Tag: poem

Coffee at 12:39 AM

Pouring the nectar into the jar.
The reason I am still awake pours into my car.

Drip, drip, drip.

John Maynard Keynes enters my brain.
I wait to drain the rain.
The rain, the cause of this pain.
A pain that serves no gain.

Drip, drip, drip.

The nectar, this coffee, not consumed for joy.
Consumed as a tool.
The boy reduced to a fool.

Drip, drip, drip.

I drain the rain, emboldened.
Slitting the tiles, some molded.

Drip, drip, drip.

Now it is time to vacuum the zoom-zoom.
It’s now 3 AM, I will not wake up for the zoom.

LaCroix at 1 AM, a Haiku

I crack it open.
Razz-crannberry LaCroix can.
I take a few sips.

I hear it bubbling.
It has been thirty minutes.
Pleasant background noise.

But then I finish it.
Gone are the bubbling bubbles.
Just an empty can.

Don’t read into this
It is just about La Croix.
Drank at 1 AM.

Or give it meaning.
That is all up to you, dawg.
This is the end, bye.

Sing Into My Mouth

NOTE: This is heavily inspired by Talking Heads’ This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)

Choose a song, whatever it may be.
It will be fine with me, but you better know it.
Know it by heart.
Not as a performance of art.
I cannot take anything less.

If it is earnest, I will let you call me Ernest.
Sing into my mouth.
Do not stop to think, just sing.
Get lost in it, the less we say the better.
Let it resonate.

I am your microphone and speaker.
I will do my best to not give feedback.
Just taking it in, however it comes.
Just this I ask of you, give it the same way.
This is how I will know I have been domesticated.

Whatever song it may be, I know this must be the place.

To Penny of Pennsylvania

You were chosen because you were a runt.
One could say you died because you were a runt.
Only one kidney to keep you alive.
To get you home was quite the drive.
On my lap you did sit, now you have sunken into a pit.
Wiry black hair I would pet without a care.
Small as could be but big in heart.
You barked at the doorbell as if it were an art.
In your final days beneath the grandfather clock.
You lie there in shock.
Your clock ticking down as you drown.
When you first got home I played with you in the den.
You were rarely put in a pen.
Before you left I played with you as you felt so blue.

Parkway

The parkway, a place of solitude, where budding thoughts begin to bloom.
The tress on opposing sides appear so far.
As I near, they begin to part the sea seemingly just for me.
The stone bridge I drive beneath makes me feel complete.
Windows down as I leave town.
There is folk in the air, and wind in my hair.
Windows down as I leave town.
The road ahead is all I can see and all there ever will be.
Nothing can stop me.

I Hope Your Day is Made

I’ve seen you as I drive by.
You’ve never seen me.
I pass by the stop on the way to my destination.
The stop is your destination.


How long have you done this?
It seems to make you happy.
How often do you do this?

I haven’t seen you for a couple of years.
Have you continued to do it since I’ve last seen you?
I’m dying to know.
I know absolutely nothing about you.

What’s your story?
Oh, how I wish I could know.
I never will.
Some curiosities remain curiosities.

I’m going to call you Henry.
I hope all the trucks blow their horns for you, Henry!
Would that make your day?
I hope your day is made.

That would be a lovely sight to see.
What’s your story, Henry?