"typewriters" poems
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
vintage polaroids
mountain air
girl scout cookies
summer hair
ed sheeran lyrics
mint lemonade
blowing bubbles
christmas parade
harry potter
winter park crew
biscoff spread
morning dew
british accents
plaid shirts
old castles
chocolate desserts
breakfast for dinner
big bang theory quotes
shakespearean language
cape cod sailboats
sweet nostalgia
the smell of books
longing wanderlust
forest nook
80s movies
neon lights
time with friends
caramel delights
the great gatsby
walk the moon
old typewriters
plumerias bloom
bombay bicycle club
chinese cuisine
abstract art
seafoam green
vineyard vines
life of pi
scuba diving
monarch butterfly
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
If my hands could tell a story, they'd say how your spine always looked beautiful in the morning,
when the sun's rays created shadows that danced along your back and flirted with your neck
like they'd never meet again.
They'd say how your lips always curved upwards as if they were saying hello.
If my hands could tell a fairytale, there'd be no happy ending,
there'd be no end at all.
I wish my lips could finally part to say the right things,
because all I want to do is hear your name roll off my tongue,
in the same sentence as "you're mine".
I want them to tell the story of your lips,
red, and taunting and always mysterious.
I always got a toothache when you weren't in the room.
I think I need a root canal.
If my knees could speak they'd tell you how lovely it was
to bend to curl to your legs.
If my knees could tell a story, they'd describe the cold, hard
bitter kiss of death they shared with the pavement so many times
when I found your bags at the door.
If my knees could beg, they'd ask for forgiveness.
For being too bony, too weak,
for not being able to support your dreams.
(I'd give up anything now for that little apartment in New York
and nothing but two typewriters)
If my fingers had a chance, they'd trace the familiar lines of your collarbones
and over your shoulders, because by now they've committed them to memory.
If my fingers had a chance, they'd hold yours again.
They say to stay away from broken people but I saw you as a puzzle
just waiting for someone to put you back together again.
If my eyes could tell a story they would whisper softly of your flowing hair
and pixie-like body.
They would ask you to stay.
They would jump out of my body to give you a glimpse of how I see you.
They would show you how utterly unprecedented you are.
If I believed in heaven I would tell you that you're a miracle.
That you are something I wished upon for years as a child.
You are a star.
You are a supernova.
You are a black hole, ******* me in and twisting me about until I am nothing
but battered limbs and my broken heart.
You are God with the Devil's kiss.
If my lips could move they'd say "stay".
You were mine.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
The onion doesn't have layers
it has panels
nailed to its skin.
On occasions
he goes back to the warehouse
where he stores broken typewriters,
unfinished narratives of the campaign,
unexploded bombs.
sellotaped wires.
He audits his feelings
keeps them neatly arranged
on shelves and spreadsheets and
he examines them against the light
and is pleased with his investigations.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
lesson #1: in the beginning, all poems on Earth were formless
on blended knee, the approaching, humility, raging, barely
tempered by a gale force need, the forthcoming yoga pose of compose
you have urgings, mostly in a blink of an eye,
then going, gone notions, the writing is so a losing effort,
you turn the paper’s aperture sideways hoping to get an
inside straight insight,
but the poem refuses to come, the creation ******
delayed is torturous and the poem birthing, even worse
so you revert to basics to give the formless a shape,
recalling a child’s learning that in the beginning:
“the earth was formless and void,
darkness was over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God was hovering
over the surface of the waters.…”
so you insert a single sheet of 20Lb bond paper,
sliding the typewriters carriage smooth swift
over to the starting gate hell’s bell, typewriter machine smell erotically exciting creative fluids boiling,
typing, laughing out loud, forming entree to the hinted hallway
of a womb opening to a crafting with three words:
in the beginning
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 5:05 PM UTC
If there were a formula
for the way her lips seek out
for mine while I am still attached
to those of a boy,
I would plug it through with
the determination
of a scientist, feeding it
back and forth through the
machines until someone
could give me an answer.
She visits me
in my sleep, bleeds
through the walls of
our separate dimensions
until she finds a way
into my heart. From there,
she rides my bloodstream up
into my brain, she puts
her hands on my controls
and guides my dreams
through to her childhood
home, where she knows
I'll fall in love with the gap
between her teeth and the way
she practices the word
"kindergarten"
when she thinks no one
can hear her.
I could never find her
through the keys
of my Macbook,
she calls to me
through typewriters in
store windows, when I think
I've lost her, I go into bookstores
and flip through the pages
in the poetry section until
teasing
she gives me a word,
just enough
of a puzzle to hold me
until next time. I think
when it's completed
it will look like her freckles,
the eyeshadow she spreads
over her heartache, the lipstick
she wears to feel like a woman
on the days when she needs to act
like a man, if I were a man.
I'd no longer be captivated
by the mysticism
of their skin. No longer see
the revolutionary twisting
through their spines. But
if I were a man, I wouldn't have
the same parts as my lover.
Maybe then
we'd be
just different enough
for me to tell her
how I feel.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
I swear I hate computers
what happened to antique typewriters
Yah computers are helpful and all
but what happens if they crash
or the hard drive erases
what happens if your life depended on computers
and then your computer freaked out?
If you asked me, I would love to be sitting in an old fashioned
office, typing away at an antique royal!
oh well I'll live not like I can convince the world to agree with me...
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
The day of the site visit
I hurried out at six fifteen to wait
For a train with a waning moon,
Bright Venus and Jupiter hovering
Above the skyline. The amber horizon
Turned to orange and pink
As scattered stars went dim.
Misread the schedule and arrived
Downtown three quarters of an hour
Before my Electric District connection.
An accidental gift to self.
I ascended, ate two breakfast sandwiches
I got for one dollar with a coupon,
Warm in my hands on a blue picnic table.
The sky grew light
Above the Lake and I wandered
Through Millennium Park. It was empty
Or nearly, which felt the same.
The sun broke the bent horizon
In chrome and ice. I took some pictures,
Then descended to find Track Five.
The day's light revealed
Hollow houses with cartoon stone applied
Like paint, unable to compete
For preeminence with two-car garages.
The newest were bigger and offered
In different colors, but all the same.
Driving conditions were excellent.
At sunset I stood on another platform
Above a busy highway. The last rays came
Through tree branches and melted
Into the pale sky as they left my face.
I had witnessed that sun's birth,
It had warmed me while I waited for my carpool,
Rested with me on a concrete planter after lunch.
I entered the city in darkness
A second time. Changed muddy boots
For clean shoes and hurried to the museum.
It was a free night, overcrowded
With families and children, so difficult
To find a quiet corner for contemplation,
Any sanctuary for my own small soul.
I descended, discovered the typewriters, then
Realized you and I were already there, just
In different colors, using different words,
Spending school vacation to view old paintings
And the Holiday Miniature Rooms.
It dawned and the future was brighter even
As I left the city in darkness.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC
If you're a writer your main trade is hating yourself and
finding ways to be clever about it.
Smoke cigar and coffee-stained typewriters,
bachelor in the sixties, suicide in the seventies.
I'm just a cliché, raining cats and dogs, beating dead horses and singing
a little song about death
a little song about love
there is nothing new under the sun.
Dylan doesn't understand what you do is better than
accounting, your trade is people
like stock markets-
string them up and watch them fall
I play with hearts, you say like
a girl showing off her somersaults in the backyard.
But no one is listening.
…
…
…
So you burn your eyes out with hot wax in the living room
and swear
your name is Icarus
throw your diploma into the laundry and watch it turn into tissue paper,
taking moonlight walks down the beach and
straight into the bottom
of the ocean.
(you thought she would hit you
when you told her you wanted to write
but she only laughed...
and you were surprised
how much
it hurt.)
Your father's pride, a phone full of contacts,
seeing straight in the ******* morning and the heart
of a girl that was once foolish
enough to love nitroglycerine,
sold for
a bottle of ink and a scrap of paper
and your name in the
obituaries.
...
...
...
Tell yourself it was worth it.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 1:44 AM UTC
Rock n’ roll music, Folger’s, and paint-smeared hands.
Dresser drawers filled to the brim with undeveloped camera film.
Blue bonnets and overgrown grass, pecans and crunching fall leaves.
Dirt roads and river-rocks, typewriters, polaroid cameras, and feather-quill pens.
Those hand-me-down blue eyes and brown ones that are “sometimes hazel.”
Crystal clusters and Lord of the Rings.
Countless mosquito bites and play-pretend games in the clubhouse.
Early-birds and night-owls.
Trudy; and Randy Hayes.
“Don’t touch everything you see,” and “If you say you’re bored, I’ll find work for you to do.”
Sweet tea and okra and southern dishes blackened and drenched in cheese or gravy.
Grandma always burned everything to make sure it was fully cooked, and to her, it was never burned, just “well-done.”
Cigarettes and carpentry and cookbooks. Wild blackberries and birthday parties at the lake.
Sleeping in all day and staying up all night and procrastination.
Shepherd's Pie, potatoes, and four-leaf clovers.
“Nil Desperandum. Never Despairing.”
I’m from a whole house that eats eggs for breakfast, and I’m allergic to eggs.
And trees as tall as buildings and buildings as tall as trees.
“You should never take the lord’s name in vain,” and “Jesus loves you, so you should love others.”
Day-dreams and stargazing and thunderstorms.
“All or nothing,” and “There is no try, only do.”
Old family pictures in dust-glittered frames.
We are crystals. We have facets, each one makes us who we are.
With only one window of our lives to express, we’d merely be glass.
I am a part of each of these things just as much as they are each a part of me.
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 12:36 AM UTC
His heart was kept in a babooshka-doll
that released memory smells
with every layer that eroded.
The wooden fences faded
to damp brick in the corner
of his head reserved for the harmonica
that played through the microphone
in his neck till the sound got lodged
in his maudlin march
that had him running like he
was angry at the road.
His Echostep
vibrating in
the kremlin skin
and marrionette heart strings
that kept him.... him.
Despite broken wings
he made the air around him dance
with the resonance of each
broken crystal ball shard used
to predict the past.
Each chime raised a mountain,
folding back on itself
hoping the hallucination would end,
till tired hands
batted away golden hawks.
With rocks for claws.
It was all the fights with the wind
that had the clouds leaving the moon's
Picaso skies,
and sailing towards him on warships of
rain and frozen effigies.
They arrived, astronauts
from outer space
burning from the lips
outwards revealing grey
intent and red mists.
He fought back with false start
epiphanies and the falsetto
prophecies that stung the air
with pitch raining down.
Leaving bare branches where once
green hands applauded
everything but empty air,
like listless typewriters furiously
trying to find their voices.
Feirce winds and fake faces
left blinking with closed eyes
in the vastness of battlefield.
Turning stomaches and
blank canvas whirlpools,
storms of anti-peace
scarring the last conquests
of the flightless ape lizard,
and all his gorilla warfare.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
While I return and slow down
to the classics;
the film analog cameras,
vinyl records,
typewriters,
silent movies,
worn-out pocketbooks,
and other novelties
of the old world charm...
I also enjoy the convenience
of the contemporary;
my phone's one-click camera,
spotify premium,
notes app,
netflix,
kindle,
and other niceties
that the here and now has to offer...
And while I rev back
to the retro and vintage,
I also race forward
to the excitement and danger
brought about by the internet,
of chatting with a familiar stranger.
of exchanging laughters in electronic.
of feeling emotions from a vague, distant, technical, difficult source.
Oh, the thrill and tragedy of technology!
May 7, 2022
May 7, 2022 at 8:22 AM UTC
darkness crept in
with his heavy feet on the floor
and his hot breath on my neck
mocking tone pierces
my vulnerable mind
and i crumble
a surface crack breaches
a sitting duck
for a gust of wind
blinded by the vision
of how things should be
and what will never happen
sitting at the fork
watching the boats pass
as i am unable to move
the light has faded
the sun has set
and i have waited hours for the dawn
but i keep my eyes to the east
and i will wait many more
for the sun to rise.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 12:08 AM UTC
~
*Black as coal.
Moth or myth?
It helps with the lights out.
And travels by thought.
Cleopatra enters Rome,
Dropping names,
Reciting pagan poetry,
Knocking on forbidden doors.
Nicole sees shadows
Of her former self
Staring back at her,
Rock paper scissors,
The color of three.
Give and take after take
On the burning soil
Of a blurred crusade.
Typewriters
And other assorted weapons
Form white lies and alibis,
Calibrating the dusted variations
Of a caught-on-camera obscura,
It is a dark waltz,
Some small hope still,
Yet there's a comma after still.*
~
Jul 27, 2022
Jul 27, 2022 at 9:57 PM UTC
i've shut down
like a factory building typewriters or VCRs
you left a rotten tingling in my mouth
pepper-flavored rubbing alcohol
slap me like you check yourself out in the mirror
maybe that will set my brain back into motion
sparks and blue soda
i gave you too many chances to ruin my life
bald spots on my head
lungs black because you made me start smoking again
turn around
the back of your head is the only part that doesn't make me cry anymore
and yet it still does
build me up like legos and take me apart piece by piece
we had brooklyn and bagels and trains and hangovers and sheets
religious conversion was avoided
i just realized how unhappy i was with you
all of you
all of what you gave me
which was nothing
taker.
taker.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
We were primates swinging from the branches of skyscrapers
And our cooing come ons lost in translation
Sharing body heat to keep us warm inside old office buildings
Where the ghosts of typewriters flit about the ground floor
And we let our blood vessels ebb and flow
We became cynical at the thought of falling in love
Like hard tack candy caught in the teeth of giants
We're getting older but our mouths still tastes like strawberries
We'll build our home on a mountain of shopping carts
Our children will be the hum of the generator
And the occasional sunburst we get through the grimy window
Can be the laughter of a family board game
Unconscious of our own bodies, not knowing our own
Only the ebb and flow you, the sky, that falls
Upon the roar of I, the wild ocean
With our bodies building a sanctuary for the sparrows
Will you still love me when the bomb turns the cities to snowflakes?
The sky is on fire but at least I know you're warm
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC
follow the yellow brick road...
The terrible freedom unleashed by typewriters.
Condition of complexity judged without criteria.
Radical provocations. Urinals and prams. Contingent.
Anarchist aesthetic. Not truth nor beauty but freedom.
Materiality of language. Multi-hued wheel barrows.
A cuttlefish. A crate. A cassowary. A cigarette. A ******
Paratactic order. Particular phrasing. Pulsing pastiche.
An infinite conversation without resolution
as with the stupid friend who won’t shut up. Ever.
A transcendent dialectic based solely on proximity.
Ineluctable modality of the near. Only that. Buck it.
An unquiet ghost endlessly self-questioning. No answers.
Moaning in the meaning. A simple stuttering. Sibilant.
Turbulent and unpredictable as waddling wolverines.
Words that only mean whatever is seen. Juxtaposition.
Dissolving into desired dissonance. The magic chord.
Absolute verity in the experience of the fraudulent
for the same reason as the ubiquity of toothpaste.
The poem as its own universe, complete and whole,
fodder for the mind, not balm for the soul.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
17 feb: offbeat
I couldn't stop thinking about
grey tartan and gin
and soft pink skin.
Cigarettes and typewriters,
drops of ink on the paper
leading away from the word
"desperation."
But there it was.
"I'm leaving for the afternoon.
Your choice is to prune
the bushes or to water them."
What was I to do?
I liked them full and so did you.
You were frantic.
As though you'd misplaced something
when really you were just searching
for a fishing net.
"Look at the sunset."
Oh but it's gone, it's over, I'm sorry.
[Friend, friend
do not cower or back down
from this but know
that I am listening for you,
to you, always.]
Left to rot,
built to spill,
one of us was always ill.
I was waiting for you to come home--
I have not touched the bushes yet.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
lovely things
the way morning dew sprinkles itself on freshly planted roses
the way someone smiles when they haven't in ages
the way a butterfly silently ***** through the wind making its way to who knows where
the way freshly dried clothes feel on a cold body
the laughter of someone who means the world to you
the feeling after a long nap in the day
the sound of trickling rain on your window
the way compliments flow off of someone's lips and touches your heart
the feeling of success after many failures and fall downs
the feeling of someone who has your back
typewriters
leather journals
freshly polished fingernails
moms
the way your friend keeps messing up when typing
the typos in something freshly written
the smell of bounce
freshly cut grass on a cool morning
the way we believe in 11:11
rough handwriting in cursive
meaningful thank you notes
secret admirers
you
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
for every night we giggled on the floor
and every cigarette we smoked in your house without your parents knowing.
for kissing one person good morning and another good night
and every yearbook scribble about living together.
for matching haircut,
for matching eyes,
an every freckle on your perfect body that i told you drove me insane.
for every lunch you ate on the bathroom floor.
for every person i told you were a dropout.
and every minute i spent yelling about the jellies in the sea where you got stung.
for being into typewriters,
for being into talking,
and ever golden lock of hair i pointed out,
for the things you wanted added and
for the things you wanted removed.
for the holes we put in our bodies
this is just to apologize.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
I wish I could run to end of the cosmos
Just reach the reluctant intellectuals
Just so I could catch a glimpse of them ducking out of the limelight
I wouldn’t bother asking them
It wouldn’t do any good
They wouldn’t have much to say
They’d be a bit focused sticking to their morals
And criticizing the museums
Tell them to open up just a little bit
So that way everyone could rush in
Empty canvas in hand
Or typewriters
Or a marble slab waiting for them
They’d rush in
Bringing a beautiful fire to everything else
Explaining themselves to Matisse and Greco
Mona Lisa and Caravaggio would understand though
At least I think so
Van Gogh laughing in utter delight
The fire would burn all the glitz and convention
But all the passion
Emotion
Angst
Uncontemplated beauty would shine brighter than ever before
Some observers would go insane
Climbing up to the top of skyscrapers
Jumping off
Screaming, on their way down
DUCHAMP
Conning the police out of their guns
Putting it to their head
Walking into the middle of the street
Welcoming the buses with open arms
And I know you want to save those people
But it’s not up to you
We’ll see them again someday
Hopefully they’ll understand it then
Don’t cry for them, though
Look at all the others
Running through the streets
Naked
Without shame
Greeting their friends from so many years ago
As they stand in front of Rothko and he looks into both of their eyes
And they stare back trying to let themselves be encircled
With smiles
That shine like halos
As they look at their sisters
Without lust
And with compassion
While they express their enthusiasm for jazz
And sing as loud as trumpets
Dancing as fast as a piano
I’m finished crying for the dinosaurs
Or feeling guilty for Christ
I jump into the smile of the moon
I spread my arms wide open in front of the sun
Just to let him know that he’s welcome
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 3:06 AM UTC
Bridges,
trains,
balloons, ships,
sails, colored glass, snow on the beach,
frozen water, words, language, music, subways,
typewriters, books, photographs,
swing sets, ink,
dust motes,
sunshine,
rain, snowflakes,
tunnels, streetcars, imagination,
memories, silence, sound, shadow puppets, candles,
flames, wax, communities,
comfortable situations, spiral staircases,
camaraderie,
old phones,
wire connections, written letters,
traveling, discovery, robots,
plants, flowers, clouds, grass, breeze,
shadows, running water, warm blankets,
bicycles, seasons,
change,
sunsets,
sunrises, the horizon,
mirrors, time, living without time,
living within space, living, breathing, seeing, hearing,
touching, tasting, smelling,
being reminded of something vague by a scent, poetry,
Kerouacian conversations,
abstractness,
friendship, love,
thoughts, beliefs, emotion,
movement, ages,
beginnings,
endings.
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 10:00 AM UTC