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Author Topic: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)  (Read 22721 times)

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Devery

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #30 on: March 30, 2009, 05:00:19 PM »

From the old Shadowbox: 


IF Brittany gets together with Chao and helps him edit...there will be fees and new heart ///// / brakes. Why do you think you need an editor, Chao? YOU can be the editor. You need an agent for the bright future, but what's to worry??If you have feelings for Brittany you should just tell her. Stop keeping things locked inside. heh. I have feelings for both of you now. I don't know what Rob is up to today...maybe sometime the 4 of us could get together and just trash a hotel room with love and prose. The maid wouldn't be confused by the love spent there. The prose all over the place. She might not be happy about that. We need fake I'D's or someone with a lot of money...I'll come up with something. Or we could just do it right here in cyberspace if we had too!! ok, food for fodder: needeth revision, worky-away
could be titled "Depression" -nearly all of mine can except the angry ones.
I'll just say #hmmm.

I have three days staring at the piled paper building.
Got one headache bad enough to call in the serial killer boss.
He has balding features and a firm gait, and he is just

out the back door on a roof where no one lives -- yet.
boss man please put a scaffold on top of the brain.
make it as sturdy as the precocious farm girl you ate
when you were called sissy. it's ok to cry when the nailgun
thumps into your thigh. just don't pretend you didn't sign
the waiver. i've got training in technology

like a noose never earned its pay
swinging over every bridge and tree
popping out eyes like blowing daisy's.

but make it a scaffold for me, as the sins are hefty
and i don't have any bags in the kitchen either.
put some stairs together that run down my face
and i'll remember how we slid down them on blankets.

i am drinking a lot of water because the toilet
is my new friend. it's more than what it takes from me.
it waits patiently as though it were a therapist--
wanting you to delineate a tongue on ice.

don't you dare come to my party. the fridge is gaping
like a toothless grannie. the microwave keeps telling me
to set you-name-it as if i didnt' have a wristwatch.
and he is going out the door first, because he talks like
a bobblehead and snorts out 3 am -- as if.
vain bashing blue bobblehead watch...

with some gear i can dance roulette on the candy bar
i let the parents buy. -- last Easter
there was a whooping good snot of a time, and we were
presented with chocolate bunny-bars.

my dreams are pointing blithely to the window.
there are 23 leaves waiting to fall. and if that
is the magician's number, then at 23 past bobblehead
...who i simply can't find
perhaps when it's then, i'll take a shower again.

it hurts my head to do the cleaning so - so
trees are starting to crunch underfoot like
flicking cig butts on aluminum siding. i'm still inside
the house cell but the carpet's gone mad
but i keep lying to it -- lying on it
bargaining for the boss and his scaffold.

once something said i was going to hell
i was wondering if it was because of the lava... lamp.
now I consider it the ultra-lite ceiling fan
to be the final bastard,
white like cocaine and church belching.

when they come
there will be me and the chum-toilet.
a microwave full of cayenne pepper,
cinnamon, grenadine, and bouillon cubes.
the bobblehead on the steps.
a scaffold down my head.


well. shitty. revise dear one as you know not what you have just expunged. Love to all the lovers. Take care of yourselves until the hotel mtg. p.p. ;O & ~O)


-----------------------------------------

Who is going to pay the rent? There will be some days when this will all be very special and hilarious. On the other days, I'm wondering who is going to carry the janitor's keys. So...I thought about it Chao...and I found some old shit I just put down and walked away from. Feel free to hate it or whatever...you'll see that the love ones are just tooooo sappy and cliche' for my own stomach. The only reason I don't throw them away is because I wouldn't have any clothes if I didn't have paper. mache. And by the hoo, to the posse: love to the dudes, rednecks, yankees and mid-westerner's--'tis much appreciated. Geographical areas have certain ethos', but that doesn't apply to any of us, does it? Fuck, no. We are Gods until forum disconnection.(perhaps some of the people mentioned above know the date, so I can fill my DayPlanner out?) Then we'll have to run somewhere else and be Gods. So it goes...

love crud:

is this cold heat
the shrill tone of your lack
of grounding,
your loss of resolve or
pathway--
how hard our teeth
bounce in their sockets
never depended on any
first move,
yet we were always mouthing
always mounting
anything creeping in that
bed.

are we more than too empty
to see that as ajacent lots
waiting to be filled,
there are moments of shared
concrete water
but we will never touch
solids.

do you think our destruction
is worth the salt
of our struggling and baffled
skins.

will either of us allow touching
anyone again
when it hurts.


GAAAAA. I HATE THAT NOW.

#?
I beg you go quickly-slow
and belt me to those knees--
here on rounded corners
with pins and pens to mark you,
here in the face of your chasm
I will pluck, fold, and tuck
tomorrow.

I've been robbed of you
like a cold steals taste,
snuffs out smell and bows out.
a river of water just barely
tipping
slurps on those soft and
frank lines.

bending always down,
my brown shuttle body weeps--
I am cold, awake, and ripe.
You are standing with hand on hip
singing blues
without the horns.
You are sliding past the road
circling and shelved
in ice.

giddy, luckless, fetid nights--
I am clucking out no sound
and dreaming ruthless now
of straightening out
that knee.

the floor between our feet
has fallen from a single ash,
the ceiling droops in rot.
I am watching
your fox trot hills recede
from me.

please send me your thigh
or perhaps even
a thumb
nail--
I will pickle it for the season.

I have already fetched
the blossom blooms
to bury the death

so that we may live.



OHHHHHHHHH. I just have to walk away now. Repulsion. I need a match.
When I recover, I'll throw out other shit that isn't about love and maybe I'll feel better. Until then, fond flicking fingers of fine famine farts. -alliteration is better than an inkblot. Or was that littering? The mind goes rat-a-tat aplat splat.


-------------------------------------------

sick from the halloween candy, she rides out the nausea sitting
not too close
not too far
from a porcelain cranky toilet.
her mother asks if she can do anything
feeling guilty about indulging.
father is snoring.
the crew is laughing in secret.

later one will
grab her leg from under the bed--
the other will shove her out of bed
when the tossing starts.

she explodes out caramel into
the toilet.
upchucks bits of chocolate, and
hoists her hands
on the rims
she'll laugh at in college.

drunk like a vaccine,
she runs up the stairs and leaps
like a deer into beddy.

sister crawls in.
right when the drift begins,
she pounces on the bottom of
the bed with a "boo!"
belonging to the plunger now.

the fun of the night is capped
when gummy bears
hit big sis square in the noggin'
roll down her chest,
and other sister says,
"SHIT! Look what you've done!"


----------------------------------

first, I'm sorry that I was lying to you when I said I wrote fiction, Chao. That's right. I am the woman you went to for grammarian help. And I'll tell you this much, there is absolutley no help for any of this except to keep at it with your pen. Rob...can I be your Katie Couric for a second? I want to be bouncy and happy and overflowing with cute joy about EVERYTHING...because everything is so wonderful. Chao and you and Brittany and well, not me. No one ever says I'm wonderful. And don't say it now because it doesn't count when you have to grovel for it.

Damn gentlemen, "why can't we all just get along?" Because. Just because it's less fun. So a small ditty for all of you...

you can write until the ulcers burst
and talk until your saliva dries out
but you will never have on clean clothes.
never.
not one day out of the year.
look down at yourself right now...
your sweats are stained
and there is a hole somewhere
and your friends have noticed a
cigarette burn
and the coffee cup put a smiley on
your nipple,
and your underwear couldn't possibly
be more personal than they are
right now.

right this second.

and you like to watch them in jeans
and short shirts and heels and
i'm telling you
there is a panty-liner under there
that you wouldn't sniff if AIDS could
be cured by it.

or maybe you would.
maybe you'd eat your own shit too.
and if you were hungry enough

you'd rip right through the clothes to skin.
the dirtiest thing of all.
they put alcohol on it when drawing out blood
because your skin is crawling with mites
and food and saliva and mucous and shit.
just like your clothes.

but it feels better.
you've got to choose.
the dry-hump isn't so dry afterall,
but are you going to put the tampon
in
after?

good golly that was gross and I would never write any such trash like that would I? Now, Rob and Chao...you keep on loving one another in your manly ways, and I'll keep on loving you both and telling you that your are both incredible. you ARE. umm. If I could be any celebrity half-wit, does that automatically give me a turn at getting arrested for drugs or drunk driving? love to all.............p.p.


--------------------------------------

God
i know you didn't kill sonny-boy.
it was Mr. Green evangelist with the
candlestick
in the bar bathroom.
certainly not the library.

if you're home
you don't pay much attention
to the plagues
rolling out on countless toilet
paper pieces.
you stub out your cigar only
to view your lovely new Gothic
boots. a buttress hits your nose.
lick your lips for the discussion
with the suicides.
they did it with the rope
in the closet and they had no CLUE.

if you gave up the smartest offspring
for the sins
you are a liar about your diet.
you're a neglectful axe-wielding
lover
of the guillotine.
did you do it with the pipe in the den?
or was it more like

you forgot about the leaking faucet
and just said "fuck it."
are you best friends with Mr. Mustard?
he prefers the Queen and he
is mean
like cancer and the dinosaur.
tromp bang boom
and look at the WAR. the wars'

the endless crusades
for sonny-boy. the first and best
commie there ever was.
ahh.
I know you didn't let anything
ancient fill the fields with
crosses.
that is the forgotten shoe used
in Monopoly.
don't pass GO and give me 200
dollars and i bet...

you just watched sonny-boy
and ran for your own ass.
ran for the clouds.
ran for the oceans.
wept for a second when he was
nowhere
except on Park Place
with a tophat and champagne.

HE got older and became conservative.
you kept running and watching the
whores...
making bubbles out of decay
and cursing the fact

there's nothing immaculate about it.
the gifts they brought
had nothing to do with balms
or value.
it was a fruitcake and some incense
and just a little bit of cocaine.

god.
that coke made your lip numb
and you tossed the fruitcake
on Mary's only fancy dress,
and satan said as matter of fact--
you didn't care anymore about
sonny-boy.

I own the railroads and the utilities.
Baltic Avenue never looked
more like a bomb
has hit the jail. the crooks are teething
on your love handles. and SORRY.
i had sonny-boy's ears for dinner.

rice cakes just don't taste the same
and I know you'd agree
about one thing ...
your nightmares aren't the triumph
of Gin or Rummy.
even the Casino refuses a penny.
your talent only goes as far as
Chutes and Ladders.

isn't that what LIFE is all about?


yeah...that's rough draft indeed. but GOD. why isn't there a game called God? what IS god? why do the Hindu gods have so many arms? why is Buddha fat? where did the Shaker's go? I only have the answer to the Shaker's thing. well...a little on the Hindu thing also. Just not the answer to Buddha's rotund nature. I wonder if this isn't somehow linked to the "jolly-fat" idea that comes with Saint Nick and has been passed/pissed down to us?....certainly no one in Hollywood is allowed to be fat except Nicholson and Bates. mmm. why am I so fat? i don't even hardly eat....


----------------------------------------

I go away for a couple months, bury my head underneath a Mastodon in a museum...try to commit suicide when it doesn't eat me whole...then I arrive back here in wonderland. And I left it for a bit and voila!! Rob is loving Chao.

AND GOOD GOD CHRIST ALMIGHTY CHAO---YOU ARE INCREDIBLE!!!

It took me many, many minutes to neglect the dog, crack my neck several times and keep reading your incredible prose and poetry. You've been busy Mr. Man! You have been ripping 'em out like farts caked in tiny screams across the desert in the back of those whitey-whites.

Ya know. Whoever this dame was, this producer of sad fruit. She lies here in the Shadowbox, suffocating under your cock-a-doodle-type. Truth serum and large bites taken out of cardboard diet cheese, throwing it back up in the air--watching it come back down on your face---oh, dear chao. You are stuck in the vomit cycle. spinning so mad your arms have drifted off. You don't even know where the land is you are so high up the witch's ass waiting to belt another out. And I am so glad to watch you unfold your legs and expose it all.
expose it all. always.  a diddy:

give me the salt and pepper
please
you can take your strutting
drooping tits back to the
slut-drop and the mud
the boys watch you in.
fight. fight.
slap her in the face with the
fake watered slipped-up
lubed-down
mud.
salt and pepper
please
you can have it any way you like
daddy with the wisdom,
cranky old genius scratching his
bald head with a paw
wrinkling faster
dying quicker
the ball is about to drop
so hold your breath --
do not move an inch.
salt and pepper please,
please I said.
Mommy pissed off again
with her slamming and stomping and
rocking the whole house because
nothing is good enough
no one gives enough
even daddy can't
do it right
and this time it is for god damn
sure. and still her laugh
splinters my face.
she is going too, crumbling like
the shrinking soap.
salt and pepper is good enough,
thanks.
sisters. sisters. miles away.
you heard the last line of my success
when I was in my teens.
at 36 you have nothing for me
but the ruthless lot of pity
and pleading and beautiful families
you've posted in the rolodex
under names we don't share
anymore.
half blood, half-life half of you
is burning down the weeds
sliding down monkey bars.

look at me now.
look at me without cancer.

salt and pepper for
her too.
she's got an able smile for bus
tickets and diners full of Jesus knick
knacks, and she won't come back
Jack.
once she's gone there is no postal
return
illegetimate, illiterate, illegal young
woman standing proudly in the
dumpster of her white
trash city.
when the lid closes, she will too.
damsel of garbage, her teeth already
say goodbye,
i am a rotten bunch.

salt and pepper for him.
lost man with millions of kids
and i don't even know their names
and i don't even want too
because he's the one who played
fort with me and soccer and took
me in the woods.
remember the woods lost boy?
tell your sister exactly what to
do now.
you poor sick fuck
giving candy and secrets
and i still can't look at a
jolly rancher
without knowing you're a father now.
to millions of little woods kids.

salt and pepper for me the most.
put that stuff all over my salad
because I actually don't care for salad much.
like I don't care for you as you
read this and judge it, inhale it and
think it
substandard.
beneath me.
shitty prose from a stupid hand on
a too-long evening.
I know what you think of me.
And I'll tell you what I think of you.

You're just a dash of salt and pepper.
I'm not any worse, any better.
You're a blip.
a tiny little blip in history.
one speck of pepper in a tooth
me-one grain of salt
on your mouthy licking orafice.
the one you like best.



Hey now...don't go getting offended. It's crap. Once it is laid out, I realize where I have to correct all the shit. And that last part....like it seems happens in everything I have written...really could use some revision. Fuck it for now. Long live the deadly and wicked hand. The open eye, never blinking unless the fingers unlock. Those 2 sentences are aimed rather corny-ish at you chao. OH!! I forgot --yeah, don't go getting all up in my shit about my brother. There is some truth there for sure...it isn't what you probably think...

and don't cry Rob. By the way, the history lesson on drugs...yum-yums.
I'm coming down. Gotta go score some blow...get all boozed up...and chase the one hooker in town. Or at least try to find one hooker somewhere. They do it to you for money, right??



---------------------------------------







***more to come later***






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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Devery

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #31 on: March 30, 2009, 05:07:56 PM »

bleed on my frosted teeth
and like a hammer there will be
cracks to behold
like the one that runs firmly
down every baby's butt.

i have become as large as
the blue whale
and extinction lies to the right
of my lonely eye,
survival to the left--
like how you feel when you
don't want your baby
and yes you do.

smile on my back and trace
the scars with your finger,
spell out words and make
me guess,
words like "ostentatious"
or "oblique"--
I prefer the "o" words tonight.
like the precious "o" of a
baby's mouth.

don't. stop. tickling.
my feet as they pummel you.
my arms when they flail
like a hot dog wrapper
you flung out the window,
ashamed of your decadence.
I never asked you to be
here. Never wanted your
last name. That same last
name baby has now.

No sir. Yes Maam. Follow the
yellow brick road and that movie
has a dwarf commiting
suicide in the background.
Come closer and let me show
you. Turn the candle away.
Shut the lights and watch
your shadow inhale.
It's all we have, just like
baby.

And I'm not talking about
this baby to be cruel. I am
simply pointing out the obvious.
take your aspirin and we'll
call the doctor
even run you to the emergency
vault,
spend every penny owned
and still baby might stop
breathing.

might
stop
tickling and running
fingers and bleeding and kicking
and screaming and making that
"o" face and making you broke
and giving you post-partum depression
and making you think it was a
huge mistake at 3 a.m. and
immediately feeling guilty when you
look at those bitty hands and
think about the hot dog wrapper--

and all of this
all of this
for baby
because the worst thing would be
for you to stop
breathing.

bleed on my frosted teeth.
with them closed like blinds
in a dirty hotel room,
with my hands restrained--
I have become the room itself.

just one door over is baby.



ummm. I don't even have a baby. Just plodding along with my tick-tock...time is out. So...my imaginary trapped woman with a baby. Because this beeaatch is always trapped in some way. At least in Chao-land. My humble regards to you, sir. Ohhh. There is a crapload more. Maybe better, maybe worse. Who knows? These two "light" ones are more recent. When I wasn't on the computer my pencil was very busy. It got quite small and I realized I was in a trap. I was repeating the same poem about 100 times. And so it goes... I hope these find you soon.

I hope you bless this space with your Colt .45 and your brains blown to bits and so much more...Ohhh. The white flag you tried to get out, but didn't succeed in time. OOOOh, Chao. That stanza is stuck in my head now. I know you are a wicked prose magician. I can't decide whether to kiss you or smack you for being sooooo.........smarty-pants.


-------------------------------------------

The following is in homage to Rob. Mr. Two-Bit...who has prose of his own, and it seems simple at first, but dares you to truly take a bite. And, dear Sir--I am NOT putting you down with the above statement. It's a compliment. And I can't "do it" like you. No one writes like anyone else. But this was found and has a sort of commiserating flavor.

I had just come out of the coma
a few months taken away,
and what they don't tell you is
that after twitching like a fish--
every coma victim has a weed,
small or big that has grown.
They call it brain damage.

So I was mowing the lawn.
I was inhaling the earth thrown up
and swirling around my nose.
Picking the rocks and sticks
out of the way of my monster
decapitation machine.

I had lost the ability to name
some simple objects. Like
"spoon" and "door" and "car"
--but the regeneration of my own
engine came back like a small
spark of flame.

And now the two lanes left
of grass and dog poo. Without
knowing exactly where my feet
were, I abruptly had an urge to
get naked. Get right down to nothing.
Lay myself like a platter on the
higher grass. Shove the mower
to the side.
Breathe in the grass.
Let the chiggers and miscellaneous
bugs crawl where they wanted.


It wouldn't have mattered if
the neighbor called the cops.
Wouldn't care if they came for me
and stuck haldol or something
worse in my neck.
The purple old shirt went.
The old black sweats came off.
The boxers flew away.
The bra in its sweat sighed
when I released her.

I took off my glasses.
And for what seemed to be an hour,
I was prone in the backyard.
feeling everything move and
watching the sky float,
the trees shiver and ripple.
my feet naked and my crotch
naked and everything
everywhere
naked.

Except I had forgotten to take off
the wristwatch.
Some crazy alarm started to beep.
This is the habit of the watch
even though I never commanded it
to alarm me.
And it struck me like a bolt,
as it had taken my Eden away
from me.

I got up. I left the clothes in the
yard. I went in the house and
gave the dog a treat.
Then I cried, and like a child--
I called my Mother to tell her
I loved her. And she wanted to know
what was wrong. And it was impossible
to tell her.
impossible to say.
Eden just left me.


I hope that wasn't too dismal. Take it for what it's worth. It is a true story actually...and I guess I am just damn lucky no neighbors spotted me. P.s. there were some sundry items I had to remove from certain cracks of the body. this is how you learn both the benefit of being naked outside and the price of it. shower extremely necessary--take off the wristwatch first.

And though I am trying to suck Rob in at the moment, it doesn't mean I don't want to suck in the Master Chao either.
 

_________________
I've tried hard...and think I've achieved 99% pacifism. The 1% still wishes someone would... smack Ann Coulter...hard.
 
 
---------------------------------------------------------

I'm in a rut. So I went to the trash can and here you go:


the wolf never spilled a drop of saliva
on my tattoo or the foot-binded cripples.
and the symbol is for a mirage
because I've always been hallucinating
but that is besides the point.

it's the pack that does the killing
like the camel's I smoke,
like "The Scream" and poor Too-
loose.
but the optical illusion of time
under sweaty sheets lifted a
blonde beach of sand.

just like Hiroshima
the wolves howl under gates,
but in the desert in an inch
of oasis,
their hair had fallen completely
to the hidden reptiles' heads.
their blistering puss was the only
soup around.

but in that piss the pack dropped
and rolled,
me with my arm's tattoo
pulled at a paw and it's skin
fell off in my hand,
just like at Hiroshima
on the outskirt in a river hosting
something cold
after a pig roast. and the whole
room waved at me like Janis
with a needle stuck in her
forehead.

so I got up. I woke up. I heard scratching
in the garage.
but it was a lobotomy.
my tattoo extinguished like a
911 call to an absurdly obese pimp.
the wolves came for it,
they had grown hungry for perfume,

they snapped at my neck I guess.
they put the tattoo straight up the
nose
where the ice pick grabs brains
and jostles, guzzles and pulls
a lobe out.
I must have been delicious
as a walking jello.
I was at the least a bit of
pustular discharge.

and in the trash can I found the following:
Wendy's hamburger with extra onions
claims internal Msnbc employees had
kitty litter clumps and he worked
there for 50 years before dying from
a chronic-- plaque could contribute to
heart disease and a Pizza box with one
breadstick exploded in Iraq and someone
threw out 180 poems, and the Thought
for the Day: was a green pepper.
slimed at the bottom.

thinking of the dream and the trash
felt just the same.
but then again, flavor in jello is
only a choice between green and red.

stop or go it scuffles, stop or go.



this is facked up. i'm facked up chao. put it into your blender and make it work.





--------------------------------------------------





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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Devery

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #32 on: March 30, 2009, 05:12:32 PM »

a pleasant 110 degrees on the cement floor,
400 pound batteries flowing down my assembly
rolls.
those rolls had dents and squeaked, creaked,
then ran so fast in parts, it was almost...almost
impossible not to brain yourself with those hunks.
the sweat went from armpit to groin on every
man, and as hard as they tried, no woman
could handle her hair from falling slow, frizzing
fast--

the hicks, dicks, chicks, and spics,
that was the form in which they addressed
one another. fondling eachother on break time
with stories about beer, and trips to the casino
where Trump or Ceasar might put a million
right in their lap. a million and they could quit.
a million and linda would even take steven
with her. bob would take as many women as
he could...
and they would laugh about queers and gossip
about sherri or cheri or sherry.
how she and her whole group of quality control
could bite it for ruffling about the acid vat.

didn't matter when a row of 100 being charged
started popping the rubber ties off and bolts
fell to the floor as victims in a line-up.
not to us. we had to tug, pull, squeeze and shove
the bastard 30-thou a piece tubs around the plant --
like bees out to attack for their queen on some
days, but more often we were the fat house fly
buzzing and drunk at the window, smacking
around in a last dance and looking for home.

but it sure mattered up front, far away from the
stink of our showers. a lead-soaked environmental
requirement, our blood checks weren't. aspirin
will make you feel better said Smiles-a-lot.

a million and you could sign out. go home.
all those who had cheated the SAT, not the SAT
of high school, but the piss test to get into
college--we had signed the contract. and the contract
bullied about discharge upon saying something
almost...almost like u. u. union, if i recall.
you say union and you'll sign out up front
where the weather is better, and the dicks were
truly dicks in white. white against blue.

everyone there was an alcoholic, coked, or on
a mission. my coked boss held two full time jobs
and stepped like he was about to fall over,
the way hospital gowns walk. bob hit on every
thing including an asian, and that was like a
man complaining about a blister where
everyone had scurvy. he set himself up for the
std discussion and people stopped washing
their hands when he came to the sink. the last
of the 70's gigolo, bob had suddenly gotten aids.

but i wasn't anything but ghostly, standing smoking
and reading in the corner, one ear on the latest
newsbreak, one eye on the word "puritan" from
Hawthorne. i was as wrong as a lily eating an
onion, and felt as guilty as Hathorne did before
changing his name with a simple "w"--
putting that "w" in feels like a simple apology
for the hung Witch. he didn't look at it like that.
escape from guilt holds no confessor without
judgement.

no one forgives Salem, and the white-shirts
wouldn't step out of their paper memo's and
air conditioning if Buddha sat directly on sherry
or shery or cherry's face. and the biggest boom
whispered was that v.p. edwards was getting
clinched by her nails, was getting sucked by
her lips and was his whore. maybe it was true
because she wore blue, her lipstick was even
blue, but she was never anything but up front.

and most blues who went up front never came
home to the heat. she plunged in quick to yell,
jogged back up front to yell, and stayed
on v.p. edwards' laptop--gazing in awe at his
business degree, loving how she was special,
and Smiles-a-lot nurse had even given
her a wrist brace for carpal tunnel jack-offs.
There was a bucket of bandaids under 110
degrees outside her door which was permanently
locked. so many had scribbled epithet's such
as "bitch" and "cocksucker" that they'd painted
the seal shut. this was a hoot to Osha, and v.p.
edwards lost 40 thou of his bonus.

our planned pizza party was cancelled due to
sherry or cheri or shery's need to blow hard.
due to a wrist brace and a bucket.

Smiles-a-lot gave us stretching exercises.
a direct insult to those who had almost...almost
lost a limb or hand or burnt the fuck out of a
leg. she wouldn't touch blood let alone the lead
dust, but she sure had a nice dentist--and someone
had died last year of an abscessed tooth.

someone said there was a plaque up front. and
once i went up through the locked gate of hell
just to glance and ask the receptionist for a memo.
i'd forgotten my memo, but someone named Paul
had died from lack of a dentist plan. a trophy the
size of my face was on the wall, the president
was rarely seen but huffed at the same weight of
my beloved batteries. (and so the plaque was not
as large as it should have been) but my beloved
batteries were making me into a running back.

i was as stupid as a post-game interview, and
my boss smiled and called me sweetie. my uniform
sagged just enough it was impossible to keep
the factory from knowing. i'd lost 20 pounds of fat,
and gained 20 extra muscle ripples, and no chick
had ever lasted at post seal before. i would never
lose my tits, no matter how hard i read hawthorne
on the breaks. i was smoking and eating and reading
and fucking myself all at the same time.
there was a great deal of sweat lost in showers and
i slept instead of thinking.
i was turning into a busy bee, feeding the 400 degree
twin oven's their children. a robot makes one year's
salary in there, as long as it almost...almost.
no accidents and no unions.

my feeder was across from me wearing heavy
gloves and watching the lava machine
spill out almost perfect square rods for
me to slam rubber over and fill with epoxy.
straps to hold me here and over, but using
them wouldn't allow you to hit quota. and hitting
quota was a promise for beer, a trip to the casino--
and just maybe you could sign out,
get out with a million in your lap
and almost...almost catch Trump or Ceasar.

the feeder had a name and he was the real thing.
the tremor was obvious, and Jim never said a
single thing to anyone; he never smiled to the
robot grasping his offering--and his flask sometimes
flew out of the boots he wore. a ha ha rumor about
him and his drunken fly window. maybe he was
almost...almost.

my back was turned to the one green oven. i was
chipping caked glue off my hand like whittling a horse.
this night it was 120, and you wouldn't think such
a difference was anything less than another small
bruise. the highest squeal departed into the cacophony
and broke through as a sure sign that a machine
was broken.
and if a machine was broken, then your ass would
see white-shirts and someone was gonna pay.
i put my head into the oven because idiots look at
the lips of a gun when they jam.
but it wasn't me that was gonna pay.

i must have screamed as a defense attorney does
when his cash blurts out its guilt, but it wasn't the
intercom calling in a terrorist alert. the kind of terror
that could only happen when someone falls into an acid
vat. this was a different horror, and not one a robot
could assess. it took almost...almost.
a decade for me to vault over the chest-high line.
Jim's glove was gone and a silver spray was slowing
to the trickle of a calmed faucet.

he was growing limp and larger at the same time,
and i didn't see anything but his arm bent the
wrong way. it should have been straight, but a bone
danced out and left the rest to look out for itself.
i don't know how long we were on the floor, i don't know
when i realized that a finger was missing, or that blood
wasn't just on one of us...it was creeping and crawling--
literally lapping and stalling against a piece of metal.
the robot couldn't possibly comprehend that the hands
were actually trying to stop the heartbeat timing,
1, 2, 3, 4 went the eruption from this hand.
all the while someone was holding the smiling bone
on the floor, and cupping Jim's head.

my boss had come in a steady gallop and that meant
I was gonna pay for this mess, someone was gonna
see the white-shirts, and v.p. edwards would be interrupted
from intercourse with sherry or sheri, possibly cheri.
it took a decade for the ambulance. in that time someone
who looked like me hit the red button. someone who talked
like me had grabbed every piece of soaking material.
people do that when a boy barfs beans on the bus.
and it stinks so bad, it smells so bad someone else will
almost...almost.

at the inquisition, V.P. Edwards asked me what happened.
Sherri or Cheri...no, it was certainly Sherry opened a mini-
fridge full of Pepsi they kept hidden up front. Up front the
white-shirts circled around me the way children do
when a gull has a broken wing and is flapping, flapping,
flustered. Off my tracks died two batteries weighing in at
800 pounds and 60 thou. The one Jim broke his arm in and
lost a finger added another 400 and 30 thou.
It would have taken a robot 3 years to make up for this
accident. It would have taken Buddha to sit on Edwards' face
to stop his smirk and make Sherry stop gazing.

Smiles-a-lot was particularly pissed that the robot had
broken a finger in the process. The robot hadn't noticed it
had a finger...but apparently those cost someone else's salary.
Workman's comp. would've been close to me saying u.u.
union...and my hungover boss let the Up Front Parade of White
badger us and shake their heads...and Sherry got Pepsi's out
for all of them, never offering one to the robot or to boss. 15
minutes before lunch, my coked up loving boss Chuck snapped
and, "you couldn't possibly know how you'd react in an
emergency!!"

The meeting was over and the other shift's hated me, and
Chuck laughed and laughed and laughed when I said that the
white-shirts hadn't offered ME a pepsi. My shift fell in around
me and begged for details the robot didn't remember. the
robot wouldn't recall. and the robot couldn't relay how it
felt when Jim almost...almost. seven months later, i had read
Hawthorne everday lost and the bills were done and i was
tired of being the chick "who laid Jim" ha. ha. so the robot

signed out. signed off without Ceasar or Trump.

and because Jim wasn't back, the monsterous machine was
sitting for something almost...almost. still. and because Chuck
was high and happy to see me win a million. and because
many had lost a finger, a toe, broken a leg, and always
burnt the fuck out of something. and because they would still
return and tell beer stories. and because i asked my boss.

chuck told me. Jim once had a wife and two daughters. One
daughter was in the driveway, in an idling monsterous car, and
maybe possibly his wife named sheri or sherry was in the house.
the other daughter was playing outside. there was some sound
and to a robot it probably sounded like a squeal, when the one
baby daughter put the car in reverse and ran the other one
over. popped and cracked her small pretty head. i don't recall
if my boss said it quite like that.

but Jim's daughter was dead, and the other was lost in the
custody battle, and Sherry took off and left him with nothing
because something went the wrong way, like a bone. something
wasn't supposed to collapse and bleed. and it wasn't an almost...
almost. so the flask was a good idea...like pain medication is a
good idea for cancer.

so i was leaving the building, and Chuck let me up Front (of
White) because they weren't home at 3 a.m. and i took every
pepsi i could get out of the mini-fridge. on my way out to the
parking lot, every pocket loaded with a can, even under my
armpits in my coat--and hawthorne in my hand. i put one can
where Jim would have been parked. the shift rattled in the dark,
inviting a robot to the only bar open at 7 a.m. "thanks but
maybe later" and i almost...almost.

suddenly there was a squeal so loud i lifted butter. or hands
or hawthorne to my ears. someone was coming in late. someone
was gonna pay. the camaro was gonna pay for being late, and
the time-clock doesn't lie. the pepsi cans that had frozen my pits
tumbled down the parking lot like running backs. i started tossing
others in the random row reserved for the elite, where Sherry
parked her blue shirt and blue lips now. where Smiles-a-lot
occasionally rammed stretching exercise and a bucket of band-
aids on hicks, dicks, chicks, and spics.

the robot started to smile on one corner of its cracked lips. and i
threw pepsi everywhere that the white-shirts would notice.
i thought i heard a coked-up man who worked two full time jobs
chuckling, and thought the chuckling was almost...almost. well.
it was my former boss, Chuck.

the robot took its first vacation in two years and sat in underwear
watching commercials. the robot that had thrown 800 pounds
to the ground to leap over rolling pins on a table began to think
about Hawthorne instead of read Hawthorne. it picked up "The
Scarlet Letter" and headed for the post office. before it left, it
put an index card on top of it, taped it down so Sherry could
never lick it, squeeze it, or fuck it off. and on the index card,
a beautifully disgusting blood-red "A" was scrawled.

I posted the book with a full smile for the first time in years.
I thought about Jim and hoped he was somewhere without tremor,
drinking whatever he wanted, watching whatever he wanted with
one good hand. Jacking off with his one good hand. Driving with
his one good hand. And rich as a mother fucker who just robbed
Trump. Maybe he'd die or be miserable anyway...

but Jim was able to sign out...he got out from under 120 degrees.
now he had a new chance. and it was his choice. there was no
one to tell him not to say u.u. union and no bucket for a broken
arm and lost finger. and even more i wasn't his heroine, i was
damn lucky Jim stuck his hand in a machine...and there wasn't
anything "almost" about it. i saw a torn off finger and a bone
sticking out of skin. and i did whatever it is that some people do
every single day.

I posted "The Scarlet Letter" to Vice President ----Edwards.

and now sometimes i wish i was working in a factory.



okay....that is not a poem. but the epic poem that i'd written before was much, much better. (meaning i hit 4th grade!!!) this is a story...and it wasn't before. so now i have to either tear it around, or tear it down.

it's certainly not as good as what chao did...
and chao, disregard everything i said above.
you've got me thinking about my father, and not the factory.
this is all your fault, fucker.





NOT DONE>>>wait.


--------------------------------------------------------



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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Devery

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #33 on: March 30, 2009, 05:17:03 PM »

Oh--I'm pm'ing you right after this.

Devery--I want more!

Rob--you are almost...almost. no. YOU ARE.

Chao--I'm stunned. dumbstruck. speechless. and completely annihilated.
I would wrap my arms around you.
I would tell you my love story...but can't do it as well as you just
did. Not a doubt in my mind about that. I am so sorry. So sorry.

that was not "just another love story"
and she's not right in the head. love her though you do...
and maybe she will be right in the head. love her as you always
will. and as much as you may feel you've lost...
as much as the hope is that she'll return.
she has used you as an escape...
she has used pills as an escape...
and she will continue to use until she is fixed.
the fixing of which is beyond your control.
sleep well my friend.
there will be another. and the hurt won't stop hurting until you
don't expect another or anyone. and then surprise...
something different will happen.
something different will hit your pillow other than your head,
and your charmed hands.
i preach like an old fart, and perhaps that is just hope and empathy.
but i preach to the lyric, "for everyone who's lost...who's lost something...who had to
dream awake...there's a calling, a calling
a calling..."

and no, that calling isn't god in this case. you know what it is, i think.


-------------------------------------------------------

this is shit. my shit. sentimental and shit. not like my other shit. and i don't really like certain things about it, but it's rolling around in my head...

she gave me sea shells
and licked them to show how
the colors changed,
and tried to hold my hands
and said that she promised
and i very much doubted her
confidence
but i just found those shells in a box,
looking back she saw enough
and i saw in one moment
that she saw too much
and that she also knew too.

when my hound got too old,
my constant love in my teens--
i came to the house the night before
her scheduled euthanasia.
and we laid on the floor hugged
like the first night.
and when i finally got up to leave
my hound struggled up on
arthritic and useless legs.
we sat and i let her lick my face
until she stopped as i petted her.
and i looked in her eyes, and
she in mine
and she told me everything i
needed to know
that it was her time to go too.

i remember waving to Grandpa
as he stood in his driveway
with one hand on his wife's shoulder,
and a small smile at the corner
of his mouth.
my mother was crying as we pulled
away, because my mom hates the
distances between relatives.
and he had been, and was going
through so much pain.
as we rounded the corner
i knew it would be the last time
i would see him too.

and the other night i watched as my
own personal God laid watching
the news, grumbling at the insanity
on the screen. and dad's brother is
suddenly dying, as well as his cold-
fish wife, and my God is sleeping more
and more
as he continues the fight to make it
two more years to retirement.
so i kiss him on the head, and he
takes my hand and says, "sweetie"
--and the day i lose him will be the
day i curse God too.

and miles and miles away
is a young woman in a house
where every question she points
is blame, and aimed directly at herself.
and the joys of her day are more
fleeting than the anxiety and dread--
and there is a possible door to open
and the fear of doing just that
is the worry of another drop in the
bucket.
the young woman knows what to do
and she knows how to do it
but she needs to take one look in the
eye of an old woman to see...
this is why life can change too.

there is a young man putting words
into art that can't be believed
and his wit is a cover for the beast
under that skull,
and at night he wonders how he
could have fixed it.
and when pissed too much he can't
sleep,
and when the jokes he's telling
feel useless,
he slips into a disguise to expose
the worst and best of everything,
everyone.
and him too.


p.s. i don't know you people. if you think i'm writing about you, you are dead wrong--unless you're my doggie. i've only ever written about one person in this box...and that person knows b/c i told such person to stop hanging around the gas station.... (i joke! i kid! i should delete this!)
ahhh. what the hell. i've just left out too many "too's" -sorry. all other "too's" included. must sleep. msut plsee. ewe. the animal not eww. but ewe. llama, spelled with 2 L's llama or lamma, no way...that's lambda. greeks are funny. initiation as a greek. you aren't greek lambda moo cow pi latte. not the ancient greeks. they were funny about other things. like religion. which we call mythology, but actual Christian dates of celebration are "stolen" from the Romans, and the Romans stole everything they could that was greek and re-named it. like i am not re-naming G.W.Bush==smirkturdlooks or i don't know or we've won the war!! or........knocking again?


------------------------------------------------------------

 am so fucking happy that Suede and Devery are dipping in. Drool. Their prose just slapped my face, before chao jumped in and ruined everything--again! He is SUCH a downer. (if there is anything less "down" than good prose/poetry...i haven't found it yet) And chao, if that last bit was even slightly aimed at me...i've got a little something here for you. (tho I doubt it aimed at my Highness, more like my Lowness or some sexy Sista) And Rob, where's the love, bro.?Ahh. There it is.


how'd you get so bitter
little girl?
can't you watch your language
before the children hear...
why don't you even get
out of bed today
little girl...
why don't you even shave
your legs anymore.

--------

Anne Frank we've got a trophy for you.
imagine being a teen locked up for 3 years
and then they come for you.
and it's you only, Anne.
a tear spills somewhere all the time
for your untimely demise and
imprisonment.

try 7 years of isolation in "the prime
of your life"
you're the lucky bitch
the lucky bitch
because you're dead and i am
half alive.

Plath and Sexton we all wonder why
you chose gas as the way to go.
you took all of modern poetry's Mother-
work
and laid it out slow
played it out too fast.
still i don't have the company of a
single
metaphor to match your dull hope
and blind wandering misery.
you chose gas because you just might
have to get up quick
one last time
and feed someone dinner.
Sylvia, the baked potato.
Anne, the car exhaust platter.

both of you spent time in the mental
ward.
it's been 7 times for me. and that seems
to be a lucky number.
and yes, that's part of my
selfish
posted
misery.

by the 3rd time you know exactly what
pills they will make you guzzle.
and you crawl in anyway
because all night you were looking for
a tree to take your car in on.
you
are out of gas.
you
are out of gas.

--------
this is the disease of a poet.
to know the loss better than the average,
and to not accept the
simple tragedies
of something like
a grasshopper you stepped on
as it tried to dance
away from you,
and you from it--
but you failed and killed it anyway.
and i think that is how most
genocides start.
you didn't mean it, but your foot
crushed something wrong.

and what was wrong always comes back
to
you.

that is, if you've got the disease.
if you are down here learning English.

------------
my teacher doesn't even know i'm in class.
my teacher would laugh at my shoes
and my glasses
and the way my fingers move in tight
lines.
my teacher keeps telling us to write
larger and i try.

teach. i've got questions for you.
if you might have noticed me.
if you think you can tell
by my smell when i exit the platform
and my hands shake
shake rattling paper
all through the speech.
teach me how to know.
teach me how to leave here.
teach me why it's so hard

to leave my love for you in a bay,
to separate Snow White from
the rest of the dumb dwarf story.
to put my arms around someone else

without flinching.

i didn't always flinch,
and this bitter self-inflicted
self-consumed
self-imposed

dying.
this habit of dying
no one can taste but the dead.

just hold my arms still
until i stop

stop

flinching.

and I am yours.

------------
I could be your Anne.
Your Anne.
Your Sylvia.

even Elvis if you like it
like that.

but I'm warning you now...
I will bow out before you
and I promise and swear
it won't be Nazi's
or peanut butter and banana's
or gas.

more like a week-long vacation
for a hospice bill.
or the small drip and tumble
of an i.v. in my foot.
my foot is the only place left
for needles and grasshopper's.

and so i will keep kissing
kissing when you stop the flinching.
and my head might go as it seeps
into
you.
but my mind stays here.

my mind stays
in
you.




THAT was just way too much bullshit. None of it has an ounce of truth concerning the author. Rather, all of it concerns the author. ...except maybe the part about Elvis. It might have been slightly rude to call Anne Frank a bitch too. Moody bitches just keep on yelling "bitch" until the word "bitch" won't mean anything anymore. Someone tell me what the hell I just said and get back to me.

Chao...who is this lesbian you love? Ya know...sometimes it's just a phase or all for show. I'm not like that. I don't remember sex, so I am bi-curious about myself now. And even saying "bi-curious" just made me decide to never, ever go into a mental ward again. I don't recommend them if they can be avoided. Very condescending and patronizing. Plus, there are legitimately crazy people in there. (and that's an education you only pay 5000 dollars a week for to know)

Ahahahahahahaha. yeah. that poem even depressed me, it was such bullshit. Funny. I never get depressed.


--------------------------------------------------


What the hell are you doing? Did you just grab my fucking biography or what? What the hell makes you write that way?

It's a singular attack followed by a blizzard that keeps me running back over and back over and back.

I really don't know what to do about you now. I had thought you would go out and leave me/us...why I don't know. I think because your own world is hidden -with just a few looks to get an idea. Impressions being what they are, I can't know you and stand on a dime and shout out to others, "this is what Devery is all about!"

No. no. you are not like that at all. You spill sparse and hard--but it's like walking by you constantly. You are moving so fast, I can only catch just a tiny bit of your elbow. Maybe some boots.

And I want to know you more. I want to sit in some dark bar and talk about global warming, then get right down to why you exist. Why you persist. That is where my teeth hide most of the time. Why we choose to exist against all logical reasoning that tells us, "you should chuck in your grammar book, your old photo's...and melt under re-runs of The Beverly Hill.................shit. You stand up against apathy. We all have different watches for this.

And I wonder about your watch.
whether you roam a little
before entering your door.
whether it's a bolt home instead,
because these people around you
are miserable and ignorant.
you are so tired of playing
this
kind of kiddie
game.

But you love the child
and the softness of hair.
you'd take a good shag carpet
back just to show
you give the curse to fashion.
but you remain on the cutting
edge.
just visible to your friends,
completely entranced by a lover.

doesn't matter what lover's
name is.
it could be crackers on Tuesday.
it's always her and him at night.
slide on up
you precious puss. I love the
way you stumble on me.

You love the way people stumble
on you.
but not the way they trample him
or her.
You have dissected yourself enough
to know
how far off I am from piecing
one puzzle place

one solitary whole comfort.
a place where you rest
that can't be seen.

i can hear your tap running.
i can hear you open the fridge.
i can hear you gasp at my
ignorance.

and i feel your hand reach through
more solid ground.
you've got my heel.
you planted that cone as one
of your own.
makes me think harder about
halting
and running.

waiting on the cement.
waiting on the cement.


always wanting more. always with love, Devery. an unworthy response, but it fell out just the same. Chao...I think we are going to have to buy the whole complex. Not just a few rooms. It's getting crowded and I am loving it, loving it. Knocking on your door too. Already Knocked hard on Rob's....


-------------------------------------------

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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Devery

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #34 on: April 23, 2009, 04:49:17 PM »

...still more from the old Box......


sex is a weapon
even if the best of it
leaves The Mrs. running
for a gun
when he leaves for the
stewardess,
even when he's so jealous
she got another boost
from a stranger
whistling that kind of
attack--
it will be just a number of
days
and some space of time
before the sex in any
situation
is the mighty of all mighty

heart attacks.

yet we want it so badly
and we look away at the
chimp
jacking off in the zoo.
and we are the chimp
jacking off in our room.
how we are different
is so small indeed.

so sex is a weapon
but not the only crime...
the way i feel for the Robber
who is so desperate
he just needs 200
to get somewhere else.
and he or she will be caught
of course.
put in a cage
of course.
for 200 dollars and maybe
a pocket-full of change.

the way i feel for the junkie
under the most dire
of pits in life,
the way that junkie will
run and throw the needle
under the bed,
the crack pipe under a sofa.
it's stupid
of course.
it's hopeless of course.
the prison overflows
with the junkie's who should
be in a rehab cage
instead of the raping cell.

they say rape is all about
Power.
if that is so true
I can't understand why more
women
aren't raping men.

so if it gives you a hard-on
or a stiff one.
to think of you and your
buddy
smashing her face into mud
or asphalt,
ripping her pants down behind.
you can put it in two places.
and i know which one
you'll pick.

think about the stitches,
the way she won't remember
anything
but everything the next time
someone whistles at her
walking down to get lunch.
and the rain
that night took all the evidence
away.
so you're free for the moment.
you lucky bastard who is free.

think about having your gonads
removed,
if this kind of Power sets
you free.
if this kind of Power doesn't
make you cry.
if this kind of Power is because
your Mom was mean.
and the meanest thing you can
be
is Her in double-space.

she won't be quite the same
for the rest of her life.
looking over at Lover,
smiling with her knees quaking.
it's been so long...
"it's ok, don't you trust me?
I'm beginning to think you don't
love me..."

that kind of bribery is a weapon.
that kind of bribery is worse
than any man's head blown
quickly to bits
by the mob
he entered for reasons of his
own--
like the Robber and the junkie
and the rest of us.

safe and locked up in houses.
we're safe here honey.

let's change the sheets on
the mattress.


I don't know where such horrible things come from. I sit and wait for a dead person to channel through me...heh. choke. Don't ask, don't even try to know why I just wrote what I did. I thought it was damn funny at the time, lately I have been in such a good mood. So the pencil jokes. Poorly. But Devery, sex is the most needed pistol of all time. That's what the next dead woman is saying to me. ....waiting...not sleeping again...waiting.


...................................................... ........................

it hurts me to toss it. and one of the few times you'll find me rhyming.


i saw the charlatan working
the magic again,
you've always got the angels
right behind your back.
and they'll always love you
dearly--
not a single one attacks.
you've even got a Gaurdian
who helped you out
of the crack.
you didn't have that car crash
did you
but that's a statistical snack.

i've seen her on Montel and Oprah,
i heard that even Ellen took the
prankster in,
but she has never been put to
the test
of the cruelest scientist's pen.
and so she always calms the
sorrowful and tells them
once more shall they have
that surgery
only once more will they have
pain in purgatory...
not her words, but mine.
and just as good at that.
but the difference is that i'm not
selling you my books or back.
that prankster is quickly taking it all
with a wink and nod--
forget about the tax.

it never comes back that Mommy
never loved you
and occasionally with enough
clues
Daddy is sorry for not busting
you
that time you got so high.
no, the charlatan is a genius
at zipping down your fly.

-----

i've got some bad news that
will make you slightly ill.
the desperation of wanting them
back
is as old as us --ourselves.
the clinch you feel in your stomach
is the warning
we all have smelt.

why we can't accept the obvious
that false comfort
is someone's living,
and forgiveness for you may
come in confessions.
but that is rarely for the living.

the deepest that you won't ever
ignite
is the atom that will end up
in the comet,
blinking at the universe
and throwing out its vomit.

but don't be afraid that i have
attacked your fears and religion.
i've got nothing against you
except my own indignation.
my increasing inflation,
for a charlatan taking aim at you
and putting her new nails on...


i'll give you this much proven space
and honey,
this won't take that long.
the proof is in the pudding
if you want to believe in knocks
thumps and bumps.
but i have a smaller present
and it doesn't even mean
you're NOT.

what you've got is a strand of
something we all call DNA.
and what it means is that you
are one of a billionth or more,
everyone holler for God sakes.
and this is courtroom evidence
and no one makes a living by it
but some sad forensic pestilence.

what i'm saying is that you are
truly unique
in this space of time.
what i'm saying is you better get
out some ink,
because tomorrow isn't a promise--
it's a pause before a crime.

and even with the bad news of it,
and even with your loose lip in it--
i have just one suggestion:

should you see a reaper show up
kick the teeth a different
direction.


yeah. even that crap needs work, but it's all i have got to wing out. Sinister, i'll pm you asap. i have so much shit to do today, i just put out the world's most horrible rhyme. and don't go saying you loved it---i don't --- yet. perhaps my angels will. hmmm. maybe last line: kick the teeth out of your infection......dunno. can't rhyme that much without getting ants.


...................................................... ...........................

was bored, Siren. how'd you know?

and that kept building and building until a finale that made me put a sock in my mouth.



you used to dream the wooden dream
how a barn owl's eye-foliage is as white
as white can be.
and the way you raised your hand up
to browse between my chest
was the way i shot my right leg over
your waist.
a twist of my fetal clinch
sweet thing, it's always your say
when to rest.
you said there wasn't any more of it,
the way you slammed the door for it.
the bump against the kitchen counter.
the place you found my g-spot.

i had no idea it could collapse like a
penguin flops to its belly,
like the way you demanded the glasses
drop to a swollen and battered hand.
you're the kind that eats too fast
and complains about my third attempt
to find your keys,
not mine.

make your way through him because i
am so alone without you.
take a stance on issues about bathroom
tissue.
i don't give a shit anymore
i don't give a shit anymore

except when i remember the shared
shower,
the way your freckles talked and walked.
the quick glance of e.s.p., and you know
i don't believe in that.
but the love can roll up in foil
and slut and slither a way to the freezer.
the way you dribbled ice cream down
your silk and cool pajama's
was the way an infant knows to cry
when gas has bloated the belly.

so have your marriage and picket
fence.
tell him he's the only thing right
for you.
i don't give a shit anymore.
i don't give a shit anymore.

tonight i found a letter you'd put
in the best section of my favorite
book.
the one i made you read like edema
in the handicapped lane full of bowling
balls. then looping you over it,
and you swill and swell like a maggot.
except you've got the candle lit
and it's my post-birthday gift.
every time you touched me there
our hips.
our lips.
our hips.


so tell him that you'd die without him
and that you only care for love.
you can suck him all you want
and it will never make you as red
as my crawling made you flush.
i don't give a shit anymore.
i don't give a shit.

but one day i'll be in the barn,
up late listening for mice.
you'll come running in
because the house
is on fire
and you are all out of money
and you want to have some liquor
and you can't believe it's happened

to you and you alone.

and i'll swallow some raw intestine.
it will dangle from my maw.
the landing on your shoulder
will be the last kiss you can take.
a wing will flutter deep in your chest.
a toe will scar your neck.
i'll put on my fancy dress to make you
laugh. and then you'll want to dance.
but i'll be peck peck pecking.

and the owl will grip
right there
because it doesn't want to fly
anymore.
and it won't care about the fuse
box you display.
you'd never show the correct
voltage anyhow.

that owl
will kill you.
that owl
will murder you slow.

i'm going to put you down
because i don't...
care
anymore.

come on in the barn.





ho ho hum. needs help. lots of it. i tried. it's chao's fault really. when he puts on the love record, i put on mine. and it's cacophony, because mine has one chord---his has all three. bastard. and yeah, you swing hard tonight. but keep swinging or i'll languish. everyone join the brothel. you don't have to take off your shoes to enter.


...................................................... ........................


don't get offended if you're mentioned. or a flaw i ascribe to you is named which doesn't exist/or feels judgemental. the people i mention in this are yet a 3rd thing i wrote today. it's not flushed-out, it won't be something you'll list on a resume. and dear friends, any bitterness that should appear under your name is really mine. instead, take out the positive part and put it on a calendar or something, k?


My Electronic Friends?


I met Matt first at a smoke-lit strip joint,
his balls flying out of the g-string as he
coasted down a pole meant for firemen.
and he laughed while a song played for
his stroking; the rapster shield is an
ersatz pocket
no one cares to devour in His holiness'
paltry car or living room.
even so i'd rather eat his excrement,
run in with my inestimable syndicate
and chew my arm like cud,
spread my legs for a blender
and lob my last bit of skin
in donation
should he consider the sunset the
correct way to splinter his last verb,
being the last stint he'd play.

not in unison with anyone's ardor,
Rob shows up and prepares to take
one immense piss on a carpet.
marking out his territory is the most
patriotic, pathetic, and useless proposition.
he wants a paycheck with no covert
taxes, even if it means retirement
will be a continual quaff at the bar.
when i bring my aged bosom over,
he smiles at the stretch-marks and
tells me i'm oblivious about the pimp.
so if the world caves under a lamp
with one pigeon i've saved for
sentiment,
Rob is where I am going to go for
bygone rustling and accomodation.

Lyman enters rooms bubbling over
with his hippie dogma attached to
one large photograph spelling "beating."
he jots down the musician's choice
for taking, hoisting, and latching on
to a styrofoam cup, and he hates it
behind a stubborn smile a nazi
couldn't smack off. he'll be among
the final debate team arguing for
horns or strings. so when I am
pitched into the ebb of my tub, and
the bass won't play in my head,
my ears are tired of joy,
it will be him who makes me levitate.

Suede can't ruminate past the latest
addition of a lover's tempest. the way
it wobbles in a litigious face,
the pronouncement of the passed away
couldn't break that stroll for
anything. Suede has a brand new
auto, and that should make her stay.
but she won't and there will be no
retribution from him,
no alternating season could pull
his head into any other type of
business. so when i'm bitter
about the newspaper, and stretching
for a tirade that fits Mars in size...
it will be Suede that recalls for me
our conversation about love.

Sarah falls in front of school and can't
even make a toast of a grin about it.
she won't tell help how to save her
jewelry, her bodice, and platform. but
there will be brooding so long that
lightning couldn't out-run its pervasive
theme. holding and clutching at fear,
her bravery stands up with cake
for the birthday she can't have. yet if
I were to have one daughter and every
other relative to raise,
it would be this talented ace of a young
woman. it would be my quest for her
longing, to shatter the waste and
satisfy her thirst, her yearning.
should you bully her, i would not reveal
the moment my fist will connect.

Devery slips into the party with drugs
she can only lift for herself and a crony.
her ensemble that she dresses in is a
poster for the avant-garde, the blooming
wealth, and the deceased crimes
taken by her fang. we aren't privy to
her list of meditations and there are no
fax machine's capable of considering
that cowardice. But she cums just like
i do, and her thumb is the boat towards
my kind of icebox. if there were a way
to coddle the cast of malcontent's,
she'd devote a hefty sum towards it.
should she find a penny under a semi,
she'd empty a latrine through her
hand, and pluck it out for human trials.
when i am absent and pressed under
white t-shirts, Devery will point towards
the craving. this woman knows me
as an oarsman, and when the need for
rapport is skulking, and when it bruises,
she'll change my laundry for me.


all of you are the fabled epic,
which scatters into decrepid notes.
all of you are who i need,
who i want.

because i'll continue to hit the snooze
as life outside blows out tunnels.
there will be a catalog for the caste
system, a prescription for my pain.
and life itself considers me failed
genes, as i consider which way
to turn the telephone.
if i hear and keep an inconsequential
list, it will be the poets of some
strained box.

all of you are who i need,
all of you are what i am
or what i want, what i've been,
where i am not.
just the same my shirt is yours
but i am sorry if it doesn't
fit.



mmm. some of the people in here who have affected me. i may have missed someone, and it's not in order of importance--there is no such thing for me. but you've helped me endure and write in here. and if i've hurt your feelings, it's only because I am TRULY pointing at myself, taking guesses, and/or teasing you. the nasty and twisted and the sap is for later. it needs to be crumpled up and then read when i find the god durn car keys... although, if you read this the way i'd wish, it has a good deal of sap and appreciation as well. love to all--p.p. or whatever my name is...anyone?




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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Devery

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #35 on: April 23, 2009, 04:58:48 PM »


Whatever it is, it is not quite right.

blind


should one be born blind
there is no reason to miss
what you never knew
existed.

--
and a deflected pocket rocket.
in the first grade of middle school,
the girls stripped up in jordache
jeans and friendship beads on their
bloody toes,
a precise calculation as to
just how popular and what clique
would defend you...
the boys bothered by the new
mascara and the breasts they
never cease to stare at,
and their jock comrades,
the hood pot smoker's buddy.
the genius in the back row
with "A Clockwork Orange"
t-shirt.

and i was no part of this
but something they whispered
about.
as the girl next to me for most
of the year
had been killed.
one wrong-way turn down a
one-way ramp, and she and
her mom...gone. let's forget
she was poor, all the bad
Goodwill clothes can never
make middle school plot
or accept your existence.

---

so the teacher bristles and says
"if you had to choose between
blindness and being deaf"--
which is like asking a chipmunk
for inner-city directions--
"which one?"
in unison, the bored and board
raises a captious hand
celebrating deafness.
and i'm the only one in the
idiotic contemplation
raising my hand for blindness.

---

even then i had thought there
was enough color to make
me intoxicated, for i had known
everything to see by then.
but the despair of missing
music and conversation
went beyond the school wall
and into a house
never my own, always a deluge
at dinner.

---

now i think of art-in-progress
and the class that made a person
love Caravaggio, lean away from
halo's,
consider Art History a possible
major.
later it would be the love of
this or that significant other
and always the orgasmic union
of a movie punching my chest.

---
now it is another person that
contains my vision,
the battle to walk straight out
of the Predator,
and want a lonely bird's eyesight.

as music is my daily detention
flipping channels, and pampering
a new Cd.
how close i come to a spiritual
yield sign is as close as a
vibrator once used.
now in a brooding bin.

---
one can try to perceive
the lost perception of one
glance.
the way as you consume this
i can read your body language.

so i shouldn't have raised
that hand at all.
because losing one of five
senses
makes one a fourth of new
measuring.
and the price tag is so high
a contractor wouldn't even
take the job.

you'd survive
as something different.





fuck. what a mess.


...................................................... .......................................

a label for one and all.
how useless and profuse.
a teen can command their
own way
if they don't dare move at all.

it's impossible because the
bell rings for the next lesson.
a hallway or a busride
is the best place for mocking,
grassing, ribbing.
making every single body
run for their cult.
spurning the disabled individual
to walk faster than fashion
demands, lingo requirements.
your ugly shoes
your hip hair
your broken glasses
and the occasional explosive
fight.

discretion belongs in just one
teacher
or perhaps just one counselor.
even there an abuse can be
handed
like paper candy can fool
the best intelligence.

---

hold on for a suicide
and school shooting.
this is the same as it was
with a huge new testimonial
of danger.
cut your arms up because
screaming isn't allowed here.
shave your head to be different
or the same.

this is a simmering water boil
so try to run straight home after
where more canines
might search you out.
and now it's mom and dad and
what sister and brother get
will never be the same
as your place mat.
which is the birthing order
of every dysfunctional
breeding ground.

there is no home for a teen.

so possess your gift for any talent,
rely on the neutron of the only one
who can understand. It's the best
a teen has, and the way to stand
sideways and foreward
stretching into the very best growth.
that will be your twenties.

---

one day just perhaps
a miracle will happen, and one
that doesn't require your
prone body lying on the floor
of a chapel.
for me
in a place where the football
captain.
the student president.
and the charm of every good
lay he took.
his corporation surrounded the
lunch table and giggled in
ruptured libation.

for it was a retarded or "slow"
teenage girl he started
buying the soda's for...
she chugged them down
in the split of a second.
making fun of someone like
that
is what a child would do
at a zoo by tapping on glass
that clearly states
"no tapping please."

what they didn't see
was that the 5 soda festival
by day three
made her vomit all the way
down the hall.

on the fourth day
a girl on the outskirt of sarcastic
remarks
and resembling the way we
feel about the beehive hairdo.
she arose with her lunch
tray filled with food she never
finished.
as she passed El Presidente.

it was a fake stumble
and a whoops!
gee, i am so sorry i just
spilled prune juice plus more
on the top of your head.

and the silence of one cafeteria
was enough.
the silence was enough.

because a miracle
had happened.
with or without
permission.


so much more i disliked about my teens. another time...when i can actually write.


...

(not for children)

the only thing done wrong
was the time you insisted on
purchasing a small whip.
and you wanted it to spank you
perhaps because your Mom used
to hit you with a shoe
on your head
straddling you on the floor
and smacking it again and again.

then it was my thigh you rode.
good horsey game.
and when the drugs numbed
the twat,
i used the vibrator
and my mouth attempted to vibrate,
and my two fingers entered
your hole
and you talked the regular
dirt.

"fuck me"....my name
oh harder, faster
oh my god i'm going to cum
oh my god, oh my god, OH MY GOD.
and when you tried my race engine
which liked to idle to heat up.
you'd tell me where i was hard
where i was soft.
how delicious
how big my clit was.

in your closed-eye moment
you'd push your bosom together
nipples as pointed and hard as
the time you smacked me after i
threw up.
and still i'd take them in my mouth
and suck at just the right tempo,
and teasing was my favorite
and it made you say everything
i would have said.
only i wasn't the talking kind.

except in the beginning kissing
gazing into your eyes
telling you
how beautiful you were, how much
i loved, loved you.
and you told me it would be "hot"
if one day i'd wait for you in
a secret spot.
and push you up against the wall
and tear your clothes off
with my pocket knife
my pocket knife.

oh, i pushed you up against the
wall, but i'd tear with my hands.
the thought of cutting you by
accident
was your turn-on
and dead end.
not mine.
once by accident, on the way
to that party where my ex
called you a cunt.
we had a voice recorder placed
in your jacket.
and it was on when you got me
in the corner of the hallway.

you jacked me off on audio.
and we laughed about it later.
and we hid the tape for later.
and i pictured you masturbating
for me later.
and i saw your nipples working
like a jackhammer, breaking
through rocks.
for later.
and i thought about each angle

every angle you put your vagina,
i put mine on yours.
sideways. doggie. you on top.
with your back facing me.
it was sacrilegious and they
have laws against us.
it was passionate. beyond the
beyond.
and as soon as you got in my
car and asked to pull over
on a side street.
we fucked as your wife thought
we were buying beer.

how she didn't smell us on
one another. i have no idea how
you did that. i had no idea how you
knew just where to go.
all i knew was i was exhausted by
all-night screwing.
and happy like a kid on a slip-n-slide.
and the polaroids you gave me
when i was leaving...
i got evidence of your body
i got evidence of even more.

all those things i saved in my
head for later.
all those times you bent over
and asked me to enter your
ass.
all those times --and no,
dear reader--i didn't use a dildo.
i have proportions that are
different than that.
it was heinous and disgusting.
in the beginning it was love.

and now i sit here knowing
you're shoving your tits
in his mouth.

and maybe he uses a whip.
and i know you ride on top.
and i hope he breaks his dick.
i hope you
take it in the ass when you
are wasted drunk.
and i hope it tears your rectum.

that makes me one bitter

homely slut.



good god. i just shared the most disgusting thing ever. and if i die, no one is to share this with my family. ever. i'll strangle you with my ghost hands....wait. this poem isn't even about me. chew on that. i'm still a virgin. (holy my the pain meds. have just made me share the "sick and twisted thing" and now i am certainly doomed in here)


...................................................... .........................................


Suede and Devery--thanks for the compliments. i still can't believe i posted that. i figure someone is going to "bust me" (err) for being so...was it pornographic, or just plain true, or the dumbest thing i've ever shared. we shall see...

And Devery--by far, the most intriguing and juxtaposed piece. meaning, oh. Josephine. sorrow "rueful" followed with a possibility hidden. hmm.

i'll name this, but it's strange, as i never had names for anything i've written until i landed in here...so...

You can be an idiot too

you must be joking or
pulling my leg,
if you are telling me
there's no such thing.
and that God put it there,
the fossils.
to test our faith.
in China, they "invented"
the dragon
when they first found the
dinosaur bones
simply because everyone
wondered what kind of
creature it could be...
but it didn't take that long
in human history
to realize that their time here
was much longer
than our own.

so you must be an idiot
if your God doesn't recognize
the fossil.
you must be so far out of the
loop,
and maybe you live in Kansas.

because it's not only Kansas
but the entire nation.
the whole constitution ignored
mr. n.r.a.--and i'll get you later.
but a vast number have forgotten
separation of
church and state.
and yet you celebrate the founding
fathers as if they were
"out of sight" dude.
you want time out for prayer?
you want "creation theory?"
do it on your own watch.
not everyone thinks the way
you do.
because you are an idiot.

you must be off kilter
or out of sorts,
to not think Limbaugh
shouldn't hit the road.
this is the hypocrite who said
whites should be convicted
and sent up the river
should they abuse drugs.
and he's so kind, he also
stated that African Americans
are 12 % of the population...
so "who the hell cares?'
this is only a partial list of
his fat, and out of hand
mouth. so listen to him more
if you are an idiot.

and if you haven't caught on,
i'm using "out of..." and other
american idioms
because i'm an idiot too.
but not the following kind:

the one who thinks Columbus
found the earth was round.
no. that would be almost every
sailor since the first boat + Archimedes
measuring the Earth's circumference.
...jesus h.
even the name "columbus" is
under scrutiny,
even what he looked like is
now out of reach.
but we know that he set dogs
loose to eat the haitian natives
when they wouldn't obey
his demand for slavery.
and that wasn't the only place
this mysterious navigation genius
got out of hand.

you must come from another
planet
to think a fetus can feel in
the first trimester.
the human fetus has no
nervous system, no brain
during those first 3 months.
and sure it begins to have
certain features,
but it also closely resembles
chicken fetuses.
read your science book.
people who lose a nerve or
bundle of them, would all
agree that they have no more
sensation.
in their arm, finger, toe, face.
so saying a fetus feels pain
at that time,
and calling it a baby.
that's like calling a toddler
a senior citizen.
you stupid fucking idiot.

believe in a soul if you like
and march for that.
but you wouldn't take a crack-
baby home
and be a loving parent to it...
so shut your god damn mouth.

and "guns don't kill people,
people do" mr. heston and
everyone driving in front of me.
you are out of whack
and prone to propaganda
to think the 2nd amendment--
to believe the people who
wrote it,
could have any concept of a
future where
our ability to purchase
a handgun, or assault weapon
made for the armed forces--
to fire multiple rounds into
a school, McDonald's,
from a tower, or assassinate
a celebrity.
the truth is that it doesn't happen
in other countries.
murder does, but not mass
shootings.
because in most places the
standards for getting a weapon
of that kind
is either illegal in the first place
or restricted much more than
our precious and out-dated
2nd amendment allows--
at your local hunting shop.
and self-defense is paranoia.
you think your kid can't find
it? then surely the kid
doesn't know about the ky
in your dresser drawer.
you really are an idiot.

and sure we are desensitized
to violence and gore.
but i've seen everything you have.
and it takes someone
out of their mind
to latch on to Hitler, Manson,
or some movie like
"natural born killers" --
and make it into a diatribe.
a reason to kill strangers.
and there are no warning signs
that can tell us
or separate the "regular" issues
or depression from the zombie
that will shoot your kid in the
head.
so if you believe that rating
systems are not enough and that
we should start censoring
some of the very things you love,
you're out on a limb
that is bound to be broken...
your excuse makes you one more
idiot.

and this is very similar
to accepting our culture of fear,
to sit at home quietly
and watch the color-codes for
terror snap up on Fox news.
if you can't see the evidence
that the administration has lied,
lied, lied.
then surely you have to take a
moment
and realize what we've lost:
our right to an attorney should
they suspect you're involved.
our right to privacy on the phone--
in this poem, at work
and when you check a library
book out.
they can swoop you up and take
you to a far-off prison
where even the word "torture"
has somehow become disputable,
and something reasonable for us
to do.
Orwell wasn't far off with "1984"
as to what we're crumbling with
right now,
and if you think "torture" and our
continued war is anything less
than what the nazi's did,
you're lying to yourself.
you might as well put on a
swastika
and start killing what you term
"sand niggers"
--that means you've become
worse than an idiot.

and i am so far out from you
on this one
i don't want to share a dinner
with you.

there's so much more i could
say
and wing out into the air...
civil rights and queers
quota's and qualifications
prison overcrowding
abuse and assistance
drugs and legalization
environment and technology
health insurance and cost
cooties and planned parenthood--

i bet my list is growing in the
hall of the CIA. and who knows,
National Security
may be my Big Brother soon.
i'm not afraid to call myself
a liberal
and it's not a dirty word.

it's simply a way of thinking
that we can improve, change,
improve.

but even this stupid piece of
writing
has made me tired and
cynical.

i guess that makes me an
idiot
i suppose i am ignorant.
i know i am stupid too.

but i plead with you to watch
your step



umm. shouldn't watch the news i guess. not a poem, but a rant. so imagery has to be stuck in...and everything has to be flopped. and this is the worst think i've ever put inside this poetry box. forgive. i'm coming out of a coma...besides, you have the nasty sex thing to go back and read. and i don't look like what you think...hahahaha maybe.


...................................................... ......................................

Logged
"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Devery

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #36 on: April 23, 2009, 05:04:44 PM »

debug mode:


i don't have the skills you are
seeking
and the way you like to continue
peeking
down the top of my shirt
is telling me to leave...

but i'll tell you something
before i go
that the innocence of turning
10 is lost when 40
brings on the slow...
when you watch a relative
go down the hatch,
it isn't the same.
never the same.
won't be the same.

as when the knife
has stolen your snatch.
and maybe it isn't that spot.
perhaps it's something strange
like your blindspot Mister.
the place you can't see
in the cleavage.
how quickly i'm going to
leave
relies completely on your
periphery. the look you
just gave to me.
but you weren't the kind
to get the best grades
as you're obviously jumping
up the ranks of this fast
food regime.

or were you best in class?
not best of the class in
memorizing anatomy.
best of the class
in digging around the muck.
best of the class
in nothing else but what we
esteem as Doctor.
we all know what they were
like in class. the ones
that got A's and bitched to the
teacher until it wasn't
a 98
but a 100.
now they have us under.
now they've got all of us
under.

oh, Mister.
Doctor won't look at my
cleavage
for blindspots. but lumps.
wrong ones, like you are,
and the fact you are adamant
i wear this tight, tight shirt.
i could carve you out myself.
i could practice butchery
or witchcraft,
but i'm not going down like
that.

i want to be head-first
in a slide into someone's lonely
and heavily sighing thigh.
breathing erratic, breathing for
air
breathing without a machine.
you won't meet me there.

no Mister.
you can't have it all.
my daily abuse of the ozone
isn't worth your call for the
minimum look at a mimimum
cleavage.

i want to give the doctor who
spoke to me as if i were an infant
one simple middle finger
when i wake to see him
with his fake
fad
false
squint of joy.
he's not happy for me
he's found a reason to believe in
his own God.
what he's happy for

is the completion of a task.
the way you are Mister
when you'll fire me and throw my
file in the trash.
you're no better
no worse.
you think the upper echelon
is going to see you through?

they've got bubbles to float
out on,
and orthodontist bills.
and soon i'll see the dentist.
as soon as i can get out
from under all these pills.

so i'm rhyming here and there
you've got me walking in a circle
but i promise you tomorrow
i'm going to pummel
your smirk
into
rubble.

just like me under a knife.
just like me under a knife.

the scars building on scars
the scars building on scars

my life is here in a strange
land,
my time is spent here in a
stupid way.
my time here is nothing better
than staring down the cleavage
of anyone who enters.

just like you under a knife
the very first time you feel
death had been in the room.
the very first time you felt
an orgasm
could be the last time for
any of those.

i'll take your job.
i'll become a doctor if someone
does the surgery.
i don't have an answer like they
do.
no satisfaction in getting it
right,
when at least once you're
going to be the death of someone.

going to be the death of someone.
going to be the death.

not of me because my middle name
not of me because my middle name

is luck
you mother fuck.



too simple. too tired. always half-way what i wanted. always. if i have only one good stanza in my head, i always think to myself...why do i push it further? why does it always fail then? somewhere...doesn't matter where. never feels right in the end. all the same Mister. all the same Doctor. i'm really angered by you... and there is always time revision #?
toss them brothel.


...................................................... .............................................


if i gaze into yours
for more than thirty
seconds
it means i love you
a way
i'll keep in notes along
edges
in meetings
along the days
in forums
around people
who
i wouldn't possibly
want to gaze at
except
for the one
who holds me here.
holds me down
easy.
strokes my hair
without my hair
mattering.
loves my gaze without
looking.

and this is where
my nights
float
as all of you sleep.
all of you my
cousin
my first and only
reason.
the last reason
left unknown.
the last idea
untouched.
the least of taste
wanted
way out there
in one of us.




which is worse, eh? hard call. depends on the depending.


...


Lyman that was sweet. both your reply to me, and the ode to someone i don't know...but the last line is my personal favorite. and i have to dip out for a bit perhaps. i look forward to coming back as soon as i can. OH. and Lyman...that was most definitely Cupid writing a message on the back of Mercury to send to someone.



the girl who cried
when she got Barbie
age 9
goes out on the porch
and smokes.
she wonders about some
other place.
a head resting next
to another head.
peaceful as it should be.
how she wants no
part of being

west
waste.
no way to enter a door
you wouldn't go near,
inhaling again and again
she deposits ash
on one finger
the finger she'd use
on anyone
who might jog by
and ask

for just one more
smoke.

peaceful wish.
no clamor inside.
the cat knows something
is off.
but a meow is the
same as a ten year
story.
not to be told in full.
not to be left for
a box.
not to be known by
parents
or family and the
secret princess--

"it's always something
with you"
the cruelest thing i
ever heard from lips
i had for the flip of a
coin
and it was heads
i won.
tails i won again.
i won it all.

and so the Barbie
Bellow
goes back outside
and finds the star pointing
west.
she sends one wish up
that someone up
that way will find
one solid night
one iota of breath
one time to think
as her head rests.


a little of this. a little of that. a mess i won't have to sort out tomorrow a.m. guten nacht


...


hunching low
as if a drive-by shot
had just taken
an entire week and
thrown
it
gutter-wise.

gone tonight like
a hydrocodone
knock knock
joke.
and there are still
salads to
make
with no dishes
to eat upon.

another scans the
tidbits
of pounds of abuse
pillaging names
to be
forgotten
except that single
special theatre
experience.

gone on the way
home
and
looking to dive
into the familiar
questioning
how it feels full
why
if not enough,
what.

a bubble is set
about the air.
slipped under like
the tooth
fairy.
the eye has it
upside-down but
the brain pushes into
shift
and straightens
the pop.

an inescapable sound-
hairs in the ear
will touch and
trounce
the
maze
down.

there will be no answer
in the mind
for one going in one
coming out
one
and not two.
bubbles gather and
huddle.

gunfire
rapidly descends on
the feet of rapport
under the name
of shelter
papers
now lining shelves,
all limbs
all exposed.

alphabetical
in one office
one principal
hunches low.
never knowing how
the bounce of the familiar
is somehow
with stamina
and groping
familiar.

changing positions in
chamber
bubbles now bloom
robust
cannon explosions,
and sleeping
on just one head
next
to
the
sound

of a square
or rectangle
as it bursts just
enough hairs
of the ear,
burning down the
side
of one
eye
staring

upside-down
gutter-wise.






wtf? "oh, no is all we are...oh, no is all we are...oh, no is all we are"
yes. that song was heard today. i know, i'm using "one" frequently lately--get off my back. y'all are asleep anyway... you make me laugh. i'm reviewing your work. i see something in the past, but it's growing wavy off the top of the asphalt...so i don't know where the brothel is, but i have a bad feeling that someone left me drunk by the side of the road...

Cupid and Daphne must have purchased the last round. I'd wink at them but now I am actually worn out. errheh.


...

it isn't necessary to ride down to the steel mill.
a predilection for hiding a corpse is only the sum total
of the reason you have cut-off shirts, shorts down your
knees. and you aren't even a lawn worker; not looking
at any skin because the minimum fee isn't organized
as a meatloaf recipe.

so the scheme is noir.
everyone get out money.

not much to offer except a thrill, as you've hunted before
hunt this rabbit in a lawn chair. get it through your head
without the weapon, there is no crime. Mr. don't tell your
girl swaying on the counter. Bragging rights can happen
in a different state with more herione. Beer, whatever your
taste is. (can't help but notice a black spoon)

so the planning is flawed.
wish the penny into a fountain.

right in the reptilian base where blood flow is conducted. and
you'll become a magician. not homicide and no police will knock.
the letter is written, the postage paid for. go ahead and utilize
a sharp knife if you've spent it all on crack. not casting doubt
on any aptitude as the neighbor saw you ride a deer. stop with
taking notes. you're a missonary. (can't help but see you wilt)

no. i've done far worse somewhere.
consider me dead already.

this is the correct way to become talented. assault isn't your
only retreat. take a vacation on sand or in a castle. the lord
would never protect the knight. bishop to Queen. check, not
checkmate. and take the damsel with you on horseback. watch
out for my gypsy cousins. (even here notice a vaunt aimed for

dismissal.


...................................................... ...................................

juxtapose what i want. so here.


she said
take two lefts
and the library
is next to
a church.

she said
go outside
and drunk
drive.

she said
take witness
of how much
time
you spend.

she said
there is no
such thing
as past
or future.
just now.

i say
you're a
cliche'
and have
trash to
record.


there are doubts.
a broken
slide show.
seeps
where
i say.




Logged
"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Rob

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #37 on: April 27, 2009, 08:59:00 PM »

Here are some more from the old box.  I didn't see them in here yet.  Did I miss them somehow?

Rob, you're killing me.
Sinister--welcome! haven't had a rhymer about, so fling it. ( unless you stole that...doubt it though)

Amy you're so gay that I
said gay the first time
you hit me with
a hockey stick.
and Amy you came out to me.
and it was hush hush.
but the whole softball
team bullied me and i confirmed
what every single one of them
was about
to become.

all startled
and i crossed your confidence
and you hated me and called
me worse
and then you started fucking
the coach

and you did the same
thing to me
i did to you.
only worse.
much worse.

isn't a co-worker. just a republican log-cabin dummy.



we are just the 2.
this is your game, the way
one knows they should run to
the ball and catch...
not the start when they run
with the glove out-stretched.
that kind slows you down,
says Daddy.

smack. thwap. smack.
pssssfft. thump. psssft. thunk.
da da thump.
the ball has a rhythm.
feel it and see it.
the second it's off the bat.

i knew where it was headed.
i knew how to catch.
i hit line drives, rarely anything
HIGHER.
i wasn't the best thing ever
and never will be
especially to my electronic
friends.

but i'll be your teammate.
I'll tell you "pick your own one
out Rob.
go get some for YOU!"
"nice play, mother fucker"
nice
nice
fucking play.

don't turn your head away
or down when I compliment.
buy me one beer
and tell me over and over...
look, you had two hot smashes.
you only fumbled one.
it's amazing you even
got one right.
amazing
you even got one.
amazing you even
got your glove

out in time.
it's amazing how i need you
to drive me home.
and i don't care anymore
about who is right
and why i am right.

take me home.
take me home.

next week you can toss
me some as i hit left-handed.
maybe next week
we can meet
we can meet

and play catch.

love you, Rob. mother fucker.



you're wounded
but you'll never be that dog,
giving chase to the cat
one last time.

you've got a broken back
and a spring that bounces
out of your mouth,
and no one washed it with
soap
too much
or not enough.

you're afraid of the stuffy
uptight ass,
the strut of the waiter
taking you in for a hundred
dollar hot dog.
there's a place that people
like that attend,
and it's called bar's.
it's called fighting.
misunderstanding
about which way the gate
will swing

opening in or out?
"i told you in the first place"
did the scolding bitch
scold?
was it the mold you fell
from
that makes you shell
shocked.

all the while,
bouncing balls off the
wall.
slamming your fist to
a thigh
that knows the truth of
it.

green eggs and ham.
for breakfast
there's a promise i'll keep
my lips closed
just long enough.

sit and read the paper.
throw your face
under the water from
a shower
never quite a comfortable
temperature.

this is why Gary is hopeless.
this is where your cynical
flag beats on drums.
this is where your back itches.
there's one and one way to know
you
such as breakfast.

green eggs and ham.


dont stop it. you aren't a brat. you're a bratwurst. (the world's worst pun in history has been given) i like you that way. and if you stop sharing poetry, i'll break both your useless idiotic arms. i'd emoti--CON you. but you'd probably drop over with lyme's disease or something...

thanks for coming back. salt and pepper Mr. salt and pepper for your heart as well. (shit. try nooootttt to be sapppppy)--p.p. yes! triumph for my day. -J.


I am drugged and not responsible for the following...


snuck into your diary
like evil parents at 13.
took three sentences in
and knew what you
couldn't
didn't wouldn't
feel for me.

snuck into your dresser
and no sweats, no jeans
but organized shoes
no brown with black.
your rules. tools.
my red t-shirt flapping
in a fan.
the only thing shared
for the heat.

snuck into your heart
and left a shoeprint with
no heel.
a spot of a tread.
race marks on thighs.
a speed zone miracle.
mine. medical.
stolen.

walking on another
watching the story spread
like oil.
warning signs turned
green.
no evil parent.
no consumer heart.
no requisite.
just words spilling water
paint.
the canvass
caught
in the middle.

between what's moral.
what loss has covered.
how comfort is a plow.
caught between
and a green warning sign

says write.
leave politely.
close your diary.
believe the canvass.
find a plow for the sign.

don't steal a word.
take the paragraph.
deposit it under flannel
leather-bound books.
write some more.
politely lie. down.
open up your jewels.

i have a wrench.
paste. many fine point pens.
pry open the canvass.
let's practice
cursive.


i'm on drugs. what else can i say? where is rob? WHERE IS SUEDE? Lyman, darling, I have fallen into a bit of an illness spell. I will get to you Cupid, if it kills me... wait. that death thing sucks. okay, Cupid. i'll get to you, i swear once more. the # of times i do that makes the prize amount rise, like the lottery. someone find Suede. Ma Chao is jerking off too. Rob is an old bastard like me. Devery should stop writing anything that makes me think. where is OhTheInnocence? WHEN WILL YOU PEOPLE LEARN THAT MY VERY EXISTENCE RELIES ON YOUR CORRESPONDENCE?


Logged
Everybody dies
Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful

Rob

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #38 on: April 27, 2009, 09:04:23 PM »

balls. golf balls.


if you keep stealing parts of me.
all of you bent over laughing.
all of you unaware i'm in your closet.
one, two, maybe three
know the bank deposit.
and upon finding my wallet, no cash.
toolbox and all.
underneath your car wheels.
should i try and take this bolt out?
slow, fast, or the wrong one...
the wrong harbinger before a
message.
bold in cursive. <<<<<<<<lost my mind.^^^^^

p.s. Sharon Stone. that's a discussion for lesbians. i don't care for any minority. i'm a republican.


"tell the truth"
but what of the "remains
of the day" and "2046"
where love goes denied.
omission bonds.
innuendo, an implicit bear
without claws.

confidential leaks.
but what of "Mommy Dearest"
and the tape of Judy,
drunk and saying that no
one understands.
so break your lips for
me.
my hips are rolling a
new poster along.

i can sing "drag"
exactly this
long.



sorry reference to movies, one cd, one documentary...and where it leads your mind. saw "2046" and only one line runs through--"Love is a matter of timing." not a new puzzle for me. yet...it leads to beliefs of inevitable failures and coincidences. where we choose and what we can't. philosophy be damned. pitiful response to yours Cupid. Sharon Stone in "Casino"=different Sharon Stone. Predictable? Perhaps. Is love predictable? never.


f___ it.


grow up woman
your hair, skin, and
cuticles in
disarray.
the car, the bills,
the notes.
a king's ransom
for the decline.

put the rock in
pocket,
dive into the cold.
find Virginia
smirking.
hear your own
voices.

the cd's are stacked
organized by
customary play.
a script for you.
and I'm
gone.


"when i get to the top- i go back to the bottom..."


"look at her and the way------ she walks into the room.
"why does she do that when-- she runs her fingers through.
"how could that be if she's---- wanting to resign.
"no one would have guessed- childhood opens a limp.
"what a sad way to go--------- stuttering before the judge.
"that's the worst thing to------ become a parasite.
"no one saw it coming--------- when she ran into the Jump.
"i saw it but i couldn't do------ nothing to stop it.



read as one. or two separate...let the -- separate if you want the two. i tried to put it into separate places, but i couldn't navigate how it really looks. idiot. it Was two poems for the price of one. now it won't look that way. every time i look at it, i want to chuck the idea down the toilet. i think i should, as the simplicity is annoying.


a conversation of a kind?


here.
waded through
a useless diary
some obtuse poetry
a to-do list
look at this photo?
remember?


the infant:

don't take that away.
i want it.
warmth.
i want it.
tummy tummy.
don't go.
i want...


here.
went down the corner
the income tax
medicare and medicaid.
her broken glasses.
the antique chest.
look at that rust!
look at the chair.
look sweetie.


the infant:

hungry. oooh hungry.
yes. yes. bottle.
more warmth.
smells good.
no cold water...
stop it.
not the diaper.
stop it.


here.
what's the matter?
the tank is full.
it's the cinema again.
the book was awful.
tissues for you.
it will be better tomorrow
just wait.
what's the matter?


the infant:

hee. fingers. nose.
pull your hair.
hee.
more bosom.
i want it.
don't take it.
i want it.
your nose...


here.
there's your song.
sing with me and
i promise to keep
promising.
jesus i'm sorry i am
not what you
thought i was.
there's my song.
sing with me?


the infant:

why the dark?
i'll scream now.
cry. cry.
guh...gool. glub.
where are you?
I want.
want you.
want you.


here.
had sex last night.
it was better than
most times.
shouldn't ask for more.
why are you
telling me not to
leave for work?
someone has to do it.
i swear i'll come
home soon.
i won't be thinking
of you.

not today
burden.


the infant:

mommy gone.
daddy gone.
stranger with ugly
face.
don't like you.
don't want you.
don't want to.
kind of funny.
another mommy?


here.
don't want to hurt you.
it's not your fault.
something's wrong with
Me.
and i'll remember.
the driveway and the
motel.
the music shared.
a phone number.

i want

someone else.




a really poor attempt again. to capture thought only. but if someone else works on it, perhaps it will come out revised and fresh. i need to go to work, pay the bills, cook a candy bar. toast some plastic. what a rut.
 

 
 
and now, for something completely horrifying...


Ha. Ha. beg for it bitch.
we know you like it like this!
fucking dyke. here's how to fuck.
we'll show you! ha. ha. God
DAMN. Yeah, bro. stick it in.
pump her full. STICK IT IN!!
YeahhHHH. Fucking fuck! look
at her pussy! look at that!
wait. Fucking my Turn. my TURN!

thoughts:

ssstop. wait. just ssstop. please
oh. kick mother. kick.
can't breathe, can't breathe
air air air please. just ssstop.



Shit! Let's get the fuck out of
Here. Come on, man! Let's
GO. Leave it! Showed her,
didn't WE! AHA. Ha. ha...



thoughts:

bus. car. get in car. go.


later:

mud. have to get this off.
Jesus.
i can't see.


later:

yes, officer. yes. no, not that.
i don't remember.
i don't remember.
i was just down, is all.
yes.


later:

yes, seargent. yes I'm a lesbian.
what does that have to do with?

...so there's hardly any evidence...
other than mud. beer.

well. i don't see what that has to
do with...

i'm leaving.


later:

thank God for my daily pain.
thank Hell for my absence.
thank the Dr. for the stitches.
thank the family for the cards
to "get well."

thank God and HELL that I'm alive.
at least I'm alive.
i could have died.

call work for me please.
i can't go in until this part moves.
thank you.

thank you.

at least i'm alive.




well. that's enough of that bullshit, isn't it? i put myself in the role of a victim and tried to imagine what you think. if you put yourself in the role of a victim, it won't be too difficult to see that it's easy to be one. that you are one. that we've all been one. and at least...you're alive.



they were drunk
and it was fun in the
beginning.
okay kiss for being drunk.
but wait.
yeah that massage was
nice.
where your hand is going
now isn't the right place.
not now.

and sorry
but not you.
okay i've said not now.
said wait a minute.
passed out.

passed out.
woke up with the jeans around
ankles.
popcorn in my hair.
where did he go?
and why am i bleeding?
what is so funny
friend.

now that you've walked
in on me.
seen me like this.
and you're laughing because
you just had some.
and you think i just
had some too.

pass out.

what was his name?
you don't know
you say.
but he was here
and only one of four
or so.
you're still laughing.
look.
i'm not just hung over.

i think i was taken advantage
of.
i think i said no,
but i can't really say that
now.

look at that bruise.
i can't wear anything
but sweats.


-----------
and she doesn't wear anything
but sweats
for a 100 degree summer.




version 2
------------------

at the atm.
getting the cash out for a night
of good times.
turn around and walk to the
car door.

bam.
oh, jesus. what the hell?
who is pushing me down?
i can't see your face.
i can't see anything.
if you grind me into the door...

harder.
who are you?
don't. don't un-zip.
i can't have that in my
mouth.
agh.
agh.

-----

what the hell happened to you?

i don't know.
can't find my glasses, and can't
hardly move my mouth.

oh my GOD. what the hell happened
to you?

i don't know.
can you get me a paper towel
or maybe some ice?
i'm very tired and i lost
my keys.
i think my glasses are at
the atm.
could you take the car
back and look for the money?

NO. what the hell happened?

i'm telling you
i don't know.




mmm. Devery wins that round for sure. if this can be called "winning." but Sinister, your response = one pounding resolution. one pounding heart. Devery. your heart just spilled a lifetime of stories out in yet another poem that pulls me backwards, and slams me forward. a roller-coaster. the victim in you is recognized. and a heart is sent in your direction. both of you. i'd emoticon, but my computer swiftly steals the good ones, so here:   


Cupid has been molested here.

I don't think it's funny what has been done to these victims.
I don't think it's anything less than horror. Not a movie. Life.
I should stop this tangle of hurt, but letting it spill...

you can't get it back.
you can't take it back.
and blame is for the one who spoiled.
shame is the name we carry.
because you couldn't understand.
impossible.


now...a doe-si-doe and i'll quit this for a bit:

standing there on
a white paper sheet.
two women in the room.
aching there on the cold
floor in an e.r.

the shot they gave
is apparently a snapshot.
click. the blare of a light.
click. "i'm just taking pictures."
click. "can you turn your head?"
click. "can you lift your leg?"

"good"

what's so good about this?
i'm naked.
and who do you think
you are?
talking nice like i was
retarded.
no, i don't want to get
on the table.

"please"

sorry but you weren't
there. why is everything
covered in white?
what is She doing writing?
why did they make me
say it.
twenty times or more.
and now they want
my body.

just like them.

"please...we're trying to help"

fine.
what are you taking...
click. flare.
i would rather you not
be there, i'd rather be
anywhere.
"just some more cuts"
click.

what do you want from
me.
what could be gained
from this?
i threw my shoes in the
garbage. and i told
Her that, didn't i?

click. "going to use the
speculum"

pain.
shooting arching stabbing
KILLing pain.

"sorry"

no.
not as much as me.



fini for now troops. all of this is so rough. not poetry exactly. well, it doesn't feel like poetry for me. not quite. more like a shadow of it. my contributions anyway...
Logged
Everybody dies
Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful

Rob

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #39 on: April 27, 2009, 09:11:24 PM »

there isn't a second-
wind.
a gust to put a hair
or June Bug
in an eye that has
allergies. no shower
or acid or vinegar.
but we could spin
flax.

always some flax about.

there isn't a tumor on
a sea turtle.
more bulging remarks
are reclining on a
shell. no disaster
or struggle or fossil.
but we could climb
up the hair.

always some hair about.

there isn't a studio to
recite iambic pentameter.
someone read 100
most loved poems.
no finding crumbs,
or candy or meat.
but we could hide
from the devil.

always some devil about.

there isn't a way to mug or
murder or molest.
Bluebeard took all the wives
but the last.
no secret door, no bloody key
no singed trace.
but a flower to ruse evil.

always some flowers about.

there isn't a donation to give
to capitalism. no non-profit,
no monopoly, no Captain
to fight the sea or
tempted shark. without sonar
we're left a compass.

always some directions about.

there is no way to save
a poet. not food or linen or
trips or money. but i'm sitting on
top of the Rue Morgue...
and so are you.

always some poems about.


"I'm gonna buy this house and burn it down...put it 6 feet underground."
^^
put that in your Trapper-Keeper.
 

 
 
Once In a Lifetime" ?? ("water flowing underground...")

"If you just pull down your
pants, I promise not to hurt
you."

but you did.

"No one appreciates anything
I do around here!"

but we did.

"I can't understand what is
wrong with you."

and you won't.

"Your writing shows promise."

but it don't.

"You really have some talent."

not like that.

"I promise not to hurt you
if I put it in slow."

look. ceiling fan.

"You seem to have bottled
anger."

but i don't.

"We are trying to help you."

but you can't.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

yes you did.

"I love you but not that way."

i know.

"I think we should be friends."

not so sure.

"You have healing hands."

for who?

"You are all I want."

not true.

"I won't take the demerol again."

sure.

"I swear I won't take it again."

sure.

"I am better now."

no you're not.

"Stop your kicking or we'll really
hurt you!"

kill me then.

"Your Dad is so angry."

all his life.

"I am worried about you."

so am i.

"I don't know what to do
to help you."

you did enough.

"Your poetry is so different."

oh no.

no it's not.


there. that has absolutely nothing to do with me. it's not a poem. an idea. and really, that's about as good as i can do right now.
 

 
 
the mean
joke
the run-
on
sentence.
the flat
irony
and the
boast
without
an
r.s.v.p.-
the way
of the
wink.
the center
of a
tempest.
the platter
for a
cannibal.
and the
way
of disposal.

what is
space
without
time,
when both
are
the very
same.
what is
a bull
without
horns,
a matador
without
cape.

go down
to see up.

we all
fall
down.

again.
again.
end.


next to you in the neigborhood
is a being that talks to you
about the weather and the
old dog.
about the flowers and the cross-
word.
most likely the thing is female.
and i'll give her the name Ruby.

somewhere close in distance
is a blob of a misanthrope,
once an idealist, with all the
papers to prove
even eyes to look and plead.
bring me the generation
of choice
we all need some fish and
fixing.

let's suppose that Ruby and the
blob meet.
the conversation won't be noted.
a hung jury, a report card with
one of a million times to say the
same thing.
"how are YOU?"
"i'm fine, and YOU?"

Ruby and the blob aren't fine.
the dogs and the temperature
are preparing to shoplift,
the cats have allergies to them-
selves. and the electricity
will be solar or nuclear or
a black-out will turn to riot.
everything lost isn't returned.

a fifty year marriage means
Ruby is going to die alone.
the blob has lyme disease or
halitosis or slurs. anything a leper
has will put it on the street.
in one case it's a box. or
the third time someone says
"I hope you find peace."
cyberspace for a stack of
toothpicks.

one "friend" says i love you.
another says i care. this one
says he went to market. and
that one simply winks and notes,
the blob is weird.
the blob writes strange.
Ruby does the dishes singing
"Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."
Ruby spends her coupons
at the pharmacy.

you live on top of these things.
or down around the bend.
go to the job you never wanted,
go to the boss you can't look
at without
wishing you were Ruby and
checking in to rehab.
rehab is for quitting. keep that
losing and gaining along
with Social insecurity.

someone insinuates
i simply can't be the friend
you need.

Ruby and the blob.
Ruby and the blob.

disagree.


Trumbo would laugh at this, wouldn't he Rob? Keep laughing, it's the only moments that we feel good. Well, sex and drugs are for quitting at some juncture. Laughing is for Ruby and the blob. No. They smile and don't laugh. But we know that, don't we?


pg-13 or rated R or X (maybe)


disregard the
pimple
love handle
bikini shave
dimples on
cellulite,
birthmark
mole
and always...

the turn
of the head,
the flip of a
pillow over
the orgasm
face.
the toes
pointing or
flexing.
the cry or
scream.
the moan
or breath.
bad, sour
or
sugar.
and never...

bite.
scratch.
shove.
push the
face.
pull hair.
smack
anything.

unless
smacking
your head
on the
thumping
wall
bed
sheet
floor
couch
table
counter
grass.

later
decide
about
whether
the first
stanza
is worth
another
screw.

animal
or
other.


just where do you get off? hmmm. gently. spot inconsequential. being forever consequential.


we all know the
battered-wife syndrome
and the hen-pecked husband.
and the time it takes before
"i love you too"
travels from a mountain
to the cottage.

switch the ride.
let the fish out of the
small bowl
into an aquarium
or it will perish.
stop flapping from
side to side.
stop swimming.
cease to be.

or choose to hear a
dirge, the band won't
strike a chord.
when all u can dance to
is the dirty dirge.
and don't spell mortgage
more gauge.
resist thinking the kitty
and the back porch
is the perfection of
why Frost is
a voucher.

get out of your computer
solitude. turned off
for being a liar and
cheater.
no one ever is.
no one ever is.

unless all you want
is to discredit

one of the senses

we call

vision.



yeah................................the idea fell as the metaphor perished. leave all of creativity for beddie. teddy bears. simplicity. ironic, as there isn't a simple person around...


"dream pieces..."
1.

a distended, extended Giant
named "Raggedy Anne"
is floating above me.
the youth desisting belief
not long enough,
before the wide smile
reveals the keen and honed
blade.

2.

i wonder if someone put my
chin in a cutlery jig,
the bottom of the bone is
a thumb-run across the lazy
four a.m. patio places.
it's planar surface tells
me to think orally.
no sanctioned noise wills
itself.

3.

always decapitated heads left
outside the window. squooshed
into dreadful beams and
dimunitive shapes, so as to
request closing drapes...
what a delight!
this happens after a jug of
alcohol takes me and All
to spilling chairs over.
just a jiffy and antipodal
memory suits me in shoes.

4.

i wonder if the potato will
catch food poisoning. should
it, entering a tongue, bring about
a deadly abdominal wrench of
spasm. turning over to let the
gas leak suck me, positioning
for more than a candy bar.
squalid housing is nothing
compared
to food poisoning.
both the same contagion, but
one shelters the blast of
plumbing.

5.

all the characters are ready
to play
a scene. every monicker is
appearing to rankle my mass,
the substance of faith. the stuff
of Gods with dirty hands,
this role is for the antics of decisive
television clips. i am now King
of plyboard, and Queen of the
blindman's bluff.
prepared for maturity to


download.

and the computer whispers.



whatever. maybe not that ending. blah. orwell lost out on this one, but he'll appear when he dusts himself...


Rob--divide the senses and make them seek different things, you Pan. jerk! deadbeat drunkard dumbass Pulitzer shithead. yeah, me too.
Drizz--bravo-A+ on last stanza in particular...lovely, more please. MORE.
SodaWaffle--who says you aren't a poet? bullshit. my personal favorites: .003, .005, .006 & .009 both have last lines to BOOM, also .007 repetition WORKS. and .013...leaves one wondering. You'd better find more or make more. i'm not even kidding. i know where you live. 

Much love to all. Keep them coming, as I am on a diet of Green Tea alone.

don't look at the following either==ha. seriously, don't even bother.

1.

of course i am mesmerized by you
of course i love you
and that is why you must go.

2.

there was a truck with an N.R.A.
membership sticker,
all the following obscene gestures,
some called bumper stickers:
"in God we Trust" plate on front.
"when the Rapture comes, this auto
will be vacant"
"Smile! Your Mom chose Life"
"The Marines"
"People 4 Eating Tasty Animals"
"Bush/Cheney"
"I vote for gun rights"

not only was the man redundant,
but i wondered how many arms
Jesus would bring to the Rapture.
I thought "Rapture" was a song.

1.

i missed out on a needed good-
bye before and i wouldn't do that
to you.
so it will be quick and painless.

2.

the camouflage canopy was rolled
and tossed into the back,
the gun rack was mundane.
the confederate flag lynched my
skin.
and even though i'm an omnivore,
i respect the vegetarian.
so jesus likes your ammo,
and God loves your hunting tips.
there is a styrofoam cooler
smashed to the side
because i can tell you're into
the environment.
i love your truck and the way it
makes you feel when you
go deer-spotting.
drinking Pabst at 3 a.m. and
ready to shoot shoot shoot
a bunny would do.

1.

mind you, i've never done this
before.
it will be as hard on me as it is
on you.
don't be scared, because i love
you.
don't be scared.

2.

i had been given my dismissal
papers from my job,
i had one piece of red licorice
to eat, and i didn't even want it.
"so sorry to see you go, and hope
you get well."
and so your truck.
with Valvoline bottles in the back.
assorted cans of cleaners to
wax and make your Home
away from home.
as cool and corporate.
cool and corporate.
so i'm sorry i flicked my cig
into the back of your fucking
truck.
it took a half hour to hear sirens.
and when i looked out,
part of my body shook in terror.
part of my mouth smiled.

your whole statement
was up in flames.
and my new name was
arsonist.
no one knows, and even
here
it can't be tracked to me.
don't bother Mr. Honor.

1.

please don't say anymore.
just close your eyes.
we already tried the pills and
it did not work.

1.

lean back,
turn your head and give me
one last kiss.

1.

there now.
doesn't it feel better that
your jugular has let go?
the look on your face
is scaring me.
so another kiss.
and another.
another.
that's it honey,
slide down my legs easy.

1.

so sorry we have to go.
but we have to go.
and you drew the straw,
and i got stoned.

1.

now your eyes are closed.
now the gun can be put
in my mouth.

at last i am done with love.
so sorry that we loved like
This.



#1 is not the same "person" as #2. i'm not even talking about going potty either. that's gross and horrifying.
 

 
 
Logged
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Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful

Rob

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #40 on: April 27, 2009, 09:17:39 PM »

I am completely blank, so this will be awful, but I am still going to give it a go...

1.

it's around noon when the
world sits down.
tea or wafers, naps and
sandwiches,
all of them with low-fat
non-fat
because you are fat
dressing.

2.

it's around 9 p.m. when the
stores stop selling.
the employees sigh and
clean their station,
the worst job being the
bathroom.
the best job being,
that the managers watch
while someone lower
cleans, cleans
and gets one last soda.

3.

every poet wants to feel
synesthesia,
a combination platter from
a fast food place,
where a hamburger
all brown
is combined with letters.
in this case,
in the dryest month.
i'll say
brown.
b -r -o -w -n.
letters and colors swirled
into pixie sticks.

4.

sometimes this neurological
illness seems
to make the high pitch in a
song
relate to lighter colors.
and i pray it isn't
b -r -o -w -n.
when it snatches on
to my delusions.

5.

we all seem to have caught
the flu.
calling off working a
dishwasher's choice,
brunch tubs.
b -r -o -w -n.
let us
nap and notice those
round areas are starting
to get jet lag.


6.

you've been around
sleep walkers.
a stabbing or bludgeon
of the wife,
even driving to work and
working the register
in pj's.
not at noon, and not at
9 pm.
but something is off on
the daily planner.
b -r -o -w -n.


7.

we all have cryptomnesia,
what is named
a "concealed recollection"--
the subconscious
of a dog
knows when it's dinner.
begs to go take a piss.
and the subconscious
isn't the only
exemption.


8.

it's just the best acquittal
for remembering
what was forgotten.
like how the cat goes
into the box
and claws the sides.
same time
after
snacking and dinner.
it thinks in terms
of cleaning its station.
becoming a manager.
hitting the snooze for
ever.

9.

i have synesthesia
because i've worked hard
on spelling
b -r -o -w -n.
and the color also means
the letters
s-h-i-z-c-b. why is irrelevant.
i'm washing and
clearing out the house,
which is my permanent
work station.
taking a nap at the
accurate sound.
a tone for the big
keel over.


making regrettable
remarks to my doppelganger.
i saw Mr. B-R-O-W-N
and told him I am switching
letters to numbers,
so retire on an island because
now
you mean 47689. and a light
shade of chartruese,
possibly

they say it's an omen
of death to see
your own
"evil twin"
but i don't believe in playing
around
when it's noon time.
dinner.
and closing
shop.



i'll figure this one out later. those two terms i used are real terms, one is a real disease, the other ...look up Jung and Freud (even) and see what a "concealed recollection" is. not quite the same as a repressed memory, but close. i'll fix it later. just had to get a mash of ideas out at once, as I couldn't choose one to go on...i'll keep cleaning my work area. i also have a shitload of pm's to write.

thank goodness i don't have anything to lose!


all i can say to that is turdball. sarcastic turdball. here i am, encouraging SodaWaffle, (who has obvious abilities whereas you don't) and you are being a turdball. oh, i didn't mean that. i luvs ya. here. emoticon. 

-------------------------------------------------------turd

daddy
i was the apple of
your eye.
now your eye reverses
further in.

i was a dream
full of wishes.
your older brother
incognito.
a tough and serious
dry, laughing
bastard.

daddy
that was 18 years ago.
now you sigh
when i ask you
anything.

you sigh all the time.
and i think
truth be told.
i'm the discovery
that even an apple
can turn into
juice.

and that juice
makes you worry
and you drink it
wishing i would
move on.
disappear.
grow up threw my
bravery
and childishness.

but i will not.
and you hate poetry.

and i hate your
dinosaur collection.

and we have nothing
to talk about anymore.

except your diet.
my diet.
and one chuckle
shared.

just one to remember
what i was--
where you were in
your thirties.
where i am now,
always ignored.

and how you hate me
So.

just as you now hate
your older brother
dying.


and there has never
been a god damn thing
either of us could do.

but lose
each other


daddy.

i should tell you
one last thing.
you were an
endless
source of strength
Then.

we have dwindled.
you are not to blame.
but these endless
grenades...

are why i am letting go
of believing in
anything
any one.
anywhere
ever again.

so overly dramatic
you'd puke
if you saw this.

you'd lie and say
i was one of the
best things
ever happened.

and we both need
to stop lying like
That.

because your patience
is gone.
and i stand mute
and moot
outside of
what you will
never read.

you hate poetry.
and i hated playing
chess with you.

we should have known
softball would not
be enough
for a lifetime.

sarcastic dependencies
or not.
you being my God.
me being your God.

there is no God.
so why do you want that.
why do you say you
don't fear death.

but you do
you do
you do.
and if you read
what i don't even put
here.

oh, that idiot.
taking it all for granted...
but it's not that.
it's the juice spilling
down your shirt.

you have squashed
me.
your pessimism edges
deeper into running
for Life.

mine
is starting to hate
my


daddy.


-----------------------------
okay, quite simple. too simple. too melodramatic. but, as always. there it is...surely the everyone, anything any one bullshit needs to go at the very least. one can't address family members as easily as they wish...at least not initially.


in humble honor of two extraordinary people.
"better, better not see. better, better, better not tell." <eh? Amanda
and hadouken regards as well... 

don't expect Shakespeare on this one? give it my best for now...


first one maybe:
ikissedrobbie!
don't say anything!
especially to ...

(we played behind a
bush. what's yours
look like? not like
me) natural.
never said.

but for the lesbian.
crushes
never to be revealed.
crushed on top of a
tin lunch box,
stupor while announcement.
"A" is for apple.

eventually.
moves. peers on top
of King of the Mountain.
on the head of a ballpoint
#2 pencil.
eating by yourself at lunch.
a tornado took. glances
and giggles. your name
is a bomb to diffuse,
barter with for pot later.
an explosion, a tremble,
and a stutter.
sitting in the back of a
bus.
bullies poking fun.
your hair ripping down
a cliff like a frog's tongue.
not caring for a shower.

run
run away.
caught at the door.
where do you think you're
going?
Out. wish i was a bird.
a rock or fungus even.
macabre.

discontinue turning in
papers about the gross
national product.
dissolve.
seeing visions while
family
family
beatings. verbal.
sexual. physical.
so common dear child.

animosity is a four-letter
word you can use the
rest of your
sunken
exposed and bitter
life.

won't be the same
when you cultivate into
something other
than flesh.
save up for a canvass
and a song...
blooming happens whether
you want it.
birds speak in titters,
and they call you.

now
later
run again.

pretend the Universe
is wrapped in toothpaste.
hope the World sees a drop
of your water.
bite into chocolate wrappers
and snort tar.
dodge, duck, and evade
the Master

school and family
tied in a 69 position and
there is no room for
a bedroom here.
pull out your drawer.
that is where you are.

tap into cyberspace.
that is where i am.
evade the walking dead,
the zombie
dispense. the bottle rocks
and fills looming mouths.
but not the free age.
look over at the river.
it calls you.
but don't dial the number.
enjoy flow and blow
a huge bubble,
smacking her and him
right under the chin.

find me.
find me.
i am child.
adult formula.

and i don't believe
in the number
spells.
will defend the love
for hate,
while it fumbles through
a pickle jar.
rejuvinates for air.

finding any number
outside a bedroom
where 69
is a fucking trap.

we'll meet.
open your drawer.


-------------------------------

as always, not what i wanted. but you know who i love, if you're reading this. and if you don't know who i love, you haven't asked me, have you?


Daphne jokes with me. Pervert. and quickies happen, but Cupid strolls in with a google (not the site, but the "sight") of arrows, making us all.
Love ----ly. What he offers almost makes me flush. My skin textured not the way it is usually noticed, but flushing was in my ancient body. (how i doth miss the orgasm, but the orgasm misses me as well)

Driving?


"imbecile"
she thought.
i can see you digging
far up that nose,
so far up that I
could actually be in
awe inspecting
the ramifications of
the passage.
or puke.

reaching down to
the passenger floor,
searching out the tissue
box.
it moves away.
her hand moves closer.
it moves away.
her hand moves closer.
it moves away.

and she wrecks.

"imbecile"
she thinks.
well.
that's the end
of that appointment.

where's the insurance
registration
driver's license
and

----

i'm going to find
the tissues
and pick my nose
as this dickwad
screams
at my window.

"imbecile"
only the man at the
window
is saying words i dare
never say.
like fucker,
for instance.



----sorry folks, i'm deprived of sleep again. so standard, it makes "my man" look like it's new. (and i like a lot of "standards" but insomnia is...what?
 

 
 
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Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful
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