Can we talk over dinner?
I’ll be composed,
Salad a middleman
On orange china.
I won’t stare daggers
I’ll only look gently
You won’t upset me
You won’t cry
Tablecloth a barrier
Of polite normalities
No last words.
No hard feeling.
You’ll drift atop
Jello molds,
An angel in suburban hell.
You won’t tell me
You quit your job,
And our haven
Will remain bubble wrapped.
a blue chevy impala basks in a suburban driveway
like a beached whale it oozes gases and black oils
its seeping white walls beg for rubber movements
little boy inside the house sits on a pleated couch
he watches the setting sun through a screen door
fat mother stirs pudding in a wall-papered kitchen
smoking father works a tv guide crossword puzzle
he flicks white hot dust into a crystal glass ashtray
the corner television set transmits black and white
cathode rays of a half-naked wrestler pinned down
the destroyer with mask on lifts his victorious arms
little boy hears calliope music in the green distance
the ice cream man comes with dry ice and cologne
still three blocks away he makes another long stop
fat mother fries bloody meats in a fiery blue skillet
she turns on boss radio to hear elvis sing the blues
little boy goes to the admiral and turns the channel
bishop sheen appears in black cursing the darkness
skipper frank implores the kids to brush after meals
tennessee tuxedo chases tiger tornado to megapolis
smoking father finishes a tv guide crossword puzzle
the ice cream man arrives with dry ice and cologne
Paterson- sunshine in suburbia
by americus
Paterson, a poet, he's charming and he knows it
Paterson, a man, he's got a life with a plan
Sunshine in suburbia, searching for euphoria
Paterson drives a bus, and swears a censored cuss
Write me into a poem, sing me a hymn
Make my life want to begin
Now while Paterson's life may be mundane, he lives a life without pain
Rip my feminism away from me, being ignorant is being free
Children will scream, and break your aquarium
Living life like it's vivarium
Sunshine in suburbia can you believe it?!
All the crimes you didn't commit
Smashing the glass ceiling along with my skull
Is life more simple when it's dull?
Working a job, nine to five
Is this really why we are alive.
when I get to the city
I am on auto pilot
if a murder happened I would be no witness
I do not see people when I leave the suburbs
I walk for blocks in crying tennis shoes
wishing I worked somewhere else
Have you seen this person? A detective could ask
He could put me under a spotlight
It would help me not
I might as well be passing cattle
I do not make eye contact or retain who the others are
my city self is not friendly or kind
I reserve my humanity for the suburbs
where I pass no one without comment
the consummate neighbor and friend there
Lights moving in time with the music
at a mansion in a neighboring town
Vibrations pounding through the stereo bugle
hark you feel it escalate then drown
projectors casting shadows of colorful hew
raindrops falling to the sound
windshield covered in dew
and moistening the ground
wishing to share that moment
with everyone thereof
but business interferes bestowment
and it was aggregated by the one I love
would have enjoyed it nor
if intuition didn't find me last night
I won't be discussing it to for
just hope everything is alright
We won't ever be anybody's red
caped tin horned hero.
We seem local and suburban.
All pleased.
Published in Poetry Almanac - Summer 1974
Lawn furniture flavored ice cream
served in moxa cups
Candied eyes of freshwater bream
pickled bushdog pups.
Pig pizzle wrapped around a stick
grilled upon the deck
Woven rope with cat head and brick
hung about your neck.
Marzipan violin bowed by a stoat
badminton played widdershins
A toast of poison without antidote
barefoot on needles and pins.
Wavy grass carpet,
Manicured green lawn stretching
To horizon's end.
Trust is the thought's
Face to face
We dare not say
For fear to pay the repercussions
Our relationship's
Are not up to
Built on marshmallow foundation's
We bare no relation
To the people we seek
To cover from the world
In suburbia
I don't live near the ocean,
But I long to hear the waves.
I don't live near the mountains,
It'd be cool to see the caves.
To far from the city lights,
To be considered hipster.
To far from a working farm,
To get a working blister.
Dwelling in suburbia,
Sounds of mowers fill the air.
The only lights are porches,
No farms or caves anywhere.
Ode to suburbia,
The land of human cages.
Friendly waves may fill the air,
But inside everyone rages.
Your love is real
the love you feel.
Your love is great
the love you make.
Your records are on fire
its your desire.
Take me out tonight
and go wild and crazy,
or be fat and lazy.
So I played some Doors
and saw some whores.
So I said goodbye
and they all must die, fool.
So dig my guts
and eat my brain
and then go insane.
I don't
Care I love it
so forget it, Punk!
Electric Bleeps and bloops
Powerlines buzzing as the
Sunset going behind the roofs
O’lovely neighborhood lost
Facades of families
And degeneration
Of cultural paradigm
No crime
Just a hollow
husk town
Consuming the lives o’the poor folks
Sigh sigh
but alas
The community
dies
slowly
highway burning over the hill
and man I’ve got way too much
time
to kill
"Know yourself and you will win all battles" – Sun Tzu
Jesus of Suburbia, He
who hits rock bottom
with timely persistence,
gets HIGH
on the burning cross
of Drunken Hostility..
-THIS IS NOT A RELIGION;
St. Jimmy knows that
Monday's belittling unfolds
into Holsten-Pilsner-Fastbock sippin',
and something like
seven-day drug binges...
----> Still he awakens
in a pool of piss, LISTLESS,
and because the pills
are gone,
Jimmy claims to have lost
the will to go on
:{
He's done.
but. but. but. but. but. but...
The son of dusk
always resurrects at dawn...
SOBRIETY
returns to Earth
like Christ, or
the shittiest pop song.
*I should really go do some homework...*
Been landscaping crew cuts
Mowing down yards constant
Gravel in its place, hedges and drapes
All for you to live accordingly
In the right scheme
Where wildness is tamed down
Where citizenship, not so profound
So we can go on our way
Planting seeds for the future
Seeding children with identity
Posing God on marble balconies
Any upset to the balance
Police find the scent
Guard dogs and lawn gnomes
Our plastic surreal american lives
Walking past their witching cackles
and Phantom screams I noticed
them all looking the same
External, different
Masquerading they all were
pulsing to the rhythm of
their hearts and music
Symphony of noise all around
Internally they are all different
each their won unique voice,
look, feelings, they only differ
from the masked appearances
all of them united in their
dance. They internally do not
know each other, their
Suburb homes, Suburbian
life, faking rap/hip-hop
appreciation, they don't know
each other and yet, masked
on this night, they still don't
The moonlight allows me to
see the truth of this Masquerading
Troupe of Suburbia.
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