You should have said, yes
to the guy who asked you out at work
he could listen to your paranoia
so we wouldn’t have to
a lover would have better ears
Tag Archives: original poem
Post Hoc Death Blues?
Traffic seemed to sludge by us and the sun hit our collective black shroud. While my sisters son hid in front of me from pretty middle school girls yelling behind us, “Hey! Tyler!”, my sister, with red hair flowing and freckles gleaming in the light, said that Verona air smells like peaches and gasoline. Tyler’s friends were probably drinking cokes, eating disco fries and fun-dip, and talking about hot girls. Babies were being born somewhere, babies were dying somewhere, and I couldn’t deal with the intensity, so I put on my glasses to hide while we smiled to the girls because: What else do you do?!
It was a forgiving father that I saw at the post office smiling, but grimacing, because his daughter filled out a form wrong so they had to do it all over again.
And it was a smile because death is awkward and peaches and gasoline create beautifully fucked up tension.
So what else do you do besides calmly submit to the horrors of the endlessly intricate world, and smile in a confused transparent bubble.
Lost At Sea
I am lost at sea
and this doggie paddle
ain’t doin’ much
against these twelve foot
monsters
that just keep
coming and coming and coming…
406
Don’t let go, don’t let go. What was once yours, slipping ever so slowly.
Lost focus. Carelessness. Pride.
Tighten your grip, C’mon, before it’s too late. Don’t let go.
Stop standing idle, take control, tighten your grip.
For God’s sake, DO NOT LET GO.
That’s what happens. Juggling the unnecessary and humoring the needless.
Softening your grip.
Now too late, losing all control.
A once bolstering man, reduced to nothing.
Sweaty hands.. Just Don’t let go. Don’t let her go.
How did this happen..
Oceanus (son of Uranus and Gaea)
I’m a fucking Hurricane
and you’re the coast of Florida.
I’m the Ocean exploding over Sea-walls
and blasting winds throwing showers of Salt down with waterfalls of rain.
I hope you know how to swim,
Because if you don’t,
you’re going to be drowned and battered
into the hull of a ship
Or buried in an instant
beneath 900 tons of water.
I’m going to fill your lungs
and pull you out to me,
where in a seascape of such immensity
and glorious horrifying Augustial fear
blended with a sky of
Saintly blue-grey smears and Lividus hues,
a soul shaking battle of light and Darkness,
the last thing you will see
is me,
In every direction
as far as you can see
Pulling you into my depths,
Beneath the waves.
backyardea
remember our back-yard growing up?
all of those kingdoms and nations
and our Indian tribes?
The tree-house that we’d fill with waterballoons
by day
and sleeping-bags by night?
The secrets we’d tell
behind the garage
and the twigs and the mud
remember the hose in the summer-time
and the snow in the winter?
the forts and the acorns?
The cloudy days when we’d sit up the pine tree
or the clear warm nights
when we’d play man-hunt in
the neighborhood?
remember the sound of the leaves rushing through the trees
as the wind would blow?
the army men
and the bow that dad would let us shoot
the old pile of logs that we would find worms in?
remember trying to dig a swimming pool,
but it was just a hole?
when we would hide from Amir
behind those bushes?
remember when we had that old rope to swing on,
hanging from the big tree?
remember when we’d race down the sidewalk
on wagons and skateboards
with old plungers and fist-fulls
of pebbles?
remember going back there to hide
or to cry in the bushes
when we didn’t want to be found?
remember all the army-men
and the times when the world seemed to end
at the fence by Mr. Anseley’s house and the sidewalk
in the front yard?
Well I remember,
and I don’t know why
but it makes me cry
