Category: poetry

Buddy Poppy

Colonel John McCrae penned it best

when he wrote “In Flanders Fields”

it was one of the most quoted war poems, ever

and

we try to remember all those lost in World War II

but mostly I remember you and

all the stories you told me

looking dapper in your Navy suit and

a sailors cap that surely made it through the first world war

not knowing the cap had a specific name

nor how lucky I was to be at our local Acme with you.

handing out paper poppies, violent red all the same

with a green wire stem that always bent

especially nice around tiny fingers

for an even smaller donation of anything

every penny was accounted for.

Every 11th of November

I give all the sharply dressed gentlemen

holding bouquets of radiant poppies

as many dollars as I can afford

trying my best not to cry and

collect as many as I can wrap around each of my adult fingers

Continue reading “Buddy Poppy”

Non-nostalgia

saw you on the street-i was shopping-you were walking-got a glimpse of me

that’s when everything stopped
and we started talking

you kept both hands in your pockets-not blinking once-keeping those empty eyes fixed upon me

your voice wasn’t the same
it left my ears quite desperate

we spoke but three or four minutes-it hurt me for like three or four days-you still got it

the knees and elbows of your clothes both worn filthy
you reek of utter misfortune

for someone who i always viewed as magnetic-now walking around so dreadful and doomed

gave me the unruly feeling to flee
such a scenario melted my brain for days

the contents of my skull darning-you dubbed it rain-soothing your shame-grey matter just dripping

a lost cause still stuck on the one-mile
grimy boulevard.

Are You Upset That I Finally Left?

And here’s to where we died this time last year

I used to hate our episodic summers entangled in the Burbs.

Stuck in the middle of Mediocre, New Jersey

no breeze to keep us sane

stewing in our sweat

no car to drive us away

ass sticking to the last seat on the NJ Transit train.

The provocation hung heavy-

so heavy it nullified the humidity in the air

and breed our lack of giving a fuck and ill humor.

I swore it had me drunk half of the time

along with that never ending supply of tallboys

and vodka infused Quick Check cups.

The sunrise never ceased

we’d watch in vacant lots

melt in the morning brilliance

while every shade of your eye color

was exposed and new freckles where born

that’s when the weed would be most fragrant

and ambush time into foreign terms.

Down the shore

the beach was an indulgence we took full advantage of

counting stars, sipping on the five a.m. sun,

we used to exhale our disposition

assuming we’d add a touch more to the morning due.

Now I can’t ignore this inclination to smother myself with

that muggy-Jersey air, cheap beer

and even cheaper thrills.

In Utero 2:2

Confusing the lack of sleep with a form of meditation

walking around in survival mode ninety-eight percent  of the time is starting to take its toll

by accumulating a week’s worth of hand-written-slop,

so botched, chickens couldn’t begin to decipher this scratch

cursive hieroglyphs penned down to the dermis during the debauchery

and on the seventh day Kurt Cobain ended his work which he had made;

he rested on the seventh day from all his all his work which he had made Sleeping in Seattle, April 1994.