The Laundromat II

I sit there watching my clothes mingle with water and detergent inside of the front-loader washing machine. Back and forth the waves swisch and schwasch. In the background, a whirring and moaning sound from the coin-operated clothes dryers takes the predominant presence. There is the occasional siren from a police car or fire truck, but everything returns to a slow moan.

In the Laundromat, the washing machine is tan, the light is florescent, and the floor tiles are a stained white. The light occasionally flickers, making the washing machine appear a gray that is more white than black. The only other light present is the street lamp.

The washing machine changes cycle.

No one comes to the Laundromat this late at night. I hang out here often. The drones, the lights, and the repetitious imperfections make me forget what has happened in my day. This place makes me tired. It reaffirms that I am alive. The discordant music of the machines and the warmth are calming.

The exhaust of the clothes dryer empties outside, but the sweet fumes find their way back into the Laundromat. Fabric softener, Cheer laundry detergent, and Clorox all mix to form a fantastic fragrance. I have been coming to this Laundromat for a year now, so for me, the scent has faded. The floor used to have different degrees of filth, but I cannot see the difference anymore.

The washing machine finishes.

My time here is limited. It is almost over. Eventually, I will have to fold the clothes and leave here. I will leave the droning washers, the monotonous dryers, and the dirty floors, and subject myself to the dynamic world. I will feel dead comparably to my fellow humans. I will contemplate ending it all multiple times and I will visit the Laundromat to feel good, but in the end, I will always come to the end of a cycle.

The Laundromat I

Sitting in the twenty-four hour laundromat, a man watches his clothes turn endlessly in a clothing dryer. The machine makes a continuous hum and heat radiates to warm the room. The man is alone. It is 1:37 AM.

A buzzer goes off. The man turns around, noticing that one of the street lights keeps flickering off and on—buzzing between changes of state. He turns back around, facing the clothes dryer. The clothes turn endlessly. The machine makes a continuous hum and heat radiates to warm the room. The man is alone. It is 1:43 AM.

Sitting there, the man thinks about what to prepare to eat when he gets home. “Something cheap and easy” he thinks to himself. He then laughs quietly to himself at the sexual pun he made—his eyes squinting and his toungue pressing softly against the innards of his left cheek. He looks down then looks up, facing the clothes dryer. The clothes turn endlessly. The machine makes a continuous hum and heat radiates to warm the room. The man is alone. It is 2:04 AM

The door to the laundromat opens suddenly and a woman walks in. She sees him. She approaches him—asking for some money for the pay telephone down the street. She has a bruise on her left cheek. It is black under the incandescent light. He lends her his cellular telephone instead. She calls someone quietly in the corner. She finishes and thanks him. She then goes outside again—walking to the left and right of the street corner, then crosses the street and is off in the night. He rubs his eyes, looks to the left, then looks to the center, facing the clothes dryer. The clothes turn endlessly. The machine makes a continuous hum and heat radiates to warm the room. The man is alone. It is 2:19 AM.

Bored, the man paces quietly, facing the clothes dryer. The clothes turn endlessly. The machine makes a continuous hum and heat radiates to warm the room. The man is alone. It is 2:23 AM.

Suddenly, time stops. The clothes stop turning endlessly. The machine stops its continuous hum and no heat is radiating to warm the room. An obnoxious buzzer goes off. The man removes his clothes, folding them carefully. He quietly packs up his things and heads for the door. The man is alone. It is 2:37 AM.

Breakdown

In 50 years,
students and teachers
may read my poem
and over analyze this
line by line.

I don't know
if I will be alive then
to know this but
I have confidence that
all English teachers must do so.

I don't have any control
and I don't know if I should
be honored.
All things written were
meant to be taken apart
and reattached.

Like a curious child
with building blocks,
I write this, and I'm
not willing to share
my creation.

But the kid in the corner
will charge over
as does a learner with their pencil
and knock over my blocks
with determination.

I was a passive child
and I'm a passive person.
Analyze this if you wish.
It's plain, but find out
what you wish.

Random Connections

I can't see it because it isn't there.
And no one understands.
It is easy to forget it.
You don't miss what you will never have again.

Separated at the
poorly hemmed seams,
life falls apart.
The seamstress is
out to lunch.

Wounds heal themselves.
Stitches are cheating.
Time heals most wounds.
Some are left at the mechanic's shop
in the back of the store
to be repaired later.

Line by line,
I'm confused
With many things going wrong
and nothing left
Could things get worse?
Perhaps--Murphy's law says that all that can go wrong
will go wrong.

I have seen the beginning
and I have control of my end.
The limit
as my end approaches old age
and I can't see or breath or
shit on my own.

I will be alright.

I Said Yes

Twelve months ago
We stood there at the rubble.
You asked me whether we would be this way.
I said no.
I didn't know.

Eight months ago
You took the kitchen knife from the drawer.
You took your knife to me, but missed.
You left for an hour, and returned crying.
You asked me whether we would be ok.
I said yes.
I didn't know.

Six months ago
We celebrated an anniversary.
You tried to hurt me with the phone
Because you thought a voice on the machine was flirtatious.
You left a piece of the telephone in my head.
You left me there to bleed a little.
You returned crying
and asked me whether we'd be ok.
I said yes.
I didn't know.

Three months ago.
You purchased a metal bat.
I didn't answer a question about how you looked correctly.
You beat me with your metal bat, breaking me down.
I bled inside, and blued outside.
You left me on the ground for an hour,
and upon my return from the hospital,
You asked me whether we would be ok.
I said Ok.
I didn't know.

One month ago
You poisoned me.
I died.
You left for an hour before returning.
You asked me whether we would be ok.
I didn't answer.
You hit me with your bat.
I didn't answer.
I never answered again.

Domestic violence is never alright.
End it before it ends you.

Recycling

I'm burning out.
I'm blowing up.
I'm breathing in.
I'm falling back.

Take the straw from your eyes
Realize who this is.
Come from behind your glass window.
Save me from this.

I'm looking forward,
but I'm too blind.
I'm hearing opportunity
or I'm too deaf to know.
I'm thinking different
but everyone is as well.

Take the cover from your eyes.
Someone listen to this.
Someone come from behind
and Save me from this.
I can't believe
that I can't do this on my own.
Someone save me.
Save me from this life.

Among the Rubbish

I can't breathe.
The heat is smothering me.
I can't see.
The sun is blinding me.
I can't be.
The life is hating me.
I can't believe.
The time is wasting me.

Anstatt zu

Anstatt der Freiheit zu haben,
muß ich leben.
Anstatt zu leben,
muß ich atmen.
Anstatt zu atmen,
muß ich der Freiheit zu haben
um zu leben.
Ich kann nicht leben,
wenn ich die Freiheit nicht haben kann.
Ich hätte geliebt,
würde ich geblieben.
Das Atmen ist geblieben.

Rex (16)

Today, a theoried special day.
I'm supposed to be 16 today.
I'm too young to vote in polls.
I'm the target of little maggot drools.
I'm too old to drink a bottle.
I'm too young to eat a candle.
I'm too young to fuck an adult.
I'm too old for a childish occult.
I'm too dumb to take the lead.
I'm too smart so I must read.
I'm too stupid for these miserable lines.
I'm too fucked to have some time.
I'm too horny to be right there.
I'm to corny for people to bear.

Just ignore me, I'm just 16.
I'm not there, I'm just 16.
I'm not important, I'm just 16.
I'm not human, I'm just 16.
I'm not straight, I'm just 16.
I'm not white, I'm just 16.
I'm not frustrated, I'm just 16.
I'm not smart, I'm just 16.
I'm not anything but 16.

Fuck being 16!
Fuck Sweet 16!
It's not so fucking sweet when you feel the real world.
Throw away any happiness you have now.
Corrode your pride and bleed out your dignity.
Being 16 sucks major ass.

In The Center/ Ins Zentrum

I'm sitting in the centre of a circle
in the middle of a floor.
Moonlight from my window
beaming around the circumference.
No sound can be heard by anyone
except me.

No one hath heard my screaming
in the centre of the circle.
The spectacle my blood makes
through my crimson veins
with each wave my voice box releases.

Through the breaks of skin
blood outlies along the circumference.
The moon outlines this circle.
I got to cut away from the surface
in the centre of the circle.
But he holds me down
to punish me.

What light break through thy window
Burning a hole through my chest.
I can almost feel my screaming.
The theatre of Imagination
beneathe me.

Ich bin tot,
aber ich wohne hier in Hölle.
Mein Dignität lebt jämmerlich
und meine Seele ist gefoltert mit
die Anwesenheit von dein Image.

C5H14N2 Cadaverine

Ich sehe den Mann.
Der Mann ist hier.
Er sehe mich.
Er riecht von Diaminopentan
Ich liebe diesen Geruch.
Der Mann muß tot sein.
Ich sehe mit der Totenstarre
den Mann in seine Haut.
Das tut mir leid.
Seine Haut ist interessant Farben.
Die Farben sind sehr romantisch und schön.
Die Haut sind blau, rot, und violett von Totenflecke.
Der Mann liegt ruhig.
Es gibt kein Ton,
und Ich rieche Diaminopentan.
Diaminopentan,
so orgasmisch in seiner Einzigartigkeit,
ist durch der Mainstream nicht gebührend gewürdigt.
Ich sehe einen Mann.
Ein Mann ist hier auf dem Grund.
Hier liegt ein Mann, wen starb.
Auf Wiedersehen.

I see the man.
The man is here.
He sees me.
He smells of Cadaverine.
I love this scent.
The man must be dead.
I see the man with
Rigor mortis in his flesh.
I'm sorry about that.
The skin is blue, red, and violet.
The man lies still.
There is no sound,
and I smell Cadaverine.
Cadaverine,
so orgasmic in its uniqueness,
is not appreciated by the Mainstream.
I see a man.
A man is here on the ground.
Here lies a man whom died.
Goodbye.

Sweet 16

They say being sixteen brings fun
But I feel my life is more than half done.
Being sixteen makes you feel alive
but these are the days I just want to die.
Being sixteen you can drive a car
but living in a box means you don't get far.
Being sixteen is parties and sex
but with other restrictions I have nothing left.
Being sixteen is an innocent time
But with all I know, I'm in hell to rhyme.

This poetry has become cliche
Being sixteen's out
and we're not ok.
Those of us who are too young
for the adults above
but too old
for the kind below

Our desires and dreams
muted by those of the past
so we fall straight on ourselves
and flat on our ass.

Being sixteen no one hears my roar
It's hidden behind music and slammed doors
When I'm seventeen, Will I be alive.
12 % of us at 16 won't be around another year

Dada 10

You can't escape.
You won't escape.
You can't escape.
You'll never escape.

Behind these nicotine stained walls
lies the truth.
No one knows about it.
Not even you.

In the dark I like to read your mind,
but I'm frightened of the things I may find.
There must be something you're thinking of
to help you run away.

You'll never get a way.
You're never going to survive.
Stand down and shut up
Voices Carry.

Cryogenic Pride

I'll take my pride right off the shelf
and slam it through the ground.
I'll take my dignity inside
and like a mutt it go to the pound.

I'll take my melting pot of heart
and cryogenically freeze dry it.
I'll take polychromatic mind
and I'll take some black to dye it.

This is my call.
This is my life.
This is me.

Day of the Week

Some days I feel alone.
Some days I feel I'm free.
Some days I feel I'm not unknown.
Some days I feel I'm me.

Some days I feel bravado.
Some days I feel I'm square.
Some days I feel I'm all alone.
And I'll be the only one there.

Some days I feel pure hatrid.
Some days I feel unsure.
Some days I feel I'm dead inside.
Some days I feel I'm near.

Some days I feel I'm hated.
Some days I feel I'm bored.
Some days I feel I'm horrible.
Some days I am a whore.

Some days I'm just too critical
I'm wasting all your time.
Some days I feel I'm all alone.
A stitch stuck within time.