THE POETRY OF CHRIS ROZIK

The Poetry of Chris Rozik

Highway Safety

To the cracks in the floorboard:
The silence in the air,
My rooms shrine to alcohol,
And the stale beer stench,
Stop.



To the loose lipped, ship sinking, chatty Cathys,
That spew judgment as if they learned tolerance
On the side of a cereal box, and, half asleep, forgot it.
Hoping that by talking, no one will talk about them.
Stop.



To the sister I never had;
Leave D.C. and cocaine
Your potential blows mine out of the water,
And it can't just be that you just wanted a big splash.
Stop.



I would love to know the word stop.
Because there are some times,
Where I have the mind running at 100 miles per hour.
Radio blaring,
Windows up,
Eyes fixed straight ahead.
Fellow drivers beware:
There are times I can't see anything except the road ahead.

There are times I don't know when to stop.

Sleepwalking

I play music because I love stagelight sweat.
I do it for your hips.
Because after a week of sitting in front of computer,
or whatever you sit in front,
you deserve a chiropractor.
Unfortunately for you,
My hands are a lot louder than a doctors.
But I can tell you,
that I spend just as much time trying to perfect an art.
Perfect and art however,
do not belong in the same sentence.



I play guitar and yell into PA's late at night,
while my parents sleep.
They know it,
and thank god it helps them sleep.

Dirty Socks

Regardless of the amount of socks I buy,
I'll only ever see roughly five pairs.
And if losing little black socks were a job,
I'd be the CEO over there.



They get lost under papers I never read,
Winter jackets I didn't pack away,
A shoe rack I don't use,
And a couch you don't want to sit on.



Socks, like life lessons and love songs,
Have a tendency of getting lost from time to time.

Stormy Young Men

I haven't had the luxury of an umbrella since the good old days.
My folks seem to remember things like that.



When I bought it,
the old old lady who hangs around told me
she offered a young man,
so soaking wet,
her umbrella,
but he couldn't hear her.



I wanted to tell her
When a young man is in a storm,
Without an umbrella,
the last thing he's listening for is a sweet old lady.

Noisy Sundays

Heaven,
Seems too bright for me.
The white clouds, the angels, the trumpets,
Seems a bit much to wake up to.
Especially, on a Sunday.
And if St.Peter is God's bouncer,
For eternity,
By now he's the patron saint of judgmental tough guys.



Heaven,
God's big mansion,
Six star suite in the sky,
I get it,
It's the best.
But when I die,
Please,
just let me rest.