i like wearing shirts backwards.
does this have any significance?
probably not.
will i assign it one?
yes.
and who can you love if they are dying all the time?
the crises of yesterday are stomped on by the crises of today, but they fight hard for breath and kicking space.
obsession finds those with too much wasted time and what if i wonder about the weather where i don't live anymore or rather
never lived
is that a crime?
or just freakish behavior
i found what they said long ago to be true but
it was too long ago for me to remember its significance so now i have to learn on my own
for myself and this obsession
with knowing and having always already caught the answer in one hand and dismantling with the other well
what do you say to someone who knows everything
and what do you say to someone who thinks she knows everything
and are you any different?
that is the question you keep asking yourself because
really are you any different?
whatever the answer, you begin to calm down a little
the hardest question has been laid on the table now
but it is not painless
self-interrogation
the hands in your head fiddle absent-mindedly and manages to touch nothing but nerves
a drawn-out affair to take place preferably in front of the mirror, but if you are too lazy, like i am, right here will be fine.
first, how often does the object of obsession cross your mind?
second, elaborate.
you know you want to.
like, how hard do you try to cross it out of your mind or do you embrace it and write about it or try?
so third, is this helping at all and if not what will you do afterward to jolt yourself out of this daze
if only that fan were working, the room would be much cooler and the plants might look happier for once
empty applications and cards of identification are lying
all over the place
hair begins to shine & grow faster, thicker,
as promised in shampoo commercials
but in your dreams they take over the rest of your body
and you lose all of your friends
what good is proof of identification if you are
constantly changing, and God,
that is an ugly picture with your face on it,
wonder if you can change it this time?
.
obsession finds those with too much wasted time and what if i wonder about the weather where i don't live anymore or rather
never lived
is that a crime?
or just freakish behavior
i found what they said long ago to be true but
it was too long ago for me to remember its significance so now i have to learn on my own
for myself and this obsession
with knowing and having always already caught the answer in one hand and dismantling with the other well
what do you say to someone who knows everything
and what do you say to someone who thinks she knows everything
and are you any different?
that is the question you keep asking yourself because
really are you any different?
whatever the answer, you begin to calm down a little
the hardest question has been laid on the table now
but it is not painless
self-interrogation
the hands in your head fiddle absent-mindedly and manages to touch nothing but nerves
a drawn-out affair to take place preferably in front of the mirror, but if you are too lazy, like i am, right here will be fine.
first, how often does the object of obsession cross your mind?
second, elaborate.
you know you want to.
like, how hard do you try to cross it out of your mind or do you embrace it and write about it or try?
so third, is this helping at all and if not what will you do afterward to jolt yourself out of this daze
if only that fan were working, the room would be much cooler and the plants might look happier for once
empty applications and cards of identification are lying
all over the place
hair begins to shine & grow faster, thicker,
as promised in shampoo commercials
but in your dreams they take over the rest of your body
and you lose all of your friends
what good is proof of identification if you are
constantly changing, and God,
that is an ugly picture with your face on it,
wonder if you can change it this time?
.
on dad's birthday, but not about dad; replaceable years.
watermelon juice
distracted hands
dripping the sink
running water
run the bill
wonder if electricity
can kill down here
get some soap
rub it in
wash the grease
pull the plug
watch it drain
down the hole
take the trash
wash it down
cut the rind
smash it up
call me
crazy summer's
too hot
walk the distance
walk it back
repeat
i quit
i quit
but maybe just one
more, what's another
june then july
then i am just one month
in a string of all the rest.
distracted hands
dripping the sink
running water
run the bill
wonder if electricity
can kill down here
get some soap
rub it in
wash the grease
pull the plug
watch it drain
down the hole
take the trash
wash it down
cut the rind
smash it up
call me
crazy summer's
too hot
walk the distance
walk it back
repeat
i quit
i quit
but maybe just one
more, what's another
june then july
then i am just one month
in a string of all the rest.
helpless cats.
you do not like poems
which is good
because i cannot write poems
(though this is far worse).
you call for me this time,
but i am impossible now
and words just won't do,
not when the cat's gone
missing.
what have we tonight?
there is no one to fight with
and the couch is all yours.
suddenly, no one wants
to sit there alone.
you will wait. you will
wait until the cat comes
back through the back door
(do you have a back door
for the cat?) because that
will set your day in place
again. routine places,
routine bodies, all present
when the sun rises in the morning,
as it travels to the other side,
and when it disappears
again. you will wait,
awake or asleep,
until the morning.
you know it will come back.
.
which is good
because i cannot write poems
(though this is far worse).
you call for me this time,
but i am impossible now
and words just won't do,
not when the cat's gone
missing.
what have we tonight?
there is no one to fight with
and the couch is all yours.
suddenly, no one wants
to sit there alone.
you will wait. you will
wait until the cat comes
back through the back door
(do you have a back door
for the cat?) because that
will set your day in place
again. routine places,
routine bodies, all present
when the sun rises in the morning,
as it travels to the other side,
and when it disappears
again. you will wait,
awake or asleep,
until the morning.
you know it will come back.
.
torrefying.
my life repeats
every four years
by then my ground
has gone, has come
and from inside
exists another
voice of mine, new
but already old
by this time
when we start again
step into the water
when i have to
waiting for its temper
to rise match my skin
but my skin never stays on
the water coming down
chanting my bites of the day
spitting my father's
disapproval in my face
the echoes of the new
echoes of the old
already my voice.
every four years
by then my ground
has gone, has come
and from inside
exists another
voice of mine, new
but already old
by this time
when we start again
step into the water
when i have to
waiting for its temper
to rise match my skin
but my skin never stays on
the water coming down
chanting my bites of the day
spitting my father's
disapproval in my face
the echoes of the new
echoes of the old
already my voice.
my toes are numb and so
i can't feel where i'm walking now
though sometimes
that is more than i'd need to know
my hair looks especially good tonight
after a shower and some cheap shampoo
my father bought some months ago
on sale
the bottle says it's supposed to smell
like kiwis, and it looks green
like kiwis, and it looks green
like kiwis, straight out of a nice hot shower.
i can't feel where i'm walking now
though sometimes
that is more than i'd need to know
my hair looks especially good tonight
after a shower and some cheap shampoo
my father bought some months ago
on sale
the bottle says it's supposed to smell
like kiwis, and it looks green
like kiwis, and it looks green
like kiwis, straight out of a nice hot shower.
and it's awful.
she says to me
i never feel hungry anymore
and it's awful
how these cells
pullulate & break her
softened borders, hiding her
bones underneath these days,
burying them long & deep like a worried dog
i never feel hungry anymore
and it's awful
how these cells
pullulate & break her
softened borders, hiding her
bones underneath these days,
burying them long & deep like a worried dog
(what else can you do with/the change in your hands?)
the animals dream of human lovemaking
themselves, actors
in a gentle wave of curiosity
as if this were not their nature
and all the uncertainties of a child
still present, in the way the bodies
morph into one another
like carnival dancers engaged
in a magical warfare, for entertainment
purposes, only, taking
unknown steps in the blue
crossing over the yellow twilight,
who wishes it might be
another color tonight,
for it has heard people say,
pink is the more beautiful...
at this hour, you can hear music,
and the elephants' stomping affirms
your reality, the last blaring roars
from a starving tiger's mouth,
shakes the cage that contains
all the faces that can be seen:
all who are dressed like kings
and his many unhappy queens,
flanked sparsely by angels here
and there, fallen to be lowly
ladies in waiting
with crowding tangles for hair,
and for wings, gaudy pieces
that tatter and fly away in the wind.
it is a patchwork playground
with plastic flowers painted in
a hidden corner of the camp,
which she picks from the floor and plants
in her head in the yellowing light,
this carnival dancer
will twirl for you, for a time,
in place; at the end
of her last revolution,
she will turn to you to say
and for the right price,
it can all be bought.
[draft]
themselves, actors
in a gentle wave of curiosity
as if this were not their nature
and all the uncertainties of a child
still present, in the way the bodies
morph into one another
like carnival dancers engaged
in a magical warfare, for entertainment
purposes, only, taking
unknown steps in the blue
crossing over the yellow twilight,
who wishes it might be
another color tonight,
for it has heard people say,
pink is the more beautiful...
at this hour, you can hear music,
and the elephants' stomping affirms
your reality, the last blaring roars
from a starving tiger's mouth,
shakes the cage that contains
all the faces that can be seen:
all who are dressed like kings
and his many unhappy queens,
flanked sparsely by angels here
and there, fallen to be lowly
ladies in waiting
with crowding tangles for hair,
and for wings, gaudy pieces
that tatter and fly away in the wind.
it is a patchwork playground
with plastic flowers painted in
a hidden corner of the camp,
which she picks from the floor and plants
in her head in the yellowing light,
this carnival dancer
will twirl for you, for a time,
in place; at the end
of her last revolution,
she will turn to you to say
and for the right price,
it can all be bought.
[draft]
from that country/when things don't stay
her clear eyes sent from your homeland
it is vacation and a child's day
and her a child's face, a child's hair
clipped in place by a jeweled clutch
a child's smile is there
and so she plays to record the moments
in which you see, behind the fading colors,
yourself loving her more and more
in my absence, i grow
less fond but fatter, a single
but broken piece
of sponge, full of holes
dirty from use, soaking up
the splatters from the kitchen
counter, moved by an aging
hand i can no longer
recognize, nor do i care to, now--
it does not matter,
today, anymore.
.
it is vacation and a child's day
and her a child's face, a child's hair
clipped in place by a jeweled clutch
a child's smile is there
and so she plays to record the moments
in which you see, behind the fading colors,
yourself loving her more and more
in my absence, i grow
less fond but fatter, a single
but broken piece
of sponge, full of holes
dirty from use, soaking up
the splatters from the kitchen
counter, moved by an aging
hand i can no longer
recognize, nor do i care to, now--
it does not matter,
today, anymore.
.
in response to sarah's notepoem.
(and the second hand drums on your right temple, the minute hand on your left, until all you can do is invent word after word out of a set of letters not of your own choosing.)
to retreat to the comforts of being
soft to the touch like a plum in august
dark and tanned to its purpling nature
ripe to its boundaries now
too bodied to be like the rest
at the stand by the roadside
it waits--
will you stop and choose
the perfect one for today
or will it go on and rot
until purple turns to black,
fresh to freshly carcassed?
soft to the touch like a plum in august
dark and tanned to its purpling nature
ripe to its boundaries now
too bodied to be like the rest
at the stand by the roadside
it waits--
will you stop and choose
the perfect one for today
or will it go on and rot
until purple turns to black,
fresh to freshly carcassed?
some words of things on the way back home
strawberry nuzzle
resistance and the hollow
after the first big bite
grotesquely creamed
skies spilled
and curdled sweet
resistance and the hollow
after the first big bite
grotesquely creamed
skies spilled
and curdled sweet
burning down to the puddle of leftover rainwater trashed by the footsteps of the main street outside our vacant door
dirty pants and wet shoes trailing you all day long
you hate me for taking you along this road
you knew this would happen
i knew too
wishing for better weather
i took you along
and you came along
and who to blame between the two of us
and our bickering silenced by the passing buses
their fumes choking the clouds heavy and grey
everything wants to explode as we step splashing into deeper puddles
we grow shorter
down this road where we loved to stroll
we trip in new uncomfortable shoes
rubbing it raw in the same old spots
dirty pants and wet shoes trailing you all day long
you hate me for taking you along this road
you knew this would happen
i knew too
wishing for better weather
i took you along
and you came along
and who to blame between the two of us
and our bickering silenced by the passing buses
their fumes choking the clouds heavy and grey
everything wants to explode as we step splashing into deeper puddles
we grow shorter
down this road where we loved to stroll
we trip in new uncomfortable shoes
rubbing it raw in the same old spots
jailbreak
in search of happier prisons
your name is one out
of twenty-six in a bag
you play falling asleep
hands in the drying air
chapped in heavy summer
epileptic words dropping down
smashing glasslike sheets of
stranger feelings like
i don't know you well enough to say this but
sometimes i understand you better than God does
which words were the last i would speak to you
and which would i have chosen had it been
snowing in the afternoon or blow by blow through
our hair the wind of a last Sunday together
and which would i have whispered still
under that dimming yellow coffee light
if you gave me permission to stay i would
have told your fortune better than God
*
slow rain down
the walls cave
in falling time
now every piece puddles around you
loves you, loves you
i would tell you only this.
your name is one out
of twenty-six in a bag
you play falling asleep
hands in the drying air
chapped in heavy summer
epileptic words dropping down
smashing glasslike sheets of
stranger feelings like
i don't know you well enough to say this but
sometimes i understand you better than God does
which words were the last i would speak to you
and which would i have chosen had it been
snowing in the afternoon or blow by blow through
our hair the wind of a last Sunday together
and which would i have whispered still
under that dimming yellow coffee light
if you gave me permission to stay i would
have told your fortune better than God
*
slow rain down
the walls cave
in falling time
now every piece puddles around you
loves you, loves you
i would tell you only this.
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