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.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
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.
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