in parentheses

Phillipe Martin Chatelain / @uptownvoice / Phillipe is the Managing Editor of In Parentheses. He is a poet from New York City with a Masters Degree in Poetry from The New School. He writes as someone in the tradition of the urban troubadour or the flaneur–wandering, taking notes. He believes that poetry of our generation has taken on a much more digital definition. Furthermore, it is important for New Modernist writers like those exhibited in In Parentheses Literary Magazine to assume the forms of media available in order to carry on the history of Sublime Art. His series taking shots alone was self-published in 2012-2015. The self-published collection FACETS (2019) is now available.

HIT THIS MATCHA

i’m too high to riot.
too stone cold to go broke
in broken down Harlem bandos.
you can’t move me
i’m too stubborn to lose faith,
too pretty to move weight,
too home to go away.

it’s pathetic to say
i’m too old to cry or die
or lose my mind
but then
i turn around and whisper
into glass bottles of whiskey
or red wine.

i found out how to haunt myself
and i wouldn’t wish it on anyone
i’m too high for flying
and it’s about high noon.
i’m bleeding out all wounds

i’ve got way too many blues for
any more bad news
silence doubters through their wireless router
and keep these computers ‘putin’.
find respite in the blue and orange hue
of eyelids–

if pain is life,
then be a pot of brewing stew.
slowly simmer then,
spice it twice as nice,
stir at endless intervals.
the clock strikes midnight
on the same long-day mattress
used on the short ones–

hide behind a peace sign
eyes still closed
and blind to each time
we stain the dirt with each other
most blind when i find
i’m bleeding the dear earth
with my own damn mind.

i stick to near earth orbit
i’m smiling
and keen to stay focused
on the peace of gray oceans.

SKRTT

full night of hitting gems
or spitting phlegm am i quitting then
if you see the truth you could see me
when i’m on the TV
when i’m talking sleazy
catch a creep maybe deep breath
maybe sleep please // is it often that i slip
is it wrong for me to quit
it’s just hard for me to fit
like i’m parked between two Jeeps on 95th
car’s clean ain’t no sparking leaf
ever since i found gold
now in every pretty town
i may have found my home
i’m persistent like a dial tone
or when the whip is slippin
make a quick decision
does it hit or is it missing
i guess what this kids wishing
makes him worth a bit
worth and wait can interchange
like hands with different names

FLY SWAT RESCUE

we met our match one day in late summer
where the feeling of escape dissolves
as temperatures drop by date
you might find your way as i do indoors
each corner out of sight you feel is yours

and here you are still as the winds of
winter build their ice around–you
still and silent sailing in or out of sight
as you pass by my ears with your faint sound
my truest flail a single waste of might

fly swat rescue whats necessary is the best cure
be they a sweet lure that helped to keep you
is it ease of breeze that made you trapped
i try to find a place to smack but first

deep breath reach back relax
in the moments as i reach for you i’m blind
ive already made up my mind without you
quiver as you must and if you disappear
trust ill always have this dance
with your blind spot

i’m trying to kill you because you shift my focus
when you’re in my line of sight
you are a speck but still a stain on walls
you haven’t learned from all the smears
of blood from the ancestors

i think i will rid my mind of this
but you may have multiplied
or maybe i have missed

SOME SMALL MIRACLES

full of some small miracles
i couldn’t tell you all of them
it’s been a dream in a quarantine
fallen man is how it seems
never had a mustache this vast
never had my fingernails this clean
would you spend the night please
it’s just hard to lark and most don’t listen
they’ve got the hardest hearts
not a split within them
throw a brick instead a fist might open
before you’re sick dont even risk it
i just need some social distance
pardon the quickness
would be rude to miss this
be remiss bespeckled mistress
i see you come equipped with consciousness
it’s the hardest part
the smallest gift