Good joke trope: Beginning a sentence in a harmless fashion, then turning it aggressive and weirdly specific and directed at a generic name because it’s fucking funny, Susan.
Protest Poem
My mother didn’t understand my fear
of our new president until I put it in terms
she could understand much clearer.
Before, it was “he’s just the president,
he doesn’t have all the power,”
But then I told her, mom,
he reminds me of my father.
Sitting at that dinner table, she made
her boyfriend stop talking over my concern,
with shocked tears in her own eyes
she said, “stop. You don’t know my ex husband,
if this stupid man makes her feel like that,
we’ve gotta believe her.”
I will not walk the four walls of my room
waiting for death or blissful sudden silence,
like I did each night when I was a teenager.
I’ll be the version of me that sometimes
found the strength to descend the staircase,
to stand between my mother and a monster.
Only my mother is now the nation, is nature,
and you better believe I will protect her.
Rain
on the
tin roof
calms
the soul,
uplifts
the spirit,
smells
of home.
Droppings (a poem)
Droppings
And all the
wee naked
beasties
of the field
gather around
graveyards
amazed
by the fuss.
romance.
i’m doing fine
i’ve been exchanging
love letters with the sky
and finding comfort
she and i share
the same kind of eyes
somedays they’re more
blue than others
somedays they look
so grey that it’s hard
for us to see in color
and that’s okay
because we both have
our rainy days, sometimes
thunderstorms or hurricanes
but we always recover
the sky finds comfort
in the way she’s portrayed
when my pen moves
the way a ballpoint
and a blank page
can set the stage for
romance in a ballroom
she’s been teaching me to dance
a poem
seeing the sun
after it sets
is a curious sight
it’s finished it’s run
and passed the horizon
but it still shines bright
as the infinite black
pollutes the fiery sky
the sun turns to white,
like a halo, almost,
so just for a moment,
you can see how
the moon reflects it.
1.22.17 (II)
When it’s evening in the south
a rich haze floats down over
everything, a deep blue we
don’t have back home.
Neon storefront lights are up,
and headlights start to flicker on.
I feel for the drivers who leave them off,
stubbornly fighting night, just
a few moments away.
Maybe, like them, beginnings make me nervous.
I prefer closure to starting over.
I can’t describe the color of the dark blue
sky as winter begins to think
of spring. But the feeling -
the finality - I watched the blue go from
baby to sea to midnight -
and I knew, at peace, a chapter has closed.
01.22.2017
Some days
it is difficult,
to capture
yourself-
To watch.
To be calm.
To forget
knife
wounds,
and scar
tissue.
We have
always
been whole,
just not
in the ways
we want.
Gasoline Fumes
I knew a kid–
very Catholic–
who used to huff
gas in his parents’
garage on weekdays–
sat on a pew every
Sunday.
Said he saw more of
God
in the bottom of a
plastic bag
than in the words
of the priest.
If he could find God
in the distillate of
a world a million years
dead–
just what God was he finding?
– S. E. De Haven (SnuffyArt)
What did you think?
punchline
i was 16 when i met him.
he was almost 21
and he wanted to be
a comedian.
the first time we spoke,
i thought nothing in
the universe could be wrong
if a voice like his existed—
and when i first saw
his eyes in the sunlight,
i cried. i couldn’t stop.
i thought he was god.
later on, i’d listen to him
for hours as he talked
endlessly about seinfeld,
& i grew a picture
of him in my mind
as the water
that extinguished time.
but the clock still talked.
it ended when i was 19.
he’d been doing a lot of
stand up comedy
before we broke up
and i thought he
was pretty good at it. but
i couldn’t remember what i
was good at. i couldn’t remember.
I forget my
mind, some
days, forget
what keeps me
surging forth.
If I could ever
forget all
I have endured -
sorrow deep
and long as the
sea; a refrain
of sorrow as yet
unsung -
perhaps I’d live
a life
untouched
by sorrow.
See the motions
of the trees?
Their bent backs
lunging over the
green?
See the rain,
as it appears,
a mellow
flush
of it?
I’d be live
as that.
Midwinter Dream
The lake woke up for a moment
Midwinter and stretched
Her light in a sun drenched
Dream, shimmering emerald,
Free from ice, casting waves
And gentle mists in intricate
Patterns. The lake woke up
At midnight, dazzled
By her own awe-striking
Beauty, and wrapped us
In her embrace.
satan-in-a-box