"upstate" poems
i told the girls at work about
time spent with jane.
they seemed awfully excited
for me.
maybe they could smell
that jane is new,
but familiar
like a car bought
used. she is barely driven
though. i still drive over
the skids i left from
trying to stop
too quick. you can see
my tread worn out like
sanded wood.
or maybe they could
smell the hope like dew on
the morning grass.
fresh but dangerous.
waiting
to trip me with my eyes
set ahead but not infront.
theyll leave the wire
right where they
got me the last time.
it would be an honor
to be fooled
by something so sweet
to the touch. it almost feels
alien
to not be so upset
by the way the weather
dictates my evenings.
i do not FEEL like i used to.
my love and guilt
helix and weave like code.
i would only kiss you now,
if it brought back the one i poisoned.
i live in a farm upstate now
like a dead house dog.
if ive really moved on
know that i did the impossible
we'll be better off for it.
and if things never work out with
jane, you best pray
someone loves me when im dead
cause they sure as hell
dont love me
now.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
Rows of starched green and yellow paisley feather stalks
Marching in ordered lines along the road to 57 Eldon Way
Hot dogs and char burgers charge the air with yesterday's homecoming
Buds of moxie memories tipping long ears to big blue
Listening to the chickadees vocal pecking at kernels from the past
Morsels fall to the dirt signal life again for those willing to root
Pulled magpies to lines spy intimate joy-scattered seed below
Promising fortunes creased by hourglasses settled sand
White washed porches with rose printed borders
Nestle a "his and her" swing vantage over familiar fields
Imagined better-time scenes from selfie soaked movies
More real than all the forgotten stones ever stepped upon
Sweet tea sugar fills tall glasses of yarn spun dreams
Glory red and navy rippling a windy beat
To the clang of their steal pole clasp
Dance
Swing with them and recall a time of slower horizons
Of richer baskets
Of brighter springs
Of longer summers
Take a dip in the swimming hole
Naked, together, and happy
© 2019 MJL
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
Big old jade earring hung from that haunted necklace, swinging from this and that and the other way where and if that sky upstairs let go of the thing I wanted you to be but a break in the system, no a malfunction in that suction of a love that you tried to forget about but feel those typing keys on the fingers that break knees and the heels up and up with the ***** a lingerin' and thats sounding like a new pounding, the one upstairs with the translucent roof ghostly and guess i got a new boot thats fixing itself to elate another prisoner upstate where the worries are always about the women.
Yeah, that women with the diamond ring with her children by her side thinking about the monastery she never visited a big time act act act in a dress that helped her enough and forgot about the rest. But we all move on quick to detest times test with the burritos that she never ate because of the figure she imposed that she got from her transistor radio and the yearly subscriptions of the ghostly ghost that haunted her in the moat around the castle of stairs up ripunzel with dragons a aflame listening to the same wishy washer story of old uncle Maury and the twenty ten twelve salute to the mastery of the fiction of listening, another riddle in the twiddle beneath the sheets that were once painted gold but her husband done left her and she's moving to seattle to start up some new cattle spreading the seed of 1910 where time stands still with his drink in his hand because the guy has got to get around to something with all that talent, with all that anger with all that impulse that proves itself time and time again it will never be enough for a salvation sanitation with the twisty fro's of yearly ye and ye bouts of fights she twisted in that shout that she knew, she knew she swears, what it was all about.
May 6, 2011
May 6, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
Love thy neighbour, so the Bible says
But dont covet his wife it will get you in strife!
Don't look at her body when she calls
Ignore her curves and her beconing calls
Your wife suggested you helped her out
Does she really now what its about?
That day you called when he was out
It wasn't those tools it was all about
All so innocent till she touched your chest
It went downhill and then to bed
A frantic tryst one afternoon
Cries off passion and moans were heard
Then hubby came home and saw you there
The game was up amongst other things
Two marriages ruined and a family split
All for the sake of a bit of "it"
For the wife had watched and often seen
The postman or the huge marine
She had plans all her own
And saw the means to make them so
Sow the seed and watch it grow
A perfect plan to get divorced
All she needed to pull it off
Was for them to be caught
A perfect plot
She hadn't planned on the neighbours anger
When he saw another bang her
So both barells he loosed into them
And sent upstate for ****** two
Far more than her plan had ever required
And now no alimony as hubby died!!
So love thy neighbour is all well and good
Just don't get caught if your stupid enough!
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
She came into my life
a karmic explosion
over a pristine
midnight blue
upstate New York
lake,
its breath
damp and warm
and sweet.
Gasping,
labored efforts
expelled a preganant breath,
a prelude to
life.
Blackflies engaged in rutualistic seance.
Lethagic mosquitos emerged
from the evening's sweet mist.
But then raged into frantic spirals,
squealing out futile messages.
Timid pines,
guardians of the ancient site,
loosed their rigid stance,
Prickly spines shivered to the ground.
Anxiously, they awaited rumors
that would quell the fetal dread
that flowed through veins,
invading their bliss.
A bulky mass stirred from somnolent state
in that mud-lined basin,
releasing brown ribbons of agitation,
and inciting a ravenous hunger.
Friendly galaxies,
former guides in his dream state,
abandoned his cause,
flickering a vague adieu.
Having cradled him for so long,
the slick muddy floor now sent him flailing to and fro,
an ungainly dance,
embarassing to watch.
Where once he thrived,
he now gasped for air.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
Watching milk pour into little
ziploc bags with bananas and
Cheerios and fights over which
fruit better invokes the feeling
of sunrise, of home and
morning eye crust and blown
curtains in summer breeze.
Strawberries don't stain dresses
as much as blackberries from
a friend's farm in upstate
New York or Eastern Washington
or some ranch in coastal Venezuela
with coffee and sugar smells
stuck on sticky skin and licking
juice from sweet fingertips
right before it starts to rain.
When February sun peeks
through cumulus clouds after
a five-day downpour, you turn
your face to mine and proclaim
that the world may be beautiful and youthful, after all.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
Back in upstate New York
she was a girl with stars in her eyes
She hopped a freight out westward
And tried Vegas on for size
Off strip hotels, little shows
Young Delores danced with glee
She was working in Las Vegas
the home of Jubilee
"Do you have a minute folks?'
"Do you need tickets for a show?"
"Will you be in town tonight?"
"There's a place you need to go"
"Will you be in town tomorrow?"
"We could send you for a meal"
"You just have to see our condo's"
"It's a real fantastic deal"
Twenty years upon the strip
Wearing fruit baskets on her head
Delores was a showgirl
Even though the shows were dead
She danced backup for lounge singers
She was with Wayne Newton for a while
She still had all the attributes
That made the tourists smile
"Do you have a minute folks?'
"Do you need tickets for a show?"
"Will you be in town tonight?"
"There's a place you need to go"
"Will you be in town tomorrow?"
"We could send you for a meal"
"You just have to see our condo's"
"It's a real fantastic deal"
Time went by as it always does
Her body said "No more"
Dancing in the big time shows
Had made her body sore
Options down in Vegas
For ex-showgirls were not good
But she wasn't going east again
Even though folks said she should
"Do you have a minute folks?'
"Do you need tickets for a show?"
"Will you be in town tonight?"
"There's a place you need to go"
"Will you be in town tomorrow?"
"We could send you for a meal"
"You just have to see our condo's"
"It's a real fantastic deal"
She didn't have the hands for dealing
The casino was her second home
But, she didn't want to waitress
She was just too old to roam
But in Vegas, there's a sub trade
One she had the smile for
She could still work in the casinos
And help get people through the door
"Do you have a minute folks?'
"Do you need tickets for a show?"
"Will you be in town tonight?"
"There's a place you need to go"
"Will you be in town tomorrow?"
"We could send you for a meal"
"You just have to see our condo's"
"It's a real fantastic deal"
Selling timeshares to the folks
Who come in all the time
They could get free shows and dinners
And it wouldn't cost a dime
Delores was still a show girl
But, it was not the same by far
But, she was still selling in Vegas
And Delores was still a star
"Do you have a minute folks?'
"Do you need tickets for a show?"
"Will you be in town tonight?"
"There's a place you need to go"
"Will you be in town tomorrow?"
"We could send you for a meal"
"You just have to see our condo's"
"It's a real fantastic deal"...
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter.
I'm probably not fighting it.
It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade.
Second, keep my death off the internet.
Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions.
Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long.
Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot.
You are not to allow this.
A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving.
Not permitted at the funeral:
Gerber daisies
poetry
blue jeans
any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.")
Encouraged at the funeral:
Hugs - everyone must hug
lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?)
And make sure they bury me in the blue dress.
Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring,
make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building,
or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade,
or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason.
Remember me as I was.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
Walking along an
Autumn afternoon
in New York
where in New York
somewhere upstate
somewhere downstate
somewhere leaves fall
in front of where
I approach
but land as a crash
like a stray piece
from construction
high above.
An afternoon
where dreams
of new
where visions
of more
than just a few
begin to fade
to black
as the sun’s
signature upon my
eyes
recluses from
the greyer skies.
Now lost in New York
I attempt to recover
and sojourn forth
from where I had
been to somewhere
somewhere different
somewhere inspiring
somewhere that brings
out the best
of not just a few
but all the rest
who wish
who dream
who ignite
like fire
as the presence
of Autumn’s
dimming light
truly and finally
does expire.
~Miguel
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
in response to matthew zapruder's "come on all you ghosts," section ii
I.
I see what you mean about fathers; lately
my father has been the only ghost I know. He
mostly stands in doorways, mostly to say goodnight.
II.
Please tell me more about what it’s like to listen
to your father cough. Mine never has; I wasn’t even born yet
when someone stole his lungs, hid them away in a graveyard.
III.
I think I want a keychain like yours. No not
a keychain, but something just as much a corpse. Mostly
just a portrait of my father, maybe I’ll take your keychain
and onto it I’ll paint the portraits of everybody’s fathers.
IV.
I know I’m being called, but I don’t
feel quite like my father yet. There is
still so much pavement left for me to see,
and one day I want to be able to list all
of the names of places that I’ve lived in.
V.
I’ve lived mostly in wombs. Also
there was the taxi, and then the apartment skewed
with a crib and rats and some gunshots
from down the street. Later there was the house
by the river, and there was upstate, where
they sat in beach chairs in the parking lots
of gas stations and watched the cars drive by.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
Frz have you forgotten me?
I hear your voice, but its me saying do not listen
Anyway I say, how are you?
the court records a divorce, a child, and a republican,
You were once a brooklynite, a beloved chassid gal, so hollow to hide, have you moved upstate?
me? maybe inappropriately concerned
I dreamt we will meet one day.
I see you, you see me, then run away furtively,
I race head long, trying to catch you, to touch you at last.
Mind numb, you duck in the LGBT centre. I stop.
Leaving you to minds damnation and hell, a palace of fears, fool for years, you lead me down some steps, through an alley, open a gate, and smile,
stay here, you say, between two buildings.
I sit next to the garbage cans against a wall with leafless vines, its the first snow, you never said when you'd be back.
It is now a year before I die, cars roll by noisily, far off a lone siren, someone is digging in the garbage for scraps, it seems impossible that inches away you were within my reach
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 2:35 AM UTC
Life is but a country club.
Weren’t you invited, dear?
Intelligence quotients and aptitude tests,
sorted by layers of filters and ciphers,
to justly court the consummate lifers.
Are you qualified?
The waiting list is growing,
and the company is getting anxious.
Shall we take on some new members,
or watch the squirming a little longer?
Think about it this way,
if you aren’t qualified -
You can always try upstate.
What a lovely estate!
A half-smoked cuban cigar,
and a watchman at the gate.
No, you can’t trust the man
who got lost in his mistakes.
He is untrustworthy.
Do be a doll though, Cindy,
and send a nice postcard.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:26 AM UTC
i need this listerine for my bad
breath he said, but i knew better
than to give him a quarter.
he begged me with blue eyes
and every puff we exhaled into
the back bay that grey morning.
i’m here to help
i answered him
and i’ve been there-
at McLean in ART, where the girls
didn’t like me cause my music
was a trigger. but
i pulled through, sometimes
on my own, with help
from a court appointed drug group
(even though i carpooled
every wednesday in a baked
out mini van).
i’m here because day after day
i dragged my spinning
body to the toilet, sun dawning,
to spew bright yellow fluid
into the waiting water.
and i’ve hit the ocean floor:
i used to sniff the bowl to make
the ***** come up faster.
i’d say if i get up again in less than ten
minutes, it’s gonna be a rough day
(but yesterday started this way
and i ended it with a beer
in my hand anyway).
i’m here because when
officer spirito dragged my racing
body through the hallways handcuffed,
because of the purses
missing from the locker room,
i still spent the night on the
closet floor rocking back and
forth, knees to pounding
chest, a hollow
voice on the phone saying i’ll be fine
(but i know that ***** cut
with ether and i’m gonna
need a hospital).
i told my sponsor
i wanna get clean cause
dope is taking my friends one by
one like bowling pins, and i’m lonely
cause all my ex boyfriends
are still locked up
upstate. she just told me
to pray to god
(but everybody knows
that prayer only works
in emergencies).
i’m here because that relapse
my first year of college got me
pretty close to death. i didn’t know
i could puke that far and
the emts didn’t know
a heart could beat that fast.
but **** the past
and **** the future. i can’t
say much about the rest
of my life, but i can
make sure i’m sober the rest
of this night. you can get through
centuries one hour at a time, so
since i know what you want it for
why would i give you that quarter?
no response except a drop
of spit hung from his silver beard
like a pendulum, and the smell
of the chicken i left to cook
too long inside that soup kitchen.
if i didn’t laugh, i would have
cried the whole
time that he said to me
i need this
listerine, baby,
i need listerine
i need this
listerine for my bad
breath.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:11 AM UTC
i remember meeting you in the back of house, where your words were loose and wild. i was brining some guests plates in that needed to be cleaned after their meal. i got to talking with some coworker about some
bull **** coworkers talk about, probably complaining about some old lady who wanted truffle fries and only got regular fries. you had to chime in when there was a cadence with some ********** comment to display your manliness and status amongst your kitchen staff. that game always seemed counterproductive to me. you pinned me for someone i wasn't. i did the same to you. somehow along the way, between all your lewd remarks, we became friends. i believe it began over our affinity for the Buffalo Bills. You said you liked them because they were the underdogs and you hated the Miami Dolphins. I told you they were my hometown team and you said "no **** get the **** outa here. You're from Buffalo?" the way you said it lead me to assume you were from New York. You told me you were from upstate and missed it. I told you how much time my family spent up there in the summers, doing outdoorsy things. burning fires, drinking beer underage, walking barefoot through the forrest. we bonded. we learned a lot more about each other. you were divorced and knew that you could never love another woman as much as you loved your ex. she gave you two beautiful kids. she also took 3/4 of you paycheck and left you for broke. the rest you drank away with me when our shifts were over. you told me about your drug habits, and i told you about mine. i told you about my childhood and you said you were sorry. i helped you drive your kids to school when your ex wife was too busy. we got drunk and shot so much **** there was a chip on your shoulder. there was a chip on mine too. i got to see you cry when i accused you of using again. i think you knew what i said was true. i came down on you hard because i had just lost two jobs, a girlfriend i thought would have my children, and someone that lived in your apartment complex crashed into my brand new car while i was waiting on you. we were on the way to get your kids from school. you knew i meant well but i could see the guilt in your eyes. i helped you with your kids a handful of times after that. we would get breakfast after and talk about work and women. after work we'd get ****** and eat at some small Mexican stand in 90 degree weather. i fell asleep at the wheel and totaled my car some time later. shortly after i left for tour and then you died. some secrets you take to the grave. thank you.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 3:24 AM UTC
I loved it,
whitewater rafting
in the Adirondacks,
sleeping in tents
cooking on woodsmoke
having a joke with
the
New Yorker yokels
known locally as the locals.
It was Yellowstone that stole my heart,
rings of fire on the end of a rainbow
dreams that we lived and
we lived for the dream,
all the rest is just history
and most of that went to the scrapyard.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
There was heat lightning as I walked back home that night.
it was Saturday, or rather, Sunday,
5 am, still dark
when I got his text and I wondered this: how far can two strangers go?
how quick can two fall in Love,
and just how quick does it take
for ignorance to come on?
Love is not Love anymore.
but I’ll admit to missing this,
only to you, my reader:
I do sometimes miss the sight of my once lover
walking towards our table with two cups of coffee in hand.
he hasn’t memorized my order yet, and I’m content with this.
it’s moving slowly, we’re just friends that happen
to spend a lot of time together, and share favorite movies,
and favorite songs, and could listen to a newly discovered old album
all the way through
just lying on his bed
and gazing at each other.
we could stare into the other’s eyes till we found our own reflection.
he was in me as much as I was in him.
Love is not love anymore
when I’ve left that part of me in upstate new york, in another land.
Love is being content.
but I am not content with myself
or my others that try to be significant,
like the one who sent that text,
hopeless, romantic, and misguided.
I am not in Love, reader,
not since him.
so when I got this text and he said that he could imagine us together,
holding hands, in a state beyond
nice, simple, naïve, simplistic
friendship,
I paused
stuck in my place,
for long enough that the lightning had a chance
to greet the storm.
the rain pummeled down, extraterrestrial,
and the bag of White Castle burgers I carried
disintegrated.
as the bag narrowed down in size, sliders plopping down onto the pavement
I kept running towards my home, trying to forget that our friendship was in question.
Love is not love anymore.
it scares me more than it should.
I’d rather let my seven dollars go to waste,
than give into love’s blind, bitter taste.
I’d rather my toms be pounded down into the pavement by the rain
and later spend three days drying in the back of my closet
and have the security guard stare at me, confused,
as the last of my sliders fall down onto the sidewalk outside his door.
“That’s a mess,” he says,
as if I didn’t know,
and he makes no move to help me clean it up,
so I choose not to reply to him.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Bein' locked up
Ain’t an asset
And prison isn’t (a right of passage)
Don’t tell me where you been
Get yourself past it
It’s time to wake up
You stupid *******
I’m gettin tired of hearing
****** talk about
How long they went in fo’
Once they come out
And there ain’t nothin'
That I find more aggravatin'
Than hearin bout cases
That they got waitin
Or when they'll walk out
Of the prison gate
Because they doin time
Somewhere upstate
Now I ain’t mad at ‘em
Because of their plight
I just wish they wouldn’t
Take so much delight
Bein locked up
Ain’t an asset
And prison isn’t (a right of passage)
Don’t tell me where you’ve been
You stupid *******
It’s time to wake up
And get yo’ *** past it
I know some of y’all
Can relate
To doin time
Somewhere upstate
And you've engaged in
The idle chatter
Like the time you did
As if it mattered
And we can find
A true paradigm
Like a broken wrist-watch
That keeps losing time
I realize you may be
Keepin it real
Cos someone convinced you
Prison is the deal
Bein' locked up
Ain’t an ssset
And prison isn’t (a right of passage)
Don’t tell where you’ve been
Get yourself past it
It’s time to wake up
You stupid *******
You run off the names
Like they finishing schools
But they’re been erected
To house you fools
I don’t fault a man
For making a living
If they've factored in
The time they'll be given
Especially if they get caught
And take a fall
For throwing bricks
At the penitentiary wall
What I’m tryin to say is
Get a grip
Before you wind up
Taking a bus trip
Bein' locked up
Ain’t an asset
And prison isn’t (a right of passage)
Don’t tell where you’ve been
Get yourself past it
It’s time to wake up
You stupid *******
Prison isn't
What it's cracked up To be
And if you been there
I’m sure you’ll agree
You know what you did
While you were in
Sodomy's ******
And it's still a sin
See havin prison muscles
Don’t make you a man
If you were tossin salad
Inside the slam
So if you ever been in
Let that be your secret
I don’t wanna know
Why don't you keep it
Bein' locked up
Ain’t an asset
And prison isn’t (a right of passage)
Don’t tell me where you’ve been
Get yourself past it
It’s time to wake up
You stupid *******
How many baby daddies
Ain’t around
Because of bad choices
Now they’re on locked down
Waiting for commissary
And some cigarettes
That they use to barter
And pay their debts
Then history repeats itself
Know what I mean
And the child takes the same road
That his father’s been
It’s an ongoing saga
That just doesn't end
You know what I’m talkin' ‘bout
So don’t pretend
Bein' locked up
Ain’t an asset
And prison isn’t (a right of passage)
Don’t tell me where you’ve been
Get yourself past it
It’s time to wake up
You stupid *******
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
The more you seek the more you know
Whether it be in an upstate penthouse
Or a lavender tree surrounded bungalow
The mind, an unfathomable garden of planted scriptures, undefined.
The heart yelps, the voices blow
Initiative galore of intriguing canvases follow
One does not see, one does not hear
But sense is beyond the limits of sorrow
I would like to see, I would like to hear
Albeit constant delusions of fear
Created to seek what's beyond the border
I rest in assurance, one day the tendency of denial won't wander
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
I’m in the streets
Tryin to get some flow
I do what I gotta
When my paper’s low
But I love my baby
And she lets me know
That what we have
Can only grow
I’m as much hers
As she is mine
I love my baby
She’s a special kind
I did the crime
But she did my time
Hood love saved me
And it’s good love baby
I’m on my grind
Both night and day
I do what I do
For the pay
But she don’t care
What people say
My baby loves me
Anyway
I’m as much hers
As she is mine
I love my baby
She’s a special kind
I did the crime
But she did my time
Hood love saved me
And it’s good love baby
They found my stash
She took the weight
But some of y’all
Find it hard to relate
How could I
Let her go upstate
But for me it was life
Her less than eight
See I appreciate
The love she gave me
There’s no ifs ands
Buts or maybe
She’s the mashed potatoes
And I’m the gravy
Hood love saved me
And it’s good love baby
They found my stash
She took the weight
But some of y’all
Find it hard to relate
How could I
Let her go upstate
But for me it was life
Her less than eight
I’m as much hers
As she is mine
I love my baby
She’s a special kind
I did the crime
But she did my time
Hood love saved me
And it’s good love baby
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
Two soldiers
Who write together
Question life's
Serenities
Loving words
Is a craft
Of crazy wastefulness
And tastelessness
I forget at times
That the moon
Does but one job
And the flowers
Dewy, yellow, and ******
Lay there
Looking nifty
Laugh at the clothed mother
At the way she prances
And dances
At her own secret sorrows
She knows
But is unable to show
A word
Is a word
With one thousand meanings
Some are demeaning:
**** you
**** my ****
Lick my duck
Your never enough
But whom do I truly talk to?
An illiterate
With already enough of the jive ****
Or maybe
A stronghold of a woman
With a temper tantrum
Of an intellectual
But a face of suction
Grudges ain't never enough
For they share no sense
Of absolute solitude
To write
To be alone
To cry
And then die
And to then reach readers
Where ever they may be
Will ask,
Why?
Why?
Why?
Ha!
All who strive to feel
Love to be beaten
But they are the ones with the questions
And we are the ones with the answers?
Go to the monsters upstate
They've been signing all their papers
With ink blots and officially posted dates
A will less man
In a world un-renewed
Is a follower
In a loser's shoe
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 9:20 PM UTC
Careening moonlight
You show me what I once
Thought was right
I drink now for the sake of mankind
The bullet casings reflect the
Sun as the wine in my cup
Sloshes from right to left and
My own life is not my own -
A price to pay for theft
I love you
You make me
The way I am
And I press my mind
To these keys
And realize everything and
Nothing in the end will
Be alright
In solitude
I pray to creation
Seeing that life is merely
A bottle
And when its empty
It ain't worth a ****
Tasting the stars in their
Brilliance of absence
I recollect my own upbringing
And remember my hallow mother
Singing her nightly hymns
But to begin with memories are
To step in the backgrounds of
Imaginations personal horrors, own borrows,
The lonely tunnels of a city long since dead
That instead of exhaling we try
Inhaling; pressing Death right back
I am young
I am old
I am a story
That has already
Been told
Yet I
Live on
I smile
I smell the scents
Of a world gone and
Past and taste at last
The current of the river
The wind of the crass
A life that has
Already ended
But has no ambition
To Pass
Self held in my own vices
The upstate prices of page to brain
Makes me shutter as the gutter
Winces in its realizations of the brandishing
Blade of the horses with their war
My existence presses Her finger upon
The broken page of the unstoppable cops
Where I stop to think where then my
Life - though good - has spoiled quite abrupt
Oh to obey in sun struck love
Where the only thing that is real is above
But anything I recall I forget
A smile that says to me "not yet"
I once thought I was close
But see now
I am so far away
If asked to stay
I don't know what I'd say
Each countless pride
Has its side
Just like the ocean in Her majesty
And unseen tides
Again
I slip into a smile
A false breathe
As I take my body back
In high stealth
Asking myself
*What exactly
Is the matter?*
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 4:54 AM UTC
All yearling spring birds far from distant home,
Xanthic in Gothic gospels soot and yolk,
Where's one's soft spoken voice to calm me on the phone?
Formidable pulses,
The danger of convulsion's spread on like buttered oil!!!
Enormity soil's the defendant delirium...
Such agnostic aquariums stinkingly similar upstate!
Broken lives to sunset drive,
Specimen speckles,
Forcible tassels hover one's decree!!
Litigious locust's buzz creepingly,
Indecently exposing all's funk!!!
Concauctions of fake adoption's,
Concievers break locks off trunks!!!
Omit me out of this obdurate oasis,
Wherein one feel's spacious,
Free to cometh and goeth!!!
Freedom doth thou know?
Operatic Mrs and Mr's,
Minuets for thy ridiculed wishes!!
Ponderer of newness,
Cleaner's as thy tub spills over,
Thy heels click together just to get thy kicks!!!
Hit the streets thou feathered bird of no beak,
Thou tally marker of no means!!!
Foreman to thy own people's idea's,
Nourish me with a new novice,
Nurture me with heartbrake hotel,
Buildeth me a standing ovation of a one love palace!!!
Brave heart fairytale,
Doth thou stand to move about?
Listener of radio tunes,
Art thou close??
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
Surrounded by the lake, no soaking clothes glued to my skin
Just the ice cold water hugging me tightly.
The sound of the small lake waves lapping against the tiny, brown beach
Aside from my splashing and the occasional birds in the woods
Was the only thing that pierced the quiet of a silent, cloudy day.
The air was cold but the water was colder,
A frigid blanket hiding whatever lurked below.
The joy on my face was undeniable
Despite hidden under the tendrils of the loose strands of my tied up hair.
The New York mountain air combined with the lake scent
Despite the cold July afternoon
Undeniably smelled like summer.
Freshwater smells different than saltwater,
Like sugar cookies baking instead of chocolate chip.
And the taste of those freshwater summer sugar cookies
Are a taste I refuse to forget.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
i.
a message from a boy i don’t know
that begins with, “i’m J’s cousin, i’m trying to locate her, can you....”
i don’t know how to deal with those
who promise death,
so i don’t finish reading it,
bile mixed with guilt building in my throat.
last night J told me her body was falling apart.
i didn’t know how to respond.
i know bodies without bones too well
but i don’t know how to talk about them.
i don’t know how to parse away
the skin from the bone of a pig
when i’m standing in the middle of a cold barn,
more naked than i was when i was born.
ii.
i am naked with boys who i don’t know,
but who fold me in half anyway, then fold me apart,
then spit me out like i am
the bitter taste of a dead dog.
iii.
keeseville, ny is upstate is a place
for stained dresses & burnt milk & spoiled prayers,
where i spent every summer in a body
made for somebody smaller.
i’m realizing now that i’m not small,
everyday i’m the opposite of small,
but these boys still look at me
with frightening scrutiny like i’m a goat who belongs in a bed
& if i’m not pet, not fed, i will give out.
iv.
sun hangs across the sky
like blood across my underwear.
yours or mine?
from which part of the body?
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC