Whenever I Scream in the Car
Whenever I scream in the car,
I turn down the radio,
And roll up my windows,
So that no one will know or hear me
Trying to raise whatever catharsis I can
From the someday scar tissue
Of my larynx.
Sometimes I get frustrated.
I don't know why,
But it feels good
Just to try
To exorcise the demons
That swell in my head
And to expunge their evils
Before they consume me.
Whenever I scream in the car,
I make sure to grip the wheel
Because I could lose control.
My wheels could slip on a shrouded patch
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Plastic Bag
I'm like a plastic bag blown in the wind,
Carried by the cutting razor of a gust.
Though I'm my moving, my soul's also been pinned—
I roll through the smog, dripping with disgust.
Carried by the cutting razor of a gust,
I fray on my fringe, my heart's dissection.
I roll through the smog, dripping with disgust.
It seems I've been fouled by an infection.
I fray on my fringe, my heart's dissection—
Empty emotions crumble from disuse;
It seems I've been fouled by an infection,
A rotten feeling: leaking and effuse.
Empty emotions crumble from disuse;
Malnourished, they wither and quickly spoil.
A rotten feeling—leaking and effuse—
Tars the beach of my thoughts in thick, dark oil.
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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After The Parking Lot
I woke up in the morning
to the smell
of the color
of orange juice,
and my head was
pulsing to the throbbing
strobes
of the music
I heard the day before—
in something like
a dimly lit cave,
a cavernous fallout shelter
build from the styrofoam
rocks of a Gotham society,
and the red lights
bled into the yellow
and darkness melted
in the exhaust
of fuming eyes
and the wherever
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Red Bull
I take my index finger and thumb
To hold the tab
And I flip it,
Depressing it
Into the tin-plated membrane
Of a lid.
The brief sound of crunching metal emits—
Like the sound of a second long
Car crash or aerial collision,
Maybe an airplane's wing ripping off
Into the azure emptiness of the peaceful sky—
And then a miniscule mushroom cloud
Puffs out, a carbonated explosion
Blasting on impact,
Terminating all the bacterial life
That used to hover in the air.
I grab the can in my hand,
Firmly, but casually too,
And I tilt my wrist back—
The lid pressed to my lips—
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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An Ode to the American Meta-Narrative
I was born fitted to a flannel suit,
A white button-up shirt with a collar—
Gray coat and black tie. Diffuse and dilute,
I disappear in suburban culture.
I have a synchronized watch on my wrist.
My hand clings tightly to a flat brief case
Filled with forms and documentation.
My whole body is clenched firm as a fist,
Locked into my usual standing space
While I wait in the tunneled train station.
I make my living on salaried pay,
Repeating the same, standardized work-week.
I settle to function mindless today—
Mechanic'lly programmed, anti-unique.
In my managerial position,
I'm empowered to think critically
Upon my pecuniary options.
I'm focused of finances, decisions
Based on reports made bi-annually:
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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A Snapshot of the Morning
Yesterday, I ate half a loaf of Ezekiel bread,
And spent the whole day alternating
Between two screens,
The television
(so I could play Grand Theft Auto 4—
I'm on the Jimmy Perogino missions,
And sometimes the game coalesces
Into movie-like atmospherics)
And the computer
(where I also alternated:
Between going on Facebook,
Twitter, Hotmail, Google, Wikipedia, etc,
And playing Diablo III,
Which is only a trial version,
Which I'm not sure if I'll buy it in full—
Even though I'm experiencing
A lot of peer pressure at the moment—
Which looks like Diablo II
Because I usually play games
Via Playstation) .
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Martian Sestina
I wanted to find my own get away,
My vacation somewhere far from the world.
I could imaging twinkling lights like stars,
So bright and blinding my disappointment,
Separating me from my thoughts, myself,
And my neurotic, despondent feelings.
In my gut, I have uneasy feelings—
Stirring and churning. They won't go away.
I'm trapped in my chair. I'm trapped in myself.
I'm trapped underneath the weight of this world.
I need to clear all the disappointment-
I'll tilt my head and look to the stars.
Out of my window, the lights are stars,
A celestial glimmer—I'm feeling
The gravity of my disappointment
Pulling me down and dragging me away.
I'm crushing from the pressures of the world.
I'm pressed so flat that I'm barely myself.
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Then It's White
The hypnosis imposed
by weary repetition
loops —as the sun
sets and rises—
and a processed snatch of
sounds collects— overpowered
by the undue uncertainty
of life; overwhelmed by not
knowing and the
endless amount of time waiting
ahead.
These sounds, these sensations—
already memory—
is captured, collected in
old tapes, decades passing,
gradually crumbling as they play—
the fine coating of magnetic
metal slivering off,
music decaying slightly
through each revolution on
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Special Needs Kindergarten
The students from the school
With the small bus
(the bus parents must
Stand beside, on the sidewalk
In front of their house)
Are not taught about how they are disabled,
But how they are unique—
How they are different from everyone else,
But capable of being like everyone else
If they are encouraged.
They are not concerned with becoming something
Except for becoming what they can become,
Learning for the sake of learning,
Learning to better themselves,
Learning so they can understand—
When understanding oftentimes evades them.
They read about their potential
And how they can still do remarkable things,
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Subway Musician
I saw her sitting in the subway
Next to a column
Wall-papered with advertisements.
She held an acoustic guitar,
And brushed her fingers against
The phosphor bronze strings,
And each note she plucked
Wrung clearly as a silver bell,
Or like one in a cathedral tower.
She sang her song to the spaces
Between the people
As they walked around her,
Deafened by their own busy lives
And the footsteps,
The conversations
Of others.
She was unaccompanied.
There was no drum beat,
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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