Home In Thought

The last poem I have from my Freshman year poetry class, all of which I found in a folder in my closet recently. Enjoy this. I'm a pretty shitty poet.



Home In Thought

How different we are that you would read a great poem and say it's almost like a
painting. And I will look at a painting and call it poetic.
I came to your house last night
Even though you weren't expecting me
Even though I shouldn't have gone
And explained something to you that you didn't understand.
But I love you anyway.

Another Old Poem, This One About a Bird!

Strangely enough, if you were to ask me two weeks ago about the poems I wrote in my freshman class, this is the only one I would have remembered in detail. Looking back, I have no idea what made me want to write this poem. But, observing the teacher's comments below, I got a solid A and the words "Excellent idea and execution" are listed. So, take that mofos! The nineteen year old me was much smarter than the current version of me, though. I don't think I get my poem anymore.



Some Impeccable Bird

I took a walk on the beach, the other day, when I spotted a small bird. I couldn't tell what kind of bird it was. I thought it might have been a pigeon. I stared and I gawked and I thought about the bird. And after I thought about it, I gawked and I stared some more. Pigeons aren't supposed to be on the beach, I thought. Seagulls are. If pigeons start taking over the beach, where will all the seagulls go? I started toward the intruding bird to see if it would move. At that moment, a uniformed officer approached me and informed me that the beach was closed and I wasn't supposed to be there. Maybe beaches are only for the seagulls.

My Freshman Year Poetry # 4

This is probably the worst poem ever.


The Stuff I Carry

A schedule to tell me
Where to be
A wallet so I
Know where I am
And a phone
In case I am needed somewhere else

I LOVE THIS

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbIGbZ6gq_Y

This is just a great bit. He came up with it just in conversation with Conan, but I hope it ends up in his stand-up.

More of My Old Poetry!

So, for those of you who are just starting to read these, I found a folder of poetry I wrote during my Creative Writing-Poetry class freshman year at Rutgers, four years ago. And I am sharing one a day. This one is fucking deep! And I specifically remember my teacher gasping out loud at the last sentence, the first time I read it to the class.

Note: "Your heart is made of burnt meatloaf" is the best sentence I've ever written.


The Gravy

Why is there gravy on the floor?
The table setting is wrong.
You didn't let the dog out. I told you
But you didn't.
The milk is spoiled.
The milk is spoiled. You didn't
Buy the right kind.
Why is there gravy on the floor?
You don't listen
To me when I talk.
Your heart is made of burnt meatloaf. I told you
All about that thing,
The one you were so angry about.
But you didn't listen.
Why is there gravy on the floor?
Why is there gravy on the floor?
You didn't do what I told you to do.
And why is there gravy on the floor.

I saw you with her.
I SAW you with her.

why is there gravy on the floor the table setting is wrong you didn't let the dog out I told you to but you didn't the milk is spoiled THE MILK IS SPOILED you didn't buy the right kind WhY is THERE GRAVY ON THE FLOOR YOU don't HAVE A HEART you don't listen to me when I talk I TOLD YOU ALL ABOUT THAT THING the one you were so angry about but you DIDN'T LISTEN why is there gravy on the floor WHY IS THERE GRAVY ON THE FLOOR you didn't do what I told you to do and why is there gravy ON THE FLOOR

My mom came to me yesterday and complained about the garbage never going out.
Fuck, I said. I'll take the garbage out.
But, then you have to divorce dad.

My old poetry #2

Here's another of the poems I wrote in my freshman year poetry class. Just so everyone knows, both of these first two poems earned me A minuses. Enjoy!



In The Room

The room was white
I was there four half an hour
It was said to be a waiting room
A small child pulled my tail
I wanted to go
I finally did
Where I am now is also white
There is a poster on the wall
A man is opening my mouth

Such is what I get for swallowing something that I could only assume would be soft
and tasty but was actually a small round disk made of metal

My Poetry of Four Years Ago

So, I was going through some papers in my room today and found an entire folder of poetry I wrote in my Creative Writing-Poetry class freshman year at Rutgers! All of it is like weird free-form poetry because that's what my teacher was into. A lot of it is pretty shitty, but some of it is suprisingly interesting. Anyhow, I'll be posting one of these a day until I run out of poems or feel like stopping. Remember, all of these were written BY ME four years ago. Here's todays:


Awakening to Your Dreams

In the corner of
An empty room with the lights off I watched
As Jake entered
He twitched when he met Johny
John Beamotta killed three men
Every morning while he brushed his teeth
He would sooner kill him than play rummy with him
And he would sooner play rummy with anyone
Than talk to or look at them
He took out a carrot and lit it
Jake Looked at him quizzically
"Cigarettes are cliche" said Johny
Staring into his eyes
Observing his bloody thirsty smile
His muscle pumped arms
Jake felt at home
The aroma of familiarity made Jake feel
Like he belonged somewhere
And then Johny shot him in the face