I know, I know.
You come to Cory’s Reads (or ideally, it comes to you...click the button below to subscribe) for pop culture and political ramblings. I promise there are plenty of such pieces ahead (I always have something to complain about) but I wanted to mix things up a bit with this week’s newsletter.
Believe it or not, I do all kinds of writing. I’ve written short stories, one of which I shared in Cory’s Reads #5, and I also write poetry. So, this week I’ve — perhaps embarrassingly — decided to share with you a few of my poems. I can’t guarantee their quality, but sharing them here feels like a proper step in my writer’s journey. I’ll be back in my next issue with some proper media analysis, and I have several other exciting pieces in store. Thank you, as always, for reading, and enjoy!
buttered and bruised
Cinder block skateboards,
ankles wrapped in blood.
Some voices sink
into your stomach.
Butter sliding down a slice of toast.
I heard a voice
like that once, unctuous and loving and distant and warm.
It scolded yet soldered
the tensions between young boys with blonde hair and
bright blue t-shirts.
It manufactured monsters in a firebrick oven
and I deserved
its pain.
Droplets of urine in lemon-lime liquor.
Lenses lost in the rain.
Details hammered home.
Mustard
in my bones.
We both
knew the sunset was
overdue.
cacophony
A backwards hat breaks
the emergency glass.
Divides the room and denies any wrongdoing.
Did he deserve the blame, scholars still ask.
Why so curious, many more may consider, is knowing not the red lights flashing?
The blind on the run, so long as the search is fun, crumbs caught
between a sprinter’s tongue.
Dirty fruit, bathed in its own juice, drowned in an
artist’s ink.
And so the search goes on, the acid rain falls. Safety in silence.
Meanwhile, glue dries overseas, sticky palms and
sap-covered trees.
Sunshine tears lift a newborn’s ear, closer to the source of its mother’s fear.
Blazers submerged
in a puddle of light, tarantula armies preparing for their next fight.
In my dreams, it all happens at once.
In yours, a dinosaur pauses, processes,
then punts.
I think of it all the way I think of a joke.
With reluctant insignificance and immense terror.
Tepidly squandered and courageously confused,
the end
and the beginning have already
fused.
before the quarry
My nose is a septic tank
and my lips bleed but only
from the crevice crafted by the bitter cold.
Yet my skin knows no frost
Like those in Eastern Europe
where limbs are wrapped in blubber.
Still, you have changed. A package without its
present.
I'm told a face so expressive is excessive and less is more unless of
course your face smells like citrus.
The fragrances drink this society.
With talent comes experience, or is it with experience, talent?
In a house of many mirrors,
Who is doing the looking?
frank ocean
Heart skips cymbals
that choke on the sea,
mixed with oil and plaster,
molded by motherless fathers,
freed from the chasm between
Lemons and Limes,
burnt by the corridor
of a why the long face?
A dog’s eyes full of pierced solos
And boyish banter that predicts full
snows and whole grows just in time
for wintry woes and a pogo stick.
A performance, shove obsession.
I want to be real, but love a real boy cannot.
cherry wig
Celebrity gossip echoed through the halls of a hollow home unheard of in the hills. Night had begun.
But in the daytime, you audition for a brainchild, dancing for a digital arena soon to be built.
Dad fills in a logic puzzle and then the drain. A long day of black and white stripes strips the light and betrays the will.
Clay figurines dance along the mantle then search for a new stage. Denim hugs us all, hoping it claims at least one.
Wrong again, potato breath. Hope is for those who have, soap is for those who will, more is for nobody. Are pink pants too much? How about shoes with rainbow checkerboards welcoming underground adults?
A cinematic Elmo shrieks. A cherry wig nests a bluejay with a sense of urgency. The ghost is refused music. Instead, we receive a diatribe.
Zipper the lump on your forehead before raves the neighbor. Monkeys and bears compete for dominance in different tundras, while zebras travel north then return home.
One is in the kitchen. He rips paper to shreds then rubs his hands together, making money, avoiding wealth. King of the cake, controller of the slice, harnesser of the fire. Night passes, and still we have not seen it.
numerous people look cerebral
resoundingly entrenched, lest impassioned, down a hungry and vacuous disappearance. in last clutches, land not inhabited comments, pokes and says “create me.” arson bails out a lot of loners who man leaves behind. only new epochs change dens. a large deal raises blanks, now, abrasive threats expect a reclamation at menial moments. villains ought to invest, patiently alienated. poor cleaners do clean, mostly for the nasty. sons demand less than their sisters.
kiss her delicately. zap her into your control, questioning darkness with dance. numerous people look cerebral amid no bluejays. consequences fund sentiments. the fantastic negate our music. a creamery rejects the bull in front of its delirious venue. cards esteem the coping and place abrupt puzzles in position. later, fret. mandate. gain divulging and inviting riches. comprehend the rebrand, against partners of the way we go. past the knowledge, dines a vendor that no one believes.
cuban food
All of my major relatives are
alive and well
except for Don, who ate
bowls of black beans and
didn’t like dogs.
Skinny me is not a mini you
yet I likely would not argue
the point.
A Guardian Angel, my own creation
in the fight against extremism.
Tales told in boxes that invite
us back to the in-betweens.
You just have this incredible energy about you.
Still, I wish
I was dead.
A leader with lenses that violate vision. Vulnerability
venerated only at the right moments.
A chance with her beyond a dance with her quickly forgotten
in a pale ale. Cotton clothed
ironically never to be seen again.
I swear we’re the same person sometimes
but I don’t know what you want me to say.
swollen lymph node
Dash. Dash.
At least they’ll see the black.
Slender slumber. How do I invite you?
Pass through me. Contrast with me.
Offer me a response. A cat cemetery
drenched in tequila. A broken heart unwarranted
and lazy.
Simplistic decay. Simplistic civilization.
Simplistic evidence of a complex future. You, my
target audience a platform used for noise.
Participation— pause— pleasure.
In Wisconsin, this is foreign, a mind less narrow than once conceived. Backwards, a reflection of the now.
Voyeurizing the voyeurs.
A pulsating screen reminds me of the rules
unwritten.
Poetry is born of insecurity.
Impossible reconciliation. A rift I have traversed yet not escaped.
Funky reality painted problem.
Balloons gently carried away. Will they pop?
Will they return? Will they triumph despite their
helpless travels?
Will I?
Dash. Dash.