"toyota" poems
Mark A. Williams
SEPTEMBER 14, 1962 – JULY 23, 2018
___________________________________________________________
Wow Mark,
Was so, so saddened to hear this news. I haven't seen you in over ten years, but as kids, we had some amazing adventures, didn't we? Partying, camping and swimming at the Hudson lime pits. Mowing down on Pizza and pitchers of Pepsi (and as we grew up, BEER!) at Pizza Hut. (We knew the numbers to ALL the songs on that jukebox by heart!) Hanging out and looking at the stars through Budvido's telescope, listening to Doctor Demento. Laughing hysterically as we ran through Monty Python skits as everyone looked on in total puzzlement because THEY wouldn't discover them until YEARS later!
Building underground forts in the North Woods. You, Budvido, Zeke and I playing pinball at 7-11 for hours and hours. Watching Bands, chasing girls and playing Foosball or Pool at the Touch of Class Teen Club. You gave me my first Imported beer . . . a Lowenbrau. I will always owe my passion for those German beers to you and it was fitting that Budvido bestowed you with that moniker.
All through Jr. High, sharing a seat on the school bus. You, Matt, Tom, Buddy and I cruising around late night on our bikes for hours. Hanging around in the Jasmine Lakes sign with hijacked beer or getting free bags of Burgers from Burger Queen when they closed at night! Jousting with shopping carts on our bikes in the Winn-Dixie parking lot. Sitting up all night in Jimi's room after climbing in through the window or going on endless space cruises with him and Raymond in the Toyota.
(RIP Jimi Carlsen)
Sneaking into the nudest Colony and skinny dipping! Always cracking up at the school lunch table. Swimming in my pool and terrorizing my sister and her friends. (Allegedly) Trashing that crook Fast Eddie's produce stand after he refused to pay us for a full day of picking watermelons!
Good times, indeed . . . Some of my most precious memories.
I can only pray that you know that I wouldn't trade my youth or you in it for anything in the world and you will be sadly missed, Lowenbrau, my old friend.
I hope that where you are, your beers are ice cold and that you and Jimi aren't having to glue the Hookah back together.
Jeff Gaines
July 28, 2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
Night is for the hours
Cowards,
Let a man of God speak or night
Will continue to burn flowers
It's been said napkins are the greatest currency
For it holds the food spittle of man
Like how ambulances sit waiting
To clean up after misfortunes
And make fortunes for the fortun-
Who Ate paragraphs of spider webs
And patted weaves like black men seating at the back of the limited luxurious Q46 bus nodding heads to the noise of Toyota cameras they couldn't afford in the land where they spend $300 million to part the seas for summer entertainment
While they only spent $40 on California cuteness and walked on water with 13 Jesus' and ate at the bottom of the sea with only three tokes from the plastic bag
Let a man of God speak or night
Will continue to burn flowers
For we graduated from 30 hot nights of mathematics
Only to find that the future will always be white and in the *******
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
She furiously takes notes in geometry class
He throws a paper plane across the room
She gets out her neatly written homework
He gets out a scratch paper with drawings on it
She maintains straight A's
He's lucky to get a D+
She has a strict curfew of 9:00 pm
He stays out all night
She daydreams about what could be
He steps up for what he wants
She reads Shakespeare
He reads... Well he doesn't
She drives the latest model of the Honda civic
He's lucky if his '76 Toyota will start
She's only loved honor students
He's only loved her
She pays no attention to him
He begs for her notification
She graduates top of her class
He barely gets by
She goes off to college
He stays and becomes a mechanic
She marries rich and lives wealthily but bitterly
He regrets the concealed feelings he never shared
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
The Holy Family?
In a box
with the angels upstairs
Shepherds?
In search of their sheep
lost in newspaper
Somehow I sit on a bag...
of glass Christmas *****
“Must get my vacuum!”
That dead animal, coated by dust
and buried in laundry--
has tangled itself in its own cord
and tumbled headlong to the basement
Crooked photos of daughters
watch me...
smiling (Can it be?)
from a hundred miles and years away?
Waiting for me to make
that miracle again--
What moms do at Christmas
Phone rings
“Jing-a-ling, are ya listening?”
It's the bill collector's recorded
“This is inexcusable!” message
Charities are legion
I say, “There is a line”
Later--
seen only by the peaceful stars...
the donkey of Bethlehem
stumbles in-- laden with groceries
dumping them on the bed/couch
...and back outside for the next load
...and back to the bed again
Why bother making it?
Not as if the cat cares
He likes his blankets niched and lumpy
Not as if some modern home magazine's
planning a photo-shoot!
The mailbox, meanwhile
is preggers with glossy catalogues
...and bills...and
“Wouldn't your whole family enjoy a sunroom?”
Dropping the bags
searching for a light
turning up the heat--
gas bill
sewer bill
“Tis the season for a new Toyota!”
I try to understand the point
of a Christmas card with printed signature
Can I stuff myself in with the recycling?
Then, back outside for the single-woman drama
“Hauling in the Tree”
Storm door catches the hem of my coat
Pine needles, leaves, snow and mud
mark the end of the trail
On my belly twisting screws
“Son-of-a-bitchin tree stand!”
Knocking my daughter's picture off the wall
“Serves 'er right fer laughin!”
**** thing's crooked and dripping
with melted snow
It's 8:30 PM
The cat is hungry and crying
I hit the bottom-- and the button
for the background of a human voice
Three naked chickens are waiting on the counter
At some point, I will take off my coat...
Right now--
I drink a beer while standing
To get a better view....
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 4:25 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
I hurriedly pull my street dusted , golden brown Toyota into the middle of a gas station war zone. The kind that turns neighbors into enemies, fighting to gain the only valuable piece of real estate around – the gas tanks. The drivers collectively sport the exact same exhausted and frustrated grimaces. A rusty and dated “ Exon Mobile” sign stands tall and strong against the sundrenched sky. The day is coming to a close, and the sun seems hurried to set as if it is exhausted from the day’s labors and expectations that it must rise again tomorrow, just like the gas station’s patrons. This station, to most, is just another stop. Another errand that puts itself between you and the warmth of home. This station, is just another stop. Another errand at the end of an endless day. But to me, this place is full of promise. This is the one place on earth that gives us life. It gives us the chance to see the world and to explore uncharted grounds. This place brings us closer to adventure and myseries, to happiness, to heartbreak, to feeling. This is the fuel and the energy that is waiting to help you make it to the hospital at 4 am to see the birth of a child. This old and worn pitstop let’s us fall in love with the world, with what we can see, with eachother.
But there is this silver truck with tires too big and a man two sizes to small in the passenger seat. There is a prominent dent in the left side door that has remained unchanged, unhelped, in weeks. As this silver, dented piece of metal sits in the way between me and my pajamas, I have the chance to stop. Not to stop because I’ve finally got to where I’ve been trying to go. Not to stop to pay the McDonald’s cashier in shameful regret of another broken new year’s promise. But to really stop. For an unexpectedly and disappointingly long time. To stop with no expectations. To be forced to just stop. And to wait. And to look around.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
They taught me to swim the same way they taught me to ride a bike.
lets see what happens when we push her down a hill, will she balance or bite through her lip?
They locked me in the closet, a suitcase, the trunk of our Toyota Corolla and a cardboard box all because I fit ;)
I walked through her room while she studied for her Calculus Final because it was the only way to get to my room (over and over for attention).
They held me down 3 at a time to play piano on my tummy while I shreked for pure joy and fun.
He gave me a boxing name on our trampoline and let me win. I ate his chocolate in her bed. They thought I was a cat licking itself under the covers.
When he came off the streets he gave me video games, Spyro, Pokemon, Zelda, and Sonic At first I didn't know we were related.
She chased me and my best friend around the house Screaming
Squeeze my buns of steal baby
he never came back.
They held me upstairs while things flew and crashed downstairs forever breaking the lemon squeezer. I cried and he held me, my first memory of him being nice.
She had me live with her 5 days a week 6 years because our parents didn't want to deal, even though she was bulimic. She took care of me but in truth I kept her alive.
They were my first memory, they were there for me, when I was little they were my parents. I jokingly tell people that all my good traits were learned from them.
When they left there was no one left to protect me. All alone, too young to understand them being gone was what made me sad. I was used to having 8 parents and now I have the two that actually gave birth to me.
Haha I say you only have 2. I gave up on them long ago, why would I pick 2 when I have 8?
Forever the 8 of us.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC
Exchanging or replacing an old automobile
can be an intensely emotional experience for anyone
I still have the license plate screws from the first car my mom sold
although I didn’t care at all when my dad sold his car first
I remember crying at the dealership when they took my mom’s Toyota
I don’t even remember my dad telling us he got a new Ford
backseat on the left, behind the driver, was my designated spot, still is
I kept them in an empty Hubba Bubba OUCH! Gum tin, the screws
sometimes I’d open it up just to hold them
and wonder why I’d cared so much about that car
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
For a week straight, I avoided going to the supermarket, even when my stomach grumbled and the fridge stayed empty and lonely. And instead, I looked through my binoculars from the tree house my dad had built with a few planks of wood, nails, and a rusty hammer. A place he’d built before I was put into my mother’s arms and put into a bright blue cradle. Blue as the shirt Abigail was wearing, the same day the cops busted her for giving head to my best friend Isaac in my Toyota Camry. Right in the middle of the parking lot of the supermarket, as I bought pancake batter and cage-free eggs for breakfast.
And Abigail never ate that meal after she spent a week wasting away in a cell block, reading JD Salinger stories over and over, as though his words could heal her marks and bruises.
Today, I made pancakes and eggs for breakfast. I waited for the TV to load a Netflix show, hoping Abigail had learned from her mistakes. She passed me the salt and pepper shakers, as I lit a cigarette, sat in a chair, and smoldered.
Abigail put her face in her hands, cried for a bit, even reached for the ***** bottle.
We went to the supermarket later, walked down one aisle, and picked up meat and potatoes. As we headed for the self-checkout line, I passed the breakfast section and saw the pancake batter and the eggs. Abigail crumbled to the floor, said, “I’m so sorry.”
After that, we never touched breakfast.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
Two poems got away last night when I was dozing
bolted out the door
before I knew it
laughing like fools
Stole my last two beers
and they were gone
“Ya see, officer,
They didn't have their names yet
so they don't know themselves at all
or to answer if I call
They misbehaved and
Never learned there's rules out there
I'm a lousy poet parent, yeah,
I know
I shoulda been tougher on 'em
Half their words 'er scattered
twisted, misspelled, unreadable, inept
with rhythms all askew 'n weighted wrong
They will surely fall over their own lines
and into big shit-trouble
***** little scribbles!
sorta clumsy like their mother"
Meanwhile, the grammar cop is thinking,
“They do not pay me enough for this!
I'm looking for children of the village idiot and a *****
"...Across the yard and down the alley
They must've run
Hopin' they didn't figure out the stick
on the Toyota
I'll never see 'em again
Pretty sure they got my keys"
The cop is nodding, bored, polite
but I notice
He's written all this down
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 3:57 AM UTC
I've spent too many hours trying tower my accomplishments
I stole this art, replaced my heart with everything that's opposite
reverse the hearse, this inner peace is quite a compliant
my yin and yang are but centerpieces upon a ledge
if they fall off, these elements will simply crush a head
solar optimist, a bi-polar writer with floppy-disk
decoded so you can't comprehend
no counter weight for this heavyweight of a mentalist
as I pick up the pen you can see that a flame was lit
since this is my movie, let's keep it groovy and toss the script
I can't wait to show the world what the **** monumental is!
this flow is brilliant to extravagant
I guess what I'm feeling is happiness?
no resilience happening?
Still, don't know who my pappy is
happy pieces of laughy taffy
enough motion from the potion
will have a girl callin me pappy quick
I stay railing like locomotives
the motive is, I'm to motived and focus with all this poetry
unleash my inner locust, then leap on to new pageantry
I'm well adapted like strangers blending into scenes
I gave her the wood in return we nurtured a tree
its double sided girl this **** isn't ever free
If you don't like the price
there's the door you can leave
but look
I know I don't have a car
but soon I will buy a Toyota
pick you up so you can sleepover
I have a super cobra that shots like a super soaker
whenever you're doing yoga
Hulu view for the two,
Youtube view interlude
Netflix an Chill for the mood
Tv on dimmest setting
an inner room lit like the moon
smoking **** watching views
give me snack like I'm scooby do
I just want to lay with you
I picked you out of the many few
from the ocean of this social media stew
girl, what would you like me to do?
November 22, 2016 / Tuesday 1:37 PM
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
The news never stops, but sometimes it breaks
strange, like when the cops tell us,
Man throws dog at sister.
It didn't fly far, but across town,
the Police did finally catch another stray dog
on the Eisenhower Expressway.
I hear it's driving a '98 Toyota Corolla,
which has nothing to do with
the 3 critically injured
when their vehicle hits a pole
on the Kennedy Expressway.
They could be spooked by the report
that a Suburban girl, 11, threatened
to shoot up her school bus.
She's been told pink bullets
are the latest preteen fad,
and to prove her absurd point,
there's more bad news of
2 children injured in a Far South Side shooting.
Add their names to the piled-up statistics
and the multiple PR reasons
an often divided
State Legislature and Mayor Daley will try again
to crack down on gun violence.
This equation's always out of balance.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 7:17 PM UTC
(rust if you must)
I like the way you get me where I go
in any kind of weather , like snow.
i love the freedom i have when i ride
in the drivers seat of you inside.
I dig the tunes we play along our path
I cant afford a New you , i have done the math.
But I love you no matter what others may think
you've Never thrown me of a cliff
or left me at the brink, i think
I drive to and fro to get me where i go
and No better car i own , so now i Say it So...
Rust if you Must , for i don't care about your Looks,
i can study about your kinds repair, if i should read Those books
Rust If you Must , I will always Love you,
For to Me My Camry have you Always been True. :D
Brain M.O.G.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Skyscrapers jut towards the heavens
middle fingers to mother nature
or sun-bleached white ribs of some poor beast
who tangoed with a Toyota
and lost.
The stench that wafts through the streets could easily strip paint
but the locals don’t seem to mind.
meandering through their mundane Mondays
like maggots in goose step
feeding upon the entrails of the mangled carcass.
Soon, their bellies full, gorged on wealth forged from blood, sweat and tears
of the less fortunate, they will pupate.
and in a frenzy of greed, gluttony and lust, they will burst
from their cocoons, and **** eat, and relish in their wealth until they die.
Thus is the cycle of the city.
a cancerous growth, a festering boil, an affront in the eyes of the lord.
this grey-on-grey urban tragedy taints the land and traps us all.
no one ever really escapes.
as their corpses lie in rot and ruin amongst the filth and viscera,
the newest generation of eggs begin to hatch,
and the cycle begins anew.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
We rode to Ta’if on a flying carpet
— a Toyota with a missing hubcap
sweeping through fattened clouds
which clung to the hilltops like grazing bison
arriving on the otherworldly plateau that wore
the death shroud of an old hermit’s mystery
which our Prophet reached in sandals as ******
as the deck of a Nantucket whaling ship
Arabian Himalayas. He climbed like a yak
and the Lord strengthened his steps
Our taxi driver — as lost as the cheque in the mail —
poked at his satnav and called his mates
The Almighty’s beloved followed the angel and
never lost his way. He strained with pain
Our driver’s mirrored eyes intruded while we
held hands on the back seat and yawned
The Lord smiled down upon his aching friend
and eased the pain in cramping calves
A sagging mosque now hunches where the ignorant
had cast away the chance of a lifetime
Oh think if they had taken him in — Medina
would sit as a happy king on a mountain throne
I immortalised my love in a photo in that mosque
praying as a saint where our hero had struggled
I adore my captured shaikha and the memory
of when we followed in the footsteps of our Prophet
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
a bird naps on naked car parts
dogs bark, yap, and yowl under a Toyota
orange lucifer rust gleams in a stack of smashed steel rods
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
Skyscrapers jut towards the heavens
middle fingers to Mother Nature
or sun-bleached white ribs of some poor beast
who tangoed with a toyota
and lost.
The stench that wafts through the streets could easily strip paint
but the locals don't seem to mind.
They march through their mundane Mondays
like maggots in goose-step.
The cacophony of their carrion communion is grisly and deafening.
Garish billboards burn
obscene advertisements onto assaulted retinas.
Street salesmen descend upon naive tourists
like vultures after fresh meat.
Policemen **** and pillage
what they were sworn to protect and serve,
and the Mayor's fungal tendrils
reach deep into the criminal underbelly of his city.
The voracious human hunger for wealth
knows no boundaries.
The grey-on-grey urban tragedy that is this concrete corpse
is always changing. Growing. Advancing.
however, it is not without waste.
Abandoned asphalt arteries stretch as far as the eye can see.
Somewhere, in a derelict parking lot, a flower is blooming.
We may spit in the face of Mother Nature
with every tree we cut and river we dam,
but soon she will be the one laughing
over our shattered
concrete
corpses.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
Falling into the sink hole brimmed with pretty flowers,
to distract your naive eyes
from the aphotic subterrane
just past the things that sparkle.
We put pretty bows on vulnerability,
and call it 'love'
pretending that it will chase the monsters away,
when it really just creates them.
I fell into your calloused hands,
yearning for them to cleanse me
of my murky insecurities,
instead they scrutinized my character,
and I saw my confidence leave me
in pretty ribbons of melted gold.
I once saw the sunrise from the back of a Toyota pickup,
by a creek with cold water and sour memories,
but there was more light in my head then,
because that was long before I started to see my father in your scarred face,
and before you asphyxiated both me and my hopes in you.
I swallowed pain and brushed off distress,
through stale promises and pretty jewels.
You told me it's better to let things go,
and I'm still not sure
why I believed in you so ******* much.
You lived by the motto 'no worries'
and so you were reckless,
and stupid,
and all wrong for the girl
who wraps caution tape over every decision she ever makes.
Things fall apart,
and people fall apart,
and ideas of someone that have been built up in your head for five years
can crumble from just one sleep deprived night,
when you 'calmed me down'
the same way my father used to.
And with bitter content,
and finally no more regret,
I hope Hakuna Matata works out for you,
and I hope she never drinks as much of your poison as I did,
because stains on the heart,
do not come out from swallowing bleach.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
I have 17 empty notebooks
This morning it was 16, but I bought another on my way home from work because it was leather bound and on sale
It cost an hour and a half of work
...
So, I have 17 empty notebooks
One is missing a page
I needed to write down an appointment but I didn't want to ruin the whole book
Another has three pages that are actually written on
It was meant to be a bullet journal but the box marked "bullet journal review" was never checked off
Notebooks three, four, and twelve are actually binders which are usually in a different category but what is a binder if not an evolved journal?
Or maybe they're all subspecies of paper
Its all paper
Paper that speaks, whispering to me in my soft moments when there is nothing to do except worry about all that unfilled space
"We were trees once. We were alive. We were cut down and reshaped to fulfill a larger purpose and this is what becomes of us?"
My guilt turns to anxiety turns to pen clicking and that makes it worse, reminding all 18 of us that I am perfectly capable and yet wholly unwilling
It's not like I haven't tried
All of those notebooks were bought with a specific use in mind
Well, they were all bought and then later justified by thinking of a use that I knew would never come to fruition
Bullet journal, grimoire, dream journal, poetry journal, school journals
...
So, I have nearly 17 mostly empty notebooks in a drawer
They used to sit on my shelf but it didn't seem right placing those empty vessels amongst a universe of universes and filled pages
Like parking my totaled '97 Toyota Corolla next to a Porsche
So they're in a drawer with a few torn shirts I keep meaning to turn into patches, a barely used oil pastel set, and a dusty Bass for Dummies book
So maybe this is a lesson
Maybe I'm making oceans out of puddles
Maybe this is a metaphor for my life and all of its wasted time and blank pages; blank from the months I spent lying on a couch, wrapped up in the cold snow blanket of fear and regret
I regret so much and the more I regret the more anxious I become the more unlikely I am to get up and pick my story back up the more pages pass by as barren as the day is short
Or Maybe
Maybe I should just stop buying new notebooks
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 2:44 AM UTC
Car Wars.
You have fords which some people afford
Chevy they abandoned the levy.
Dodge they play that with a ball in some halls.
Honda is for Rhonda as she tries she might cry.
Toyota is just that a toy that runs on pedal power.
This is the car war. Now we have
Cars that run on corn.
Battery cars that even the copper top will pop.
Electric cars that you plug in, but the cord are short.
Car Wars, I believe that we should buy a horse.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
The Holy Family?
In a box
with the angels upstairs
Shepherds?
In search of their sheep
lost in newspaper
Somehow I sit on a bag...
of glass Christmas *****
“Must get my vacuum!”
That dead animal, coated by dust
and buried in laundry--
has tangled itself in its own cord
and tumbled headlong to the basement
Crooked photos of daughters
watch me...
smiling (Can it be?)
from a hundred miles and years away?
Waiting for me to make
that miracle again--
What moms do at Christmas
Phone rings
“Jing-a-ling, are ya listening?”
It's the bill collector's recorded
“This is inexcusable!” message
Charities are legion
I say, “There is a line”
Later--
seen only by the peaceful stars...
the donkey of Bethlehem
stumbles in-- laden with groceries
dumping them on the bed/couch
...and back outside for the next load
...and back to the bed again
Why bother making it?
Not as if the cat cares
He likes his blankets niched and lumpy
Not as if some modern home magazine's
planning a photo-shoot!
The mailbox, meanwhile
is preggers with glossy catalogues
...and bills...and
“Wouldn't your whole family enjoy a sunroom?”
Dropping the bags
searching for a light
turning up the heat--
gas bill
sewer bill
“Tis the season for a new Toyota!”
I try to understand the point
of a Christmas card with printed signature
Can I stuff myself in with the recycling?
Then, back outside for the single-woman drama
“Hauling in the Tree”
Storm door catches the hem of my coat
Pine needles, leaves, snow and mud
mark the end of the trail
On my belly twisting screws
“Son-of-a-bitchin tree stand!”
Knocking my daughter's picture off the wall
“Serves 'er right fer laughin!”
**** thing's crooked and dripping
with melted snow
It's 8:30 PM
The cat is hungry and crying
I hit the bottom-- and the button
for the background of a human voice
Three naked chickens are waiting on the counter
At some point, I will take off my coat...
Right now--
I drink a beer while standing
To get a better view....
Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC
windows up
walls down
in the backseat of her toyota
staring at the green fluorescent car clock
9:37
he looks over his shoulder in the passenger seat,
the boy who could breathe without inhaling
a mere party trick.
i had always wondered what it felt like to be a teen
stupid as is seems
i was sheltered once,
hidden from night rides
obscured from midnight hikes
asleep instead of the early morning mcdonald trips
my friends were more persistent on making me to eat with them
than making me exhale dancing fumes with them.
i only know the double chin grins on our snapchat stories
the rude jokes, the black ripped jeans, and snapbacks
the lime green socks that matched the stair railings
and pink sliders never looked better.
the “6:30” movies (5:30, shhh, my mom can’t know)
and the crinkling of empty water bottles in the backseat
i felt alive tonight,
even through the tough,
sushi stores and reclining movie theaters never felt more like home.
and boba stores that stay open late with neon open signs
welcome us
9:37
the “oH mY gOsH iTs a DoG” screams
the photoshoots with random men wearing fake Coach hats
the posing by wooden desks
the lights that lounge effortlessly above
encaptures our spirits and brighten them
i don’t drink, but they smoke
but tonight, beer can’t buzz us more than boba
and childish giggles escape from my wide smile.
so this is what the lullabies were about
this is what katy perry sang about
this is what i had been waiting for
to experience moments of pure awe and affection for those around me
to see them smile in slow motion when they understand a joke
or react to something
our collective experiences are understood
no words need to be ushered to empathize
as we dress like the night,
we transform into it
the stars flicker for us
the moon gives us her blessing
and the sleeping sun gives us our space
9:37
was meant for us
the clock stops
and time stretches its arms to infinity and beyond
i could live in the frozen frame of this evening
bomber jackets, jean jackets, and tattooed planets
the inside jokes, the enjoyed hoax, our future hopes
they live inside the car clock that reads, in green, 9:37
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 4:26 AM UTC
In this room where I grew up
calves’ roars creep in the open window.
Day dream on the bed,
mirror reflects in Autumn:
the time my notebook fills,
floods like the land.
As I check my email from my phone,
two daddy long legs mate
on the discoloured floorboards–
no business of mine
enter my password–
no business of theirs.
The dog suddenly barks, the front door opens,
two old babes shuffle in to visit Gran
in the same spot she’s been parked
for the last two years,
watching the seasons change
through the kitchen’s lace scene.
All as deaf as the dead; simultaneous
yet different conversations–
I interpret and translate. In unison
they sing my praises:
He’s good boy, oh yes a good boy indeed–
like I was the dog.
Outside Dad chops timber,
I make tea for three.
Cut some cake Gran worries.
What will they think?
Barn brack with ring,
memories of Halloween
play in my head,
welcomed like the moon, always.
Evening: after I have the sheep counted,
I watch the stag in the next field–
they rut this time of year,
call for a mate.
Tomorrow is Friday,
the first of the month.
The priest will call to the sick and elderly–
I will hear the dog announce
his red Toyota Starlett
over the fields.
Thank God Gran doesn’t know. I
can do without that worry
anytime of year.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 2:22 PM UTC
It's always on a night like tonight.
The drifting backwards, always backwards,
into our old places.
Together, driving our ambitions down blackened back roads
on late night drives without destinations.
Attempting to find ourselves in the space of a beat up Toyota,
we are the wandering souls
that find each other in the late hours of the night.
Drawn to the beat reverberating in the small car
and the thoughts thrown out the window
that fly to the pavement of the black highway.
We are vagabonds.
Searching,
always searching.
But moving backwards,
always backwards,
towards each other.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
I have a strange relationship with my across-the-street neighbor.
Every morning, after the coffee *** is brewing and the bed is made,
I enjoy a cigarette or two just outside the front door.
I look across the street and I see him.
Bearded, usually wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and slippers.
On a typical morning he is out before me, about half way through his cigarette.
Although I've lived across the street from him for the better part of two years, I do not know his name.
I know that he smokes Marlboro 100's, just from the way his pack, generally in his cigarette holding hand, looks.
I know he has a wife, and a what seems to be three year old daughter.
I love this man.
I love him and his wife and his daughter and his Marlboro 100's.
Every morning that I see him, it is a sign that I am awake, that this is all real.
For if I were to not wake my mind would not be so cruel as to trick me.
My mind would not be so cruel as to deceivingly use my only sense of comfort against me.
Before daylight savings so rudely interrupted my subconscious schedule, the sun would just creep above the low tree line behind the man's house as he put out his cigarette and go inside.
On some days, I imitate him shortly after, dropping my cigarette and returning inside.
On other days, days when I need all of the tobacco in my cigarette, which have been occurring more often than they used to, I follow him more slowly. I stay outside until the sun is completely out from behind the tree line. Some days, as was the case this morning, I need two cigarettes to properly prepare me for the day.
And on these days, the man returns outside, with his baby girl in his arms and his wife following behind.
They all pile into his grey Toyota pickup and are off.
Where to, I know not.
All I know is that I will see him tomorrow.
And I love him for that.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC