Month: July 2009

ntuledi

poetry

you said you did but you
didn’t understand
do you know how hard it is
to want to be your man?
and will i fall victim to some
heavy hand plan
will i set sail just to find
more land?
i am pulling at these wits just
to find their ends
i am but a cloud in a world
of cement
i am just a clown trading
laughs for his rent
i do not want to go
just to know where i
went

Tape Deck

poetry

My favorite part
is the space between the
last song and the
first song
where all you hear is
static until the tape deck
pops in to reverse
and creates silence for
a split second

Those are the seconds
that I set aside
to think straight

86 Nova

poetry

these hurricane winds beat at the side of us but we ride them readily
our steady ship she blasts through
moving quickly through
i, screaming, “it’s been such a long time”
holding onto ropes with entire body held out to sea screaming “i guess i should be going”
wind beating at my face, ship
half capsized
our captain screaming “but time doesn’t wait for me
it keeps
on
going”
the thunder cracks,
the crewmates cheer
our nova, she rights
we see land in the distance
leaving her at the port the villagers of this place know that we are pirates
because we left the fucking music on when we went in
just to pick up cigarettes and mountain dew
to keep our engines running
and when we get back out our captain is already in his chair singing “we’re going
off the rails”
and we jump back in the ship, cast off,
singing “we’re going off the rails
on a crazy train”

Nice Days

poetry

On days that I’m working
It’s always so beautiful outside
And I bewail that I can’t enjoy
Sun splashed mornings
Chased by balmy afternoons
With an idle zephyr that bitten into,
Tastes of euphoria

But then again,
Maybe everyday is this beautiful
And I slouch till two in the afternoon
Not having the slightest inclination
To go beyond my dank room on the days
That I’m not ensnared behind a desk
Observing lives whittled down
To the pursuit of dead presidents

Special

poetry

All things
are just things
until
something happens
that gives
the thing
mean-ing

That tree is not
my tree
but someone
had their first
kiss beneath it’s
boughs

That bench is not
my bench
but someone
slept there every day
for an hour after work
waiting for the city bus
(and missed it
every first time ’round)

This tree,
though,
is my tree
This bench,
my bench,

and I’d tell you why
but where’s the fun in that?

[sic]

poetry

your faCe in the
throws
of magical attic Rooms
we hid from A
vue
hoPping things might
turn out better than the
flopPing crawling sniffling
you turned out to be
a big dissapointment to most
who knew You

so puh lease return from whence
you came from the pull down
ladder steps up to the hidden third
floor where moth and rust live on FOREVER

Ordinary

poetry

How many times
Can I admire out the same window
At scene I’ve seen
So many times before
And appreciate the view unchanging
But always changing
With the seasons
With the time of day
With the weather
With every minute that wind zips
Through thick layers of leaves
Tethered only by wavering stems
Or tugs a crinkling candy wrapper
Along the gum stained curb
And still find beauty
Amidst the mundane
And unacknowledged

a rock and a hard place

poetry

when everything
piled together
becomes too much,
what is there to do
but to lock up one’s feelings,
to lock up one’s thoughts,
to do away with one’s humanity
and become something hard
that can’t feel the pain
of a lost love,
of a lost child,
of a lost friend,
gone for good,
for no good reason.

little shop of horrors

poetry

when i first saw them,
all i could see was him
sitting quietly,
defeated and in shock,
surrounded by those he loved
and who loved him best,
but utterly alone,
lost in his own thoughts
and dark memories.

no one had anything to say,
except for “i love you,”
whispered in a hug
or with a brief touch,
trying not to break
the silence that we all knew
would soon be broken in shouts
of painfrustrationdisbeliefanger,
as the realization washed over us all
staining our minds and memories
to match the blood covering his hands.

this is not a sexual reference

poetry

they wrapped it up and stuffed my insides like a burrito
layering tortillas then chicken
(dark meat)
and pounds of black beans
before the barbecue sauce around my midsection
topping it off with cool silantro
(you can never have too much)
they layered in some sour cream before my esophogas then reached down
(below my belt)
and pulled the tortilla up around my ears then back down again and i
would be a lot more comfortable
if you’d unwrap my foil shell
and devour me