a photograph of this woman, probably in Florida, not California, her blue tie-dye dolphin shirt, health-food magic face, jungle-spa background.
my church of hot water and sea salt, then terror of specificity. where's the difference between good juju and OCD?
swimming pool in the high ceilinged, peeling pink paint room, dusty plastic plants, bath water warm.
one of my favorite people, with her wooliness, rose-petal tinctures, mind blowing electric toothbrush, kind almost-jokes about her neon-yogi friends. she seems to have found a good balance.
"sister mountain sister hamburger!"
worrying how it doesn't include those things, i do seem better at finding good shoes, at looking for you with my arms and legs.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Panic Attack
Someone once told me
Life is an art of subtraction
And her eyes were to mine
The camera's lense to the moment's landscape
I now walk to the rhythm of the outbreath
These sidewalks,
Veins to the body of the New City
And only pity's death grows with each bum's
Pathetic wrinkling outstretched hands.
Even this shadow seems limper with memories now.
Last goodbyes replicate over the timeline's design
And as drops of rain ornament the air
I decide to defy my clothing, my hair
Focus on stepping over sidewalk cracks.
Out of habit, remnants of childhood,
That "keep breathing" mantra is recalled,
My kindergarten teacher taught it to me,
Maybe today will be the first day
No one stranger smiles.
Life is an art of subtraction
And her eyes were to mine
The camera's lense to the moment's landscape
I now walk to the rhythm of the outbreath
These sidewalks,
Veins to the body of the New City
And only pity's death grows with each bum's
Pathetic wrinkling outstretched hands.
Even this shadow seems limper with memories now.
Last goodbyes replicate over the timeline's design
And as drops of rain ornament the air
I decide to defy my clothing, my hair
Focus on stepping over sidewalk cracks.
Out of habit, remnants of childhood,
That "keep breathing" mantra is recalled,
My kindergarten teacher taught it to me,
Maybe today will be the first day
No one stranger smiles.
"12/31/09 @ 11:58pm" - [day 2 of poem-a-day]
two minutes before the ball is to drop
tossed between coffee and a screwdriver
suddenly interrupted by the pressing
of his lips against mine
though he isn't here
convinced he's reliving our one kiss
at this moment
i receive it passionately
one day there may be a machine
to measure these things
and scholarly reports to follow
i am guided by my innermost self
i've discovered once lit
there's a fantastic answer key built in
tossed between coffee and a screwdriver
suddenly interrupted by the pressing
of his lips against mine
though he isn't here
convinced he's reliving our one kiss
at this moment
i receive it passionately
one day there may be a machine
to measure these things
and scholarly reports to follow
i am guided by my innermost self
i've discovered once lit
there's a fantastic answer key built in
Balance
In the northwest winter
the days have shrunk to eight hours in length
so tonight on the beach
we set fire to forty abandoned Christmas trees
one after another
going up in showers of sparks
and billowing orange smoke
that has left my lips cracked and dry.
The flames licked high against a black sky
and subconsciously,
I think the hollering twenty somethings
knew this was an important ritual
enacted by every culture,
every year
to hasten the return of the sun.
In the tradition of fallen summer fruit
I know that this winter will pass
and these dark days
spent drowsing over all things soft and wooden
will resolve into long hours of sun
that seem never to tick by
Still, come August I'll be a year older
and then we'll circle around again
back to the month I slid screaming into
and can't stop returning to.
Meanwhile the full moon rises above Seattle's west edge
for the, what, billionth time.
the days have shrunk to eight hours in length
so tonight on the beach
we set fire to forty abandoned Christmas trees
one after another
going up in showers of sparks
and billowing orange smoke
that has left my lips cracked and dry.
The flames licked high against a black sky
and subconsciously,
I think the hollering twenty somethings
knew this was an important ritual
enacted by every culture,
every year
to hasten the return of the sun.
In the tradition of fallen summer fruit
I know that this winter will pass
and these dark days
spent drowsing over all things soft and wooden
will resolve into long hours of sun
that seem never to tick by
Still, come August I'll be a year older
and then we'll circle around again
back to the month I slid screaming into
and can't stop returning to.
Meanwhile the full moon rises above Seattle's west edge
for the, what, billionth time.
curlisto
This is a really great hair day.
Clean hair.
Curly hair.
Shiny hair.
Smooth hair.
Golden brown hair.
Not so frizzy hair.
Are you gonna get to see my hair?
Hair like this doesn't happen every day.
One-day-only hair.
Clean hair.
Curly hair.
Shiny hair.
Smooth hair.
Golden brown hair.
Not so frizzy hair.
Are you gonna get to see my hair?
Hair like this doesn't happen every day.
One-day-only hair.
romantic comedy
it is winter.
outside, it is snowing
big, wet, lazy snowflakes,
and i have just stoked the wood stove
and curled up beneath
my mother's yoga blanket.
i am watching one of those old
and familiar romantic comedies
of the late nineties or early aughts,
in which,
with disarming smiles and charm and wit,
meg ryan and tom hanks banter and bicker
and write love letters to strangers.
i miss those days,
when in naive wonder i really believed
that love would be like the movies
and romance would be filled with
clever quips and comedy
and accompanied by a soundtrack
of simple piano or quirky indie hits.
despite the comedic timing of
miscommunications and missed connections,
and the requisite challenge that must be overcome,
love would always end with a kiss in central park
or the meeting of hands
on the roof of the empire state building.
outside, it is snowing
big, wet, lazy snowflakes,
and i have just stoked the wood stove
and curled up beneath
my mother's yoga blanket.
i am watching one of those old
and familiar romantic comedies
of the late nineties or early aughts,
in which,
with disarming smiles and charm and wit,
meg ryan and tom hanks banter and bicker
and write love letters to strangers.
i miss those days,
when in naive wonder i really believed
that love would be like the movies
and romance would be filled with
clever quips and comedy
and accompanied by a soundtrack
of simple piano or quirky indie hits.
despite the comedic timing of
miscommunications and missed connections,
and the requisite challenge that must be overcome,
love would always end with a kiss in central park
or the meeting of hands
on the roof of the empire state building.
Melusine
Wool weft itch wrist
the woman tells you not to do the thing
you do the thing later
it is a normal thing and she is made of water and her father was a seamonster
or a god, or whatever
and you are a basically a king now and half of everything is in that nice rich color scheme
and really it is very nice
the rest is lowly fish colored, your demon son cracks the vases with his tail
day after day, it's a bother
Wool weave, sorry Sunday
earlier you stood up and walked in a circle and then forgot and sat and soon you will again
the second twin's twisted horn tears through tapestries
the sound is something, the silence wasn't
he gives up and she bathes in milk and it's kind of dramatic
you haven't done the thing yet
Wool weft vespers deep
this morning you stood up, washed, and laid back down again
the youngest child is well behaved but has one enormous knowing eye
his sweetness is burdensome
you found a needle on the floor and are annoyed when you stab yourself and it hurts
you do the thing, it is more than kind of dramatic, she leaves forever
the woman tells you not to do the thing
you do the thing later
it is a normal thing and she is made of water and her father was a seamonster
or a god, or whatever
and you are a basically a king now and half of everything is in that nice rich color scheme
and really it is very nice
the rest is lowly fish colored, your demon son cracks the vases with his tail
day after day, it's a bother
Wool weave, sorry Sunday
earlier you stood up and walked in a circle and then forgot and sat and soon you will again
the second twin's twisted horn tears through tapestries
the sound is something, the silence wasn't
he gives up and she bathes in milk and it's kind of dramatic
you haven't done the thing yet
Wool weft vespers deep
this morning you stood up, washed, and laid back down again
the youngest child is well behaved but has one enormous knowing eye
his sweetness is burdensome
you found a needle on the floor and are annoyed when you stab yourself and it hurts
you do the thing, it is more than kind of dramatic, she leaves forever
“As I came out of Grundy Greet”
“As I came out of Grundy Greet”
I saw 4 lads walk down the street
One was thin & tall & gaunt
He needs a very special haunt
One was small & pale & tame
He’s best served by being lame
One was happy, smiling strong
He liked to sing a birdy song
The last was blonde with perky eyes
He played with dogs twice his size!
TWENTY-THREE
Butterfly led a lesson
on her love of second-hand clothes
creating a space
in the sixth grade English class
for her students to claim
pride in potential sources of shame
and they wrote
about being short, or poor, or uncool,
recognizing in their teacher
how confidence can be disarming.
After work,
we went to the Russian candy shop
around the corner from the school
under the tracks on 86th St.
The woman at the checkout said,
"You are so beautiful,
your features so European,"
and as Butterfly paid
for her coffee, she replied,
"I'm 100% African-American."
Her hands were like
the heavy velvet curtains
you see at old theaters,
framing the open set of her face,
her dark braids, brown eyes,
wide nose. We laughed,
Butterfly went to her car,
and I took the train home
to my empty Brooklyn apartment.
I was 23 years old.
on her love of second-hand clothes
creating a space
in the sixth grade English class
for her students to claim
pride in potential sources of shame
and they wrote
about being short, or poor, or uncool,
recognizing in their teacher
how confidence can be disarming.
After work,
we went to the Russian candy shop
around the corner from the school
under the tracks on 86th St.
The woman at the checkout said,
"You are so beautiful,
your features so European,"
and as Butterfly paid
for her coffee, she replied,
"I'm 100% African-American."
Her hands were like
the heavy velvet curtains
you see at old theaters,
framing the open set of her face,
her dark braids, brown eyes,
wide nose. We laughed,
Butterfly went to her car,
and I took the train home
to my empty Brooklyn apartment.
I was 23 years old.
"fury" [day one poem a day late]
fury
heart pounds
nostrils widen
blood speeds
pupils enlarge
vision distorts
words spew
less red; more blue
pupils return to size
blood pace slows
nose resumes shape
heart rate calms
words, like twirling blades, stay out there
doing their damage
that's the thing about fury
i'm learning to give myself
twenty-four hours
before speaking
heart pounds
nostrils widen
blood speeds
pupils enlarge
vision distorts
words spew
less red; more blue
pupils return to size
blood pace slows
nose resumes shape
heart rate calms
words, like twirling blades, stay out there
doing their damage
that's the thing about fury
i'm learning to give myself
twenty-four hours
before speaking
FIFTEEN
I remember looking up at the ceiling
noticing peeling paint and water
stains for the first time
and dreaming I was an ant and I could
crawl through that. I remember
looking up the road as it led uphill
from the bus stop and deciding to climb
up the steep forest slopes, my backpack
sliding side to side as I lunged
for skinny trees to get a handhold.
More and more the pages
of the tear-off calendar accumulated
new dimensions. They wound up
rolled into tubes or cones, or folded
into intricate animal shapes,
and the days they represented
seemed capable of similar
transformations. I was looking
through the dog's face,
into Friday night. At fifteen, I felt
like a sculptor who had been asked
to design models of imaginary cities
out of the raw materials of ordinary
afternoons. On TV, Gargoyles,
Batman, Duck Tales, and in the air,
the distant looping of a solitary
turkey vulture, measuring
the reach of her quiet appetite
by pretending there was nothing
she couldn't see,
nothing she couldn't have.
noticing peeling paint and water
stains for the first time
and dreaming I was an ant and I could
crawl through that. I remember
looking up the road as it led uphill
from the bus stop and deciding to climb
up the steep forest slopes, my backpack
sliding side to side as I lunged
for skinny trees to get a handhold.
More and more the pages
of the tear-off calendar accumulated
new dimensions. They wound up
rolled into tubes or cones, or folded
into intricate animal shapes,
and the days they represented
seemed capable of similar
transformations. I was looking
through the dog's face,
into Friday night. At fifteen, I felt
like a sculptor who had been asked
to design models of imaginary cities
out of the raw materials of ordinary
afternoons. On TV, Gargoyles,
Batman, Duck Tales, and in the air,
the distant looping of a solitary
turkey vulture, measuring
the reach of her quiet appetite
by pretending there was nothing
she couldn't see,
nothing she couldn't have.
1/1/2010
In the New Decade Terminal
3 men dress like trees,1 woman
holds belly like a basket,
all marble eyed at life
The messages go through
Some people seem so sure,
their hair always falls the same
But the cowlicks of the year visit here at takeoff -
in the corner of the country
water covers the black, flat tarmac and
up splits the cotton sky.
3 men dress like trees,1 woman
holds belly like a basket,
all marble eyed at life
The messages go through
Some people seem so sure,
their hair always falls the same
But the cowlicks of the year visit here at takeoff -
in the corner of the country
water covers the black, flat tarmac and
up splits the cotton sky.
KISS
Your performance is lacking in the
IT factor that take bands to the next level.
That make people fall in love and swear
that they'll love you forever.
Your music doesnt do that.
IT factor that take bands to the next level.
That make people fall in love and swear
that they'll love you forever.
Your music doesnt do that.
The Top 40 Songs of 1983
thanks for your note
no nice of you to offer to come out to see us, you two
no but
this is around the time
we might have something else planned: his trip to Vegas
mom’s coming to help with the girls
we won’t know for sure for a few weeks
he’s waiting on some friends.
(so it’ll be too late for cheap fares)
but I'll let you know.
no I want my girls to know you.
just a joke about when we were 11 & 13 on New Year’s Eve and listened from the basement to dad falling down drunk before he drove us around singing along to Casey Kasem counting down the top 40 songs of 1983.
no nice of you to offer to come out to see us, you two
no but
this is around the time
we might have something else planned: his trip to Vegas
mom’s coming to help with the girls
we won’t know for sure for a few weeks
he’s waiting on some friends.
(so it’ll be too late for cheap fares)
but I'll let you know.
no I want my girls to know you.
just a joke about when we were 11 & 13 on New Year’s Eve and listened from the basement to dad falling down drunk before he drove us around singing along to Casey Kasem counting down the top 40 songs of 1983.
hear the singing from mine
me: if you're into it, here the box into which we step
, step into it.
2:02 AM endless
but putting a frame around it
Samuel: a pagebox frame
me: yeah
2:03 AM Samuel: haircuts are over
me: are you affirmative?
2:04 AM Samuel: that is an m.o.
, attempted
me: so when i stay up late i often start night-time awake dreaming
2:05 AM this is imagining super hero things i can do
i can jump really high
i can evolve spontaneous
2:06 AM this is a box someone drew around you—can you step out of it?
Samuel: i can eat 15 eggs
once i ate an egg in one bite
me: a whole soul
Samuel: i felt a surge of vitality
it was almost too much
a little fried life
me: more than sawing off a pig's leg?
Samuel: shrimp don't do the same
2:07 AM it was the nascence
me: here is the box where the people drown the shrimp in chinese rice wine and eat them alive
Samuel: here is the frame around the live fried fish
(you know it's fresh)
2:10 AM me: here is the port in the subwoofer where the mouse lives during wintertime; here are his peanutbutter spoons
2:12 AM here is the box where i save my fallen sheddings
here is the hole in my throat where the stones collect
2:13 AM Samuel: the edge of the page delineates spontaneity. here is the part where the orange flesh cleaves itself from itself
here is the mine where, collecting stones, slips, falls, and drowns
darling clemontyne
2:15 AM me: hear the singing from mine
Resolutions
Resolutions
He'll floss more
I'll eat less sugar
He'll write more
I'll judge less
He'll eat more vegetables
I'll be less needy
and somewhere in the middle
of his increase
and my decrease
we'll balance.
"The Man in the Vegetables" by Giuseppe Arcimboldo
KING
Hello you awful cat.
Looks like somebody's been cutting your tail off.
Or maybe I'm shrinking away from the fat facts, the Last Night:
the room, bursting with prey.
All the glazy eyes, the glittery blood,
hairsprayed heads thrown back, unprotected sticks and bats.
I just wanted to bury my head in a mane I recognized.
Now I'm all clawed up and shivering blood and you have this smirk, like,
"Sorry to be so graphic. Sorry to leave my pride lion around."
and it's fine, I understand. Every hunt needs a killer.
Looks like somebody's been cutting your tail off.
Or maybe I'm shrinking away from the fat facts, the Last Night:
the room, bursting with prey.
All the glazy eyes, the glittery blood,
hairsprayed heads thrown back, unprotected sticks and bats.
I just wanted to bury my head in a mane I recognized.
Now I'm all clawed up and shivering blood and you have this smirk, like,
"Sorry to be so graphic. Sorry to leave my pride lion around."
and it's fine, I understand. Every hunt needs a killer.
Affirmation 22
In scouring the excess of answers that precludes fresh questioning,
in separating what's contemporary from what's creepy,
gradually you will come to feel that you have made a right decision.
in separating what's contemporary from what's creepy,
gradually you will come to feel that you have made a right decision.
January 1st burst
Girlfriend
Her dresser teems with fur.
Her teeth fall with scallops,
in this, big house,
a temporary castle,
where my girlfriend winters.
Sheer good humor. Bonhomiejoiedevivreuhcestsibon
she's a bombshell, brains out the ears,
a catch.
She's got:
Glossy body.
Hair utterly.
Comely affectations,
white big bones.
A perfect match
for a noncomittant slip.
She made me a shale place
to stay.
She wants me to love her,
but!
Her dresser teems with fur.
Her teeth fall with scallops,
in this, big house,
a temporary castle,
where my girlfriend winters.
Sheer good humor. Bonhomiejoiedevivreuhcestsibon
she's a bombshell, brains out the ears,
a catch.
She's got:
Glossy body.
Hair utterly.
Comely affectations,
white big bones.
A perfect match
for a noncomittant slip.
She made me a shale place
to stay.
She wants me to love her,
but!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)