"woodgrain" poems
Chop. Chop. Chop.
The colors of the pepper
scatter on woodgrain.
They sit next to the diced onion
that I cut blind-
Chop
with my face turned to the door.
Those are next to the once big trees of broccoli-
Chop
now small flowers,
and there's a potent pile of garlic-
Chop
ready to be thrown into a shallow pit of heat-
the olive oil is sizzling.
Stop.
Listen to sound of produce.
Go!
Don't let the smoke rise too far-
the noses will come visit
and take your dinner away.
That's okay...
I wasn't hungry anyway.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
Set the cheetahs on the loose
There's a thief out on the move
Underneath our legion's view
They have taken Cleopatra
Run run run, come back for my glory
Bring her back to me
Run run run, the crown of our pharaoh
The throne of our queen is empty
We'll run to the future
Shining like diamonds in a rocky world
A rocky, rocky world
Our skin like bronze and our hair like cashmere
As we march to rhythm
On the palace floor
Chandeliers inside the pyramid
Tremble from the force
Cymbals crash inside the pyramid
Voices fill up the halls
The jewel of Africa
What good is a jewel that ain't still precious?
How could you run off on me?
How could you run off on us?
You feel like God inside that gold
I found you laying down with Samson
And his full head of hair
Found my black queen Cleopatra
Bad dreams, Cleopatra
Remove her
Send the cheetahs to the tomb
Our war is over, our queen has met her doom
No more she lives no more serpent in her room
No more it has killed Cleopatra
Big sun coming strong through the motel blinds
Wake up to your girl for now, let's call her Cleopatra
I watch you fix your hair
Then put your ******* on in the mirror, Cleopatra
Then your lipstick, Cleopatra
Then your six-inch heels
Catch her
She's headed to the pyramid
She's working at the pyramid tonight
Working at the pyramid
Working at the pyramid tonight
Working at the pyramid
Working at the pyramid tonight
Working at the pyramid
Working at the pyramid tonight
Working at the pyramid
Working at the pyramid tonight
Pimping in my convos
Bubbles in my champagne
Let it be some jazz playing
Top floor motel suite twisting my cigars
Floor model TV with the VCR
Got rubies in my **** chain
Whip ain't got no gas tank
But it still got woodgrain
Got your girl working for me
Hit the strip and my bills paid
That keep my bills paid
Hit the strip and my bills paid
Keep a ***** bills paid
She's working at the pyramid tonight
You showed up after work I'm bathing your body
Touch you in places only I know
You're wet & you're warm just like our bathwater
Can we make love before you go
The way you say my name makes me feel like
I'm that *****
But I'm still unemployed
You say it's big but you take it
Ride cowgirl
But your love ain't free no more
But your love ain't free no more
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
I'll see you around, but
not again on this empty floor,
the two of us in blankets, slept on our clothes,
woodgrain just out of reach.
Waiting at the station,
the 5 a.m. trolley home,
hands wrapped around my fare,
There's some memory of a dingy lastnight bar
where we chain-smoked through
the muted stop-motion of late-night,
whiskey breath and fingertips,
tracing the side of a face, the ends of nerves,
lost
in the traffic river crowd footfall,
at some patio latenight coffeehouse,
we were cinematic, mysterious under
the mercury lights that lit the sidewalk, that staged us
full, small, like hands wrapped around a cup with our name on it.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
phloem in your veins;
your tongue curls around
the syllables of my name
erotically, and I'm
daydreaming about
your tongue curling around
my ******** while you talk circles about
calculus and chemistry.
woodgrain and
blood veins and
gun-splattered gore-brains,
the kitchen counter
saturated in sherbet and
awash in girl-cum
while you writhe next to the
fruit bowl, in flagrante delicto.
we conquered the universe with a
steady stream of xenon ions, probing
deep into the velvety wet folds
of the galaxy, two fingers
to the laws of physics, two fingers
stretching you out.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
The black night’s ebbing tide
erased the only remaining hints,
the cresting long ocean swells
did not cleanse without a trace.
Adrift and lethargically bobbing
seaweed entangled teakwood box
of water-logged photographs, drowning,
surrendered from the heart of the sea
Like molted wild feathers cast ashore with the tide
to the coarse specks of rasping sands,
Darwin's dream in an emptied sea-bubble popped,
dissipated into its own haplessness,
bestrewn about an untrodden seashore
Washed out snapshots of life’s disregarded minutia
enchained to an ordinary forgotten Kodachrome moment
left out to the consequences of the ever fickle tides,
abandoned happenstance spilled by chance
upon another undiscovered world
The warped and bloated wooden box encasement,
hoary with swollen furrowed woodgrain s,
wearied by an enduring measureless moment adrift;
as if an ill-fated message in a misbegotten leaky bottle,
corked with marooned good intentions,
and images of disappearing dreams
flung out shipwrecked in barnacled azure glass
beneath a sky so far away
someone you used to know
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
I am a torso,
With the heart exposed.
Given a single morsel,
That shrieks and floats.
"This place is dark, "
Says my flying eye.
"Did My head go to the park? "
Responded I.
The woodgrain tables,
Coated in dust.
Homestead cables,
Plagued in rust.
The ghosts are sick,
And cannot move.
The air is thick,
Within each room.
No one lived here for years,
No windows in it's place.
The home sat empty with fear,
As apparitions pace.
Screams echo through the night,
As the front sorry creaks.
The brave cry with fright,
As the walls speak.
The boards rot away,
The clocks all stopped.
The curtains away,
Occasionally a head pops.
I roll into my place of death,
In hopes yo find my skull.
I got myself into this mess,
As I couldn't pay the toll.
Carpet Diem.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
Standing upon the sea shore
I start notice that I see more.
I then begin to ponder
What's down there I wonder?
Planes and boats? relics of war?
Fish and crustaceans? creatures galore!
Perhaps I'll get a boat, something to restore
Yeah, that sounds nice.
With woodgrain décor
and Hopefully I wont crash
N ' end up ashore
Jan 9, 2021
Jan 9, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
I want a Monte Carlo
with woodgrain
that drips
lacquer
like liquid
metal.
How sweet is the sound
of droplets
of wetted desire
and my chucks
dotted
by the bark
of a melted,
condensed,
glossed
and
digital
earth.
My Alpine's
make bus-drivers nervous,
with their hallways
full of a thousand faces,
staring down
at me
as I crack holes
in the concrete
big enough
for a squadron of buses
to fall into.
My Carlo
should have two things
in bunches,
it should have
the smell of a woman.
The smell of her
stale mouth
that lets loose fumes
in grated vents.
The Carlo's
smell should rattle me
like fences
that jingle when I brush against them.
Secondly,
my Carlo
should
be serious
and black.
All black.
I want my Carlo to have
opals for headlights
like the smeared *** of a firefly
or the eyes
of a panther.
My Carlo should be so beautiful
that it takes me back to the forest,
to the forge,
to the hotel,
to the hospital,
to the altar,
to a place of peace so loud
that I could take it between my fingertips
only to break it in a purr.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 2:38 PM UTC
Reaching into the higher worlds
Through the slabs of consciousness.
Peeling apart the astral membrane
Of eternal, transcendental splendour.
The visions!
The slabs of consciousness!
The rotating, interlocking dawn!
Nov 28, 2023
Nov 28, 2023 at 7:20 PM UTC
carving names into the woodgrain in old El Salvador. set the scene in your head: open air cafe, smiles and bad checks, squandering morale. vagrancy helps us hold our grudges. we are the greatest of all time, only we missed our mark and trailed off somewhere into a whisper. they always said our eyes gave us away, but i never really got that until now. it's inevitable that our eyelids will drift back and forth between sleep hemispheres until we accept the dormant fate of three twenty four AM. "you could be the death of me," you said, eyes fixated on the door, burnt out cigarette hanging from your cracked bottom lip.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
the forest beckons, eddies of
wind rustling leaves, whispering
"welcome, welcome."
(a kilometre away,
there's a lumber yard)
the branches are blown about by
the wind, a come-hither
I am loathe to resist,
and I am struck with memory:
you,
naked,
standing shyly at the foot of your bed
one hand upon your
thigh, the other
crooking a solitary
finger, allowing me approach
as you look at the floor, hair
burqaing your face.
I am watching trees
blur by train windows,
and I'm reminded of
the green of your eyes,
and the woodgrain veins just
barely visible on your arms.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Spat out from the maw of carnage
slick with the battle's bile:
a coat of blood, black and foul
for war is hell and
hell the churning
chastening
chilling
gut
of a beast beyond reproach.
Yes, I was there...
I fought
for you
for your freedom
I fought so you could sin another
day
I fought so you could curse my
name
I fought so you could scorn your
savior
and wonder why it is I love,
you.
Tell me:
who is it that suffers greater?
The toil, is heavy
I lumber forward,
scars, like woodgrain, nest my body
I am born of battle
in my chest
my heart does rattle
empty
for there is no room for weakness.
I form pillars of truth and justice
I forge the righteous from
weakness, purpose
and all the
while
they grow
stronger conviction
in the unyielding dreams
that bolster all men from breaking.
Yet you lob laughter at my prophets
and greed is your only profit.
**** my champions
**** my children: men and women,
with your lust and lustre,
no matter,
for in recompense
for all your thoughtless vengeance,
I pay in kind...
Soon, you will envy,
the blind.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
Another familiar night passes by as I sit by the open window.
My eyes overlooking the window pane, past the open glass.
Deep into the night I stare and ponder, far and wide my eyes scan.
They see only what the moonlight reveals, what will it reveal to me?
I've say and wondered about this life, this night seems stuck on repeat.
As I find myself here constantly, here in this sturdy old and creaky woodgrain chair.
Looking up I close my eyes and pray to any higher deity willing to help.
Quietly I let out my faint whispers, my words travel from mouth to midnight sky.
Hoping my prayers are heard, I sit awaiting for a sign...nothing..just a Howl from the wind.
I should know how it works by now, allow me to rephrase my cry for help.
Please whoever may hear me, I ask not that you do my work, but show me what my work is.
In a bright flash of burning white, as if God himself came into my waking dreams.
There in his words he showed me the entire scheme, " do as you will" he said to me.
This was the night I learned I wasn't worthless, I was meant for so much more.
Not for people to chant my fame or even fear the sounds of my name.
Slowly my core starts to boil, hope and passion rising, coursing through my blood.
I am here to be nothing short of great, and great is what I'll be.
To keep my blood line going, growing, and ever evolving.
Adapting is what I know, instinctive to the core, forever embedded inside of me.
Continuing to grow further more, adapting from mediocre to great.
I shall do what I must to keep pride inside my name.
Just like the indelible words of Poe, I'll never stop growing, "forever more"
For no one will stop me and take what's mine as their claim.
No power can stop the growth and evolution of my blood line.
Even long after I've left this world all will know of my generations to come.
Because just as he late great Bruce Lee said " live a life worth remembering. "
That is exactly what I'm doing "living a life worth remembering"
My legacy will be carried by future blood lines and they will flourish.
So always remember...
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
I set the table before dawn;
the woodgrain clothed in white linen,
adorned with embroidered daisies stitched in hope,
fraying around the edges,
six chairs lay in wait,
none of them needed.
The wind RSVP'd weeks ago,
she brought ash instead of sugar,
while the silence stirred itself.
The roses arrived, already wilted.
I placed them anyway,
in the vase my great grandmother used
for holy water and secrets.
The cups are chipped,
the silver lining of the rims rubbed away,
but they remember the hands that held them,
once.
I pour tea, lukewarm,
for ghosts who do not thank me,
only mirror the steam,
their cries echoing in weighted air.
The sky cleaves beyond these hedgerows,
a throat that has swallowed thunder it cannot hold.
Still, I pass the cream,
to no one,
savoring the semblance of civility,
drinking down decorum,
a peace offering
to those who do not deserve
not even a lump of compassion,
nor a second thought.
I raise the fractured bone vessel,
"Drink",
I spit to the air,
"a toast to the burning
and the stoking of fires
that you just couldn't keep from feeding".
The kettle screams.
The world tilts, cracks, crumbles,
the crumbs unable to be swept from the table,
clinging to edges of lace napkins,
impossible to fold away.
Pinkies out,
I face the heat,
with a fascinator veiling the curl
of a smirk that knows it won't taste victory,
just finality,
steeped in bitter black.
May 29, 2025
May 29, 2025 at 11:09 AM UTC
Empty church chairs
Keep the light on upstairs
You said You had a plan
But here's the moving van
And I wonder why I ever cried
To leave these halls and whitewashed walls
And learn to be.
Woodgrain runs through the patterns of my youth
And I keep running from the truth
Those hundred and eighty eyes were blind
To what they put me through
The truth, the truth
I just keep running from You.
Dewy morning haze
Lazy pajama days
We just need perspective
To find our real objective
And I wonder why I ever tried
To fit myself into that shell
They made of me.
Woodgrain runs through the patterns of my youth
And I keep running from the truth
Those hundred and eighty eyes were blind
To what they put me through
The truth, the truth
I just keep running from You.
I can play the victim well
Walking on the line between Heaven and Hell
We're living in this great divide
Of time and space and sin and pride
To take a stand you will need nerve
So choose today who you will serve.
Woodgrain runs through the patterns of my youth
And I keep running from the truth
Those hundred and eighty eyes were blind
To what they put me through
The truth, the truth
The truth
The truth is that
I can't stop running from You.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
Theres black filth congregating in the crevice of every ninety degree angle in this building
The woodgrain in the floor invites me to melt into its stream down the hallway through the cracks into the grimy kitchen below
There are ghosts cooking there
Ghosts pacing the hallway where their corporeal form bade them farewell
Ghosts outside lifting weights and running calisthenic circuits
As though there were any merit in the shape of their supernatural form
As though the taste of chicken tenders and french fries still satiated their desire for self destruction
As though the world was still waiting for them, hand outstretched to
Wakeupeatgotoworkeatbacktoworkeat
Pay your bills
Sleep
This is no life for us ghosts -- we soon-will-have-beens -- we memories-waiting-to-fade -- we destined-to-be-soon-to-be-forgottens -- we clinging-to-what-is-nows
All who will not have ears one day had better listen.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
Give me amber warm
And woodgrain soft as sandstone
To meet with pressure
Over time and many miles
My hands will lead you homeward
Aug 15, 2021
Aug 15, 2021 at 9:26 PM UTC
From the slums and crumbs a knuckle head acting dumb
Succumb to the worlds sinister ways and these days
Fools quick to spray words a verbal arsenal take it personal flashin' pistols
Now another funerals laid cops paid
To do the same thing the hood doing to us
Design for us to die fast and in a hurry bury by drains I'm talkin' Curry deep range thoughts circling as swang in my woodgrain
Steering wheel now tell can me can ya feel the Southside the real
-'ist poets ain't made for rest so test if ya want watch the pain come and haunt
Shatterin' your every move y'all don't wanna duel
Still playin' the hearts of madness yo they stay fools
I play a mule nice but come off cruel
Keep it smoother than a jazz solo
Oh no take another puff of the cocoa so...
Adjust my crown at the top far from a slop
Enemies get the casket prop it don't stop
Rhymes drop keep it movin' like it's hot
Too touch flows I crutch choose women like Hutch
Ya know I'm finna clutch
Victory it ain't a mystery so many haters gall after me cuz I **** em easily
Rollin' rillaz and hang with killaz scrappin' for scrillaz
Skipped school to hang with the local dealers feelin' iller
Than the next man knockin' any **** and who can?
Stop the south side for running and gunning
We'll still keep hunting so keep stunting
Alberta stand up we mobbin' up black Caesar style
Problem child since I seen the devil's smile
Problems pile check my style
Killer rhymes like Mike I'll make ta fadeway once the words I say
Is laid to a track
The man in black with that mack attack so all ya hataz sit back
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC