poetry via voicemail / missed calls you actually want to hear

'Helter Skelter'
by Sean Kilpatrick

Hi, kids! I got a garden in my penny.
I’m the creepy crawly mayor
popular since spoiling.
I teethe exit signs.
Noxious puddings swim in me.
Such uber-magnetized defoliants glide
my conjecture like moons we can’t share.
We are glued to our oldness
and smiling through crowds.
I found all of you in a hamper.
Now we share one throat.
Good thing I ejaculated a coffin
inside your testimony.
There’d be none of you left.


Sean Kilpatrick called us from a bar parking lot in Detroit, MI.
More about Sean.


'Spider Bite'
by Kaitlin Harness

Once a spider bit my tongue
It felt so weird and made it num
I drank some water and chewed on gum
But it did not work and it was still num


HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Kaitlin Harness, who called us from Covelo, CA and just turned NINE YEARS OLD!


'Acrostic Spelling Me Out'
by Tyler Barton


I spring back
I am falling for
     a bad bathroom excuse

I jackpine for seascape
I crackpot the bluest rose
I mohawk the leopard print
     ripoffs of the avenue
I cross myself in my dream and
I goddamn a devilock

I bulldoze in doorways
I pull off the covers
I understand to be smashed
     by waves
I muster I mustn’t

I tie a tie
I leave a leaf on the hall floor

I put a poptart down
I hitchup the canalway
I speedboat back down aways
I dentaldam the rushing water
I pick it up hot
     and juggle

I drivetrain my hands

     to stop shaking
I so bruise the purple strip
     under a lone duck’s wing

I am airing my hairball complaints


I stress the body pedestrian
I heavylid my paycheck

I guardrail against the missing
I tear Squibbs lesson plan
     in half
I carry uneven stacks of the Grapes of Wrath
I flask copies on to desks
I ask you not to throw it out the window
I fake like jumping out
     a window

I birdchirp true
     a real request
I need you to be the quietest class
I mean it for fifteen minutes

I leaffloat down the vertical hallway
I marinade you a gift from scratch
I leapfrog from room
     to room
I ostracize I

I shoulderread your tweets

I acrostisize to speak in codes
     for hour or sos
I code and decode the morality
     of sick days

I loon in and out


I stonesthrow away
     a pizza kitchen coupon
I domino I’ll die one day

I megabus to states unknown
I am bananapeeling out

I meganslaw your name
     your name
I duncecap his frosted tips
I sheepdog girls at the DDR

I deter
I defer
I denounce
I delice,
     or delouse?

I unleash highbrow

I lamontagne my composure
I elbowcatch a sneeze a minute

I vamoose morosely


I bittorrent a couch cushion
I am function
I fengshui

I centerline up to the fucking tunnel
I hardscrabble the wrong word
I reason I burn third degree

I wordwall my enemies in
I downdraft an ok fantasy
tennis team

I shotgunwed this spit to the street
I cabaret your bangs up off your face
I woodpeck your first kiss shallowness
I am shallowest


Tyler Barton called us from a maintenance shed in Lancaster, PA.
More about Tyler.


coming up this week!

monday - ‘acrostic spelling me out’ by tyler barton
tuesday - ‘spider bite’ by kaitlin harness
wednesday - ‘helter skelter’ by sean kilpatrick
thursday - ‘greg sestero’s familiar, habitual behaviors’ by sophia katz

another episode of the podcast is on the way next month. we’re looking for people with podcast/radio/audio experience to help curate and produce our monthly episodes. we’re also actively looking for musicians that would be willing to donate a track for our intro/outro. 
interested?shoot us an email at voicemailpoems@gmail.com.
love ya!


another episode of the podcast is on the way next month. we’re looking for people with podcast/radio/audio experience to help curate and produce our monthly episodes. we’re also actively looking for musicians that would be willing to donate a track for our intro/outro.

interested?shoot us an email at voicemailpoems@gmail.com.

love ya!

'Pomegranate Mind'
by Rachel Harthcock

I remember Phil saying we should write a list of
all the people who bothered us, whispering over the phone

after the internet had cut out, ending our AIM conversation.

I remember the night we camped out
and I watched him walk into the pines to pee,
then realizing he was the only Polish person I knew.

I remember being in his family’s church
when we picked up the scent of my dad’s cologne
over the communion wine, walking back to the pews,

eyeing the yellow fabric.

And the afternoon he got so high on lased weed
that my sister drove me to pick him up off the ranch road by his parent’s house
and then she dropped us off at the mall

I remember how he was always known for not talking much
and the time he sat back in the theatre hall crying while reading Catcher in the Rye,
later describing the book to me as “aggressively mediocre” turning his face away.

At baseball games his Dad wore a Cubs hat and his Mom talked the entire time.

He disappeared in college and I thought of him
as Bertram from the Sandlot, “getting really lost in the sixties,”

But my mother ran into his at the elementary school choir concert,

he was studying geology, climbing rocks in West Texas.

Last night I was on the corner of the couch in my apartment, hurt by the misgivings of my pomegranate mind, my boyfriend needing a break

to figure out how to love me more

after carrying my skis down the side of a mountain, after pushing my car out the snow, half a mile past the No Outlet sign. His language of placing the heater on my side of the bed, of morning coffee, spliffs, of extra pairs of socks, I might need them.

I’m thinking back on Phil. Those spring nights in the hill country,
talking about the perfect combo of jalapeno cheeseburgers and butterscotch malts
or how it feels to love but not understand how.

I’m getting a hollow feeling today, the temperature up in the 40s
in the most glacial winter of recorded Midwest history

and I remember how I would always start laughing when he would look at me in the eyes,
which was wrong of me and I’d like to apologize for now.

No one deserves to be taken advantage of in these ways.


Rachel Harthcock called us from Detroit, MI.
More about Rachel.


by Christian Wacker

i need to stop thinking of you in terms of bright coffee and the surface; i need to begin thinking of you in terms of tongues on fire and time enough to watch the sun move across its lazy sky. i would like to take this time to proffer a formal and utterly sincere apology for all seven hundred seventy days, but they were preceded by a significant time of practice in regard to my ugly habits. will you see my desire to watch myself in your clear eyes as something that is important? i am cleaner when you hear me and when i look at you we are on a mountain in the middle of europe talking about how wonderful fresh buttermilk truly sounds. we can be a paradise, if you don’t mind.


Christian Wacker called us from Kirksville, MO.
More about Christian.


'High School 101'
by Timmy Reed

Everybody in detention said
“You won’t like this disease
Unless you are doing it correctly.”
I ate the teacher’s underpants
(they were on fire)
Because I was skeptical.
“I refuse to believe in the death of Rock ‘n Roll,”
Barked the coolest girl in school
While we perused the nine-dollar bin
at the gas station
She called “Proof”
Of something else.
“I believe in a future where bands
Don’t even play music because
Isn’t listening to music cool enough?”
It was no time to disagree with her.
Prom was coming up
And I had already
Been left out
Of the suicide pact.


Timmy Reed called us from Baltimore, MD.
More about Timmy.


by Jeannie Yoon

I am learning to walk while loving
Still tripping into the ditches
Astride the rocky road
A clear and searing day

Burns the air thick and heavy
Singing my nose and my atrophying
Tongue turns restless
In its desiccated bed

The TV bitches splayed on the sands
Of Miami or something
Smell like synthetic coconut
I should get up

I get up
I don’t know what to do with you
Or whither to step, how far
This has less to do with who you are

Than six-year-old me appearing alone
In scores of tableaux sheaved
In shelves of memory
Laid out room by room

We lived above a vast cellar
Set off by slate blue paint on the exterior
In whose shade grew violets
And three vain roses

And the milk expired
And the periodic shaving
Of the man’s haired cheek
And the long grass

Was cool in the afternoon.
I did love you, once.
Whatever radiance of that still quivers
Subliminal, through me, is decaying.

Mirrored sunglasses set off
His excellent face, lean and grinning
Some distance angled from mine
Eyes on the road

I blink and so is uncovered
The wide and imperceptible
Spread of things
A good hard look

I have countless simultaneous themes to resolve
Before I conclude, so why
Should I keep you?
I’m up tonight

Squeezing and releasing your waning
Afterimage, dissolving in light
Which is pressed against darkness
I will it to end

My body is an intersection at rest
I am a colony of life
I am a home for death
I am a whetstone for the language


Jeannie Yoon called us from Boston, MA.
More about Jeannie.


coming up this week:

poetry by jeannie yoon, timmy reed, christian wacker, and rachel harthcock!!

<3 <3 <3

it’s officials! we’re on iTunes! subscribe!

along with the week’s poems delivered directly into your earholes, the voicemail poems podcast also features a monthly ‘episode.’ episodes include a rotating group of hosts discussing 3 of their favorite poems according to a theme. there will be poetry, giggles, strange antics, and much more. there will be NO PANTS ALLOWED.


why-im-not-where-you-are asked: how do I get my poems read and published on this site?


excited to hear your work! <3

'You Flood'
by Amanda Oaks

It’s raining your name & five miles back
my windshield wiper eyes gave up on
clearing the way you used to mother me
into thinking that it was okay to love me
like that. It’s raining your name like
the way bones shake when they are
standing in the tallness & balancing
on the hollowed-out surface
of either our love or fear. It’s raining
your name like bomb squad, like
battering ram, like fallout shelter.
It’s raining your name & I want it to be
hymnal. I want it to be like two sets
of legs intertwined inside a sleeping bag
in a covered bed of a pickup truck parked
on a forgotten dirt road. I want it be like
the way the body remembers touch. The way
a smell or a song can jet ski you back 20 years.
It’s raining your name & if it can’t be that,
I’d rather it be volcano ash falling over a town
we just mowed over. I’d rather it be the debris
from the crash between our two airplane hearts
dead-dropping to the ground. It’s raining
your name & I turn slow leak. I turn puddle.
I river. I ocean. I fuckin’ tsunami. You
waterboard. You constant drip. It’s raining
your name & I can’t seem to remember
the way the inside of my head sounds
without it.


Amanda Oaks called us from Indiana, PA.
More about Amanda.


uglyangrygirls asked: I'm so happy this blog exists, I'll be calling.

yaaaayyy!!!! excited to hear your poem!

'Four Sexts'
by Conor Harris

1. sext: you are a super-dense train accelerating toward the sun and I am the comet you happened to pull out of orbit I will watch you burn then implode and become something that people who live forevers away will look to for answers but all that will be left is your gorgeous broken littering the universe and I will pick up the pieces of you as I make my way to crash into the earth and end all chances for memory or hanging out either of us ever had. choo-choo

2. sext: at my state line there is a bridge between one state and the other and every time I cross is I hold my breath and think of kissing you until the river dries up beneath t and there is no longer a need for a bridge to bring people together between far away places and lines this land is our land so hold my fucking hand already and we can make the landmarks jealous. crumble crumble

3. sext: eat an orange with seeds, kiss me, put the seeds in my mouth, and I will take a vow of silence until I find a perfect coastline where the water crushes the shore gentle, like a stone on your chest that slowly gets heavier; here I’ll spit the seeds out and they will grow and thirty years from now somebody’s children will eat oranges grown from our saliva and our love and this is how we will follow the biological imperative to reproduce

4. fate is not real and neither is the universe and I am not a waste of your time


Conor Harris called us from Boise, ID.
More about Conor.