"trashbag" poems
wrapped up in aluminum foil
head resting on cracked concrete
surrounded by winking lights
and blinking eyes
warmth from the glow of humility
basking in the rays of a two dollar toaster
cardboard dwelling and trashbag scenery
paper towel t-shirt, styrofoam socks
salt and pepper lunchtime
pedastal reconstruction
hot coffee burnt tongue
peanut allergy and poisoned water
locked cabinet, rotting condiments inside an unplugged refrigerator
dying romance read only in magazines
purple heart scrawled on my arm
syringe full of bourbon plunged directly in my eye.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:03 AM UTC
Teabag tugboat trashbag t bone tebow
*****
n I don't like him
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
The bodies
wash up
in the night.
Wash up on the neuse
and I stand
with a trashbag;
talking to myself.
I spend the morning
walking along the shore
picking up dead bodies.
I look like a man throwing
wet, leather purses
into another
black bag.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
There was a love
Living deep in the
Melting plastic of
Molding bottles of water,
Barely breathing breaths
Of spray paint and
Rusting needles,
Bond only by the
Yellowing, lip-like cracked
Pages of a story
Written between the margins of a novel.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
I am so tired, I need to get wasted
but I am pretty sure
any alcohol would curdle in my stomach —
the trashbag I keep under my
clothes, use my intestines as the
drawstrings. I get
anxious, my body is hot and heavy and
moist, everything slides off
my skin and never stops coming back.
I need to get wasted
but sometimes it feels as if everyone I
know is an alcoholic — mother,
sister, uncle, dad. It could happen
to me
and maybe I would finally be happy if
I always had something to
use to drown my body.
Having blood is not enough,
it won’t even stay under my skin. I
am so awake, I could drink
a river
and then another and another
and all my nerves would still feel open.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
You envelop me
As if i'm a cup with a knocked off handle
i fit into Your velocity
Some unknown fingers stacked us into the same cabinet
The one used for the fancy kitchenware
The kind they would crack out when they want to impress
So i pray that they're not vapid as that
After all the greatest of virtues is depth
If they open this godforsaken shelf
They'll notice the flaws i carry on myself
Cracked rim and a missing grip
Damage that even self-love couldn't strip
Love is always more potent when coming from another heart
Porcelain is not as supple as a self-sustaining cat
That can lick the lumps of dirt from her wounded back apart
i heard that mangled cups go to waste
But i swear that i will tear through the trashbag and
Piece
By
Piece
Or shard
By
Shard
Crawl back between Your smooth curves
Your fingers on my face trace sharp swerves
The heat radiating from your nail beds
Soothes my vision of all possible reds
And i revel in your medicine
i desperately need to heal
Your ceramic skin is an effective insulator
The blisters i give You only urge your loving to grow greater
You don't seem to care that i don't have a handle to protect You from the scalding bitter tea
That washes up at my rim like the sea
No,You accept the imprint of my hellishly heated wounds onto You
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 2:50 PM UTC
After you spilled hot cider
on the opal-purple plastic
sequins of the dress our great-
grandma bought you, we ran
down a cigarette-smoke
saturated neon alley
that dripped red blues and greens
between ivy-wrapped cracks
in the antique-brick buildings
across the lopsided street.
Carnies barked over plywood
counters draped in tablecloths,
shouting, “Prize every time!”
at kids grabbing pink ducks
from a foodcolor-blue model
of the White River, while other kids
popped balloons with darts like
the syringes our town is famous for
stabbing like stakes into undead
methed-out arms, and we hid
behind a coffin-shaped green porta-
***** near the chain-linked swings.
You held your nose in a gloved hand
and tried to dry the steaming cider
with a napkin I found hanging
half-out a yellow trashbag
full of skunked beer and flies,
and you said, through mascara-
poisoned bubbling black streams
and sour-pink lips, “Mamaw’s probably
mad enough I only won
Miss Congeniality — just imagine
how mad she’s going to be when mom
goes to the hospital tomorrow
and tells her that the cocktail-
dress she worked to death to put
her spoiled great-granddaughter in
smells like rotten apple pie!”
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
Trashbags
At seven he had already moved more times than the total number of years he had been on this Earth
And this time, like the times before it, he moved with his belongings in a trashbag. Stolen clothes, stolen belongings.
A suitcase, at least, would have added a small degree of dignity, and confidence to the whole affair - to being "placed" in another and another and yet another foster home before reaching 3rd grade
Trash Bags break, you know
Trash Bags can't possibly support the contents of any life, and certainly not a life as fragile as this
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 12:22 AM UTC
I know you know what I'm thinking:
Virgins
Trashbag intentions
Looking through
Under your gaze,
Everything's changed
Night terrors
Angsty, sappy
Charades
All of the synonymous truths
The ****** counterparts
That have always been
Somewhat in conjunction
But generally speaking
I have my self doubt
I'm afraid I'll miss out
Or maybe fool myself forever
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
Your words
Drip
Like a tap that's
Always on
Or a trashbag
That's ripped
And never ending
Garbage
Rolling down the
Highway
Blowing out
Inside the
wind of fear
You cause
Destruction
Then need repairing
Can't you hear
Your own
Words
Echos
Instill
Deliberate hollows
Rip me
Find me space
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC