the ironic beauty of south jersey
by rcribay
the sun sets
behind a veil of smog,
igniting the horizon.
the sun sets
behind a veil of smog,
igniting the horizon.
the sunshine reflecting from the snow
on a saturday with nothing to do
stale, repetitive breakfast spiced with chalula
i try not to stare at the pine needles
so much as to let you know they’re more beautiful
than our your conversation
and we stroll
its cold out, but too beautiful for anything save a t-shirt
my feet cool and dry in my shoes and a jacket
a little too tight
breathing the crisp air you talk about your guitar
your hopes for a band we both know will
never materialize
we pass over grass we know we’ll leave soon
and dream of a place better than this
(dirt made mud filled snow now slush)
knowing full well we’ll later dream dreams of this day
recalling the cool brisk air and the joy we feel
knowing we’re soon to be overcome
reminded we cannot beat the cold
more needles and pine trees and squinting through fall
the beauty of spring – the life of so many things
and the death of our shared plight
a place we’ve found so comfortable
balconies where we pledged to smoke at least one bowl
of vanilla black cavendish
friends we were sure would never fall in love
places we were sure we’d never leave
and times we were sure about which we’d never
reminisce
A tenuous magic
exists this morning,
as we lay in bed
daring not to speak,
move, or even hardly breathe,
lest the spell be dispelled
at the slightest stirring.
i really want a beer now
but i dont want a beer now
because i also want a beer later
and i cant have both a beer now
and a beer later
two beers in one day isn’t a problem
except that i want two beers everyday
and two beers every day isn’t a problem
except that then i have three beers every day
and when i have three beers
some days i want four beers
and five beers is really too many
so i have to refrain from a beer now
for feer of beer too beerquently
the ceiling dark and low
er than i remember as a boy
and those who dove so much smaller
but black bart still tickled my fears
and his heart still beat out haunts
as i crawled through his insides
on my way to grotto
behind the waterfall where you had
your first kiss
the mystery
now lost on me
the oily-food runs
not any more fun
my hands
are a boat
which sets sail
along the coastline
of your skin tracing
the contours of
every grain of
sand holding fast
against the welling
and swelling of the sea
coming to safe harbor
at the nape of your neck.
they sat in this room and thought up
the worst things that could happen,
and he followed him everywhere
like some stray cat with no tail
but with lots of tales
and question marks
so many it could block out the sun
some days
and he would distract him so much
it was hard to finish his sentences
there were just so many questions
and so many things that could happen
and of all the things that could happen
one of them would surely not be
his disappearance.
Hips turn and lock in
Sending hide well overhead
Bounding fielders
I could sit here all day
watching scrubs and be
perfectly happy but when
it comes to doing work
it comes so easy to
procrastinate and do
anything else, even
watching scrubs for hours.
lore and yore and just a little more
thus and fuss tomorrow some pus
you, doo doo, flew and MOO!
moose and goose and dr. seuss
ride a bike of electric mass, force, drive, power
whose name (in the local dialect) is a euphemism for
well…
today i paint it yellow
to suit
every day
later i wake
not wanting
to leave you
for the same
reason i do
not jump
off
cliffs.
i keep talking
and reorganizing my words
waiting for an echo to sound
just the way i dreamed it would,
waiting for the words to come
back and for the crowd to
applause, to clamor, waiting
for the worms to hit the
streets after my words bounce
off the earth like rain.
he is the next poe, they would say
he is the next bukowski
hemingway
and i would be claimed philosopher king
the only philosopher king to run
through wal-mart like a downhill slalom,
laughing at capitalism,
dodging in and out of clothing racks.
when i read the phrase
that i do have a choice
every day, i can either
put words down on screen
or i can kill myself
Starring out this upstairs window
the blinds divide my vision
into small slits of life
seen through plastic prison bars
seperating the outer life and light
from the inner cold flurescence
bathing me in a prison of dull colors.
i think my desk is secretly on fire
and it doesn’t want to tell me because
it knows i don’t want to know
whether or not it burns when she slips
into my mind
maybe my desk is secretly on fire because
i secretly am setting it on fire
with the heat of my fists on it’s
fake woodgrain exterior
or it’s on fire because i just
lit it on fire and am blocking out
the memories because i’m losing
my mind, and
it’s keeping that secret from me too
either way, this desk is lying to me.
I’m off into the fray
to confront all of the
little monsters who
if they had lived in
my grandfather’s day
would have been grown
up, out, in, and to the side
by now (as he assures me he was)
but alas are not.
there was a man – once who had
bad sperience after bad sperience
with fireworks (one exploded on his foot)
now i’m awed by a man who had
bad sperience after bad sperience
with bugs which choose to grow in beds
but i admit as a child i was haunted by the
thought
asked my father “from whence doest they come?”
to which he replied “he who doth not wash his sheets”
so every friday like clockwork
i laid in bed and feared what might happen
should i choose not to get up
and swap out those threads on which i lay
The one good that comes from angst
is that now I have a poem to write
where before there was none.
haven’t I done this
many of times before
and yet I never learn,
never improve, instead
choosing to go down
the same old road,
over and over and over again
making a statement
in my selfishness and
watching the pain wash
over her contorting face
struggling to conquer the tears
and remain strong so as
not to be hurt anymore,
never again;
and so I harden a heart
by withholding my own.
you grow your legs, and it’s sink or swim
you throw your eggs at the presidents chin
you eat your grass if your one of the cattle
and bicker and babble over who won the battle
but their building a fence, blocking the sun
and the biggest of the bulls wouldn’t dare run
and the box in the room that keeps talking to you
grows bigger and bigger the more of you it consumes
every single day it’s Obama Mccain
every single day it’s Osama Hussein
every single day it continues to rain
every single day threatens to drive me insane
and back in high school when you gave up your brain
and you put on a mask so you could all look the same
now you spend your days grazing with black and white spots
regurgitating what you eat to see your cholesterol drop.
(Disclaimer: In no way am I comparing Osama Bin Laden to Barack Obama.)
the night before an early rise
i worry my sleep away
fear of a lack of sleep keeps me awake
the times before our every kiss
i anticipate the fun away
building up a normal kiss to something great
The Skins on the corner
with their bubble postures
and the Muscles they walk with
swaying their hips
and the Muscles will flex
all their cologne and fists,
the college Punks,
the Emo’s and their skinny
jeans and cigarettes,
the one’s that fall through
the cracks in the dirt,
and the Alien’s,
watching the sun cross
behind the balet of the
clouds
twidling our thumbs.
between
6:25 and 6:48pm
this street is a
painting
as
sunlight falls
through leafy fingers
photons spilling
like grains of sand
into piles on the shadowy
sidewalk
i’m suddenly afraid
of where i step in case
the paint
should
smear.
sharp faced,
butt chined,
tall, and thin -
a narrow man was he
turned side to the right
and to all’s delight
he done become 2-d
in a perfect world
i would download
all the music i desired
subscribing to the
top emusic service
bringing me every month
75 new songs
(though most are very sorry),
in a perfect world without money
in these photos
you
holding fish
such pride despite
the size and i
can do nothing but
imagine some
vonnegut-esque world
wherein anthropomorphic
carp dangle naked men at the
end of lines
pretending to kiss
their swollen lips
to create humorous
albums on Fishbook.
aspired i (to)
acquire one (who would be)
aloof until (he was)
alive at last (and then)
altogether lost (at which point bumping into an)
acquaintance of (the former clinton)
actors who (played politicians)
accepting those (they never liked)
answered that (which)
applied to (when they had)
arrived at (the place they)
asked of (those whom)
attacked with (great zeal, but)
agreed not (to ever)
achieve the (goal which they once)
aimed for
O the height I wish to aspire to
Impossible unless I require two
To glide, to soar in thoughtful gyres
All land and sky in my empires
