blew through his ear.
I eye the ear. Clean and perfect
To me, despite the gap in his pinna.
Each member of his tribe bears
This inexpert removal.
To let the djinn pass through the
Ear. Else they burrow through the
Canal into the brain,
Trapped by the ear.
Djinn travel with the wind,
You see? We wouldn't want
Madness in the desert. Djinn,
Trapped behind those eyes.
Khol eyes. Arrogant eyes.
Reduced to madness? No,
He wouldn't allow that.
Rather a small imperfection.
He starts the engine.
The pretty face above the
Abaya appears in his line of
Sight again. Mouth's curled no more.
He is uninterested. The
Car roars, slips out,
Joins the highway and
We speed into the night.
I look out the window.
The Djinn travels beside us.
It glitters under the street
Lamps and car headlights
As they move aside,
To let us pass.
Desert dwellers on either side.
One within. One without.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
As I lay here with you
I can't help but stare.
Your beauty hypnotises me.
This feeling I get isn't fair.
You drive me crazy
With your royal SUV, have Mercy.
You're a badass with your shades on,
Making me think, what do you see in me?
All I want is to have you in my arms.
Cuddling under the covers, happy and warm.
To look into your sparkling blue eyes.
My butterflies have formed a swarm.
Sometimes I dream,
About you and me.
To wake up next to you daily.
I dream of how happy we would be.
But this is reality.
Not everything is how you want it to be.
Even with your shades on,
Baby, you are all I can see.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
silence and sunflower seeds
a salt-encrusted SUV
mid-afternoon-winter-sun.
she ties her fists in slender knots,
and i fiddle with the **** on the radio.
we talk about burns and
the sick scent of nostalgia mixed
with wine in a cardboard box mixed
with empty pockets,
the way crumbs and lint on fingertips can induce such ache.
as she speaks a part of me wonders at the complexity of human relationships, at how meaning between people muddles and
how moments like these right here right now separate whole centuries of time.
i think about walking through forests made of paper trees and having a knack for noticing what could have been.
i imagine her lying in bed late at night,
her mind a metronome measuring out notes of deprecation,
sandpapering all her holed up bits of pride.
i bet sometimes during those barely-awake moments
she feels like an orphan.
but now, right now
right now.
beneath a ***** windshield and
surrounded by bundled up, brick facades
she hides behind glossy brown hair
and faded skinny jeans.
she has pink keys in her lap
but nowhere to go,
and she tells me about emptiness in words she knows i barely understand.
her tired eyes throw salty fists into space.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC