Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Sugar Tits and the Feminists

(I promise to post something less goofy shortly)

We played in a cover band
Sam Cooke and the Pixies
practiced in Jimmy V.'s basement

"How about Sugar Tits and the Feminists"
I said

"The band will be call Fucked by Lightning"
he said

I furrowed my brow
peed all over his amplifier
smashed my mandolin on his computer monitor
ran up the stairs crying

I didn't stop crying until I got to the bubble tea place
a block and a half from Jimmy's

I drank bubble tea until I puked

and Sam Cooke played
I know a change is gonna come

Monday, April 28, 2008

Bob Ross vs the Demons: the Hunt Begins

When I was young and stupid
I thought myself a romantic.
I created dates in my head
whenever the inspiration hit
chocolate factory tours
Pike Place dinners followed by
the Seattle Art Museum
sandy bluffs and spring sunsets.
I saw myself as the Bob Ross of romance
who only lacked canvas for my masterpieces.


I am a super hero
hunting down and destroying fashionable demons
in a robotic suit I found in a dumpster
behind Round Table Pizza in Mill Creek.
On it was a note:
"Tucker, there is a war, you have be chosen
here is your weapon, here is your canvas"
I am Bob Ross motherfucker,
demons beware.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Corn Dogs

I said
You're my corn dog at the state fair

she gave me a look
she had a thousand different looks
that all said the same thing

I said
I like corn dogs
more than ferris wheels
more than elephant ears
more than pig races
and more than blue ribbon bunny rabbits

she gave me another one of her thousand looks
You haven't been to a state fair since you were 15

I still love corn dogs,
some things never change

I know,
sometimes that's the problem

she gave me yet another one of her looks
I threw my ice cream cone at her
hit here right in the eye

she flipped me off
You're an asshole

I know you are but what am I

I was happy I was drunk
and I knew
deep down inside
she was too

we were young and in love
tra la la

Friday, April 25, 2008

Crush Debates (real real old one)

Maybe I'm just as complicated to you as you are to me
like they always said about bears and people
I still think that's bull shit though
I'm way more scared of them then they are of me

Your inability to see what's going on
may not be your fault
my imagination has written poor romances
with unhappy endings before

And that is probably what has happened
part of me sees that nothing has happened
that same part is sad
because nothing ever happens
I would rather be destroyed by you
than for all the drama to be placebo

But there is part of me that knows it dodged the bullet
the debate in my mind over these things
is not an organized lincoln douglas styler debate
it isn't a debate on the floor of the US senate either

No it's more like some congress from the former Soviet block
with hundreds of members brooding and brawling
with shoes flying every which way

trying to find valid points and truth
among all the special interests and fairy tales
is like trying to find a needle in a hay stack

The honest voices in my head know quite well that nothing has happened
but those voices are the sad old representatives in the back
whose voice is far to weak to be heard
the only thing these debates ever accomplish is awkwardness
there seems to be an abundance of that now.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Redeeming the Ancient Ones

These are a few poems I redeemed from a long forgotten file. I wrote most of these within a few months of when I started writing. They're all short because I cut down the parts that weren't good. I'm sure some religious analogies could be made.


If I were a flower,
I would be the mighty dandelion:
unstoppable and always modest.
Not fragile and flamboyant
like those other flowers.

The bane of every lawn obsessed suburbanite.
Precious to almost no one,
not found in wedding bouquets
or given to women to apologize for wandering eyes.

Every spring they come out in force,
conquering all the deep green lawns of the Northwest.
Their pale yellow hats stand proud on top of green
transforming front yards into advertisements for the Sonics.

Bad Days

Some days are more difficult than others,
be it traffic or undercooked chicken,
days can get bad in a hurry.
There are millions of ways for them to become terrible.
When I ponder the infinite bad variables
I'm amazed that there are good days at all.

Poetry Poetry Poetry

He hung his hat on the mic
then puked out
a small version of himself.

Naked and dripping,
the baby danced,
told us stories
about story-telling
cowboys who had quarrels
with story telling hobos.

The man breathed in,
the the midget story teller
went up his right nostril.

He picked up his hat,
sat down,
and wiped his nose
with a poem.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

I wish He had a myspace

They're in the business of inventing saviors
-Dave Bazan, Invention

He wears Levis and Airwalks
like Idaho, He exists in three decades at once
faded t-shirts
forgotten national championships
local bands from cities no one’s heard of

Sarah wishes He was hip
wishes He cared about things like that
tight t-shirts from expensive thrift shops
a new sweater for every day of the week
she wishes He made witty quips
talked more about music

Conversations of broken eye-contact
searching coffee shops
for someone else to talk to

He shows up unexpectedly
in airport baggage claims in lonely towns
when she'd give her right pinky
just to see someone who knew her name

He’s there when she wants Him to be
but more often when she doesn’t

He walks confident
like a man with no name
in a dusty western
He goes for walks without destination
never seems lost

He’s plain
not tall or short
blends into crowds
nothing about him
that would draw your eye

John sits next to Him at church
keeps pictures of Him on his mantle
invites Him to dinner parties

Try’s to get him to talk politics
how the left is destroying America
the importance of prayer in schools
who he supports in the next election
John wishes He wore more effective deodorant
and was less "femmy"

John never in invites Him to play golf
too embarrassed to drink around Him
tries not to talk about music with him
as a rule
John never asks for His advice

I wish He had a myspace
with funny pictures
interests in easy to use list form
and a top eight,
so I could see who he really loved

I could leave comments
stay in contact at a distance

I wish He was "one-of-the-boys"
stuck more to polite conversation
weather, sports and beer
responded to peer pressure

He does what he wants
speaks his mind
more often than not
with a smile

He gives big hugs
leaves your hand numb
after high fives
He laughs big

I run into Him everywhere
record stores, parks and bars
whenever I'm in a rush
I wish he'd show up more
when I had time

I wish he had a myspace.

Monday, April 21, 2008


I was talking with Ryan Johnson, and we got to the topic of why we write. Ryan says he writes because he is bored and needs something to fill up the time. The reason I bring this up is it gets to how writers measure their success. If Ryan writes and isn't bored for sometime than he is successful; whereas others may consider a certain amount of publishing to be successful.

As for myself, I have been published twice by my school magazine, had a hand full of poetry features around town (most set up by friends), and never gotten past the first round of a slam; does this make me a successful poet? Sometimes I don't think it does. Most of the time however I stay true to my original purpose in writing:expressing myself. This goal is not at all concerned with quality of poetry produced. As long as a poem expresses some thought of mine it is a success. I've talked to a pastor or two about how I feel it is important to my faith, but I'm not sure that argument holds much water. Sometimes it expresses my faith, and I feel there is some type of a spiritual discipline at work, most of the time it is me doing what I want.

What do you think? How does one define success as a poet? Why do you write?

Sunday, April 20, 2008

High Five

The bartender was in a creative writing class
with me when we were in high school.
He walks up to me, Hey bud, high five.

I've had two beers
I believe in going big with high fives--
especially in bars.
I knock his hand
into the the wine glasses
hanging above the bar.

I blame him, I didn't touch the glasses.
They clinked for sometime after.
He walked away and I ate greasy food.

Thursday, April 17, 2008


Abeerah walks into the classroom
like she owns it.

Wears a white head scarf
with sequins--

you know you're not allowed to wear hoods in class
take off your hood Abeerah.
A poochy cheeked boy shadows her.

Shut-up Oreo!!
Abeerah chides back.

I, the substitute, take control
Both of you sit down and be quiet!

It was probably a good opportunity
to explain to them
the importance of being sensitive
when it comes to matters of race and religion,

but I was the substitute,
this wasn't my classroom,
these weren't my students
so I let it go.

I wondered what it was like for Abeerah
September of 2001.
She would've been in 1st grade--
if the student's didn't understand now,
I hate to imagine what it was like then.

I wondered what her teachers did,
if they tried to explain things to the class,
or if
they told the class to sit down and be quiet
and let it go--

hoping that it would go somewhere
far from their classroom
never to come back again.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

How drunk were you?

Did you ever talk to the man on the street,
huddled by the newspaper machine
asking you to buy them beer?

Of course you have.
We all have.
It's called liberal guilt,

or brotherly love;
how drunk were you?

I did once.
He told me about his pants.
His brother stole them
from a Seahawk.

They were sweat pants.
I didn't ask him his name,
I wouldn't have remembered it.
He wouldn't have remembered mine.

It wasn't an understanding,
it was a quicker pace.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Account Sent to Collections

this foul lonely cold front
would not be cheered

not even by the mini-van on North Road
equipped with spinners

no amount of green lights
could ease the hateful feelings

I wanted the flowers to unbloom
retreat back to the black earth

I wanted the trees to give up
to be barren and empty

i wanted gold never to be seen
wanted it to be forgotten

wanted time to reverse
stop--forward--back again

I wanted it to be a turntable
I wanted another beer

most of all
I wanted to go back

pay my credit card bill on time.