"thumbtack" poems
Another silent mid-Fall afternoon
Icy raindrops slash into my neck
The forecast calls for falling thumbtacks soon
One thin umbrella folding
Just 18 feet to the front step
With champagne acquainted
But forgot how to sip it
I slurp it down, eager,
'til I sit soaked and dripping
In time, fevered minds
will lower ears made for hearing
under waves of migraines
as mighty storm fronts are nearing
So I close down the bars and stumble home under awnings
Just to search for your name among newspaper cuttings
I've read the whole issue
and I've frowned over headlines
put it down
Now, soaked or dry, I've got only time
I've wasted so much of it losing my mind
I'm blind in the rain that now sticks in my hide
and they were right--
The forecast called for this squall to last all night
Another lonely mid-Fall morning walk
I follow gangs of specters in their steps
And, in the crunching gravel, ghosts will talk
November winds come howling
The second I leave my front step
The flavor's familiar
It comes back every morning,
when sunlight and sparrows
ignore tornado warnings
So the gales pick up strength
and a small bird's bones are hollow
The clouds lay oceans down
setting many sips to swallow
"So goodnight." I depart, but circle back in my wanderings
I'll always wind up here--shaky, ash-faced and yawning
I've read this before
it's printed on poor paper
in red ink
I can't say why I'm still walking by
Those other front doorsteps that I never try
The thick thumbtack rain stopped but I can't stay dry
the ghosts were right--
But if I find your name I might stop by.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
A Valentine's Card dressed
With Steve Buscemi's face,
photoshopped onto a child,
disturbing and hilarious,
tattooed on the inside
with once-true truths.
Flammable.
A severed chunk of
35 mm film,
cut in a rhombus,
or trapeze or whatever,
highly flammable.
A piece of cloth
I brought with me,
And the part of
the belt I had to cut
off so it would fit
my skinny ***
Flammable, slightly.
A dead and dried up leaf,
Impaled on the bulletin board,
From a tree I don't even know what,
That sometimes crinkles with the wind,
If she were alive still,
She would comment on the
Cold thumbtack spear
In her abdomen, and
Sniff regrets at the sweet,
Artificial Vanilla waves below.
I keep my wall of
flammable memories
Above a lit candle,
Every day, I wish the flames
Would reach a little higher, but
Every day, the wax sinks,
low, low, lower still.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
I'm a lost sock
Longing to keep a foot from feeling cold
Even though I can't cover your entire body
Ill settle for an extremity
Because it's true that
Something really is better than nothing
I was dropped between the dryer and the washing machine
Forgotten about just like the paper clip and the thumbtack
My mirror matching partner
May have gone on to meet another
But either way I lie here in lint
I remember the comfort of being in a shoe
When the warmth flowed through me
I knew I was really getting somewhere
Always aware I was part of a pair
One of a two
Half of a couple that together made a team
Then again there was way back when
I was pressed and packaged and pristine and
Presented myself to people in a store
Who could care less to think twice or
Double take and have a second glance at me
I was as unique as all the rest
But I took my job very seriously
Now I crave to do anything
To help anyone and be of use anywhere
To maybe one day be rediscovered and
Perhaps reunite with my other or
Become a fine furniture duster or
A puppet upon the hand of a person Practicing how to be humble
It's a dream and a hope and
One of the few things left I'm free to have faith in
They can take my feet away but
They can't take everything
Somewhere out there is a bare paw
Chilled to the bone and shivering
Stinging exposed to the world
Wishing I was there
Come find me
Drop something worth picking up
So you notice that long lost missing sock
Reach and retrieve me and return me to reality
I've been waiting for this forever it seems
But through your eyes it's just a
Routine insignificant finding
Unknowing that it means the world to me and
My entire existence revolves around dependency
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for sweet peas.
And whose skin could be misplaced for dogwood.
Tongue as innocent as the boy that cried wolf,
And eyes as golden as yore.
You knew of that girl, count every school day,
Where she walked through the door, head bowed and heart prayed.
'neath those bangs, whose color is as dark as our breaths, and as shiny as false tree,
Whose eyes--exotic--bluer--bluer than a thumbtack and bluebells set out by sea.
Whose eyes are mismatched by plentiful lips--small as the silver spec on my shoe,
And shimmered 'neath sterile light, as if she kissed the face of Mt. Rushmore, too.
With those high lips and V-line chin, which connected with her pencil neck to her petite body,
No ******* or bottom, with legs as thin as stilts and as blinding as our phones,
She holds the body of a cradle, and sings like a tongue-less canary.
Always kempt and proper--her hair tied back with a lovely noose.
And shoes worry not of dirt--for she never played outside.
Resting 'neath maple-wood trees like a bunny--face and knees tucked by arms, and that's where they reside.
Many boys had asked for her hand in play, but that bunny went deeper--deeper into the flesh hole she burrowed.
"Painfully shy, she was." They said.
And that pain was her devil.
For you knew not the cause of those florid, pink, cheeks.
Whose purpose means nothing but dead machines.
Whose eyes rung bright--struck the world alight,
Yet, they themselves could not see.
For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for vintage bust,
And whose skin could be misplaced for bile.
Whose eyes mistaken for lust,
And face mistaken for tile.
For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for heat,
And whose skin could be misplaced for bleach.
For again and again and again, the belt beats.
And hello to endless ******
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Blue waters and purple veins clash--wash again and again 'gainst land--and befit the word: queer.
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Innocence knows no bounds and eyes no longer see flavor,
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Exotic eyes bled--rained--pink--and pink--and pink with grand fervor...!
For sometimes it may frighten you to know,
Not all persons are truly healthy,
even those who you hold truly dear.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
as the sitting model
for a father
I am actual
sameness / groin
goes thumbtack
repetition is not doom
not to plant
not to animal
life
whether gang sign or godspeak
it means my child
imagined
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
*A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.
At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.
A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.*
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
*The man with a crooked smile and big hands
A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.
At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.
A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door.
She had it in the things
I had clear from her room.
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.*
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
His brass-plated nickel twists—
a tangled rope looping on itself
looping around a thumbtack
looping around your throat.
Teardrop gems in brass saucers
fall in jangling rivulets, streams
of crystalline blues. Wrung
from shades of sky, cloudless
summer and midnight indigo,
they shape-shift in shadows
drip—
drip—
dripping from the s-curve
of a bronze body crusted
in blues, blacks, and greens.
A flower is carved under
each jewel, a map of a bird’s nest—
a map to a bird’s nest,
like he might forget in the small,
dark hours of the morning where he belongs.
Home is not dangling from a bookshelf.
Through lamplight and sunlight
his stares due west.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
*A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.
At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.
A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.*
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
a man has eaten a nail. he must bed before it’s too late a woman with a breadboard back. the man’s brother is married to such a woman, but does not know it. the brother’s tongue is raw and wouldn’t know good eating were it a thumbtack in a lover’s heel. the man decides to lounge hungrily in the slim wardrobe of his brother’s shadow. the man will drink it like milk and let it slosh in his gut for three weekends. the wife will shine more and more light on her husband; she will bend reading lamps around corners and forget she has things to do. she will have well lit dreams of a man she can sense is behind her. her husband will run from the light and she will jump on his back. the man will come to this empty house and he will be angry and because of his stomach he will need to call someone. until then, imagine we are in a box held by a thief.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 10:58 AM UTC
*A long long time ago way
before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.
At the american airbase
in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
working alongside each other
in the dark.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship.
And found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note in his handwriting
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark.
But I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.
A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands.
And also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I cleared out grandmas house the other day.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she kept it in her souvenir box..
she had passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
So follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.*
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
through my microscope, I spend hours
looking at the interstices of a plant cell wall;
if the earth did not spin, I could endure the whole
frigid night staring through my telescope at one violently still
crater on the moon
but I eat only soggy cheerios for breakfast,
ramen--chicken flavor--for lunch, EVERY day,
and either Dinty Moore stew or cheese ravioli
for my evening repast
my toothbrush must be blue, the paste pure white
and I could never tolerate the plight, of socks slipping
down past my ankles
I love Vivaldi, Brahms, and the sound of soft rain,
but hail batters my brain like a billion ball bearings
on an defenseless tin ***
my alarm must face due north
and my bed sunset west, beyond those things
I have no peculiar request
except
that things remain EXACTLY the way they are/were
for eternity
I can't play a savant symphony
like some would expect, or do cataclysmic calculations
in my head
though I can recall,
two years and four months ago today, a gold thumbtack sitting alone
on my dead granddad’s wood work bench, and the gray smelling roll of duct tape I placed precisely three inches from it, to keep it company
and if I ever again travel 365.26 miles to visit Granny
in Milwaukee, Wisconsin USA, it better be there, not having dared
to move a nightmarish nanometer
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
*The man with a crooked smile and big hands
A long long time ago way
before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.
At the american airbase
in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
working alongside each other
in the dark.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship.
And found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note in his handwriting
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark.
But I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.
A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands.
And also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I cleared out grandmas house the other day.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she kept it in her souvenir box..
she had passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
So follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.
I miss you Darling
love
Jude*
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
A thumbtack to the heart,
a momentary migraine,
suffocation in a hiccup.
Every few hours
my body sends a meager glimpse
of what's in store.
But smoke
is a fine pesticide.
And the weather is nice
just ask the mosquitoes.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
you're
crying
and as you walk
down the dimly
lit glass hallway
the faces on the walls
wave
in your breeze
of sadness and
iron oxide tears.
every surface in
your mind is
covered
in a thick layer of
concrete dust
and you wonder
how long before
your nose
takes a dive
sneezing
too often
to breathe.
there is clay
everywhere
and you can't see
the cracks
between your
knuckles
under the
thick layer of
thought.
as far as art
departments go
you're not feeling
so creative
painted or
charcoal
it doesn't matter
when there is more
brown paper offered
to you every
time you believe
you've failed.
would you believe me
if i told you that a
newspaper and a pair
of old blue eyes
reminded me
and maybe you too
that there is somebody
out there
who actually
cares.
press that
thumbtack
into the wall
slowly
pin down
everything
you've tried to
forget
and avoid
stabbing your
finger into
the perforated
abused and
continually
rotated
corkboard.
you're not
wirebound
anymore
i promise
only your
entwined metalic
thoughts.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
You
Were the friend I thought I had
After 4 years I expected some loyalty
How foolish I was
You
Pick him over me
And tell me you enjoy the abuse
Being treated like an object
Good luck with that
You
Are the thumbtack hiding
In a box full of rose petals, waiting
Just to make me bleed, and to stain
Something sweet
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
I. I say your flesh won't
Be enough for me. You say
I can have your bones.
II. Don't let yourself think
For one second I don't know
Your whole, cursed structure.
III. The angle of your
Pinky finger is, frankly,
Not too promising.
IV. You fall and fall and
Fall and fall and fall and fall
And fall and then snap.
V. We say we're fragile.
The flesh, maybe. But the bone
Is god's own thumbtack.
VI. I wanna kiss your
Skull. Leap past all the dying
Stuff and touch the sea.
VII. Cartilage is a
Nasty, cowardly ***** But
Somehow I need it.
IIX. Break a bone for me.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Ultimately, whether function or form
inevitability strikes at the achilles tendon of
anything with a pulse
There's a **** in my hair
Choke it out with a hangman's noose of silk
Platinum, diamond, and gold
Elderly women scrubbing under folds
This disgust, contempt, and ill begotten logic
of false idols, impressions, and spiritual fog
Breaking backs of lambs for the feast
And watching them writhe and struggle
Darkness
And on the sunny side of day
There's Ice Cream in my Snicker's bar
Spider-Webs
Lowered beds
I wish they had wheels
So I could drive by night
Assaulting with dreams and wonder
No nightmares here
Just night mares
Walking along the sandy beaches
Staring at the sandy beetches wondering
Why am I here?
Right now, at this moment,
And why for the life of me, can I not escape the demons on my back
The worst part of life is the truth
It's the hardest **** to swallow
Fiber for the human centipede
I wish my wit were a tad sharper
And my **** a tad longer
I had a mental image of a thumbtack...
then I thought of my ****
I'm not that small, honestly
Mental webs sprawling on paper (?)
No, this is the computer
I'm just typing ****
What happened to the days of writing in cursive
to show affection to one far away?
In the end, we send an text to close another day
"LU Q T, ILL BE GON 4 2 DAYS"
In reality it's me that's gone away
No sweetie, no honey
No baby here
Self-pity party for the rather queer
I am not what I want
And I am not who I should be, right?
That's the reason I fight this fight?
I need to be better, I want to be better
And that's why I'm writing this
Letter by letter
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
Your face-- it comes in the dead of night,
Those falling eyes-- that fleeting light,
What on earth gave you the right,
To push and pull-- to claw and bite,
The fight-- the fight-- of blood and knife,
You came in here in search of strife,
Just live your life- why can't you go,
You cannot bring me down so low,
Talk after talk-- everything you didn't show,
Don't push it back and expect it not to blow,
Your heart just oh so deadly,
Open your eyes so you can see,
Every stupid thing you did to me,
The end of months comes naturally,
Who caused the fall?
Does it really matter at all?
You’ve said your part— get up and go,
You have nothing left here to show,
All the words and up at night,
You know— looking back it doesn’t feel right,
The feeling I took from the time we spent,
Explains the way that my heart bent,
It was bent and burned,
Twisted and turned,
Ripped and wrought,
Left in it’s place an empty slot,
The time I lost will not come back,
But bad memories need not stay in as a rogue thumbtack.
Silver linings stay in every dark day,
Just close your eyes the clouds don’t have to stay...
Thoughts can be made anew,
Those memories can be slew,
The time I look may not be waste,
Just because it my poor taste,
We all may learn from what we do,
We push and pull as life’s working crew,
Life will fight back in return to every hit,
As the wall is broken— the room will be lit,
The sunshine will enlighten thee,
Close your eyes— One… Two… Three…
Now open— slow— and hold your tongue,
Hold your breath within your lung,
Exhale the air out to the sky,
Breathe in like its the last before you die,
Always live it like this one’s your last chance,
But never do the stupid fool’s dance,
If you do— you break the code,
You ruin everything since the start of the road,
There is a clear difference between the two,
You know— accidentally it and intending to,
Don’t do the dance— join the free,
Live your life how you want it to be,
Don’t ruin it with lies and fake,
You know— there might just be a soul at stake,
The end is clear from the start,
Though the middle is the most fun part.
--Jacob Dexter Coffey--
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
1.
When seeking a lost thumbtack it is best to walk barefoot in the dark.
2.
If the **** is up to your neck don't make waves.
3.
To live in mind and groupmind is like trying to dig a well with a needle.
4.
Your face is inscribed with unhappiness---wash it off.
5.
Sooner or later we all sit down to a banquet of consequences.
6.
Youre so full of **** if I gave you an enema youd fit in a matchbox afterwards.
7.
If you want to commit suicide but cant quite find the courage then spend two days in any Muslim country--that will do the trick.
8.
If its a **** don't polish it.
9.
You can always tell a Yorkshire man but you can never tell him much.
10.
if your IQ is so low that you must be watered twice a day--then pay your water bill.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
Sometimes
I wonder what you’d say
Would you walk away
and let me follow in your wake
laughing about the feeling of your
rain that kisses the curves of your tan softened face the way I wish I could,
the very rain that seeps into the laugh lines of your eyes, the rain pools that cut outs of your smile
would you let me linger in the decadence of your sarcasm
would you let me sit next to you while you laugh
In that way you lazy way you do
when you
lay back against the wooden
bench
Or would you hold me close,
close enough to smell your aftershave
and let me see your broken nails
and torn calluses
close enough to feel your stubble on my cheek and feel your breath on my jaw
close enough to put my hands around your back and feel the scars that reside just out of my reach
Would you let me avoid telling
the truth to myself and shut me
up like a gull at night, so peaceful until it reaches the peak where night is no longer dark, and suddenly a cacophony of screeching worse than the alarms on the traditional alarm clock
or would you let me fall
onto an open-ended, double edged
question
sharper than a thumbtack and twice as rusty
Do I even have the courage to tell
you?
Or am I a molotav cocktail
and waiting until smashed to
crash and burn
Would you even let me open my
metal mouth and let my tongue
carve waves into your soul and tear you up
so you feel half as bad as i do
alone.
Would you let me read your
texts?
and ask me why she was upset?
or would you even come near me
I open my mouth to tell you
“Hey! I need to say something!”
“Yeah?”
“Gimmie a hand?”
You said okay.
that wasnt what I wanted to ask
but
You said okay
and smiled
like an empty glass of expired wine.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
I wanted to show the secretarial assistant
the mashup, parody skit of the grumpy cat snoring under a
lampshade
but resisted for the fear she might think me strange
I am very lonely
Yesterday the girl in my team replied my email
with gnawing, jagged words that tapped on my skull
about how my prep materials belong to the basement
shelves of a blank, barren attic
and how the world would be a useful place
only without me
in barbed, lofty italics
that slickly slices open my skin
Perhaps she is correct
for my social life is the bluntest thumbtack in a drawer
like a black hole ******* me into the hollowness at the pit of
my stomach
I sometimes say
"I want to change the world"
but really, if words could ****
all I want is to write poems all day
with my face a moving canvas for animated poems
like razors, stabbing into her black-widow lips
or a hero slamming his fist
handsomely into the villain's chest
as she mouths "you're no good",
once again.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
I am a deformed pudding cup
I am the lid that never opens
I am the spoon that bends when you try to get ice cream
I am the piece of tape that never sticks
I am a thumbtack that never goes into the wall
when you try to put me in I just break and fall somewhere on the floor youre afraid youll step on me
I am the rock underneath your slip-n-slide
I am the grass floating in your pool
I am a burnt dry burger with no salt
I am a water gun that doesn't shoot as far as you thought
Iiiii am everything unfortunate
I am the little thing that has to annoy you
I am the pebble in your shoe
I am a forgotten password
I am physics
I am a low quality image
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
when an unrequited love suddenly steps into your life,
do not panic.
do not try and win him over.
do not create scenarios in your head of a pixel perfect dreamland
where you two can live happily ever after together.
do not waste your time looking at pictures of him and his girlfriend
on Facebook just to fuel your lack of confidence and confusion.
do not tell him you write poems about him.
realize that even if you do tell him, he will not ask to read them.
do not hang out with him and have ulterior motives.
do not stare at his arms, at his hands, do not look
at the strand of hair that falls ever so delicately over his chiseled face.
do not think about pushing it back.
do not make eye contact for too long, even if he’s the one
who started it.
realize that there is an entire language when it comes to two
people looking at each other straight in the eyes,
but it doesn’t always mean they are speaking the same one.
do not bring him up in conversations.
this is not a topic for small talk.
this is a topic for writing sappy poems and sad songs.
this is a love that no amount of discussion or advice will
be able to comfort or protect you from.
when you go to his apartment to hang out and play music,
pretend not to notice his girlfriend’s things.
her bobby pins on the bathroom counter.
her underwear hanging out to dry.
her tampons underneath the sink.
photo-booth pictures of the two of them up on
the refrigerator. you don’t see it. you don’t.
do not wonder what he’s told her about you.
keep your questions about her limited.
when he compliments you on the dress you are wearing,
say “thank you” and walk away. do not let that be
the reason why you are suddenly smiling and speechless.
know that there is no cure for this.
know that this is an open wound that will probably never heal
unless you cut him out altogether.
do not confuse bravery with selfishness.
see the simplicity of loving without being loved in return,
feel the pain of how hard this is to accept.
do not use this as an excuse to be empty again.
and when you feel like screaming into a pillow and tearing out
strands of your hair in an unequivocal rage wondering
“What do I do with all of this love then??”
Create a thumbtack out of your frustration, poke a hole in your vein
and feed all of that love to yourself until you no longer
feel the need to think about him
anymore.
that, is bravery.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
cracks in
the surface
spiderweb crisscross
across the frozen eyelid
of the lake
cracks in
the surface
split dendritically
across the ragged planes
of my arctic fingers
capped with
weather-worn callouses
swimming through
my thick hair frosted
with sun drop water crystals
and dry winter dandruff
snowflake scalp fluff
finger fly skin flurries
and I'm a coldfront
I'm a thunderhead
icicle snowdrift
I'm a rolling cloud
ice gale moonmist
trekkin through the
frosted forest with
fairy dusted
smiles and
snow filled
mittens
I'm a
fickleberry
tick tack
pick pack
**** it like a
smoke stack and
poke it with a
thumbtack
through the front
and out the back
and swan dive
into the cork board
leave it for another day
move on forward but
don't forget to stop
and pray
tongue tied
in a knot today
like a cherry stem
tongue tried
quite a lot, I say
to carry them
ever-powerful silly
magic mouth sounds
I went for a walk today.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC