"unicycle" poems
Bike
tryke
unicycle
Pedalling
with both feet
and no hands
-gaudy helmet
for safety-
Still inevitable
the blackness and
scratches of
pavement
Ride or die
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 9:40 PM UTC
When the world is slowly dying
Bears on icebergs, melting, crying.
When you refuse to reduce or reuse,
Think of the people and animals you abuse.
All the talk of apocalypse
But zombies don’t compare to this.
The universe’s suicide
The struggle, the difficulty to stay alive
The problems we face, that we cannot erase
Someday we could lose this place.
So walk to school, ride your unicycle
Reduce, reuse, and finally, Recycle
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
Clickety clack, clickety clack go the perfect white plastic teeth as they clip together
Reality bites like a pair of comedy dentures sprung from the pocket of a sad faced clown
Look again; are they plastic? Or are they waterloo teeth plucked from the warm corpse of a cold friend
Either way they are far too close to my face for this to be funny.
For redemption he squeezes his droopy flower between finger and thumb
But to no avail.....The comedy squirt is missing; it is as dry as the tears on his powder white cheek
Squeak, squeak, squeak goes the wheel on his unicycle as he painfully pedals away
But it is not he that failed you....No it is those that stole the part of you that used to be easily pleased
Like thieves in the night, feasting on your happiness and enjoying the thought of wonderful you falling from your erroneously perceived perch
Well let them take their pound of flesh, if they can rejoice in my pain it will only erode them from the inside out
I renounce such bitterness because before long I will find me again, I will be stronger and better
I will take flight and alight a pedestal far higher than the one they imagined I thought I was on
“Just words!” screams that child in my soul...Actions are stifled like the image of a five year old you with a cloth clasped to the face; breathing on the anaesthetic evil of life.
You want to help but you can only see him through the one way glass of time, what is done is done and can only be undone through reliving this terror and fixing the damage
His struggle is short lived and the monsters descend, dragging him by a foot naked and bruised, head banging the contours of this corridor of depravity
He cannot hear your screams but his fill your ears like the blood of a million paper cuts, not one measured but together a pain like no other
Where was his saviour? Or was he always considered as a low risk category a misconception of strength and need
Was his *** the white of his skin, the bread on his table, the money in his mothers pocket and the education he received render him ineligible for salvation
In short...“Yes”...he was expected to save himself and learn to save others...Those less fortunate.
Little do they know in some ways, once you’ve scratched the surface, they were far luckier
Their vices were less harmful than his own devices, as a little knowledge is dangerous
With great power comes great responsibility but some can be responsible for others without learning to take care of themselves.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
terry gross has a purple unicycle
she keeps locked away in the far right corner of her basement
all things considered
on
All Things Considered
Terry Gross doesn't mention it much
but terry gross has a dream
and that dream revolves around that
purple unicycle
she Sees it In her Sleep
it calls to her
terry
Terry
TErry
why have you forsaken me terry
remember the good old days
the travelling circus
Vladimir
the strong man
why must you leave me in this temporal hell
terry gross listens not
she has a new life now
NPR will protect her
if only she could protect them
.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
plug-in your head music
remember being young
on a pogo stick
a unicycle
with training wheels
under
sunshine of your
love
o’ shine on
you crazy
diamond
run in the
jungle
feel the rain
on sunny day
and let it be
misunderstood
stop your moon tears?
run in Reeboks?
come on
you painter of
words
chew
good & plenty
plant
lime lima beans
kaleidoscope kale
juicy fruit gum
harvest
magenta mangos
paisley peaches
or go to an auction
bid on
T-bone
bubble gum
sprout beans
Tahitian telecaster
pre-rolled wagon wheel
sweet sixteen candles
Hound Dog Taylor’s
Brownie McGhee loafers
no?
yes?
don’t change
your lunatic fringe
in twilight’s open season
read
The Hidden Singer
dance
boogie woogie
cha-cha-cha
outside the house of the rising sun
so turn it up, Mr. James
your big wheel
keeps on turnin’
groove
to the little bird
who sings and sings
© 2011 chuck a stetson
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 7:07 PM UTC
they look at me as a circus act
they look at me as an acrobat
I'm twisted and turned and pushed on my back
that's why they call me a circus act
and I am the ****** you point and laugh at
but in reality I am the sanity
of this circus act
and we all take part disguised by lies
we all have our own show
we are famous for our wonderful tricks and our flips
because we are the circus show
and we try our hardest to get out of this cage
the lions are hungry and we cant play this game
and if the circus doesn't **** you
you will hang
on the tightrope
no net on the ground
and we will ride our unicycle off of the bridge
we will gather our money
every penny and dime
for tickets to see the freaks in the circus act
but we are the show
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
I remember when the circus first came to town,
The village people eagerly came to see from all around.
Every wild animal on wheels was caged in tow, followed by colorful clad characters on foot sure to give a spectacular show.
I remember when I first entered beneath the great big tent and caught the grand act of the peculiar pink elephant.
Get Your Peanuts, Popcorn, and Hot Dogs Here! The Concessionaire yells in a hearty cheer.
The taste of cotton candy, the sounds, smells and the sights,
Above me a man balances on a tight rope from a view of an incredible height.
For the kids, clowns twist and shaped balloons in all odd kind of forms,
And stuffed themselves in a tiny car with a toot, toot of a funny sounding horn.
The feathered ladies on horseback perform daring acrobatic stunts, as in place the horses prance and dance in a parade of extraordinary pomp.
All eyes are on the lion tamer in his tails and fancy top hat twirling a chair and cracking a whip at the growl of the big man eating cat.
Tigers jumped through flaming hoops, as human cannonballs towards the sky their bodies shoot.
Little doggies do flips for their treats as acrobats fly through the air performing death defying feats,
Or what could be more delightful to see than a bear riding a unicycle or perhaps even three?
Finally, comes the grand finale, then soon it is time to go home, the tents have been folded the rides have been loaded the performers and the animals have all gone.
On their parents strong shoulder kids are carried off in their sleep with sweet dreams of, fun rides and toy prizes, and candy apple treats.
Ferris wheels and merry go rounds, the bearded fat lady weighing a hundred pounds.
I remember a girl on a wire, the boy that spits fire a man with his head in the jaws of a tiger.
Reminiscing of the time when the circus first came to town
And the village people eagerly came to see from all around.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
Embodied in a perpetual persona of shitheaded seventeen
(Before you snuck out on a cold silver sheet)
You could measure your lifespan (or is it your wingspan, now? did you know it's the same as your height?) in late-night shenanigans topped with bacon-guaca-holy-moly burgers, tumbling in neon spandex and the raising of general hell, which you probably can't reach right now,
(And how many flaming bags of feces on why-not doorsteps, for me?)
Speaking of me,
Do you remember when I kissed your head beside a broken down photo machine? Do you remember when we ran away from your first girlfriend (her first kiss) and laughed because you had a current girlfriend? Do you remember when we tried out clouds in department store floor levels, like you were planning on getting one all along? Like you were my (first) and now my (late) husband? Three years doesn't seem very long ago, when placed in proportion with - what was that word again - eternity?
You were but a fleeting presence not only in my life, (in her life, his life, their lives now broken from a trio into a typical twosome) but in your very own - one blonde beach-bunny darting from top-hat to top-shelf
(Could you give up World of Warcraft for a World of pearly White?)
(Would you take me to my Senior Prom?)
We will float yellow rubber ducks down the water at your wake (one by one) and eat food-court teriyaki because no one is allowed to be sad (says you)
(Jesus, baby, what's your dang address?!)
In the end, you ride off into the sunset on your unicycle, like the bad movie that this is
(Screaming, "this thing's killer on the *****
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
in this happy-deathday, I serve you a bowl of soup, because it’s really you
clay bowl, kidney-beans, vegetables, all thickened with dreary cream;
there is an opened-eyes fish, but definitely can’t cry
they all would float and spread out the smell of awry
the soup has its hot steam, but it is not wandering to ceiling,
it is coming to my neck, ******* my guilty, which I have none
seeing this soup makes me twisting my hair; complicated
I was a loner clown living in the wardrobe—then you gave me one unicycle
you took me out from the pile of clothes
away from cockroach which peeing my head gleefully
til I was starving: yes, I am starving sardonically
I glare the flame of your sincerity which flies away somewhere
I lost my fingers in the soup
while bacteria just sitting cross-legged on the left side
the soup remains sour
and I need something to add—to drag my tasty life again
exactly in this happy-deathday, I reinvite you, my honey
mixing a handful fine-ashes with this soup: because it’s really you
so, how does it taste?
dive deeper and fine how delicious your beyond
no more illness, no more madness, no more confusion of my demeanor
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 1:03 AM UTC
Chin up, look straight.
A battle of wits account the physicality of it all,
Though the cycle holds one accountable
Balance keeps me afloat.
That I may fall,
Flat on my face
And it’ll be ok
I’ll be fine—trust me.
Because equilibrium’s non-static state,
ends sooner—Rather than later.
What’s Balance but a second before falling?
What’s Balance, but a second before needing more Balance..
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
Paradoxical split between the worlds in which I inhabit
Space and time discontinuum
For which art thou represent?
Nonsense you buffoon!
Insanity, sweet sweet insanity
Chill my bones yet warm my heart
Unorthodox orthodoxy with power
Eat thy young
The void always welcome weary travelers
Yet travelers that embrace the void
Are no longer travelers
For we love and loathe our void
Loving and loathing
The story of my passing through time
Completely unfinished
Yet left resolved
What is it that I speak of?
I sincerely wish I knew
I am only a medium
For the being inside of me
Is that not what we all are?
Just bodies withering ever so slightly
Whilst our souls remain forever youthful?
This life can make your soul grow old as well
Or is life an act of duality
In which we sleep at night
So that our souls can show us their lives
And awake to show our souls ours?
Nothing makes sense
It isn't supposed to
That's why there is faith
Whether in nothing or everything
I am nowhere yet everywhere
A tiny speck yet everything I've ever known
I am a clown confused in a circus
Switching realities, or rather fantasies
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
I'm supposed
To take life seriously
To make commitments
And plans
To think about the future
And set goals
And on on and on
And care about money
And I think it is just
A bunch of *******
I liked that documentary
About the guys
Who went to ride
Their unicycles
In Bhutan
They rode down
The stone stairs
Of mountain trails
They met with the woman
Before they journeyed
High into the mountains
Of Eastern Bhutan
She told them of the Yeti
And that they would feel
His presence there
She said it would be best
If they did not see him
But they might encounter him
Because the Yeti
Had never seen
A unicycle before
I think it would be fun
If they taught the Yeti
How to ride the unicycle
Just as they were
Teaching the local villagers
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
Pen marks on my face from a mirror mirage
Nothing left here but a broken down bar
Upstairs the landlord is rubbing his feet
And tonight I don't got no one to meet
A little voice said to me "walk this way"
"I got a nice place for you that you can stay"
Lead feet an' a cracked back I began to walk
But sooner then later it was the Devil in full stalk
Unicycle riders smile as the shrouded night rider
Flies right through the sky
Either I'm living in the real world
Or I'm to dumb to abide
Sister I like the way you lick your stamps
Make them nice and flat dark and damp
Maybe one day we could go steady
Thumbs up when your good an' ready
Hair on my chest and a lump in my heart
Where would you even want me to start?
I shake my head when I look to the moon,
Why oh why can't I be you?
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 4:10 PM UTC
There is something stirring in the hardwood,
the color of stained honey, suffocating
under Skittle-colored plastic bins bulging
with the weight of laundry, fishing lures, mildewed books.
I follow the small pathways into each room of my father’s
apartment, just big enough for a unicycle—tributaries
of wood lathe where yesterday he was eating oranges
and reading Popular Science before folding
himself into the mattress for the last time.
The tiny ridges of floorboards were once
smoother than good whiskey. The rippling
water in each knot is the story
of what it is to grow. Trees grow branches like mothers
grow babies and all end up here, on the floor
together. I look for the veins
in these mounds of ***** dishes
and towers of magazines, some sign
of movement. We are all being held, kept
from what’s been running beneath us.
I want to scale the piles of shut-in relics,
climb into old age and never again
think about the wet hourglass
of snow tracked in from both doors
that kept us from collapsing
in exhaustion with our inheritance.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 9:23 PM UTC
“Hey, I’m third-wheeling! Haven’t done this in a while!”
Wait… No… I’m going to stop you right there
Just because your friend has been texting me daily
Does not mean that we are any sort of duo for you half-heartedly attach to
Because I am a ******* unicycle
Admittedly, I don’t always stand too well on my own
But all it takes is some momentum and a little bit of blind faith
And I’ll be the one-wheeled contraption staggering unsteadily over any terrain imaginable
The only sort of second tire you’ll be hearing about for now
Is the declaration that I’m “two tired” to deal with this ********
Peddle your flirtations all you like, I’m not buying it
I’m the single spokesperson for a single set of spokes
You cannot tread on me just because my tread is wearing thin
Notice the lack of handlebars, you see, I am in control
Although my balance is unpredictable at best
I don’t have any brakes, because I’m getting sick of being broken
Do not mistake clowning around for simplicity, you see, I am easier said than done
The unicycle is not an easily mastered skill
And sure, perhaps I should be grateful that someone even bothers to try
But if you’re trying to shift gears, I should warn you
That doesn’t appear to be an option
I should warn you
All rides are solo
I should warn you
Unicycles might go in circles
But at least it's what they're meant to do
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
~~~
every word I write is a tribute
*now listen here,
let's clarify the inescapable,
what this tribute thing means,
cause what I'm doing here,
ain't exactly clear
everything we write,
is only a watery-encapsulated
reflection of our lives,
which of necessity,
will always be messy
what the heck does
this guy mean.
when enlisting
this shady word,
tribute?
at 3:10 in the AM,
tribute is dressed in its
more defy-nition sinister,
a bad news speaking cultural minister,
who never fails us
by reminding,
tribute originated
as the nasty kind:
"any exacted or enforced payment or contribution"
every **** word
that I've written
is a **** tribute,
an exacted, enforced, wrung from,
payment
of a pound of flesh,
Shylock's variety pack kind
I'm not bitter,
a touch angry, perhaps,
even brave, ok, unafraid,
to admit, overall,
got it pretty ok
but that I still struggle
to get that satisfaction,
in everything minute and daily,
the tiny and the tremendous,
the cost production load only goes
unicycle upward sloping,
this crisis crazy we call being
alive,
and to you,
who keys and ken
my meaning well*
herein is my good kind side
my paying
tribute
to you, your courage,
even me, periodically,
for awakening and walking
into the unknown outside,
and giving it up
in our travelogue of
shared poetry
5:48am
Jan. 21, 2016
NYC (aboard the stationary bike,
paying tribute for forty years of sinning)
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
let go of me
i think i want to
take control
this time around.
i am my own wheel
in my own unicycle
tonight.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
What color would I lose?
I’d lose all colors
Why?
I would make no distinction between things
Everything would be the same color
I wouldn’t see just a bright color
In the midst of darkness
Everything would be one color
Apples and oranges, would have something similar
Pigment of your skin, would be equal
Everything, would be equal
Balance would be in control, control of my life
My life would be in balance
Unbalanced my life is
Too many things to juggle
Feels like I’m a bear on a unicycle
Because I’m about to fall off
And when I fall off I won’t be useful anymore
They’ll kick me out, throw me out
Say I’m not good anymore
I know I’m good
Just because I’m darker than the rest
Doesn’t mean I can’t ride that unicycle like the rest
Why does color have to play a role in everything?
If a fruit isn’t the right color it’s wrong
If a flag isn’t the right color it’s wrong
If people aren’t the right color, that’s wrong
Why can’t we see everyone as one color, everything as one color
What color would I lose?
I’d lose all colors
Why?
I would make no distinction between things
Everything would be the same color
I wouldn’t see just a bright color
In the midst of darkness
Everything would be one color
Apples and oranges, would have something similar
Pigment of your skin, would be equal
Everything, would be equal
Balance would be in control, control of my life
My life would be in balance
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 8:28 PM UTC
They want to have you in their pictures,
And squeeze your fingers, thin like guitar strings
To play the lead role in the poet’s scriptures
And fit your chest gap like Saturn does its rings.
They will throw sugar in your tea;
Invent a sweet nickname to call you by.
Eventually they’ll tear off your neck the key
While renting space under your amber sky.
On Halloween they’ll party at the railway station
Tell me, are there any lonely ghosts to foster?
Watch spooky souls fill up the autumnal duration
I bet it’s fun to parent one shy fluffy monster
It must be staggering to see you so devout
To thoughts you sow and songs you reap.
How many romances does one write out
To finish songs that lull my heart to sleep?
That crystal ball in ginger’s hand..
I wonder what it’s for?
Is it an import from Red Planet where only dreamers land?
If so, how many smuggled feelings does it store?
I know, I will some day recycle
This dream of mine, a poet’s wish
Into a new desire, say, for a brand new unicycle
And once I get it, I’ll go search for a goldfish.
I’ll pick an urban goldfish from the pond,
And hand it to a girl, smiling with glee
It’ll grant her any wish due to our special bond, Pray she won’t waste it on a music deity, like me!
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 1:55 PM UTC
Dust dancing on rays of morning light;
she and I, and coffee flavored love.
The silence between the words was heavy
with an undertone of doubt.
Something she was hesitant to say
was fighting it's way from mind to mouth.
lovely lips parted to a broken sound
that became words- that became a eulogy
"I do not want a man who writes poetry"
she said, and sighed a long grasp for words
"I want a man who fights and sweats imported whiskey;
I want a man with diamond teeth and scars that tell a story.
I want a man who can juggle twelve running chainsaws
while riding on a unicycle."
Her wet and downcast eyes were blind,
and struggling with her troubled mind,
she did not see that I took the hint 5 minutes ago.
she didn't see that I had left;
because I am a man who writes poetry.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 8:02 PM UTC
“Good morning, lovely weather,” he said
Leaning over the counter and
Unfilling a bucket of goodwill over my head
“I’d like a girlfriend,” I replied
“A friendly, pretty one
And preferably one not delivered from a bucket.”
“Picky, picky, aren’t we? Unbucketed girls don’t come cheap.”
He showed me his stock
I showed him the cash
I pointed to the one with the tiara and sash
Which was a mistake because she turned out to be Miss Worlds Apart
As, when I looked more closely, did all the others
Strange to see them together like that.
Then to make matters worse
The man in the shop turned out to be Mister Parallel Universe:
As soon as he had my money he disappeared.
And she didn’t even come with a free bucket.
It couldn’t last
She kept herself at a distance
Then blamed me for shouting
We never went out together
We slept in separate beds
Took separate holidays
I bought us a tandem
She bought a unicycle
I bought two tickets for the Superbowl
She bought a barge pole
“This isn’t what I was promised at the shop,” I said
But I could produce no bucket as proof of purchase.
She must have slipped out her bedroom window one night
I found a ladder propped there in the morning
A ladder, two lines that never meet.
It had to be him and sure enough
Up from the garden drifted the smell of what could only have been buckets.
And no letter of explanation from Miss Worlds Apart.
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 4:15 AM UTC
safe passage
in deaf
snowfall
for brother
who carries
a beer
from his house
to mine.
breath is the rock I’m under.
I don’t want kids
but sing
to my belly.
a lasting image?
a unicycle on its side
beneath a suspended cross.
a temporary?
that little
self-aware
apocalypse
boxed
up
in crow.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
Legs, arms, mind, soul.
Everything is sore.
I'm stretched to all my limits,
And still you ask for more.
I'm lacking the ideas,
The energy, the strength
To jump through all your hoops today,
Or go to such great length.
I can't hold up the sky today,
I'm already lifting the land,
And somebody went and put the seas
In my other hand.
Then someone taught me to juggle,
So I added another ball,
But then I tried to ride a unicycle,
And crashed into a wall.
Even if you say "pretty please"
Or put a grade on me,
Try as I might, I simply cannot
Count both the sand and sea.
There's barely time for work,
And just forget about play,
And I simply can't do this today.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
I haven't been hungry for weeks,
that's not to say I haven't eaten,
not to say I that I don't want to be.
you see sometimes hunger isn't about an empty stomach
sometimes you can be empty and still not have enough room for more
always wanting more that doesn't fit
like ending the last page of your notebook in the middle of a sentence,
after spending your last dime on a sandwich to fill the void in your digestive,
I can't afford to keep going.
I'm a unicycle with no one to ride me,
abandoned and awkward,
falling over alone.
but my empty can't be filled with food,
eating just makes me sick,
I do it anyway,
but it doesn't help.
My empty is permanent,
no one eats enough,
and I haven't been hungry in weeks
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC