poetry – AUDREY STIMSON

THE NUMBERS (written for Borderline Grill Massacre)

Audrey Stimson — Mon, 30 May 2022 23:56:00 +0000

A voice I heard said a number this morning.
A tragic laundry list of inevitability,
of injured,
of dead,
of statistical truths.
A cup of
black bitter numbers at my breakfast table.

Numbers tell stories.
The numbers of lies,
of words of hate,
of speeches that divide and of weapons that kill.

Numbers, like digits on our country’s trembling hands,
broken, maimed, shattered hands covered in blood.

The numbers of lifeless piles of flesh
left behind in pools of unfinished lives,
bones heavy on a dance floor of senseless acts.

The number of blood filled bars,

the number of blood filled concerts,

the number of blood filled stores,

the number of blood filled synagogues,

the number of blood filled churches,

the number of blood filled theaters,

the number of high schools,

and the number of elementary schools.

The numbers of tragedies
shoot deep holes into
a belief that anything

can be done to stop the endless flow of pain.

Numb, speechless, a country is waiting for the next numbers.

393,000,000+ million guns in America

12,477 deaths to gun violence this year (2018)

953 hate groups in the U.S.

307 mass shooting in America this year (2018)

20 veterans complete suicide everyday

12 is the number today (Borderline Grill Thousand Oaks, CA-Nov 7, 2018)

Sonny

Audrey Stimson — Sun, 08 Sep 2019 00:10:31 +0000

Sonny started singing while he shuck the martini
I realized right then and there I wanted mine stirred.
They all had red jackets like those carnival monkeys playing the snare drums,
banging out cocktails for tips.

100 years and nothing much has changed I guess.
Flirting bartenders interrupting my intimate conversations about love and death.
Go away, I was just getting to the place where it all made sense
a new friendship with a twist, cold cool comfort on a hot day in LA.
 
Sonny got his tip.
Sonny is not getting another drink from me.
Time to find another hole I can crawl into
away from this song and dance routine
I’ll leave Sonny to sing for the tourist in their cheap walmart print t-shirts
I’ll leave Hollywood to entertain their illusions
I’ll leave the barstool to someone who wants their
martini shaken not stirred.

Stalled Dreams

Audrey Stimson — Sat, 07 Sep 2019 22:57:17 +0000

Stuffing toilet paper in my ears doesn’t work all the time.
Sometimes the music is just too loud.
Johnny is an asshole and sucks cock.
It says it right there.
A knife to the door of the stall does the trick.
The poetic
musings of a spurned girl etched in block letters.
How long must she have been in this stinking shit hole to get those words just right?
just there, just where her bold statement gets read.
It smells like urine, vomit and strawberry flavored vape pens.

My pissing is done.
I push passed the white faced, shitfaced young ones.
I look at them, in their heals and tight skirts, full round silicon tits,
Their ruby red lips, flat tummies, and their wide open eyes.
A public spectacle
of misplaced desires to fit in.
Johnny is an asshole and sucks cock.

They don’t look at me anymore. The old ones do.
They open their
dirty mouths and let their tongues just lay their with their dirty thoughts.
I should go home.
What kind of trick will get me outta here. I’m too old for this.
Johnny is an asshole and sucks cock.