Autumn's like Autism

I recollect my times-a-dwellin:

Screen doors clattering, agitates my sweet escape

Of sugared plums and chrysanthemum

Holler my name and I must wake

(In your ample accent) calling, "Come get your supper!"

"Krokets and paling? I'd rather lick a brick."

'cause that smokey eel quivers my fork

"Eat! You're slim as a besom's stick."

I peer out the pane, at the laboring goldfinch

Plucking twigs and sticks, embellishing her nest with

The most firey oranges, scarlets, and ambers

A home fit to brood her chicks

And the mealy peaches descend from branches

Bruised and battered, just like my mother ached

And the fruit flies gather, to bid farewell

Amidst the over-ripened wake

And the barking herd, interrupts the order

Border Collie tongues drape like salty palls

Digging shallow holes, like catacombs

'tis a sign that autumn's come

I pull my stockings up, up past my hooked nose

Button-down my flannel, a dead-beat's hammy down

I lace my boots snug, so they cannot part with

my soles, why'd he leave our town?

So I tramped down on towards the marshy, mellow

Pond; string, hook in hand and baited by a fly

And I could not swallow the silent stillness

My breath broke the soundless sky

I casted once, then three times over

Hexed with a rat's luck, the hook swam bleak and bare

So I surrendered to the bank's botany:

Watercress, lotus; despair!

And the polliwogs, you will not decipher

Nor myself, for the sun has bit me brown

And my fingertips have sprouted like thorns

I am a man now, halfly-crowned

I'm the kindest king 'cross my kingdom

Just ask the acres, for they have never ached nor sered

For the water runs from the sound of song

That I hum towards her rainier (rain-ear)

And the botched-tailed cat sifts through the woodlet

Harvesting hares like crops, cultivated just for sport

And I've shunned him time, and time over

"The chicory and peas you may floor."

The spaghetti squash, squalls in fever

Under-tended and obtuse, eager to be stewed

And I knew not of my kindred's recipe

So it rotted and I rued

And the nude painted pantry, which preserves my pickles

Jams, jars, jellies, and a broom just in case

Jealousy ensues a pickled-panic

Becoming irate and sure to break

Beneath the floorboards, all slated and cedar

Where the badgers gather to burrow and gossip

Of that coyote's coat that he adorns daily

All outdated and archaic

And so I sleep all day, for my time is fleeting

Setting all the stars, to rouse me like a clock

And when the sun retreats, I hear the twinkling

A snooze button I have not

I can think of all the things you gave me

leaf piles, pies, heaps of figs; I could be sick!

And all this turmoil turns me taut

Autumn can be so autistic

part of a poem i'm working on - autumnism's like autism (tentative)

The mealy peaches descend from branches

Bruised and battered, just like my mother ached

And the fruit flies gather, to bid farewell

Amidst the over-ripened wake

And the barking herd, interrupts the order

Border Collie tongues drape like salty palls

Digging shallow holes, like catacombs

'tis a sign that autumn's come

I pull my stockings up, up past my hooked nose

Button-down my flannel, a dead-beat's hammy down

I lace my boots snug, so they cannot part with

my soles, why'd he leave without a sound?

So I tramped down on, towards the marshy, mellow

Pond; string, hook in hand and baited by a fly

And I could not swallow the silent stillness

My breath broke the soundless sky

I casted once, then three times over

Hexed with a rat's luck, the hook swam bleak and bare

So I surrendered to the bank's botany:

Watercress, lotus; despair!

And the polliwogs, you will not decipher

Nor myself, for the sun has bit me brown

And my fingertips have sprouted like thorns

I am a man, halfly-crowned

I'm the kindest king, 'cross my kingdom

Just ask the acres, for they have never ached nor sered

For the water runs, from the sound of song

That I hum towards her rainier (rain-ear)

And the botched-tailed cat, sifts through the woodlet

Harvesting hares like crops, cultivated just for sport

And I've shunned her time, and time over

"The chicory and peas you may floor."

The spaghetti squash, squalls in fever

Under-tended and obtuse, eager to be stewed

And I knew not of my kindred's recipe

So it rotted and I rued

And the nude painted pantry, which preserves my pickles,

Jams, jars, jellies, and a broom just in case

Jealousy ensues a pickled-panic

Becoming irate and sure to break

And so I sleep all day, for my time is fleeting

Setting all the stars, to rouse me like a clock

And when the sun retreats, I hear the twinkling

A snooze button I have not

the o.d.

I slipped and fell so fast,
hard, like an aeroplane crash.
Weekend-warrior turned to
week-long, I would not last.

So take these broken veins
and bones, scrub 'til they
are bruised. Make-believe that
I drowned frail and stale, that
I did not misuse.

Just bury me in a bathtub
with a teacup of earl grey.
Run the water boiling hot
'til my pores begin to pry away.

The joints will appear,
marrow, will porcelainize.
I'll lend thee my cup of tea
Sip, squall out your last goodbyes.

And when that claw-foot friend
and I, finally conjoin, you may
bask and bathe 'til the end of day,
I will swathe you warm.

I will keep you

so sparkling,

I will keep you

so clean.

gloomy days/bathtub nights

you could tell
by the way
i slipped

into your arms
you held me
so tight

and warmed
bones from all
this agony

that has
puddled up
inside



oh, i
am tired

and i
am spent



i could tell
by the way
you left

down the drain
without my
gratefulness


oh, i
am clean

a found poem

Under the Big Top

THE CIRCUS IS COMING TO TOWN!

The boldly lettered
and vividly colored
posters shout!

Come see:
death-defying acts,
the slapstick antics
of the clowns,
and brave animal trainers
taming wild beasts.

The smells, sounds,
pageantry, glitter
and romantic façade
of the circus

have captivated
young and old alike
for generations.

The realities of
This so-called
entertainment

reveal a litany of

cruelty
and abuse.

Tin Can Telephone

I rummage through mountains
of tin cans that pile outside the
doorstep. Their empty bodies dented
because mom can only afford discounts.

I find Campbell’s but it’s too savory
and I’ve never fancied green beans.
I sift and sort until the tangy, mildewed
scent of peaches catches my eye.

You’re exquisite! Round like the silver
moon and label still intact:

Halved Golden Peaches.

I dare not rinse your sticky remnants
before I cup you to my
impatient ear.

Oh how the sweet syrup rings
of her voice.

Carnivorous Sea

Tides have vomited
and left you moping in a
puddle of salty
saliva. My mouth will lodge
your ill-green root, sea carrot.



foto props to m.j.

the helpless cries of steamed milk

are disturbed by
neckties,
negotiations,
and firm handshakes.

I grasp your
glazed, ceramic hand
and pull it
towards my lips.

I sip you then
thank you
for your warmth
and my escape.




wrote that little ditty in toronto. that's right, CANADA!!!

ps. happy cinco de mayo!

switch-a-roo

i changed my mind and wrote a different poem for this week. it's supposed to be a memory poem....

Swimming time with plastic

Swimming time with Christina
Can be an awfully miserable playtime activity.
You see, that is why I prefer swimming time with plastic.
I can sit, and splash and kick my feet. I can even
pretend to be a motorboat--
Can she do that?

Her ruffled swimming outfit makes me want to hurl. It’s pink, with glitter. Why can’t she wear something less girly? Like me, geometric print swim trunks, in complementing colors of course.

She'll backfloat with a heart-shaped necklace dangling from her neck, while telling me exactly what temperature of water she prefers.
“Not too hot. Not too cold.”
Who made her Goldie Locks?
She has brown hair. Anyways, back to plastic.

Plastic just sits there while I wade. He won’t talk about what new shoes grandma bought his Barbie. Or the macaroni necklace he made all by himself in Miss O’s class.

Plastic doesn’t speak.
And he doesn’t cry when I splash him in the eyes.
Plastic floats. I can push him through the water to make a tidal wave. I can leave him on the grass and the sun melts him into funny shapes.
Why doesn’t Christina just melt?

I can put my nose underwater.
She can’t do that.

porn-a-thon

i mean, poem-a-thon! sorry to get you all excited in the pants...

but! i'm taking an online poetry class this quarter (yes, again) and so every week i will be posting a poem that i have written. exciting, eh?

here's a rough draft of my firsty: (i'll post the final when it's done)

We have lived and survived

unlike our buried kin.

But the bridge collapsed and buckled

In upon ourselves.

The cement rains across the waters

And the panicked fish.

Our bridge has collapsed and sank

To the river's feet.

The beaver makes herself at home

Within our wreckage.

And her kit will stare with big brown eyes

At our mess.

The water's damned just like our fortune

And tethered minds.

The wind will pull my words to you

Farther down the stream.

We'll stand in silence with the bulrush tall

We won't say anything.

Then the crippled man will fish no more

He'll go on home.

To the wife he's kept and the home he's built

With his bare hands.

They'll rock in chairs, holding hands

For another sixty years.

The trusses rust in a faint orange glow

We've killed everything.

And the bird in flight closed his eyes

But nothing reappeared.


ps: aol just informed me that cindy mccain (john's wifey) is the heiress to anheuser-busch. totes ewwwwwwww!

yerb my mate

at this moment, there are two things i love:

this cup of mate that i hold in my hand,

and the thought of you that i hold in my mind.

<3