Sunday, March 15, 2009
Sunday, March 08, 2009
paul newman is dead
*
"Pick a color: Red, blue, orange, green."
"Blue," said Diane.
"B-L-U-E. Pick a number: one, two, three, four."
"One," said Diane.
"One." The cootie catcher's mouth moved sideways, like a shark.
"Pick a number: five, six, seven, eight."
"Seven," said Diane.
Woody opened the flap. "You will meet the love of your life," he read.
"When?"
Woody shrugged.
"Cool," said Diane. She popped a bubble of gum. The mole on her shoulder was still intact, large and fascinating.
*
Gabo is alive. He wakes up every morning and has coffee and takes a siesta every afternoon in his hammock and looks at his typewriter every evening with a hand-rolled cigarette in his hand. He is thoughtful. He has more than eighty years of wrinkly experience inside him. He thinks in lyrical Spanish.
*
On the last day of her life, Sylvia put the butter back into the fridge and she realized that by the time the butter hardened again, in the cold of the fridge, she would be dead.
*
More than once Davie looked in the mirror and thought that he probably had Down's Syndrome. Probably no one had told him because they were embarassed, and because they wanted to protect him. Whenever Davie got a bad grade on his math test, or failed an art assignment (an art assignment!), or tried to do the English reading and watched the words turn into Pacman and the little ghosts and blobs, he thought it was probably his Down's acting up again.
He would practice widening his eyes, practice straightening up his smile. Standing tall.
In later years, seeing himself on television, orange hair and creased face, he often wondered about that secret. Perhaps it had never manifested because no one had believed in it enough. Perhaps it was lurking in his system, like TB, waiting to strike when his defenses were down.
That was not at all how it worked, but Davie thought it anyway.
*
One day, Dakota will go to prom with a boy who will slide a corsage onto her wrist and smile for the pictures that both of their parents are taking. Or maybe she will go with a group of friends, and they'll go out for Thai beforehand and then all flock to the bathroom to redo their lipstick in the mirror.
One day Dakota will be at Long's buying toothbrushes, concealer, and disposable cutlery, and somebody will recognize her and she will probably have to sign their receipt, she will probably have to smile for a picture taken with somebody's cell phone, a picture that will come out blurry.
*
"Pick a color: Red, blue, orange, green."
"Blue," said Diane.
"B-L-U-E. Pick a number: one, two, three, four."
"One," said Diane.
"One." The cootie catcher's mouth moved sideways, like a shark.
"Pick a number: five, six, seven, eight."
"Seven," said Diane.
Woody opened the flap. "You will meet the love of your life," he read.
"When?"
Woody shrugged.
"Cool," said Diane. She popped a bubble of gum. The mole on her shoulder was still intact, large and fascinating.
*
Gabo is alive. He wakes up every morning and has coffee and takes a siesta every afternoon in his hammock and looks at his typewriter every evening with a hand-rolled cigarette in his hand. He is thoughtful. He has more than eighty years of wrinkly experience inside him. He thinks in lyrical Spanish.
*
On the last day of her life, Sylvia put the butter back into the fridge and she realized that by the time the butter hardened again, in the cold of the fridge, she would be dead.
*
More than once Davie looked in the mirror and thought that he probably had Down's Syndrome. Probably no one had told him because they were embarassed, and because they wanted to protect him. Whenever Davie got a bad grade on his math test, or failed an art assignment (an art assignment!), or tried to do the English reading and watched the words turn into Pacman and the little ghosts and blobs, he thought it was probably his Down's acting up again.
He would practice widening his eyes, practice straightening up his smile. Standing tall.
In later years, seeing himself on television, orange hair and creased face, he often wondered about that secret. Perhaps it had never manifested because no one had believed in it enough. Perhaps it was lurking in his system, like TB, waiting to strike when his defenses were down.
That was not at all how it worked, but Davie thought it anyway.
*
One day, Dakota will go to prom with a boy who will slide a corsage onto her wrist and smile for the pictures that both of their parents are taking. Or maybe she will go with a group of friends, and they'll go out for Thai beforehand and then all flock to the bathroom to redo their lipstick in the mirror.
One day Dakota will be at Long's buying toothbrushes, concealer, and disposable cutlery, and somebody will recognize her and she will probably have to sign their receipt, she will probably have to smile for a picture taken with somebody's cell phone, a picture that will come out blurry.
*
Friday, February 27, 2009
Emilys
Which Emily is the real Emily?
The lines of their hands are the same.
They speak chunks of sweet peanut butter,
cookie batter. Their knees are shaven.
Which Emily is the true Emily?
Teeth dusty, breathing internally,
their ribs uncracked, skin marbled.
Which Emily is the best Emily?
Their stars, their eyes offer no clues.
The lines of their hands are the same.
They speak chunks of sweet peanut butter,
cookie batter. Their knees are shaven.
Which Emily is the true Emily?
Teeth dusty, breathing internally,
their ribs uncracked, skin marbled.
Which Emily is the best Emily?
Their stars, their eyes offer no clues.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Train, again
I never wanted to die in my sleep. I wanted to die with my eyes open, to know that it was not a dream, to witness the world shifting.
He sat next to me, his head crooked awkwardly in his shoulder. He was leaning heavily, perilously away from me. I looked at his open mouth, the precisely formed upper lip, the forgotten scruff below his chin. I wanted to tickle him. I pressed my nose against the scratched-up glass instead. Anonymous, unvarying trees barreled by. When I thought about it too much I felt a reliable vertigo, like when you sit in your parked car and somebody is reversing right beside you. Like the world is going in a different direction than you are. It made me sick.
I was listening to the Shins. That year I was always listening to the Shins, and sucking on cough drops to distract myself from the cigarettes I wasn't smoking. I played three hard and fast games of iPod solitaire. I touched his shoulder. He felt felted. He felt soaked in the dripping glue of unconsciousness.
We dove underground. I put my head against the wall and felt everything rushing by. We were in a tunnel. If everything around me disappeared, I would have been sucked down quicker and quicker and I would have shrunken into nothingness. I took his hand. It was slack and flaccid. There were dark bristly hairs climbing from his arm and wrist up onto his hand, past his knuckles. I wanted to tell him he was an ape. I had never seen him shirtless and I wondered, again, if he had back hair. It frustrated me that he kept himself so private.
I wanted to get out my vitamin water but it was down by my feet and bending down would have wiped me out of existence. I was barely corralled in reality between the wall of the train and his round, uninterested hip.
Four more stops.
I decided I would wake him up after Canal Street. I was feeling nervous and impatient. We were rushing through the tunnel and all was fluorescent light. Everybody in the train looked sallow and distant. We were all in transition. Nobody ever sat on the train just to be on the train. This had never happened in the history of the city.
I squirmed for my phone and scrolled through my contact list again. There was no reception, of course. My mouth felt dry. He looked so uncomfortable.
The train squealed to a stop. Three more until we got home.
I made myself cough. "Adam," I said softly. Then again. "Adam." I felt bolder now. I reached over and snapped my fingers in front of his face. "Adam."
He shifted a little. Then he opened his eyes. Blinked at me several times, like somebody nearsighted, and closed his eyes again.
"Adam," I said, taking out my earbuds so that the overhead buzz of the train wholly took over, "it's almost our stop. Come on, wake up."
A woman reading a book looked up. I cowered.
He arched back to a sitting position, cracked his knuckles, looked thoughtfully at me. "How much longer?"
I shrugged a little. "Five, six minutes." I felt hyperactive, nervous, now that he was awake.
He rubbed his eyes, blinked again, and looked at me. He was pulling down one eyelid so that I could see the inside of it. His eyes were the color of moss in August.
"Okay," he said.
He sat next to me, his head crooked awkwardly in his shoulder. He was leaning heavily, perilously away from me. I looked at his open mouth, the precisely formed upper lip, the forgotten scruff below his chin. I wanted to tickle him. I pressed my nose against the scratched-up glass instead. Anonymous, unvarying trees barreled by. When I thought about it too much I felt a reliable vertigo, like when you sit in your parked car and somebody is reversing right beside you. Like the world is going in a different direction than you are. It made me sick.
I was listening to the Shins. That year I was always listening to the Shins, and sucking on cough drops to distract myself from the cigarettes I wasn't smoking. I played three hard and fast games of iPod solitaire. I touched his shoulder. He felt felted. He felt soaked in the dripping glue of unconsciousness.
We dove underground. I put my head against the wall and felt everything rushing by. We were in a tunnel. If everything around me disappeared, I would have been sucked down quicker and quicker and I would have shrunken into nothingness. I took his hand. It was slack and flaccid. There were dark bristly hairs climbing from his arm and wrist up onto his hand, past his knuckles. I wanted to tell him he was an ape. I had never seen him shirtless and I wondered, again, if he had back hair. It frustrated me that he kept himself so private.
I wanted to get out my vitamin water but it was down by my feet and bending down would have wiped me out of existence. I was barely corralled in reality between the wall of the train and his round, uninterested hip.
Four more stops.
I decided I would wake him up after Canal Street. I was feeling nervous and impatient. We were rushing through the tunnel and all was fluorescent light. Everybody in the train looked sallow and distant. We were all in transition. Nobody ever sat on the train just to be on the train. This had never happened in the history of the city.
I squirmed for my phone and scrolled through my contact list again. There was no reception, of course. My mouth felt dry. He looked so uncomfortable.
The train squealed to a stop. Three more until we got home.
I made myself cough. "Adam," I said softly. Then again. "Adam." I felt bolder now. I reached over and snapped my fingers in front of his face. "Adam."
He shifted a little. Then he opened his eyes. Blinked at me several times, like somebody nearsighted, and closed his eyes again.
"Adam," I said, taking out my earbuds so that the overhead buzz of the train wholly took over, "it's almost our stop. Come on, wake up."
A woman reading a book looked up. I cowered.
He arched back to a sitting position, cracked his knuckles, looked thoughtfully at me. "How much longer?"
I shrugged a little. "Five, six minutes." I felt hyperactive, nervous, now that he was awake.
He rubbed his eyes, blinked again, and looked at me. He was pulling down one eyelid so that I could see the inside of it. His eyes were the color of moss in August.
"Okay," he said.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Harvard's Ode
Brass, anglican, your eyes are
pupilless, your toes are pennied.
Lucky as a rabbit's.
O, justice, she is running
in slow motion, but you are immobile
and cannot catch her.
They pose, and when they smile
you cannot smile, your face held proud;
yes, always your face is held proud.
pupilless, your toes are pennied.
Lucky as a rabbit's.
O, justice, she is running
in slow motion, but you are immobile
and cannot catch her.
They pose, and when they smile
you cannot smile, your face held proud;
yes, always your face is held proud.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
not quite lupercalia
This, sneaking into you twice, creeping,
anointing boys you forever denied,
boys similar in height and eyes and sadnesses,
chaster boys, with cracked voices and fragile lips--
is this, maybe, love? Wanting it not for yourself,
but for them, wanting to be
their whiskey, joyful and sparkling all the way down?
anointing boys you forever denied,
boys similar in height and eyes and sadnesses,
chaster boys, with cracked voices and fragile lips--
is this, maybe, love? Wanting it not for yourself,
but for them, wanting to be
their whiskey, joyful and sparkling all the way down?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
AIOLOS
My senses are restless,
leashless, giggling, battering, lapping
with echoed smells, tinted with myth.
They pause not at Persephone,
quicker than Hermes.
They whistle palm-ladders for Hermes.
I am chapped with keeping them,
my fingers skinless, I read in Braille,
but when they wind home I leach the world from them,
voracious, vicarious.
leashless, giggling, battering, lapping
with echoed smells, tinted with myth.
They pause not at Persephone,
quicker than Hermes.
They whistle palm-ladders for Hermes.
I am chapped with keeping them,
my fingers skinless, I read in Braille,
but when they wind home I leach the world from them,
voracious, vicarious.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
slings & arrows of outrageous fortune
i am published here (breadcrumb scabs)
you can download it for free
i am the first one in the issue, so you don't have to read the whole thing
however, if you want to, it's worth reading
most of the poetry is good and interesting
i recommend joseph reich's piece
you can download it for free
i am the first one in the issue, so you don't have to read the whole thing
however, if you want to, it's worth reading
most of the poetry is good and interesting
i recommend joseph reich's piece
Friday, January 30, 2009
Aisha
Walking back to the car I saw a woman I remembered. Settled, with flaky orange hair, drooping features. Her name was Aisha and she had been in my sign language class. The class had been taught by a fantastic, sincere guy named Mo whose parents had both been Deaf. Most of the students were there trying to escape oral language courses, with the three notable exceptions. There was a couple, a worried brunette named Elaine and her partner, a sweet-eyed, intelligent Iranian; he was going deaf. And there was Aisha, who was going deaf too. She was in her thirties and she spoke almost normally, but she couldn't say her R's, and it made me wonder if losing the ability to hear also lost you the ability to distinguish between R's and W's.
Once, in class, we'd been talking about the pros and cons of cochlear implants and she had spoken up in her funny crippled voice, said she was considering getting one but she was undecided, she was "scaiwed shitless," and there had been a sort of stabbed silence, all these home-schoolers and hipsters too cool for Spanish and older people trying to pick up another skill and me, a high school junior with half an aptitude for language and half a desire to listen to that exotic voice of people with no voice, all of us sucking in a little, unable to imagine sound growing duller each day, the big chunky plastic hearing aid palpably less effective than it was, the workings of entropy spelled out in the gradual obvious muting of the world....
I saw her crossing the street, her movements impenetrable, unrevealing. I could not know if she had chosen to get the implant. Irreversible, unlike any decisions I had yet to make. Me, still unbetrayed by my curious body.
On the way home I drove along the cliffs, twenty miles per hour. I was driving a different car, and I was still unused to the engine's quiet. The sea was exquisite, shimmery, echoing a periwinkle dome, rippling with light, opalescent. And the sky just above it was tinted orange. I drove and looked and felt like I would die of beauty.
And within meters and moments it had changed. The orange had faded peach and the contrast was lesser and death was postponed, again.
Once, in class, we'd been talking about the pros and cons of cochlear implants and she had spoken up in her funny crippled voice, said she was considering getting one but she was undecided, she was "scaiwed shitless," and there had been a sort of stabbed silence, all these home-schoolers and hipsters too cool for Spanish and older people trying to pick up another skill and me, a high school junior with half an aptitude for language and half a desire to listen to that exotic voice of people with no voice, all of us sucking in a little, unable to imagine sound growing duller each day, the big chunky plastic hearing aid palpably less effective than it was, the workings of entropy spelled out in the gradual obvious muting of the world....
I saw her crossing the street, her movements impenetrable, unrevealing. I could not know if she had chosen to get the implant. Irreversible, unlike any decisions I had yet to make. Me, still unbetrayed by my curious body.
On the way home I drove along the cliffs, twenty miles per hour. I was driving a different car, and I was still unused to the engine's quiet. The sea was exquisite, shimmery, echoing a periwinkle dome, rippling with light, opalescent. And the sky just above it was tinted orange. I drove and looked and felt like I would die of beauty.
And within meters and moments it had changed. The orange had faded peach and the contrast was lesser and death was postponed, again.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
JANUARY
Mixed-up trees stepping in orange leaves,
Skin blessed with affectionate breezes;
Blues, greens, warms, silk feathers,
A crime to drive in this weather;
Bright shadows, flown smiles, limbs bared,
May-in-September-in-January;
If global warming takes me this peaceful way,
I won't revolt, I will obey.
Skin blessed with affectionate breezes;
Blues, greens, warms, silk feathers,
A crime to drive in this weather;
Bright shadows, flown smiles, limbs bared,
May-in-September-in-January;
If global warming takes me this peaceful way,
I won't revolt, I will obey.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
MONEYLAUNDERER
The soft clink of metal parts well-oiled. It used to wake me up in the middle of the night, I would see him looking guilty in the grainy light, his hands sticky, the weapon dormant and controlled in his hands. Now it lulls me.
He is a messy eater and he gets into fights. He wears red shirts, black vests. They don't stain easily but viscosity still crusts and I have to scrub it off, scratch at them with my fingernails in the warm soapy water.
There is ash, too, he smells of ash, once he pretended he was going to put his cigarette out on my arm and I didn't talk to him for an hour. He was repentant. His mouth has a layer of smoke inside of it.
He is disorganized, he pays for Italian dinners with nauseous Benjamins because he can't find anything smaller and he can't bother to look. I pick his bills out of his pockets, pluck off the lint, he does not even check before he puts his clothes in the hamper.
He takes shots like it is suicide. A somber drunk. Carnivorous.
Friday, November 28, 2008
The Lion Tamer
Yeah, her fur like bloody saffron.
At least she ain't got a mane.
The girls are fiestier, though,
got more bite in em. More bitter.
Hello, how's it going? No, stay, she won't bite my hand.
I know how to deal with these. You get em
up against the walls, corner em,
make em feel scared.
Yeah, look, see-- that's how you do it.
Like you're Dole and they're goddam
pineapples in a can.
At least she ain't got a mane.
The girls are fiestier, though,
got more bite in em. More bitter.
Hello, how's it going? No, stay, she won't bite my hand.
I know how to deal with these. You get em
up against the walls, corner em,
make em feel scared.
Yeah, look, see-- that's how you do it.
Like you're Dole and they're goddam
pineapples in a can.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
007's horoscopes
- With Mercury in retrograde, your life may begin to feel like a generic action movie, with no shot lasting longer than about five seconds.
- A nemesis might be a pretty damn good actor, but strangely absent from your main conflicts.
- An old friend will be absent from your surroundings this month, along with his super sweet gadgets.
- Look forward to a cool, visceral falling scene in your future, as well as some good chases and scenes full of things blowing up. You will also kill a lot of people cold-bloodedly, so get your guns ready.
- Expect really lame and cheesy place labels soon to tell you that you are in Italy, Bolivia, etc. On the other hand, you will get to go to Italy, Bolivia, and some other countries.
- If confused about twists and turns in your life, look into the past; Casino Royale will be a crucial chain of events to keep in mind. Even so, however, prepare for some confusion and misunderstandings.
- Unfortunately, an important relationship will not be consummated anytime soon, but don't lose hope. Next movie, maybe?
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
November 5, 2008
I should be working on a novel right now, but I'm feeling, contradictorily, both woozy and euphoric.
The woozy part can be explained by my attempt to donate blood today. 80 grams below the required amount I got a hematoma and fainted. Fainting is a pretty disorienting experience. Yeah.
I'm also pretty bummed about the Prop 8 results. There is nothing worse than giving people rights and then taking them away. The "yes on 8" people put on a huge advertising campaign which, while composed of mostly lies, seems to have convinced slightly over half of California. We'll have to overturn that shit soon.
However, I couldn't be prouder of the United States today. We manned up and made the right choice, and honestly, I still can't quite believe I'm not dreaming because this seems too good to be true. I feel like I'm living in a fairy tale right now. But what we're really living in is history. November 4, 2008 is going to be a date people remember for a long time, and Barack Obama's upcoming presidency is going to change the fate of not just the nation, but probably the world, in a hugely positive way.
Thanks, everyone. Here's to the new first family.
(Novel excerpts might come up sometime. Maybe. Don't count on anything.)
The woozy part can be explained by my attempt to donate blood today. 80 grams below the required amount I got a hematoma and fainted. Fainting is a pretty disorienting experience. Yeah.
I'm also pretty bummed about the Prop 8 results. There is nothing worse than giving people rights and then taking them away. The "yes on 8" people put on a huge advertising campaign which, while composed of mostly lies, seems to have convinced slightly over half of California. We'll have to overturn that shit soon.
However, I couldn't be prouder of the United States today. We manned up and made the right choice, and honestly, I still can't quite believe I'm not dreaming because this seems too good to be true. I feel like I'm living in a fairy tale right now. But what we're really living in is history. November 4, 2008 is going to be a date people remember for a long time, and Barack Obama's upcoming presidency is going to change the fate of not just the nation, but probably the world, in a hugely positive way.
Thanks, everyone. Here's to the new first family.
(Novel excerpts might come up sometime. Maybe. Don't count on anything.)
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Train
I dreamed train.
Every time my tongue hit the back of my teeth it was small wheels rolling and jangling against the railroad tracks. Bread and butter slid along my mouth like grease along the intimate inner workings of that mysterious machine. When I exhaled white puffs into the air I was making the clouds that train made out of coal. Every grimeless cell in me yearned toward train.
It was hard for me to fall asleep in those days, and my thoughts always would drift to train, the lulling motion of it, the constant motion of it, the idea of getting somewhere. Train meant Chicago, train meant New York, but train also meant crossing countryside. Train solved paradoxes: you could travel without moving. You could be sitting, or sleeping, or writing a letter, and all the time the motion would be going on around you, and you could not even feel it, but you would wake up one day in Ohio, the next day in Indiana, the next day in Illinois. You could do two things at once without even trying. When you were in train travel was like breath, equally unstoppable.
I went and had my baked potato and didn't say anything at all and went to bed and thought my veins into railroad tracks, the capsules of my blood into a billion red boxcars. My heart was the grandest and centrallest of train stations. The skin of the potato was ground up into hunks of coal that little men, sweating, saving up, shoveled into the fire.
Every time my tongue hit the back of my teeth it was small wheels rolling and jangling against the railroad tracks. Bread and butter slid along my mouth like grease along the intimate inner workings of that mysterious machine. When I exhaled white puffs into the air I was making the clouds that train made out of coal. Every grimeless cell in me yearned toward train.
It was hard for me to fall asleep in those days, and my thoughts always would drift to train, the lulling motion of it, the constant motion of it, the idea of getting somewhere. Train meant Chicago, train meant New York, but train also meant crossing countryside. Train solved paradoxes: you could travel without moving. You could be sitting, or sleeping, or writing a letter, and all the time the motion would be going on around you, and you could not even feel it, but you would wake up one day in Ohio, the next day in Indiana, the next day in Illinois. You could do two things at once without even trying. When you were in train travel was like breath, equally unstoppable.
I went and had my baked potato and didn't say anything at all and went to bed and thought my veins into railroad tracks, the capsules of my blood into a billion red boxcars. My heart was the grandest and centrallest of train stations. The skin of the potato was ground up into hunks of coal that little men, sweating, saving up, shoveled into the fire.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Imaginings
Gloaming.
The skirr of the birds almost inaudible, if I wasn't listening so hard.
Light leached from the sky, into the sea, foaming and booming eternally against the less eternal rocks.
My bones are clamped, granite nubs my knees.
Gums sucked, head raw.
There is a wind smacking my leached cheeks, and my fingers burrow.
When I squint my right eye shut everything is a Monet blur.
The skirr of the birds almost inaudible, if I wasn't listening so hard.
Light leached from the sky, into the sea, foaming and booming eternally against the less eternal rocks.
My bones are clamped, granite nubs my knees.
Gums sucked, head raw.
There is a wind smacking my leached cheeks, and my fingers burrow.
When I squint my right eye shut everything is a Monet blur.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
I've been sick. But more poetry class stuff.
It's now official: my poetry "teacher" is a dumbass who I do not respect a single iota.
However, this doesn't mean I can't glean something from the course, right?
Here's a sonnet I wrote today in class which I kind of liked. The assignment was to write about a block you know really well or something. I totally blew it off and wrote about a scene I came across earlier today. Mostly I guess I like the way it fits the form; less sure about the content.
WEST CLIFF SONNET
A white-hot spot up on my beating right.
There is a tree which flattens to make shade,
and here two gossipping old ladies walk,
and hear a shy musician try his trade.
A flock rolls by. Twentysomething women,
all pushing plush and multicolored strollers.
The carted chat drifts by: Today she slept
so well. Today he ate. And how is yours?
They look at me alone and unstretchmarked
and I shift to the water, blue and brighter
than any baby's eyes, its glitter-ripple
always alive, always alive. I'm lighter,
but should my helium be weighted down?
Unburdened, I still dream of greater towns.
However, this doesn't mean I can't glean something from the course, right?
Here's a sonnet I wrote today in class which I kind of liked. The assignment was to write about a block you know really well or something. I totally blew it off and wrote about a scene I came across earlier today. Mostly I guess I like the way it fits the form; less sure about the content.
WEST CLIFF SONNET
A white-hot spot up on my beating right.
There is a tree which flattens to make shade,
and here two gossipping old ladies walk,
and hear a shy musician try his trade.
A flock rolls by. Twentysomething women,
all pushing plush and multicolored strollers.
The carted chat drifts by: Today she slept
so well. Today he ate. And how is yours?
They look at me alone and unstretchmarked
and I shift to the water, blue and brighter
than any baby's eyes, its glitter-ripple
always alive, always alive. I'm lighter,
but should my helium be weighted down?
Unburdened, I still dream of greater towns.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Poetry class
I've begun taking a poetry class once a week, which means (theoretically) a lot more output.
So here's a draft I wrote last Tuesday which I kind of liked. The prompt was to write a "poetry poem" starting with "A poem is...".
POETRY POEM
A poem is flowering across you, mossy:
Slap it off your face and smack it down
onto a page. Or don't; I'll peel
and steal it.
In the air it comes to life.
Crusty letters crumple out,
origami polaroids
and maybe it's not ours anymore
but your crease is there, mine here. We're
makers, or something, shaping the ashes that land
in our hands,
our palms charcoal.
Can we breathe now?
So here's a draft I wrote last Tuesday which I kind of liked. The prompt was to write a "poetry poem" starting with "A poem is...".
POETRY POEM
A poem is flowering across you, mossy:
Slap it off your face and smack it down
onto a page. Or don't; I'll peel
and steal it.
In the air it comes to life.
Crusty letters crumple out,
origami polaroids
and maybe it's not ours anymore
but your crease is there, mine here. We're
makers, or something, shaping the ashes that land
in our hands,
our palms charcoal.
Can we breathe now?
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