"trusses" poems
i need it: the concrete floors
that send electricity through the soles of my shoes,
the ascent up stairs, cold metal under my palm
as lana sings to me and i give her my own words in return
and the pillars of my past rise up before me.
i need the now-familiar halls, the gleam of wood and glass
appropriately placed. i need the embrace of cold air,
heavy with home smells: vulcanized rubber, sweat,
fresh ice. i need my wall, my stairs, my home address: 112, 3, 12.
i need my family, related by blood and ice, by joy and frustration,
by elation and tears. i need the ceiling off its trusses,
the pitch black, the red lights, the resounding bass,
the cold and reverent silence as the bulbs sizzle back to life--
the opening face-off, teeth gritted, fists closed.
i need the smack of sticks against ice,
pucks stinging red pipes, blades scraping up snow,
the crunch of the boards, the red light and the deafening horn,
six thousand people erupting in screams, one entity,
every hand pointed to one end of the rink. i need the urge to
bite my nails, an adrenaline rush, i need to clock-watch,
i need to ***** and laugh and yell and grin, i need to
collapse and breathe when the buzzer sounds, three more points,
closer to the penrose, closer to the ncaa's--
i need hockey.
i need home.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 3:28 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
broken lips harbor a pale cigarette and untold secrets
some crafted tales, others unfortunately true
disheveled blonde curls scatter near hollow irises
empty vision, devoid of all color from smooth bourbon
as these drunken nights consolidate all of our old stories into one word,
goodbye
blowing smokey kisses into the polluted air
dangling feet, perched above a desolate rusted bridge and clouded waves
whose orange trusses have all but faded
to form a mixed color that matches the scene ahead
the deepening violet summer sky, nearly black and so sticky
tightening its humid grip on trembling fingers
which remove the cancer stick carefully out of sight
in hopes that desperate eyes can convince a lonely mind
that your sillouhette will reveal itself, dancing in swirling smoke
as your faint hand reaches out to invite me to join you
I grab hold with one thought gnawing at my heart
do I give in to your gentle touch,
and slip below the other side of the bridge?
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
The world has lost its way
Addicted to lust and ****
***** and floored
Swathed by cyborg technology!!!
Lost themselves
Made bionic feelings
Of false self help
Their ways of living
And no room for laughing!!!
Their trusses are teathered
Demons with feathers
Using planes for war
Buying hypnotic's on shore
Spending money for hypnotic's
*** trade of the ******
Average being
Turned psychotic
As the hospitals are bashed with junkies
For tis,
Yes
The devil's quite spunky
Thy mind is all funky
Thine cars thou hast made roomies
As thou forgot thy wife and beau
Thou hast ruined mine view
Put lazors in space
**** babies by race
And romantic's tis
Should I even mention thou?
I chuckle and puke
To thineself I rebuke!!!!
As I seeketh reality,
Tis
Still choking in mine own claret!!!
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
the safety vest my rib cage calls home,
tight on my chest as i pave this road
tangerine juice in mismatched mugs
at a midnight breakfast
sunset in the dusk mirror of Pelican Lake,
tendrils of light sailing on a gust of wind
the crisp, dry fire of leaves
crowning autumn trees
my garden marigolds, rimmed in oxblood,
planted despite their toxic pollen
prescription bottles in my cabinet,
filled with pills, model of an addiction
a lace of rust, climbing trusses,
devouring steel with tender teeth
embers at the shore of my bones
in this skin, a permanent glow.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
they are birds that fly indoors, fight over popcorn tidbits,
which even cause wars within the small flock of squablers,
metal barn with ibeam trusses, power gate doors that open
and close, to give them entry points and traps them,
just the same,
the people that go to fro from booth to booth
with such smiles and seasonal joy, to buy a present or a toy,
for someone deserving,
a celebration peserving,
a season of giving,
pieces of hard earned living,
for hand made goods,
from passionate hearts,
of city folks and country folks,
anonymous strangers,
sharing
one of
lives adventures,
a fair of craftspeople,
who create and create,
to place smiles on faces,
where maybe there had been none
yet,
seen in the twinkle of a light,
or in the reflection of a silver ball,
and maybe no one hummed with the
piano playing instrumental seasonal favorites,
by players of differing stages of playing skill,
and ages.
what ambience,
what a choice,
please shop local this Christmas,
it will be money and time, well spent.
©DWE112013
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
amongst verdant glens of evergreen,
‘twixt feral realms of boreal splendour.
the wilderness calls to the heavens,
in a chorus of birdsong, of whispering leaves,
the howl of the wolf and the fawn’s tender cry,
from the fierce sanctity of mother earth.
her roots pierced below the powd’ry ground.
slender branches soaring skyward,
lined with strokes of emerald trusses—
their lissome needles gracefully sharp;
brushed in thin sheets of glittering frost,
& laced with a flurry of shimmering sleet.
adorned with clusters of robust pinecones,
russet blossoms of sturdy petals,
clustered upon the tails of branches,
& scattered throughout the sylvan floors—
cloak’d in silken blankets of snow and frost.
soaked in the cold gauze of lunar light.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
I’ve had all my affections poured out over pink skirts as well as pale eyes.
It’s easy to find that pogo sticks and pacifiers
can’t get a childhood
off the ground; where she stood smiling.
Over coats and undercuts are all to cover something.
Replace your teeth with gold
and when they don’t feel
like yours anymore
Then you’ll know.
Your tongue is bronze now.
Plaster’s coming off like a shuffle board land slide
All around this cage they keep us dogs
In, When we bite; its because there isn’t any tongue clicking
Or word bashing left to do.
The sun has found me,
I see it through
slotted bars, and the clouds
are in just as much hell as I am.
I see them with belly full to eyes full of wine.
I’ve been too long in burning this bridge.
It’s the buckets full ,
waiting to quench tinder.
It’s that I’ve drunken everything,
Flammable for miles.
Lock jaw and bite.
Bite down on the trusses.
Bite down and curse god.
He’ll understand all
Your tongues, and spastic fingers.
She says that I puke passion,
that these trees don’t grow in vain,
that fruit is god awful imagery,
And that I have to train every limb
so they can beat the stop signs with their falling pines.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
The bridge between us
stands in the wind stoic
with indifferent strength,
resigned strength.
Static trusses of steel
bear the load without a sound
as forces crack through it
and propagate to the ground,
like how the lightning through your
mess of veins
is grounded in the rubber soles
of your sneakers.
We are stalling, looking for veins
in everything to prove our alive.
You see a dragonfly’s wing
on the floor
and I see anything I want
in the stars in a patch of sky,
and then we each take one
step forward and I wonder why
I’m the one who trips.
The bridge is strong.
Nothing can go wrong but
every bar is under stress,
yours in tension and mine all compressed
and the bars don’t move but
underneath is a storm of forces
pushing and pulling,
tugging heartstrings,
plucking them apart like you
pluck the dead wings off the dragonfly.
We each stand on our ends looking in.
Bits of dry skin drift around,
form fairy dust in the street lamps,
slowing light down until it spills along
at the quaint speed of sound.
you used to believe in fairies
I don’t see how you stopped,
not while every cell of yours that dies
is swept into a particle current
that gives buoyancy to fairy flight
If we jump off this bridge
instead of across
we will not fall
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
Feet leave the floor in drumbeat-timed pulses
Sandwiched by giants, I undulate there
At zenith I glimpse, the lead singer’s hair
Crowd-bound congested, controller convulses
Unobserved passenger bobs in the air
Feet leave the floor in drumbeat-timed pulses
Sandwiched by giants, I undulate there
World is all movement on giant-jump trusses
Weird carousel in need of repair
Invisible rider evading the fare
Feet leave the floor in drumbeat-timed pulses
Sandwiched by giants, I undulate there
At zenith I glimpse, the lead singer’s hair
Aug 15, 2024
Aug 15, 2024 at 4:46 AM UTC
Doctor gave me the news, it was a good
time to buy new running shoes,
Feet slap and screech with each stride,
Biomechanic required to repair the ride,
Pounds shed I no longer dread pounding,
lightly on concrete or asphalt, grounding,
My turbulent times, no reason or rhyme,
To the day, my thoughts have plenty of time,
To play as I run away from home, smiling,
So pleased to be alone among the crowd, filing,
On and off busses, engines make noises like cusses,
Cars eating people, personalities seated in trusses,
For their own safety,
While heels kick back, legs move at the speed,
and pace where there is always sound and greed,
To be first to run the red-light but
On my heart right to that red line,
Hamstrings cry taute like strings,
My mind wanders to many things,
To some people, to a person,
Beckon me run, all that way
And I will.
How did I get here? at least a year in the making,
took on the job, it was a terrible mess of an undertaking,
If I can do it so can you,
Don't wait till your fifty four,
Start when your thirty nine,
Write down all that you eat,
You recognize each day the feat,
To stop eating, at the right point.
Get enough sleep,
Aerobic activity, found a
British study from, London see?
Muscular mobility, range of motion
under load agree, let me, ask you,
What did you do as a child, how did
you have physical fun, what did you
do in your youth, not to relive the pain,
and the strain of bad coaching or none.
Capture your life as first prize
in the only race that counts,
living to beat of the distant drum,
you run I will follow,
you set the pace, I will holler
your arrival, to set your rival,
Death on his heels,
we will chase him back the way,
he came, that will be your claim,
"Raced Death and Still Running"
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
I have a desire to be free in ways that would destroy me, in ways that aren't accepted in this world. I have a need to be free in ways that don't even exist, from things that are such parts of my continued existence as a being that to get what I need would be to cease. I am a lover who has found nothing to take the love I have. I cannot stand to be near anyone, but I crave closeness in such a desperate, painful way that it controls me. I am a logical, orderly, sound, carefully crafted mind, trapped inside the chaos of a soul that I cannot be sure was ever made to withstand the kind of feelings it itself produces constantly. Without the handicap of my humanity, I would be free, disentangled from this web of useless little things I care about. The one that trusses up my legs and trips me and no matter how I try to find the pattern in it, reason has no power against this trap. Power has no power against this snare. I can solve anything, escape anything, survive anything, disassemble anything. But I can't solve myself. And I feel like a wasted opportunity, a consciousness that maybe COULD actually do something meaningful, tragically held back by the hitchhiker of a soul that has come along for the ride to slash the tires. I want to be free of impossible things. But I am an impossible thing, and every morning I wake up and the little part of me that knows things whispers, "You will never be free." What a way to start the day.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
Today was the first day in a while that I thought
About being in your dad's garage
While you set up your lights and trusses
Trying to make a show
You explained to me how they worked
And smiled that smile when you looked over at me
While I was just soaking it all in
I remember, once, being there
Being lost with you
In that moment
Listening to blaring music
Watching your light show play on the ceiling and walls
Being amazed by you
And what you could do
My heart full to bursting of things I couldn't say
Feelings I felt for you
Being there was like being in your heart
I was a third party watching you doing what you loved best
Surrounded by the things you loved the most
Things you are great at
And, now, I can't look at you doing it
Creating shows and productions
Like at homecoming or at prom
Because it breaks my heart again and again
To know I can't stand in your garage and see you create
Magic
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
The bridge between us
stands in the wind stoic
with indifferent strength,
resigned strength.
Static trusses of steel
withstand without a sound
as forces crack through it
and propagate to the ground,
like how the lightning through your
mess of veins
is grounded in the rubber soles
of your sneakers.
We are stalling, looking for veins
in everything to prove our alive—
a dragonfly’s wing on the floor,
a leaf’s venation,
the Arabic graffiti lost in translation
on the railing
and the rivers creeping
outside their contours.
Your lips are turning blue in the storm.
The bridge is strong.
Nothing can go wrong but
every bar is under stress,
yours in tension and mine all compressed
and the bars don’t move but
underneath is a storm of forces
pushing and pulling us at once
with the cold magnets
of the poles of the earth.
If we jump off this bridge
instead of across
we will not fall
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
On a high and lofty cliff, scarred with grey wounds, she stood forlorn. Waiting, for her lover.
Than there is me, walking in the dead of the night, through shadows framed with dull orange lights.
On a cold mountain, where the breath turns to frost, she hides in her hut. Waiting, for her lover.
Than there is me, sitting behind a computer, facing numbers that leaves me wanting to crawl on the floor.
On a sweat soaked bed, where her long trusses toss, she wakes panting. Waiting, for her lover.
Than there is me, eating alone in a posh restaurant, filling silence with the sound of metal on flesh and bones.
We are all on the same earth, but all in a different world, but yet we all are. Waiting, for our lovers.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
Oh Seraph loving celestial being
Through clouds you tiptoed ,finger playing harp strings
Long and short stroking , affecting my heartstrings
Fine looking angelic maiden bejewelled eyed
Porcelain skinned , golden trusses i espied
(Alas you stole my heart with no thought shown
Ripping shred from shred torn as if your own )
Alive with grace she strode dignity in dance
My heart did pound as i await her advance
Feverish sweat I did perspire should she pass
I caught her eye she welcomed me at last
She slid beside loving with tender blithe
I write this sonnet for you my darling
Oh Seraph loving celestial being
thank you
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 1:43 AM UTC