I donate clothes to thrift stores & pass pieces of me
on to someone else. Am I making less of myself?
I don’t know, but I wear two shades of bright dresses
in case someone compliments the top layer,
& I can gift it to them right off my chest.
If my bedroom’s a mess it’s because my heart’s
stamped on too many of my things, & I can’t decide
who should own the quilted throws of me. PSAs always say
that giving away prized possessions is a sign
for suicide but every time I’ve passed down my best
belongings, they’ve been material stand-ins for my soft
chirrups of misremember me if you want, but you could use this.
When I want to die, the wren in me searches for high places
& considers eating soap. I’ve lifted my bones to ledges
of buildings & turned back around. I’ve called my mother
& told her of the water, how all along my life
there’s been a river & a dive I’ve never followed down
& we’ve both agreed, alright, then. We’ll look somewhere else.
of the caller they intone,
by the 'lectric
they do twistyer,
by the message you will know,
if to smile or sigh or moan,
so they ring on ,
no one's picking?
picking up that awful phone!
raging so, they run the street,
whining urgent, they retreat,
so to send the ve'cles aside,
as they demand as they do chide,
white and yellow, blue, or red,
blinding lights upob you shed,
taking urgency as noise rebounds,
shun their path, upon the ground.
raging sirens diaphragm, bell,
the disaster they do spell.
hear that scratchy vinyl spin
as the play in anlogue en-gin
and the needle, needless stay
when there's scratchless
digitals to play.
oh nostlagia you scratch on,
stumble, hiccup, stagger on
stumble , hiccup, stagger on
stumble, hiccup, staggee on.
oh we jumped back to the groove,
it was such a lucky move,
there's a bell, a horn of tin,
amplify the scratch within.
Guts: A Shakespearean Sonnet
There once was an old man whose name was Dale
Hypocrite, liar, adulterous thief
soul blacker than black like the hounds of hell
Yes, he’s a giver, a giver of grief.
Dale is a person who doesn’t know love
He’s also a person who goes to church
He says he loves Jesus, Lord up above
says he has found him so call off the search
Everyone out there who dale doesn’t like
are a bitch and they’re trash going to hell
He missed his calling in Hitler’s Third Reich
Narcissist to the core, he is not well.
He came to a party I had at my house
My son turned three we had a water slide
Four hours late he arrived with his spouse
Neither would speak; eye contact they would hide
What he lacks in heart he makes up in nuts
he also brought his mistress- that takes guts.
Walking in a winter wonderland
It's cold outside
The chill has sealed the breeze in jars screwed tight
To the shadows the silhouettes doth abide
The lone palm tree is still on this night
And somewhere far away where wishes hide
Are the screaming ghosts of Christmas lights
It's cold outside
The devil chokes on heaven's sighs
he hates the joyful echos, cries of Christmas tide
And loves kids who cry on Santa's thighs
Somewhere far off where mangers reside
Are baby saviours on Godly highs
It's cold outside
Long lay the world in sin and error pinning
Then comes the wise men with gifts beside
So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming
And somewhere far away did God decide
Forever will there be nights spent caroling.
Open, trying to
even near the end--
to transform, feel,
fun to write, but fun to read?
some people call her a wild rose,
she just has a red right hand,
she goes to the joker,
but he's no space cowboy.
what will i do if she goes off,
takes the 'A' train?
I'll drown in my solitude.
she used to say, live and let die,
but it's a view to a kill,
and you only live twice,
and i ain't got anything but love,
for your eyes only.
the music goes round 'n' round,
that ol' black magic, sung by,
that sad-eyed lady of the lowlands.
if I ever lose my faith in you,
she'll find out.
I'm a pretender, and she knows it,
she sees me; a fool on a hill,
singing the blues in the night.
my vertigo increases,
'cause Mr. Tambourine man,
mixed things up ,
sitting on the pavment
Be careful what you wish for...
His dream was to be a couch potato until he awoke as a double amputee.
I’m no good at poetry
I suck at writing verse
My sentences lack symmetry
And my stanzas? Even worse!
The words I choose don’t fit
And my vocabulary’s absurd
The rhythmic quality’s shit
And the meanings are all blurred
I wish that I could write
Something elegant and prosaic
Instead my poem’s a blight
Like a poorly done mosaic
Were I to channel the ghost
Of a Tennyson or Blake
My poetry would be host
To something spiritually awake
Alas! I have before me
Something bland, almost dead
Surely readers yearn to flee
Pull the covers up, hide in bed
I think that I shall put away
That awful prankster Muse
And from this point strive to allay
Her machinations to confuse
Rest assured, my dear reader
’Tis the last you’ll read from me…
Till that Muse (God, I need her!)
Whispers another monstrosity
Those Unsaid Words
An ethereal scene unfolds before me
As you slowly stroll in my direction.
Your delicate hands,
Brushing against the dusty wooden railing
As silence falls slowly around us,
Marred only by the splashing sound of the water beneath.
And as you stop before me,
The sun shines its vibrant hue
Onto that thick lustrous black hair
Making it look preternaturally glossy,
And highlights every nook and crevice
In that nonpareil countenance
That Nature had taken time and care
To mould from scratch.
I stare straight into your eyes,
Distracted only by the flecks of green
Swimming in those ocean-blue orbs;
And I wish
That I could penetrate deep into your soul
With my eyes alone,
So that I would be
So bare and vulnerable in front of you
That those unsaid words-
Unable to escape coherently from my mouth,
Would get deeply embedded into your core,
All on their own.
I long to sculpt these words,
Stringing them together slowly,
One by one,
Into a suitable
Declaration of my love for you.
But my fingers are so clumsy and clammy,
And they tremble so much
That the string loosens.
And the words -
They become too tangled
And get so misplaced
As they fall,
Piece by piece,
Separated from the link
That binds them together;
Distorting the feelings
That are stored
And pent up for long
In my heart.
And as you stare back at me,
With that unknown expression
I’ve come to think of, as hope,
I can do nothing but smile;
While the dusty wooden floor is littered,
With all the eloquent words
That slips from my grasp.
Q: Hey girl, want to play Carpenter? First we get hammered, then I nail you.
A: You don’t have enough wood.