"washcloths" poems
The boy haden't bathed in over a month
His **** crack was itching and burning
His underpants were soaked in slimy, wet muck
And his toes a thick jam were churning
His armpits stank worse than a fat pigs raw ***
His breath smelled like rancid fish
His hair was so oily, matted to his head
His own mother wouldn't give him a kiss
"Enough!" he cried as a passing fly died
When he raised his arm to exclaim.
"I must bathe right away! I am long overdue!"
"I sure hope the washcloths are brave."
"To the bathroom man!" He shouted as he ran
And his underpants sloppily squished
"I will remove this filth and brush my green teeth"
"And my mother I will kiss!"
"The closet's ahead!" He said as he sped.
And he stopped there to get some stuff.
Some soap, some shampoo and a towel or two.
But he knew that it wasn't enough.
Look though he might, to his horror and fright,
Not a single washcloth could he find.
Then panic set in 'cause the stink of his skin
Was driving him out of his mind.
He looked yet again but to his chagrin
The washcloth shelf was bare.
The washcloths had run off
For they would not wash
So filthy a boy on a dare
"Oh what will I do!" "Boo-hoo, boo-hoo!"
The boy cried as flies swarmed his head.
"I'd **** myself but I already smell"
"Far worse than anything dead!"
Then one washcloth came back
Holding it's nose and a sack
Of bath salts that smelled like dill.
It said to the boy "Go pickle yourself!"
"And give me a nausea pill!"
So the boy rejoiced and filled the tub
With water, hot as he could stand.
And using the bath salts, he jumped right in
And the pickling began.
He lathered the washcloth with water and soap
And scrubbed with all of his might.
Away he washed all of the filth
'Til none was left in sight.
He washed his hair and brushed his teeth
And dried and dressed himself well.
And the washcloth exclaimed as it hung on the tub
"Holy crap! that was pure hell!"
So the boy now clean ran to be seen
By his mother he loved so much.
And she gave him a kiss and said "This is pure bliss!"
"I can kiss you and keep down my lunch!"
The moral I'll tell you and true I will be
So no one will say that I lied.
Don't wait a whole month to take a bath
Or you washcloths may run and hide.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
people build
their homes
out of the age of
their tea kettle and
which plants they keep
on the windowsill
by whether or not
the cups and plates match
if the cupboards are
minimalist or overstuffed
from the color of the walls
and state of the floor
right down to what they
hang on the fridge
the scent they choose
for their dish soap
and the way the words
come out of their mouths
*i am tired of tending
to other people’s homes
using their sponges
watering their dead plants
sweeping their floors
and smelling their dish soap
tired of listening to
my words crumbling
as fast as i can
get them out*
and i want a home
with fresh flowers on
the counter at all times
something delicious
simmering on the stove
with hot tea every night
and cream line cappuccinos
every morning for breakfast
the plates don’t need to match
although i’d like them to
i know i’m not that type of person
and the mugs and washcloths don’t
need to be handmade but i’m sure
most of them will be anyway
with a goldfish
and succulents
both of which will live
long healthy lives
yellow walls and maybe a
sunny breakfast nook
with a crochet lace valence
over top the window
*your hand
to hold
your chest to rest
my head on at night*
and when the dishes rattle
it won’t be in frustration or
anger but in peels
of citrus and laughter
*i’m ready to build
a home of my own
and i want to build it
with you by my side*
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
The color of death is not black, is not white.
Not red, not gold.
Think: ashen skin.
Think: where did the blood go?
Think: pale, so ******* pale.
Bruise again. He’s going to bruise again.
Mottled red and purple and blue and green and yellow.
That’s what the body does after death. Blood runs down
to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.
The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes
back and forth
in the bag hanging above the bed.
My mother’s hands:
white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths
to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms.
The constant hum of telemetry,
the soft whoosh of the ventilator.
The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood.
The human body has no ******* idea what to do when
there is too much or too little of really anything.
Think: blood vessel bursting.
Think: cells mutating.
Think: proned patient coding after intubation.
Bruised. His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks,
from his lack of platelets. And a single transfusion only goes so long.
Goes three weeks long.
The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are
covered in makeup. The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick.
I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth.
I’ve read the books.
I’ve heard the talks from morticians.
They’ve made my grandfather tan, but
I know what’s underneath the foundation:
grey.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 10:55 PM UTC
she carried me to the sink.
she acquired me so long ago.
she has cried into me.
she has wiped tears off her face with me.
we have grown accustomed to each other.
i know her every supple detail.
she knows my soft, warm touch.
we know each other too well it seems.
today, she carried me to the sink.
the water started.
the wrath of liquid poured out
and filled to the brim.
i did not expect her to do this.
i know we loved each other.
she told me so much about her life
even though i couldnt talk back.
i was stuck inside myself
so even my own thoughts couldnt escape.
i was a washcloth
i submerged into the liquid
and it surrounded me
and soaked into me
and burned every part of me
and i didnt want to think about it
how she put me here
and if i was just a ******** washcloth
i’d still be on the shelf
but i was still her washcloth.
the liquid became a part of me
it absorbed so deep
and it was just liquid
but it was also what it meant
it was the joy
it was the hate
it was the beginning and the end
it was the concept of life
and it was swirling around me and immersing itself
into thoughts i didnt even know i had
she plunged me deeper
and made it perhaps
lethal
because i didnt know i was just a washcloth
but then the worst part came
the part where she just left
the part where i was left out to dry
except i was still engulfed in misery
the part where she could have rerisen me
and wrung me out like i was a washcloth
was i meant to drown like this
by this girl that picked me up off the shelf
was i better than the other washcloths
or was it just because i was there
so i sat there drowning in the water
and i wanted to scream
and i wanted to cry the liquid out of myself
but i was a washcloth soaking in water
i wanted to look up out of the sink
and see shining fluorescence
but i couldnt see
because i'm just a washcloth
instead i made my own light
i got closer
and i saw it all go by
the shelf
the girl
the sink
and one last time
the light
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 5:25 PM UTC
I remember so much that I wish I could forget.
This is a poem about Psalm 23 choked out through tears.
This is a poem about astro vans and
tractor lawn mowers and
driveway car washes and
small garden spaces and
digger wasps and
three wolves and a moon.
This is about the Backstreet Boys and
Def Leppard and
Kenny Chesney.
“Dreams” by The Cranberries.
About waterparks and
swim lessons and
the smell of chlorine.
Fresh cut grass. Bonfire smoke permeating through the house.
Grey diamond tiles on white linoleum.
Hands clenched down on washcloths.
Muddled. It’s all so muddled. Stuck beneath
brain matter and cerebrospinal fluid and
down, down, down beneath the lake.
How can I dig it out while also digging it down deeper?
I want to forget it all. No memory, no pain, no ******* problem.
Goldfish life: a pipedream.
Oct 23, 2021
Oct 23, 2021 at 12:35 PM UTC
I know why God is there
When nights blow cool wind
Onto the stringy hair of paupers
And on streetlights along purple roads.
When eyes are dimly lit
By the moonlight’s grace
Under a sky full of magnetic tears,
There is God, and he’s there
To deal out soap bars
And washcloths
To ***** cheeks
So that, for once, dust can go
Back to dust
Without leaving behind bodies
For wolves to feed on.
I know why God is there
When the hungry lie down to die,
When the restless beg for sleep,
When murderers beg for forgiveness,
When beggars dip their hands
Into pools of holy water
On sidewalks of sleepless cities.
I know why God is there,
And the reason is at the end of a long rope
Hidden somewhere deep underground,
Dangling above the fountains of prayers.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
You were better than any pills I could take to my my head stop pounding and my eyes a little heavier. You were better than homemade soup and backrubs and damp washcloths on my forehead. You were so much better than the chemicals, so I got addicted to you instead. But you have no warning label, and I must have overdosed, because people can't be medicine but you can die if they poison your bloodstream.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
I slither across the tightrope between
"people person" and Socratically suicidal.
Nobody has ever translated their transcriptions
But I,
Somehow am allowed to bleed them into ink,
page after page waiting
to dry myself up and ring myself out.
We are nothing but ***** washcloths,
each emotion a bead of soiled
aquatic excrement.
Will I ever accept myself as a
rag?
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC
The empty house
Someone had been there a while before
From the washcloths draped over the sink
From the glass of milk
Halfway done
I imagined a young boy
Drinking a cup of milk in the morning
While having a buttered bread
I imagined he whined for orange juice
The tablecloth was still on the table
A *** two plates and 4 cups in the sink
And the detergent open
I imagined Mother finishing up the dishes
Doing what a normal wife would do
But out of the sudden they left
Leaving the world to wonder what happened
Leaving the world to ponder
What the fate of this family
What is good or bad
Urgent or casual
What caused the abcense
The vanish
What caused this empty house
Transparent without it's people
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
I have a coffee machine
which spurts and groans
in the morning,
while I sputter and grunt
in wait
for the liquid that
dissipates
the clouds which surround
my brain.
It has a faulty handle,
and needs to be held just right.
I learnt after two stained washcloths,
and three fingers
which turned pink
on sight.
It also has a button,
which turned on sometimes
shoots sparks,
I feel the current,
(I can see the ****** thing!)
but do nothing,
will do nothing,
till it dies.
It has been months
with my machine,
but I like this routine,
of it and I,
I have learnt a lot about myself
about my discomfort with change,
about my unchanged need for comfort,
about the degree of my laziness
and about how I'm willing to
make things last a while,
I have a machine that teaches me lessons
all before I have my first cup of coffee,
I mean, what more could I ask in life?
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC