(opening line, a cheat, from my own #24, inspired by my friend angus's poem about "not getting over things fast enough," (his #25 & pt. 1 on his #21 ) in crude summation)
to say i still miss
is just to say i will always
that's what forever is
what was once present
leaves a human shape
stains
microfilms
i can close my eyes
play a song
recreate
i live as a fish
swimming in one direction
as a cat with a correct way to be touched
this is how we live
together
suffering the pasts
haunting us from other directions
my heart knows dates on calendars
birthdays
last time seens
the day the news came
how it sank in slowly steaping
the arrivals and the breaks
the intersections and the ruptures
deaths declared
the phase of the moon at burial
i couldn't forget if i tried
heavy as a cedar chest
sometimes there is no getting over
only through
a navigation of shark jaws
cling to the anecdotes
the tiny turn of mouth
a story about corn in rumble seats
the feel of park wood on spine with head between thighs
nervous tics
laughter
these are what will remain in slow motion
in slumber
and the comfort of dreams
i can hardly believe i ever knew
i can never believe how time is cut
by cleavers of watch arms
"you know what i am jealous of?
i am jealous of those of you who knew ____
longer, better"
says the man across a table
and my heart echos that pang
greedy green monster that it is, i know
no marathon is as kudzu
overgrown
enough.
i resent the lamp, the books
the ink, the ashtray
the blanket holding scent
the owl's impenetrable stare
hardness of objects existing
without the hands of owner
the scraps to witness my sorrow
i want to break everything
mourning
doesn't end
for some of us
a muscle memory of arms
my ribcage is a wind chime of lockets
my skin the shrink wrap to hold feelings too big
from leaking out all over the sidewalk
the cutting board
the kitchen
my mermaids, angels, tricksters
selkies, crones, vixens
wolves and tree limbs
my sweet ghosts of gone
i am failure
i will never live up
to your shadows
i can only rattle with you
in my breath
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Walpurgis Nacht
is almost here. Walpurgis Nacht is a pagan tradition of "burning out the winter ghosts" to welcome rebirth, harvest, abundance & the coming spoils of spring into summer.
With this, a poem about elements and SHARKS, from Poets.org.!
With this, a poem about elements and SHARKS, from Poets.org.!
Sharks in the Rivers
by Ada Limón
We'll say unbelievable things
to each other in the early morning—
our blue coming up from our roots,
our water rising in our extraordinary limbs.
All night I dreamt of bonfires and burn piles
and ghosts of men, and spirits
behind those birds of flame.
I cannot tell anymore when a door opens or closes,
I can only hear the frame saying, Walk through.
It is a short walkway—
into another bedroom.
Consider the handle. Consider the key.
I say to a friend, how scared I am of sharks.
How I thought I saw them in the creek
across from my street.
I once watched for them, holding a bundle
of rattlesnake grass in my hand,
shaking like a weak-leaf girl.
She sends me an article from a recent National Geographic that says,
Sharks bite fewer people each year than
New Yorkers do, according to Health Department records.
Then she sends me on my way. Into the City of Sharks.
Through another doorway, I walk to the East River saying,
Sharks are people too.
Sharks are people too.
Sharks are people too.
I write all the things I need on the bottom
of my tennis shoes. I say, Let's walk together.
The sun behind me is like a fire.
Tiny flames in the river's ripples.
I say something to God, but he's not a living thing,
so I say it to the river, I say,
I want to walk through this doorway
But without all those ghosts on the edge,
I want them to stay here.
I want them to go on without me.
I want them to burn in the water.
28/30 "Lake Doris to Gus Wood" by Gus Wood
I suppose the moonlit North Carolina nights
made me your romantic,
tempted you to call me your lover in poems,
tempted you to call our time spent together
a kind of intimacy,
and I am just the sort of sweet smelling bull frog
symphony to let you.
We were only together for summer times,
and even then our trysts seemed
breathless,
brief,
ended all too soon by the beep of a watch,
the bugle announcing the girls' turn
to distract us.
You began clumsy,
pillaging the still calm of my waters
with the ugly slap-smack of a canoe paddle.
Silly summer-camp child,
you tried to touch me inexperienced.
You tried to navigate every nuance
of my body with awkward unlearned strokes,
I waited for you to grow up.
And you did,
beautifully.
Your arms became strong and skilled.
Still in your canoe, the blunt broad tool
finally granted you grace,
transformed all of your body
into pure touch.
Your biceps transfigured
into the pink muscle of throat,
your hands molded into a lover's lips,
and your paddle,
boy,
became your tongue tracing across
my body.
I still ripple echoes of this compassion even now.
But even this touch, this bliss,
was foreplay.
A waiting game until you found yourself
at home in a small-ish plastic kayak
at the edge of the dock.
Nervous, cold, and short of breath,
you plunged, deep.
The water struck your face, untender.
I finally had to teach you the lesson
of a water's womb.
Ingrain, into your shut tight eyes,
the skewed perception of a kayak,
of my embrace.
I had to teach you to survive
when your instincts are flawed.
Tethered to your vessel,
you fell.
You capsized into me, breathless.
Upside down,
underwater,
you must not gasp,
thrash, claw for something
you are certain will save you.
This sort of action spells death.
My child, in my loose grasp you learned
to stay calm, bubble ration your breath,
hear the slow echo drum of the depths
as Gospel.
With my kiss at your lips,
your right became left,
your up became down,
you learned roughly to ascend.
You learned to right yourself,
with an armor forged of opposites,
of focus, of the lessons taught to you
by others just as in love with me as you were,
are, and ever will be.
Use your paddle,
set your leverage,
thrust your hips,
strike the water.
You emerged from the dark wet,
like a new born.
Water burning your nose,
and your old instincts sinking
to the bottom.
made me your romantic,
tempted you to call me your lover in poems,
tempted you to call our time spent together
a kind of intimacy,
and I am just the sort of sweet smelling bull frog
symphony to let you.
We were only together for summer times,
and even then our trysts seemed
breathless,
brief,
ended all too soon by the beep of a watch,
the bugle announcing the girls' turn
to distract us.
You began clumsy,
pillaging the still calm of my waters
with the ugly slap-smack of a canoe paddle.
Silly summer-camp child,
you tried to touch me inexperienced.
You tried to navigate every nuance
of my body with awkward unlearned strokes,
I waited for you to grow up.
And you did,
beautifully.
Your arms became strong and skilled.
Still in your canoe, the blunt broad tool
finally granted you grace,
transformed all of your body
into pure touch.
Your biceps transfigured
into the pink muscle of throat,
your hands molded into a lover's lips,
and your paddle,
boy,
became your tongue tracing across
my body.
I still ripple echoes of this compassion even now.
But even this touch, this bliss,
was foreplay.
A waiting game until you found yourself
at home in a small-ish plastic kayak
at the edge of the dock.
Nervous, cold, and short of breath,
you plunged, deep.
The water struck your face, untender.
I finally had to teach you the lesson
of a water's womb.
Ingrain, into your shut tight eyes,
the skewed perception of a kayak,
of my embrace.
I had to teach you to survive
when your instincts are flawed.
Tethered to your vessel,
you fell.
You capsized into me, breathless.
Upside down,
underwater,
you must not gasp,
thrash, claw for something
you are certain will save you.
This sort of action spells death.
My child, in my loose grasp you learned
to stay calm, bubble ration your breath,
hear the slow echo drum of the depths
as Gospel.
With my kiss at your lips,
your right became left,
your up became down,
you learned roughly to ascend.
You learned to right yourself,
with an armor forged of opposites,
of focus, of the lessons taught to you
by others just as in love with me as you were,
are, and ever will be.
Use your paddle,
set your leverage,
thrust your hips,
strike the water.
You emerged from the dark wet,
like a new born.
Water burning your nose,
and your old instincts sinking
to the bottom.
26/30 "The Dead Sea Knows Its Name" by Gus Wood
Catch your rippled reflection in a glass,
in a gourd, in an adversary's skull.
Watch your face dissipate into sunshine,
tilt the vessel back,
drink the water.
Feel the echoes of a thousand year strife,
feel them ransack your throat.
Feel the salt strip away your voice
until it's all blood, all gnarled raw,
until it's rubble and all you can dare do
is spit up your madness,
and choke.
This is my blood, your water,
my outraged waves cresting to splinter
the West Bank.
This is my name made all too palpable.
This is your Dead Sea.
This is the elements putting on a parody
of its people.
My hands are stigmata'd with shrapnel,
my sides split by sniper fire,
my deep blue tattooed with the endless
rat-tat-tat-tat of an AK-47's signature
riddled into the mud of my womb.
There can be no life in my waters.
Your legacy was left churning
into hemlock stink waters.
I am inhospitable even to the unnatural
architecture of fish, algae.
The salt in my spit will shred the insides
of such life into razor-bladed scraps
of paper, into pink ribbons too rung
out to cradle anything but old animosity.
I am caked with your routines,
the constant summer sun blackens my tides.
My water knits into jagged teeth,
smashing into the shore,
stabbing it like chunks of molten metal,
like shrapnel.
I suicide bomb with each sand-scattering wave,
trying to convince you,
trying to share my religion.
I am begging you to see my cliffs,
crusted with salt so coarse
it could stay there forever.
Timeless,
like the way your wars threaten to be.
I cannot hold anyone close enough
to sustain life.
The water too dense to bring you to my muck,
to my jagged diamond-cut womb.
Everything floats, I will not hide your dead.
My waters are ancient balm
to make mummies of kings who saw themselves
equal with the sun.
No fish swim my waters.
I am all chew, all blender,
all gnarled mouth and rock salt,
You West Bank bloodthirsty dirt-children,
the ones locked in war,
I beg you.
Stop trying to match my waters' mercy,
trying to churn your red-stained sand
into my salt waves.
Stop trying to ascend like the flesh
floating to my surface.
You're all drunk off my stinging salt-song,
off my stabbing pain in your throats.
Stop washing in my waters,
I will purify nothing.
I am your Dead Sea.
You are my dying people,
pouring my gnarled salt,
on your open wounds.
in a gourd, in an adversary's skull.
Watch your face dissipate into sunshine,
tilt the vessel back,
drink the water.
Feel the echoes of a thousand year strife,
feel them ransack your throat.
Feel the salt strip away your voice
until it's all blood, all gnarled raw,
until it's rubble and all you can dare do
is spit up your madness,
and choke.
This is my blood, your water,
my outraged waves cresting to splinter
the West Bank.
This is my name made all too palpable.
This is your Dead Sea.
This is the elements putting on a parody
of its people.
My hands are stigmata'd with shrapnel,
my sides split by sniper fire,
my deep blue tattooed with the endless
rat-tat-tat-tat of an AK-47's signature
riddled into the mud of my womb.
There can be no life in my waters.
Your legacy was left churning
into hemlock stink waters.
I am inhospitable even to the unnatural
architecture of fish, algae.
The salt in my spit will shred the insides
of such life into razor-bladed scraps
of paper, into pink ribbons too rung
out to cradle anything but old animosity.
I am caked with your routines,
the constant summer sun blackens my tides.
My water knits into jagged teeth,
smashing into the shore,
stabbing it like chunks of molten metal,
like shrapnel.
I suicide bomb with each sand-scattering wave,
trying to convince you,
trying to share my religion.
I am begging you to see my cliffs,
crusted with salt so coarse
it could stay there forever.
Timeless,
like the way your wars threaten to be.
I cannot hold anyone close enough
to sustain life.
The water too dense to bring you to my muck,
to my jagged diamond-cut womb.
Everything floats, I will not hide your dead.
My waters are ancient balm
to make mummies of kings who saw themselves
equal with the sun.
No fish swim my waters.
I am all chew, all blender,
all gnarled mouth and rock salt,
You West Bank bloodthirsty dirt-children,
the ones locked in war,
I beg you.
Stop trying to match my waters' mercy,
trying to churn your red-stained sand
into my salt waves.
Stop trying to ascend like the flesh
floating to my surface.
You're all drunk off my stinging salt-song,
off my stabbing pain in your throats.
Stop washing in my waters,
I will purify nothing.
I am your Dead Sea.
You are my dying people,
pouring my gnarled salt,
on your open wounds.
25/30 "Lake Erie Laments Its Fate" by Gus Wood
Everybody loves a good fire,
something impossible to drop a jaw
while you're watching.
I was only trying to show you
a miracle.
It was not an invitation
to change me.
As your constant companion,
I sought your friendship.
I giggled as you gutted me,
filled my shores with cold
unfeeling concrete,
making me an industry.
I loved each and every ounce
of your filth.
It brought us closer.
I turned my riverbeds into a shrine,
an altar to praise your broken cities.
Industries boomed and faded to shade
in the reflection of my choking black waters.
True love is never healthy when you mean it,
So pollute me.
Fill me with the discarded scraps
of your human experience like you
once so eagerly did.
Mound me with your refuse,
I could never refuse you my muck,
So pollute me.
Dump your communion wafer waste,
your sins,
choke me with fetid bliss and I will once again
announce my love to you.
I will burn bright for my lovers,
for Cleveland.
I will burn all orange against the black of night
and my rotting waters.
This was not a tragedy.
Every dead fish, every burnt scrap of something,
was an offering to you,
my cities.
Self-destructive, infatuated,
with the faded portraits
of your America.
I set myself alight in that 1969
moment in time just to pay back
all the love you've given me.
Just to pay it back,
in kind.
But you claimed to know me.
You dragged my shrine until it shined,
wiped of all the gifts you offered me.
You made me a home for fish,
for ugly scaled intruders,
that waltz into our love story.
They have no business touching me,
defiling the bed I've laid out for every body
you dump in me.
Give me a corpse to kiss,
to hold.
Give me garbage,
some rotting memento
to press into my muddy bottom.
Do not leave me alone.
Nature has no business here,
in between us.
Turn my waters to bubbling swirls
or smothering black.
Set me ablaze again.
Set your rusting car skeletons
to disintegrate on my tongue.
Your industries, history, and sins
all rotting in my arms.
Let's suicide pact and never let go.
Let's become a romance for the ages,
the best ones all end in tragedy.
Cleveland,
I have always loved you,
like a fire.
something impossible to drop a jaw
while you're watching.
I was only trying to show you
a miracle.
It was not an invitation
to change me.
As your constant companion,
I sought your friendship.
I giggled as you gutted me,
filled my shores with cold
unfeeling concrete,
making me an industry.
I loved each and every ounce
of your filth.
It brought us closer.
I turned my riverbeds into a shrine,
an altar to praise your broken cities.
Industries boomed and faded to shade
in the reflection of my choking black waters.
True love is never healthy when you mean it,
So pollute me.
Fill me with the discarded scraps
of your human experience like you
once so eagerly did.
Mound me with your refuse,
I could never refuse you my muck,
So pollute me.
Dump your communion wafer waste,
your sins,
choke me with fetid bliss and I will once again
announce my love to you.
I will burn bright for my lovers,
for Cleveland.
I will burn all orange against the black of night
and my rotting waters.
This was not a tragedy.
Every dead fish, every burnt scrap of something,
was an offering to you,
my cities.
Self-destructive, infatuated,
with the faded portraits
of your America.
I set myself alight in that 1969
moment in time just to pay back
all the love you've given me.
Just to pay it back,
in kind.
But you claimed to know me.
You dragged my shrine until it shined,
wiped of all the gifts you offered me.
You made me a home for fish,
for ugly scaled intruders,
that waltz into our love story.
They have no business touching me,
defiling the bed I've laid out for every body
you dump in me.
Give me a corpse to kiss,
to hold.
Give me garbage,
some rotting memento
to press into my muddy bottom.
Do not leave me alone.
Nature has no business here,
in between us.
Turn my waters to bubbling swirls
or smothering black.
Set me ablaze again.
Set your rusting car skeletons
to disintegrate on my tongue.
Your industries, history, and sins
all rotting in my arms.
Let's suicide pact and never let go.
Let's become a romance for the ages,
the best ones all end in tragedy.
Cleveland,
I have always loved you,
like a fire.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
29.30 AZ
old dirt
red clay
inhospitable
arrid
barren
cave dwellers
and geology
own this more
than pale men
irony
the way this landscape
was purchased
(poached, like ancient seguaro)
from the very same hands
it now expels
welcome to hell on earth
infernal hundreds plus degrees
mirage
is defined here
brutal earth
the dry tongue of miles
parched as bone
rumor has it people drown
with what begins as a trickle
becoming liquid again
in sudden flood
but the fire of the sun
licks the rock here
this is a scorched earth
with its own policies
the man made razor wires
fences spooled braces
(unlike anything along
our creamier neighbors to the north)
no match for the pincushions
the needles of cactus
this is Hades, ready made
whatever pissing contest
plays out here
will eventually succumb to lava
mama earth
will drink it in
not even a droplet
on the fingernail of her time
red clay
inhospitable
arrid
barren
cave dwellers
and geology
own this more
than pale men
irony
the way this landscape
was purchased
(poached, like ancient seguaro)
from the very same hands
it now expels
welcome to hell on earth
infernal hundreds plus degrees
mirage
is defined here
brutal earth
the dry tongue of miles
parched as bone
rumor has it people drown
with what begins as a trickle
becoming liquid again
in sudden flood
but the fire of the sun
licks the rock here
this is a scorched earth
with its own policies
the man made razor wires
fences spooled braces
(unlike anything along
our creamier neighbors to the north)
no match for the pincushions
the needles of cactus
this is Hades, ready made
whatever pissing contest
plays out here
will eventually succumb to lava
mama earth
will drink it in
not even a droplet
on the fingernail of her time
28.30 after angus, pt. 1
Ever skin a fish?
Snag scales underneath fingernails?
it feels wrong
wrong as rubbing a clawed cat backwards
but once naked
they leave a silvery slush
a justice of glitter
I remember the cat claw
of feeling scales underneath nail
a lack of justice
wrongly naked
leaving a glittery skin
a rubbing backwards
of my heart into silver slush.
Snag scales underneath fingernails?
it feels wrong
wrong as rubbing a clawed cat backwards
but once naked
they leave a silvery slush
a justice of glitter
I remember the cat claw
of feeling scales underneath nail
a lack of justice
wrongly naked
leaving a glittery skin
a rubbing backwards
of my heart into silver slush.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
27.30
the tar in the parking lot
thick as coal
overstuffed dumpster of clawfoot chair legs
mattersses
pillows
the police
empty it with gloves
and poke with batons
the scene is under surveillance
i am not sure
how i got here
but there is yellow crime tape
enough to make a fetish dress, a ruffled skirt
friendly voices, coffee mugs
notes and photographs scratch and click.
i reach my hand into the masking tape outline
prong of parking spot paint
intersecting with where eyes could have been
the tape is there
the body gone
clutching a badge, i receive a call
evidence back at the station
i have a hunch.
i wake up with the question
where are you, where are you
i felt so close to finding out
right before the dream ended.
thick as coal
overstuffed dumpster of clawfoot chair legs
mattersses
pillows
the police
empty it with gloves
and poke with batons
the scene is under surveillance
i am not sure
how i got here
but there is yellow crime tape
enough to make a fetish dress, a ruffled skirt
friendly voices, coffee mugs
notes and photographs scratch and click.
i reach my hand into the masking tape outline
prong of parking spot paint
intersecting with where eyes could have been
the tape is there
the body gone
clutching a badge, i receive a call
evidence back at the station
i have a hunch.
i wake up with the question
where are you, where are you
i felt so close to finding out
right before the dream ended.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
26.30 out the window
I am distracted by the cloud drift
puffy
I am inadequate by the measure of trees
their new spring green leaves
I am the way rain grays white, ominous
aquamarine is the sky
I am the way the moon appears during the day
solid bulb, rock in the cumulous fluff.
I am the sewing needle of the silver plane
darting through and across.
what kind of tree? oak, mimosa, dogwoood
what kind of cloud other than cumulous? stratus, nimbus, thunderhead
corrections, why the ominous, the grey?
the restlessness
the noise in my head
rockbands of pound, unfinished, not rehearsing
Jung would probably say
death
the way dreams are always about sex, loss of control
anxiety
never about
plot, narrative, nothing is as it seems
like this jewel of sky
the height of trees
the clutter moving in and out
stunning beauty of it inviting gaze
instead of concentrating on rocks in a tumbler
wanting to be more than just
ideas.
puffy
I am inadequate by the measure of trees
their new spring green leaves
I am the way rain grays white, ominous
aquamarine is the sky
I am the way the moon appears during the day
solid bulb, rock in the cumulous fluff.
I am the sewing needle of the silver plane
darting through and across.
what kind of tree? oak, mimosa, dogwoood
what kind of cloud other than cumulous? stratus, nimbus, thunderhead
corrections, why the ominous, the grey?
the restlessness
the noise in my head
rockbands of pound, unfinished, not rehearsing
Jung would probably say
death
the way dreams are always about sex, loss of control
anxiety
never about
plot, narrative, nothing is as it seems
like this jewel of sky
the height of trees
the clutter moving in and out
stunning beauty of it inviting gaze
instead of concentrating on rocks in a tumbler
wanting to be more than just
ideas.
Friday, April 23, 2010
ALMOST DONE!!! (& generator)
There's only a week left of this brilliant extravaganza, the challenge of writing poems every day for National Poetry Month.We suggest keeping up such a good habit.We'll keep this blogspot live & continue to count the year in poems.
Today's RAC prompt is:
Describe/ use
the contents of (insert movie/book/cartoon/mythological character's name here) yard sale.
Don't reveal the _______'s title or identity until either the very last lines, or at all.
Today's RAC prompt is:
Describe/ use
the contents of (insert movie/book/cartoon/mythological character's name here) yard sale.
Don't reveal the _______'s title or identity until either the very last lines, or at all.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
24.30 stream of consciousness
...to say i still miss, is just to say i will always
that's what forever is
the repeat
the memory so strong
time stops you close your eyes and you are there
forever is the thrum of the ache
the heart thud
which is always the same note....
...i feel like i should like them...and i don't
they are annoying
just because they are doing what should be done
doesn't make them less annoying....
...irritated by the press of pillows
if only we could plug in...make sleep a battery....
revisit the origin of burning midnight oil...
doctors make the worst patients, teachers, the worst students
businessmen the worst consumers, mothers the....
...religions all have stories i think i've heard before
written by either the same author, or by members of the same family
a family of many who do similar things, like barrymore, kennedy, but maybe...
maybe more like scripted by periodic table...
i'm trailing.off. to sleep.
that's what forever is
the repeat
the memory so strong
time stops you close your eyes and you are there
forever is the thrum of the ache
the heart thud
which is always the same note....
...i feel like i should like them...and i don't
they are annoying
just because they are doing what should be done
doesn't make them less annoying....
...irritated by the press of pillows
if only we could plug in...make sleep a battery....
revisit the origin of burning midnight oil...
doctors make the worst patients, teachers, the worst students
businessmen the worst consumers, mothers the....
...religions all have stories i think i've heard before
written by either the same author, or by members of the same family
a family of many who do similar things, like barrymore, kennedy, but maybe...
maybe more like scripted by periodic table...
i'm trailing.off. to sleep.
23.30 how to tell her
they don't understand
where your ladders come from
spiralling down from spruce, aspen, evergreen
to take root in life is to be
thick
anything else is starving
sad, shifty as willow
weak to the air
easy to pluck and break
we were never this
wide hips to make homes
for ourselves as much as any
child likely to die or man
likely to die
we
don't come from that
were not born
to be sprinters
runners
over flat deserts
reeds thinned by heat
shimmer of mirage
instead
we were meant for darkness
welded from glacier
calves designed for trails
hills, incline
carriages and trunks carved
for controlling men
with their beards and ships
we stretched butcher arms to help cut the meat
pull the nets heavy with fish
we are mongers close to animals
tough enough not to thaw
tree trunks
with enough foresight to stock a larder
for the snows coming in
locking us shut
piled six feet high
for weeks
we were our own insulation
survival not worn in furs for fashion in scraps.
able to hold our liquor
we were and are always made to be
our own kindling.
young woman
there were eras of nights alone
we needed only ourselves to build the fire
tend the flock
cut, skin, tend, pull, pound, stir
gather grist, be a mill
whalers' wives knew the art of pace
and stiffened jaws
mens' opinions have always been
secondary
especially those who don't know
this ancestry of ropes tied in meticulous knots
operatic voices of saga
Ilmatar's children
need to be sturdy in the wind
substance enough to carry epics
cave painted on the insides of our mouths
even in distant countries.
how should we tell you this
what should already be known
as well as flame, earth, water
origins of shark bones and cosmic eggs?
pull tidal umbilicus
from your own blood
it's not too late to make the translation
where your ladders come from
spiralling down from spruce, aspen, evergreen
to take root in life is to be
thick
anything else is starving
sad, shifty as willow
weak to the air
easy to pluck and break
we were never this
wide hips to make homes
for ourselves as much as any
child likely to die or man
likely to die
we
don't come from that
were not born
to be sprinters
runners
over flat deserts
reeds thinned by heat
shimmer of mirage
instead
we were meant for darkness
welded from glacier
calves designed for trails
hills, incline
carriages and trunks carved
for controlling men
with their beards and ships
we stretched butcher arms to help cut the meat
pull the nets heavy with fish
we are mongers close to animals
tough enough not to thaw
tree trunks
with enough foresight to stock a larder
for the snows coming in
locking us shut
piled six feet high
for weeks
we were our own insulation
survival not worn in furs for fashion in scraps.
able to hold our liquor
we were and are always made to be
our own kindling.
young woman
there were eras of nights alone
we needed only ourselves to build the fire
tend the flock
cut, skin, tend, pull, pound, stir
gather grist, be a mill
whalers' wives knew the art of pace
and stiffened jaws
mens' opinions have always been
secondary
especially those who don't know
this ancestry of ropes tied in meticulous knots
operatic voices of saga
Ilmatar's children
need to be sturdy in the wind
substance enough to carry epics
cave painted on the insides of our mouths
even in distant countries.
how should we tell you this
what should already be known
as well as flame, earth, water
origins of shark bones and cosmic eggs?
pull tidal umbilicus
from your own blood
it's not too late to make the translation
21/30 "Scarlet Letter" by Gus Wood
It was standard alumni dinner shit.
Boredom balloons and nutcracker
Christmas, finger food piled
high on paper plates.
Jingle Bell Rock raping
the sound system.
Everybody in there was praying
for a fire,
for a riot,
for a phone call screaming for them
to come home, to the hospital,
to anywhere but this dreary dinner party.
Christmas sweaters strangled
everyone's confection-stretched necks,
the punch bowl coagulated into pink hued
swirls with a smell as strong as gasoline.
The English department haunts the open bar
like Hamlet's father, trading paper cups
of something strong, drinking themselves
into their most convincing impressions
of Edgar Allen Poe.
They slur swear words and lamentations
on how no one will publish their next novel.
The math teachers count the milliseconds
counting down to when it's ok to leave this place.
It's all mistletoe and white-green
exasperation until...
Red lightning strikes the room.
Red lipstick, a red dress,
all of the sudden snapping into
firecracker tint.
Slit up the thighs and cut low...
The teachers tell us they can still hear
the sparks popping when it happened.
When He walked in.
Mr. Pierre, all quiet, timid substitute teacher,
had a high voice the freshmen laughed at,
and a sense of style the seniors could bow to.
With his black shoulder-length hair,
impeccably permed always,
he could lecture in lieu of a math teacher
and you could almost hear Tejano
as his tongue tangoed with each word
dipping on its way out...
this was way out.
Mr. Pierre,
in his red dress,
and high heels,
walking taller than most of the girls.
Every shimmy of his hips
was a gorilla slap against his chest
and a lion shout:
"Say something motherfucker,
I dare you.
"I've filed these fire-engine acrylics
to better make my point.
To better draw out your blood.
To turn tonight into a story you can't
tell the classroom.
So say something."
But of course, we quiet upper class sat there,
tightly folding the wardrobes we won't dare
display, shutting our own red dresses in their drawer
to be cut down by the sharp creases of business suit
brutality.
That night, at that moment, everyone's souls
cheered for Mr. Pierre.
This drag queen dragging our dreams out
into the light.
His dress became a victory flag,
a firebomb in a china shop scattering shards of
sharpened gossip across the floor.
They stuck in the skin as everyone walked to their cars.
Sticking deep, drawing blood,
bright crimson dripping,
a reminder of the man daring enough
to drape a dream over a substitute teacher
turn him into a flag, a declaration of war.
So pull your dress out of your closet,
strap on your best pair of heels,
and walk tall.
Boredom balloons and nutcracker
Christmas, finger food piled
high on paper plates.
Jingle Bell Rock raping
the sound system.
Everybody in there was praying
for a fire,
for a riot,
for a phone call screaming for them
to come home, to the hospital,
to anywhere but this dreary dinner party.
Christmas sweaters strangled
everyone's confection-stretched necks,
the punch bowl coagulated into pink hued
swirls with a smell as strong as gasoline.
The English department haunts the open bar
like Hamlet's father, trading paper cups
of something strong, drinking themselves
into their most convincing impressions
of Edgar Allen Poe.
They slur swear words and lamentations
on how no one will publish their next novel.
The math teachers count the milliseconds
counting down to when it's ok to leave this place.
It's all mistletoe and white-green
exasperation until...
Red lightning strikes the room.
Red lipstick, a red dress,
all of the sudden snapping into
firecracker tint.
Slit up the thighs and cut low...
The teachers tell us they can still hear
the sparks popping when it happened.
When He walked in.
Mr. Pierre, all quiet, timid substitute teacher,
had a high voice the freshmen laughed at,
and a sense of style the seniors could bow to.
With his black shoulder-length hair,
impeccably permed always,
he could lecture in lieu of a math teacher
and you could almost hear Tejano
as his tongue tangoed with each word
dipping on its way out...
this was way out.
Mr. Pierre,
in his red dress,
and high heels,
walking taller than most of the girls.
Every shimmy of his hips
was a gorilla slap against his chest
and a lion shout:
"Say something motherfucker,
I dare you.
"I've filed these fire-engine acrylics
to better make my point.
To better draw out your blood.
To turn tonight into a story you can't
tell the classroom.
So say something."
But of course, we quiet upper class sat there,
tightly folding the wardrobes we won't dare
display, shutting our own red dresses in their drawer
to be cut down by the sharp creases of business suit
brutality.
That night, at that moment, everyone's souls
cheered for Mr. Pierre.
This drag queen dragging our dreams out
into the light.
His dress became a victory flag,
a firebomb in a china shop scattering shards of
sharpened gossip across the floor.
They stuck in the skin as everyone walked to their cars.
Sticking deep, drawing blood,
bright crimson dripping,
a reminder of the man daring enough
to drape a dream over a substitute teacher
turn him into a flag, a declaration of war.
So pull your dress out of your closet,
strap on your best pair of heels,
and walk tall.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
22.30 (maybe an almanac pt. 3 piece?)
little girl in pink pajamas with purple hearts
bathrobe, spins outside the venue
it's 10.30pm on a wednesday night
a cigarette sticks to the bottom of her slipper
as she spins, spins, spins, unaware
an axis on ashes
the glowing neon light of the coffeeshop sign
blesses her face
she likes being the center of attention
already poses
one day, she will be a seeker
always falling for the ones with habits
loose hair
pipe dreams, smoldering.
~
it's parents and kids tonight
young bodies everywhere
some of them with flashcards
equations, notebooks, papers to write.
the warm weather
lured them
with their kisses of fresh leaves
tongues of petal blossoms
the sweetness of flower
the unwined grape scent of wysteria
so many girls in here
it's hard to breathe
so many older men with braided grey hairs
a cultivated earthy
so many wives in hippie pattern shirts
clothes that swoop and bags in lime
so much suburbia crammed into
one side brick, one side bar, two sides window
so many glasses hitting each other
an electric violin
a tuba
you would think it perfect
never mind the scar over one man's eye
the too loud voices
the grating paws of certain mothers
the out of place
crooked planter
the art installation that gets knocked over
the girls clutching each other
escaping to split a brownie five ways
this is the same town
where a nine year old found
solace in electrical chord
and the memory of him
floats outside
tucked in a shadow
or the lingering smoke
of a teenager's suriptituos lift of a wine bottle
the bar too frazzled to notice
everyone's looking the other way
which is just how sinister
prefers
bathrobe, spins outside the venue
it's 10.30pm on a wednesday night
a cigarette sticks to the bottom of her slipper
as she spins, spins, spins, unaware
an axis on ashes
the glowing neon light of the coffeeshop sign
blesses her face
she likes being the center of attention
already poses
one day, she will be a seeker
always falling for the ones with habits
loose hair
pipe dreams, smoldering.
~
it's parents and kids tonight
young bodies everywhere
some of them with flashcards
equations, notebooks, papers to write.
the warm weather
lured them
with their kisses of fresh leaves
tongues of petal blossoms
the sweetness of flower
the unwined grape scent of wysteria
so many girls in here
it's hard to breathe
so many older men with braided grey hairs
a cultivated earthy
so many wives in hippie pattern shirts
clothes that swoop and bags in lime
so much suburbia crammed into
one side brick, one side bar, two sides window
so many glasses hitting each other
an electric violin
a tuba
you would think it perfect
never mind the scar over one man's eye
the too loud voices
the grating paws of certain mothers
the out of place
crooked planter
the art installation that gets knocked over
the girls clutching each other
escaping to split a brownie five ways
this is the same town
where a nine year old found
solace in electrical chord
and the memory of him
floats outside
tucked in a shadow
or the lingering smoke
of a teenager's suriptituos lift of a wine bottle
the bar too frazzled to notice
everyone's looking the other way
which is just how sinister
prefers
21.30 note from a scared fire girl in a very untied place pt.1
(title inspired by tristan)
this is written on torn notebook papers
already used as a cootie catchers
my fingertips got stuck there
a lot
and i could never figure out
the right palm slapping combination
young girls sang to
ominominaominominopscot
slap slap slap slap over under sideways down
the cheerleaders were
a pack of wolves
short skirts, the colors under the pleats
flirting like gaps in fangs
they hit with these chanting games
as though they were secret spells
and jumped ropes without twisting
better than us of the sideline girls
rahrahrahrahand so and so, wink, flip
move arms,jumpupboobs,twirl and catch.
sitting on the grass
we were beyond cheers
hash marks of yardage on a football field
we tempted badness
set fire to hay with emptying everclear bottles
(true story)
threw matches into snow
scritch, sshsh shhshh pop sounds of strike
whisperblow sizzle fizzle
we solidly
didn't want to like anything
anyone else did.
we refused numbers on the backs of our shirts
and pom poms
had difficulty with letters of recommendation
our grades were average
we escaped notice
rode dirt bikes with boys
didn't giggle with archery bows
we were untied
and very very very
afraid
suspecting ideas such as
there may not be a christ after all
and the way he hangs there, all bound and bloody
kind of s&m
bloodybodybloodybondagechristonawall
no escape no exit, like sartre
like menses
christ was such a girl
we moved like shadows and not-danced to
groups like nitzer ebb and depeche mode
suspecting
in a gray hued, early u2 video about nothing changing
on new year's day
that nothing ever would
all is quiet, nothing changes, all is quiet
nothing changes, not even on new years
it's interesting how quiet nothing changes
truly a hush hush hush murmur murmur murmur
over candle marked ticks of time
swimming with aim of anonymity from small town
everyone knows everyone for year on end
under microscope
our mediocrity was about to take a big
senior leap into an even greater more invisible
yawn of meaninglessness
explained as postmodernism in college
meaninglessness without end
i still have burn marks from matches in the snow
and i hold fear as the quietness
of unchanging
crumpling papers of check like me
check not
hush hush
the wolf packs are different now
i am still untied
girl
this is written on torn notebook papers
already used as a cootie catchers
my fingertips got stuck there
a lot
and i could never figure out
the right palm slapping combination
young girls sang to
ominominaominominopscot
slap slap slap slap over under sideways down
the cheerleaders were
a pack of wolves
short skirts, the colors under the pleats
flirting like gaps in fangs
they hit with these chanting games
as though they were secret spells
and jumped ropes without twisting
better than us of the sideline girls
rahrahrahrahand so and so, wink, flip
move arms,jumpupboobs,twirl and catch.
sitting on the grass
we were beyond cheers
hash marks of yardage on a football field
we tempted badness
set fire to hay with emptying everclear bottles
(true story)
threw matches into snow
scritch, sshsh shhshh pop sounds of strike
whisperblow sizzle fizzle
we solidly
didn't want to like anything
anyone else did.
we refused numbers on the backs of our shirts
and pom poms
had difficulty with letters of recommendation
our grades were average
we escaped notice
rode dirt bikes with boys
didn't giggle with archery bows
we were untied
and very very very
afraid
suspecting ideas such as
there may not be a christ after all
and the way he hangs there, all bound and bloody
kind of s&m
bloodybodybloodybondagechristonawall
no escape no exit, like sartre
like menses
christ was such a girl
we moved like shadows and not-danced to
groups like nitzer ebb and depeche mode
suspecting
in a gray hued, early u2 video about nothing changing
on new year's day
that nothing ever would
all is quiet, nothing changes, all is quiet
nothing changes, not even on new years
it's interesting how quiet nothing changes
truly a hush hush hush murmur murmur murmur
over candle marked ticks of time
swimming with aim of anonymity from small town
everyone knows everyone for year on end
under microscope
our mediocrity was about to take a big
senior leap into an even greater more invisible
yawn of meaninglessness
explained as postmodernism in college
meaninglessness without end
i still have burn marks from matches in the snow
and i hold fear as the quietness
of unchanging
crumpling papers of check like me
check not
hush hush
the wolf packs are different now
i am still untied
girl
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
20.30 Corner Almanac, Pt. 2
Forsythia yellows wink over to leaf
while white blossoms expand the color field of green
rain makes puce swirls in gutters
ink homemade paper waves to concrete.
Spring. Spring with all of the sprigs
reinvents more than plant life.
When it is this warm,
Big Daddy D comes out again
from wherever he rests
whether it's a nest of wood
or a brick framed hovel
nobody really knows.
Big Daddy D
is seen in passing
or unavoidable on the corner
where Ponce meets Moreland
just where it becomes Briarcliff.
He is like the four corners
of sign and traffic light
a signal
he flags his package in lycra
polyester-maybe cotton blend
biker shorts and tank top
sometimes with printed cotton excuse
for over shirt, sometimes not
carved cane in hand
or umbrella
he leans on stop
while always being on go.
Big Daddy D translated
means warm weather
fewer clothes
bees, pollenating, the fucking of everything
but most of all
the persistence of pick-up
of want
of maybe someone
somewhere
will pay him
cool him off, feed him
or just get him lucky.
When I saw him
unusual flower
bulge in cherry blossom
I smiled and waved
so glad he still lives.
The jazz of his face played notes
of response
he waved back and smiled
a blessing
a wirey tree
still reaching for the sun.
This spring will turn
into a hot, steamy summer.
while white blossoms expand the color field of green
rain makes puce swirls in gutters
ink homemade paper waves to concrete.
Spring. Spring with all of the sprigs
reinvents more than plant life.
When it is this warm,
Big Daddy D comes out again
from wherever he rests
whether it's a nest of wood
or a brick framed hovel
nobody really knows.
Big Daddy D
is seen in passing
or unavoidable on the corner
where Ponce meets Moreland
just where it becomes Briarcliff.
He is like the four corners
of sign and traffic light
a signal
he flags his package in lycra
polyester-maybe cotton blend
biker shorts and tank top
sometimes with printed cotton excuse
for over shirt, sometimes not
carved cane in hand
or umbrella
he leans on stop
while always being on go.
Big Daddy D translated
means warm weather
fewer clothes
bees, pollenating, the fucking of everything
but most of all
the persistence of pick-up
of want
of maybe someone
somewhere
will pay him
cool him off, feed him
or just get him lucky.
When I saw him
unusual flower
bulge in cherry blossom
I smiled and waved
so glad he still lives.
The jazz of his face played notes
of response
he waved back and smiled
a blessing
a wirey tree
still reaching for the sun.
This spring will turn
into a hot, steamy summer.
Monday, April 19, 2010
19.30 Neighborhood Fortune Telling
This corner knows me as eyes
behind a painted window
from budding blossoms
full leaves, nuded limbs
and in betweens.
The intersection of four way stop
neon, twinkling party lights
coffee, bars, gallery and hop 'n'shop
will read cards to you better than
a woman wearing a scarf, fake eye patch
armed with decks of inexplicable wands and bowls.
When the dog pees
on the planter closest to the window:
rain.
the middle planter
partly cloudy
furthest away
he's just peeing.
When you don't see fancy man for a few days
worry about your sex life
it will be your own fingers for weeks to
not really come.
If you see him more than once in a week
pimped out in shined shoes, satin bright colors
and Fedora,
you will be twice lucky as long as he carries a bottle
in a brown paper bag.
If you see him twice in a week without a bag,
you will get close, but it will be meaningless.
If you see him on any Sunday
you will become attached.
Fancy man has his own deck of cards
and it's all suits of hearts.
When the high pitched rent boy is around
drama is about to enter your life.
Duh. His.
If you manage to escape talking to him
or keep it short
other forms of drama will also pass you by.
If people who work at the cafe show up
and it isn't their shift
you will have surprise
communication with far flung friends
you haven't checked up on through the internet.
If none arrive,
you will have a week emptier
of social plans than expected.
This is also read as a good time to catch up
with a movie, yourself
on chores.
Don't think of yourself as a chore
or the man in the fuzzy American flag blanket will show up
and he will hang guilt from the eaves of your ribcage
in sighs.
If a man rides by on a bike
with some enclosed shell contraption around it
well
that's just weird.
That occurance will likely cause
a more surreal element to your dream patterns.
The white flamingos in the yard further down the block
will multiply when you see more wobbly children
pass on the sidewalk
than people running
or otherwise exercising with their leashed
canines.
If you sit behind the painted window regularly
fueled by strong, locally roasted coffeebeans,
it's easy to read stories
into anything
that wanders into the frame.
behind a painted window
from budding blossoms
full leaves, nuded limbs
and in betweens.
The intersection of four way stop
neon, twinkling party lights
coffee, bars, gallery and hop 'n'shop
will read cards to you better than
a woman wearing a scarf, fake eye patch
armed with decks of inexplicable wands and bowls.
When the dog pees
on the planter closest to the window:
rain.
the middle planter
partly cloudy
furthest away
he's just peeing.
When you don't see fancy man for a few days
worry about your sex life
it will be your own fingers for weeks to
not really come.
If you see him more than once in a week
pimped out in shined shoes, satin bright colors
and Fedora,
you will be twice lucky as long as he carries a bottle
in a brown paper bag.
If you see him twice in a week without a bag,
you will get close, but it will be meaningless.
If you see him on any Sunday
you will become attached.
Fancy man has his own deck of cards
and it's all suits of hearts.
When the high pitched rent boy is around
drama is about to enter your life.
Duh. His.
If you manage to escape talking to him
or keep it short
other forms of drama will also pass you by.
If people who work at the cafe show up
and it isn't their shift
you will have surprise
communication with far flung friends
you haven't checked up on through the internet.
If none arrive,
you will have a week emptier
of social plans than expected.
This is also read as a good time to catch up
with a movie, yourself
on chores.
Don't think of yourself as a chore
or the man in the fuzzy American flag blanket will show up
and he will hang guilt from the eaves of your ribcage
in sighs.
If a man rides by on a bike
with some enclosed shell contraption around it
well
that's just weird.
That occurance will likely cause
a more surreal element to your dream patterns.
The white flamingos in the yard further down the block
will multiply when you see more wobbly children
pass on the sidewalk
than people running
or otherwise exercising with their leashed
canines.
If you sit behind the painted window regularly
fueled by strong, locally roasted coffeebeans,
it's easy to read stories
into anything
that wanders into the frame.
18/30 "21st Century Sunday" by Gus Wood
This Sunday,
Jennifer's parents went to Church.
In their absence, Jennifer pressed
her wiggle finger in deep until
her bed sheets soaked through
and the bruises smirked
between her pubescent legs
like the God she knows wouldn't
dare judge her.
This Sunday,
Mark skipped out on the service,
instead he shrugged off his pants
like Vatican vestments, hunched over
his young cock anointed with oil
as he tight-gripped up and downed
a prayer while the crimson
smeared love letter of Mel Gibson's
The Passion of the Christ
cast its sticky familiar spell.
In between cigarettes last Tuesday,
Mark laughs out a cloud of smoke
and tell me blood
is the best lubricant out there
and he can't wait to prove it
to his girlfriend next sunday.
I try not to judge.
As her parents kneel in prayer,
Tori has acquainted her knees
with the rough whiskered cheek
of her living room carpet,
and tuned her tongue to
the blessing of her best friend Amber's
body parts.
Young, in love, with no White Bearded
Finger Pointer to tell them different.
This is the closest two sinners will ever get
to seeing God without burning.
They scribble prayers into the paradise
of each other's flesh, no English.
In this Church, the faithful speak only
in Tongues.
Jeremy and Evelyn attend more swingers parties
then church these days.
Sweat-soaked, lust-drenched,
desperate to muffle their moans around
something higher than human,
they try to suck Communion white light
out of whatever floats past their parted lips,
every sticky stream curdling
in the smoke scented air
like an off-key Alleluia.
This is a 21st century Sunday.
When the Church has shrunk too small
for real Gods.
The only baptism is the lonely cold shower
for as long as it takes to scrub off the stink.
Our parents genuflect, arms folded silently
as we kneel before lap top pornography
fetishizing our demons into something
we can dance with.
Jennifer is the Virgin Mother to nothing
but wet bedsheets and bruises,
Mark is nobody's Messiah
but at least he's walking somewhere warm,
with a Passion.
Tori and Amber are the only reasons
I still believe love can last as long as Jesus
promised us it would .
Jeremy and Evelyn understand forgiveness
and open arms better than I ever will
so go ahead.
Strike me down, Old Testament long beards.
Call me your devil, you water walkers.
Go ahead and nail me to something!
Let Us Pray.
Jennifer's parents went to Church.
In their absence, Jennifer pressed
her wiggle finger in deep until
her bed sheets soaked through
and the bruises smirked
between her pubescent legs
like the God she knows wouldn't
dare judge her.
This Sunday,
Mark skipped out on the service,
instead he shrugged off his pants
like Vatican vestments, hunched over
his young cock anointed with oil
as he tight-gripped up and downed
a prayer while the crimson
smeared love letter of Mel Gibson's
The Passion of the Christ
cast its sticky familiar spell.
In between cigarettes last Tuesday,
Mark laughs out a cloud of smoke
and tell me blood
is the best lubricant out there
and he can't wait to prove it
to his girlfriend next sunday.
I try not to judge.
As her parents kneel in prayer,
Tori has acquainted her knees
with the rough whiskered cheek
of her living room carpet,
and tuned her tongue to
the blessing of her best friend Amber's
body parts.
Young, in love, with no White Bearded
Finger Pointer to tell them different.
This is the closest two sinners will ever get
to seeing God without burning.
They scribble prayers into the paradise
of each other's flesh, no English.
In this Church, the faithful speak only
in Tongues.
Jeremy and Evelyn attend more swingers parties
then church these days.
Sweat-soaked, lust-drenched,
desperate to muffle their moans around
something higher than human,
they try to suck Communion white light
out of whatever floats past their parted lips,
every sticky stream curdling
in the smoke scented air
like an off-key Alleluia.
This is a 21st century Sunday.
When the Church has shrunk too small
for real Gods.
The only baptism is the lonely cold shower
for as long as it takes to scrub off the stink.
Our parents genuflect, arms folded silently
as we kneel before lap top pornography
fetishizing our demons into something
we can dance with.
Jennifer is the Virgin Mother to nothing
but wet bedsheets and bruises,
Mark is nobody's Messiah
but at least he's walking somewhere warm,
with a Passion.
Tori and Amber are the only reasons
I still believe love can last as long as Jesus
promised us it would .
Jeremy and Evelyn understand forgiveness
and open arms better than I ever will
so go ahead.
Strike me down, Old Testament long beards.
Call me your devil, you water walkers.
Go ahead and nail me to something!
Let Us Pray.
18.30 Novelty
I remember when a hotel stay
was something special
ice bucket miracles
and the way orange crush
somehow tasted better, different
from an end of the hallway
vending machine.
Every once in awhile
I remember learning how to drive
how it seemed like I would never
pass the DMV test
circling, jerking, parallel parking
driving backwards.
I probably couldn't now
but all those windows down miles
through small towns and cornfields
or sneak outs into the city
made wheels fly.
After the crunch
and pound of accident
the more than a month of stiffness and cricks
it's good to remember the joy
instead of fear.
One of the pleasures of filling a journal
is the starting fresh
the binding crack
into a new one
the fresh scent
sheets of possibility
to mark how you grow
and stay triumphantly the same.
These are the nudges
that keep me breathing
from tired eyes in travels
to the sigh of more paper trails
I doubt anyone will follow.
This afternoon
it happened through a person
young man with wide open face of share
to have met more kin over the last few days
than he'd ever met before
revealing his isolation
over mediterranean feast.
A table of us who could be called jaded
on a bad day
falling in love with being just found
the reason why poetry matters and connects
the novelty, the newness
like orange crush
like lessons learned toward freedom
like freshly opened journal pages
was something special
ice bucket miracles
and the way orange crush
somehow tasted better, different
from an end of the hallway
vending machine.
Every once in awhile
I remember learning how to drive
how it seemed like I would never
pass the DMV test
circling, jerking, parallel parking
driving backwards.
I probably couldn't now
but all those windows down miles
through small towns and cornfields
or sneak outs into the city
made wheels fly.
After the crunch
and pound of accident
the more than a month of stiffness and cricks
it's good to remember the joy
instead of fear.
One of the pleasures of filling a journal
is the starting fresh
the binding crack
into a new one
the fresh scent
sheets of possibility
to mark how you grow
and stay triumphantly the same.
These are the nudges
that keep me breathing
from tired eyes in travels
to the sigh of more paper trails
I doubt anyone will follow.
This afternoon
it happened through a person
young man with wide open face of share
to have met more kin over the last few days
than he'd ever met before
revealing his isolation
over mediterranean feast.
A table of us who could be called jaded
on a bad day
falling in love with being just found
the reason why poetry matters and connects
the novelty, the newness
like orange crush
like lessons learned toward freedom
like freshly opened journal pages
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