"trivialities" poems
And when I met that girl in San Francisco
Off a dusty little pier
with rotting wood
and squawking seals
And screaming bayside wind
She caught me off-tropics
and danced with the grace
of a palm tree
lines between the quaked
concrete
off telegraph avenue
On an obscuring Sunday morning
and no
she didn't go
to church or any silly thing
like a temple or synagogue
She said those were no places
for god
God was the trees
We smoked cigarettes and got off to each other's
carcinogenic practices
oxidizing a little faster in conjunction with hopeful
Formaldehyde
Deriding the formalities
of small talk and trivialities
She liked her guitars with nickel-wound strings
I with nylon
But I couldn't play songs
that sounded any good with them
while she could
and did.
and girl did it ever sound good
She'd laugh at the contests on the radio
while we drove on a half-moon
to half-moon
full and whole of ourselves
We'd stopped in the lobby of a cheap motel
And waltzed to background
muzak
wacked out of our minds
Sniffing in deep huffs of subliminal
divinity
Understanding
loving
that mind-numbing
monotony
muzak...
ppsh.
Who ever really listened to that?
And then she left
at the end of one fine winter day
in a cloudless sky I waved
watched her plane
skip off
towards the edge of a pale blue horizon
back south
to warmer climes
to wherever she truly stayed
The tugging on my heartstrings
chimed grotesque in
precise
D minor.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
it's not the large things that send a man to the madhouse
a woman, a
tire that's flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard...
it's not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he's ready for, or
****** ****** robbery, fire, flood...
no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse...
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left ...
The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can **** quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
license plates or taxes
or expired driver's license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink's stopped-up, the landlord's drunk,
the president doesn't care and the governor's
crazy.
light switch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill's up and the, market's
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it's
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there's always ***** and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they're
your friends;
there's always that and worse;
leaky faucet, Christ and Christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.
or making it
as a waitress at norm's on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a car wash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady's purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.
suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and China and Russia and America, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
*** except maybe one to **** in
and the other one around your
gut.
with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.
so be careful
when you
bend over.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
Lungs filled up
with
questions questions questions.
Like in the pool as a child,
How long can you hold your breath?
Held under,
Burning pushing screaming
You've got to hold your breath.
The fraction left not choked out
by the uncertainties of the future
is weak, fatigued, and plagued by
doubt.
Minuscule trivialities become juggernauts
crushing the remains of structure.
When will I reach the surface?
What do I have left?
When can I breathe again?
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 9:04 PM UTC
Who can tell?
Whether malice has its own purity?
If odor has its own fragrant smell?
Does right wrong right
Or wrong right wrong?
Could darkness have its own light?
What do you know?
Guilt might have its own innocence
For all you know
Humility and modesty
Could just be a show
This is how life is
You either laugh hard
Or you cry in pain
You love too much
Or you die in vain
If you don’t make someone smile
You end up being a bore
If you dress up too guile
You are tagged a *****
You may be very pretty
but deceitful in act
You may be called ugly
but are beautiful in fact
In sadness
you’re creative
In happiness
well that is tentative
and yet sans it too
you may appear narrative
If you know too much
you realize how less you knew
If you are too ignorant
you realize that all lies are just few
Humor shames trivialities
Irony is the truth about absurdities
We scorn at all harsh realities
So we smile at its mockeries
Could love really be true?
And hatred absolutely false?
Is sadness a gloom
Covered in joy so sparse
like a dull audience
forced in its applause?
Without a doubt
A truth has a lie hidden
Simply because
The mirror isn’t clear
It hides many flaws
and your aesthetic sin
deep within
If you counted the seconds
and minutes and the hours
Will you still be wasting time?
Or would you still
have to make an orange juice
out of a dainty lime?
What’s rhetoric
if a question has an answer
if silence it’s own message
and guns and bullets
its own power?
What’s the point
If you’re devising a plan
for your future
to become a big man
And you still say
that you don’t know
what might happen tomorrow
That it all looks bleak and dark
And you sit there
not working hard
you crib and worry
and fake a smile
to everyone
you appear
as blithe as a lark
We dwell with glee
In a world where
two extremes meet
Order deals with its chaos
And chaos struggles for order
Everyone fights
for the latter
And to straighten
an imbalanced balance
and dispel a dulcet clatter.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 6:26 AM UTC
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor!
<|>
give a surgeon a scalpel
and an excuse,
and the artist emerges,
for creativity is a good surgeon’s
natural habitat
Sure, sure, there’s a plan,
with best and acceptable outcomes,
but when messing with a real heart,
a sly ***** with numerous deceptive guises
at its disposal, you never for sure never know,
despite all the advanced imaging techniques,
exactly
what you will find once you go
spelunking
in caves of life and death
so, he takes a bit from here,
and a bob or two from there,
there a cut, here an incision deep,
Old McDonald provided a body,
or a canvas, and the Doc
is happy.
So I uncover holes where he
probed, redeploying the healthy,
like a good designer, Doc rearranges
and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing,
his handiwork
Now standing over you for many hours,
can get tiring, though each ***** be
different, unique even, but leaving
a little marker, a stylized signature,
is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste!
So you can imagine my surprise
when the tubes removed (ouch!)
the bandages ripped off in a
signature move of a delighted nurse whose
loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities,
you cannot imagine my surprise
when I discovered my new tattoo,
upon my chest front and center!
*Herein please find your heart repaired,
and revitalized:
Please Note!
We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years
(Aug. 3, 2038),
but our disclaimer
we assume NO responsibility after that
if you should
happen to live for 30 YEARS or more*
Dr. P.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 7:58 AM UTC
You see me
You free me
And every time
you take me back-
"A hint of light in the dark (I always know)
Only enough to keep from giving up
(you're never too far, cause)
If I could go back to the start;
(wherever you go)
Id break the pattern-
(We're under the same stars.)
-before too late."
You change bodies
Sporting each soul,
Their trivialities vs.
True athenticity
How it tesselates each role;
As if I wouldn't notice it
Always, so open ended;
Every word written -
Every artwork made;
Each specific song -
Either listened to or played
Were never for anyone but myself.
Aug 11, 2023
Aug 11, 2023 at 7:42 AM UTC
Family life.
Great aruments and debates
concerning mundanities
and trivialities -
the all-conquering
world of pettines
and , of course,
the taken-for-granted
comforts and cosiness.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 3:12 PM UTC
In warmth beneath the insulated drywall
I curse my gooey insides
for not being as solid
as the lamented linoleum
moreover, I wish I didn't need
to declare such trivialities but
I do
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
Her presence is superfluous and your demeanor is vindictive, and you can’t hold her close enough to pass the hours with any more trivialities. Your allusions to Eos mean nothing to her comfortably deaf ears. Her smile drips with poisonous innocence and she’s reaching for you, and oh no, you’re doubled over again, and she’s rubbing your back, and you’re clutching at your insides and you just want to hurl them at the wall and redefine expressionism. Transgressions displayed in a mason jar atop the fireplace mantel, like the ashes of some dead relative who stopped mattering when the estate paid out and your dad blew it all at the casino again. With a knock and a bump, the skeletons come tumbling out of your closet; their bones crumble into dust on your carpet. You've lost track of how often this happens but you think the carpet looks better grey anyway, and she’s still looking up at you. Those eyes so much like a child, riddled with naivety and wonderment, like you’re the perfect picture of Eden. It’s 5am and you can’t see the room through the smoke, and she can’t hear the cries for help over her utopian illusion of This Is All We Need. You were never one for cathexis and you hope she can’t see the blood on the walls, or the blood(lust) on your hands. She has the uncanny ability to not know, despite your nuances. She’ll never read into your mind the way she reads the words you carve into the trees and the sand and the snow. Every articulation of Truth is just refracted through her pretty little head and sent spinning into the abyss. The sun is rising and you wish she’d leave, but your shift in weight and your sideways glance is subjective to her and she promises to stay. So instead you make bets with yourself over whether your body falling from a 30 story building, or the rising sun, will reach the horizon line first.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
Let's get out!
Now.
Just You and Me.
Away from all the trivialities
Which drag us down.
All the irrelevant issues
Which won't let us sleep.
Just drive away. You and Me.
Turn the radio on.
Watch the scenery passing by.
The memories of our songs.
Flashing in front of our eyes.
You are smiling, humming a new song.
It is so happy and peaceful.
Like home.
Further and Further
The car takes us away from the past.
The music let us forget our sorrows.
Let's get into the car
And drive
Away..
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
"That's it! I'll take it to the scissors myself!"
Mangled, wrangled, tangled mess,
meandering tendrils coil and cross, clump.
Split ends,
knots so impossibly tied the eagle scout is left bewildered,
sun damage: fried, frizzled, frazzled, frayed.
Broken teeth in a gasping comb,
choking brushes enveloped in the furling mess,
hairspray, fruitless, face it:
(Another) Bad Hair Day.
"That's it! Today's the day!"
The call is made, the appointment scheduled,
you sit and wait.
X's mark the calendar, the day is nigh,
your do's judgement day is at hand.
It's time to settle this.
The day before, you wake up,
absentmindedly getting dressed, drudging through routine,
mirror's the last thing you see.
Crusty eyes suddenly open wide,
as split ends seal and knots unfurl,
sun damage heals and combs sing ceaselessly.
The day is met with a new life,
and the dark days of yore seem like a past life,
as this sunny day seems like all there is.
You laugh at what now appears to be such trivialities,
"Twas a bad hair day! And merely so!"
You allow yourself such a shallow deception.
Your hand grabs the phone, your fingers make the call,
your voice makes the cancellation--
"How could I have been so foolish to resort to such measures?!"
You hang up and scoff at yourself,
a hearty laugh in jest at such hastiness,
tossing and swishing your luscious mane to and fro.
You allow it to slip through your fingers,
on the cusp of the cure,
as the bad hair days truly outnumber the good (you know it to be so).
For the next day will come--
You'll greet the mirror with that heart-wrenching sigh,
in visible anguish at the chaotic mess that encroaches upon your head.
Don't let a good hair day fool you;
make the call.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
Don't get me wrong;
I count it all blessing,
This one track mind,
The endless company.
I always deliver what they come seeking:
That sharp taste of thrill in the ceiling of their mouths.
I suppose every life has its ups and downs.
Each person their silver,
Each person their cloud.
But I have inhaled the heavens deep into my lungs
And they have made me sick.
They drift, seemingly, wherever they please.
I can tell you this:
I have never tasted the same cloud twice.
Each second they grow.
With each gust they float
Away from the moment's cares and all its trivialities.
I can still hear them,
Well-meaning enough to make me doubt my sanity,
'You are built for speed' -now go where we tell you.
'You are full of surprises' -that we planned meticulously.
I am stuck in this groove and it is nothing I can dance to.
The DJ has fallen asleep
And I am slowly blending into the wallpaper.
The first time I heard them screaming
It was like wedding cake and cannons,
Like listening to your son speak his first word
And recognizing it as your name.
They love what I do.
I hate how I do it.
I dream of stretching my long body across the sky,
Taking flight like a paper dragon,
Chasing rooftops and mountains,
Rolling down hills as soft as a mother's cheek.
There are words I long to write on the horizon
In script as wide as it is deep.
There is so much more i have seen than i have smelled.
There are screams I can give you
That wave their arms like white flags,
Waiting to be plucked from gardens
Just outside my reach.
I have been burying my anguish in the hearts of wooden trusses.
They push back against me when I am feeling down.
'Chin up, there go those screams again.'
They taste nothing like cake.
One more 3 minute episode.
I have been showing you reruns of smiles for the past two years,
Have you noticed?
But who is the servant to question the master?
I will keep my head down,
Drive the track I've been given,
And pretend I still enjoy the sunrise.
I wish I could keep from sleeping.
The dissonance of waking to the same routine
Is Schoenberg to my ears.
Every night it's the same thing:
My eyelids kiss this day goodbye
And it is some glorious tomorrow,
When I will finally get my chance
To scream.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
it’s simply awesome
how much energy
is spent to document
the newness of the news
no matter how repetitive
may be the words of the reporters
the hype needs to be built
no matter whether right or stilted
driven by fear the topic might be wilted
a minute later
and half an hour later
you hear the same with minor variations
adorned with various speculations
so that the viewers may get the illusion
it’s NEW – though it is old,
and just repetitive
an endless loop of hyped-up trivialities
of who did what and when and why
maybe with whom or not
makes you aware that even new banalities
rarely include what really matters
to the majority of people on this globe
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
Mechanically, he turned and stepped away.
Though there remained a symphony to say,
the audience was obviously tired.
The orchestra was weak and uninspired.
And so he wandered up the street, and down,
through all the dry vernacular of town.
A thousand trivialities he passed
until the sidewalk brought him home at last.
He summited the dim and creaking stair.
He sank into the thrift store easy chair,
closed his eyes, and waited for her face.
She smiled at him. Then darkness took her place.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 8:33 AM UTC
There was chatter reflecting off the water just like the moon. The Milky Way was swimming with us, wrapped in algae and moss. We had no swimsuits, only spontaneity and laughter. We were far away from trivialities where there was no light pollution, you could see so far outward into everything. We were not looking up, we were looking out at what we are part of. Light, so much light. When our thoughts were finally chilled like iced lemonade, we ran through bushes and flailed in the mud to the car. We drove. Once sitting on our bed, a delicious thought bubbled into reality.
We discussed it, unanimously deciding on this nights adventure...we'd enjoy the first rays of the morning while seating comfortable at Sacajawea Peak.
Eager legs kicked and finally slept…too soon later, a buzz of a telephone awoke us, then another. I bounced out of the covers and to the kitchen to prepare a hurried breakfast of peanut butter and fruit roll ups for us, nutrition was priority. Then the clock blinked 3 AM.
Whines squeaked from tired mouths, but excitement prevailed. We packed into our seats and struggled to keep our eyes open, but the drive was bumpy and our sore butts kept us from forgetting the purpose of our trip. We were there to make our lives radical, and you can’t sleep in moments like these. 4 AM screamed at me, we had to hurry. I plowed my way up that mountain as the sun painted the tips of the mountains red. We crossed streams, tripped on rocks, marveled at climate change and the disappearance of the snow we had skied on just a week before. As the incline increased to nearly vertical, we met up with the mountain goats. Their tiny hooves danced on the faces of cliffs and I stood on the trail not more than a meter away. They smiled at us, said good morning, and we went on our way, huffing it up the face. As the sun’s light began to engulf the sky, we watched as the snow capped ridgeline shined pink and gold. A mountain shades us but as we reach the peak, the sun splashes our face, I felt godly. The sun has risen, and so have we. This is why we are alive; this is why we are happy. The valley below us still dozes, and we sit on top a mountain wide-awake. There is no item I could ask for that could ever give me this happiness. I do not climb mountains so that the world can see me, but so I can see the world…and it is so beautiful.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
This woodland
differs by lack of
Nothing.
Backward on the road
lies the stifling Void -
granted safe haven
behind complex cosmetics -
crass trivialities -
and labeled
"the real world."
Here, in the forest,
there is only
Incorruption.
No effort
is required
to breathe.
- fr
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
To never again pick her up at the
Train station.
*"Look for that green dress you
Love. I'll be the one in it, loving
You."*
To never again watch her
Frustrated and cursing the
Similarities between puzzle
Pieces, with Easter snow teasing
The windows behind her
Silhouette in my living room as
Belle spotifies Pieces
On my stereo and I just
Stare, smiling like an idiot until
My gaze burns a hole in her
Beautiful neck, and she turns
And giggles "what?"
Blushing and rubbing her cheeks
From smiling so much.
To never again.
The first flowers I gave her made
Her cry. As did the last ones.
I don't even know if she'll see
The card with these ones that
Says *"thank you for each second
Together."*
So romantic how we thought
Death by her cancer or my failing
Heart would end us.
No, the trivialities of Life
Saw our poem burned. Buried
Like some completely healthy
Pet put down prematurely.
I remember the mid 80's; dad
Drunk and unproud knocking
On the door to my room.
*"I killed the kittens again.
Soon it'll be your turn."*
Now I know why he always
Kicked at the cats.
He was kicking himself.
As do I.
Never again.
Train stations and green dresses
Will always hurt like
Hell, and people loving, and
Kittens, and puzzle pieces that
Look alike.
"Never again?" She asks.
I love her too much to lie.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 8:48 PM UTC
*coats of dust & pollen settle
on an unoccupied desk;
clumps of rust sprout
on faded typewriter keys.
marmalade pages with
elaborate strokes & scribbles
shrivel like mango slices
suffocating in tropical heat.
a dozen lolling envelopes
with awe inciting addresses
from San Francisco to Shanghai
each wither like aging flowers.
the room once gleaming in
luminescence now hoards darkness.
brandeis blue curtains drape
the windows, stifling sunlight.
sober emotions linger
in the thick, musty air;
overripe creativity decays
into the unwashed floorboards.
rhyme, rhythm, & reason
of the mind cease to bloom;
curiosity & inspiration fall dormant
in a chilling, thoughtless winter.
the mind of a former poet
is an unkept garden;
an Eden of ideas abandoned
in favor of myopic trivialities.
though unattended, the
garden is never barren;
cultivate your imagination &
you will always harvest beauty.
**it’s never too late to pick up your pen;
water your mind & your garden will grow!***
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 6:39 PM UTC
Hello.
I'll not bother with the trivialities.
I'll forgo the lingering, longing stares
nix the stuttered words and long-departed trains of thought
skip the goofy, giddy smiles and tangential conversations
and I'll never utter the words,
"I think you're truly beautiful"
because you are,
and because you are
you've heard it all before.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
The word "abortion"
dropped off her tongue
like a pin
into the rustle of papers and trivialities
so important
that they were shouted to one another
from across the classroom.
There was nothing to say.
There was nothing to say.
We sat in the corner,
solemn white paper cut-outs
with too much to think about,
taking notes
on embryo's
(of all things).
**** Biology class,
we talked about the line
where, when crossed
became ******
I remembered last year,
when her voice stripped down
the layers between life
and death,
tattooed ******
in red ink
to any form of escape,
and knew in her mind
there was no line.
She was
O.K, she said.
The worst was psychology,
when he told them
that a fetus
dreams.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
My morals are a patchwork
Stitched together from various other minds
A well worn quilt I wrap myself in for security
For blameless justification of a deformed belief system
Twisted and gnarled with an arthritis of the spirit
A hollow vessel made into a crock ***
Full of someone else's ********
Stirred by resentment
Stewed in fear and
Served with anger
To mask my ignorance and indifference
I have a reputation for trivialities
Snippets of soundbites
Subliminally soldered
Onto my sub-conscious
Where they acquire the character
Of authoritative wisdom
More pious than a prophet!
Holier than an ancient sage!
I am a 21st century shaman
A guru grifter
Embryonic episodes
Aborted for mass consumption
Over cocktails and hor dourves
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Tomorrow is
nebulous at best.
A dream of one
who still sleeps.
You are alive now.
Awake in this fresh
green world.
In the planning, we
forget to live.
Ask the mice and men
how plans go.
There are traps and
trivialities that keep
you from carrying on.
Funny things happen on
the way to the bank.
My mom died while
grocery shopping.
Today, peers back at
you from the mirror.
Breath and heartbeat.
Desire and passion.
No one survives this
story.
You're the author and the
protagonist, write it
well.
May 2, 2025
May 2, 2025 at 7:15 AM UTC
by love you were made, and by hate you are destroyed
mystery and misery in lies, trivialities of realities demise.
The purifier of your dreams is soon to be deployed
a child of serpent and men, I will rise in due time
Know your light will go as dim as the rest in due time
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 12:04 AM UTC