"windex" poems
Windex mice squeak through the windows,
biting newspaper as it scrapes across.
Soap from a new age fills the kitchen,
sheeps' fat long forgotten,
the sod-house of Laura Ingalls Wilder left behind
with its crumbling Lincoln logs,
the ceiling that drops dirt crumbs like a gritty pastry.
Our world is shiny,
so blinding that even the cough of newsprint makes it brighter.
A bottle sneezes across the counter, spurts those
bubbles of ammonia, gathers with the
rivers and tides that surge with ethanol,
it bursts the air with a neon smell and erases
everything that has come before.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
My heads pounding
My necks twisted amuck
think I'mma stop giving a ****
Light up a blunt and do what I want -
woah wait -
ain't that the **** that got me
here in the first place?
Worst case I nervously pace
the halls for a day - two or a weekend
Blasting the weeknd
Entire enviroment reeking
shrieking -
Nah -
I'm better than that.
Can't latch onto the past.
That's the trash that got
us there at the start - instead
I prepare it in art
And share from the heart, with you.
And you.
And you and you and you.
Because why not?
It helps forget about that pinebox looming-
Thinking outside the winebox lucid -
I mean Windex, clean em out
And a win decks, stacks paper chips
You can't say this isn't some matrix blips
I am not losing ****
I am manuevering this beautiful thing
up past this ******* Nuva Ring
Cause that's life - you can get beat
or keep it on a leash - jeez
that's sexist. I don't know
where this became an accepted
comparison, its embarrassing
comparing them - to K9's
But we hear it through the grapevine
Turns of phrase we make fine.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC
Next two years, college, poetry, poetry,
You, me, *** condoms, birthcontrol?
Mother, permission, cleaning room, cleaning life, windex, lemon scented windex.
Windows, escape, Ani Difranco, 32 flavors, 32 flavors and then some
I am 32 flavors and then some.
My grades are 1 A, 2 Bs, 3 Cs and 2 Ds?
Atleast I vary. Colleges look for variation.
I can cross my eyes. Only one other person in my family can cross their eyes.
This was my last quarter to make an impression.
Impress. Smile. Eye contact. I have to meet your mother.
I have to go shopping
With your mother.
I lied to my mother
Mothers dont like lying
My parents asked me if something tragic happened to me
I used to wish that something tragic would happen to me
Nothing tragic has happened to me
Unless you call immense boredom with tiny people on a tiny state tragic
Which for a matter of fact I do.
You ask me whats going on
I’m a smart girl
Im flattered that you think so
But I doubt your surgeon parents will agree
How many AP classes am I taking...
0.
This is so out of character.
Youve never avoided your problems like this before
Silly parents
You’d avoid your problems too if they were
Life ambition, college, *** condoms, birthcontrol?
1 A, 2 Bs, 3 Cs and 2 Ds, cleaning room, cleaning life
Cleaning out my character
Because I have to impress your mother.
Should we get you a therapist?
We shouldve gotten you a therapist last year
Dealing with stress is hard for anyone
You just need help.
I do not want your help.
Dealing with stress is not hard
Put your head in the sand and listen to Ani Difranco
32 Flavors
32 flavors and then some
I am 32 flavors and then some
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
I hate things that creep, crawl, slither, and sting. But of all these, I hate spiders the most. Why? Because they’re just all … they’re all YUCK! That’s why.
Spiders are one of the worst kinds of insects (arachnids but whatever) because they are the only kind that purposely tries to **** with you. See, unlike ants, or caterpillars, or even nasty-old silverfish, spiders don’t care whether or not you know they’re there. These monsters don’t bother to hide from you. Nah, they’re all like, “I know you see me motha’ ***** and I know you ain’t gonna do nothin’ ‘bout it ‘cause you know I’ma just go **** and end up in yo shirt!”
One of the most common things that people who aren’t afraid of spiders say is this: “Kevin, you shouldn’t **** spiders.”
Me: “Why not?”
Them: “Because they eat other bugs.”
I think what people don’t realize is that … I don’t care! So what if spiders eat other bugs? I’d rather have the other bugs than have those god-awful things creeping around my house. Whenever someone reminds me that spiders eat other bugs, I honestly wish I had the power to communicate with insects, because as far as I’m concerned we have a common enemy. I would join forces with the flies and ants or whatever to **** every single spider in my house. Then I would betray my new friends and **** them too. Case solved.
But, as I think about it, it’s not just spiders that people tell me not to **** because they “eat other bugs.” Now that I think about it, every single thing that “eats other bugs” is also ten times more ******* scary than the things they’re supposed to be killing.
Have you guys ever seen a “house spider” sometimes called a “house centipede"? If not, google it right now. That’s the kinda’ thing people tell you not to **** because it eats the other bugs. But just looking at its picture I’m like “holy **** I’ll take a few mosquitoes over that **** any day!”
See, what people don’t realize is that I don’t hate spiders just for the sake of hating them. I hate them because when I see one I want to burn my house down and have it rebuilt from scratch. If I fail to **** a spider and the thing runs off, I will not sleep until my target has been apprehended and killed. I will literally sit near the spot it disappeared to with a flashlight and a can of windex until it returns to face its crime of entering my room.
O.o yep.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
How Brave you must be~the squaw exclaimed to the Chief. " Why, I am more than a Brave", the Chieftain quipped.! " Just look at my feathers and the scalps hanging by my side, do they not tell of My many Deeds ? Her reply was a simple ,, "YES, I can see how you have adorned yourself ! " He retorted ~ " And you certainly can't miss all the colors by which I have claimed MY-STATUS ! " The Squaw responded~ "YES, the HUES on you, certainly tell me who and what you are, now that I look closely ! " And he added~ "Look at the careful way in which I have displayed my Collection of SCALPS, Spaced ever so carefully around my waistband ! She questioned further, "Have you ,Oh Mighty Chief, Properly named each of the Scalps , SO YOU won't forget from whence they came ? ? "OH, My Goodness, YES, he answered. "I wouldn't ever want to forget where they came from, SO~I admire each and Call each of them, By Name~ Everyday. "SURELY" She continued, "YOU are much more than any other Chief, and by the way , DO you use Windex or Glass-Plus to clean your mirrors ? ? " HE exclaimed, "I, really don't know what cleaning agent my servant uses, to clean my many mirrors ! BUT, they certainly do shine, when I look into them ! The SQUAW queried~ " BUT what about your shoes, moccasins , if you would, WHAT~~ is that Green-Gooey Stuff all over them ? ? HE-Commented~ " I guess that when I take my mighty steps, toes and feet, IN THE WAY, Fall under the Prances that I make ! ! ? " Then,She asked~ "Do you do your War'Dances often, or just as you are called on, by your mighty warriors ? " AND,,this Brave-Chieftain PROCLAIMED~ "WHY, I"ll have you Know, I do all of these Prances and Dances ~BY MY OWN CHOICE, NO-ONE tells me when or what to do. Except my visits with the Prince of the Air !" The Squaw thanked him~turned~then turned back~Asking " Measured by~ Scalps~Prances and Dances ? ?
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:11 AM UTC
Little glass axolotl perfect
shades of pink and orange.
Found him at the thrift store
brought him home &
shone him up with some
windex and a cotton cloth.
Now he sits on the shelf
and sometimes I pick him
up to marvel at the smoothness
of his back, and the perfectly formed gills
at the sides of his head.
My little glass axolotl
is one of the things that
pulls me through papers
with his tiny smile and
teensy toes. This is love caught in
silica and pigment. Yes this
is what love is.
Apr 15, 2021
Apr 15, 2021 at 1:28 PM UTC
We live in Glass Boxes.
Made up of love, joy, and
happiness, anger, pain,
and hate. We knock on windex'd
walls, shouting for
someone to break our
boundaries.
No one's box is made
the same. Everyone's glass
cracks different ways. The
sun sends patterns across our
skin, staining us with
experiences that build who
we will become.
I press my nose to the glass,
fogging my walls with
the haze of heavy breathing.
My eyes squint for you,
searching desperately for your
Glass home...but no matter
how hard I try, you're
always just out of sight.
I hear on the wind that your
glass is changing. Chipping
away to the pressures of
****** It's all I can do not
to claw my walls. I know these
bleeding nails would be
my only triumph.
So I sit in my Glass Box, bitter
at the rays of color that
turn my home into a rainbow
prism. The paradox of it all
enough to make my head pound.
Is it even fair to be happy?
When you're off, all alone,
drowning in you're own pain?
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
*(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist.)*
intensely greased
plastic hair
secondhand green day
coldplay in the rain
i love the sound
that waxed paper
deli sheets make
and i could choke
on a glassed reflection
of celery salts and windex.
*(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist
because when i look into
my eyes i see someone else)*
i'm not catholic
and do not
understand who
st. peter is
but i wonder if he won't let
us into heaven because we're
failures or if we're failures
because he won't let us into heaven
*(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist
and questioning how
bad hell can really be.)*
too quiet for a saturday
i wrote the word
decaf so many times i
forgot how to spell it
decaf
decaf
decaf
decaf
*(does decaf
have two f's?
because i don't have
two f's to give anymore
i mean i would but
i can't even find
vowels much less
extra consonants)*
when i was a child
i always counted in
mississippis
now that i'm older i
find myself counting in
cappuccinos
i dreamed my
legs were bleeding
and i remembered
that they're not
i want so badly
just to sleep in
a bag of crystallized
ginger and swim
in a mixing bowl of
tasteless tea.
*(i can't tell what's
real anymore
but i'm 42%
sure that i am not.)*
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
it was the
summer
of 13
when a city
consumed in a
Cronut crazed
heat wave
amped
the tenderloin
slicing the underbelly
of Hell's Kitchen
packing meat for
Russian oligarchs
pouring fistfuls
of petrol rubles
down the
thirsty gullets
of glutinous
developers
their distended
bellies welling
with aching
avarice
from an
extended
stay at an
All You Can Eat
zero interest
smorgasbord
courtesy of
Uncle Sam’s Diner
somewhere off the
West End
getting fat
on the land
reclaimed
and rebuilt
on the dust
and detritus
of an expired
Great Society
Bloomie's metropolis
rising on the rubble
of razed neighborhoods....
the vertical leaps
shooting ever upward
the heady windows
framing portraits
of endless replication
offering the amenities
of the vain comfort
found in ghettos of
soulless high rises
and the billowing
gray perspective
of blanched out
street cafes
brewing $9 lattes
and big box
boutiques busy
busking the
latest rage
of sweat repelling
yoga mats and
wearable apps
America’s Mayor
Giuliani paved the way
he arrested all
the squeegee men
confiscated their Windex
dumped it down
the sewers and filled all
vacancies at Rikers
a year after Sandy
rolled up the Hudson
breaching the banks
of West Street
licking the streets
clean of urban
flotsam the
surging boom
bloomed
Bloomie bankrolled
a red carpet
for his global
fraternity of
plutocrats
unleashing a
tsunami of
shekels
washing away
the fading
memories of
Captain Sully’s
cool headed
lunch pail
heroism proving
that 727’s can
walk on water
was now passe
Lou Reed
left town
the wild side
monetized by
the belching
banality of
Urban Hipsters
millennial
babes in toy land
embarked on an endless
shopping spree
where credit limits
never expire and
giddy narcissism
greased with entitlement
orders up room service
as the next course
in this endless
movable feast
Music Selection
Philip Glass
The Hours
9/8/13
NYC
jbm
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
words tear me a new soul. i thought i discarded mine to the wind when sorrow alighted barely balancing on the barbed wire fence, wings dank and damp, mangy feather dropping into thick dusty underfoot
dusting me off, windex the glass around my innerworkings so you can watch them spin dizzy from your helium touch
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
Saturday mornings growing up
my mother made me clean the bathroom
. windex . bleach
. scrub brush . rags
. mop . bucket . broom . dustpan
. lots of paper towels
she insisted I clean the bathroom
every Saturday morning
before I did anything else
with absolutely no chance of an allowance
she paid me plenty she said
. shelter . food . clothing
. television . internet . video games
. books . some sort of education
not to mention
. life
“do it because you love me”
so waking up Saturday
meant cleaning the bathroom
it meant my hands reeked of chemicals
while my friends enjoyed games I couldn't join
it meant I missed the best of all
the cartoons everyone else watched
it meant I didn’t feel like loving my mother
for years I begrudgingly
. scrubbed . wiped . cleaned
that bathroom
until it sparkled - until it shined
like the top of the Chrysler building
. sink . mirror
. toilet . tub
. floor
all of it spotless
love you mom
then in college
there's this woman that I'm living with
this woman that provides me with
. shelter . food . clothing
. television . internet . etc.
and she makes me feel alive
so I clean her bathroom
and when she asks me, “why?”
all I can think to say is
“I did it because I love you”
and it feels like that's the truth
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 2:57 PM UTC
I believe her to be insane
because she's listing her requirements
and I've managed to meet most of them,
but I'm still her Windex-ed glass window
I believe her to be insane
because she claimed she was jocking me
though she'd only met my voice
and lived near my Cali family
I believe her to be insane
because she liked me when she annoyed me
and was quick to end the years
after I said she was skinny
I believe her to be insane
because she could be straight up with everyone,
but whenever it came around to us
her mouth remained completely shut
I believe her to be insane
because I was more natural than her ex
Then suddenly she became work-obsessed,
but found time to marry the ex
I believe her to be insane
because she ******* up her life to get my attention
She was always beautiful, but deader inside
Another stereotypical trailer park girl
I believe her to be insane
because she searched the mall parking lot
to leave a bocay of daises
on the windshield of my car
I believe her to be insane
because she sang "Before You Walk Out of My Life"
more beautifully than Monica herself
exclusively to me late at night
I believe her to be insane
because she walked miles to see me at work
with bruised, sore, raw feet
to be somewhere safe away from him
I believe her to be insane
because she let me go in a heartbeat,
then she pleaded for my forgiveness,
then she let me go in another heartbeat
I believe her to be insane
because our poetry complimented perfectly,
but I wasn't the one she pictured
because of not being the desired ethnicity
I believe her to be insane
because she cherished me so much,
poetically revealed me to be the catch,
but she's the one that lost touch
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
Inspired by “The Swing” by Laurie Lipton
Alone allows.
I have permission to find out the plight of my Windex bottle,
cramped into a cabinet, cross-legged and scrunched
into a smaller package than I was ever intended to be.
And I can peek out if I want, spit my tongue at the cat
or let slivers of light slice my face. I can dangle my feet,
pricking with gravitational pull: forward and backward,
high upon a rafter in my bedroom—at least where I used to keep
my bed, now pushed out into the hall
to make room for my ropes and pillows and flight.
A doorbell brings shoes with laces that tangle
and slap me around my ankles; knitting needles
that would surely find an eye socket, and a tea set
with a cracked spout and cold leaves stuck to the bottom
of cups and saucers, round as my words
or the doilies and handkerchief corners—worn to shreds
by the wringing of arthritis and go away.
Please, go away.
Alone allows.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:11 AM UTC
Light breaks through the littered cinerescent clouds as I watch from a Windex streaked window
Tangerine incandescence fighting it's way through as dusk approaches
Warm rays caress my face through shadows of the evergreens that line the street
As if a reflection of a giant brass *** was being cast into my living room
Fragments of dust filter through the clementine colored air
sitting cross legged on an old Persian rug covered in dog fur
A weather beaten Japanese maple scratches its fingers on the window
The stellar jays bask in this rare gift, hopping from branch to branch
The inevitable gloom and grey catching up
Ashen warfare surging on a daisy farm
A sense of malevolence runs through the clouds
A split screen between the high spirits and the melancholy
The Castor and Pollux of the skies
Like a giant wondrous creamsicle threatened of being swallowed up by the smoke
This contention sends them blissfully unaware of the eclipsing nightfall that is upon them
Twilight enraptures the heavens, ending in nebulous sovereignty
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
I miss your absence like curdled milk misses it's white. I miss the sourness of your hair running through my fingers.
I miss your absence like an anorexic misses their bones. They go searching for them, ripping up flesh and drinking water in place of anything, filling the hole in their mind that can't be filled with cake. The sweetest of chocolate cake, frosting topped grave marker. It can't be filled. Cannot be filled.
I miss your absence like winter misses her green. She covers it up, buries it beneath such a heaviness. It sits upon her chest like white elephants.
You hold yourself like a hairpin turn. You are sore, aching from sleeping on your stomach too long. You are swaddling your hunger in loneliness. You are the weight of every divorce paper filed in Massachusetts. You are Greece's longing for her peace. You are finding yours in the light, dark suffocates your water balloon lungs. Your wiry, 6 foot frame is suffocated by 120 pounds. You are suffocated by me. I am filling my lungs with water, holding my head under what is blue and the waves crash over my spine like clockwork. I count to 3, I pass out and see your face in front of me, pale and gasping. I am hungover on Windex. I make bleach cocktails like mother makes her with anything she can find before she kisses her knuckles.
I don't wait for winter to come, I dig into the earth and find her, beg her to cover me in what will not melt. I beg for a grave as infinite as the fear that shakes me. I wish I could be alone, dear nature, why does responsibility choke me? Why does terror and trauma push its teeth into me like a wolf into sheep? Why can't I sleep without awaking? Why?
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
I've wiped the coffee table
Down with windex
At least three times.
But here I sit.
Watching them wander
Trying to remember
To breathe.
And waiting for details
Of my brother's suicide.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 7:25 PM UTC
The day before the trip is one where I'm up early - like today.
I've got to go get my oil changed and have the fluids checked.
Next up is to gas up and fill the tires up to *****
Take a break to relax and smell the coffee - medium roast - and a bagel with cream cheese.
Back at it withe the planning and the finding:
A hotel to stay in
The chains for the tires
The clothes needed...
The clothes I will sleep in.
It's all there and packed up, stacked up by the door.
Time to load up the car.
Tomorrow we're headed for the snow.
Empty the car first of all my junk and trash.
I can't believe how much has piled up and been left.
Maybe let's take out the floor mats and lets definitely use the shop-vac.
Spray in some Febreeze... a couple extra squeezes...
And then squeeze the Windex and wipe all the glass and surfaces clean.
Finally time now to lean the back seat down.
Toss in one bag and then the next.
Stack it, stack it, stack.
One more, two more, there's the last.
Close up the door, lock it, it's time for one more rest.
Tomorrow we're headed for the snow.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
I'm spending my night listening to Breathe Carolina
Wondering if you're okay
You stopped talking to me and I don't know why
I'm trying to get high
And I'm thinking about how you should give up drugs
I'm slitting my hips
And I'm thinking about how they forced you into therapy
You wanted attention
But didn't
I am the same
Except when the world started to hurt you
You became a different kind of numb
I became a violent numb
And so did you
But our experiments went wrong
Went askew
You turned to Mary and Nicotine
I turned to Windex and Poetry
You picked up a razor for show
I hide scars under my clothes
You turned to *** and late nights with drunk men
I became a victim who couldn't say no
We are different kinds of numb
That float on each other
Except you drifted away again
With everyone else
So I'm spending tonight listening to Breathe Carolina
Breathing in chemicals
Wondering if you're okay
While I'm not
Drowning myself here alone
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
oh how you lie
you smile behind that windex cleaned glass
secured by an overpriced frame
placed high up
for others to blankly stare into your lie
and laugh at the story
that is so broken
oh how you lie
you image of happiness
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
The miserable city.
Bankrupt *** holes and bbq.
Langston hughes rock drum solo everyday people
wear baggy pants and cross the street
no crosswalk necessarily style.
A leaf wishing wind would push it to the cleaner side of town
right across the way. Companies paid make flower basket hanging
contraptions and tend to the grass till the grass cant be tended to no more.
Glass city style, glass walls in the loft shiny windex clean
to secure the sweetest view of wendys or a steel solid warehouse.
Calculated anthony wayne trail street lights
and twenty four hour surveillance, vaudville light fixtures
and bus stops empty of any white people.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
I know how many stories is tall enough
I know how much Windex I have to drink
I know long I have to be alone in order to hang myself
I know where to cut
I know how many pills I have to swallow
So you ask how come I keep trying and keep failing
Listen you have no idea how ****** windex tastes
Listen I can't get to the roof of the buildings
Listen All the pills are in a safe
I do everything wrong
I can't even die correctly
But I don’t want to **** myself anyway
My uncle shot himself
And I watched my grandmother lose a son
I watched my dad lose his best friend
I have seen what it does to people and
I have felt that feeling
I don’t want to **** myself
I just want to be in a coma
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 3:05 PM UTC
He puts his trophies in
Parks and the neighbors yard
Like the world is his
And feeds pebbles to pigeons
He does not know his transgressions
He dresses in orange with polka dot pants and snake boots
And is Happy
Free from thin panes of ego and never having to worry about Windex
At night
It is day
They are same to him, just like radio and t.v.
He gets tired one way or the other
Time is a concept we see
His vision is x-ray
And not only does he see through
you
but everything
He is blind
But we are the one's
Missing things
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC