Warmth
Warmth
Dainty frill below the waist.
Elegance—a chalk line around her frame.
Her warmth fades.
She’s dancing. Cloud to cloud.
A single stain.
“Shush! There’s no stain.”
The curves of blankets lower
And rise making mountains
To hide the red.
Squatting, beside white lines,
In her spot. Alone.
He places hand above the stain,
With dirty nails,
And foam eyes.
Friday, June 18, 2010
I think this is a ritual poem... Spring 2009
Tell Mom: “The chores are finished”
1. Break dishes in your dirt yard.
2. Carry the largest pieces to your mom.
3. Tell her what they mean to you.
4. Then, cut two equal gashes down your arms.
5. Bleed. Bleed for the death of your dishes.
1. Break dishes in your dirt yard.
2. Carry the largest pieces to your mom.
3. Tell her what they mean to you.
4. Then, cut two equal gashes down your arms.
5. Bleed. Bleed for the death of your dishes.
More American Sentences - Spring 2009
Open up her Mercedes, and put your trash inside. Smile and walk away.
Tattoo a man who owns no mirrors. It’s a picture of a trashcan.
Dream. The homeless man is in your trash. Now it’s reality.
Hurry up to slow down. Wheels above ground control little more than planes.
Thoughts of seawater whipping the cliffs edge leaves distressed housewives at bay.
Poems find themselves easily written if locked inside an elevator.
Open sores hurt when salt rains down from the sky. Too bad your wound’s from lightning.
She thought that lies opened doors. But the janitor heard and locked her out.
Be a man in a woman’s world. Honor feminine—not in this world.
I locked the old man in the closet, so he couldn’t see the rainfall.
Run twenty cattle from now till night to hear just one of Earth’s rumbles.
Wrestle with your patio chairs, break one, bow to one, let one go.
Tattoo a man who owns no mirrors. It’s a picture of a trashcan.
Dream. The homeless man is in your trash. Now it’s reality.
Hurry up to slow down. Wheels above ground control little more than planes.
Thoughts of seawater whipping the cliffs edge leaves distressed housewives at bay.
Poems find themselves easily written if locked inside an elevator.
Open sores hurt when salt rains down from the sky. Too bad your wound’s from lightning.
She thought that lies opened doors. But the janitor heard and locked her out.
Be a man in a woman’s world. Honor feminine—not in this world.
I locked the old man in the closet, so he couldn’t see the rainfall.
Run twenty cattle from now till night to hear just one of Earth’s rumbles.
Wrestle with your patio chairs, break one, bow to one, let one go.
American Sentences (the U.S.A. version of haikus) - April 2009
Books you have no intention of reading should be highlighted—not burned.
Put strangers in frames. When people ask, reply: “they’re just my past.”
Cigarette butts in your backyard are artwork. Kick for inspiration.
Look into the mirror. Take time to smash it to pieces. See yourself.
Break down on fourth. Stand still to watch people pass. Know: footsteps don’t mean sorry.
On two pages put together: write hard. Shade the bottom page for answers.
Put strangers in frames. When people ask, reply: “they’re just my past.”
Cigarette butts in your backyard are artwork. Kick for inspiration.
Look into the mirror. Take time to smash it to pieces. See yourself.
Break down on fourth. Stand still to watch people pass. Know: footsteps don’t mean sorry.
On two pages put together: write hard. Shade the bottom page for answers.
Ode to Cotton Mouth - April 2009
Ode to Cotton Mouth
For since I do not have you,
I must remember best I can.
The days like this past Monday,
When a spliff was in my hand.
I found myself searching
For that feeling in my mouth,
The one that made saliva smack,
And had me heading south.
Down to the circle K of course
Since water could not cure,
And gum could not be found,
Up the isle I saw, obscured:
Gatorade—amongst the chips and chocolate
I wandered through the maze,
Oh, Cottonmouth, you waited so patiently,
In that silly haze.
Before I actually put poems to screen (pen to paper reference)
Poems from before now: Because i am utterly terrible at writing dates on my work. So all this below will have to fall into the category of pre-today and post today. Simple enough? I sure hope so.
Something needs to be said for this day. 6/17/2010. 11 years ago today was father's day and my father's death day. I say this because he's in my thoughts and i can't shake the thought that he's pushing me to do what i love. to be happy. to be successful. to be me. So let's begin:
(it also needs to said that putting your poetry out in the open for anyone to read, mock, shit-all-over, love, or hate is not an easy task.)
Something needs to be said for this day. 6/17/2010. 11 years ago today was father's day and my father's death day. I say this because he's in my thoughts and i can't shake the thought that he's pushing me to do what i love. to be happy. to be successful. to be me. So let's begin:
(it also needs to said that putting your poetry out in the open for anyone to read, mock, shit-all-over, love, or hate is not an easy task.)
New direction for this blog
Since I am not doing any major traveling i need a new way to express myself. I don't have a camera for this new venture (currently) so words will have to suffice.
Let's talk poetry. Not sappy sonnets, or painful iambic pentameter. But simple words that flow, that make us cringe for the better and of course, make us think.
I majored in poetry, but for the life of me i cannot figure out how i have avoided writing all that enters my head. I've been hiding from it, trying to escape it, as if, writing poetry would reveal how terrible i was at it. But who's judging? No one. And certainly not anyone who wants me to stop writing. Criticism is simultaneously a poet's dream and nightmare. But I'd never want a world without both.
So, where do i begin. Do i write down all partial poems? Or "perfect pellets of perfection" as a past teacher of mine once reiterated? Do i do revisions or keep them rough works?
No idea where i'll start. but i MUST start somewhere. However amature i may be at this, i know that the only way to feel at ease with all the non-stop fluttering of words, of phrases, of blips, and jokes, and fleeting notions, and of nonsensical awareness, I MUST DOCUMENT this insanity before it takes hold.
Oh a poets blessing and curse. Of nonstop braining. Of nonwords, and new words, and everything else. Of colloquialisms, of slander, of faith in a world of hopelessness.
Understand that a blog is for you, but this is mostly for me. It's not here because i need attention or cannot live without feedback. It's here because i need it to exist. I need it to be a part of my life, part of this world system. Part of the flow of energy, thoughts, and consciousness.
Who's poetry do i love today? Gabriel Gadfly.
I'm putting his poem below. But it can be found at: http://gabrielgadfly.com/poetry/bury-me
Tomorrow, I'm turning this world on its end
And I'll be over you.
Let's talk poetry. Not sappy sonnets, or painful iambic pentameter. But simple words that flow, that make us cringe for the better and of course, make us think.
I majored in poetry, but for the life of me i cannot figure out how i have avoided writing all that enters my head. I've been hiding from it, trying to escape it, as if, writing poetry would reveal how terrible i was at it. But who's judging? No one. And certainly not anyone who wants me to stop writing. Criticism is simultaneously a poet's dream and nightmare. But I'd never want a world without both.
So, where do i begin. Do i write down all partial poems? Or "perfect pellets of perfection" as a past teacher of mine once reiterated? Do i do revisions or keep them rough works?
No idea where i'll start. but i MUST start somewhere. However amature i may be at this, i know that the only way to feel at ease with all the non-stop fluttering of words, of phrases, of blips, and jokes, and fleeting notions, and of nonsensical awareness, I MUST DOCUMENT this insanity before it takes hold.
Oh a poets blessing and curse. Of nonstop braining. Of nonwords, and new words, and everything else. Of colloquialisms, of slander, of faith in a world of hopelessness.
Understand that a blog is for you, but this is mostly for me. It's not here because i need attention or cannot live without feedback. It's here because i need it to exist. I need it to be a part of my life, part of this world system. Part of the flow of energy, thoughts, and consciousness.
Who's poetry do i love today? Gabriel Gadfly.
I'm putting his poem below. But it can be found at: http://gabrielgadfly.com/poetry/bury-me
Bury Me
Bury me.
Bury me deep.
Bury me under down and linen,
Under shark skin, mason jars, under fifteen-
year-olds still waiting on first kisses.
Bury me under corn snakes and all their scales and hisses.
Bury me under tomorrow's sunset not yet set,
Under the threat of some terrorist's last regret,
A banker's bet, sixty dozen cigarettes
And a wood-jawed lifeguard giving
Mouth-to-mouth
To a homeless man under a
Graffiti-slandered bridge.
Bury me under drill bits and saw blades.
Under divers diving into deserted swimming pools,
Under all the fools in Congress and all the blessed
Saints the Catholics adore.
Bury me under the smoke-and-sweat shoulders
Of every whore you've ever kissed.
Bury me under all the pretty drawings of every
Pretty girl you've ever missed.
Bury me under all the bones in the Paris Catacombs,
Under all the stones your
Booze-bruised kidneys belched out,
Under orange rinds, thirteen spiral stairwells,
Your kid sister and the misplaced innocence you dangled
Around her gyrating hips.
Bury me under a messy blowjob in
The alley between the tiger cages at the San Diego Zoo.
Bury me.
Bury me under jilted ladybugs and wilted sunflowers,
Under the Powers-That-Be and their paperwork bureaucracy.
Bury me under cockfights, pissing contests, and every jellyfish
You can scrape off the Gulf of Mexico.
Bury me under train-tracks and kudzu vines,
Under chalk-lines on asphalt, the salt off every
Margarita you pushed down your pretty throat,
Under every poem every poet wrote.
Bury me under the pursuit of happiness.
Bury me under every bit of happiness
That has ever eluded you, under every feud
Feuded and fueled by you.
Tomorrow, I'm turning this world on its end
And I'll be over you.
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