high school – novamartinpoetry.com

Economics And Repugnancies

Get me out of this
Outback Steakhouse.

It is not in the outback.
Nor is it a steakhouse.

If Jenny from 3rd period English
is there,
it will be too much
to watch the plasticine moment
of people purchasing
something that doesn’t exist.

If I sit there and watch the plates
come in,
I will watch them,
watch them bring nothingness.

Jenny’s supple breasts evoke
trances
just like women and children
as items on TV,
or like fathers
with chiseled chins and parted hair
riding shiny new lawnmowers.

Economies are made to make
shit like this.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

Epsilon Heroic

He can punt like a motherfucker.
Jared can throw it far.
I got the size,
you got the power.

When is Marcus going to get his car?

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

Digital Egotist Millennial

It is after a great storm.

We were all washed away.

Even me.

“Me!” “Me!” “Me!”

Except digitally.

That is what’s left.

The oligarchs own.

The plebeians digitize.

“Me!” “Me!” “Me!”

The Influencers publish.

Go with me down to the store
in Barcelona

to get the whole seed mustard.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

Target Department Store Poem

Before humans I’ve passed,

it’s light from an afternoon
shone

the muscles and fat that have made
the day’s echo

asleep with my silence under trees
in a yard.

In the human way I’ve had eyes,

counted days without a parent,

tongues without a language

and architecture sheltering tribes.

From what point on the calendar
have they come,
they do not know,

but they have trailed home
to cells of containment and electricity.

These are provided . . . these are provided.

And the satellites we don’t count,

we do not see the great migration
and the accords of ownership.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

Some Pass, Some Pass Away

Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
People talked about the skin,
associated it with this friend
when its vision was requited in their memories.

Eventually, most fell out of touch
with the owner of Plate,
but never did they forget the
blooming gore
of that Georgia O’Keeffe-like
still life.
In fact,
many are reminded daily,
when they eat tortillas dipped in chili,
when chili is poured atop a hot dog,
when they fall asleep in church.

. . . “folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
Who was that, who’s plate was that?”

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

A Lesbian

When you leave,
when you’re away,
off sailing on aquamarine seas,
I think of your ruby sculpted
lipstick and
listen to Neko Case
by myself, alone in the human
darkness.

Does this make me a lesbian?