"towners" poems
I hear the crash of the avalanche. Some keep time to its rhythm, there's a lot to do before it hits. I catch the swaying of snowflakes. I can hear the roar of the wind. Before they found benzene rings in the well, I could say who had broken a whole in the oil rig. Some found themselves staring at their faces, picking their destinies away, smoking themselves into a methamphetamine oblivion, until they cleaned the skin off of their faces. I hear the submarines starting in the South Fork, God's Riffle is under, so don't try to join them. Some speak until their lips are the color of bruises, some never speak because they're afraid of finding bruises trapped in their hair. America is spending in darkness. Knowing in foul tradition. Burning at the testicles, and calling in sick. Go home to Wyoming, drink your nuclear family into a white courtroom with a fickle jury of out-of-towners. Be on your best most calm behavior. The denim is up in the air, the snow is coming in shingles, the grizzlies and black bears are choosing which young they ought to hide.
I hear the cruelness of amphetamine users, through and through. You don't want to know them, I don't- I doctor up my circumstances so I don't drive ourselves crazy observing and swerving up and down and off the road. I am the Prince of Bell-Air. I keep my pockets oozing with four colors of black and nothing darker. Something is sharpening the beats of a generation, and no one is calling. Where are my friends in the darkness? I can hear their sides when they cough, but there is nothing like laughing in glitter, aside from the wildness and toil of this dusk.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
In God's American heaven
all the Krishnas,
Ivans & Nadias,
get to wait in line
like sorry-ass out-of-towners
hoping for a good night out,
while the Americans,
granted extra
special consideration
by right of birth
& all that is great
& mighty about
this unique land,
just get waved on through
by God's golden bouncers,
straight on in
like hot girls
& dazzling boys
at the club
of the
moment
in the dazzling
L.A. night.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
We’re separated,
treated like toys.
We’re confisticated,
they think they’re one of the higher boys.
To be so stereotypical,
is nothing to be proud about.
To be so hypocritical,
is something you shouldn’t carry out.
We cry for justice,
in need of help.
We can't ride on busses.
all we do now is yelp.
We can’t drink water at just any fountain
they think they’re higher than the tallest mountain.
We can’t eat food at just any counter
but they don’t realise they’re just regular old towners.
We’re like people who by law,
are supposed to feel left out.
So many mistakes and flaws,
need to be fixed, no doubt.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
I was young once, living on hope and ten dollars
in an upstairs flat in Royal Oak, Michigan.
I used to eat at The Busy Oak, where junkies and drunks lived in the weird apartments on the second and third floors.
I went to the movies at The Washington.
I remember buying a jacket at Joe's Army Navy Surplus,
and a bright red scarf at some corner boutique where 80s chic was so thick that it made this ordinary girl feel out of place.
The sky was a brilliant September blue that day,
and I was on my last fine free days of being semi-employed,
an art I had perfected all through my twenties...
I needed time to read Vonnegut and Tolstoy,
and to go see Far From The Madding Crowd and Desert Hearts.
Late that afternoon I sat on the wood floor of my little place,
listening to Joni sing I Had A King, while I read the album jacket and my dog slept in the only chair.
My door was open, as if to let the future in;
I was getting sober and I was getting older.
Who knew then that I would shortly get a real job, a car,
and marry some other damaged soul?
Who knew that the Busy Oak would become trendy stores for out of towners,
or that The Washington would become a stage theater?
Who knew that I would ride by those places every day, a couple of decades later,
having divorced, come out, come clean,
Or that I would still listen to Joni sing about kings and seagulls,
and still wear a red scarf against the chill?
Not me,
whoever I was,
waving to her future self
going by on the street like a ghost begun
but not yet walking the earth.
_______
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 11:55 AM UTC
You need some gas? We'll, step right up
And pump it 'til you've had your fill
Unless you're in New Jersey, where
You best make sure you know the drill.
For it's the last remaining state
Where pumping gas is not allowed
Except for paid attendants and
Of this New Jerseyans are proud.
So even if you're in a rush,
You must sit in your car and wait
Until a service station guy
Can bother to accommodate.
And if you try to speed him up,
You'd better learn to zip your lip,
For then he'll wash your windshield,
Slowly, hoping to procure a tip.
When questioned why this law exists,
Which out-of-towners do detest,
A local politician said,
And I can just assume in jest:
Perhaps our Jersey diet
Full of greasy food's to blame;
Therefore, if we pump the gas ourselves,
We'll burst right into flame!
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC