Author: Jared Abraham

boy, you’d better get your head on straight

poetry

because mine’s not,
and at least one of us
needs to think good
and to be able to
open their eyes,
despite the harsh fluorescence,
and the bright computer screens,
and the dull pain
just behind the right eye
and the feeling that all i want to do
is close the door
and lay down on the cool,
rough office carpet
and sleep

but for now i’ll settle
to rest my eyes
as i type,
hoping that no bosses walk by.

send the tornado

poetry

and blow us all away,
out of our small lives,
out of our small town,
huffing and puffing
and blowing our house
away to a far off place
where anything is possible
and we can experience the magic
that truly comes from
new beginnings.

This was not what I intended but somewhere along the way, and despite my best efforts, I got semi-sentimental

poetry

i could sit here all day
watching you grow,
perhaps wishing that you would grow
faster
or add in a little more
excitement
but still content,
happy in your acceptance
and in your love,
happy in your dependence
and in the symbioticism
between me and you,
between you and me
and in the truth slowly unfolding
that there is no you without me,
and perhaps after all this time,
there is no me without you.

alone

poetry

again,
not for the first time,
nor for the last time,
knowing this to be
merely a state of being
that will go on,
and on,
ad infinitum;

so pour another drink
my imaginary friend,
and let’s sit together
and talk about the past,
regaling each other
with memories
of who we once were
and who we used to be,
laughing and crying
all at the same time,
in the presence,
of good company.

“April is the cruelest month”

poetry

with flowers springing
ever which way
leading to joy, happiness,
serendi-piteousness;
all along the streets
suddenly they appeared,
as if out of nowhere,
coming forth from their dark confines
experiencing the outer-airs
with thoughts of “this is the life”
and unspoken thoughts,
even to themselves, of
“things are going to change,”
leading to springing dreams
of quitting it all,
returning to the wild,
as they cut their grass
trimmed their hedges and
kept the wild at bay,
except for in a memory
of a time when coming over the mountain
they saw a valley
filled with flowers
“red and yellow black and white
they [were] precious in” their sight
and through the flowers flowed
a stream from which they drank,
without fear or tablets,
and felt the icy cold water flow,
making their teeth hurt again
even in the memory
of the water rushing down,
down, down, down, down
through their depths
washing away the inner accumulated filth.

coffee stained insecurity

poetry

domino like,
one thing lead to the next:
from the spilled coffee
to the fear
to the looks
that turned into glances
and finally into whispers,
followed by giggles
which only lead to stammering,
stuttering,
hemming,
hawing,
lying,
and intellectual posing,
driving home my dominance,
driving home their ignorance,
counting the moments
until I was done
and could escape back
to the safety of my office
secure within my
collapsible,
impregnable,
fabric fortress
where it all ended,
once again,
in tears
because it’s hard to make it
and even harder to fake it
when i’m wearing my confidence
on my coffee stained sleeve.

the end is nigh

poetry

and i will not repent
my enjoyment found in
the sight of your leaving,
relishing the view
of your backside
metaphorically walking away
out of my life for good,
never to be met again
on this side of eternity
or on the other,
allowing heaven
to be heaven still,
secure in the knowledge
that you won’t be there.

condescension

poetry

walking along,
feeling alone
in the lost land
of American Idol fans,
constructing a generation of
lounge singer heroes,
reliving the glories
of innovative artists
who have now passed into
the general mediocrity
of the past:
free to be groped;
free to be grabbed;
free to be destroyed.

and so i sit here,
listening to my indie music,
looking down my nose,
secure in my intellectual superiority,
evidenced by my musical selections.

cliches

poetry

minutes, hours, days pass
stretching into weeks
of glassy eyed starring,
just starring at the screen
searching for something
searching for anything
searching for creativity
but finding only befuddlement
in the never ending quest
for words and ideas
that i haven’t written before
and knowing deep down
that i have written this all before.