(no subject)
“bird feeder” by john rogers
Once,
a bird pierced my heart
with a sharp braid of wires,
tore it out,
and flew away
with my blood pump.
Who knew
my rib cage looked
so much like
a bird feeder?
(6/14/02, 4/22/04)
~~
“how have you been?” by john rogers
1.
rattle bones ratter ghosts
in the cupboard get
some ice theres a
skeleton in my closet
reaching out but never
handing me anything
except for fosils.
window panes mirrors
picture frames, i’m
throwing rocks at.
i’m looking hard.
i’m throwing shit away:
I want you to hear
Me when I’m driving
down your streets
in midnight oblivion
shouting curses on
your neighborhoods.
(4/25/04)
~~
“thanks” by john rogers
high school was full of
spys and decorations
dripping off the walls.
It was good to have
good friends so
I wouldn’t be stuck with tools.
(4/14/04)
~~
“on a loud black leather foot binding” by john rogers
a dignified looking
oriental woman
marches past me
as I enjoy
cigarette number two.
she looks as if
she had been fairly
gorgeous in her
Youth, before wrinkles
And years conquered her
Face.
Her shoes are black
leather
and very loud.
They look as if they hurt
her feet
but I don’t want to ask her.
(4/15/04)
~~
“2 found haikus”
1.
Lightning bugs asleep.
The sky holds no form of light;
rain falls in small pools.
2.
small pine trees wear fir
And sweat in summer rainstorms.
Willows weep wet tears.
(2003?)
~~
“ant life”
when you are an
ant
everyone is small.
everything around everyone
is Big.
people
dont seem so far away.
yet, places
i’ve never been to
seem very far away.,
almost unattainable...possibly dont even exist.
when youre an
ant
you do ant work
all day long
then go to your ant house.
you take ant naps
then
you wake up and go back to work.
(12/1/03, 4/1/04)
~~
“hacc scenes.” by john rogers
Some Girl Speaking Peruvian at Me.
A Vietnamese Girl on the Payphone.
Someone with Dyed Hair Drops a Pen.
Lots of Sound, Lots of Movement.
(12/9/03, 4/1/04)
~~
“weekends, briefly” by john rogers
i tame the shrew and i turn screws.
it all winds down to a fine fine time
of wining and dining and friends.
(11/30/03, 4/1/04)
~~
“a rainy day poem” by john rogers
A girl walks on an imagined catwalk
sporting a baby blue backpack and
a misshapen beige umbrella.
A hatless
man walks through the rain with an
open, white, button-down shirt and a
shit-brown sailors coat, mottled with
rain, a soda bottle in his hand being
the only interesting feature of his
outward appearance.
Trees waver, barely,
under slight pressure from the weather,
still barren, spiking up from the ground
like gnarled protests from dirty brown
earth.
(4/1/04)
~~
“dream. Thought. #three.”
could what we perceive
as Real
Really be
a Dream?
is the reason why
Dreams
are so vague
because it’s hard
to think about Reality
while
we are Dreaming?
in which case,
why is this
My Dream?
and how
did my mind come to
found it?
(3/16/04)
~~
“red delicious” by john rogers
Purple sunny trees make a lattice
of shade and light intertwined
overlapping.
there is a random salad of grass clippings
apple cores, newspaper
and plastic children’s toys
all over the sidewalk.
i make a grave in a sand ashtray
to bury my butt in
and watch funny green cars glide by
as the stereo system
threatens to rattle it’s bumper off.
silver cars look pretty
when your car is the color
of a smoker’s teeth.
the sun is a lemon squatting
in a kiddie pool.
if only i had a color to describe
the rest of the day...
(4/29/04)
~~
this is a revised version (far from a finished version) of a poem I wrote in 9th or 10th grade. There are 3 parts, I only found and revised 2 parts so far. I want to revise the 3rd part, futher revise these two parts, and add on a 4th part…)
“Hitch Hiker Equals Roadkill” by john rogers
Part I: the Hitch-Hiker
Estimating the time it takes
to cross a highway,
bare feet
broken glass all about.
Whine and sob
that life isn’t fair
but in the end, wind up crossing anyway.
Bloody feet upon reaching
the median,
stubbing toes
while dodging cars.
Get clipped by
some absentminded
Sunday driver
while he yells at his kid
about how low
his grades were on his last report card
and the kid just looks at you
as he speeds by
as if to say
“Why?
What did I do to deserve this shit today?”
dad rants on.
So many questions
never any answers,
never smiling,
only faces with upside down mouths
frowning over house odd this world is
How fucked up it is
and
how somebody is always getting excited about my fuckups.
When i get to the shoulder of the road
my arms,
my legs
are broken.
Feet are bleeding...
body collapses under the weight of your own soul
While everyone passing by
points and wonders
how it happened...
Part II: Rant, resolve.
When we are born
we are predestined to death.
A cheery thought to ponder
as you wait in line
to begin to die
always asking, “Why is this world so fucked up?”
This loss of innocence
this discovery of the world
we all suffer from
can really bring you down
if you let it get to you.
(Losing our toothless kid-grins
and frowning with more teeth than ever.)
some one always seems to be
getting off on all my fuck ups,
Judging, taking notes on how
pitiful i appear to be, on what i want
and who i am and what i can be
bought for...
no one ever asking why
i am what i am
because they know i’ll just
point the finger at them.
i always find ways to step around
all the bullshit
that might make me dull enough
to forget about my life.
maybe, once i get bored with being me
i’ll look around and
see that everyone is gone,
Out Shopping
At the Movies
Playing Sports
and being generally Cheery and Social
while i am all alone,
left to stand on the side of the road,
no shoes on
and praying i never
never
have to cross that hard yellow double,
not even that solid white line
ever again.
maybe someday
i’ll come to my senses and get a
car