Long T shirt Poems
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Dear Reader,
Greetings! I hope you are having a wonderful day, or evening if you are just reading this.
No, really, from the depths of my soul, my spirit waves a double-handed "Hi!" to yours.
Come, bring your philosophical coffee cup or tea cup or cup of whatever your favorite
beverage is and sit beside me, across the e-ther. May I ask why you are reading this? You
want to read poetry, I understand, and this is not really poetry. Or is it? Could this
count as free verse? I would not call it a sonnet or a haiku, except in the loosest
possible definition, in the way that drawing outside of the lines can be a drawing and a
de Kooning painting consisting of a chunky orange paintstroke can be considered to depict
a woman. But what makes poetry poetry, or art art for that matter? The medium? The
observer? The intent? Surely Warhol's footage of people sleeping would never be considered
art except for the presence of the camera and the eventual distribution. A man sleeping
miles from a camera or canvas would not likely be considered art, so does the camera
serially produce art? Most people would not consider home movies to be art. So is art
merely a stamp that we all carry around in our frontal lobes? Is life a form of art
regardless of what we call it? In this day and age, in which all rules seem to be broken,
rewritten, broken again, stretched like an old t-shirt, ripped, worn as a new fashion, and
then broken again, have we evolved to the point where we see rules as artificial labels,
something outside our own world that no more exist than the square root of negative one?
Is this letter a poem in spite of itself? What do you think? We may never know for sure,
and if this entry gets deleted from the site, I suppose the answer is a thunderclap "No."
In fact, after thinking it through, I am fairly confident that this is actually not a
poem. These labels are an earnest attempt to creates links in the world, without which
this entire treatise would make no sense. What would Petrarch have thought? What would
Warhol have thought? Or Andy Kaufman? Either way, I guess this is probably not a poem. But
thank you for having read these thoughts of mine, swirling like pagan revelers around my
head. Thank you for reading my non-poem which may actually be a poem but isn't. I bid you
a wondrous and blessed day. Or night.
Yours,
-Michael
..She felt so damn nervous making that call,
and when he picked up she just gushed it all,
he listened quietly, then she asked to meet,
she quickly wrote down the place and the street.
She met him at one of his restaurants,
he looked different now, his eyes didn’t haunt,
he had no gun, just company t-shirt,
but something about him still spoke to her.
She asked him, “Why did you do what you did?
Why risk it all to go and save my kid?
We destroyed your business, threatened your life,
made it clear we hated anyone white.”
He gave a sad smile, and then explained,
“If that’s why you’re worried, I’ll make it plain,
how could I have just let your child burn?
The thought of it just makes my stomach churn.
“He’s a human being, in danger great,
what kind of man would leave him to his fate?
Whatever rage that the mob felt for me
had nothing to do with a child of three.”
Jacinta learned forwards. “You didn’t care
that my people didn’t much want you there?
After what happened, and what we destroyed,
you went to rescue a random black boy?”
“My ‘people’ call themselves American,
and I’m pretty sure that you’re one of them.
Even if you weren’t, I’d still have to go,”
he said,”Such horrors children should not know.”
She felt amazement, and shame more than a bit,
that it took all this to understand it,
she thought ‘color-blind’ had been some quaint phrase,
those were the words that her family would say.
But this man had felt that her son mattered,
even when he had been just a stranger,
and she realized that his life mattered too,
whether black, white, or brown, such people were few.
This one man refuted lies she’d been taught,
her brother’s nonsense had all been for naught,
she saw a good man, wanted to know more,
started talking with him about his stores.
He told how his father had opened the spot
that the mob had burned, she felt her soul drop
on hearing how he’d played in the kitchen,
and chatted when young with those who came in.
She told him of Keenan, where she now lived,
he offered a job, said, “It’s mine to give.”
Soon enough Keenan would play in the back,
and the man smiled, gave him lots of slack,
mostly because he was dating his mom,
Jacinta didn’t stay on welfare for long,
the other workers snickered, she let them,
where would she find such a lover again?
CONCLUDES IN PART V.
I watch for her after midnight's twelve strokes,
often thinking how life likes to play cruel jokes.
Stilettos clicked on pavers as she walked
a nod on the stairs, but we'd never talked.
Eyes smudged with black liner, like bars on a cell,
She always returns looking like she's been through hell.
I knew her name was Lucy. I heard him yell at her last night.
She trembled past me in the hallway, teary eyes full of fright.
Midnight lady, short skirts, and pouting ruby lips,
street corners for an office as she swings her hips.
I saw her in the morning light when she walked out the door.
Fresh face, pink cheeks scrubbed clean, and nothing more.
In jeans and baggy t-shirt, she looked like an innocent child,
not the kind of woman who got paid to drive men wild.
Lucy - if I tried to rescue you what would you think of that?
Would you have to worry about the guy who wears the fancy hat?
No one can own another, so I'd like to make an offer to you.
I'll buy you a ticket to anywhere if you tell me you're through.
I'm just a stranger, but I know who and what you are...
too young and beautiful to live a life that's so bizarre.
I've never gotten over how guilty it made me feel
for living that life while pretending nothing was real.
I'm offering you the way to get out the mess you're in,
a life of danger, a tangled web of emotional sin.
Dear Lucy,
I'm leaving this note and money under your door
because I don't wanna see you around here anymore.
I wish someone had given me the chance to be free
then maybe I could forgive myself for what I used to be.
You don't know who I am, and it really doesn't matter.
My name once was Lucy, before I was bruised and battered.
Long ago I had a daughter that I was forced to give away.
I'll regret the choice I made until my breath fades away.
Signed: Someone who cares
Someone who dares
I prayed this Lucy was not the daughter I had born.
In her faded jeans and baggy t-shirt she had worn,
I watched her walk away with all she owned flung over her shoulder.
I knew she'd have a better life than I had by the time she was older.
As a tree, my limbs are broken and brittle. My life not worth a dime.
But if she is my fallen apple, out of the gutter I must help her climb.
Most of my classes suck (by that I mean they’re difficult). English is ok - especially the writing. I’d never want to major in English Literature though. It’s one of the hardest majors at Yale. It may be harder than Pre-med. They make it hard to discourage people from choosing it. If you don’t love literature, don’t live and breathe books and writing, you’ll *never* navigate the major.
Despite English being her third language, Leong is an excellent proofreader (which I need).
“Put an emoji in there,” Leong recommended, “it’ll show you’re chill and not panicking.”
“No emojis! I said, shocked, “This is supposed to be professional.” Still, every time I submit a draft the professor says it’s good (an “A”) and I’m done.
Sir Paul McCartney is at Yale today, talking about a book he wrote, I think. They’re piping his music all over campus. I don’t have time to see him, but his “Ram” album is one of my all-time favorites. I know people have their favorite Beatle, but I think Paul has, by far, the most lyrical solo career.
Lisa and I just arrived at the fitness center (in the residence basement) we’re the only three there. Peter (my BF) got there ahead of us, about 30 minutes ago. He’s been working out on one of the weight machines. He’s tall and fit, with black-almost blue hair and a new beard. Sweaty and shirtless, he’s a take-your-breath-away spectacle. The sight of him jangled up and down my libido. I felt myself groan inwardly. “Put on a shirt!” I said.
He comes over to where I’ve taken a seat. The sun is coming in at an angle which reveals that the air between us is filled with dust motes but now he looks like he’s a model standing in a spotlight. I just look at him and smile wickedly. “Why,” he says, getting very close.
“Because you’re distracting!” I answer laughing, as I push him away, “and I have a TON of reading to do.”
I like to read while I’m walking on the treadmill. He tries to nuzzle me as I step up. “Look,” I say, “If I can finish my reading (~200 pages) by dinner, I‘ll have something special for you.”
“Like what?” he asks, smiling and suddenly interested.
“Something for you to look back on when you’re a very old man.” I whisper.
“What are we standing around for?!” He demands, putting my chemistry book and water bottle on the treadmill and stepping away to slip on his t-shirt.
Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.
We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘ed privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.
She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.
Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.
I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.
Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.
I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.
My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan
You and Your Perfect Life.
You boast.
Walking the halls like you're the host of this school.
Well you're not.
You smile.
Everyone lovingly despises you but they always wanna stop and talk awhile.
Well I won't.
You laugh.
There's not a care in your world. You don't have it tough.
Well I do.
You wink.
At all the girls. I look at my self in the mirror, then aadd my tears to the bathroom sink.
You don't.
I cry.
I'm depressed and nobody cares because they want you with them and me to die.
Well I can't.
I'm saying this to you.
Because you don't deserve what you have.
I'm saying this to you,
Because I deserve better.
You walk.
Lazily not a care in the world or a worry in the mind. Fu*k.
I want that.
You have a perfect life.
I don't.
I have a sucky life.
You don't.
...;.;
Why?
You are walking up to me, a frown on your face, now tainted with red.
"You think I have a perfect life?"
Yes. I m FED UP WITH THIS.
"Yes. "
"Do you want to rethink that?" I look down on you wrists, seeing them clenched.
I don't reply and you growl.
Pulling me into an empty hall, you strip off your jacket. I pale at the thought of what you are going to do.
"Answer me. ANSWER ME GODDAMMIT(I am so sorry God)!!!!"
"Yes. You have a perfect life. Everyone loves you. " I yell so much more.
I can't remember what I'm saying.
I can't say I know what I'm saying. Anymore.
You pull of your t-shirt.
I gasp.
Red and dark purple bruises cover your body.
Swollen and fresh scar marks cover your body.
You turn around.
Deep red new gashes seem to devour your skin.
Some are oozing blood and I feel sick.
Scars thin like razor blades cover your upper arms.
The quote my mother told me before she died ran through my head.
Life isn't about avoiding the things that make you feel scared, or uncomfortable, it's about conquering them and moving forward.
Tears blur my eyes as I look back at him.
"Yes, Hope. I have the perfect life. Yes, Hope. Everybody loves me."
I shiver and slide down the wall I was leaning against. He squats down cradling my chin in his hand.
"Make sure smile once in awhile. It will change your life view."
You walk away. Leaving me there. Shivering.
You cry.
At night when your father, the mayor is beating you.
I'm here Aspen. Run away with me.
Form:
Malignant gangrenous political cancer
corrupts, festers, and poisons United States,
thus opposition cannot wait,
especially since Gospel in accordance
with feeble minded Donald Trump
implemented wrought ugly trait,
particularly obliteration, sans progressive
human rights legislation
more or less pronounced positive
in every L ionized Nittany or cotton bowl state
and ratiocination inherent within
mine Democrat oriented mind doth rate
this forty fifth president (defect)
with sawdust packing
his noodle oven egotistical pate
trophy wife (spouse number three),
a Slovenia mate
donning "I don't care anymore"
t-shirt rousing media firestorm of late
essentially silently corroborating,
fostering, and illuminating hate
mutely bolstering the Trump anthem,
viz make America great
again, which pathless,
pithless, and pointless aim
roars like an earsplitting runaway freight
train oblivious of wailing soul asylum,
that no era meets said criteria
backtracking time machine before
rightful indigenous occupants of this land
got decimated as one after another
exploiter did inundate
(comprising a multitude
of indigenous variety of village people
indignantly subjected to Genocide,
when first "discoverer"
of new land didst promulgate
activation wrought deliberate sealed fate
vis a vis capitulation, demolition,
and extirpation, cuz
a scathing rebuke aye attest,
those murderers didst equate
worthlessness of
so called "Indians" on 1492 date,
and still remnants of storied tribes,
now attempt to create
historical documentation operate
ting with limited resources to adjudicate.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Food methinks doth buzzfeed drumbeat agog
at pyrotechnics July 4th, 2018 shared as blog
posts, a falsehood prevails which dog
gone “FAKE” brewed watered down grog
posits that the majority of Colonialists stay hog
tied to strict task masters, and mainly the scant
upperclass experienced autonomy,
no matter the under class didst futilely rant
and rave with the occasional
uprisings over time did grant
minimal appeasement to stifle violent kant!
The black and white ball is on
The twist this year is
You my dear, have to wear men’s cloths
A black suit
You may be the prettiest girl that ever walked the earth
But there is no way you will be a sexy man
You pour your self into those jeans
Throw on a loose T-shirt
Causing men to drool
Making girls wish they were you
But you in a suit, well we will see
I don’t want to see you in the suit
Until the night of the ball
I will however
Make an appointment at the Taylors
No I won’t
I’ll take your measurements and get you a suit myself
It will be my present to you, for the ball
Damn on paper her measurements even look sexy
To the material shop
Ohh wow,
Black pinstripe silk
Finding a walking stick is tricky
Drop into shoe shop she shops at all the time
She is known by name so am I
Hello gorgeous how are you
I want to by my Lady a surprise
And I need your help
Great, thank you very much,
The first thing I know you don’t have here but I need
Are black fish net stocking
Would you mind getting a pair form to fit her pretty please
Awesome now I would like
Shiny Black Stiletto’s with 4” heals
To match this material in her size
Thank-you so much
Come here so I can give you a cuddle
To the beauty shop
Book you in for a
Full body massage
A Facial
Hair wash, perm
And make up
Off to the Taylor
His instructions
Here are the measurements of my beautiful lady
I want you to make her a suit coat with tails
Out of this silk
And a tie as well please
He says no
He will not make anything from paper
He wants to see her
I agree with term
She is no to know what is being created for her
He agrees, she’s booked in
She has been to the taylor
She has been fitted
And she doesn't know why
The morning of the ball
Everything is ready
We just have to make it happen
My Sweet I have made you
Raisin Toast
Squeezed orange juice
And Tea for a change
Put on your favorite jeans and T
You have a big day
Opening the car door for you
After stopping at the beauty shop
Where I must leave you for a while
Your Shoes look awesome
Love the Stocking she got you
The Formal Tails and Body Suit is wicked
Entering the Ballroom
Standing at the top of the staircase
The music stops
The men gaze in awe
The girls stare in envy
You my dear are
The Princess of the Ball
Let’s party
I been trying to pen this verse for days but the words could not come out
My tears have been welled up inside me and my arms were twisted behind me
my flesh clinged firmly to my thin bones while drones flew fearlessly around
I can still hear their deceptive voices talking above me as they were getting ready to apprehend me
They circled around me and cast a rusty chains upon my flesh and shoved me into a broken carriage and parade me up and down the town until we ended up in Freetown
I still did not understand what was going on until I stood at an open window
and spoke to the woman who stared at me with a subtle frown.
I went to retrieve my towed truck and there he was standing behind the counter in a red T-shirt with bleeding eyes staring at me and immediately I could see wickedness all around
He handed me a bill that was highly impossible for all that had happened
His aggressive eyes crossed my spiritual eyes and the holy spirit began to speak
I was chucked away once more and shoved into a sweltering car without a clue as to what was going on
I was placed in a room with other people that were held up for days
And I could sense malpractice from the bottom bubbling up to the top
The innocent was tucked away into a hole with no way of getting out because they could not pay their way
I listened to everyone's story and it was a pity that this was happening in America in the twenty first century
Many people are suffering and hurting inside while we are gallivant on the outside
The pastor took me back to my towed truck and I was forced to pay what I could not afford
I went outdoors to buy colored paper to post Gods messages
but something sinister was happening on the other side and I was caught up in it
Heaven was on my side I defied all the odds to get the message out until she finally broke the glass window
The next day I could breathe fresh air and the God in heaven finally appeared
the moon moves between the earth and the sun briefly turning day into night
Darkness suddenly faded away and a bright light radiated over the message truck and illuminate it with a powerful light sealing it with the moon and sun energy
And there it was I touched my finger on the golden pen and we are all free to live again.
An oversized vintage T-shirt is
My weekend attire or
More like my mainichi attire
My face bare
Exposing an unnamed galaxy of freckles
The bottle of
Cheap combini
Apple sparkling wine
Feelin like a millionaire
A neon highlighter between my lips
A novel in my hand
While the others wait its turn
Lounging around in piles
All over my room
The mismatched mugs
With the coffee or tea
I didn’t finish drinking
Sitting cold
Flipping through different playlists
Am I feelin like the present
Might be better to
Throw it back a little
To the better days
When the places I commuted to were
Not only
My desk chair in the morning
And
My bed at night
Gazing up at the
Skies of my ceilings and walls
To see the stars of impressions
I’ve found light years ago
Will I find other vibrant constellations
That are none like the rest?
I stare at the blank walls
As if I can magically materialize
Somethin
Just a little different somethin
To make the days
Pass a little faster
My scars on my hand are healin
The scars of last summer
Dangerous carelessness
A slip of the hand
A slip of the slicer
A bit of blood but no foul
It was all my mistake of the making
Silly silly mistake
At least I’ve been fortunately given
Given the gift of time
To heal
To grow
And face em front fearlessly
Some days breaking down
In nightmares
With unknown meanings
That cannot be depicted
Some days breaking down
Into grateful laughter
The colors of my nails changing like the
Changing of the seasons
The quiet but solemn translation
From spring to summer
Sakura pink to
Silver scales of mermaid lagoons
Dreamin of the day
To return to sea
The waterfalls of rain
Spraying my windows
The trees bellowing in the wind
Come golden beans of sun
With the cicadas
Announcing the first day of aelin
Opening the curtains to midsummer
The season of magic and fairies
Yet
I stay on my chair
Undisturbed by the chaos
Outside my window
Writing the verses
My heart tells me
To compose
The feelings
That cannot be fathomed
Into stars
The abendrot sun
Sees through my smile in the daylight
The nyctophilic moon
Solemnly watching my
Silent cries at night
They both keep my secrets
As I keep composing
My operas of comedies and tragedies