"suvs" poems
beep beep go the cars
beep beep go the SUVs
beep beep go the trash trucks
beep beep go the busses
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the fire engines
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the ambulances
beep beep go the shovelers
beep beep go the snow trucks
beep beep go the Fed Ex guys & UPS ers
beep beep go the watches
beep beep go the alarms
beep beep go the microwave ovens
beep beep go the washers & dyers
beep beep go the beepers
that are driving me beep beeping insane
beep beep
beep beep goes the Road Runner
but that one does not
drive me beep beeping insane!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
Okay, now, really,
you have driven me beep beeping insane.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
a stripe of asphalt on the blanket of green
I stare wordlessly out into other people's lives
peeking past the violet-tinted windows of the freeway
as your chat-chatter spills from your coffee cup
filled to the brim with handshakes and impatience
You clutch your earpiece tighter, scowling
as I trace the horizon across the glass
smudgy fingertips that sigh boredom
and the Mexican workers in orange vests
peer back at me curious and wave
turn to their left and shout something in Spanish
tongues dancing, slick with dust
I smile as they crumple their lunch sacks and
pitch them down into the rubble then hoist
brick by brick, stone by stone
no natural-made boundary
into the chalky air and perch for a while
to mop the sweat from their brown
creased faces and sing rowdily to their neighbors
and the immobile in the SUVs
You lock the doors fast
and pat your hair into place
I've got no time for this construction
you say, can't they build this highway somewhere else?
as you drum your fingers along to the siren song
of CEOs and business connections
You're just the same as the rest of them.
Man forever building bridges
that will only topple down.
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 7:26 AM UTC
you are everything
you are everyone
you are every cliche
you are the sun,
you are the stifling heat
that cannot be escaped
you are valentines cards
misdirected and misshaped,
you are hotmail,
you are myspace,
you are my face,
hungover and exhausted,
you are lost kids,
you are something that was fun,
you are not getting shotgun,
you are beer
that's been in the sun
too long,
you are a sad song,
that's not been made better,
you are the hole in my sweater,
or my pockets,
you are the chalky sugar that's
passed off as rockets,
you are the first drummer of the beatles,
you are evil,
and i don't mean that jokingly,
you are choking me,
like turtlenecks,
or high stake bets,
made on the wrong team,
you are what seems like
a good idea at the time,
you are past tense,
you are jeans caught in the fence
preventing teens from sneaking in,
you are cold wind on a dry winter's day,
you are Coldplay's last two albums,
you are too much talcum powder
you are convenience store flowers,
you are forced,
you are hoarse
voices in place of song,
you are wrong,
you are the weakest link,
you are outdated references,
you are beverages,
that have lost carbonation,
you are hesitation
that leads to regret,
you are the new york mets,
you are first impressions
that i make on the elderly,
you are Beverly Hills Chihuahua,
you are foie gras,
you are aqua
and their music in my head,
you are cold beds,
warm beer,
empty freezers,
old tears,
fake appeasers,
new fears,
you are the moments
when it feels like no one's near,
you are searching for Waldo for hours,
you are any buildings "bigger" than the cn tower,
you are fake,
you are first date awkward silence,
you are last date awkward silence,
you are violence,
you are hybrid suvs,
you are bees,
you are black flies,
you are forgetting an event is black tie,
you are something nice to forget,
you are socks that are wet,
you are the slow driver in the left lane,
you are fame,
you are fleeting seconds
never to be recaptured,
you are the man on the corner
screaming about rapture,
you are actors selling out,
you are stains on a couch,
you are lost remotes,
you are failed attempts to save face,
you are everything
that has ever graced
this time and space,
here and above,
you are everything,
you are love...
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
fingertips trace the
splintered podium.
clear my throat,
once,
twice.
"We shoulduh' seen this coming."
great opener.
**"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.
Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.
Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.
Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,
and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.
We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.
We all got divorced.
We all got into politics.
Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.
Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.
We shoulduh' seen this coming.
But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.
The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.
Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."**
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.
they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.
**"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.
Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.
Get stoked for the funeral pyre."**
all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.
no one even got a chance to applaud.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
Soccer moms and sander scars
Suburban life is strange.
Play dates and in-line skates
Schedules to re-arrange.
Yoga teachers and lay preachers
And those are not a metaphor.
Costco trips and air-kiss lips
Nobody trusts a bachelor.
Coupon savers in SUVs
Never use turn signals.
Driving while chatting hands-free
Wearing golden **** whistles.
Appointments to make daily
With exercise gurus.
Cocktail luncheons for charity
Toddlers wearing tutus.
Traffic jams of cars and vans
Honking at each other.
Double parking on narrow streets
Calling each other mothers.
Starting out fifteen minutes late
As is the usual way.
Somehow never figuring out how
To have an on-time day.
Screeching home a night in time
To throw together a meal.
Watch television with family
And pretend that is all real.
Put the kids to bed right on time
Try to have quality time.
While the other half is half-asleep
From that second glass of wine.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
In your name, my country, I write today
For all the voices that cannot speak
For all the voices that are silenced
For all the wailing children unheard
For the mullahs and the pandits and the priests
For the politicians and the newsmakers
For the consumers and sharers of “news”
For all the women who bleed onto to the dry earth
For all the animals who are tortured
For the weak who toil in the burning sun
For the strong who drive their air-conditioned SUVs
For the singers, poets and artists
For the farmers, masons and carpenters
For the babies who will know only this way
For the old who remember how things were
For the ones caught in between
For the children and women *****
For the rapists drunk on power
For the believers and the non-believers
For all of us and all of them
In your name, my country, I weep
In your name, my country, I hope
In your name, my country, I believe
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
Magic tears, any time,
anytime an old man can share, some
subtle sense that the kids are alright,
life makes sense, over a span,
of three generations, over lapping,
-mindtimespace pre-excavated
bubbles of happy old men
center the evolving sequence
sheltering open minds and soft hearts
being there, inbetween what's coming down
stirring quantum foam
into active magic surficant
applied with sticky gnosisnot
as hot tar on a roof, or thatching,
all in steady ready peace,
occurrence-easy, expanding
at will, becoming as aha at once
as all zeitgeist guests do,
pop
a grand parent bubble, winking
at each,
defined as one of a kind,
no two alike, and, as a matter of fact,
making your heaven
on earth like mine
would cost you the hell I paid, and
there's no need, things, we agree,
you, dear reader, and I, a we, of some
notion once given thought to float on,
after taking a famous great notion,
to jump in the ocean and drown, done
and proceeding to drown, down, down
I lived
to tell, I decided
climbing out from
depths of angst, actual wrong thinking,
twisted proverbs, and jokes with no story.
Nuns or skunks… what's black and
white, and black and white, and
black, and white…. rolling down a hill,
or it could be cop suvs, too.
Right,
Or a yen yank thang. right.
- the route from the bus stop
- blind milk horse, what did you say?
I was paying no attention,
then smallest, though not youngest,
granddaughter finishes,
Magic tears, are when you see
another person cry, and you cry, too.
Grandpa said, yeah, that's a gift,
like a subtle super power.
She said, yes, she knows.
Mar 24, 2023
Mar 24, 2023 at 8:55 PM UTC
Hyperbole in front of me,
Political effrontery,
Lies dressed up as Scripture,
Treason beyond conjecture.
No hope of restitution
A gutted constitution
Guarded by mercenaries
Who hate blacks and fairies.
A pain to liberal brains
As hope goes down the drain
While major constituencies
Are sold out for SUVs.
Journalists lost their relevance
Kissing the haunches of elephants
In a mad rush every news day
To keep their beloved pay.
Chip-off-the-block jabberwocky;
Son talks his Daddy’s talky.
With no attempt at recompense
The fool makes little sense,
Hiding behind the leverage
He gets from his evil heritage.
There’s no need of morality
Or decency or much formality.
No matter how much criticized,
The wrongly, constantly victimized
Suffer the ignominy yearly
And continue to pay dearly
From our position down on our knees
As they try to rob everyone they see
And we are the casualties of infamy
Because neighbors stand by silently.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 5:58 AM UTC
Watercolor forests time lapse
in their creaking ancient rings
We're smearing their earth tones
as the sawblade sings
Grins of snake oil drilling
seeping speculation
on massive scales
Rigged justice with financial backing
even as the prepaid system fails
Golden ratios and timeless cycles
failing the fickle expectations of
fiscal years
But you should know dead
money tastes awful
on a trail of tears
Captive nations petrified
in amber waves not replaced
Borrowing fallen feathers
to hide all we've faced
Dialed down the stars
To depict time as
a definite place
our fragile Axis Mundi
fallen from grace
But how do you find a voice
to speak for the trees
When you’ve been living
in skyscrapers
slums
and SUVs?
As bloodshot tired eyes fail
you've gone too far away
If we meet between the rows
what's left to say?
Brief clashes of red
then long fades to grey?
Am I your keeper
or am I your slave?
Your strip mauled *** toy
to plow and pave?
If you miscarry what was it
we even wanted to save?
You know the cemetery but
I know the grave.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
My goal is to become invisible. Accept my awkwardness. Don’t mind the pitter patter of my talkative feet. They have nothing worthy to say. Please, walk by me; let me feel your gust of perfumed wind. I want nothing more than your inattention. Your glance reassures my confused existence, my selfish questioning of this life the twisting pain of my inability to connect with these fellow beings. My heart is here, but I have buried it under the thickening of my skin. I skinned the layers off everyone who crawled inside my safe spot and turned where I could hide into an exposition; robbed me of my sanctuary, so their skin I harvested for this façade of carelessness. Eye contact isn’t acceptable dear stranger, because my eyes don’t know how to keep their mouths shut. I will tell you tales I don’t dare tell myself. Power walk to your SUVS, be among your own kind. Let my outline drip onto the cold sidewalks, walk all over my skin with your designer shoes, feed my organs to your dogs and cats, dispose of this weary face. Maybe if I become part of this ***** utopia, there will be no reason to stare; you won’t be able to tell the difference between your new Wal-Mart and my decrepit body.
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 7:27 AM UTC
EVIL rides in SUVs with the windows all blacked out.
HONOR drives a plug in car that leaves no resdue behind.
APATHY rides in secondhand Nissans with the clear coat
flaking off.
CELEBRATION rides in limos with open tops for standing up in.
TRAGEDY rides in a long black hearse with all the horses
under the hood.
BRAVERY drives a bright red Moped that cuts in and out of
traffic.
POVERTY must ride the bus in a much too long commute.
ARROGANCE drives an escalade that’s the fourth left turn on a
yellow.
BOREDOM drives a station wagon missing the left rear
hubcap.
PANIC races in the family car where panting and blowing
isn't helping.
HAPPINESS drives almost anything with a baby in the back
seat.
MACHO drives a Ford F350 with wheels even bigger than
his ego.
MELTING *** preens in a souped-up Chevy that dances like a
hip-hop star.
PRETEEN rides a bicycle and dreams of a Mustang.
YOUTH hauls *** in a Jeep Wrangler with the rag top
down.
MIDLIFE CRISIS rides a Harley in a group of seven on weekends.
OLD AGE drives slowly in an ’83 Chrysler Imperial that
won't fit in the parking spaces.
LOVE floats along on hopes and dreams and has no
need of wheels.
ljm
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
Walking to school
In Minnesota
Is interesting
The cold burns
But it is not dark
The black of early
Morning is pierced
By the lights of
Hundreds of cars
Hundreds of all
But empty cars
And Trucks
And SUVs
Youths half asleep
Staring at the
Black road
I stop
Extend my arm
And stick
Out my thumb
For a moment
Then I turn
And put my hand
Back in my warm
Jacket Pocket
And trudge on
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 8:36 PM UTC
The cassette player
would sit on the cabinet shelf.
Cassettes were tiny
objects
of mysterious mechanics.
I’d play her over
and over,
daydreaming
about the recording studio&bottled; water
from a foreign country,
about Manhattan avenues&
stretched SUVs,
Lincoln limos fur coats
the flavor of the nineties.
I’m walking the avenues
today.
The same steam as in 1999
blowing up from manholes.
I own these streets
today
with keys to an apartment
jingling in my coat’s pocket.
I came from afar,
I played with words,
and made it here.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
A young mother cradles her broken child
Amid the fragments of her world, her soul.
Blood drips. Rain-sodden insulation drips.
Stillness between storms. The trees are all gone.
A dark Sargasso Sea of shattered wood,
Bricks, clothes, books, toys, rags, glass, papers, bodies.
In the gasping heat the rot begins now.
No houses. No lights. A helicopter
Floating valley boys with plastic boxes
Taking cruel pictures and O-My-Godding
For the telescreen (between soda ads).
And in fortresses of personal affronts
(Safely far away)
Keyboard commandos leap into inaction:
P*eople who choose to live there deserve it.
We told you that global warming is true.
We didn’t have these things ‘til they kicked Jesus
Out of these here schools. And paddling, by God.
It’s Obama’s fault. Or is it George Bush?
It’s the Republicans. Public schools. Gaia.
British Petroleum. Coal. SUVs.
Suburbs. Not reading the Bible. Comets.
You’re stupid. Well eff you back. Eff you more*.
While in the second lowering line of storms
A young mother cradles her broken child.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 3:25 PM UTC
White SUVs parked
Through barren branches
Embracing the colors of the wood
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 8:27 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
The bricks and mortar are not pretty.
Semi-modern, terraced, magnolia painted –
each street lined with nosy neighbours
among copy-and-paste suburbia.
SUVs and sensible
hatchbacks sleep in the driveways.
There's a bus stop nearby,
but the buses only run Monday
to Friday. The sea is so close
but hidden
by train tracks, and an ice cream van
calls every Thursday.
The wardrobes are empty, skirting
boards cleaned.
I sob into the sink,
clutching the porcelain rim to my ribs,
pressing my hands to my cheeks.
I have no home to go home to,
just a flat with no gas,
making promises of new beginnings.
Offering bags of pretty things
to fill up my life with.
On the last night, we climbed
up the obelisk
to watch the starry city lights
sparkle across the bay.
The smokestacks stretch
as if it were morning. I want to kiss
this year goodbye,
but keep holding on
‘til each finger loosens
and slip into a new way to live my days.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 4:53 AM UTC
I wear my running shoes every day, even when I’m just sitting
I’ve gotta be prepared
For the next time you try to run me over in your SUV and because the last time I only had those sandals you had cut the straps off. ******
But I lost you in the woods and you’d forgotten your shotgun and when I got my breath back I thanked the universe for little blessings.
So the next day I bought running shoes, and that night I slept in them.
But you didn’t try that trick again.
You waved at me over the fence separating our back yards as you mowed the lawn. You smiled, and that made me want to run, too.
You invited me to your Sunday footie BBQ and the rest of our neighbourhood was coming but my mother has a birthday so I had an excuse.
On your birthday I baked you a cake with as much rat poison I could buy without suspicion and left it on your doormat. I watched you closely for days but you were fine so either you were not rat enough, or you had thrown it out.
So I practiced running, scouting out places to lose SUVs and dodge bullets and you smiled and waved at me every day and I wore my running shoes.
Then, in a late November, old Mrs Thompson from down the road told me you were in the hospital.
I tried to think of traps I had laid, of ways in which I had sought to ******* you and found myself wanting. I thought of my running shoes, and whether they were still sitting neat by the back door.
Old Mrs Thompson from down the road said you had apparently tripped in the dark in your own living room and shot yourself in the leg.
I hadn’t heard, hadn’t worn my running shoes that day, because I was at my parents’ house and had stayed the night after a few too many glasses of wine.
But maybe I was responsible for your injury after all.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC
A truck picked them up near the Mexican border
And drove across Texas in blistering heat.
A hundred or more were crammed together
With nothing to drink and nothing to eat.
The big rig rolled down the Texas highway
Heading for San Antonio, they say.
Smugglers would pick up their "cargo" there,
And SUVs would cart them away.
The temperature inside the tractor-
Trailer was over 100 degrees.
The door of the trailer was locked from the outside.
The driver ignored the passengers' pleas.
Chorus:
Farewell, dear friends--queridos amigos.
Were you a father, a brother, a son?
Whatever your motivations, you
All were victims in more ways than one.
When authorities found the vehicle
And opened the door and looked inside,
Eight of the passengers remaining
In the tractor-trailer had died.
Two more victims died in the hospital.
Others remained in a critical state.
Dehydration and heatstroke had been
Cruel agents of their sad fate.
Desperate to find better conditions,
They learned that success is not guaranteed.
Hopes can be dashed and life can be threatened
When you're a victim of smugglers' greed.
Chorus:
Farewell, dear friends--queridos amigos.
Were you a father, a brother, a son?
Whatever your motivations, you
All were victims in more ways than one.
(7-25-17) By Bob B
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 8:46 AM UTC
It feels like we live in separate realities.
In your world the pop songs sparkle.
Shiny things bring a better quality
and the invisible hand of greed
is always the best option.
In my world there is anger and tears;
thirty-six years of disappointment
peppered with worldwide violence.
There is hunger and desperation
where it could be avoided.
There is aggression where compassion
would be better served.
In your world SUVs and mansions
seem to be the golden standard,
and everyone dreams of
acquiring enough new stuff
to beat the other consumers.
In my world there is war
There are people just beyond
my fingers reach,
children outside my door
still suffering.
While upper middle class mothers
are setting up scheduled playdates,
daughters are out getting date *****
People making choices
that no one should have to make
like water, or electricity
like food or heating
like gas to get to work
or a non-holey t-shirt
like killing your own mother
or someone will **** you
and your little brother
like selling drugs to make ends meet
or working a job that does not
provide any real stability.
In your world
bland statements stir the masses,
simpletons lead
the desperate, separate
but same factions
and your identity
is a prepackaged
commodity.
In my world
I rage against stupidity
but this anger is
slowly killing me.
Chest tightening,
it is frightening
how the wealth is passed on
how success is passed around
how art is watered down
to the most basic
and remedial bits of
repetitive ****
In your world;
You do not see what I see
but I still see you
and right now
you are breaking my heart.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC