A Guest

So this is a poem I wrote way back in my senior year of high school. I think every poet writes a poem about a personified Death at some point or another. Alas, here is mine (or at least one of mine). It tells the story of an elderly, Southern woman who is facing her imminent mortality. She meets with her clergyman to arrange her will, before awaiting her "guest". I feel it is very visual and quaint, portraying a kind of "Americana dirge". Perhaps it will inspire you to taste your life as if it were a bit sweeter. Enjoy!

A Guest

"A penny for your thoughts."
I'll give you a penny for your thoughts...

Gently soaring
Higher!
Sore, and only wanting some hot water
For my feet.
Father, come and strangle me with your collar
And crucifix.
Take these tears from me
And let them evaporate by the windowsill
With the salt that's left, sprinkle it over my brunch
My last meal.
"God only knows, child!"
"God doesn't see." 
"Would you hold my hand, while I brush off my knees?"
I've got to write one last ballot before I leave
"You've been hard at work
And I thank you for your time."
"Death's a crime, ain't it?" 
These crocheted aggrandizements should do just fine...
"You run off now!
"I'll be well all alone.
"The day is short, and life is sprinting,
"Ya never know what toward."
Haphazardly dinting...

The dinning room is quiet.  
The grandfather clock is carrying one.
If only we could pause his singing
And breath easier...
The wind is Eastward;
The sun is in the West.
(The Moon's a sneaky child)
While weathermen watch the sky
In denial.
My tea is getting cold.
Best I put the dog out.
I can taste the lint in my pockets.
The woodgrain beneath my feet feels a bit different
Those old slippers...
I should have bought another pair,
But there's no need.
The clock is sluggish.
My friends have all gone.
The Reverend has already been arranged.
I've got my things together;
Everything seems to be in order.

Funny

Knowing all is done 

Everything is forsworn

Regret seems to covet me -   

To compose the clothes I've worn

There's the doorbell.
A guest
I've been waiting for
Standing on my stoop
As I shuffle to the door
I feel the house behind me fade
The memories it holds regress
The years spent within escaping
So it may be born again

Clear my throat.
Try to straighten my back -
Hunched and barely able to oblige.
My heart is beating a little bit slower than I'd expected
Tears finally drying from my eyes.
The door feels so heavy
The light overwhelming from the other side
The shadow there to shelter me in shade

"Are you selling me a vacuum?
"Is there some religion you wish for me to join?
"Are cookies what you inquire of me to buy?"
Holding out your corroded beggar's cup
"Charity, I see.
"I'll give you a penny for your thoughts, Death."
I wonder if they're of me...       

Sex Addict

I think every expressive teen goes through a phase where they feel the need to be raunchy; where they feel like they have to piss people off. Though this certainly isn't my worst work, it is meant to make readers feel uncomfortable. Reminiscent of my older style of writing - where many of the lines feel disjointed and scatter-brained - the basic idea behind the poem is someone who had been the victim of an incestuous, abusive relationship with his or her mother, resulting in a twisted self image and (as implied) an affinity with murder. Now, of course, the poem makes use of stereotypes of rape and molestation victims somehow turning into... monster, which I must assert vehemently that I do not condone. Nevertheless, the fraught feeling and awful aftertaste that is left in the wake of this poem just couldn't be kept from adulterating the blog for long. Enjoy!    

Sex Addict

Five pointed star
Six sided figure
Goddamn, slides of past life!
Man, it figures
You know, to ring out and sell out the wise
Slit the envelope
I had nine lives
to try,
but slept instead
When I left the door open,
I lost my last breath
Escape into the night
Slip through the iron bars
A hemophiliac in an iron maiden,
raped by his mother and taught the wrong lesson
Sex addict!
Break the hymen and salt the womb
You'd be surprised who will survive to turn over the tombs
You know,
to break bread is to break open the soul
Let the fang drip,
clip the tip,
and let it slip
You shouldn't have chained up and beat that bitch!
This isn't a dogfight,
this is genocide!
This is a holocaust plight
with the taste of gas in my eyes
The rite of the wrong is a fool's lasting song
Sing your life away and you'll never do wrong
"Yeah right!
O.K.
I'll believe you one day
Look at this shit, man!
This motherfucker is gay!"
Gay from life,
not from cock, man!
Butcher knife carving
Starving the symbols,
tight,
and I'll give you a hint:    
Two doors down,
the one on the right
Tap Bach,
turn the knob left,
and give your knuckle a bite
Nerves are nerveless
Facing mirrors in the rain
You know, they make medicine for that
I can recommend a nice dealer
Turn it over
Find the components and rip them all out
Tattoo the Bible on your vulva
Weak ankles
Can't dance off the cliff of forgiveness
Claustrophobic white walls as I'm manipulating the witness
Food Network programs and anatomy books
Help to give meaning to my life's work
Mommy should have loved me a little bit more,
maybe then I wouldn't have turned out to be such a whore! 

Washroom Scripture and Crossroads

So, I have a bit of a confession to make. I have this strange fascination with public restroom graffiti. Yes, I realize the kind of judgment that is about to befall me in uttering that statement, but it makes me wonder how many great minds conceived of their most brilliant work while doing their business. Go on and scowl! I think its a perfectly valid point. Perhaps it is a lost art... 

Anyhow, my ceaseless curiosity got the better of me and I decided to begin chronicling my discovers by including them in a new photo series, Washroom Scripture. Now, I'll have you know I usually carry my camera with me - I don't just bring it along to snap pictures of public bathroom ramparts! In fact, the contents of the series will not be isolated to powder room stalls (though the more entertaining examples tend to be found there). Basically, the series consists of words written on walls, doodles on school desks, and general wise words scribbled in mundane places. Hopefully they will make you laugh and make you think.     

I've also included my short poem "Crossroads". 

Male students dorming on the campus of SUNY Purchase in Crossroads building might have found this written on the wall of the floor bathroom. That is, if they haven't defaced it by now.   

Crossroads

Graffiti and gallantry

In a bathroom stall

Bible verses and Buddha blurbs

Written on the wall

Rub me away with sandpaper or a new coat of paint

I could be some futureless student or a new world saint

Cold tile beneath your toes

And a rosy ring around your cheeks

Flush away the gluttony of yesterday

With little care for the words I preach