"vcrs" poems
Do you remember when we saw the Milky Way
Looking up at the night from your father’s cornfield
We were too far north for tick checks
Wading under the bridge
Minnows eating dead skin off our toes
While hornets buzzed at the banks
Shooting guns at old VCRs and broken microwaves
Laying on our backs on the grass
We watched his Fourth of July fireworks
The embers landing in our hair
And when the smoke cleared
The Milky Way, again
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:54 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
I am from worn out measuring cups where the numbers no longer show,
From years of guessed quantities and over sugared cakes.
I am from cracked blue paint,
And the mantra “we’ll get a new coat next year.”
I am from the cow peas, crop circling, and honeysuckle vines ornamented with butterflies.
I am from Grandpa’s tobacco yellowed hands, Grandma Doll’s old wives tales,
From “eat your bread crusts and your hair will curl,”
And from “your face just might stick like that.”
I am from morning walks and the sylvan veil of moss,
From meandering trails and the drip of rain on leaves.
I am from Otter Pops, and bright blue tongues.
I am from cassette tapes, now left in the back of the closet to grow antique.
And VCRs,
From Monsters Inc. and Totoro.
And I am from the worn bindings of The Phantom Tollbooth and The Velveteen Rabbit.
I am from the meadow,
From searching for fairies, and sometimes even finding them.
And from the whispered promise “I’ll dream of you and you’ll dream of me…”
I am from the babbling gurgling creek, from the itch of nettles and the deep earthy scent of loam.
I am from the cat in Alice in Wonderland,
From Jacob and Leah’s wronged daughter.
I am from the Xanadu, the Akela, and the Dynamite,
From the crack of sails and the swing of the boom.
I am from placid seas and the rushing tumult of rain,
From heavy grey skies and flaming sunsets painted in watercolor across the Olympics.
I am from the pink syringe and the old blind dog’s last breath,
And I am from the hole where we laid her.
I am from the evergreen planted in the frozen ground to the sounds of my first cry,
That tree whose limbs witnessed my first breath, whose lofty trunk now stands as a testament, a marker, of where I am from.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 10:31 AM UTC
We were chefs
(Monkey Soup a la Mode
*1 ***** flower ***
4 small fistfuls of grass
1 hose for broth
Add clumps of dirt to taste)
We were teachers.
(and by we I mean she)
We were trapped in the tree house.
(but we were still able to order pizza
from the disconnected land-line phone)
We were parents.
(even though the girl we received from the Eskimo village
always insisted on being a dog, and I'm not sure if she
ever ceased to)
We were children of Disney.
(Peter Pan easily would've had me at the first mention of
a mermaid lagoon)
We were in love.
(with life, with the sun, with VCRs,
with the fact that we had spaghetti, bath time and Nickelodeon for inside
and bare feet, bikes and basketballs for outside)
We were heartbroken.
(when we had to leave adventure out in the wind,
or when one drew better than the other could,
when doors were slammed in faces,
when mothers wouldn't allow playing "Slime Time Live"
until the first of May)
We were who we chose to be.
(and the only thing that stopped us
was found in the sky
the giant star
replaced by billions of smaller ones,
the man on the moon
waving one last hand
with his son
the boy on the moon
who wanted to marry me)
(or so she said)
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
glasses with flowers curled on the sides
a hot LA summer, VCRs stacked high
brings me, according to you
to the sweltering shelter of memories lost
tuck a woman on her side and give away her liberty
she bit you, she's long bitten me
she sobs as you drive, have you ever heard a more terrible sound?
a mother lost, broken over the knee by her mind
call me
see how angry I am
left to roll, sticking talcum in between bumps of fat
while age makes me reckless and strong
try and tell me how I am
if you're gone.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 11:57 PM UTC