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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Dear Jack, I made it
To Texas. Not as good
As Denver, I know,
But it was my own
Right of passage.
Would you have gotten
A gallon of gas
For a quarter
And a pack of smokes
For 50¢ more?
I kept rolling
My own
Through Mississippi
And Louisiana,
But ran out
On the edge of Texas.
My thumb didn’t go as high
As yours, but my left arm,
Burnt to shit,
Hung from the window
And played with the air
Down along
The gulf, passing
My beloved New Orleans.
It was only in my dreams,
Jack,
That I could come
This far.
Now, tired as hell,
The coffee is hot,
The peach cobbler and ice cream
From last night
Rings true
With the tobacco
From this sun rise.
I made it this far.
How much further
Can I go?

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a day off by by Steve Calamars

the kung-fu movies
and the kafka stories
are no longer a large
enough distraction

the hours have
crawled away like
half-smashed spiders

with enough energy
and ingenuity left
to weave webs that
trap the night and
allow it to putrify
into the morning

where at 5am
i find myself
ensnared by a
time clock

promptly pounced on
by a job that feeds on
my youth and sucks the
life right out of me . .

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SWEET NOTHINGS

Don’t tell me you love me–
I know what you love:
my lips and my tits and my eyes
and my curves and my pussy that
fits you like a motherfucking glove

it’s the tangible things that you love,
and I know this because you only tell me
just before you cum

I have a mind behind these eyes
and a heart beneath these tits;
I like to have conversation
a little intellectual stimulation
some emotional bliss
but you just want to shoot the shit
and blow hot air in my ear and watch
me inflate like a fuck doll…
and there I am with my long legs spread
just waiting for your next declaration
of love

____________

I’M NOT YOUR ICE CREAM CONE

Give it up.
Don’t waste your time telling me
I’m the prettiest girl
or that I’ve got the most incredible eyes
in the fucking world

I won’t melt anymore

You might have licked me into submission before
but that was a long time ago:
at a low point in my life
back when I thought you were God
when you had promised me the world
but all I ended up with
was the short end of the stick
and a bad, bad taste in my mouth

so fuck off, you worthless dick;
go find yourself another flavor of the month
to lick

____________

WAITING FOR A SUNNY DAY

Sure, I know–
you love me

you love me when the rent is paid
when your ex-wife isn’t trying
to cut your balls off for child support
and alimony

when the car runs great
and the Lakers win…
but aside from all that
I’m just a piece of ass

it’s nice to know where I rate in your life;
somewhere between a hard cock
and a hard place

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Memories of highways,
truckstops and trailer parks,
when I kept you moving, moving,
in those wide-eyed delicate years,
with your trusting blond head,
your bag of dolls, fatherless.
What chance did you ever have?

Misfortune of a teenage mother, me
full of juvenile incompetence,
one shitty boyfriend after another,
food stamps, social workers.  I tried,
kid, I tried, while you deserved
swingsets, playdates, dance classes;
you know, decent foundations.

What have I ever given you, except
the skill of packing a bag, the art
of running?  Economy of subsisting
on a pack of fettucine noodles for a week?
I keep going back to that Texan café,
during our last cross-country escape,
us two in a cracked vinyl booth,

surrounded by truckers in worn jeans,
as I taught you how to blow bubbles
in your milk glass—the happy puff
of your face over the straw, how the sun
lit up your hair.  If only I could pass back
through Galveston, beyond that day,
to rewire your youth, to fix California,

Colorado, our days on the road:  no excuse,
that I was just a kid myself.  Now I watch you
with your daughters, with your stable life,
your kind and firm ways, natural mothering.
Planted in one spot, flourishing like a flower
in a sunny window, like all my wishes come true.
Beautiful girl, I wonder, how you ever beat my odds.

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To do list by Lola Nation

File bankruptcy

Search for a more fulfilling job,

get my hair done, shave my legs
appear human

Feed the cats again

Apply for more student loans
So I can get a degree in something useful
like poetry, creative writing,  or journalism
I will write prose with flare and speak
the truth to masses; and they will listen
to my accredited opinion.

Watch my credit report online
before someone steals my identity and gets declined,

Plan that ultimate vacation to a foreign land
where I will appreciate art for the first time,
suddenly become spiritually enlightened,
fill the pockets of peasants and come home
with fine leather goods and rich red wines
for the ample dinner parties I’ll throw
with the numerous friends who adore my company

Lose that extra weight that inflates my chest, bubbles
my stomach and burdens my ideal dress size
with stretch material

Make that healthy dinner after a nice work out at the gym;
Differentiating from the light meal and cardio I did the day before,

Yes.

Quit smoking and take my birth control regularly

Stop eating prescription pills like blue and pink sweet tarts

Go to church and sing a hymnal, give to charity

Writer letters home on argyle stationery in teal ink
declaring I finally have purpose.

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If all the maidens grieve a death
that will excuse the imprints of life
Who’ll stamp my papers of mistaken identity
At the final border for which I strive?

Where across the plaza is convened a sentence
that will be debated for years
how will be divined my infinite longing
and staunch these obstinate tears?

When romance loses pace of its judicious taste
like a barfly at quarter to two
And the latest young beard with a parlance spat weird
Makes for expressions threatening to you.

I never play cards so trips to Reno are hard
With no cowboys or drag queens around
So just give me cruel fingernails on strings
And an honest blare of sunshine in sound.

Where muffled Rota trumpets queue
along with rampant seagull guitars
joining K.C. stride and Sturgis ultra-glide
boarding Sun Ra’s ninth rocket to the stars.


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burning triangle by Rob Dyer

146 dead
into the night
they refused exhaustion
as each shift paid due respect
recovering reminders
a fur trimmed hat with a burnt rose,
pinned to her head
Jesus melted in a soft hand
a mother molded to the chair
she lived in

122 of the fairer sex
most untouched yet, new
on a distant shore
back home, ovens of Death
were never to be known
as they burned at the hands of greed
behind doors locked to keep them

62 surrendered to the ledge
as concrete certainties waited
a kiss good bye and a hand to hold
before undeniable heat claimed them
and remnants of bones shattered
amongst ashen flesh, tightly bonded

4 hundred dollars per soul
the collective value paid
as the brothers grim moved on
their measurable risks rewarded
as checks cleared allowing them
to live far from the smell
of the crimes no one could prove

1 woman
determined to earn the rights
for the ashes to speak
so tommorow’s hands were free
to care for theirs, without care
or concern for a notion of peace
as they toiled to survive

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CEMETERY by John Grey

This is the place.
(Cue the funeral music.)
This where we all end up.
My father-in-law, mother-in-law
are interred there.
Only their disapproval lives on.

There’s former mayors.
Many a councilman.
Even a state governor.
And my ancestors of course.
It’s instructive to know
the worms are eating their way
toward me.

It’s Monday afternoon
and only the few, non-working, devoted
ramble among the stones.
One or two bear flowers,
to place beneath the inscriptions,
as if more living things
need dying.
A couple go from grave to grave
scratching their heads.
They’ve forgotten
where they left their dead.

I, on the other hand,
walk these trails for the exercise.
I intend to live a long time.
Of course, this is also
a graveyard of intentions.
PITY TIlE POOR IMMIGRANT

You can’t get that taste
of death out of your mouth.
The butcher’s shop
is a morgue to you.
Even that smart boutique
on the corner
sells nothing
but what rotting corpses
are wearing this year.
You saw the killing.
Soldiers sweated.
Farmers bled.
They tell you its safe here.
That’s right.
Dead bodies tell you
it’s safe here.

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THE SHORT TERM by Jay Passer

after a very small and inconsequential misunderstanding
she gives me a chance to redeem myself, to utter some untruth,
to assuage her skinned-knee pride.

I roll over, say
forget it, just go.
I’ve had it with you.

your behavior is barbaric
and you ought to live in a cave
that’s what she tells me
swallowing the last of the wine,
clomping around in her shoes.
on her way out she slams the door.

if only I could fake how I don’t feel
she’d still be here,
boring me to tears.

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“this week we broadcast 59 hours
of investigations to annihilate the mainstream fairytale
of what happened
on September 11, 2001:
THE TRUTH MARATHON”, this is
medicine for comatose america, as I
turn my eyes to english skies
and study for the point
of rapture:

behold the pale horse

few are chosen

everything they ever told you was a lie

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