Soon, Again
grooveamatic
Posts: 1,374
Someday I know I'll just start waking up
At six o'clock in the morning again
And drive to my old high school
Bleary-eyed and pissy
And walk unflinchingly into the first classroom
I see, ready to go again.
Or, failing that,
It seems certain
That one day soon the old friends
Will drop by and pick me up
And we'll scurry off to the drive-in theater/pizza shop
To play pool and the juke box and smoke reefer
For a few blissful hours;
Or, failing that,
It seems certain
Any day now some pals from way back
Will knock petitely upon my door
Holding a red bouncy kickball
And invite me to the church down the street
Which boasts a really large green lawn
Upon which we will play a long sweaty muddy game
Of kickball, the kind with baseball rules,
Except you can throw the ball at the runner.
Or, failing that,
It seems certain
That any time now
I will crawl directly back inside my mother
Up the wrong way
And settle down inside the scarred womb
Among the sinew and bloody tissue
To once again hear the songs of angels
And the sleep of forever.
At six o'clock in the morning again
And drive to my old high school
Bleary-eyed and pissy
And walk unflinchingly into the first classroom
I see, ready to go again.
Or, failing that,
It seems certain
That one day soon the old friends
Will drop by and pick me up
And we'll scurry off to the drive-in theater/pizza shop
To play pool and the juke box and smoke reefer
For a few blissful hours;
Or, failing that,
It seems certain
Any day now some pals from way back
Will knock petitely upon my door
Holding a red bouncy kickball
And invite me to the church down the street
Which boasts a really large green lawn
Upon which we will play a long sweaty muddy game
Of kickball, the kind with baseball rules,
Except you can throw the ball at the runner.
Or, failing that,
It seems certain
That any time now
I will crawl directly back inside my mother
Up the wrong way
And settle down inside the scarred womb
Among the sinew and bloody tissue
To once again hear the songs of angels
And the sleep of forever.
.........................................................................
Post edited by Unknown User on
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Comments
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Yey Grooveamatic! Kisses and hugs and whistles
and ahhh THAT was cool!
Thank you.
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that was a very interesting read.. i liked it for sure. Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green0 -
Originally posted by Amaterasu
Yey Grooveamatic! Kisses and hugs and whistles
and ahhh THAT was cool!
Thank you.
Thank you soooo much! I appreciate that reaction more than you know!!!.........................................................................0 -
very good! i like all the visual benchmarks.There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird0 -
Some of these people go around saying corporate america
Like they weren't a functioning
Member of it;
It's perplexing;
They'll saunter around the Wal-Mart
Buying potato chips and Ricky Martin
Like they were buying fig leaves
And hummus
All innocent-like;
Never to blame, us americans.
Always the others, in their
Made-of-money Ivory Towers
Somewhere in the Silicon Valley
Or maybe Boulder, Colorado
These corporate america fuckers
Play like puppets with us,
That's what some of these people seem to be thinking,
Strolling along in their Keds and flannel,
Smoking leisurely on their Kools,
Remembering the good old days
When there were still products
That weren't made anywhere,
Or by anyone..........................................................................0 -
Where do boys and girls go
On sunny chilly afternoons
While old folks chatter idly
About weather and the nation,
Where do the boys and girls go?
Under bridges and nooks,
Crossing brooks and swaths
Toying imaginary and planetary
With only the goo in their skulls,
Into singular, blissful
Moments of the fake?
Where do boys and girls grow
Besides into men and women?
Under the most curious verdant meadows
Where obelisks and markers
Hold steadfast to the earth,
And children sometimes run giggling..........................................................................0 -
Their sweet toils often go awry
Despite the most foolhardy try
With miniature hands and tiny playthings
To devise the purest of imaginings;
And in drives adulthood with strange alloys
To squash the secret governments of boys..........................................................................0 -
The entire time that I sit here writing poetry
On the porch, a bee of decidedly squashable size
Insists repeatedly on tasting my coffee.
He flies about halfway down into the mug,
Alights on the spoon handle, and appears
To daintily sip the steaming brew. I don't mind.
I have more than enough to share with him,
And I am not afraid of catching any diseases
Or getting gunk in my guts from drinking
Where his wild lips have been.
But I am going to kill him anyway,
Because it is my right..........................................................................0 -
Wow grooveamatic
The impact of Soon, Again snuck up on me in the most satisfying way. Good read.
And the rest...And in drives adulthood with strange alloys
To squash the secret governments of boys.
just wowOn the porch, a bee of decidedly squashable size
Insists repeatedly on tasting my coffee. 0 -
Jaidra...thanks so much! I was beginning to think no one was reading them anymore!! I'm glad you like them...and very please that Soon, Again was able to sneak up on you! .........................................................................0
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From the humid rooms of the apartment
We emerge into dry sunlight,
Startled as moles by the narrowing
Of our own retinas and the freshness
Of a morning.
Cars pass noticed. He has learned the word,
And the one for trucks, as well.
His little mouth moves, his little finger points
To light up green cars and red trucks
Like neon rosaries.
In the backyard he finds the swingset,
His skinny four-legged friend,
Resting where it always does.
The dewey grass tickles my toes.
Lighting my cigarette, I watch him
With interest and affection.
I ponder the size and grasp of the universe.
I marvel at the size of his hands.
So small.
A squirrel stretches out on the fence like a ferret..........................................................................0 -
Here we stand on the brink,
Staving the rush of old age:
Throwing our arms up in disgust,
Thwarting fearlessly the rush..........................................................................0 -
Originally posted by grooveamatic
Some of these people go around saying corporate america
Like they weren't a functioning
Member of it;
It's perplexing;
They'll saunter around the Wal-Mart
Buying potato chips and Ricky Martin
Like they were buying fig leaves
And hummus
All innocent-like;
Never to blame, us americans.
Always the others, in their
Made-of-money Ivory Towers
Somewhere in the Silicon Valley
Or maybe Boulder, Colorado
These corporate america fuckers
Play like puppets with us,
That's what some of these people seem to be thinking,
Strolling along in their Keds and flannel,
Smoking leisurely on their Kools,
Remembering the good old days
When there were still products
That weren't made anywhere,
Or by anyone.
Hey! I see it!
Funny thing is, is that these "corporate american" fuckers DO fuck with us. How many phone calls do we get each day from people we never gave our number to? Don't get me wrong. I shop as much as the next American. But I don't want to live off the grid. The complaints are valid... not to any extreme as there are, of course, two sides to every coin, but... all toward evolution, right?
(:0 -
grooveamatic,
Nice writting. Good images, voice, and purpose.Live the life you dream
"Cause I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me
So I can say this is the way I use to be" -- John Mayer0 -
Originally posted by PastaNazi
Hey! I see it!
Funny thing is, is that these "corporate american" fuckers DO fuck with us. How many phone calls do we get each day from people we never gave our number to? Don't get me wrong. I shop as much as the next American. But I don't want to live off the grid. The complaints are valid... not to any extreme as there are, of course, two sides to every coin, but... all toward evolution, right?
(:
Yeah, I know the complaints are somewhat valid, but with this poem, I was addressing those constant complainers and mainstream layabouts who simply echo what they read in Adbusters magazine but never change their actions. I think if someone wants to be a dissenter, they'd better dissent--and stop buying your hummus at Wal-Mart. Know what I mean?
Thanks for reading it .........................................................................0 -
Wal-Mart has HUMMUS???!??
coooool
lmao
gotcha ~ and for all my lack of trust fund, agree
nice stuff in here0 -
Originally posted by PastaNazi
gotcha ~ and for all my lack of trust fund, agree
nice stuff in here
Thanks!
And I only assume Wal-Mart has hummus...they have everything!.........................................................................0 -
On the corner at a small shop I buy a coffee
And take it outside with me.
In the air it steams to cool,
In communion with the breeze.
Strolling east, the cars and bicycles
Are sparse today, even birds are few
This close to downtown. Passing the laundromat,
Sweet, pungent sofetner assaults my nose
And the rumble of coin-op dryers is melancholy and promising.
Turning left onto Reaville Avenue a small boy
Eight years old if a day
Sits on the curb just sitting there
Drying his hair in the sun like the sidewalk
And I almost say hi to him.
The coffee cools quickly in the chill afternoon,
I almost turn back to buy another,
But think better of the three dollars left
In my jean pockets.
I sidle into a quaint bookstore to gape at magazines,
The lives of others and kitchen equipment
Glossy and flaxen, and the portly
Latina by the register eyes me
And she is beautiful in that way
Only Latinas and llamas can be beautiful:
Using solely the eyes.
I ask her where the restroom is.
She grudgingly gives me a key
Knotted to a large wooden block--
As if this were an interstate filling station--
And points me to the back corner,
But the door is open when I get there.
Safely locked inside, my pants stay buttoned
And I use only the mirror, studying my lines,
The old souvenir red blotches, reminding me
Of lives and moments, other bookstores
Or towns; some oversize pores poke peskily
Into view, begging for me to wash my face more often,
But not right now, not now, a time and place for everything.
Giving the key back to the girl, I emerge onto Main Street
And suck deep the stunningly new air,
Amazed by the realization that you are somewhere far away
Occupying real space
Breathing just like me
And smiling right this instant,
Your eyes gleaming like little coins..........................................................................0 -
nIce 0
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I saw a woman stricken today--
With a heart attack, most likely--
It was at the flea market that occurs
Every Sunday in the baseball field
Beside my house.
She lay there quite still,
Her inside arguing most likely,
And no one came running
But one woman wearing khaki shorts,
A daughter probably--
Somebody's daughter--
Who knelt to tend to her.
(she was already dead? perhaps.)
The other market-goers stood,
Seemingly stricken themselves,
Stranded in place and looking on,
Listening as the ambulance
From not-so-far away
Took up it's familiar and chilling cry,
Not just a wailing, but a caution:
You should be good..........................................................................0
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