"transplants" poems
Head start on a frozen night
we'll trickle slow down blighted
street ways
and mix our crunching footsteps
with our ever-rougher laughs.
Grab a drink
too tired for sleeping.
Work weeks pile up, getting deep and
I don't think apartment walls
can contain us one more night.
So save a drink for me,
and meet me out on Longstaff Street
I've got all night and an axe to grind
You've got a case of cold friends
and a troubled mind
so let's pace
this neighborhood.
Pull up my roots, we'll untangle yours
from Knowles Street, right on Marshall
walk and drink for hours
'til we sink
that slant street moon
Transplants grafted to this town
we'll spread roots in these downer
regrets
and spill our gravel laughter
on the sidewalks with these beers.
South, back home,
a handful got it:
rotten nights pave paths to coffins
I don't know how many steps
it'll take to cool our heels.
So grab a drink for me
and we'll go walking Longstaff Street
We've got these drinks, we can disappear
into a slant street night
where no one'll hear
how ****** up
these days become.
I still think back on Emerson Park
that Summer night we fled from
the cops through the dark
when the Russell
Street traffic hums...
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
This is for the residents who remember
And for the transplants who
Have yet to be informed
But have got an inkling
Burque has gone from
Bustling to busted
And back again
Growing up in the 80’s
I learned about the
Varying degrees of “sick”
As my dad pointed out
The pekid pachucos perusing
Pharmacy isles
Attempting to purchase
Cough syrup with codeine
In the evenings
Driving home down Central
I would ceremoniously
Count hookers
My parents would
Precariously pack heat
In the trunk of our car
Or even in my mom’s special ***** pack
With the hidden compartment
For her .38 snub nose
Because you never know
Who will be in your home
When you arrive
That’s a given
When flop houses are
Interwoven with prime real estate
And barrio boundaries
Border the bourgeois’ bungalows
And Huning’s Castles
And residents rarely recognize
Or realize
That aside from the locals
The European Jews
Was the only group gutsy enough
To settle here
And create commerce
Despite risks of being raided
By Apaches
And they reaped the benefits
Off Roma and Marquette
Because the rewards
Turned out to be greater than
The risks
And up North
Where Sephardic turned Crypto
Conversions to Catholicism
Kept the Messiah’s spirit alive
But in basements
They still did Chi fives!
I was saddened in middle school
When I realized
That many of our parents
Were too ashamed of our roots
To teach us Spanish
And our
Schools ****** so severely
That most of us
Didn’t learn English either
But hey –
All you need to
Communicate while cruising
Are cat calls
And the thumping boom
Of the bass in the tubes
And the hydraulic drop
When they hit
The hot spots
From Tingley, Kit Carson and
Central to Copper
Each kid dreams that
His ride
Will be the show stopper
I could rant and rave
And rattle off for days
But bottom line –
We have the most
Curious state
With mysterious qualities
And in-depth histories
But most of us are
More concerned with
Bud Light
And Biscochitos
Con Manteca
Because it just tastes great!
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 2:39 AM UTC
professional thieves and lunatic royalty
rule the alleys and burned out geniuses collecting cans
to earn the morning's medicine
fighting off last night's tremors
vampyre women that eat men alive
and live in darkness and
nobody's ever seen the forest
central park predators
Mad Hatter transplants
and eternal sages who stay drunk by being interesting
and getting good at giving tourists a smooth line of ********
(you can always spot the tourists in new york. they are the only ones wearing bright colors. in portland, they can be spotted by similar means, but the eye must be trained. the city abounds with sprouts)
always looking up
eternal chatter of madness from corners,
doorways, windows, liquor stores
*** barrels floating on tears
with a police state terror squad
2 floors above
killing justice and truth
black ties jumping out windows of Wall St.
cracked by pressure and greed and ego
street hustlers retiring at 35- or dead at 13
the street musician dying from apathy
he is a withering poppy flower
cut and bleeding
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Stranded in a Spectrum entirely green,
I dream; in colors clustered around blue;
We meet; in swirls of turquoise.
Subliminal codes in her lullabies,
Allow her to control my dreams;
And when she makes green tea to calm me,
She uses mouse skulls instead of leaves;
It tastes like half-remembered dreams.
Eyelid transplants
Allow me to experience her dreams,
And when my dream-self leaves messages
On the inside of my eyelids;
They are blue notes
That shimmer in the morning,
Rescued from her memory-hole.
And outside, right before that morning,
The injured moon leaves smears
Of blue-green blood across the sky;
And soon, the earth is ringed with gore striations,
Celestial entrails halos;
It will be a day to remember;
A day of turquoise.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 3:51 PM UTC
To be truthful, I have never understood why
So many of us have crave to look this way
Tell me that this really is not what we
Consider to be beautiful, but in fact
I think it looks rather sickening
Someone please tell me
why such a need
and urgency
to be shaped as this?
I don’t understand why
An empty stomach is worth such a
Thin waist, and thousands of money on
Transplants and surgeries are of such high
Value to you. Do you feel beautiful? Do you
Feel accepted in society? Because this is shaped like
This and this is shaped like that? Howcome you allow yourself
To fall to such conformism in a society that makes you need to be
Molded in a certain way; I think that the only curves you need to worry
About is the one on your face. Smile and I promise you that it will be more
Beautiful and worthy than such a rotten shape that you work too hard to preserve
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
The height of mountains,the shine of fountains..
The parks with showers, the gardens with flowers..
The smile of a child,the noise in the wild..
The business of milk, the fashion of silk..
The shadow of a tree,the fruits in free..
The soil is not fertile, the prayers are futile...
The tractors replaced bull,the hospitals are full..
The spray on all plants, the organs have transplants..
The drift in season, the depleting woods is reason..
The survival is main, the life is in rain..
The wealth of an ocean,the ships in motion..
The fish have plea, the plastic out of sea..
The greeds of man,the lame monitoring of ban..
The conflicts of brooks, the treaties in books..
The lust of this soil, the blood on boil..
The globe with borders, the wars on orders..
The lynching for leather, the summits on weather..
The ivory is like gold,the tusks are sold..
The freedom of a bird, the eye of the third..
The world beyond sky,the rockets to fly..
The open tap in drain, the skyscrapers in vain..
The thunder is aloud, the uncertainty of cloud..
The huge rate of birth, the plight of the earth..
The crisis of starvation, the calendars for salvation..
The threats of weapon,the world war can happen..
The dark fumes in air, the need of care..
The melting of glacier, the authorities are lazier..
The havoc of disaster, the nature is still master..
The disappearance of sparrow, the mind in still narrow..
The nature can bind,the threat on man kind..
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 11:47 PM UTC
*Photochromatic Sanity & Fluorescent Visions,
Metallic Vanity Initiating Phosphorescent Collisions,
Luminescent Effervescence In Her Iridescent Constants,
Convalescent Spells Of Her Tumescent Transplants,
Auroral Apertures & Acronycal Fractals,
Floral Kisses Of Her Quintessential Portals,
Velvet Transitions & Twilight Transmissions,
Reverberating Vocal Inhibitions Of Her Satellite Renditions,
Razor Rivers & Rogue Delights,
Shining Laser Echoes On Vogue Nights,
Molecular Suicides In Abysmal Desires,
Drowning In Atomic Oceans Of Her Ethereal Reprisals,
Static Pulses Of Her Prurient Delights,
Amorous Impulses With Hymens Of The Night,
Shaded Whispers & Livid Overtunes,
Serenaded Ceilings In Her Vivid Offtunes.
Condensed Rainbows Over Her Silk Citadels,
Slithering With Oblivious Love Of His Ghostline Vessels.
Extinct Hemispheres Of Her Tender Tracings,
Broadcasting Distinct Light-Years In Spiritual Casings.
- 03:50 AM -*
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
2 years of separation
leads to reunions & dissections
of the shared heart we once betrayed
split symmetric down the chamber veins
& drained into a vacant maze
of muscle-coated misdirection:
from a gory war of self-destruction
to a boring morning-long discussion
on the proper functions of affection,
a lecture on the subtle pressure
of stitching missing years together.
so we descended through the memories
of manipulation tendencies
& our blended lungs breathed in relief
at our splendid self-discovery:
you're a different you & i'm no longer me;
thick skin grafts & habit transplants
transformed us to an image abstract
from a former siamese attachment,
our blurry split from commitment
carried independence infinite
& we soared more weightless through the clouds
with our orphaned organs on the ground
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 6:41 AM UTC
They say the grass is greener
On the other side
Which makes me wonder what color grass they see
When they look at mine
People are never satisfied
with their token hue,
gardens perceive many views 'neath blue moons
yet still seek to plant their own rose colored seeds
But with the hand of seed comes a heart in need
To plant where they will thrive
And when we look at our lives deep
We see a parched land much too dry
Upgrading new playgrounds 'tween picket transplants
only proves to drain emotional fence posts,
there's no satisfaction in elevation's turf ventures
proof grows amuck the dark sod of every plot perused
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
vanished...the body's limitless wealth of holes, how some are never emptied...intimidating to consider a lifetime of losses stripping awareness from my heart like demons pit-falling complacently from the apex of a carnivorous plant...
ruined...the body's limitless wealth of worries, how some are never conquered...my heart and my brain aren't speaking to each other anymore...
broken...the heart cannot really be scarred, it just heals back the same way it was before...this is why heart transplants are so successful...
broken fingers, happens sometimes between lovers...there is no treatment, you can stabilize the finger, to shore up the pain, but it isn't the finger that hurts....
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
I'm old enough to remember
**** Tracy's watch,
Kirk's communicator,
Needless injections,
Landlines, TV,
Head transplants,
And meeting for coffee.
You're young enough
To remember simpler times
Of virtual friends
Twelve thousand miles away,
3D transportation,
And clouds that don't rain.
The good ole days.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
i don’t know why i’m still here, honestly.
i mean, my rooms not clean,
there’s a stain on my jeans
and i barely know how to work the washing machine.
i’m fifteen. i’m a teenager.
in a few years, i’ll be choosing a major
at a college i’m not completely sure i want to attend,
like upenn, columbia, yale, or brown…?
thinking about it makes me want to drown.
but only figuratively, not actually.
because nobody really means what they say anymore,
like “of course i got your text,”
or “yes! i definitely remembered your birthday was tomorrow”
or “yeah, i’m only five minutes away,”
or “i love you.”
i don’t know why i’m still here, honestly.
i mean, i’m an academic burnout.
in ballet, i didn’t have the best turnout.
i was never even a girl scout.
my mom said when in doubt, always tell the truth.
okay. sure.
i can do that, at least i thought i could.
i did, up until the point where i couldn’t tell where the truth ended and the lies began.
i said the tears in my eyes were just allergies.
i began to realize i was running out of energy.
everything i did, i did haphazardly.
looking back, i wonder if it was even reality.
low battery, my phone continues to tell me.
and honestly, i don’t know why i’m still here
because i lose everything.
i still can’t find my charger.
my classes are getting harder,
and at this point, i’m highly considering just becoming a farmer.
but i already know that’s out.
i mean, lets be honest
no amount of plants can get me the money that scholarship grants can.
maybe...maybe i should just become a doctor.
you know, perform transplants, give implants.
with all that money,
i could take a trip to france!
sometimes, i’d rather be there than here.
other times, i feel like i should just...disappear.
but it’s not even that serious,
i mean for the most part,
me being quiet is just me being mysterious.
other people might even call me delirious
due to my lack of experience in this
brand new job that
goes by the name of ‘life’.
i said it already. i’m a teenager.
i don’t even know why i’m still here.
and if i’m being honest,
i don’t think any of us do.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
the plural of grief is grief,
**in our lives, we busy ourselves
accumulating various assorted
grief, some physical, most mental,
those stories when retold, first
make you groan out loud,
every-one asks
what’s a matter, no spilling beans,
you shake ‘em away with
a smile and a “just life”
and it gets
dropped**
**if you’re so young, that you haven't
started a career of serious collecting,
the objects that will decorate every
place, in every state, wherever the
airy transplants, you won’t be
surprised, thinking you “forgot” to
pack them, for they travel light,
though, they weigh more than any
hope chest of unworn garments that
will never be discarded,
even when
hope is so long gone,
it is still an
unrecognizable**
And yet,
the plural of grief is grief
and there is a singular story,
a lost love, a guilt for letting
someone get lost, leaving them
unknowing that if you could,
you’d whisper shouts of reconciliation
for days, to cain assuage the years
when they lay unspoke,
brike broke inside a human chest
of petty
grievances
I have one,
midst all my knowns, which
even not even now, even
in my truth serum poetry
that will not be confessed,
lest you’d beg me to
never write again,
move on to parts unknown,
let that gory story abide in your own,
in your windowless palace,
with your
other locked up secret treasures
wrapped
in black
tissue paper
my own chosen grief,
unspoken, unwritten,
and resting restrained upon an
invisible line
that lives on my tongue,
it is fresh, imaged, just
a hasty taste away, when it
resurfaces at its own chosen
speed, its own chosen need
to be rebreathed, when least
desired, least required,
**in other
words,
when it chooses to emerge,
& it chooses you,
at the precise right
always the wrongest
time & place**
Oct 30, 2024
Oct 30, 2024 at 8:42 AM UTC
Assume the role of groundskeeper
entirely and entitledly. This is
your destiny: as a human
being your role is to care for
every plant, animal, and
fungus as your kin, for they
are the material that breeds us.
Permaculture is a simple tale:
Listen, and you will be told;
Ask, and you will be answered;
Play and you will be happy :)
Your propagations, transplants,
and seeds will grow,
flower, and reseed...
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 2:27 PM UTC
9 Years
Blood dripping from the walls,
getting nothing but crank calls.
Doors squeaking like never before,
not a chance, you could ignore.
Doors locked, windows won't break,
the house is now beginning to shake.
Moans coming from the attic,
nothing has ever been this dramatic.
Hearing noises from the basement,
dead bodies rising from the cement.
All the food is covered with maggots,
what is causing all this madness.
Hiding in the bedroom closet,
my body they want as a deposit.
Are they zombies or vampires,
maybe ghosts creating empires.
So scared, I **** my pants,
my body parts will become transplants.
This is the night of the living dead,
house built on a cemetery, so the demons said.
They tore the closet door wide open,
I stood there without a single motion.
They start to eat me piece by piece,
I could see my soul release.
The blood from the walls was mine,
the years I've been dead is nine.
For nine years, I've hid from hell,
I always wondered why I always had a bad smell.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
And it came to pass
in a foggy clime by the North Coast sea
far from city lights
a man became a tree.
And the seeds of life fell on good ground
and in a thoughtful way took hold
and in this sea salt air
breathed a clearer vision.
This would be no beach blanket vision
or pina colada trade wind tanning oil dream
It would be a dream of driftwood and broken shells
that once had life, where sand pipers and gulls
feed and peck away at what the tide brings in
Nightlife and nightclubs, parking spaces were memories
gaining rust on backboards and rims that sent missed shots
rebounding off into some other court and game
His daily devotion would be the ground he was planted in
and the filtered sun beaming passages of hope and inspiration
It was the simple dog walk routines of life
and pleasures found in a backyard with ball and stick
that caused his heart to bounce
Guided by the filtered sun his path was green and light
until he found himself tall and stout
as well as any of the fine trees around him
Cedar cowboys, Redwood indians, Pine tree pilgrims and pioneers,
transplants and strays in need of space and time
and unfettered vision
All because the Lord sought us out and grafted us in like new sprigs
that take hold and prosper like the blue figs of summer
and the sweet sugar pines with ends better than their beginnings
It didn't matter fog or sun all the same to him he strengthened
And after many days the bread cast upon the waters returned
in a dream where where you planted your heart
was what that mattered .
© charlie brannick 2016
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
City of flickering dust crusted lights
along homeless haven'd stained shaking sidewalks,
where lampposts tell twisted tall tales
seen in the reflections of shop window views
of the stalking capitalist machine.
Billboards bellowing lucid interpretations
smile over split milky-way highways
launching battery driven cars on candied clouds
nine miles high while dandruff snowflakes
fall from salon-styled stands of thin grey hair
onto executive shoulder-padded suits
into plastic snow globe promises of a white Christmas
for kids on the streets in Little Haiti
and Old North Sacremento.
Chinese manufactured diseased dreams
spreads through third-world African cities
malfunctioning tribe cultures into
building blocks for fly-by-night
phony hip hop street scene
high-tops of American wet dream
rip-off Beijing based monopolies.
Cutting out native tongues
and fitting botched back street
plastic surgery transplants of jail-yard gang slang
false identities of cultural misappropriation
and heritage suicide by displaced majorities
who hope for bread crumb paths home
along folktale story guiding epiphanies
of ghost kings of the past bellowing from the sky
"REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE".
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 11:39 AM UTC
Three wilted transplants
Kiss dirt as squeezing vines choke
On midday sunlight
Aug 11, 2020
Aug 11, 2020 at 4:35 PM UTC
The punk rocker
Brought his
New found love
To his run down Bronx apartment
After his rose’s
Karate lesson
He was sick of
Making out
In a ***** alley
Though those times were
Magical
He wanted to express his love
For her
They kissed
While ********** eachother.
The sight of his tattoos
And the feel of his priecings
Against her face
Excited her
The spent the night with eachother
Sharing
And making love
While hearing the transplants
The martial artist not
Knowing how tender she could be.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 8:04 AM UTC
For sale on the fair:
brain transplants to your liking --
Choose your memories.
May 7, 2024
May 7, 2024 at 4:50 AM UTC