more from the artwork that doesn't exist. title courtesy of dmitry berenson.
Forty Miles Past
your high school graduation is a hilltop.
Below it is a wide valley.
There’s a house for every day of your life.
The first ones to catch the eye, the obvious ones perhaps,
have exceedingly well-manicured lawns, the type
where you can guess the occupants’ lives at a glance.
They’re the types of houses that have guest rooms
with clean sheets and comforters. Pillows that will swallow
your sins while you sleep, turning nightmares to dreams
in the alchemy of their feathered embrace.
Next are the ones with For Rent signs out front.
Again, clean sheets, warm blankets,
but the pillows ask too many questions.
Then there are the ones
where the weeds outnumber
the blades of grass on the lawn,
the houses whose doors stand open like empty mouths,
but everyone knows better than to step inside,
though some still do,
slipping into their unlit interiors,
leaving behind only faint stains
like hope about forgetting, or finding,
or a handful of pennies, a wishing well
and nothing better to do.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
hm again
so, more from the borrowed title category. not sure what's going on here, yet.
maybe that's good?
Still Life with Wounded Mattress
She spent all morning in bed alone, falling in love.
In the evening she learned to hate.
The first part sounds easy, almost inevitable:
how one walks around with a mouth made of vacuum
(an absence, an emptiness, a longing), while the other has a mouth
carved from glass (transparent, fragile, tender). How they meet.
How their mouths form a bell jar and nothing is as it was.
The second part is a bitch:
one learns the power of puzzle pieces embracing,
the joys of compatibility, and the simple yet satisfying
taste of becoming, at last, indispensable
in a very specific corner of the world.
Then the lesson plan changes course.
Despite duality and the long, desperate nights exploring
the nuances of inseparability, a vacuum will always be empty,
and glass still shatters under too much, or too little pressure.
“Oh, wicked seasons of change,” she sobbed,
trapped in the dusky confines of her bed. “I salute you!”
She knew when she was beat.
No matter how hot the sun burns, the ocean still lifts
its wanton lips toward the tawdry song of the moon.
No matter how the moon is a pale reflection of the sun’s face,
or how the sun is a center, a core, a pulling together,
and the moon is a satellite, an echo, a hand holding a mirror.
No matter the awful weight of the sun’s gravity,
she knew she seemed distant, and felt the tiniest nudge
as she imagined them getting slightly farther out of reach.
maybe that's good?
Still Life with Wounded Mattress
She spent all morning in bed alone, falling in love.
In the evening she learned to hate.
The first part sounds easy, almost inevitable:
how one walks around with a mouth made of vacuum
(an absence, an emptiness, a longing), while the other has a mouth
carved from glass (transparent, fragile, tender). How they meet.
How their mouths form a bell jar and nothing is as it was.
The second part is a bitch:
one learns the power of puzzle pieces embracing,
the joys of compatibility, and the simple yet satisfying
taste of becoming, at last, indispensable
in a very specific corner of the world.
Then the lesson plan changes course.
Despite duality and the long, desperate nights exploring
the nuances of inseparability, a vacuum will always be empty,
and glass still shatters under too much, or too little pressure.
“Oh, wicked seasons of change,” she sobbed,
trapped in the dusky confines of her bed. “I salute you!”
She knew when she was beat.
No matter how hot the sun burns, the ocean still lifts
its wanton lips toward the tawdry song of the moon.
No matter how the moon is a pale reflection of the sun’s face,
or how the sun is a center, a core, a pulling together,
and the moon is a satellite, an echo, a hand holding a mirror.
No matter the awful weight of the sun’s gravity,
she knew she seemed distant, and felt the tiniest nudge
as she imagined them getting slightly farther out of reach.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
hm
so, more from the fake titles series of poems.
again, i'm surprised by what's pushing me in the direction of writing, but am not going to complain as long as it's got my brain trying new things.
The Hirihitos at Home
Kenichi was the first to notice.
This is the way of children,
they are still more question than response.
His parents promised it was just a shadow,
as if the sun had stopped at the wrong station
before getting home, but he chased around
the apartment whispering “Grandfather’s here.”
Uncomfortable spots of darkness followed. First a figure
at the refrigerator, then footprints crossed the living room,
with a separate set near the front door like an extra pair of shoes.
They tried leaving their lights on for weeks at a time,
bought extras to flood the home with illumination
like their local market, its aisles fluorescent, immaculate,
but each time the shadow returned, growing more definite.
His parents felt their breath die the first time
they saw Kenichi talking to the shadow on the couch,
head inclined as if waiting for an answer.
Even worse were the answers themselves.
Hazy at first, the family thought they were kanji
inscribed in the air, words they couldn’t quite make out.
Perhaps they were, but soon they melted
into different types of images, carved from smoke
like a photograph on fire, seen from the corner of the eye.
Children running through orchards, a river, clouds breaking
before the impatient sun, vaguely reminding Kenichi’s parents
of a place they’d seen, or dreamt, or remembered.
Mostly the photos were of summer days.
The trees had lost their bloom. Small clouds of dust gathered
around their feet as the children stood, half-turned, eyes closed
as if waiting for the first strike from the wicked hand of the sun.
Other times the images were of the fall or winter, leaves falling
or gone. The ground was broken as if the sun had lingered too long.
The trees bowed their unburdened shoulders in a long, dreamless sleep
while the children looked around, their eyes like over-ripe oranges,
full of questions that would bear no answers.
There was no sign of spring.
again, i'm surprised by what's pushing me in the direction of writing, but am not going to complain as long as it's got my brain trying new things.
The Hirihitos at Home
Kenichi was the first to notice.
This is the way of children,
they are still more question than response.
His parents promised it was just a shadow,
as if the sun had stopped at the wrong station
before getting home, but he chased around
the apartment whispering “Grandfather’s here.”
Uncomfortable spots of darkness followed. First a figure
at the refrigerator, then footprints crossed the living room,
with a separate set near the front door like an extra pair of shoes.
They tried leaving their lights on for weeks at a time,
bought extras to flood the home with illumination
like their local market, its aisles fluorescent, immaculate,
but each time the shadow returned, growing more definite.
His parents felt their breath die the first time
they saw Kenichi talking to the shadow on the couch,
head inclined as if waiting for an answer.
Even worse were the answers themselves.
Hazy at first, the family thought they were kanji
inscribed in the air, words they couldn’t quite make out.
Perhaps they were, but soon they melted
into different types of images, carved from smoke
like a photograph on fire, seen from the corner of the eye.
Children running through orchards, a river, clouds breaking
before the impatient sun, vaguely reminding Kenichi’s parents
of a place they’d seen, or dreamt, or remembered.
Mostly the photos were of summer days.
The trees had lost their bloom. Small clouds of dust gathered
around their feet as the children stood, half-turned, eyes closed
as if waiting for the first strike from the wicked hand of the sun.
Other times the images were of the fall or winter, leaves falling
or gone. The ground was broken as if the sun had lingered too long.
The trees bowed their unburdened shoulders in a long, dreamless sleep
while the children looked around, their eyes like over-ripe oranges,
full of questions that would bear no answers.
There was no sign of spring.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
office depot poetry
so, i asked a couple of friends for titles of art pieces (any kind: paintings, music, poetry, whatever...) that don't exist. wrote them down and am trying to use them as inspiration for some new poems. not sure i'll use every single one, but i surprised myself with which one provided the first bit of inspiration. seriously surprised.
thanks to the office depot website, by the way, for helping me remember exactly what all types of office paraphernalia exists... i work in one, of course, but once i began writing, i was drawing a blank after the first two items... makes you realize how little we actually pay attention to the unimportant things, huh?
Work song 43
Bert has come to a decision:
he is a paper clip.
First, the obvious:
he holds this place together.
He’s bigger than he looks.
If left in one place long enough, he leaves an impression.
Everything about him speaks of pressure and convenience.
He might have been the stapler at one point
but permanence is no longer his number one priority.
Flexibility is his new keyword,
which is why he is also not the ruler,
pushpins, binder clips, or glue stick.
He left his tendency toward scissoring
in the top drawer after realizing each cut
is an eternity of decisions in the making.
The coffee pot is too comforting.
The eraser admits mistakes.
He’s no longer transparent, so not the scotch tape,
and he’s neither supportive, nor lazy enough to be the dispenser.
Once, he was a time clock,
considered becoming a paper shredder,
and for an entire month he did his best imitation
of post-it notes.
No more, though. He’s accepted this paper clip life,
steel twisting unto itself, thought of as clever,
but not ingenious.
Tonight, he’ll come home, following the pens
and pencils of the world. He’ll wrap one thin arm
across your photocopied shoulders and you might
love him for all the things he’s not.
thanks to the office depot website, by the way, for helping me remember exactly what all types of office paraphernalia exists... i work in one, of course, but once i began writing, i was drawing a blank after the first two items... makes you realize how little we actually pay attention to the unimportant things, huh?
Work song 43
Bert has come to a decision:
he is a paper clip.
First, the obvious:
he holds this place together.
He’s bigger than he looks.
If left in one place long enough, he leaves an impression.
Everything about him speaks of pressure and convenience.
He might have been the stapler at one point
but permanence is no longer his number one priority.
Flexibility is his new keyword,
which is why he is also not the ruler,
pushpins, binder clips, or glue stick.
He left his tendency toward scissoring
in the top drawer after realizing each cut
is an eternity of decisions in the making.
The coffee pot is too comforting.
The eraser admits mistakes.
He’s no longer transparent, so not the scotch tape,
and he’s neither supportive, nor lazy enough to be the dispenser.
Once, he was a time clock,
considered becoming a paper shredder,
and for an entire month he did his best imitation
of post-it notes.
No more, though. He’s accepted this paper clip life,
steel twisting unto itself, thought of as clever,
but not ingenious.
Tonight, he’ll come home, following the pens
and pencils of the world. He’ll wrap one thin arm
across your photocopied shoulders and you might
love him for all the things he’s not.
Monday, October 09, 2006
from a challenge
my friend and i came up with a challenge to write about her dislike for chatting on the phone.
i don't know the entire story, so consider this completely fictional... as... it is.
Three Variations on Lisa Not Answering the Phone
1. She has great ring tones.
Marvin Gaye signals the latest guy to almost make her speed dial.
She holds the phone to her cheek as if it had lips
and wonders what he’s breathing into her voicemail.
Her fingers trace the delicate outline of the speaker… but always,
always he stops singing right at the part where
2. Something is stealing her words.
She used to imagine them pouring out
like an army of ants, lunch pails in hand, hard hats
square on their inky little heads, carrying her messages
along miles of telephone line before emerging
into the sunlight of her lover’s ear.
Now, they spin like lopsided butterflies
from tower to tower, chased by hungry birds
or taking a wrong turn at an accumulation of clouds
that remind her of Albuquerque.
She says, “I’m going to pick up groceries tonight,”
but “I don’t love you. I’m a serial monogamist
waiting for something better to come along,”
crashes like the Red Sea onto the Roman Legion
at the other end of the conversation.
“Why don’t we meet at Muy Thai tonight at 7?”
becomes “It’s not you, it’s me. I can’t find
myself interested in anyone who is intrigued
by the emotional wreckage of my life.”
“I can’t sleep because I hate waking up
with a bruise on the other side of the bed,”:
“I have to go. It’s time for me to brush my teeth.”
3. The universe is expanding, the world shrinking.
Every second of every day,
galaxies are moving farther apart than she’ll travel
her entire life, blinking Morse-code torch songs
that would put Billie Holiday to shame,
which will naturally be misinterpreted by newly-christened
lovers as the merry fucking twinkling of stars.
Yet she finds it entirely too easy to dial an ex-
boyfriend who moved to Iowa five years ago
and indulge in late-night longing for his prodigal kiss.
She knows he turns his cell phone off after work,
but calls just to hear him recite his number and promise
to call back. She dials it again and again, and each time
some part of her wants the message to change,
even the inflection of his voice. It doesn’t, of course,
so she snaps her phone shut and wonders
if he’s put his children to bed already.
i don't know the entire story, so consider this completely fictional... as... it is.
Three Variations on Lisa Not Answering the Phone
1. She has great ring tones.
Marvin Gaye signals the latest guy to almost make her speed dial.
She holds the phone to her cheek as if it had lips
and wonders what he’s breathing into her voicemail.
Her fingers trace the delicate outline of the speaker… but always,
always he stops singing right at the part where
2. Something is stealing her words.
She used to imagine them pouring out
like an army of ants, lunch pails in hand, hard hats
square on their inky little heads, carrying her messages
along miles of telephone line before emerging
into the sunlight of her lover’s ear.
Now, they spin like lopsided butterflies
from tower to tower, chased by hungry birds
or taking a wrong turn at an accumulation of clouds
that remind her of Albuquerque.
She says, “I’m going to pick up groceries tonight,”
but “I don’t love you. I’m a serial monogamist
waiting for something better to come along,”
crashes like the Red Sea onto the Roman Legion
at the other end of the conversation.
“Why don’t we meet at Muy Thai tonight at 7?”
becomes “It’s not you, it’s me. I can’t find
myself interested in anyone who is intrigued
by the emotional wreckage of my life.”
“I can’t sleep because I hate waking up
with a bruise on the other side of the bed,”:
“I have to go. It’s time for me to brush my teeth.”
3. The universe is expanding, the world shrinking.
Every second of every day,
galaxies are moving farther apart than she’ll travel
her entire life, blinking Morse-code torch songs
that would put Billie Holiday to shame,
which will naturally be misinterpreted by newly-christened
lovers as the merry fucking twinkling of stars.
Yet she finds it entirely too easy to dial an ex-
boyfriend who moved to Iowa five years ago
and indulge in late-night longing for his prodigal kiss.
She knows he turns his cell phone off after work,
but calls just to hear him recite his number and promise
to call back. She dials it again and again, and each time
some part of her wants the message to change,
even the inflection of his voice. It doesn’t, of course,
so she snaps her phone shut and wonders
if he’s put his children to bed already.
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