underground<br />books.org
Like us on twitter facebook
  • UB
    • Roadside Assistance
    • 2013 NYC Poetry Festival
    • kiteFULLofWHISKEY
    • hotel romania
    • WHY we are different from pretend Genius
    • European Edition
    • The Unlikely Blond
    • [UND] >
      • INDIA
      • UBHomeVideo
      • WHEN I GROW UP I WANT TO BE A POET
  • POETS
    • Dylan Krieger
  • BOOKS
  • THE KITCHEN POET
  • SUBMIT
  • UB TRUTH
  • #JRPD
  • UBSHOP
  • UBTV
  • PS: Your Poem A Week w/ Philippe Shils

6 poems - Chase Spruiell

3/26/2015

0 Comments

 
Picture
wandering things

I flatten out the
bed sheets 
and I disregard
the crumbs

I should break
my habit of
eating in bed, 
but I am no longer
afraid of the
roaches

I understand that
they must
eat, too

like all
wandering
things



poem in red

this is a poem in
red and my hands are
shaking and
my bed is not 
a bed
and I lay still and I 
think of dreaming and
I think I’m dreaming
and the yellow walls are
not yellow until the sun
is on time and
puts them in
filthy piss yellow
and I wake up from being
awake
and I daydream of
sleeping
and I bleed colors
and I forget what day
it is
and I write a poem
in red



survival

there is not always
a good reason to break
an old habit

the easy way out 
is sometimes the
only way out

at 3:14am
the night crawls
the fan blows
the whiskey
chokes

there are symptoms
of fear that
must be hidden
buried or
forgotten

a man can only
survive the
moment

take what the 
whiskey will give you;
taste it
relish it
let it have you

when your old habits
kill you,
you’ll remember
that you were supposed 
to die anyway



love poem

It’s all God
It’s all the poets
It’s Bukowski in tears
It’s the pain of some Picasso 
It might be Mary Jane
in the comforting arms of the night
It’s something like the Coliseum
It’s the stranger
who kept a promise
It’s four kids in a hole in the wall
on the east side of town,
yelling their dirty little hearts out - 
It’s just a dollar for a CD
It’s John Fante, or Hemingway,
or maybe even Nietzsche
It’s six strings or a pen
or two measly colors
It’s your heart on an island
It’s in a box 
It’s in a prison
It’s religion without religion
It’s the unveiling of a soul
It’s right around the corner
It’s just beneath your fingertips
It’s beyond the machine
It’s found by some;
lost by many



Denham Springs

There’s a hotel in Denham Springs,
Louisiana,
where I redefined my prison-fed idea
of home.
I funneled my thoughts into the universe of
open space,
and focus became the freedom in
my step.
There was no more gazing into silence with nothing
on my tongue;
No more anchors of fear.
I sank into a strangers bed,
and I counted my blessings,
while I dreamed there was no better 
place to be.



57

when I’m 57
I’ll think,

all those years
I spent
getting here,

all those steps
I took
getting here,

all of the awkward,
unnecessary conversation
that took me
nowhere,

all of the failed
jobs and hobbies,
the failed relationships,

every dehydrated 
morning and
every self-loathed 
night,

all of the 
overpaid landlords,
every bill 
paid late,

all of the
redos retries
reboots and
all of the times instability 
led to a forced fresh start,

all of that
young pain
behind me and
I’ll think,

I’ve been waiting
a long time
0 Comments



Leave a Reply.

    The Kitchen Poet is now Tumbling.  

    UB INSTAGRAM

    submit: go  here. enter text in box.
    Read the original 9 KITCHEN Issues
    Picture
    #1
    Picture
    #2
    Picture
    #3
    Picture
    #4
    Picture
    #5
    Picture
    #6
    Picture
    #7
    Picture
    #8
    Picture
    #9

      Join Our Free Raffle for a Kitchen Poet Cookbook!

    SIGN UP & WIN!
Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.