Existentialism (revised)
"In a certain sense all of us are running." - Kierkegaard
I watch her every morning during breakfast.
Her back against the bark, she sings in the Oak’s shadows
or maybe she talks to a mockingbird who hobbles
in a spray of leaves. I'm not sure, but her mouth is open,
and her cheeks are always pink. It's the same everyday.
This table, this coffee, this circling stir. The same oil painting.
Today I get up and take a closer look.
Her little hand lifts to her mouth
to cover a yawn the size of a pill,
a small pebble. She turns her head
and says, “Did you take my brushstrokes?"
She props to her knees. “The painter
wanted texture, so you could feel me lift from the wall.
My dress should be dappled and the grass, puckered.
Where are my ragged clouds and craggy leaves?
What is a painting without the paint?”
She stands up, and I can see she’s barefoot
and beautiful although her features are smeared.
She climbs the tree, and I tell her to be careful,
that this is insane. Standing on the tip of a twig,
she shouts, “Without paint I am nothing."
I pinch her off the wall, set her on the lip of my coffee cup,
her legs slack over the rim like the strings of two teabags.
“If you were nothing could you do that?” I ask,
scratching an itch on my shoulder. She crosses her arms
which bleed into the pink of her sweater, and she
looks away in a pout, her bottom lip poking out
in a bristle's stroke. I look at the wall where she used to be,
the canvas now draining like an awning after rain,
the Oak tree gliding down in yolk to the floor.
“Why is it running?” I ask her, but she is gone.
Footprints path from the table to the pool of paint.
I felt her lift from the wall, and the painting is gone,
but the painter did his job. So, this is what happens
when you stare at art for far too long.
Outside it’s raining, and I can’t decide if I am the woman
who lost the touch of her skin, or the woman leaving
footprints on the sidewalk, whose face is dripping black.
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Saturday, December 17, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Existentialism
Existentialism
"In a certain sense all of us are running." - Kierkegaard
I watch her every morning during breakfast.
Her back against the bark, she sings
in the Oak’s shadows or maybe she's talking
to a mockingbird hobbling in a spray of leaves.
It’s unclear, but her mouth is open,
and her cheeks are pink with her eyes tapered.
It's the same everyday. This table, this coffee,
the same circling stir, the same oil painting.
Today I get up and take a closer look.
Her little hand lifts to her mouth
to cover a yawn the size of a pill,
a small pebble. She turns her head
and says, “Did you take my brushstrokes?"
She props to her knees. “The painter
wanted some texture, so you could feel
me lift from the wall. My dress should be dappled
and the grass, puckered. Where are my ragged clouds
and crinkled leaves? What is a painting without the paint?”
She stands up, and I can see she’s barefoot
and beautiful although her features are smeared
and she’s nothing, really, but a soft puddle of color.
She climbs the tree, and I tell her to be careful,
that this is insane. Standing on the tip of a twig,
she shouts, “Without paint I am nothing but a poster.
Can you please help me find my texture?”
I pinch her off the wall, set her on the lip of my coffee cup,
her legs slack over the rim like the strings of two teabags.
“If you were a poster could you do that?” I ask,
scratching an itch on my shoulder. She crosses her arms
which bleeds into the pink of her summer dress, and she
looks away in a pout, her bottom lip poking out
in a bristle's stroke. I look at the wall where she used to be,
the canvas now dripping like an awning after rain,
the Oak tree gliding like yolk to the floor.
“Why is it running?” I ask her, but she is gone.
Footprints path from the table to the pool of paint.
I felt her lift from the wall, and the painting is gone,
but the painter did his job. So, this is what happens
when you stare at art for far too long.
Outside it’s raining, and I can’t decide if I am the woman
who lost the touch of her skin, or the woman leaving
footprints on the sidewalk, whose face is dripping black.
"In a certain sense all of us are running." - Kierkegaard
I watch her every morning during breakfast.
Her back against the bark, she sings
in the Oak’s shadows or maybe she's talking
to a mockingbird hobbling in a spray of leaves.
It’s unclear, but her mouth is open,
and her cheeks are pink with her eyes tapered.
It's the same everyday. This table, this coffee,
the same circling stir, the same oil painting.
Today I get up and take a closer look.
Her little hand lifts to her mouth
to cover a yawn the size of a pill,
a small pebble. She turns her head
and says, “Did you take my brushstrokes?"
She props to her knees. “The painter
wanted some texture, so you could feel
me lift from the wall. My dress should be dappled
and the grass, puckered. Where are my ragged clouds
and crinkled leaves? What is a painting without the paint?”
She stands up, and I can see she’s barefoot
and beautiful although her features are smeared
and she’s nothing, really, but a soft puddle of color.
She climbs the tree, and I tell her to be careful,
that this is insane. Standing on the tip of a twig,
she shouts, “Without paint I am nothing but a poster.
Can you please help me find my texture?”
I pinch her off the wall, set her on the lip of my coffee cup,
her legs slack over the rim like the strings of two teabags.
“If you were a poster could you do that?” I ask,
scratching an itch on my shoulder. She crosses her arms
which bleeds into the pink of her summer dress, and she
looks away in a pout, her bottom lip poking out
in a bristle's stroke. I look at the wall where she used to be,
the canvas now dripping like an awning after rain,
the Oak tree gliding like yolk to the floor.
“Why is it running?” I ask her, but she is gone.
Footprints path from the table to the pool of paint.
I felt her lift from the wall, and the painting is gone,
but the painter did his job. So, this is what happens
when you stare at art for far too long.
Outside it’s raining, and I can’t decide if I am the woman
who lost the touch of her skin, or the woman leaving
footprints on the sidewalk, whose face is dripping black.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
The Hankering (v. 1)
The Hankering (v. 1)
He shaves with an electric razor
before brushing his teeth.
He forgets to floss because he's running
late and can't find his paisley blue socks.
He kicks up a pile of clothes with his toes,
and his dog plays along in leaps.
His ears excited, his paws scraping the carpet,
he hangs out his tongue in a smile,
then chews on his paw, listens to birds
out the window, and he's gone
with a slam of the door, and it's quiet.
The dog puts on a pair of khaki pants,
mists cologne below his leather collar,
and swipes the newspaper from the kitchen table.
Drinking coffee and reading, the dog thinks
about getting a job. Preferrably one
involving day walks. So he highlights and circles.
He decides on a blind woman with a cane
and a canary named Platypus Sue.
She is my new owner, he says to the window.
He folds the paper, rinses the coffee pot,
puts on a shirt and says goodbye to the houseplant
in the living room with its dried leaf tips,
and he kisses the orange cat that sleeps
under a desk lamp and claws at mosquitos
in the window, and he's gone
with a slam of the door, and it's quiet.
He shaves with an electric razor
before brushing his teeth.
He forgets to floss because he's running
late and can't find his paisley blue socks.
He kicks up a pile of clothes with his toes,
and his dog plays along in leaps.
His ears excited, his paws scraping the carpet,
he hangs out his tongue in a smile,
then chews on his paw, listens to birds
out the window, and he's gone
with a slam of the door, and it's quiet.
The dog puts on a pair of khaki pants,
mists cologne below his leather collar,
and swipes the newspaper from the kitchen table.
Drinking coffee and reading, the dog thinks
about getting a job. Preferrably one
involving day walks. So he highlights and circles.
He decides on a blind woman with a cane
and a canary named Platypus Sue.
She is my new owner, he says to the window.
He folds the paper, rinses the coffee pot,
puts on a shirt and says goodbye to the houseplant
in the living room with its dried leaf tips,
and he kisses the orange cat that sleeps
under a desk lamp and claws at mosquitos
in the window, and he's gone
with a slam of the door, and it's quiet.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Letter #310 (v. 1)
Letter #310 (v. 1)
Bowls of fake fruit remind me of a letter
I once sent you in Uzbekistan.
Remember that letter? The zip code
so long it was a trail of black ants,
soldiers in salute to the many stamps?
The heat rose from the concrete outside
like churchgoers, and everyone was in lawn chairs,
shirtless, mowing, dashing in sprinklers,
sunglasses, sunscreen, thongs.
I told you I missed you, said I'd buy you
a new pair of shoes when you returned,
and I pictured you there with the Uzbekistanians.
There were flies stuck to your cheek,
a little monkey eating twigs from your hair
as if you were a fruit-tree in season.
So I planted one in my backyard, pears.
I put a little green fence around the bottom,
a plastic birdfeeder with seeds and stuff,
so when you never write back, when that day comes,
I can walk out the backdoor and pick your fruit,
and maybe then you'll like me, like you did that monkey.
Bowls of fake fruit remind me of a letter
I once sent you in Uzbekistan.
Remember that letter? The zip code
so long it was a trail of black ants,
soldiers in salute to the many stamps?
The heat rose from the concrete outside
like churchgoers, and everyone was in lawn chairs,
shirtless, mowing, dashing in sprinklers,
sunglasses, sunscreen, thongs.
I told you I missed you, said I'd buy you
a new pair of shoes when you returned,
and I pictured you there with the Uzbekistanians.
There were flies stuck to your cheek,
a little monkey eating twigs from your hair
as if you were a fruit-tree in season.
So I planted one in my backyard, pears.
I put a little green fence around the bottom,
a plastic birdfeeder with seeds and stuff,
so when you never write back, when that day comes,
I can walk out the backdoor and pick your fruit,
and maybe then you'll like me, like you did that monkey.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
For the love of light verse
For the love of light verse
Katey woke up from a very long nap,
went to the movies, and made up a rap.
She fixed a flat tire and bought a green snake
who lived with a sailor that always ate steak.
She fished for a goldfish with a lawyer and cook,
slipped on some flowers and read a new book.
Katey went running along a green creek,
jogged past a duck and a bucket that leaked.
She swallowed a dime and kissed a young prince,
she sprained her ankle and hasn't been since.
Katey woke up from a very long nap,
went to the movies, and made up a rap.
She fixed a flat tire and bought a green snake
who lived with a sailor that always ate steak.
She fished for a goldfish with a lawyer and cook,
slipped on some flowers and read a new book.
Katey went running along a green creek,
jogged past a duck and a bucket that leaked.
She swallowed a dime and kissed a young prince,
she sprained her ankle and hasn't been since.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Birthing v. 3
Birthing v. 3
His feet extend from the tireswing,
a tail forming a Q from the O.
He fills the center to a whole,
like a hand and then a fist.
Dangling there, he is the donut hole,
the wrist filling the watch,
the ring finger, the circus dog,
the tire -- his circling fire.
From far away he is a pendant,
and the tree's bloom is the head of a girl.
He can see down her shirt
into the valley where pebbles fall.
And when his mother calls,
he will slip through the tire's yawn,
toboggan down a canyon,
landing at the end in two cupped hands
where there are lights and blood.
His feet extend from the tireswing,
a tail forming a Q from the O.
He fills the center to a whole,
like a hand and then a fist.
Dangling there, he is the donut hole,
the wrist filling the watch,
the ring finger, the circus dog,
the tire -- his circling fire.
From far away he is a pendant,
and the tree's bloom is the head of a girl.
He can see down her shirt
into the valley where pebbles fall.
And when his mother calls,
he will slip through the tire's yawn,
toboggan down a canyon,
landing at the end in two cupped hands
where there are lights and blood.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Farmer Can't Forget
Farmer Can't Forget
(Automatic collaboration with Will Roby)
Your dress is broken in the driveway.
I'm at the diner counting pennies
for a change, and I'll be home after ten
to clean the biscuit tin you've left me in:
three kids and a diabetic guinea pig.
Your mother lost her figure in 1974,
while pulling taffy at the county fair.
I carried laundry for the fat man,
while you fed a bearded lady
with a plastic fork and a rusted can.
We arranged for a secular marriage,
changed from linens to quilts in the wicker carriage.
I couldn't find a priest in the tri-county.
So I crossed the border into Canada
and got us married by a bearded Mountie.
On our wedding day, the songbirds fled the farm.
I left my boots by the barn like two tarred lanterns,
and you lit them. Ran to Tahoka with dust in your shoes.
Today, I'm drinking with the dog,
and I've been talking to myself for years:
When we slept together at the motel,
I acted sad, but I had a lotus in my hands.
You had those feathers in your hair,
and we swooned, remember?
(Automatic collaboration with Will Roby)
Your dress is broken in the driveway.
I'm at the diner counting pennies
for a change, and I'll be home after ten
to clean the biscuit tin you've left me in:
three kids and a diabetic guinea pig.
Your mother lost her figure in 1974,
while pulling taffy at the county fair.
I carried laundry for the fat man,
while you fed a bearded lady
with a plastic fork and a rusted can.
We arranged for a secular marriage,
changed from linens to quilts in the wicker carriage.
I couldn't find a priest in the tri-county.
So I crossed the border into Canada
and got us married by a bearded Mountie.
On our wedding day, the songbirds fled the farm.
I left my boots by the barn like two tarred lanterns,
and you lit them. Ran to Tahoka with dust in your shoes.
Today, I'm drinking with the dog,
and I've been talking to myself for years:
When we slept together at the motel,
I acted sad, but I had a lotus in my hands.
You had those feathers in your hair,
and we swooned, remember?
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