Author: Jared Abraham

alarm clock conspiracy

poetry

i tried to make it less painful,
a concession to the wife,
by switching from the buzz-buzz-buzz
to the delightful sound of the radio;
but even music can be a bad start
especially when it’s in the form
of Hall and Oates or some-such other
overly-happy sounding band
that seems to be playing
everyday at exactly wake-up time,
as if they are watching,
waiting for the exact moment
to spring the trap,
to darken the day
with horrible morning music.

memory

poetry

it might have happened
or it might not have,
it’s so hard to be sure
of anything these days.
and if it did,
and i’m not sure it did,
what was it like?
i just can’t seem to see it anymore,

because one minute it’s tall
and the next it’s so small,
one minute i’m afraid
and then i’m filled with rage,
and the truth is so hard to decipher,
when i’m purposefully fooling myself
each and every day,
going entirely off of a memory,
held together only in an imperfect mind,
not holding the truth,
but only interpretations
that may or may not be
factually and empirically true.

i’ve got these friends,

poetry

good, good friends;
who i know everything about;
who know nothing about me;
and with these friends,
i’m always happy to be,
just sitting back
watching their every move,
listening to their every word,
slightly detached,
as if they’re far away,
separated by a pane of glass,
the windows that i watch them through.

and sometimes i talk;
or at times i shout;
i’ve even whispered,
but they never seem to hear,
never seem to change;
just keep going their own way,
doing their own thing,
doing what they do,
oblivious of me,
oblivious of my presence,
oblivious of my love.
but still i watch;
but still i will watch,
until they learn to love me.

it’s that time of the year again

poetry

i’d like to hit the road,
and i’d just like to go
out into the roads of America,
where i could watch it all roll by
from the back of a pickup truck
or the passenger seat of a car,
picked up by whomever,
whenever,
wherever,
so long as i just go,
exploring,
traveling,
leaving
with only a bag and a whistle,
and perhaps a stick or two,
and a can of beans at night,
shared with a good friend,
met perhaps by chance
but still a friend for the night.

but there’s just one hitch in my hike,
that no one would pick me up,
but would instead see my lack
of matted facial hair,
or of straggly hair, blowing in the wind,
and of features made hard by the sun;
and i would be given just a passing thought
that i must be a serial killer,
running away from trouble back home.

even if i never have sex again,

poetry

and it’s all your fault,
i won’t hold it against you,
and i’ll still love you
because it was not your fault
but only natural
to come between us
to separate us
to keep us apart
whether we wanted to be
or not;
and you have your needs,
and i have mine
and nothing,
nothing i say,
nothing you do
is going to change that;
so we’ll go on this way:
never looking back;
never turning aside;
never regretting;
never having sex again.

every now and again,

poetry

i still count your toes,
just in case one happened
to grow overnight,
perhaps sticking out askew,
or hiding beneath the others,
trying to not be seen,
trying to hide the freak within;
and if you did have an extra digit
or even four, i really wouldn’t care
and i might even love you more
for openly embracing the freak within.

funereal anticipation

poetry

two days from now
i’ll wish it was two days from then
and that i could be back here
in my drab, too small cubicle
eavesdropping on my co-workers’
impotent, constant complaints
because anything is better
than watching a mother
whose lost her only son;
whose lost her future grandchild;
whose lost her hope
in her loss of everything;
everything that matters;
everything that gets her out of bed;
everything that gives her purpose
to face a day in which she will know
that she’ll never again
talkseetouchhugkiss
her son again
and that she’ll never have
another chance.

PJP

poetry

i guess you never had much of a chance
to live a happy, normal life,
growing up in your house,
filled with tension,
filled with strife:
from the mother whose pain
was still all too present,
and the reminder you were
each and every day
of the father who lived
a few towns away
but never had the time
to come see you
because he had started a new life,
with a new family,
and new kids that weren’t you.

and that is how i remember you,
subsuming the rest of your life
into your childhood,
reading your life like a book
in which the ending is foreshadowed,
inevitable;
and even though i now realize
that i never really knew you,
cousin though you were,
I still think that i know
what made you tick,
what made you go away:
running away from your past,
running away from your pain.

it was not so very long ago,

poetry

in a town not so far away
and for the first time
in my not so long life,
I was not constrained;
and sitting on a not made bed
that was not quite yet mine
in a room with a phone
that I could not work,
I realized that I was free
to do,
to be,
to destroy
what i wanted,
and as i sat on the not made bed,
not sleeping,
i was not afraid;
i was terrified.

disgusting things

poetry

pop up in the strangest places,
like on my key ring
in the form of a rewards card
with lamination receding
from every corner,
opening the way
for putrid, green filth
to work towards the center;
and it might be mold,
or it might be green ear wax;
it really looks like boogers,
and kind of like rancid baby poop,
and it’s just disgusting.

and all the while,
that has been in my oblivious pocket.

i remember being 12,

poetry

and i was enamored,
much like when i later got hammered,
and my mind was filled
with thoughts that thrilled
every part of me
as i watched the tv,
and i wanted so much to compete;
and I wanted so much to complete
ly leave behind the stocky boy I used to be
finding the athletic god ahead of me.

so i decided to go get myself a snack,
thinking that tomorrow i would hit the wrack.

The Lyger

poetry

Lyger! Lyger! burning bright
In the midst of a fight,
What skilled artist tragic
Could draw thy skills in magic?

In what distant land or place
Did thy perilous form take shape?
On what inspiration were thee based?
What the paper could have thee encased?

And for the purposes of meeting a girl,
What maestro of pen could thee unfurl?
And when thy form began to take shape,
What the dressing of thee in a cape?

And to be sure thee did not suck,
What the pencil? What the fuck
Were the thoughts on his mind,
While he starred off, as if blind?

When he danced with all his might
Were thee only or a friggin blight?
Did he smile his drawing to see?
Did he who drew Pedro draw thee?

Lyger! Lyger! burning bright
In the midst of a fight,
What skilled artist tragic
Could draw thy skills in magic?

bad fantasies

poetry

i knew that you wantedneededyearned to talk
but i had to go
and no entreaty could sway me from my course,
so you didn’t entreat,
nor did you cry,
but sitting there calmly,
in that moment i watched you die;
and what was you before
became cloaked in stone
and in statuesque grandeur
you calmly watched me walk away
because i had to go.