Suburban Dream Blog

Suburbia is a nap.

Not an early evening nap that fades to night and eases into the next morning,

but one of those thirty minute cat naps after which the sleeper jolts awake

in a state of confusion and spends the remainder of the slow,

technicolor day disoriented

like ordering a plate of chicken fingers at a five-star steakhouse.

Chicken fingers–no spicy mustard. Suburbia is not spicy mustard; rather,

an afternoon montage of reminiscing over a full sink of dishes and a screaming toddler–

hold that thought, the housekeeper took care of that and the preschooler’s in daycare

is a trend. The summation of which is best juxtaposed to a chain store…

at the mall…

the morning the store dispenses the twenty percent off coupon…

after all, Gucci is expensive.

Welcome to the suburbs, where cliquing it is a sure bet to a ticket to Bunko night,

with clouds, but no rain–

there’s water sprinklers that turn on right after the recycling is sat on the curb

painted in eggshell–an eggshell colored curb to match redundant, cardboard houses…

bored is the right word,

gray-colored boredom behind

house after house,

row after row,

cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac,

week after week,

day after day,

hour after hour,

minute after minute,

second after

WindowBlog

 

Mom stopped smiling

last week. I don’t ask why,

the tea kettle blows steam. Music

from the top of a glass bottle of Coca Cola. Sometimes,

I gotta lick my chapped lips

before playing the tune. My tongue

scrapes the dry spot

I bite off with teeth, it bleeds. Once,

she asks how school’s going. I answer,

good. Lying between curtains

from a mail-order catalogue of laughter

because,

face it– hand-me-downs don’t fly. Well,

her lips don’t curl upwards with smoke

slinking from a cigarette. Hiding

in my hair. I pull it, twist thin paper

between my thumb and index finger– around

and back. On the other side of the glass, two

kids pass

by, the one on the bike

rings a bell. The other,

laughs.

Lately, I’ve become a bit obsessed with listening to slam poetry. So… I thought I’d try my own.

Linked to the post is a video I uploaded onto Facebook. I was trying to use poetry to contribute to the dialogue surrounding domestic violence. I will add that I placed a trigger warning on this. Please watch at your own discretion.

If this moves you, feel free to share, or leave a comment.

APPLE

 

If I could love in words

I’d write a sestina

As long as her legs,

filter it in sepia

silk sheets shrouded in a vignette.

She is a maze

I need to understand,

again,

before I breathe.  

Her body,

lines of iambic pentameter

rhyming in my head.

I gasp

in complete stanzas.

 I want

her hair,

tangled metaphors lost in

ornate vines,

splayed on my pillow.

Her eyes,

drops of moonlight

painted by angels,

encased in gold.

Her body’s a sonnet

I want to wrap around me

while I spew pathetic

poetry,

                                                unfit

to

                                              touch

her.

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Consider an allegory

about a world

where women cannot speak.

No. I mean

they are unable to talk,

their vocal chords severed

like slow-cooked

pot roast. Or a guy

and a girl who fall in love. She

becomes his

what?

An object. I write

what I see,

or how I’m seen in sweats

versus jeans

versus a mini-skirt

because what a woman wears speaks volumes

and we wonder why.

Our clothing communicates

what

we are unable.  Where’s

our voice?

I would give an answer

 

that wouldn’t be understood.

I’ll go back to the kitchen,

now.

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It’s that moment of teetering

before ground meets head,

shards fly,

an internal air raid,

sirens. Silent seconds

before tornado.

No looking back to what was

hidden in dirt,

or painted grass raking jagged nails

through hair,

eyes closed

through breezes,

they open. Wide fields

of corn and cows

eating corn. Was it

soybeans?

Yes, it

matters. Skittled roadside

graveled memories

dust the wind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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We wrote poems in cigarette smoke,

or sex

as it ran down the side of a boat

intertwined in water

from a dammed-up lake,

forced to exist.

 

Ash singed the pages,

humid moonlight

that burned our hands

until we could not touch.

drops hit the glass surface,

coerced water rippled.

 

Debris floated in wet air,

forth and back

and back

we reached for pieces

as they dissolved

into rain.

 

road

 

The road was a flat sheet,

a Nascar announcer’s voice

between waves of static. Corn,

shriveled from unseasonable drought,

I waved at the oil wells we passed

and counted them through the window

 

crunched with brown grass as I laid

in a ditch, among fields of broken glass

and found the station wagon,

now upside down, Garth Brooks-

from out of nowhere

another field of soybeans dried

 

until the following week when it rained

and our crops drowned.

Grandma told us

next summer we’d replant tomatoes.

That fall,

I pulled sharp slivers out of my hair

piece after piece.