poetry

from bed, bath, and walking upstairs – traffic was heavy

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

stranded and willing

copper plated evening attire drew me to you and kept us circulating thoughts of wonder and tragedy.

the way we started

moving in circles with motion to sense our lack of control the way we hid in remote locations and occasions of caution with the stream line left to linger on a wandering night through blowing sand and dead elf wishes when cruising through the forest was easier than waking through gilded rooms of gold and silver wishes

deciding it was you who would lose themselves in grafted family trees where it was meant to be

i shouldn’t have been drawn to you

magnetic malice blew through the door halting progress passing through conduits dreamt up by our lost lips remembering the taste of penniless moments dreaming we could be coated again to pass freely to one another’s passions

from bed, shorty

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

i lit the fuse and stayed

i wanted to feel the bomb blast, more importantly the time pass as a hiss would grow to bang and leave my final performance something of a mess

grinding behind curtains

you knew i was back there

words that churn from their mouths syntactic seeds i sprinkled in one-on-one rooms

people don’t think about the farmer alone walking rows before their shower starts

bacon and eggs for lazy legs distant from delivery of what keeps them from death

chain links and locks, layers and series of clicks and clocks, clacks and clucks

removed

nuances delivered developed by detailed rain falling on poor richard’s head as he stands alone in mud tides willing himself to walk to the shoals

studios where elvis was made without awkward hips but rhythm and dips doo dippy doo the wizard is suppose to stay in the shoe and don’t rub three times

i have no wishes

the plates delivered not thinking about dishes

i’ll live back here, behind the forest guiding as you zoom in-and-out

a final testament

the sound that stirs your snooze as i give a final refuse and wait…it’s the end of the fuse

i’m behind the curtain

you won’t have to watch

from bed, your yellow bird

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

he couldn’t find his way through the textural maze of self-doubt and criticisms sang to him before bed

there were still bars surrounding him

cries to stay alive barely realized all he could surmise is those legs better bend and rise to help him climb up to the only group big enough to feel like he belonged

homo erectus

homo connectus

they couldn’t exclude him

they’d try

running through fields of cigarette butts and self serving pin pricks, random stray dog licks, and get out of here boot kicks he found the porch

there, his eyes, unable to stay as still as his blessed heart laid fresh to his yellow bird.

a peculiar feathered friend who found a perch nestled where the pole met light, well, half-light as it struggled to illuminate the lives left behind by economic rewind and prepared paychecks to keep in-line the ones who had to make it to the end of the row

a distant connection undefined, interspecies, yellow bird stared straight, their eyes catching

he fumbled a tweet sound from lips left without water, yellow bird cocked her head and riffle fired a ‘good morning’

he replied, in english, he figure she’d have to learn to discern the chopped sounds stumbling as pleasantries were exchanged

‘will you be my…’ barely met oxygen when she swooped close and led him down blocks built for ‘others’, this was new

gliding freely, from corner store to school door they followed nothing and found no floor his heels hardly hitting a ground where lines were found, outlined cousins and sisters bound, street names and histor-ies to protect and divide, relied on boundaries and lies that trap and bind our senses

there’s no mystery

it’s the songs we hear when nights are blistery, do they keep us calm or awake, waiting to take this piece of cake promised to us once a year

she led him back to the porch

not a spark, a roaring torch kept him warm and would help inform the decisions left to lead him through the dim lit days

she’ll come back

from bed, at least i’m not angry anymore

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

i used to think you’d show up when i left.

visions of a blustery fall day burial scene with cracks of thunder and would be lovers hiding behind trees while my family collected woulda, shoulda, and couldas

these thoughts brought comfort when slitting my throat seemed like a viable option

but

i forgot to rent out a sign to design the image of me i’d assign so you didn’t have to contemplate what i gave

absorbing left me dry

taken for granted

as i lye motionless you don’t deserve to cry while they lie and you skip over the dry sky that left me wanting more

now you’re heading to the store to buy what you were quick to deny

and these other assholes who take out billboards and broadcast simple tasks get your adoration in a shallow nation where everything needs to be spoon fed

here you fucking baby, planes coming in the hangar

i’d jab that spoon deep and carve out your esophagus, wrap it around your neck, and kick you over

the subtle beauty trapped in a clavicle bone draped with falling fabric riding up-and-down

is lost on you

not to be found in this fast forward fuck-fest where fake tits and cock sucking scenes are what you need to understand attraction.

told what to do, who to clap for, no fucking mind of your own to understand that passing fancy each day is what made you smile

keep nodding off to numbed out numbers coming through a real-to-life screen where i finally fall in the background

the worms will know

from bed, a love poem: beer, fear, and drawing you near

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

my fist crashed through the beginning of a precipitous night bash

a pyramid equation, century club persuasion, fifty-four cans, ten at the base, that’s quick math, and, believe it or not, this isn’t a blood bath

it’s a love poem

lenses were stirred

eyes fixed in one motion, i was next to you

a soft hushed walk home, i was with you

listening to bob and tongue-tangled blue time lapse, i was in you

pants went up

my anticipation and perseveration flew

was hello a goodbye?

breakfast fare late in the night, catching friends entangled in new sight, and our hips were locked

challenged, not judged, and free

we shot darts and moved across country

you stood in light and laid with me in frost bitten-faulty fragile nights

exposed

caressed

left open

undressed

work, accomplish, and build

they came

one at a time

found ourselves in the daily grind

we shed our baby fat

calling forth new life

two became three, became four, and built to more as we raced around the country

i remember when you first painted your face

thirty-two years into life

i thought mine was over

we changed

together

gathering steam to pound back across states to find a place where we would rest

fate

you listened and touched the words falling with frailty from a mouth designed for wishing away time and wondering ‘what if?’ daily

i don’t do that anymore

you’re in store

for fifty-four more

the cans were recycled in stories for the ones we tell time with

every touch of morning you’re the one i rise with

pyramids confirm you’re who i wonder with

wander with

devour life with

and who i’ll cease physical pleasure with

leaving this language of our own for others to decipher

a common logical qualifier

love

from bed, sometimes the stream is rough

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

i didn’t know there was a time frame

you left, you crawled down the hall

wishing i wouldn’t have asked you where the case began

when did you start this game of penny tossing angel eating allegations against a symmetric piece of cake that never made its way to candles in front of a flaming child’s face when desires were simple

smile at the reverence of denial

if there isn’t a time when we could strike a pose and dispose of candid moments in the hallway window dressing our camp secrets when it was the fire and you wishing i wasn’t on my side and i could plea to you to banish the fool who left the desert with one eye

closed and dishes undone thanks for being here as the reindeer rushed over after they heard you turned another year old

scold the bold and undo the untold and if it’s my turn then i’ll happily go before there is another match that burns out before i have time to rush through and see you

from a chair, time gets stuck in the breeze

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

a moisture licked breeze kissed by emotion brought the smell of switching situations into the air with cloud rumbles and streaks of light that kept us interested in a changing affair

we sat on creaky back chairs

searching through cob wedded screens

switching focus from distant swirls to shapeless matting

through and within

what was captured in each?

your hand searched through your knotted and unwashed hair, the world knew

i was reluctant to acknowledge

it’s going to rain

passing time for the inevitable

love limply hung above us, waiting to blow away

your sighs matched my lies

neither of us spoke

where would we start?

talking about the weather is what got us here

your chair continues to rock as i hear footsteps follow the howl and slamming door

i sat alone

watching our clothes drench

we’ll leave them out for another day.

from a waiting room couch, watering holes

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

i can’t continue to forgive the slight hand motions you use to dismiss this wrecking ball crew of self doubt i shower myself with while starring in a mirror admonishing stray dog emotions, i try to leash and tether these carefully constructed cuts in carved out parts of my past to something more solid than the puff of smoke blown, choking through another night wishing i could sit with cafe lights and angry cigarettes, servers seven curses that they could give a shit i have to wait

i don’t have to

this is where i feel home

grimy tables and sticky seats, i’m no more needed than the powdered parmesan that parks itself on every pizza-place table,

nice to have, less noticed when used

you can do that too

use me

though when you’re done

would you pass me along

i won’t forgive you, i will thank you for the direction

from a couch, pride in a picture

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

her hands grasped a sign made with might, laughter, and community. with a single emphasis on what is right and sought after with humanity

equality

rainbow lips pursed, what’s next?

a kiss, whisper, or curse?

another step

fingers slipping

her eyes pacing around, intensity in song and chants resound

it’s her first time

another step

the dark witches chant for souls, grandmas sit with leaning goofy-slogan signs that still align with lifelong goals, while a feather frocked free bird frolics wanting humans to touch on common issues

she catches waves of ho-heys and hey-hos

knees adjusting

her mouth opens to join

she knows what democracy looks like

she tells the world

without a vote

she steps on

fists find the sky

her face widens and eyes smart to stages where leaders do their part, words are lost to be found with education, but she feels the cadence, fervor and intonation.

her hands find one another

a context for pussy

poems from cats, another trick from that hat

explaining

discussing

her steps continue

home

sitting, her couch of comfort, with bent and employed signs, sighs.

her mom turns on the news

‘that looks different’

she stands, shoots her mom a look and then upstairs to lay alone

images and words

she walks herself to sleep

from bed, decide ahead of time

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

saturday night slipped away to the anxiety of one more day when most people pray and i lay in bed dreaming about being chained to a deck far in the ocean wishing they’d let me home

it’s not that i need you to let me

you need to need to think you can “let” me anything as i walked where you have and gave the same change to park and drink a coffee

we haven’t made a difference

open the door

there it is

not the two dimensional you

you hugged me?

i dated your daughter and said the right words culturally financing a mixing glass of terms the way a mocking bird hangs in a tree i touched your grass and filed up his tree in privacy of a home made from an idea

masking the second string of strikes against my swinging wild sights that never could match your wit and condemnation of left over humans wandering for a place in the great race to popular links in our abbreviations and suffix i can’t breathe a slogan for the unforgiven pleas challenged everywhere of please let me be and signal a time when freedom didn’t need a punch in the face reminder that she is the one we serve in every conversation i leave in a blur what is this problem we keep butting against resource fundamental human emergent struggles

can we go back to scattered deaths and rewrite how we caught our breath under a tree

not face down beneath brick building awnings