Some poems
Poems for this gray, hazy early spring day
Hey y’all,
Today’s post is going to be a collection of some poems I’ve had published in the past that I don’t think I’ve publicly shared before. I’m still working on some essays and other projects, as well as working on my teaching license and working a full time job at a bar, so I’ve been having some serious brain drain the past week or so. Hopefully I’ll have some more new material that I feel up to sharing with y’all soon.
I’m also going to be working on making additional pieces for my paying members on this Substack (hard to wrap my head around the fact that people I know personally are paying me to watch me ramble on a blank word document, but, hey, I’ll take the overly kind generosity when I can get it), so keep your eyes peeled for that too. I’m working on making it something like a quick review on things like music, films, or TV shows I’ve watched recently, or a place for other material I’m actively working on. Either way, this Substack is (slowly but surely) starting to grow, and I’m just grateful to everyone who opens these posts when they’re sent to your inbox, because frankly, there is a whole armada of slop that comes into everyone’s feeds on a day to day basis, and the fact that any of this makes it through to you is somewhat miraculous (at least, to me it is).
So, once again, thank you to reading this.
Anyway. Here’s some poems from a book of poetry I self published right after the first wave of lockdowns for COVID-19. Hope you enjoy! I’ll have the link right here in case you wanna snag it after reading these.
Thanks y’all!
Look where I tell you to look
“Look where I tell you to look, young man,” a voice booms from the front of a class room, the trembling of the oak wood desk reverberating through my bones. My eyes darting from the frames of windows looking to the outside, and there-
Jared runs, the gravel crunching underfoot, screams reverberating through-
the air, as another young boy runs past crumbling buildings, artillery fire, as he is forced to cower behind the ruins of what once was a-
a set of monkey bars. Jared laughs, as he dangles like a monkey amplified by the sounds of-
a jungle being set ablaze by the sputtering fumes, gas, and petrol hissing like snakes ready to ingest their prey. Lungs of the Earth now set on fire, but-
“Look at this viral video!”, the anchorman cries out, as a cat talks like a person for the quintillionth time on national television. Crisp suit, red tie,neat hair, dimpled cheeks, stern eyes, manicured hands, pristine white teeth, almost white as-
my perfect, crisp, number 15 Scholastic notebook paper, issued from the Scholastic book fair. Swirly, indigo colored textures on the cover ensure that my hands always have a veritable treasure trove of feeling being restored to the nerve endings that I feel are-
dead. That little boy is dead. Killed by U.S. drone strikes. How could they? How could they do this and justify it all? Sand, limestone, clay, picture frames, everything turned into-
“Ashes to ashes, we all fall down!”, Jared yells with the other children, the grass of the play ground rushing to cushion him on his fall. My best friend, his piercing blue eyes gazing upon the-
pride lands of the African savanna. The young male lions must fight for their sovereignty within the pride; tufts of fur, blood spewing out as claws spread and flay skin, teeth sinking into ample flesh and blood vessels and nothing but-
Red. Solid red. Nothing but red. The supremacy of the one tone overtaking my senses, drowning in it. My eyes are ensconced in the color, yet my ears can’t help but absorb like a sponge taking in water, as the clap returns myself to the reality of a snide remark,
“What, are you retarded or something? He’s talking to you”, one of my classmates growls at me. The frames of my vision are adjusted and now all I see is Mr. Georgsson, the lines of his infuriated, energized Baby-Boomer jowls gyrating and vibrating by the loose tendons connected to his face, being shaken by the foundation.
“Young man,” he barked once more at me like the mastiff he was, “look where I tell you to look. It’ll keep you safer that way.”
Shape of a neurodivergent mind
Work work work work work work work work
relax don’t work don’t work don’t work don’t work don’t work
relax relax relax relax don’t stress or fret none about
It.
It’s so big, I can’t even begin to please don’t look at me like that why not sit a while
wrap my head around it are you looking at me like that? God, why hath you abandoned me so? “Annie, dontcha know Annie, it’ll be-”
you’re so useless, God doesn’t love you, ya know, why can’t you get a grip?
Stop singing songs to yourself, focus.
IF I CAN STAY AT THIS KEYBOARD FOR JUST LONG ENOUGH,
work work work work work work*does everyone hate me? do my friends not like me?*
THEN why don’t I just get a real job?
MAYBE I CAN MAKE IT. work work work work work work work aaaaAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH THIS IS “great! Never been better!”
I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE. wonder what’s on right now?
I CAN’T go tonight man, I’ve got way too much reading that needs to get done, and also the cats need to be fed, oh seriously? What? Hannah’s getting married?
DO THIS like I have been. I need a new work life balance routine
ANYMORE. just work just work just work it’ll be fine it’ll be fine
It’ll be fine…………………………………………..right? Right?
Tell me, what’s good to watch right now? I’ve run out of stuff to watch.
I’m not a bad person, right? Tell me I can
Change.
No. My 20s are for changing, right?
No. I can get out of these horrible habits, right?
Yes. I don’t have to be like this for the rest of my life, right?
Plant me as an oak
I always felt a strange, inexplicable rage course through me
When I saw poets express themselves as various metals, larks,
Trees, and pots of soil they may have seen once.
It’s like, “Ah, yes, how can I come across as even less
Of a conversationalist? Oh, I know! I’ll identify myself as
An ashley-crowned sparrow lark, and maybe pass my consciousness
On as an oak in a park, where my limbs will leer over park goers,
And protect them as a crown of thorns would adorn Christ.”
You know. Something pretentious like that. Something that would
Never work in passing conversation. If I walked into a party
Like that, and announced to everyone, “Hello! My name is
Ben Howard, and I am three parts carbon, and one part California
Redwood, for I feel as though I’ve seen aeons come and go,”
I think every man and woman would keep a wide berth from me,
And I might never have sex again. Of course, some fans of proper
Poetics might scream at me, “But you fail to understand the value of
Identifying with various constructs and objects of colonization and environmental
Destruction! Object and Thing Theory!! Dialectical Materialism!!!”
To which I might say, “Shit. You got me there. Those are words that somehow
Hold far more weight than just saying, succinctly, “The Earth may warm past a point
Of no return, and we may be left with an uninhabitable climate that is far worse than the one
We got to live in.” I know, less aesthetically pleasing to read aloud, but…
It’s a start. And starting is often the hardest part of moving past
Really antiquated concepts of aesthetic, poetics, and all the
“Ics” of art. But, strangely enough, I still love those kinds of
Poets; they still keep me coming back to talk about them and,
In a way, isn’t that enough? Isn’t it enough to just have people continuously
Talk about you? Is that how legacy works? Is that how just being dead works?
Hope people say some nice things at your open/closed casket funeral, as the funeral
Home charges your family around $10,000 for a funeral that hopefully
Some people attend? Shit, I guess Joyce Kilmer really has it made then, huh?
I can’t knock them too much either; Robert Frost spent so much of his life understanding
The craft enough to, well, have everyone talk about how they love Robert Frost so much
Without actually understanding him. Or Ralph Waldo Emmerson. Or Emily Dickinson.
Or anyone, really. If it works for them so well, who am I to say what actually works and
What doesn’t? I guess the only thing left to say is, “I sure hope someone plants
Me as an oak.”
Bad art
Taped up bananas invite in all the criticism “Good composition.
and people screaming, No jagged lines.”
“It’s a joke, of course,
“Terrible take on the subject. double wrapped in a thick
I could’ve done it better.” coat of irony,
critiquing the consumerist culture
that would go on to appropriate it and buy it for $200,000.”
Community theatre shows,
where the daughter of the artistic director
gets the lead of Little Red Riding Hood, “These kids sound terrible.
Lapine and Sondheim would be rolling in their graves.”
“Oh, isn’t Shirley doing great?”
“Ssshh! This isn’t just for you. “Oh, for. Sure!”
How rude.” “Her opening of ‘Into the Woods’ was certainly…
Unique! Great word for it!
It hit...all those notes!”
Stand up comedy
where it’s just the same exact kind of guy
in a different shirt, making the same jokes
about natural disasters and “racial differences”, “I can’t believe this asshole.
This is just really weird.”
“Yeah, so anyways, those tsunamis
“Holy shit! He’s so brave in third world countries
for telling it like it is.” sure were fucking hilarious, right?
You know, I always love watching the way
black people and white people drive…”
Getting invited to hear your friend
perform a 5 song set at a club,
only to realize that their singing
is incredibly shitty, and that they wouldn’t
know pitch if it had shat on their carpet, “Did he seriously
write these lyrics? Oh boy…”
“If only you could
love yourself
and put all that
self hatred
back on the shelf…”
I think visual art ought not
to always be tied up
in duct tape and ironic consumerism,
only to be made into sincere consumerism.
I think theatre ought not
to always be given as a gift
to those with the most lineage,
or the most base version of itself.
I think comedians aren’t allowed
to always be allowed social transgressions
for the sake of a joke. After all, if they’re
truly truth tellers of our society, don’t cloud up the truth anymore.
I think singers can’t
always be given the pretense of,
“Well. They were vulnerable. Leave them be.”
No. That is the point of vulnerability. Don’t cushion the fall any more than necessary.
I believe that bad art
is the result of not enough mistakes
being made. Not enough
questions being asked.
I believe that bad art
is what will kill us all
if we’re not careful. What’s the point of living
if art can’t be given it’s time?
I believe that my art
is bad art, because
I can’t see past the fog yet.