Tag: poetry

Las Vegas

Last summer I was out in Las Vegas The 105-degree sun beamed down on my face Champagne glasses clinked along the pool side, as ladies in red bikinis tried to tan The streets were lined with cars so fancy a Honda would have been out of place The shops and the women were draped with the top names in fashion Klein, Boss, Ford, Vuitton, Wang, Versace At night, the 20-somethings of America came out to play “I’ll bet 10, 20, 50, 100,” they all say Wasting their money, their night, and their prime They drank whiskey and rum to make it seem sublime From my hotel room atop the city I can see the party below People dressed to the nines, Lights brighter than the New York skyline If this is the West Egg, then I am Gatsby In the midst of the glitter and poker chips A gilded reality exists within the pavement of this dessert oasis In the hearts of its visitors lies a loneliness of great might One that is hidden in the heat of the night With colorful casino lights Down by the quiet of the pool of The Wynn, a man nurses a bottle of scotch He flirts with a woman, a woman he will never get A woman in the Venetian gambles the last of her savings away With no job, no money,...

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Is this how it goes

You probably don’t want to let your eyelids fall in order to keep this feeling, flashes of velveteen voices, soft and slow, drowsy on the edge of dreams, fleeting and forever at the same time, the kind of night that lasts eternities and doesn’t happen at all… Were you laughing or crying?  No one could tell. You hum when you’re tired and the tune echoes through everyone’s bones, causing an ache so deep that it seems to be more inside of yourself than something you can feel. It’s not always good but it always means something, so isn’t that some sort of consolation? Little towns, party towns, middle-of-nowhere towns, where growing up just means you can walk around later than you used to, when you and your friends spend summer, thighs shellacked to the swing set in cutoff jeans, never sleeping, limbs splayed ‘cross each others’ with hands in your hair. Intimacy creeps in and avoids the creaky porch steps, avoids how the screen door waivers in the storm, keeps slamming with a Bang Bang Bang wraps tendrils of nostalgia around your neck and into your lungs… Yeah baby, these are the nights you’ll always remember. This is where your body is gonna rest someday, under the unkept crunchy grass, and you might try to leave it but it’s never gonna leave you. Dirt under your nails and a...

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Free Spirit

free spirit prolific           despite the norm poetry enveloped   lying leaves words swirling from the page can you hear the            wind whispering words    most of           them                   don’t understand there’s                           something deeper here you                 are not afraid      to be                                ‘nature’s first green is gold’ light lilts      autumn leaves                               poetry                     and                prose artistic eye                                                           paints the world we      hold the    brush the sun kisses the earth golden red thoughts and beauties they have yet to see crimson autumn beautiful songs                      and       melodies       that have gone before by artists                 ...

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Simplicities Don’t Tend to Stay

i am wistfully watching the cousin of guilt he’s presenting himself yet again Invitation-less at the party she thought she’d closed the door he seems to find his way nonetheless dread is underrated he makes her want to scream but permits only a whisper she’s reaching to the world outstretched arms aching heart she knows what she desires. in front of her there lies a paradoxical world of beauty and pain the shattered looking glass quietly accessorized with silent wishes slipping desires and tainted experience shadows of loneliness and echoes of strength the red rose its dropping petals quietly...

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I Remember

I remember black-and-blue patterned shirts and the stale smell of sebaceous oil. I remember light-filled middle school stairwells. I remember reading Little House on the Prairie. I remember feeling grown up. I remember telling people I was gay, meaning happy. I remember telling people I was gay, meaning homosexual, and waiting for their response. I only remember some of their responses. I remember wearing a blue sweater and realizing I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been happy. It was in math class. I remember a red-cheeked teacher who accused me of lying. (I was.) I remember the first...

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