Zippos poems on Hello Poetry

Ari Feb 2010

there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia

My best Ginsberg impression.

Anne Sexton

Knee Song

Being kissed on the back
of the knee is a moth
at the windowscreen and
yes my darling a dot
on the fathometer is
tinkerbelle with her cough
and twice I will give up my
honor and stars will stick
like tacks in the night
yes oh yes yes yes two
little snails at the back
of the knee building bon-
fires something like eye-
lashes something two zippos
striking yes yes yes small
and me maker.

James Bradley McCallum Nov 2013

Black Granite

A hippie hocked a louie on Sammy
when he landed in San Francisco.

Sammy didn't respond;
he just wanted to make
his connecting flight home.

Sammy wasn't proud about
some of things he did in the war;
so he figured he probably
deserved the garlands of disdain
an ungrateful nation bestows
upon itself in fits of self contempt.

Sammy shut down and tuned out,
soon his heart was as dead
as a tombstone until he visited
the monument.

He would often recall the story
that as he approached the darkened
wall he could sense ghosts loosening
themselves from the black granite.

Sammy swore that Jimmy Lynch
who went MIA on the final week of his tour
gave him a bear hug and told him
as long as the beer stays cold
and he don’t lose the church key,
everything's groovy and he’s
hanging tough until the rest
of the guys show up.

Jimmy pointed to the Lincoln Memorial
at one end of the mall and to the
Washington Monument at the other,
emphatically stating that our monument
was forever linked with the greatest Americans.

Yeah meeting up with Jimmy
helped Sammy to start shaken
off some real bad stuff.

Mazie knew her husband for a
month before they got married.
A week later Freddie was off to Vietnam.

Freddie was KIA during the Tet Offensive
and his repatriated remains are peacefully
at rest in the red clay of Georgia.

An always faithful Mazie
came to the monument
a few years after it was dedicated.
She was struck by all the keepsakes
people left at the base of the wall;
Zippos, baby pictures, a copy of
The Catcher in the Rye, a fifth
of Makers Mark, Pink Teddy Bears,
votive lights, a red 57 Chevy model,
a left handed catchers mitt, and
a pack of Lucky Strikes.

She palmed rosaries and
crucifixes that salved sore
running wounds and David’s
interlaced Star sounding a Shofar
pleading a case for peace.

Mazie is most moved by the names.
Rows and rows of names. The scroll
begins in a modest manner and
as the wall climbs the names
of a country's vigilant sons and
daughters tower over her head.
So much living history; spoken
in the unique accent of a country’s
diverse plethora of luminous tongues.

The stories written into the black granite
tell a tale from every state; claiming
the ears, heart and mind of every citizen.
Each chiseled letter captures every bit
of sun and deep creeping shadow
inching across a great nation.

“I’m  71” says Mazie.  “When I look
upon the wall I see my 21 year old
Freddie as he looked on the finest
day of his life.  He will never look
any other way to me.”

“I didn't want to go to see it,” Franny said,
“a cold piece of stone won’t bring my son back.”

Franny did finally go...

When it rains the wall weeps.
The wall wept all day,
the first time Franny went.

Many were rubbing
the impressions of
dearly departed names.

Franny too, kneels to the
presence of her son’s name.

With a mother's
grateful fingers,
she touches the wall's
damp surface; wiping
the drizzle from her
child's sodden face.

Kneeling before his semblance,
she rubs his etched edges
onto tiny bits of paper.

She sees him,
made manifest in the stone.
As if through a glass darkly,
a found son looks back,
onto the face of a caring mother.

Franny hangs onto the quiet
memory of his voice,
shimmering in the soft lilt
of a warm dark stone.

This deep core Vulcan gneiss,
at last emerged from the hardest stuff,
sculpts a perfect likeness of a tear stained nation.

The Harmonizing Four: Rock of Ages

In Honor of
The Vietnam Veterans Memorial
Washington DC

Oakland
Veterans Day
2013

spysgrandson Oct 2012

Nighthawks and the youngest man at the rock of Iwo Jima

Aunt Gracie took me there
for a philly and five cent cee-gar
old enough to fight,
old enough to puff on that stogie
she said
(and not much more)
I spun my stool like I was on a carnival ride
(had only one beer with Uncle Lon, but your first beer is the best)
and Gracie looked at me
like I was still the kid
who broke her basement window
with a bad pitch
when I was ten
yeah, I was, still that boy
seven years later
in that glass box of light
humming in the concrete night
big round Gracie smilin’ at me,
looking like she was gonna cry
she had signed those papers
lied with that pen
making me old enough to be a killer
and smoke that cigar, I suppose
the couple eating eggs and bacon
asked if I was shipping out
six AM, yes sir
the woman smiled like Gracie
the man nodded his head, said
**** a *** for me
sure thing, sure thing
me thinking killing one of them
would let me live,
forever,
forever, and wouldn’t be any different
from playin’ God with bee-bees and birds
which I had done a time or two
with my Daisy
cook put my philly in front of me
his eyes locked on the counter
like someone condemned
to never hold his head up high
and trapped in that diner
forever,
forever feeding
me and other nighthawks
who come to this place
the last space of light
in the hungry night
thanks for the sandwich, I said
he said that’s free
but the man eatin’ eggs
said it’s on me
cook didn’t look at the man
went to cleaning some pan
was then I noticed he limped
bad
I asked how he got hurt
he kept his eyes on his sink
said, it was a long time
before this night
were you born that way?
nobody born this way son
Gracie’s elbow nudged mine
but sixteen and full of all
of one beer, I was gonna keep askin’
how--
it was a long time
before this night
I know, but how--
guess you’ll know
soon enough
we were
clawing our way
from a French trench
filled with gas and gasps
of boys with your face
too dead to cry, too dead to scream
when those machine gunners cut loose
what I got was some good luck
and one of those big rounds
in my knee
Gracie’s elbow moved away
she put her hand on my leg
(my hand was on my philly, limp and still)
you got shot by the Krauts in the Great War?
he didn’t say anymore
and I didn’t eat my meal
　
Gracie was good to me,
I know she wrote all the time
but we didn’t always get our mail
on those big ships, many men
would leave their suppers on the floor
in all that stink of seasick
they taught me to play cards
told me jokes, gave me smokes
Lucky Strikes
we were going to some place
with a funny sounding name
Ee-wa Gee-ma, Ee-wa Gee-ma
at night, when I would look
at the black bottom of the bunk above me
I would see
someplace green, Ee-wa, sunny, Gee-ma
someplace with curling trees
and birds for my daisy to shoot at
other nights, in that dark,
in that stale stink of tobacco and puke
I would see the humming light
of the diner that night, wishing
I had eaten that philly sandwich
and smoked that cigar
(which I left by the plate)
I would think of Gracie
and how she begged me
to confess my sins
(to the recruiting sergeant)
to come back
safe, whole, she said
(but I didn’t know what whole meant)
after that, I heard only the voices of men
some barking orders and commands
others whimpering,
whispering
in the same dark
ship of steel
　
　
when I saw the grey rocks
and flak-filled sky, and heard
the swoosh of surf
and the thunder
of our ships’ guns
and some rat-tat-tat
from the invisible holes
I knew I knew,
nothing yet of hell
　
Happy, we called him
was dead
all nineteen years of him
on that **** hole of beach
his guts strewn across the sand
(his life story I guess)
making their peace with *****
and the red and black blood
of other boys and men
who played cards
and flipped open their Zippos
to light my smokes
told me jokes
and laced their boots with me
that very morning
　
by the time
the ramp fell
I spotted Happy
my stinging eyes stuck
to his shredded belly
we, all of us, fell forward
into the shallow Pacific
ran, with all our gear clanging
to dunes high enough to hide
to hide,
but only long enough
to catch our breath
and smell cordite, fear-sweat,
and burned flesh
we did not take time to gag
over the dunes we went
told to make it to a rock
some twenty of us
to a rock no bigger than Lon’s ‘36 coupe
by the time we hid behind the rock
only eight of us hunched there
the others were where?
didn’t know, didn’t care
I had my piece of rock
rounds kept poppin’ off
the other side
from all those invisible holes
filled with slant eyed demons
my ears were ringing
when I heard the corporal say
start putting fire on that hole
what hole, what hole, what hole
the words were stuck somewhere
deep inside, not in my throat
but they were there
trying to ask him where
what hole? what hole
(I thought for a moment about Gracie and coming back whole?)
the corporal, OK, I forgot his **** name
he wasn’t in my platoon
he said put some fire on that hole
one more time
but then when he got up to shoot his M-1
something made his helmet fly off
and most of him went to the ground
the part that didn’t go out the back of his head
Tommy grabbed my arm
(Tommy taught me that four of a kind beats a full house)
and said something
and said it again
over there, over there
OVER THERE
when I looked where he was looking
I saw them, one with a tan helmet,
the other with a shiny black head of hair
Tommy was trying to point his M-1
at those **** who were firing
their 92 machine gun
at those boys on the beach
I pointed my M-1 at them too
but my hands were shaking too bad to aim
Tommy aimed I think
and we both kept shootin’ at those ****
who finally just looked like they went to sleep
but they never woke up
but neither did the other six boys
who were hiding behind that rock with us
because as soon as Tommy and me
started shootin’ at those ****,
they turned that 92 at us
but all those boys were in front of us
pressed so tight against that stingy rock
they couldn’t breathe
or move
even enough
to get their M-1 carbines
turned
in the right direction
so when those **** turned that 92
on the bunch of us
Tommy and I were in the right place
behind six poor boys
who couldn’t move
and got their young bodies
peppered with every round
that come from the hot barrel
of that *** 92 machine gun
once those two *** boys were asleep
I felt something warm on my arm
it was blood from Hector’s face
but Hector didn’t have a face left
part of it was on my sleeve
I think
but I didn’t look
Hector was in my squad
and he wore a Saint Christopher
to keep him safe
Hector didn’t lose all his head
like I heard Saint Christopher did
but most of it
and if that pendant
and all his mama’s prayers
didn’t keep him safe
I guess nothing could
　
I don’t remember when
I was able to sleep
through a whole night
without wakin’ up
thinking about
Hector, the corporal
and the other five boys
who died right there
behind the rock
there were a million other rocks
where boys
“went to sleep”
only they didn’t wake up
feeling Hector’s warm blood
on their arms
shivering
before it even got cold,
dry, and black
　
Gracie told me
the diner closed
she didn’t know why
but now
when I can’t sleep
and walk the pavement
in the middle of the city night
I go to that dark corner cafe
looking for the buzzing light
I want my cigar I did not smoke
and once again hear the words
the limping man spoke
I don’t have any more questions
he won’t want to answer
but if I did
they might be stuck
down inside
not in my throat
but deeper
where things churn
but don’t ever get seen or heard
I do wonder
if those other boys
at the rock,
and those other rocks,
all those other rocks
are taking these lonely late night walks
or if they had talked
with a limping man
who fed them for free
who thought he was lucky
and spoke words
no young eager bird killers
could yet understand

Nighthawks refers to a 1942 Edward Hopper painting of a corner diner and was the inspiration for the first and last stanzas

Max Neumann Jun 2021

Lullaby

back in the days, tales from lauderdale...

yakuzzi gang from oakland park, 308
nightly waves flowin' thru brain channels
the traitor of my memories will judge me
no other day, 38ers, toni der assi, stoogie

two existences, eager brothers at arms
shake em the shake, rip and run, zippas
platin zippos, trip-apache, brave bear
the tents of the past remain as debris

as long as doom's grace feeds us lust
struggle on, lights out, turn me on, baby
shivering is the silver sun at dusk here
and gangsta poets speedin' thru alleys

fat **** frank oversees all oceans, inc.
friends at the thames, partners in crime
the green shining, ultra fresh scent, yeah
bodegas are useful for distribution

nevah, tho', enter these places at night
brooklyn heights, floor 64, 65 & 66 locked
merciless fred, sumptuous leather jacket
cuban necklace jeezy boostah, spiderman

dead blueline pitbulls, ****** cages,
rageful is the age of ours, my friends
sunday's dawn opposes my design
in the corner of my room, hidden

*** GANGSTAPOETRY ***
        *** 48 SOULS ***
    ***  CREATION 96  ***

#gangstapoetry #gangsta #gangster #wondaland #wonderland #*** #psychedelic #drugs #magic

Samuel Mcloughlin Jun 2010

Obsession

Rows of red, and blue and green,
Confectionary ordered pointlesly,
Only to fall, one by one,

Or all the large to the left,
and the small stacked up.

Coins in stacks of one pound,
Unless it's pennies, Then in stacks of ten.

Books piled, large at the bottom, towering up,
Pens lie in rows,
Invisible borders prevent touching,

Keys too untidy, remove from ring, arrange in circles,
Food cut into bites, counted and ordered,

Fridge ordered by food group,
Or colour,
Depending on the day,

Lighters in rows, standing tall,
Zippos together,
Clippers and disposables,
Flints in a pile,
Wicks in the little paper sleeve.

Fuse wire in the little round tin,
The one she gave me,
The one that opens with a POP.

These things I can control, make life a little easier.

Toni May 2014

10 Things About You

I was 17.
My hair was shaggy, I finally had some
curves, and my room was always a mess.

He was 18.
He was taller than me by a foot, so strong
and devastatingly charming.

He was a gentleman.
He never sagged his pants, he liked big
expensive watches, Zippos, and taking
girls out for dinner.
He'd offer to drive me home even though
I live down the street.
The first night we met he shook my
hand just like a man should.

He was grandma's basement.
A secret place that's always a mess
with crushed beers littered on the floor,
bleary stains, and ***** smells.
Where Tuesdays are spent like Fridays
making memories with friends we all
hardly remember.

He'd try to sneak looks at me from
across the room.

He was my best friend.
We saw each other ever day for
weeks, never getting sick of it.
We swallowed pizza like air, talked
with our mouths full, and belched
like a couple of boys.

He was FIDLAR.
One day I said, "Have you heard this band?"
He stared at me in a daze, turned up
the volume, and that was that.
The whole neighborhood could hear us
singing along that day.

He was a green Chevy Tahoe.
It could be heard from down the street.
I'd wait to hear the roar outside my window.
The passenger seat, a second home.
My feet on the dash, his wrist dripped
over the steering wheel.
We had no cares in the world.

He was getting high
at 3 in the morning outside my
house while my parents sleep.
I already felt like I was on drugs, so
no high compared.
But we laughed, and laughed, and laughed
some more until out ribs were sore.

He was a pack of camel blues.
His lips stained my neck. Nicotine on
my tongue, so sweet.
He'd flip a stoge for luck, leaving it for last.

That's when I knew.
Maybe we'd get lucky somehow.

Has she ever noticed the
pungent smell my skin leaves?
When he goes back to her,
leaving me for last.

This may be one of my favorite poems to write just because I really needed to write about this whole situation happening in my life.

#love #lovers #heartache #secrets #affairs #teenagers #freeverse

Taylor Marion Jul 2014

Can't do candid

A steady post lingers in the distance, reading "Allied Road." It's been abadoned for quite sometime now and the ruins are filled of relics. Dust.
We burned it down together, dont you remember?
With our propane tongues and Zippos the size of patches used to cover one eye.
Covering one eye, as we always did. You know it's true.

Sometimes when I'm alone with my thoughts of being alone without you, I take a barefoot stroll there.
This may sound abstruse, but letting my toes get lost in the ash reminds me of warm sand widow's-peaking an ocean shore.
Golden.
Wavy.
Blue.
That picture in my head alone reminds me of you.

It's much cloudier there. Dimmed. Gloom, almost as if the sun is too scared to go near it or the sky is relflecting the ground.
Either way, I try to keep my eyes closed as often as possible and let my imagination take control. Partly because the embers blow into and bug my eyes, but mostly because I simply want to.

Noah Roberts Jul 2014

Mantras of the Current Age (a work in progress)

1
We are
walking streets unknown
wearing headphones and apple products inserted into our flesh like addicts
all around an angry empty black tar pit throwing in capitalism and old socks
sloshing in snow and dancing in sun and basking in rain
vile and putrid beauteous dancers on stages indoors
twirling drunken swirlygigs and pirouettes underneath shattered naked lights
caressing the skin of the stars on early LSD mornings after long nights of jazz and jokes
taking buses and trains to avoid the dangers of atmospheric destruction
staying up late listening to your “Howl” in prison shaped dorm rooms blowing cigarettes out windows
we are those
who sweating and giggling make furious love lying on rocks under autumn leaves with the wind at 3am in september
with singed fingertips and blue eyes and red skin and dark hair smiling in the sunlight on porches
with circular gravitational searing earthmarks on our ashtray skin because we lost ourselves
we are actors
we are dancers
we are painters
  we are writers
     we are angels
    we are lovers
    we are killers
  we are dyers
we are drinkers
we are smokers
we are children
walking to the moon and back every night on tattered shoes and squelching socks haze of smoke
sitting on rocks and drinking until our kidneys scream in pain and demand we go home for the night because it is getting too late and they are getting worried
refilling zippos with stink and fluid and lighting countless tobacco stains for our lungs on wintry days in new york
taking showers at 3AM because we can't sleep and unlike any activity we are not exhausted
driving until the sunsets and crying in the drivers seat window because we are falling out of ourselves   into our own heads
blaring rock and roll or jazz in our small cell block on herb fueled afternoons reading Eliot in our beds
sitting at our desks pencilpushing out the last of our minds onto screens because nowhere else will take them willingly
wasting our time happily because we don't wish to save it for when we are old and unhappy so we choose to be young and unhappy instead
we sing songs of stars and satanic ****** rituals outside of symposiums for the sardonic
we are standing on the edges of buildings and nobody is telling us whether or not to oak leaf tumble until we hit the brick
sadly slumped in bottomed out chairs we zone our somethings or somehows in claustrophobic rooms
daydreaming daddies and dandelions and drip drops of pitter patters on tin childhood roofs

This website reformatted part of the poem. Where it begins "we are actors" is supposed to cross the entire page and then pass over again, forming a sideways V shape. Whatever. I do what I can with what I have

I wrote most of this while drunk at college, or hungover in a coffee shop. There will be more added to this in the future, as I feel like this poem could use a lot more.

— The End —