"wolverine" poems
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. A good day to die, the Apaches say.
Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing about the effects of your anger
unless you want to be an angry man forever.
Becoming knowledgeable is the best defense
against your insignificance. OK about being alone.
Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.
Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
In last night’s movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan.
But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love,
because of love, the love that brooks no serendipity.
In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the ******
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt
provides us with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness,
that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
Batman, Superman, Iron Man to I cant fly I can not turn blue?
Captain America, Wolverine, Flash, I cant shoot lazers from my eyes or be there in a dash.
X-men, Watchmen, Xavier too, im not from krypton or mutated from a Zoo.
Im not another hero I was rasied as a zero, through words I can inspire and now retire.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
The day I opened a Bible was a tale of two cities,
The best and the worst of times,
I could no longer lay back and leave the sand in my hourglass,
watch the days of my life drift,
while logans lurk,
wolverine around the brook in the forest,
looking to claw the hope away,
make a ridge between the family I claimed to love.
There seems to be harmony in passions,
But not even Timmy knows which spell Tabitha will cast to cause more division.
The continent of the canine always barking with it's mouth open,
Feed me,
We cry,
now we are fat with corruption,
preying on the piety of poverty,
prophiting leviathans,
the cultish land with a superstition,
fearful never able to hear the mission.
We hold fast but not to the word,
starving ourselves from understanding,
traditions trump truth,
as we defecate more dangerous nonsense into our ear holes,
perhaps we're better off,
we have some peace and food,
we don't have the rat race,
maybe I've been too sheltered,
failing to truly discern the state of the land that houses me.
I couldn't even see that my house was burning but it was cool if it was watered down by a firetruck .
I used to think that every African knows Jesus. Sometimes I act like I don't.
-Kanyanta
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
Sugar and spice and everything nice,
Wolverine claws and a venomous bite,
Armed to the teeth for a ***** fight:
This is what teenage girls are made of.
Maybe I fall in love too easily,
But I’m just sixteen.
And I’m just sixteen but
When you cat call me and I pretend not to hear you,
You call me catty as if it’s surprising.
When you wolf whistle at me and I ignore you,
You call me names that aren’t PG.
I’m just sixteen but I’ve got news for you:
I’m a she-wolf, far from domesticated so
Whistling will do nothing for you.
I don’t answer the call of any man, because
I’m a lioness, and every time you catcall me
You forget who does the hunting.
You need reminding, to be put in your place.
You’re a predator but I’m not your prey-
No, you’re a predator but I’m much, much
Much higher up on the food chain.
Whistle and call all night long,
I’ll chew you up and spit you out
Like the kind of bubble gum that isn’t worth a trash can.
I’d call you a pig, but pigs usually have a
Higher IQ than you do.
My bones are made of titanium, of Adamantium, and
My rage came from the cosmos, and I control hurricanes with the water in my lungs.
I am catty,
And I am a *****
But you are a nobody,
Food for the vultures and
A piece of furniture to sharpen my claws on.
You may be a knife, but my heart is a diamond.
I am a diamond, and you are made of fossil fuels.
We are both the product of years of pressure,
But I took my disasters and made myself beautiful.
You let yourself become ugly, nowhere to go
Except standing on corners late at night,
Pollution spilling from your mouth and your eyes.
Leave me alone.
That’s not me being ‘hard-to-get,’ no,
That’s my wolf howl and the growl of my inner lioness.
Leave me alone,
Or else.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
My Heart is a drunken bipolar maniac with masochistic tendencies .
My Heart does not care about your feelings,
or the fretting of my apologetic Mind.
It is ravenous and deranged;
it will devour your succulent hopes and spit out the bones.
My Heart is one mean ************
it is a rabid wolverine with a hangover who ate razor-blades for breakfast,
and no, it does not want to go steady
or hold hands.
It wants to rip the soft white throat of your infatuation
and watch your eloquent offerings pool around your feet.
Unless, of course, you do not want me.
For met with that alluring indifference,
my unhinged pit-bull of a Heart will curl at your feet with doe-eyed meekness
and follow you from room to room in an agony of adoration
while Self-Respect and Dignity sulk in some dusty corner, thinking
"Please God, won't somebody muzzle that crazy *****
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
The needle-tip,
a bee sting
giving rise to a hive.
A sickening delirium
coursing mercurial under eyelids,
tapeworms and tendrils
weaving wildly:
teeming, churning tides breaking over
greedy teeth (a needy mouth
flaying flesh ferociously,
a fevered wolverine
whipping through a petting zoo).
Each agonizing second
slowly sliding by,
tacky molasses on cloth
covering a table in an innocuous
American home
bruises on mother's face
fade (eggplant to jaundice
to the crimson of the setting sun
dying behind the horizon
line {chopped across a counter-top
like a broken promise...}).
All the lives we compromise
trying to cage a swarm.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
I'm mad I'm fat
It's not my fault
My mom told me that
I look like Wolverine
But I never wear sunscreen
They call me trigga
Cause I am bigga
I feel like Tigga
Because I am a gold digga
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
You'll never see certain things in the news
Wonder Woman, coming, totally unglued
Superman, tripping on his cloak
Green Lantern, while lighting up a smoke
Ironman, paying out, his Avenger dues
The Hulk wearing spandex, and tiny ballet shoes
Captain America, his shield, being broke
Batman caught, telling a good joke
Wolverine passing gas, asking to excuse
Storm in the bathroom, blushing, as she poos
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC
Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
sate appetites as dawn alights and daytime's crystalline.
A migrant feeds on rotting seeds with fingers far from clean
and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
her baby ***** an arid flux and fades away unseen.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
You felt a Monster
when your Hamster Wolverine died
Did that almost turn your head to Sylvia Plath
Yet you are decidedly amongst the living
and should never pilgrim with Mannequins
When Life's bedevilled by doubt
can your wise friend find rhyme with you
perhaps to Scarborough and back again
on some weekend decider.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
for KA
There is something in this for both of us. We have chemistry, let's be lab partners. Help me with problems like which would make a better poem: a pandemic, a wolverine, or a broken heart? You know I only chose you because you enjoy my fondling your blond *** as you lean over the Bunsen burner, because we have flammable *** on the periodic table, but this is more serious than calculations or ******* As a poet, I need to access the deeper moaning of reality, but you are a screamer, not a moaner. Let's experiment anyhow. Lift that skirt and let's explore something elemental, make a new molecule, feel the reaction. Help me probe the fundamentals of creation and I may love you, though surely not enough, as we are both non-valent. Even though we may never bond, we are in this together, partner. Lift your beaker to my lips. Outcomes are never certain.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
First Contact
"How did I get here,I can't remember,
my brains burning out like a dwindling ember,
are those tears in my eyes?-no its pourin' rain,
I'm lying on my back in the bottom of a stormdrain,
hunted like an animal,but still I'm deadly,
like a wounded lion,you better bet ye,
will lose more men than I've already taken(taken sample),
the hunter hunted? I think you're mistaken,
I'm a one man army,armed or not,
you didn't bring enough manpower,have you forgot?,
that the sandman(badman,phantoms in the dark)
has more in his bite than you do in your bark,
it's getting dark now,tables turning,
tyger,tyger,my eyes are burning,
better keep your guard up,I've been confronted...
but how can you tell who's hunter or hunted? 16.
Riposte
Better count your sentries,I think ones missin,
when you see his blood glistenin your pants your ****** in,
should have been listenin,I gave you a chance,
now its time for the Sandman to do his dance,
like a praying Mantis I move so swiftly,
bullet's fly like locusts,but each one missed me,
the Locus and Focus of my 3rd eyes movin,
got your sentries rifle,but I won't even use it,
taunt you haunt you,flaunt skills I honed,
from a broken home,to the streets to battlezones,
catch you alone,smash your skull with a hanbo,
appear behind you from the mud like Rambo,
bodies placed like hannibal,a deadly scene,
you're a ****** housecat and I'm wolverine,
told your boss you could get me now you know you fronted,
cat and mouse reversed-YOU'RE the one who's hunted.
Denoument
Now I know who you are,and I know where you live,
and in this line of work I can't forget or forgive.
We were partners once now you've betrayed my trust,
taught you everything you know,now it's ashes and dust
your bodyguards are good,but they know I'll get ya,
more ghost than man,a modern day ninja,
leave you injured,begging for mercy,
but you know the concept is alien to me,
grabbed the bull by the horns,my hand you forced,
you're a moveable object,I'm unstoppable force,
force feed your limbs til you beg for death,
line your family up and slowly take their heads,
then I'm in the wind,gone like keyser sozey,
the word is spread,don't try to **** me,
you were my friend,but you crossed the line,
try to hunt the Sandman,"you're all ****** dyin"
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
Whirlwind, claws out, air piercing precision
Listen to the howl, a fast recognition
Unleashed, breaking point, adrenaline taking to affect
Not hard to direct yet reason in mind isn't easy to collect
Juggernaut effect neglecting obstacles and environment
a trail of awaiting riders to Hades left after onslaught engagement
Circumvention dies away once the fury comes and so do they
Red sight, Blind fight, no feeling til' the end of prey
awoken after feral blaze
setting eyes upon with astounding gaze
a look into the beast inside
suppressed for worth of glory's height
An inner peace attained, neglecting the vice
The obscurity in plain and open sight
Damage done, no turning back
The wolverine's sun setting and fading with his tracks
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 5:13 AM UTC
*With folded wings,
I rush to meet the horizon,
The kiss of a ****** sunset,
In the arms of a cold grey sea,
Deep in her winter embrace,
I feel her stone cold heart.
It beats still.
There is the warmth of fiery blood,
Deep inside the icy cave,
Beating, beating still.
Let me whisper in your ear,
The words of the wolf,
That cries alone on a hill far away,
Waiting for his lover to rise,
Waiting for her to sing to him,
The lady of the moon,
Separated by dawn,
United at dusk,
Feel the pain in his heart,
Hear it echo in the silence
Of the sea at night,
When dreams are dreamt with open eyes,
She will call upon the waves,
That gently caress the sands of time.
On intoxicated hills,
Silently he waits,
While she sings to the seas,
While she sings the clouds to sleep,
For her grey eyes to turn to his,
But the clouds grow jealous of their love,
Thunder and lightning light up the night,
The storm embraces the sea in it's *****
And her song can reach him no more,
There's only the roaring waves and the screaming thunder,
And struck by a million volts,
He smiles through the clouds at her,
But her eyes are turned away into the abyss,
And with one last breath,
He cries out to her,
As the lights go dim,
And the noise grows silent,
Silent and still,
She hides under the veil of the cold grey sea,
And in this cage of regrets,
I feel her stone cold heart,
Beating, beating still.*
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
liquor,
penetrates the air
creeps under the door
settles on the breath
of a witch.
hissing, glaring, staring, kissing
on someone, anyone who walks by.
She spits fury and frustration
in all directions.
slurred words, glazed eyes,
heart of a monster…
I enter the Cave,
ignorant and vulnerable.
Through the dark,
her burning, malignant
eyes seek out a goat.
A blood vessel.
her past victims
scattered in pieces across the
beaten ground.
Pulp. Mangles. Tortured. Suffering
from the poison of her bite,
the remorseless dismissal of them just
inches from death.
She wants them to cling on…
I’ve heard stories.
Seen skeletons.
They warned me to stay away,
They call her badger,
snake, bloodsucker…
They’re convinced no one can survive her bite.
Well,
I don’t need liquor to mask my scent
or get blood in my eyes.
I’m from out of town,
and this ***** is about to meet the Wolverine.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 8:08 PM UTC
State of union
as we're unified, we're lateral
parallel,
paraphernalia in our religions
to add to this televised broadcast
forecasting short cuts and short comings
Sure—
I'm running out of excuses tongue-loosened painfully,
but who thought,
the chief that is,
invited everyone to our ghost dance
they stand and applaud,
Me at the helm of our podium
they **** and they gawk,
you at my breast plate
the air I drink is futile I cough,
But Is it kosher?
Nova Scotian landscapes supplementing dinner,
The candles on your dessert,
reminds me of our fire,
We once had, We flicker,
Once singular now plural -- yes adulting made us thorough,
through the rigours,
I feel different
YOU'RE TRIGGERED,
them posts traumatic symptoms I remind you of
frequently,
I listen
I sin again, I sin again
Differently,
You take me back,
Religiously,
And say,
meditation is key,
Khalad would be proud
emotionally I'm wolverine --
Untouchable,
But that was yesterday and I'm trynna say,
Sorry
I'm trynna be unguarded
as a point guard off the inbound,
Pointing to your tilted crown — Adjust it to your coils
Flag a waiter down,
Beef is not what I wanted
nor pleasant to your palette
major key — take the salmon
Overall I think we're better now,
I asked my mom about you
and my aunt about your culture
What you really need is closure
Instead of asking for permission,
settled for forgiveness,
you sweep your pride away in the name
the victim,
Treat me like I treated you
Treat me like you're bullet proof,
Treat me like those systematic flaws --
Unforgivable
You left me?
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 8:50 AM UTC
Phantom posture cocked
its spear and stuck it
to another friend
like an unglued Quasimodo
The incense of a level-headed fate
tosses its burn from one context
to another
breath
consumption
sarcasm
And all that remains
are matchstick stumps as clues
to the promise of origins
birth
a dance
and a sprain
Feral intimations of mortality
eating on bonds like rust
And I can't even ask
for a turn without knocking
on the ignorance-enforced door
of self-promotion
Violation via Wolverine caress
Feel-good stories
strip-searched
by a generation *****
for conspiracy theories
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
My poems , like my *****
on a good day
confident and dangerous.
after first impressions
a respectable acceptable ,
so I have been told
Creativity comes confident like a thunderbolt hard on
my mighty sword I stand behind , I swagger as it sways.
like the poems I embrace
first impression holds weight...
and tease ...begging for capture
fluttering just out of reach
like a lurking weightless wolverine
for every stroke of clever ink ironic
I tug timeless hours exhausting
a rhythmic trance of the impatient night
flaccid and empty i hold nothing but shame and waste
until a pulse, there is no flame the inferno can stand behind
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
Condensation from a clouded mind,
falls down like rain on a stormy night.
As you lie in bed full of dread,
Cause the things he said are in your head.
"Come to mine, we'll have a good time."
Said some slime at the bar tonight.
You say "No thanks, I'm done with drinks."
But he won't take 'no' and your stomach sinks.
As you walk out the door his feet hit the floor,
So you adorn your keys like wolverine claws.
Cause no one can be trusted while there is so much injustice.
But awareness is rising, we started emphasizing,
That we are using a system that objectifies women.
But we need to do more than just look at a score.
Mothers can't even breast feed without the use of a chest piece.
But men can look and grab and squawk.
And walk out of court after a little talk.
So fight for equality, we need a new system.
We need one that women, aren't afraid to exist in.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
They will soon be down
To one, but he still will be
For a little while still will be stopping
The flakes in the air with a look,
Surrounding himself with the silence
Of whitening snarls. Let him eat
The last red meal of the condemned
To extinction, tearing the guts
From an elk. Yet that is not enough
For me. I would have him eat
The heart, and from it, have an idea
Stream into his gnarling head
That he no longer has a thing
To lose, and so can walk
Out into the open, in the full
Pale of the sub-Arctic sun
Where a single spruce tree is dying
Higher and higher. Let him climb it
With all his meanness and strength.
Lord, we have come to the end
Of this kind of vision of heaven,
As the sky breaks open
Its fans around him and shimmers
And into its northern gates he rises
Snarling complete in the joy of a weasel
With an elk’s horned heart in his stomach
Looking straight into the eternal
Blue, where he hauls his kind. I would have it all
My way: at the top of that tree I place
The New World’s last eagle
Hunched in mangy feathers giving
Up on the theory of flight.
Dear God of the wildness of poetry, let them mate
To the death in the rotten branches,
Let the tree sway and burst into flame
And mingle them, crackling with feathers,
In crownfire. Let something come
Of it something gigantic legendary
Rise beyond reason over hills
Of ice screaming that it cannot die,
That it has come back, this time
On wings, and will spare no earthly thing:
That it will hover, made purely of northern
Lights, at dusk and fall
On men building roads: will perch
On the moose’s horn like a falcon
Riding into battle into holy war against
Screaming railroad crews: will pull
Whole traplines like fibres from the snow
In the long-jawed night of fur trappers.
But, small, filthy, unwinged,
You will soon be crouching
Alone, with maybe some dim racial notion
Of being the last, but none of how much
Your unnoticed going will mean:
How much the timid poem needs
The mindless explosion of your rage,
The glutton’s internal fire the elk’s
Heart in the belly, sprouting wings,
The pact of the “blind swallowing
Thing,” with himself, to eat
The world, and not to be driven off it
Until it is gone, even if it takes
Forever. I take you as you are
And make of you what I will,
Skunk-bear, carcajoy, bloodthirsty
Non-survivor.
Lord, let me die but not die
Out.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
Spring morning,
quiet. One coyote,
three deer
running in snow.
What else have I seen?
A sparrow hawk in mid-air ******
a robin, a sharp-shinned hawk catch
a rabbit in its talons.
A deaf mute in a pear tree.
Not one wolverine
in Utah or Italy.
Nor a famous samurai.
A young black bear
traverses the lawn in August.
Also quarks. Also oaks.
Do not disturb their progress!
A red fox
alert, no limp
flows silently
across the meadow.
First light, green tea.
A person thinking
epochs and eons.
A platoon of chickadees.
Jun 18, 2024
Jun 18, 2024 at 6:31 AM UTC
I would humbly put forth the idea, quite prostrate, that it would do us some good if we were to put aside, for a time, our epistemological certainties and archetypal savior fixations and, instead, opt for a more robust, ocher-hued ontological preeminence: putting the what before the why.
Only then can one, say, sip hot herbal tea from an old pink bone china teacup and, without thinking about all the things all the time, for once -just- feel the sun's warmth on your aged face as it begins its set over a half-eaten cotton candy sky that is epic af and reminds you of Peter Pan and then Robin Williams and then whywhywhy and then something random and weirrrd, and, in doing so, you can watch the lack of shittogetherness, of which duly occupies the very seat of your character like a bully usurper that hits you bc "he loves you," melt into a very (very) temporary oblivion and revel in what is before you without feeling paralyzing angst that is, usually, soo angst-y that you gotta pronounce that **** in German as if you were Schopenhauerly sitting at some non-descript desk in some non-descript room with your hand stroking your truly descript crazygeniusguy hair that is some kind of proto-Wolverine hairdo (and you wonder if Stan Lee was cryptically tipping his cap to S's philosophical pessimism with this peculiar gesture; consider googling it but don't because you've already googled too much sheeyt today), thinking (or brooding) about how much of a ******** Descartes is with his whole, yuhknow, theory about some ******* secret nanoputian angelic chemist that sits at the pearly gates of the Pineal Gland and performs the sacred transduction of the divine ghost, or whatever. Otherwise you are, like, consumed with analysis, which is a complete ******* bore and - let's face it - a thoroughly transparent attempt to sound smarter than you actually are.
This herbal tea I'm currently drinking has "rose hips" in it. Dear botany, that image is fun.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC