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Some phone number poems that a creative writing teacher had us do. The first i did about a week ago. the second i did a year ago. The third poem is one i did last spring. dig it. or don't.

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Won’t talk
For Two weeks or
More, so says etiquette
And what if I don’t see you in
Three weeks or four? That promise
You made, will you still
Remember it?

Write me a Pretty One M.R.

In the not too far off distance
I here the faint splashing of an indie song,
That reminds me of you ?

Maybe not of you,
But your gait
And if I want to reminisce about
Your demeanor I will twist
And gnarl and damage the song
To be who you were,

To me , it is as if
Whenever I think of the grand entrance
Of the natural history museum you are there
On the steps, in a deceitful black dress

And I weep like a wound infected
Half because you are heaven
An eighth because you are a day at the DMV
Or worse

I’m not alone
I have a partner for checkers
The computer
But I find that you can’t have a laugh
About how bad you are
With someone that much better than you

I’m now on loan
But what a strange feeling it is to own
Half of someone
Like when you take a lean
On a car,
Sure, the bank could take it back

But would they understand the eight-week-old,
Chulupa in the back seat?
Would anyone understand

Your tongue?
Or might they suck
The life out of it
Only to cut it out later

I recognize the song
And draw it closer to me
I have bent the sound to fit me,
To suit you,
Fake- deaf, I tune it out
Only to have my conk- shell –for- an- ear
Throw it back up in a fishy -mess

Then it laughs at me and says,
“Don’t be silly now, I’m your song forever.”

I can’t handle that
So I run away leaving my brain
Behind
My brain is on the ground bleeding
Saying, “Oh! How embarrassing to wear red after my birthday!”



261-7818

I can’t
Be like mountain of rock
I
Live like sand in wind. Like hands
On a clock. Ever dynamic
Pick
Me, cast me aside
Skipping stone

I need a shot of ambition

Poem one
A Poem For Nicholas Dogas


At night the leaves are a yellow phosphorescent
The sick, pale moon a waning crescent
This is the Hour of Witching
I glide on my 10 speed wishing...



Poem 2. I dare you to translate the title

يا اخي اين انت
السلام الذي يتجاوز ال
(Ha Bhai Kaha Hona Apa,
Shantih, Shantih, Shantih)


When it spilled on Jerusalem’s streets: Blood
As we march for our flag to the drummer’s beats: Blood

From a mother’s schism streams
From the hands of the laboring craftsmen it weeps: Blood

When the weak are cut down,
It is the healer into whose bandage it seeps: Blood

As it pours from Ali’s nose
When his face and punch meet: Blood

It is what we share
A sacred promise that I keep: Blood

I put it into all that I sow
And so it is in all that I reap: Blood

Love is blood
And so it will be Julian until we meet: Blood

What else can be said about Eric Cantona that has not Already Been Said?

Lesley's Tattoo
Proves True

Everyone’s so damn far
away
Everything is on steroids

And as all we know
Swells to sizes more
Than even god planed
They inevitably come in between us

The way a 70 inch TV splits a family apart
To opposite hemispheres of their “living”- room -world
“Can you hear me over there Brother? Sister?”
“Not listening.”
“Can’t see you.”

Electronic wedges that push us farther
And farther from our fathers

“Dad I just called because you never
answered my textual message
And email is too slow as you well know.”

“Come home son.” He concedes

“I lost my way home pop.”

“You’re right, I guess the 50’s are done and The Wonder Years
is long out of syndication.”

So I’m an alien on this phallic- like stretch of land.

Ponce de Leon would claim it for his peninsula as
A peninsula of eternal life
A greater man than I would label it “The happiest place on earth.”

But all I know is this:
This earthen penis might as well be an island off the coast of nowhere
Gainesville might as well be in Russia, rather
The Steppes of Asia Minor
And you most certainly are
An aberration from a softer night far ago

I guess I’ll see it all half full and live
In my State of Confusion
Located somewhere between the North and South Pole

Call it self pity, but no one but people like me understand
The concept of one million miles
Meet me halfway, someplace if you agree

Live in States of Unknown
So then you will
Always have a home

The Chimes Blew Just so You could Hear a Language They Hadn't Spoken For Years of Night

<<



^^^ the work of Pat Buck



like my good friend pat explores the limits and parameters of photo shop and his bothers leaping abilities, I want to explore poetry on here so I firgure I will post some different types of poetry I have created. Please feel free to comment in anyway. The first is a poem i just put together today I was a bit inspired by the word ethereal. hmmm. it went through alot of transformation and eventually i just decided to ryhm.


The Ethereal Life of Esther Steel
The ethereal life of Esther SteelBegan in the morning, with a morning meal
The day was turned upside-down upon slipping on a banana peal
Dr. Robert said, “Esther Steel, are you ok? How do you feel?”
She broke her brain, but for Dr. Robbie she was head-over- heels
“I’m sorry, I’m far too old for you Ms. Steel.”
But it was too late she had already given him her heart’s full zeal
And under cover of night with the devil she struck a deal
By hook or by crook their love would be real
So she sent him love letter signed and sealed
Then went to Dr, Robert’s for an evening meal
She drank a blush wine and ate Dr. Robert with side of veal.



The second is a poem i wrote for a girl who is an engeneering major. it was over the summer it was the first poem of it's kind and the first thing in genral i had written in quite a long time. it made me happy. i hope you like it. she claimed to.... though i haven't seen her since...


Civilly Mechanical
I feel you in the nuts and bolts of me
And if you want to be mechanical about it
You leave the very hinges of my soul undone
Come in
No one ever said a sweet word to me
Without a knife to my spine soon to follow
No one has woke the ghost of my motherI asked her, “Mother, can you see that light across Peck’s Beach, to the North?”
No one owns light
And it cannot be contained by any set of four walls or three
You see, if I wanted another piece of property
In the form of a pretty faceI’d have traded my mind again
For the spoils of another less-than-honorable war
And her name would be…What use be a name for that type of woman?
At this point in my life, what name could evoke anything?
Other than yours, the one that I want to sing
What’s a future without you?Not one I’d care to begin
I scaled a bridge the other dayWhat a lofty bridge it was,
Like something you might have dreamed up
Atop I saw a sun so bright,So piercing
I could not look away
To say it reminded me of you would be no truer
Than all those pretty faces,
You my dear are less harsh than that blistering orb
But to be sure,I wanted you next to me
all the while that I burned in the sun.

Coming to you live from florida (go figure)

^^^went on google to find my classic etching and saw this on the front page. killer !^^^

I'm back you fucks! and in truth, I never left. I'm speaking frankly and as if anyone ever read this thing in the first place! haha. oh well occording to this thing i have one "follower" (i'm like jesus) it's alie singer. I highly doubt she ever read my shit. Alie I still owe you that DVD. haha fuck it. I'm realizing i'm not where near as articulate as i was ner' a year ago. with that said i present a bit of original verse. enjoy ya'll ;)

All the Chickens Will be Laughing (Trees of Brooklyn Revisited)

Never mind the best of us
I, I have seen the rest of us wander out into the desert parking lots, exodus from bars and rest stops with no sleep drunk behind wheels that take them no where in particular.
Bodies and minds prostituted in our highest universities. “Before I throw you out of my class may I ask you why you have such a sense of entitlement?”
We are all entitled to learn and to do it at no greater cost then our time and our blood and fears and ambition.

We have gone on too long to see men without women and men with out men. Men without sex because there is no revolution. The women are too busy texting while driving and they are now dead. Free love is as dead as communism and the act of necking at the drive in.

Men are turned boys again who live on couches in one room basements in basements in basements in cages. Just where they ought to be, youthful beasts, who wish to make more of their lives, wish to make anything at all.

I have worked shoulder to shoulder with those that do not want to work because it can’t even pay the bills. Why dig your own grave only to die trying to dig your way out?
And yet even to the lucky ones death never comes. There is no cold only the burn of want, ever and always.

Perhaps money is a sickness far greater than those who suffer and sweat through swine flu and strep throat, have broken legs, loose bowls and AIDS. HA! For money won’t afford them the 300 hundred dollar lift in the ambulance. So even the dead are not dead, they are being fucked instead.

Then there are the zombies those that walk both day and night, rather endless night loyally addicted to a tin of tobacco or a real wicked pack. Forget what they tell you about health risk, at 7 bucks a pop tabbacy can’t feed your baby and winter is coming fast.

People have forgotten the elderly that walk the sides of the roads waiting for handicapped access to their graves. Perhaps it’s because the old has forgotten the young just as much. But lest we forget, I speak to you as a fountain of youth.

“Let them eat cake!” OR feast on handfuls of Slim Jims and pour me a tall, warm Pap’s Blue Ribbon because bread and eggs and water are for the Prince of Monte Carlo and food stamps are too passé, besides they aren’t even stamps anymore!

I want to cry for the many with broken hearts sewn together through strings of text messages and with the precession of a Nike sweat shop worker. The heart of the world is coming undone. Touch the next person you see before it’s too late.

Finally a word to the wise, more specifically the literate: My generation knows God is dead (we found his body in one of those soggy bar parking lots after a night of Quizzo) yet so is science (Discovery Channel is way boring nowadays). We are alone as a tree in Brooklyn.