ho ho ho
by rcribay
when i step into the evening
it feels like snow–
absent a blanket of
white–strings of light
blink silent shouts.
when i step into the evening
it feels like snow–
absent a blanket of
white–strings of light
blink silent shouts.
We’ve got a good thing going here
so let’s keep it that way
you shut your mouth when we talk politics
Or just leave
And we’ll grin and bear your monologue
And let you tell your tales
but shut your mouth when we talk politics
or else it gets hard to breathe
dance when coupled with full tummies
always makes for awkward funsies
Eat your piecemeal porridge
and strap on your half-shined shoes
The whole damn sky is coming down
there’s not much left to lose
Your fingers cold, my fingers cold
we’ll wander hand in hand
stomachs filled with piecemeal porridge
and our footprints left in sand
But they’ll wash away eventually
we’ll wash away eventually
and leave us with a fallen sky
to sift through
temptation
unlike most of my day
i do not have to seek out in the least
but rather it is delivered to my door
daily between 3 and 5 pm
though i hear he visits different folks
at different times
i want to write,
to be a star,
to make riches,
to believe in me
but instead
the ideas refuse to cum,
to mate and create words,
leaving an impotence
of silence;
and so i make a snack,
raid some tombs,
read on the toilet,
fix a drink,
make my brain fuzzy
as an excuse for the
non-bursting,
un-gushing,
nay-exploding,
masterpiedic,
self-pleasuring words.
I tried to categorize
my political views today
and this is out what came:
pseudo liberalish,
at times,
I often like to think,
though probably not as much,
as I often like to think.
Up so close
and I can hardly
make you out
So I’ll just assume
that you’re not there
it’s easier that way.
Don’t answer your phone
I won’t be calling.
what is the worth of my time
when I sit quietly listening to you
I sacrifice my life now
for my life to come
but when I try to show my worth
y’all treat it as just my two cents
not much in this present world
filled with the self righteous
the selfish and quite clearly
as they are all the same-the conformists
two cents once a fortune
but now worn and valuable to whom I wonder…
what is the worth of my knowledge
attained through extensive study
when I am rejected and payed no mind
nor respect or tribute for input
that is of the utmost relevance
and has been built upon through
contemplation of mind
and heart and soul
to be applied to all paths of life
which I pray will one day emerge
in the dewy pastures where
you all will sit and say enlighten us
I will not be god nor am I now
but neither am I the lowly serpent
doomed to slither in constant fear
of being trod upon
when I will walk one road and no more
and always have God at side, on hand
and divinely inspiring speech
few constants exist in life,
but there will always be:
death and taxes
and the perpetual,
obsessive need
to save Christmas
those things so out of place they
strike you as beautiful because when
children wear hats only old folks should and
even the dogs take to driving gloves you know the
time may be right for renewal or something like it where
people take to the streets with pitchforks and
hoping they’ll kill something before something kills them they
give up on home brew kits and
moving slowly inside choose to
hide their children from the outside knowing
full well the crop circles could themselves
invade our grocery stores tomorrow and this
scares only just enough to tickle our
imagination to life again and forget how
things should be and turn once more to
just exactly how we made things to be in our heads
in books we read and stick figure drawings we made
TV ads from
the nineteen eighties
and we all wonder
where the good times went
Failure to figure
our personal budgets
we struggle to find
how our money was spent
But that god damned
theme is
stuck in my head
And it probably will be
all night
But that god damned
theme is
stuck in my head
…
Alright.
Aimed for deconstruction
but fortunately nothing was
Broken.
A few corners scuffed
and a paper-cut.
The drapes don’t hang
quite right anymore.
The door squeaks
the window leaks
The smoke detector
fires up at odd hours
in the night.
It’s not quite right.
It’s just not quite right.
But at least nothing was
Broken.
sixty-degree days
in december are as
disquieting as
pooping in a
stall without a lock.
just like johnny five
i feel that i’m alive
struck into being
by a bolt of lightning
constructed of metal
and feeling like a rental
and so I read
and so I feed
and so I drive
and so I thrive
but what is life
without a laser, a phaser, a taser
every day now,
another one comes
with smiling faces
shot in happy places
filled with happy couples
looking devoid of troubles.
but an honest card came today
obstaining from
pictures,
places,
smiling faces;
speaking of
illness,
pain,
divorce,
death
hurrying to get through the letter
hurrying to get through the holidays
looking for hope in a new year
with no reason to hope that
anything will ever be any different.
mumbled along numbered grids
filled and spaced till everything
matched perfectly like a complex
game of logic
and tripped we did
our feet through the cobble
stone
the melodies rolling off your tongue
rhapsodical and fleeting
halfhearted lullabies
sung under your breath
the chemicals driving the motors
of your throat
ah, the whole worlds laughing
poet philosopher
sitting in your liars chair
humming your whiskey tunes
your face beaten by the roads
you’re already too tired
to travel.
jackets too tight for hats much too small
grey, brown, and black not
blue, red and green
for these are the times we struggle
more for food than we
do for love
as it is even harder to find
It was a strange place,
the Cul-de-sac.
I could hear the
echo of my scraping
steps on the
flash-froze
Ice,
a crisp wrinkle in the
sonic architecture of
the small valleyed place.
100 steps I counted
not including the
careful, measured
paces up the last of the
concrete stairs.
Wind picked up
and suddenly,
the car would be gone
if I looked for it.
Wind fell down
and suddenly,
the car was still gone,
because I didn’t quite care
enough to make sure
that I had a way
Out.
The red light makes the room seem warmer
than the furnace should allow
and coming in from such a storm
it’s welcome color on my frozen brow
I’ve feigned the Warrior, standing out
in freezing wind and stinging snow
but now that I’m upon my couch
in heated home, in candle glow
I don’t think I’ll keep up that show.
Smells frostbitten.
Tastes like something
worse, but
I’ll bite.
I’ll probably be sick again.
A small price
to pay, though
for a good,
home-cooked
meal.
Right?
…I am an artistic and athletic nerd with a social conscience, who occasionally enjoys bubble baths, is organized to a superior degree, and reads poetry (admittedly, celebrity gossip on occasion) while defecating…
and all of these things in a bucket
to wrap and pull and laugh so full
pouring out languished thoughts
on fairytales and old car lots with
never painted old white doors greyer
than the wooden floors we sell
to folks who need them not and then
sit and laugh and watch them rot as
worm and moth destroy the dreams
the children hope they will employ
to tender moments in times to come
and slender frames to roll into a couplet
Turn your tired eyes
your tired eyes
your tired eyes
and find the will to rise
and ease your lies
perhaps prevent a
hard capsize
Though Goodness knows
we’ve need for a good
Dunking.
