"townhouse" poems
Caressing my face,
Bubbles rush to greet me
Tickling like a sweet spring sigh.
This is only the first.
I am still half
A visitor. Stuck in suspension
Between this world and mine.
Slowly I pass
Through the threshold.
My air-sick ears adjust
To the sounds of the sea.
I stare down
At the small colony
On the sea floor,
My landing gear is down.
Customs arrives.
A grey, French Angelfish
Of the most industrious kind.
But he isn’t obtrusive.
As he flits in and out
Checking my bubbles
Ensuring I am not bringing
Any more air than I should.
No doubt he will stay near
Most of my stay
I have finally arrived,
The coral city stretches before me.
I catch the current trolley
And it whisks me past
Rocky storefronts and coral motels.
Lobster shopkeeps
Rush out of dark
Stores and stand in the street
Giant claws raised
Toward me in supplication.
Beckoning me to come
And browse his wares
While a fish I don’t know
Is busy cleaning homes and stores.
They must’ve dropped out of the school
Which passes by
The pupils in matching uniforms
Of flashing silver and black.
Clown fish wave
To me from their Lawns
Of sea anemone
Before darting back inside.
Here is the kind of place
Where I could put down roots.
Live out an idyllic life
Living in a coral townhouse.
But for me to stay
Would be severely fatal.
I’m just a visitor
And my visa is about to expire.
I look back one more time
As my head breaks the surface.
The sun stings, I blink.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
There's a moment when everything accelerates
And there's no questioning, things just are.
Madly. Frantically. My mind gyrates;
Playing wildly, dancing upon each single star.
Blurred vision precipitates the tears
As I freeze, knowing in my heart of hearts
That each word falls upon belligerent ears,
And takes second place to your townhouse art.
What pain could Monet paint when floodwaters
Rise, and it becomes clear that the clearest
Understanding lies in the theatre's
Eyes? The curtains fall to the finale's dearest
Friend, and it's there I pretend that it's just a natural disaster,
That this is a craft I still find hard to master.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
“instructions on how to destroy yourself from the ground up, and vice versa”
i say i think i am a better ghost-- and she says, *dont be so cliche
this isnt a fairytale, this isnt Wonderland*
, but i was born shoving the barrel of a gun down my throat like it was someone else’s tongue
and after a while they start to taste the same
less like a herald and more like sour lips curling around a sentence over and over “nobody exists anymore
welcome to the Forgotten era--”
swallowing glass just so my throat wont feel so empty
when she kisses me she says shes sorry
when she says my name it sounds like a swearword, like her mouth is too brittle to sound it out right
“instructions on how to build the perfect barricade”, start with enough wood to burn yourself to the ground
start over. start over. start over.
(seventeen crumpled dollars and a neon sign that says WELCOME TO PARADIS, comical in a way that makes a nine year old on a too-small bike start crying)
We Need To Talk / cutting your bangs uneven with a pair of scissors you found in an abandoned building / LACHRYMAL: CONNECTED WITH WEEPING OR TEARS
“instructions on how to change the way your name sounds”
i bleed empty promises,call people in the middle of the night just to say that I’m Fine
(i dont even remember the last time i ****** awake coughing up consonants, trying to
rebuild myself, i swear!)
she says my name right and it’s a tuesday. there are guns on a basement wall twenty miles away
, and it’s raining outside
, and she tells me she likes the way it sounds
(she swallows it whole)
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
She hushes me repeatedly
as if my voice could be– too loud
for these shrunken, elder walls
What voice can I revive to tell her
that this little place...reminds me...?
Ratchet up the memories
the young mistakes
my welfare “townhouse”
as if my voice could be too loud?!
Where does anger go to say
These cheesy rugs remind me!
of the smoky halls, stoop-sittin’
head lice, **** roach
fumigated invasion
Music loud enough to blow pipes
induce trauma through the walls
Thud Crash
“Stupid ****
Knife-weildin’, drug-sellin’, boyfriend-of-a-future
A can of beer later...
with stress on hold
the smells of dinner, now—all fifteen of them!
Assault me through the front window
“Ya there yet?
...to this “cute little apartment, I mean?"
So it’s sold…
Someone else will wash windows, rake the yard
Shovel Massachusetts snow
Christmas lights come down
in my mind—
Running toward them still
Toes numb
Skates bouncin on my back
Sled firing off sparks against the sidewalk in my wake
Running and as always late
Mittens soaked, heavy
Like my eyes—
Mom and I
looking out this window for the last time
Looking out toward the daughter of the woods I was
Behind—me
the bride sinks
to the bare mattress—
“Was it really 57 years?
How can it be?”
since...clutching can opener and Coke
He scooped her up and through that door....
“How can it be? Oh my….”
"You can always keep the memories."
she chirps to check the tears
But I can’t taste them!
…Mom baking cookies
stew and dumplings on the stove
Snitching chocolate bits
waiting for the bowl
Impatient little helpers at her side
Colors slipping…
A child husks corn in sunlight
A blue Huffy gleams behind birthday candles
Sheets billow from the line
Sounds fading...
A choir of music boxes
before the Christmas carnage
Doing dishes in three-part harmony
I can barely wrap my words around our voices!
“You can always keep the memories”
Preamble to the dutiful decision
Hypothermic excuse
to dump the place
Street sign shrinking in the rear-view
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
It’s starting to cool down here in Connecticut. Leaves are falling, like giant, burnt snowflakes (science says that trees send chemical signals to their branches to clip leaves away).
Peter borrowed a friend's toy-like, pea green, Fiat-500 convertible and we drove into the country to see the turning leaves. We hiked a bit too and stopped, in Mystic, for seafood.
I never realized just how theatrical trees could be, with their few, simple, chlorophyll tricks and how reflective still lakes could be. Wowzer, just - wowzer.
There are some things that should never be shared. Like a toothbrush, an iPad, lipstick, strawberry stroopwafels, a slice of pizza or a secret lover (that last one just sounded good). But life is good, I can share that. We’re young, dramatic sophomores with good hair products and we’re at it, working and playing hard.
Ahh.. ok, upon consultation, I have to add that some of us are in their mid-twenties with only a few good years left.
Did I mention that we climbed up a twisty lighthouse staircase too? Peter always thinks people should take the stairs, and not the elevators, “You want to have muscles and bones that work when you’re eighty,” He says. Since he’s closer to eighty than I am, when we’re not carrying furniture, I let him have his way. Of course, he’s never been to up Lisa’s 50th floor townhouse either.
My mom told me that they’re off to Poland again, over the holidays, for another tour with “Doctors without Borders” **** war). Lisa’s parents have (kindly) invited me to share their high-rise utopia again this year. Who knows, maybe Peter will have his chance to try those stairs.
Nov 4, 2022
Nov 4, 2022 at 3:30 PM UTC
Someday I shall dwell
In a townhouse by the square
Surrounded by a picket fence
Which guards yellow daffodils
The color of butter, the scent of cheer.
A strip of the town shall be laid
In cobblestone, each side of the road
Embellished with tall, San Francisco buildings
Each its own, and each a new hue.
In the morning I will wake
The same time as the sun
And amble down the seashore
Discerning every seafull, eyeing every seashell,
I shall smile as the wet sand
Squelches through my toes
And the tide comes in,
For I will be happy.
In the afternoons, I’ll laze about,
Meet a friend for coffee,
I shall linger at the bay where the ferries come in
Smell the salt as it spritzes my skin.
There will be a cheerful man on Mondays
Who pushes a white cart up and down streets
Wielding balloons of every color
For giggly children, hands covered in lollipop residue.
I shall smile at night
When the moon rules the sky
And gleams through my window,
For I will be happy.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
There's a peculiar feeling about emptiness.
Like hundreds of misshapen rocks
Have all been carelessly dumped
Into the cavity which should hold
My red, pulsing heart.
It's not obnoxious
Or tangible,
But it lurks somewhere right beyond
I love you
And I miss you
And I don't care.
Like termites slowly devouring
An old pewter coffee table
Left on the corner in front of a tall
Decaying townhouse.
The legs slowly deteriorate,
Revealing their soft fleshy wooden insides.
There's no warning sign for this kind of
Isolation.
No tell tale symptoms
Or home made remedies
Of honey and camomile.
Flashing neon lights
Flicker and fade into the
Heavy night.
And symmetrical posters
Don't illuminate the pathway to loneliness like they should.
Instead,
It just creeps up on you when you're least expecting it,
Between casual conversations
And vulnerable moments of passion.
You can't stop it,
Or push it into a corner
The way you can with guilt
And premeditated promises.
It's too disfigured to be shut away in a symmetrical closet
Or empty dining room.
It's the absence of understanding,
The congested feeling in your lungs
And heart
And stomach,
That comes when you suddenly realize
No one understands.
It's unpredictable in that way,
The sudden realization,
There's no telling when it will spring upon an unexpecting moment,
And devour the innocence of longing.
But when it happens,
When your whole world feels frozen,
Stagnant and stuck between the cracks of reality,
And covered with a thin veil of dust
And failure,
When your throat is dry and chalky,
Full of almost there sentences
That dance in the chaos of your desperation,
You'll know.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC
The pink Corvette - driving madam |
in Jackie O shades & pink pillbox
hat getting photographed
pulling up to the townhouse
for the Page
Six pin-up : : her girls from
the Midwest, trained & groomed,
crowned & titled; every one
wearing their own diamond tiara;
only the best of the best dolls, dames &
dishes get served
[working
girls] work Barbie's Dream Brothel; bouffant & hoop earrings
& a silver slit skirt;
timelessly retro (the one sixteen,
the other fourteen)
where the hell do u think u're going - -]
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
"How are you?"
"I'm fine, and how are you?"
If only it were that simple.
He believes in power of self yet some days just feels helpless
Hardened body and calloused hands help to hold in demons
Fair smiles and warm laughs on the outside of the house of body
but step inside and see this is no home
Broken bottles fly like broken words in a broken family
How cold does it have to be to freeze a waterfall
as cold as he, as he is cold as ice
tears stop on frozen edge, invisible to all but him
because he hasn't let them fall since he was nine
it may seem sad, the lack of expression almost half of one's life
but that's the kind of man built by a father who never pulled punches
he threw them
yet don't feel sad for our dear boy, he doesn't feel sad for himself
he believes in character he believes in strength but he'd never put a child through that hell
never again would that play be renacted
the stage set in a three bedroom townhouse, this here, the broken home
tongues fly to make sounds echo down hallways into their sons room
is this love?
He doubted it.
Slurred words shouted names he did not know
****
*****
****
Days later he figured this had something to do with why he was moving out, why him and mum left
Why pa flew to Alberta and he was stuck with this mess
the lovely pile of pills and drink he called his mother,
in her sorrowful state of crazy
Our large rock continued it's jolly course around the sun, and many rotations later the boy was king
In charge at home, but not of himself, slowly slipping
calloused hands had nothing to cling to
Mum was losing it, keeping her on her pills was hard
and dad was gone,
whether he was leading a good life or shooting debts into his arms he didn't know
he hadn't talked to him in 3 years
didn't plan to either
So this is how it feels for he,
the bruised boy with good intentions,
keeper of pills and watcher of siblings
the man of the house.
You ask me how I am
and I'll answer it with truth
“I'm fine"
And how are you?”
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
Night hiking through the last of the giant fields
Deserted farm land in between brand new townhouse complexes
Your new found Australian shepherd is herding us
Charging ahead and circling back to make sure we’re coming
The grass is up to our waists
We’re walking to walk
making daisy chains
testing butter cups under our chins,
******* honeysuckle
lightning bugs flicker
The twilight moon is already high in the sky
Our breath is white -
It’s just a bit too cold out
We smoke and talk and shiver
I keep looking at my watch and can’t concentrate
I start to wish I was home cuddled under blankets bingeing on junk food watching tv.
It’s been a bit too long with you today
After we walk home and you leave, then I miss you
Moonlight.
Finally – sleep.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
That tiny
red brick townhouse
somewhere
away from London.
Bathed
in fogged sunlight.
Watery air.
rays
in penumbras.
At the window
she is
a conflagration
of
soft yellow lasers.
The ivy creeps up the windows
from a
bottomless
rug
seeping
out of the basement grates
in
green
scrambling
capillaries,
they want to be burned
in the sun.
What joy
a snake
like me
feels
in a daydream
set in
his innocent London,
to be supplanted
by fear
lazing
with her legs up
***
open,
***** smiling
vertically
and
her
red-pink ****
an apple
on scratchy bedsheets.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 7:56 PM UTC
We have a brownstone townhouse kind of love
The kind that we can cover with the murals of our madness
With the paint of our perfection
That's built on the floorboards of our expectations
The number always changes but the people never seem to
I would like our love
To not be measures in square feet,
But with the creeping doors and narrow staircases.
The closets stopped hiding the things we asked them to
And my skeletons lay sprawled
All hip bones
Vertebrae
and rib cages
What has become of me?
I asked myself
and your look said unfamiliarity
and an animosity
Which I never thought possible.
Your smile spelt out greed
And your vocal chords never articulates the syllables I wanted them to.
You used me.
An I fell for it.
Is love just muscle memory?
Are we all just reacting the same way we did the first time?
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 5:49 AM UTC
Coarse concrete passes under bare feet while funk beats propel my body along the street. Cars fly by towards ***** soaked twilight beneath the stars and street lights, as the black and whites prepare to patrol and control the night. Clubs packed to capacity hock their swill to the patrons, twirling and milling about in the hopes of not leaving alone. These fleeting moments of torrid romance hold no interest for this bloodshot brother of the night time world as I wander towards Townhouse 124. Fresh air fills my lungs as drunken party songs are sung beyond this aural wall of Clinton, praise be given for the funk has risen! Lying down now, in my bed, are where the sweetest songs are bled. From the wounds inside my mind, the words flow out like crimson tide. When I see the morning light, bid farewell to dearest night. Though we'll be reunited soon, I'll miss the comfort of the moon, bringing with its calming glow, a break from sun shines rays of woe.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
I will always be a little bit depressed.
I will always have that little spot in my heart
that you can feel lying in bed,
that feels like an unfinished apple
browning in the air.
I will always be a little depressed
with the sound of the swamp cooler overheard
and the sound of crickets outside at night
and the deep blue color of the sky
on a southern evening.
and the train running through town
across towns where the moonlight
seeps through shut blinds
where the tall grass climbs the pale blue walls
of a small townhouse under a telephone wire
and across the country,
where the desert spreads out from a lone house
like the mountains are
shying away from it
where a scared and tired young girl
tries to fall asleep with all the lights on
where fluorescent-and-concrete street lights
flicker on but nobody drives that night
and therefore nobody needs them
these things are all so sad
and so the question begs to be asked,
who can't connect with them?
ipso facto,
who isn't a little bit sad?
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
Where midnight is bright as day and time never does slow down
I find myself alone for the first time ever, walking along where
nobody knows who I am and they wouldn’t really care if they did.
Because they’ve got their own stories to fabricate and skeletons
to bury beneath onionskin layers. Two in the morning with my head
stretched to the sky and I find myself falling in love with a stranger.
Central Park is a castle with horse-drawn carriages and suddenly
I’m a scarlet-cheeked princess waiting for my naked cowboy to rescue
Me so we can run away and live in a quaint Brooklyn townhouse where
the children play ghetto games. I don’t want to live the lifestyle of the rich
and famous. Leave me to myself so I can wander the splendid city streets.
The man with wrinkles covering his ebony face and his ragged, dusty clothes
too big for his slender body sneaks a glance and sly grin at me before he picks
up his golden saxophone and serenades the subway passengers, bringing
sunshine and sultry smiles to their dark faces. He’s had a painful, wretched life
and the pain of losing a son, his first baby, to a grenade in a Middle Eastern desert
where the sun burns the soldiers’ skin as they spend hour after hour, looking for weapons they’ll never find.
The look in his eyes is clear. Making others smile, in the middle of the city subway is his heart’s content.
I drop a bill into his beaten up case and move along,
but that sweet sound overwhelming the hot, ***** air I’ll never forget.
I swear I can almost touch Pluto from where I sit, at the Top of the Rock, and the stars
are an arm’s stretch away. I can see past the Manhattan skyline and into Jersey.
I’ve seen the whole world tonight. How I wish I may, how I wish I might stay. Give me the crowded
streets and boutiques for keepsakes. I’ll pack them tightly into tissue paper and each
night when I’m ready to fly away from the small town girl living in a lonely world sort
of life I’ll make a wish and fall in love all over again in a city where nobody knows my name.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 9:23 PM UTC
*As I lay down today
Letting the storm passes by
Trying to deal with this dreary life
Adam's ale on high up, dripping
Pails on the ground, catching
Steer clear of mistakes
Nevertheless, they are certain*
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
The map is molested with marks of all the places we tried to make our love work
When my Being began suffocating you in our 500 sq ft apartment,
we thought a two bedroom townhouse in the concrete confines of the financial district would be enough
space to assuage the wolf inside you longing to lone.
When that wasn’t enough, we tried two buildings.
One for office, one for home. Ostensibly together, but with two separate addresses.
We thought one place for dwelling and one for thinking would be enough
to calm the raging fire protecting your heart.
When that wasn’t enough we flew south,
where the promise of sun and cloudless skies breathed hope into our little love’s lungs.
We thought the heat would be enough
to melt the ice hardening in your eyes.
When the sun wasn’t enough to heal like our fantasy promised, I flew to another continent.
We thought 1000 miles of coast between us would be enough
To remind us why we started. Let him miss you, they told me.
When the desperate separateness of two separate continents
wasn’t enough to reunite us
like I never thought it would,
we finally capitulated to having two separate lives.
Would another move have been enough? Another perfect permutation of distance to heal the distance between our hearts?
We’ll never know
Enough was never enough
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 10:36 AM UTC
We’re sitting on the plaid couch in my basement, your hand in mine like a puzzle piece we took forever to find. It’s when we’re doing nothing when I realize that I want to do everything with you. It is almost always winter in my mind, my thoughts permanently frozen in time, paralyzed to my bed sheets the way icicles cling to shivering windowpanes. But with you, it’s different, our blossoming love proving the existence of a perpetual spring. We grow wildly- like two oak trees embraced behind the fence in my backyard, our branches intertwined and our roots firmly entrusted in the dampness of the soil. Not even the strongest breath of wind could destroy us.
And we walk hand-in-hand in the breath of October, the kind that stings like knives to the bone. You forget to bring a jacket with you but you insist that you are perfectly fine, that the electricity radiating between our fingers is enough to keep you warm for a collection of intoxicating eternities. And to us, the rest of the world barely exists, their watchful eyes and orchestral voices like anthems proclaiming the silliness of our juvenile love, a bright-eyed girl in a violet trench coat and a boy with a smile so bright it’s almost as if she had accidentally fallen in love with the rays of the sun. The kind of livid brightness that warms the coldest of hearts, the darkest of rooms.
But we walk to the neighborhood coffee shop with the combined tranquility of two retired lovers strolling through Paris and the frenzied excitement of exhilarated children on the seemingly endless journey to Disney World. Every welcoming front porch and townhouse we pass feels empty in comparison to the home we created within us, with a fire permanently kindled in our souls and between our restless fingers. You kiss me where the sidewalk ends, between the trees that resemble the magnificence we have become- the sky melting every molecule of transparent sadness I had left within me through an endless palette of pastel bliss. And in that moment, we become the fragile remnants of summer heat stuck trapped and misunderstood in the birth of autumn.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Empire State Building, floor 102.
That’s where I’ll be waiting for you.
You guys are like family, I love you in a way.
I’ll be your friend and solace, strong roof over your heads.
Pull up to your wedding, be your best man, wipe your tears when it’s over.
But don’t jump off, babe, soon we’re all going to be happy.
In Empire State, someday we’ll all be free.
I wanna fall in love at least once before I die, even if it brings me down.
So don’t jump off, babe, soon we’ll all stop being lonely.
Empire State, someday we’ll all be free.
I can see the words trapped in your eyes when you look at me.
Someday you won’t have to fear it.
We’ll hold hands doing laps around Central Park in summer.
We’ll french kiss on the subway like some blazed down gunners.
Don’t be afraid of the dark when you feel it.
Someday you won’t ever have to fear it.
I’ll go to New York City, I’ll be grateful to stand where they stood.
I was in heaven when they were dying, I swear I emphasized with them when nobody could.
It’s sad when I think what my brothers and sisters have suffered while I sat on Jesus’s lap.
It’s not my ******* fault that Jesus made me gay as ****
I’m looking in the wrong places, forever out of luck.
But someday I won’t have to wander.
Someday I will open my blinds and invite the light in.
I’ll be at the beachside, old and happily married.
In a townhouse painted green which has a garden of hydrangeas, nourish me.
I’m a hemlock baby, fruit of toxicity but I’m still beautiful.
Step on me all you want, but I’ll still do lots of good.
The empathy within me is as strong as a stone wall standing tall and lingering on.
There’s radioactivity, discovered by Madame Curie and I’m carrying it along.
But I have faith still
that God loves me
I wish to love another in the same way, Lord let me.
I will give you
roof and solace
Someday you’re gonna need it before you get to give it.
I can see the scars on your soul when you expose it to me.
Someday you won’t have to loathe them.
We’ll dance with locked hands jiving to music of liberation.
Remember what they took from us, be proud of what he had.
Don’t hate yourself and don’t think you’re broken.
You’re just beautiful in a world that’s not yet awoken.
A songbird once sang to me that someday we’d all be free.
The pain that you endured, it will be your strength, it will lead you forward, it will hold your hand.
A songbird once sang to me that someday we’d all be happy.
I’ll come to your wedding, be your best man, cry with joy as you’re standing at the altar.
Empire State, we’ll throw baby showers, grow vegetables together, perform in gay bars on street corners.
In Empire State, we’ll kiss on the subway, be invisible, marry each other on floor 102.
I wanna fall in love at least once before I die, I just wanna fall in love.
It’ll be okay,
we’ll all be free someday,
Empire State, don’t you jump off.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 5:08 AM UTC
I feel like you've held me for two hundred years
In Parisian gardens I gave the alarm to
the gentleman at your back
Hungrily at want for your touch.
I stayed in your hands at arms length.
I was there the Tsar's palace, I kept you company
As the ball carried on, a dance you knew well.
Reflecting the curve of your smile
Reassuring you of your beauty with each lull in the waltz.
You brought me closer to your lips.
And hung in your townhouse to keep you company
As guard I stood watch
Shining the light on the love of my life
As you sipped your morning coffee by the window
And listened and sighed
To the jazz of the cars in Time Square.
To day once again in the Country I'm here
A mirror you found at an old rummage sale
Beautifully patina-ed, tarnished though worn,
I'm worn. Lacking luster and shine
What use has one with a mirror like that anymore.
But you are light and lovely
You found me again in a place in your heart
Care at a cost, hours lost at polish.
And try as I might I needed your touch to make me shine again.
This morning I saw you in me
Not the woman I knew, arms sore from scouring my face
Brow heavy in your labor of love, but still the curve of that smile.
I beg you please open then curtains and let in the light!
Lay down your weary soul and rest. I am done, I am here!
I've taken your radiance, Love made me anew.
It's time that you see them reflected in you.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
the heat has gone
with the rain
a fierce humidity
saturating every breath with salt
and hydrogen and oxygen
wet dreary hell
smothering the houses
the people inside
all tucked away
breaking bones and sweat
too much to live these days
too much
hearts don't beat like they used to
the world's gone grey
don't shine like it used to
and its maddening
once again
except now
the roads are empty
and now
the madness is
in the
corners of the
bars and
townhouse basements
where small men
whittle away at
their
shallow pride
beating their
purchased wives
to make up
for the love
its a madness
in the blood
it is a cancer of the soul
or maybe it is
the salvation
can't really tell
hard to see
or think
much of anything
anymore
everyone drowned
by everything
as the world
limps onward
toward winter
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
"We have so much in common,
I think I really like you.
I want to spend the day with you
And the night too."
Packed the old overnight bag;
Drove to your townhouse.
An hour on the beltway,
54 miles from me to you.
"Come on upstairs with me.
Now come on over to the bed.
I've been waiting all day for you.
C'mon you know you want it too."
I don't think I can do this I say;
Its not what I envisioned in my head
But it feels so good to be touched again.
Okay I guess we can start here.
"Tell me how much you like it, say my name"
I'm crying the whole time because I know.
"I have to go to work tomorrow now.
I really need to get some sleep.
I cant really sleep well if someone is here.
Let me know you got home ok, I guess."
I take a long dark car-ride of shame.
50mph. 60mph. 70mph. 80mph. 90mph.
How fast can a Mustang go I wonder.
About as fast as a heart can break, I guess.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
Here you go again
getting on about
talking...talking...
Talking about
that townhouse.
*I felt like a caged mouse
there's a way in, but...
no way out.*
Blood stained walls
Cracked floors
Should I say more!?
Creepy neighbors
Meddling bugs
Enough, now hush!
**Why the townhouse?!
Why the townhouse?!**
Just why?
Thinking about that house
gives me nightmares
don't you want our family safe?
Do you even care?
A townhouse where
a husband and wife
wish for more money
and not enjoying life
where the children
are spoiled rotten
and they cry
all the time.
So stop mentioning
that townhouse
one more word
and you are out
Where we are now
is perfectly fine
don't say it again
don't waste my time.
*I'll stay and live here
because I'm nourished
You can go out there
as I watch you...
flourish...back into
the townhouse.*
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 11:08 PM UTC
I know
No matter how hard we try,
Our life will never be perfect.
We’ll probably never be rich,
Never be famous,
Never be known –
We’ll probably never save the world
Although I won’t give up
On that dream.
Despite this knowledge,
this lack of perfection,
I see smiles on our faces
As we grow old,
Hand in hand,
Heart in heart,
In love.
If we always live
In this rented townhouse
With free cable
And your parents’ pets,
I will be happy
Just knowing I go home
To you.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
Money flows into coffers, kept safe and warm
while a man representing the poor, homeless and cold
given the crusts from a food bank in 21st century Britain
finds shelter beneath a bridge, from rain and wind.
High jinx champagne parties, big cigars and flash cars
a townhouse, country retreat, kept spotless by the below minimum waged, immigrant, a man fleeing penury, a wife and children count on his honest, dishonest meagre pay, and all the time he gets nowhere.
New suits, shiny shoes, a private education for all the brood, holidays in the Sun, a boat beyond belief moored in paradise and all the cash you can hold, and more ,flowing into your offshore bank accounts,
while your servant polishes the silverware, last job before he goes, and beds down beneath the bridge at the end of the road.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC