Wiggo Blogs

Existentialism (revised)

2011-12-17T00:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Existentialism

2011-12-15T00:04:00.000-08:00

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.

The Hankering (v. 1)

2011-12-14T00:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Letter #310 (v. 1)

2011-12-12T00:04:00.000-08:00

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.

For the love of light verse

2011-12-10T00:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Birthing v. 3

2011-12-05T23:59:00.000-08:00

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.

Farmer Can't Forget

2011-12-04T23:59:00.000-08:00

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?

Couplets

2011-12-03T23:59:00.000-08:00

Couplets

Somebody tricked the cashier,
bought thirty peaches for a chug of beer.

The front gate wedges in a tuft of dirt,
you climb over the fence, rip your shirt.

People crowed in black brigades on lawns,
this doesn't look like the state's new bonds.

She shines the ship's bottle with turtle wax,
she spits in the ring and the rag till they sing.

The pretender has a bent fender for dinner.
We argue over brownies about the size of your boobies.

Let's pace around the garden, swallow cocktails,
watch nightingails in heaps by the barn.

Cock the hedges in turns of clocks,
finish your meal, exit off the third wheel.

We swap sentences in lines to knit
a bonnet for the puppet you forget.

This is my favorite mode of direction,
this is the map i use for selection.

I chose the one with calendars in his hands,
the mail carrier in extensions and sends.

I forgot your two-tone duffel bag,
you broke your belt under my bed.

Salted candles taste like wax,
i can play the golden sax.

Wish me luck on the first crime draw,
i am about to find the last chewed straw.

Suck this ice so i can watch your lips.
The frozen skin is a sin i'd kiss.

Seat yourself on the barrels of hay,
slip off the couch, subscribe the day.

Simple minds equate the best rhymes
with the finest deal of a savory meal.

The fly is a swatter, and the fish is a hooker,
let's eat them both on a salty cracker.

Pitt the cherries in a bowl of spit,
aim your seeds to the corner I picked.

Night Shift (v. 2)

2011-12-02T23:59:00.000-08:00

Night Shift (v. 2)

The train woke us, pulled us to the window.
You parted the curtains and showed me
the grain elevator, lifting in pale yellow light
above the train's errand and our untied robes.

The train dissolved on the ladder tracks behind us,
hushing its whistle in the trees, and the elevator
remained a vertical view of quiet delivery.
The graveyard shift, you said. Yes, I said,

I could do this until the rain runs backwards,
until the grain sprouts underground,
until the train returns with it's song,
sending us back to bed, so we can rise
and join them again in this
patterned route of up, down,
hello, goodbye, then back again.

The Forgotten Mailman

2011-12-01T17:57:00.000-08:00

The Forgotten Mailman

The mailman lost his map.
Perhaps he dropped it in Ms. Mercanteel's mailbox
along with the fifteenth fat letter from Latvia.
So many god-damned stamps! He got scrumpled
in a vision of the many licks the Latvian sealed
on the envelope's top right corner. At this point,

no doubt, he lost his map,
his route, not to mention, his job.
So, like a shot, he walked to the forest,
and there, with nothing but a sun-visor,
he lived eating fireants, praying mantis,
scraping psalms in trunks with sticks,
and spying on deer in heat.

Bathing in rain, he thinks of Ms. Mercanteel
and her Latvian lover with his thick notes,
calligraphic print, and this makes the mailman cry.
The trees shuffle their leaves and lose some
to the rain. A yellow one lands on his head,
his face in his hands, and he doesn't know it's there,
but he knows he's there, alone.
And to the mailman, that's something.

Global Warming

2011-11-30T15:56:00.000-08:00

Global Warming

Our planet is shriveling to a prune,
and the earth will soon pull me
into the fruit's deepest wrinkle.

I will be only hands, hands
waving from a flowerbed. A landmark, for sure.
And this sounds okay to me.
I especially like the idea of a marigold marker
designating my domain, the star on a tourist's map.

This makes my hands clap
and just below the topsoil of my hair,
my face smile, while a root of some sort
pokes out my eye.

Cross-Stitch (v. 1)

2011-11-27T23:55:00.000-08:00

Cross-Stitch (v. 1)

You are my favorite tangle,
and there are no fingers
strong enough to unravel this weave
we've needled together.

So, tonight I'm sleeping with a blanket
I found packed in cedar, threadbare
and torn. I chose this one for it's length,
it's tattered complexion, the sounds it makes
dragging across the wooden floor.

Our patches are still stuck together
and for tonight, they drape over the back
of an antique chair like a winter's coat
caped over shoulders, and it looks brave
with it's fringes drooped, fingering the floor.

Tomorrow, I will replace it to my bed
like it never left the touch of my legs,
and lying there, it will fall asleep
in it's natural heap of safest seams.

The Gravity (v. 2)

2011-11-26T23:54:00.000-08:00

The Gravity (v. 2)

When the earth shakes in earthquakes,
I lump under the kitchen table,
watch the apples hum in a bowl
on the counter, a glass of water skate
off the end to the sink, and I blink
with the clap of glass and metal,
slap my ears shut when the roof flaps off
the frame of this home in an earthly yawn.

The walls scream in splits forming cracks,
vertical slices sprouting like dark hairs,
and through my hands, I watch them grow.
The whole world in a growl, a snap of life,
everything dances, mumbles, and skitters
to corners and untouched inches.

I tighten to a knot, doubled over,
and I'm static, a nailed down statue
with a broken chip of marble at my carved feet.

Under (v. 4)

2011-11-25T23:53:00.000-08:00

Under (v. 4)

The other day I fell off the roof and died,
but the washing machine still tumbles change
and wine stains. Mother folds sheets
and washcloths. In a hole six feet deep,
I keep tally of the wriggling worms.

My grandfather lies beside me.
Cold bones, raw anatomy. He had a fig tree,
worm-infested. Now they feast on me.
Mother makes dinner, stirs her tea.
I tug the roots of risen thyme
and remember to forget how to breathe.

Poems Spoon V. 3

2011-11-19T23:52:00.000-08:00

Two bodies folded and creased
like an accordion in a cuddle.
One face open, the other niched in
the nape of a neck, a nest to nestle.

A display of our vacations dangles
by nails above the kitchen sink. I drag
my hand across them. They swing and sing out
jingles like wind chimes ringing reflections.

My mother polishes the oldest ones,
scrubbing the russet tarnish,
lifting each one to the light in a test
of gleams, and she spins the thin handles
so the concave cups a scoop of quick sparks
like a hand full of stars, little dippers.

At least I wrote something

2011-11-11T23:49:00.000-08:00

Ok...so it's not a sonnet...but you know.

Under

The other day I fell off the roof and died,
but the washing machine still tumbles change
and wine stains. Mother folds sheets
and washcloths. In a hole six feet deep,
I keep tally of the wriggling worms.

My grandfather lies beside me. Cold
bones, raw anatomy. He had a fig tree,
worm-infected. Now they feast on me.
Mother makes dinner, stirs her sugared
iced tea while I tug the roots of risen
daisies, and remember to forget how to breathe.

There's a Piece of Paper in Your Hair

2011-11-10T23:43:00.000-08:00

There's a Piece of Paper in Your Hair

It looks like a moth or tiny egg,
and I leave it there, let it nest.
In a hickory chair, you watch the road
where a hundred cars pass every hour or so.

Together, we are two crows clipped onto traffic
light wire, solid as totems, swayed only by itches
or short winds through our feathers. Hitchcock
would be pleased to see us in this evening roost,
two black bells hung against a backdrop of blue.
We lend an eerie scene of stillness and silence
with small undergrowths like malignant cancer.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I pluck the egg
from your hair and show it to you, the only white
spot in this squared-off scene. With a breeze
you wisp it from my fingers. It floats to the cars below,
gets lost in headlights and grounded gravel.

We look at each other, say nothing. Just sit,
proud for having flung the first snow, even if
it was only paper. Somebody must have seen the fall,
pointed up and thought: either it’s snowing
or that bird just took a small shit.

Our chests bloom, and we go home.

Spoon Poems

2011-11-09T23:42:00.000-08:00

Spoon (v. 1)

A tiny oar, a mirror, the sugar shovel.

Two bodies folded together
and creased like an accordion.
A cuddle. One face open,
the other niched in the nape of a neck.

A display of every vacation dangles
by nails above the kitchen sink.
I drag my hand across them. They swing
and sing out jingles like wind chimes,
the sound of reflections in a blur.

A miniature bowl on the end of a stick,
it is the only device at the dinner table
that won't injure, but scoop and harbor.

Mother polishes the oldest ones,
erasing the sepia of tarnish,
holding each one up to the light,
testing its gleams, spinning the handle
several times so the concave holds a shine
for a moment like two hands
cupping water to a mouth.

New Poetry : In the Bathroom Sink

2011-11-02T23:40:00.000-07:00

In the Bathroom Sink (v. 2)

My mother washes her hair. She can’t hear
the doorbell. There are bubbles in her ears,
a faucet spraying loud beads to her scalp.

Eyes closed, her hands are so busy
all over her head in an orbit of suds and massage,
twisting the hair together after every cycle.

From the hallway I watch her.
What’s she thinking about?
My father? The color of her favorite lipstick?
What she’ll cook for dinner?
Me?

The girl in the mirror has scrubbed away
a familiar face. She is not my mother anymore.

Taking a towel from the wall,
she lifts her head and opens her eyes
Water falls to her freckled shoulders,
and she sees me in the mirror’s reflection.
She smiles. I walk away, and answer
the ringing door.

Poetry : In the Bathroom Sink

2011-11-01T13:39:00.000-07:00

In the Bathroom Sink

My mother washes her hair. She can’t hear
the doorbell. There are bubbles in her ears,
a faucet spraying loud beads to her scalp.

Eyes closed, her hands are so busy
all over her head in an orbit of suds
and massage, twisting it together
after every cycle.

From the hallway I watch her.
What’s she thinking about?
My father? The color of her favorite lipstick?
What she’ll cook for dinner?
Me?

She is not my mother anymore.
There, before the mirror, she is a girl in thought,
in a cleansing. She has scrubbed away my mother
for this five minutes. With eyes closed, she is nothing,
but a woman. Someone, I realize, I barely know.

Taking a towel from the wall,
she raises her head, opens her eyes,
water falling to her freckled shoulders,
and she sees me in the mirror’s reflection.
She smiles. I walk away, and answer
the ringing door.

Latest 2 Poetry

2011-10-29T23:37:00.000-07:00

Trees in Winter (v. 6)

I pile on the clothes for winter
while the trees take theirs off,
leaves puddling at their roots
like dirty laundry. The trees are bold,
arms blooming in brave directions.
Bare chests, lifted skirts, and spreading roots.

They are women with unshaved legs,
shirts peeled and dropped, arms swaying overhead,
knotted shoulders, and tangled nests.

In winter they tighten their grip
and stand stiff like my nipples when I walk
naked, the trees in rows beside me,
bras and panties whirling on dead grass:
little flags in a festive salute.

The Analysis (V. 1)

He talks in his sleep,
and I talk back.
I'm eating grapefruit.
He tells me about Liza's new haircut,
the bird-call she perfected in the bathtub.
I ask about her voice. He says it's a trombone,
heavy and brass. Shiny too. And he laughs,
turns over, pulls the covers to his chin,
mumbles something I can't make out,
and I've eaten all the grapefruit -
an empty bowl with bits of pulp.

I pick at it, eat the little beads with my fingers,
and he says yeah then sighs a small laugh.
The air-conditioning clicks off, and the room tightens
in its crisp silence, and I can hear the air travel
in and out of his nose, like a lost tourist with a camera,
automatic zoom lens, only black and white film.

He says forget it
which I take as a cue.
I leave the bedroom to sleep on the couch,
still wearing my slippers, my gaping robe.

The next morning he taps my stomach.
I wake up with the empty shell
of half a grapefruit in my hand,
my fingers sticky, I suck them and roll over,
face the part of the couch my back is so used to,
and he says from the bedroom, what's wrong, Liza?
I just chirp and hurl a hell of a trombone.

Prose Poetry

2011-10-25T22:34:00.000-07:00

I remember when I first started taking creative writing classes and the issue of the prose poem would come up...I automatically hated the prose poem. I thought it sounded "too easy." How could that be poetry?

Now that I've studied poetry a lot more, I've grown to love the prose poem. However, I'm not sure if I love the actual poems or if I'm just interested in how it's poetry. I've always been interested in what constitutes something to be considered poetic...or rather, what IS a poem? I think the prose poem so ferociously begs us to ask that very question, and I love that about the prose poem. It makes me think. Lately, I can't stop thinking about it, so I've been doing a little research. Here's what I've amalgamated...these are the highlights.

"The prose poem is a type of poetry characterized by its lack of line breaks. Although the prose poem resembles a short piece of prose, its allegiance to poetry can be seen in the use of rhythms, figures of speech, rhyme, internal rhyme, assonance (repetition of similar vowel sounds), consonance (repetition of similar consonant sounds), and images."

"The Prose Poem, which avoids by degree (but not by kind) various strictly formal devices of rhymed verse, and which emphasizes an approach more naturally consistent with the inward or "associational" turnings of the human psyche--the mind's fondness for dream-like creations of metaphor in particular--seems an ideal vehicle for such sophisticated, psychologically realistic, esthetic aspirations. " - Michael Benedikt

"In any event, having cast the idea of the line-break--sometimes no doubt somewhat reluctantly--behind them, it's as if historically, prose poets were looking for a "center of gravity" to take the place of the line-break; and found it in metaphor! Prose poets, like verse poets, are doubtless driven to do what they do by personal proclivity on the one hand, and on the other by the nature of medium they are working in--and the prose poem medium especially seems to call for a metaphor-based "center of gravity." - Michael Benedikt

OK...So that wasn't much, but what I did find is pretty hefty in itself...a lot to think about, I think. So to top it off...here are some prose poems for your enjoyment. Why are these considered poetry? They are definitely poetic, but are they poems? Hmmmmm....I sound like a teacher.

Bread
- Russell Edson

I like good looking bread. Bread that's willing. The kind of
bread that's found in dreams of hunger.
And so it was that I met such a bread. I had knocked on a
door (I sometimes do that to keep my knuckles in shape), and
a women of huge doughy proportions (she had that unbaked,
unkneaded look) appeared holding a rather good-looking loaf
of bread.
I took a bite and the loaf began to cry . . .

Heroic Moment
- Charles Simic

I went bare-assed into the battle. The President himself
heard of my insolence. I was given a flea-ridden mutt to ride. I
rode in com-pany of crows pleading with them to please
remember me. I had a dollhouse knife between my teeth, the
red plastic pisspot on my head as a helmet.
When she heard the news, my mother caused the Greek
fleet to be deprived of favorable winds on its way to Troy.
Witch, they called her, dirty witch-and she, so pretty, chopping
the onions, laughing and crying over the stew pot.

Both poems were taken from The Prose Poem, An International Journal

14 Lines Poems

2011-10-21T12:31:00.000-07:00

With your knees next to mine, I lit the pot
and coughed a campfire in my lap.
I'm thirsty. Water with ice. Oh. Thanks.

You wouldn't know this, but you are my robe
in the morning and right before bed
when I'm tired like a teapot's broken whistle,
a see-saw's last dip. This is not to say that you don't fit,
but slip off my shoulder, a cold patch of skin.

I've caught the drift. I've tacked it to my wall,
this fall of paper and paint. So star-crossed,
I crossed your backyard last night in nothing
but a bra. Or not.

I wasn't supposed to tell you that,
but it's late, and I forgot to put on some underwear.

The Brink

2011-10-13T22:31:00.000-07:00

A cardinal's whistle breaks off at the closing door.
The ends of my hair are tugged, then replaced behind ears.
A shuffle of four feet sweeps from here to there.

A threshold is crossed, a second door shut off,
shoes unlaced, a face held in framing palms,
buttons winging off ripped threads.

Quilts loosen under a heavy pulse,
and without rising, I extend my shaking hands.
The final threshold will push them back down.
A bowing stage, the last track, the strongest broken thread.

Sexy Poems

2011-10-10T23:29:00.000-07:00

Wear your glasses.
Approach him in the library.
Lick your lips, play with the ends of your hair.

Sit opposite of him and chew gum.
When he looks up to see who you are,
to see what you're doing in the library
with no books, nothing to study, look away.
Wave at nobody. Say hey to the librarian.

You can look at him now.
Say hi. Say cigarette with a question mark at the end,
a left dip of your head, and an up-shrug of your left shoulder.

He will try to light yours. Block his flame with the palm of your hand.
Light a match. Reject the wind with a shielding wall.
Blow out the flame with kiss-shaped lips and a gust of your winter breath.

He will like your navy tights, your unbuttoned peacoat.
Twist your silver necklace around your thumb, let your hand fall
gently past your breasts, opening your coat like a magazine.
His name will be Jerry, and you will be Mae.

Say you like Jazz because of all the shiny instruments.
When he says me too, say perfect. Throw your cigarette to the ground,
step on it like you would a june bug. Throw away the butt.
Say you hate porkchops.

He will invite you to Bingo, and you will say let's not.
Demand a movie. A thriller. You will sit in an aisle seat
for safe get-away, quick potty breaks. He will touch your knee,
and you will let him. He will knock the popcorn over,
which, of course, you will laugh about, and then kiss.
Afterwards, lick your lips and say yum, thanks.

Let him touch your bottom lip with his thumb
and say you're cute. Say no I'm not, you are.
Kiss again. Hold hands on the way to the car.
Trip a little, and let him hold you up.

At the front door say wanna come inside?
He will hesitate, sniffle, and jingle his keys,
mumble something about work and a cat
named Felix or Juniper. Say forget the cat,
don't you think I'm sexy?
He will pull the collar of your oxford shirt
so that your faces match. Kiss again.
This time with more tongue and little moans.
Drop your coat to the steps, let him touch your ass.

Say wanna come inside? He will lead you in.
This is where you kiss all night on the couch,
on the kitchen counter, on the toilet,
and in bed with nothing on but the fan.

When he tries to take off your bra say no,
say no not yet, let's take it slow.
He will agree and try for your pants.
Hold them up with one hand.

Kiss until your mouths are chapped pink,
numb and forgotten. Fall asleep with your nose
snuggling the soft hair of his armpit.
Wake up to coffee and one cinnamon roll.
Let your hair stay toppling around your face
like warm icing. He will say you're so sexy in the morning.
Lick your lips. Put on some Jazz, and say I know.

Spoiled Pets and Boobies

2011-10-04T12:36:00.000-07:00

If I go to my site's stats, I can see the referring addresses to my site. For instance, if someone finds my blog through google, I can see what they typed in the search thing. I just saw a scary one. Someone found my site by googling "gaping pee hole." What the hell? I usually get lots of stephen dunn and lorrie moore searches, but "gaping pee hole"?? One word. Porn.
Anyway, I just wanted to share that with you. Whoever you are.

Today, my sister and I went to the pet store because we spoil our pets. I have a cat named Eloise and then our family has a dog (golden retreiver) named Lola. My sister is in love with the dog while I am in love with the cat. There's also Thomas but he's a boring cat and sort of just sits there with evil eyes. I think he's gay too. Anyway, my sister bought Lola bows for hair!!!! And two shirts!!! Are you kidding me? It's actually really funny. I bought my cat a new bed! That's normal, right? God I need to find something more insightful to write about. Sheesh.

Lately, I've been writing longer poems. I don't know why. It must be a growing thing. A new stage in my development, perhaps. Here is my latest long poem. I actually like this one. That's rare.

Detachment

Just to see what it's like
I stuffed my training bra with tube socks.

I wish they were still socks,
so I could remove them before a jog,
before the spring of trampolines.
How breezy and light that would be.

Don't get me wrong. They can be useful.
Babies, v-necks, and free meals. They get me places.
But in a perfect world, they'd be detachable,
most likely with the help of velcro.

The rip and split of boob-removal.
Two breasts growing off the top of your dresser
would be a typical morning image, your wife sleeping
next to you, boobless, and without nipples.
Instead she'd have two strips of human velcro
placed evenly like band-aids.

You have scrapes across your chest
from the strips chafing you during sex,
and you brag about them to your tennis friends,
before comparing marks, noticing that his are larger
because his wife has more voluptuous strips,
so you return home that evening before dinner
and ask your wife if she'd consider velcro enhancement.

She will eat her asparagus and chicken in silence,
then replace her boobs to her chest,
making sure they are even, pointing in the same direction.
She will soon have issues about the length and width of her velcro,
which you can relate to for other reasons,
but she will never take her breasts off again,
and then we'd be back where we started,
always wanting what we don't have.
Bigger. Smaller. Tighter. Rounder. Higher.
Or even non-existent.

Favorite Poem of the Moment

2011-09-29T22:27:00.000-07:00

My new favorite-poem-of-the-moment:

Diagnosis
by Terence Winch, from The Drift of Things

I woke up this morning feeling
incredibly Gorky. So I made an appointment
to see my Doctorow. He said my Hemingways
looked a little swollen and sent me to
get an M.R. James and a complete Shakespeare.
By that time, I began to feel a slight Trilling
in my Dickinsons and some minor Kipling
in my left Auden. The entire experience
was extremely Dickey.

I was referred to an H.D., who asked
about my cummings. She detected traces
of Plath in my Sextons and suggested
I might also have some Updike
trapped in my Yeatsian system.
She recommended that to keep Orwell
and prevent inflammation to my Balzac,
I elevate my Flaubert once a day.

Fetus

2011-09-17T22:26:00.000-07:00

His feet extend from the tireswing, a tail
forming a Q from the O,
as if he knows that the center is where
he's supposed to be.

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,
Edelweiss sprouting off both palisades.

A little cottage he calls home
sits on the left peak like a cherry,
which he can touch with an extended leg and pointed toe.

And when his mother calls,
he will slip through the tire's yawn,
and toboggin down the dark canyon,
the two mountains enfolding him
in a tunnell, where he is the drink
falling back to the pool of ice and carbonation,
red lips marking the kiss of a woman at the end of a long, white straw.

This One's for the Birds

2011-09-12T17:25:00.000-07:00

I always see finches in poems.
If I were a finch, I'd ditch the poems,
do somersaults in poolhouses, drink gin.
I'd ride a unicycle, play the trombone,
wear a leotard backwards.

I would be the finch that doesn't rhyme,
doesn't drool from the end of a poet's pen
like puddling ink. And if the poet persisted,
and he blew me out in splatters, freckling
the page, I'd quickly gather my things,
pick myself off his desk and runaway
to the nearest nudist colony,
where I could be naked like a bird should be,
free of all those pretty things.

We should forget about the finch
and its little beak, red feathers, and morning whistle.
Look at all the other birds out there!
There are chickens that look
like fat ladies in aprons serving breakfast.
Or what about the pelican
and his dipping mouth,
that portable fishtank?

Maybe we shouldn't even go for the birds,
but more for the flying squirrel, or the wasp.
I'll take anything that stings,
but whatever it is, it must have wings.
Yes, it definitely must fly.

How'd You Get that Scar?

2011-09-06T22:25:00.000-07:00

This one?
Yes. The one slashed across your face like a river.
I was swinging and my friend threw a rock into the air,
pretending it was a bullet, pretending he was the gun.
My feet pumping, I reached the highest peak,
and that's where it got me. It was like I was a bird,
and my friend was a crazy hunting man.

And you? What about that scar on your hand?
Yes, you. With the blonde hair, no shoes.
I hammered a nail into it. Actually, my brother did.
We were building a new mailbox for my dad.
I can't move my pinky. See?
My boyfriend calls me "pinky." Get it?

The man with the moustache! What's your story?
I have one on my buttocks.
How'd you get it?
A dog bit me. A pitbull with eyes like firecrackers.
Did you tease him?
No. I had a hamburger in my backpocket,
I was taking out the trash like I always do,
when all of a sudden I feel a car crash in my buttocks,
a big boom and sting, and I fall over
'cause I'm only wearing slippers,
and I knock the trashcans down with me.
I got me 300 stitches right here.
Now my wife takes out the garbage.

And you? The one wearing the life preserver.
I don't have scars.
Yes you do.
No. I don't.
You never stabbed yourself with a pencil in third grade?
Never hit your head on the corner of a glass table?
Never nicked yourself shaving?
Well, I once had the chicken pox.
Yeah? And?
That's about it.
Do you have a chicken pox scar?
I do not.
Well, what's that? On your chest. That line.
Oh yeah. That's a scar.
How'd you get it?
War.
Oh.

The Traveler

2011-09-02T20:23:00.000-07:00

The Traveler

"Look at it!" She said, and Peter climbed the tree,
ripped his pants, came down with the hive,
sap sweating from his hair, the bees pissed off
and pouting on runaway limbs.

"This is what it's all about," Peter said, dunking
his fist into the hive's mouth, lifting honey to his tongue.
"This is just like Madagascar. Try Some."
She licked his fingers. This is Madagascar?
"Yes," said Peter, flicking ants off his leg,
"and this, right here, is just like a war."

Class Notes

2011-08-24T22:21:00.000-07:00

I just bought some kitty litter. The thing was so big, I had to put it in my trunk. When I got home, I opened my trunk, lugged out the kitty and litter and out tumbled an old spiral. A ha! It was a spiral i used for one of my poetry classes at Tech. I discovered some lost notes on poetry that are actually pretty good!
Here are some essentials.

*Poets make hints.
*Poems are based on experience in which meaning is discovered along the way - contextual meaning.
*Poets absorb and distill ideas that are current.
*When personification becomes the basic structure, you get allegory, usually. -(This was taken from a page of notes on "The White Man's Burden" by Kipling.)
*Metonymy = when a person, thing or action is replaced by one of its attributes or by something closely associated with it: "skirt" stands for "girl"
*Imagism = the image is crucial to the poem
*What is imagism? - 1. Direct treatment of the "thing" whether subjective or objective; 2. To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation; 3. as regarding rhythm; to compose in the sequence of the musical phrase, not in the sequence of the metronome; 4. focus on concrete images; go in fear of abstractions; describe to evoke; 5. dont use any extra words
* What's an image? "An image is an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time." - Pound
* An image = a concrete detail and a sensory detail
* In an image, you recreate psychological energy

Ok thats all the good stuff....hehe

New York School

2011-08-20T22:20:00.000-07:00

Everything has been coming together. I have just recently discovered my favorite poet, Tony Hoagland. I love discovering new things. While browsing in a bookstore, i was determined to find a good book of poems. I stumbled upon a book called Donkey Gospel. Usually I can tell if I'll like a poet or a book of poems just by flipping through a few times. If anything stand out, I'll scan the book to see if I'm interested in it. Immediately, I fell in love with Tony Hoagland's poems. He recently came out with a new book called What Narcissism Means to Me, and I am still in love. Furthermore, I have been wanting to go to the UNiversity of Houston for their creative writing program to get my MFA. A few years ago U of H was number 2 in the nation for best Creative Writing Program. Personally, I think it's still about number 2. They have an amazing staff right now. Anyway, I glanced on the back of Hoagland's new book and it says this, "He teaches at the University of Houston." I almost peed and my pants, and I started breathing heavily. My first thought was, "shit! Now I really have to get in!" The competition is ferocious. They only accept 10 new comers.

Remember how i was saying that I've just recently discovered this so-called "New York School" poets? Well, I was doing some research on Hoagland, and I ran across this:

Miriam : ...On influence and chattiness. Your poems are full of actual people talking--sometimes it feels like eavesdropping--as if the reader knows these people too. Is this consciously New York style or from O’Hara or even Lew Welch or just something you like that happens naturually, or?

Tony Hoagland : You are right that my chattiness in these poems is a borrowed affect of the New York School; O’Hara is an important poet for me, one who combines feeling and social wit in a way that any sensible poet would covet. In fact, if I were going to place myself on some aesthetic graph, my dot would be equidistant between Sharon Olds and Frank O’Hara, between the confessional (where I started) and the social (where I have aimed myself). They are much better poets than I am, of course, but they are relatives.

See? I just can't help but identify with this type of poetry. It's true that all the poets I love are some how influenced by the New York School or are directly associated with it (O'Hara). I, too, will become a disciple.

I have always loved characters in poetry, a third-person point of view. I think this is a direct response to my love of character and characterization in fiction. I love people...I love little things about people and characters. What color toothbrush they use. How their fingers move when they button a sweater. What their mouth looks like when they drink from a straw. Do they like strawberries? Did they ever wear braces.? Little querks. Habits. Beliefs. Pet Peeves. How did they get that scar on their knee? I love poems that show a character...a portrayal that fleshes out a fully-formed human and all the imperfections...especially the imperfections. Tony Hoagland does this. I try to do this.

I am rarely happy with the poems that i write. Only an exceptional few remain in my mental file of good poems of mine. One of them has a character. Here it is.

This is Not the First Time

Martha has lost her bra.
There was the time in Brazil
when she left it in the sand.
A pair of large cockle shells
shading a couple of crabs.

In Denver she tossed it off
as tassel to a tree. It dangled
by the grip of one clawing hook.
A tango of elastic and satin
on a pine branch in the snow.

And in Phoenix she sold it
to a man with twelve fingers
for a shortcut to Tucson
mapped on a wet paper plate.

Now, in this Dallas grocery store,
I watch Martha hunt for pomegranates
and panty hose, one hand pushing the cart,
the other bent behind to unlock her bra,
so her breasts bloom out to a bounce
like two jellied oranges in a brawl.

From Walking Light by Stephen Dunn

2011-08-10T18:17:00.000-07:00

From the introduction:

"Poems should shimmer with a necessity, or otherwise be "holidays of the mind" -romps fpr the serious, trips to worlds that resemble ours."

"A free verse poem is a dance made of words, which moves at a rate not dictated by an y theory, a dance on an open road."

"A poet is someone who is constantly liberated and constricted."

"Originality, of course, is what occurs when something new arises out of what's already been done. Poets who remain poets have, presumably, worked through the terrors of influence, and are willling to acknowledge their debts by using them in order to go their own way. They've learned what Thomas Mann knew: "A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people."

"The revision process is when we worry the poem toward its virtues. We arrange and rearrange, suppress amd add. We try to make it seem as if we danced all the way home."

pg . 18 - 19: "Poetry should offer us something we can believe abour ourselves and the world, or it should offer us something that will provoke or suggest contemplation about ourselves and the world."

The Good and Not So Good:

"The good poem is implicitly philosophical. The not so good poem conversely, may exquisitely describe a tree or loneliness, but if the description does not suggest an attitude toward nature, or human nature, we are left with a kind of dentist office art - devoted to decoration and the status quo."

"The good poem maintains a delicate balance between strangeness and familiarity. The author must make the familiar strange enough to be reseen or re-felt by the reader....But a poet should never be strange for the sake of being strange."

"The absence of wit or humor in a body of work is understandable. For some poets the conditions of their lives and the world are too dark for such leavening elements. But the absence of language-play, even in the darkest poems, is a sign of compositional torpor." (I couldn't agree more. I often have a hard time enjoying poetry that doesn't own a bit of wit (ex: Louise Gluck)...but I do find myself enjoying poetry that is not humorous if there is a presence of astounding words or language play.)

"It is often tempting to conclude that in a good poem the poet has taken large risks. But risk is rarely the right word. Ambition is more precise. ... The success of a good poem is linked to its necessity, to a subject that presents itself to the poet with a particular urgency." So I guess he's saying that it's more ambition than risk, because ambition is more subjective...more of a necessity, and therefore the poem will be more powerful, more profound in its message. Risk only involves bravery where as ambition involves bravery and need. A good poem derives from a poet's craving/need to write or express.

The Edward

2011-08-05T22:11:00.000-07:00

The Edward (version 1)

The Edward

At certain times in the day,
Edward is a painter
smearing oils to shapes of lips
with his fingers, singing
dolce vita a little too loud,
because later he's a musician,
the piano light on its feet
under his prancing fingers,
those callused gadgets.

At other times in the day,
Edward is a chef.
The apron, the paper hat, the wok.
He can mash potatoes with one hand,
core an apple with just one finger.

At the end of the day,
Edward is an Edward,
a man with a paper back,
leather belt, and cold toes.
He lies in bed under lamplight,
tracing words with his finger,
everytime from left to right,
the same rhythm, the same thing
everyday and every night.

Madonna Poops Poems

2011-08-03T22:09:00.000-07:00

Madonna Poops Poems

I wrote this Madonna Poops about a month or so ago. I don't why, but it's one of my favorites...and I don't usually like the poems I write very much. This one is just so silly...but I like it like that.

Madonna Poops

and so do you.
There you are with a newspaper
clutched under your armpit,
a cup of coffee, a crossword puzzle,
a cigarette but no ashtray.

Have you ever pictured Hitler there?
I have. He's usually cleaning a gun,
tapping his right foot, misting puffs
of aerosol above his head.
The usual.
Except for the gun.

Imagine Shakespeare on the toilet,
or squatting in a hole before
brainstorming Hamlet. I can see him
strolling back to the stage,
two oak leaves stuck to the bottom of his shoe,
and the man playing Ophelia would kindly let him know,
and Shakespeare would blush,
which isn't something you've thought of before, have you?

It Just Came Out

2011-08-01T22:09:00.002-07:00

It Just Came Out

I have words in my teeth!
Dicks and shit dancing on tonsils,
assholes and bitches sliding down
my tongue to the bump of my lower lip,
to a little drip of spit that sprints
into the eye of a man passing by,
and he glares with a clean mouth,
and raises his middle finger.
But all I really notice is the dirt
breeding under his nail,
a big chunk of fuck you.

Lola - Version 1

2011-07-11T15:07:00.000-07:00

Lola - Version 1

Lola wears sweatpants, but never sweats,
and never pants. And the trees in her yard
have leaves, but the trees never leave.

Her mother never mothers,
but always says, Brush your hair.
This makes her feel like a mother,
like a dog sometimes wants to be a cat,
leaping into your lap, attempting to purr.

Her boyfriend, Jim, wears ties,
but he can't tie the ties on his own,
which leads Lola to think he's
unsatisfactory as a man,
like a napkin that hates laps.

But Lola always brushes her hair,
and ties Jim's knots
before putting on sweatpants,
so she can be a writer that sits all day,
never sweating, rarely writing.

Psuedo-sonnet form:

abbaabbacdcdcd

Louise wears sweatpants, but she strongly swears,
she doesn't sweat, and never pants. The trees outside
have leaves, but the trees don't leave. They hide.
Her mother never mothers, she just stares,
and says, Louise, please brush your dirty hair.
This makes her feel like a mother inside,
like a dog that wants to be a green-eyed
cat, leaping into laps or an armchair.
Her boyfriend, Jim, wears ties, but he can't tie
ties on his own, which leads Louise to think
he's a man that can never satisfy,
like a napkin that hates laps and spills drinks.
But Louise always knots Jim's dangling ties,
and brushes her hair over dirty sinks,
always wearing sweatpants when she writes.
Never sweating, rarely even writing.

The Palmist rewrite 1

2011-07-10T22:07:00.000-07:00

The Palmist rewrite 1

I will die soon. In a car wreck on the way home.
I scream into the palmist's face
whose eyes are lined in blue and wrinkles.
She traces the lines in my hands
with her fingers as if I am a new bestseller.
A hardback. Crisp spine. The smell of a press.

Needless to say, I didn’t die,
but the palmist did. A week later.
I read about it in the paper.
Palmist Dies in Hands.
Scanning the lines of a man
she’d never met before,
she dropped her head into his palms
after tracing a deep headline
and letting him know
he was creative and rather astute.

I didn’t attend the funeral
because I wasn’t too happy
with the news she'd given me.
These lines are short and shallow.
Your palm is a broken roadmap
where there are only dead ends.

The Palmist

2011-07-09T20:04:00.000-07:00

The Palmist

Version 1:

She says my lifeline is short and forked.
I will die soon. In a car wreck on the way home,
I scream into the palmist's face
whose eyes are lined in blue and wrinkles,
but she won't stop reading my hand.
I feel like the new bestseller.
A hardback. Crisp spine. The smell of a press.

Needless to say, I didn’t die,
but the palmist did. A week later.
I read about it in the paper.
Famous Palmist Dies on Hands.
Scanning the lines of a man,
she’d never met before,
she dropped her head into the cup of his hands
just after tracing a deep headline
on his right palm and letting him know
he was creative and rather astute.

I didn’t attend her funeral
because I wasn’t too happy
with the news she gave me
of my palm. All my lines are broken
and shallow. This cannot be a good thing.
And the only thing she said between
her tracing my marks with her fingers in silence is
Your palm is a complicated roadmap, and I am lost.

The Hermitess

2011-07-07T22:03:00.000-07:00

Before the Eyes Crack (original)

For a minute she looks famous
like a vase full of daisies,
or maybe she's just tired,
so tired, her eyes are shiners
without steaks, and her hair
is toppled on the top of her head
in a mound much like you'd see
at a bakery - the chef's hat,
only softer and lazier, like
tassles, and it falls in drapes,
hiding one side of her face,
as if she were a window,
a window in the morning,
attempting to keep out the break
of an early day, that tight grip
of strangling light tapping shoulders
with urgent questions, stinging necks
like the bite of a thousand bees

Rewrite 1:

For a minute she looks famous
like a vase of white daisies,
but she's really just tired.
She's so tired her eyes are shiners,
swollen without steaks, and her hair is tassles
falling in lazy drapes, hiding parts of her face
as if she were a window.

Her heavy hand wipes the hairs away,
and her eyes like clams slam tighter,
strangling the tapping light,
and its urgent questions,
stinging her peeking shoulder
like the peck of a thousand singing birds.

Rewrite 2:

For a minute she looks famous
like a vase of white daisies
as her eyes dart in this dance,
and her hair in tangles
falls in lazy drapes,
hiding parts of her face
as if she were a window.

Her heavy hand wipes the hairs away,
and her eyes pinch in two tight fists,
strangling the morning's tapping light
and those urgent questions,
stinging her peeking shoulder
like the peck of a thousand singing birds.

Rewrite 3:
(new title: The Hermitess)

For a minute she looks famous
like a vase of white daisies.
Her closed eyes dart in this dance,
and her hair in tangles
falls in lazy drapes,
hiding parts of her face
as if she were a window.

Her heavy hand wipes the hairs away,
and her eyes pinch in tight fists,
strangling the morning's tapping light,
stinging her peeking shoulder
like the peck of a thousand singing birds.

And she doesn't know that the night has left
its tracks across her face in indented vines,
blooming up her arm which now lies limp
over a vase of white daisies.

I've Been Working on Some Re-Writes... Take a Gander

2011-07-06T22:01:00.000-07:00

I've been working on some re-writes... take a gander

Original:

While I pile on the clothes for winter,
the trees take theirs off, one by one.
They drip the thick layers of fall;
leaves puddling at their roots
like dirty laundry.

The trees are streaking!
Cold and naked, nipples taut.
Stepping outside to get the mail,
I snap off the closest limb.
Something to twirl and break,
and a screaming hawk perched at the top
cries into the cold, smoke drifting from its beak,
leaves falling like tiny parachutes
resting to crackle below my overcast feet.

In winter things dwindle,
and grow slower, grayer, sunken.
We shiver, bundle, and cover.
But the trees, the trees are bold.
Their arms blooimng in brave directions,
they bare their chests, lift their skirts,
their roots trailing like open veins.
They are bold women with shaved legs.
Arms raised, shirts lifted and dropped,
bare shoulders cradling tangled nests.

Re-write #1

While I pile on the clothes for winter,
the trees take theirs off one by one.
They drip the thick layers of fall,
leaves puddling at their roots
like dirty laundry.

The trees are streaking!
Cold and naked, nipples taut.
Stepping outside to get the mail,
I snap off the closest limb.
Something to twirl and break,
and a screaming hawk perched on the top
cries into the air, smoke drifting from its beak,
leaves falling like tiny parachutes
resting to crackle under my overcast feet.

The trees, the trees are bold!
Their arms blooming in brave directions,
they bare their chests, lift their skirts,
their roots trailing like veins.
They are bold women with shaved legs.
Arms overhead, shirts peeled and dropped,
knotted shoulders tending to tangled nests.

Rewrite #2

While I pile on the clothes for winter,
the trees take theirs off,
drip the layers of fall,
leaves puddling like dirty laundry.

Cold and naked, nipples taut.
A screaming hawk cries,
smoke drifting from its beak,
tiny parachutes resting
under my overcast feet.

The trees are bold;
their arms blooming in brave directions.
Bare chests, lifted skirts, and trailing roots.

They are women with shaved legs.
Hands overhead, shirts peeled and dropped,
knotted shoulders tending tangled nests.

Re-write # 3
(new title: Winter Trees)

We pile on our clothes for winter,
and the trees take theirs off,
leaves puddling at their roots
like dirty laundry. The trees are bold,
their arms blooming in brave directions.
Bare chests, lifted skirts, and trailing roots.

They are women with unshaved legs.
Shirts peeled and dropped, hands swaying overhead,
their knotted shoulders tend to cold and tangled nests.

In winter they tighten their grips in the ground
and stand a little more pointed
like my stiff nipples while taking a walk
with no clothes, the trees in rows beside me,
their bras and panties whirling on dead grass -
little flags in a festive salute.

Things Behind

2011-07-05T22:01:00.000-07:00

Here's something I just whipped up on a whim.

Things Behind

i found your hat in my bathroom,
mingling with the towels.
The faucet was running, and a cockroach
was praying in the corner, on one skinny knee.

I heard him say something about a friend
named Gibraltar, and he sniffled, but refused
my offer of toilet paper. I thought he might need
to blow his nose. Your hat balanced on one finger,

gaping wide like a yawn, where your head should go,
drooping fluidly and slacked, this is his hat, i said
to nobody unless, of course, the cockroach,
heard me under the murmer of his wet prayer.

Madonna Poops

2011-07-04T13:59:00.000-07:00

and so do you.
There you are with a newspaper
clutched under your armpit,
a cup of coffee, a crossword puzzle,
a cigarette but no ashtray.
It's a typical routine,
in case you didn't know.

Have you ever pictured Hitler there?
I have. He's usually cleaning a gun,
tapping his right foot, misting puffs
of aerosol above his head. The usual.
Except for the gun.

Imagine Shakespeare on the toilet,
or did they even have toilets then?
Maybe he just squatted in a hole before
brainstorming Hamlet. I can see him strolling
back to the stage with two oak leaves stuck
to the bottom of his shoe, and the man playing
Ophelia would kindly let him know,
and Shakespeare would blush, which isn't something
you've thought of before, have you?

rewrite #1:

and so do you.
There you are with a newspaper
clutched under your armpit,
a cup of coffee, a crossword puzzle,
a cigarette but no ashtray.

Have you ever pictured Hitler there?
I have. He's usually cleaning a gun,
tapping his right foot, misting puffs
of aerosol above his head.
The usual.
Except for the gun.

Imagine Shakespeare on the toilet,
or squatting in a hole before
brainstorming Hamlet. I can see him
strolling back to the stage,
two oak leaves stuck to the bottom of his shoe,
and the man playing Ophelia would kindly let him know,
and Shakespeare would blush,
which isn't something you've thought of before, have you?

Trees in Three Winters

2011-07-03T21:54:00.000-07:00

Trees in Three Winters

While I pile on the clothes for winter,
the trees take theirs off, one by one,
they drip the thick layers of spring;
foliage puddling at their roots
like dirty laundry.

The trees are streaking!
Cold and naked, nipples taut.
Stepping outside to get the mail,
I snap off the closest limb,
something to twirl and break,
and a screaming hawk, perched at the top,
cries into the cold, smoke drifting from its beak,
leaves falling like tiny parachutes,
resting to crackle below my overcast feet.

In winter things dwindle,
and grow slower, grayer, sunken.
We shiver, bundle, and cover,
but the trees, the trees are bold,
their arms extended and blooming in brave directions,
as they bare their chests, lift their skirts,
their roots trailing like open veins.
They are bold women with shaved legs,
arms raised, shirts lifted and dropped,
bare shoulders cradling tangled nests.

Rewrite #1

e-write #1

While I pile on the clothes for winter,
the trees take theirs off one by one.
They drip the thick layers of fall,
leaves puddling at their roots
like dirty laundry.

The trees are streaking!
Cold and naked, nipples taut.
Stepping outside to get the mail,
I snap off the closest limb.
Something to twirl and break,
and a screaming hawk perched on the top
cries into the air, smoke drifting from its beak,
leaves falling like tiny parachutes
resting to crackle under my overcast feet.

The trees, the trees are bold!
Their arms blooming in brave directions,
they bare their chests, lift their skirts,
their roots trailing like veins.
They are bold women with shaved legs.
Arms overhead, shirts peeled and dropped,
knotted shoulders tending to tangled nests.