The framing of this piece as a list of hated items gives us significant insight into the character. The list items all share a kind of benign mundanity in common. These are bland, boring, slightly dissatisfying aspects every-day suburban life, but they are HATED by Frumpth. In order to enjoy life, Frumpth needs a secret — but, not just some…[Read more]
when i’m tired you see it in my ears.
the same shade of peach red as yours,
but not so much as in the hands impatiently clutching your dress folds
and in skewed search for purchase on the table side.
i have the same trouble holding a pose through a class,
or the second viewing of a film.
i’ll stare off and narrow my eye…[Read more]
i have 5 beers with Callum and he asks me to be a friend in a strange country
i’m proud of my answer
i walk in the door, listen to her and i know i’m going to leave
i consider the timing and know it has to be now
i open closet doors and pull out clothes stored away for bitter winters
i collect items i know I never needed and reserve them for…[Read more]
we can restore old honors
we can preserve white roses
we can wear slacks and pleated skirts
we can hide and pray
fear is old and it’s everywhere like primordial air
you didn’t have to seek it out or specialize
everything i need to understand you came from chalkboards and commercials
where would you even start?
Both Brooks’ and Hughes’s poems involve exploration into the role of an unfulfilled dream in the lives of people who are prevented from realizing it. Brooks’ poem personifies the dream into an entity that can sing or must be kept clean and warm — that quietly compels the speaker to care for it. While Hughes’s dream is depicted as an object, a…[Read more]
their stares are like latex gloved hands
the lights pitch winter-night
the tunnel fixes a bolt-tight ventricle lock
the car is like the vacuum of space
pre-recorded requests are arguments with an uncle
the opened doors are a loose leash
We’re tossed from hand to waiting hand like a relay baton,
Tiredly feeling for grip holding firm as a stevedore-hefted burden,
On the sliver-chanced wager like a ball searching the roulette wheel to catch one green-felted slot.
Then we’ll send ourselves quiet lies on a whisper bed like the briefest puff of breath insisting
That we’re not s…[Read more]